I Kid Because I Care

Mike Sees the Queen

2010-07-08T15:56:00.005-04:00

So, the other day I went down to see the Queen at Queen’s Park. I suspect it’s a bit of a unique experience, so let me resurrect my blog go on about it at length (I am well aware that this is of interest to, at the absolute most, two people).

The Queen had a little farewell stop at Queen’s Park Tuesday morning before she left the country. I figured this was my one shot to actually get a glimpse at her, so I trekked downtown (Through not a little bit of morning rush hour traffic, I add. I have no idea how people do that every day. God bless ‘em.).

Coming up to Queen’s Park about an hour before things were set to begin, I had to figure out where to stand. There were barriers to direct people, various roads were closed off, some people needed passes, some people were gathered here, and others over there. It was all a bit of a crap shoot, trying to guess exactly where one might get a peek at her. Where would she enter? Where would she walk? Where would she leave? There was a covered plaque out front of the legislature (you know, of the Ontario heritage variety), so I figured that was as good a place as any to go as it stood to reason that someone was going to have to uncover it. Surprisingly few people made this same move.

To get a good view of the Queen, I don’t think you have to arrive particularly early. Getting up right against the barrier, with the magical chance to have – maybe!- an actual chit chat with her requires an earlier arrival than mine, however.

To pass the time, I chatted with some of the other folk waiting around. Pleasant enough people. I will readily admit that wanting to go and see the Queen is… not strange, but certainly unusual (even though it fucking shouldn’t be, goddammit), and of the varying levels of insanity/devotion to the Queen on display, I’d like to think I trended towards the normal. Certainly compared to the people with their home-made, Queen-themed outfits and such, I think I came off as relatively well-adjusted.

Eventually the Queen came out the front of the legislature, accompanied by McGuinty and the Lieutenant Governor. This came as a bit of a surprise, as nobody really knew what the hell was going on, when it was going on, and where she was or wasn’t. Unbeknownst to us, the Queen had been getting a little tour inside of the legislature the whole time. Anyway, McGuinty gave a little speech about re-dedicating Queen’s Park, and the Queen revealed the plaque, just as I had anticipated. This all happened not too far from my face, I must say.

The Queen was obliged to give the plaque a little once-over. It was a bit comical, really. I mean, obviously she doesn’t particularly care about yet another arbitrary re-dedication, but she has to make some show that the plaque matters on some level. On the other hand, she can’t quite stand there for two minutes and read the whole thing. I definitely appreciate the effort she makes in pretending to be interested, especially considering nobody in the crowd was.

At this point, she started her walkabout. Again, I should point out that I was closer to her than about 98% of everyone else there, so I felt well-positioned. To begin, a man not a few feet away from me wearing a shirt with her image sewn into it (a crazy person, in other words), shouted “Your Majesty!” a number of times. It was quite awkward, and you do feel sorry for the Queen, having to deal with such folk day in, day out.

To her credit, amazingly, she actually went over to him and took the bouquet he offered. I probably owe that guy a beer, since, while I had expected him to scare her off, he actually acted like a Queen magnet. She then went to the guy right in front of me and took his bouquet. Yes, I was literally three feet from the Queen!

(At this point I want to pause to underline how good of her it was to entertain the first crazy guy. He was rather wacky-looking in his attire and fairly off-putting, so it’s amazing she approached him. We were convinced she would actively avoid him, as we had been trying to do the whole morning.)

It’s a bit weird, measuring the success of an event by your proximity to someone of note. My previous record was 30 feet from Mick Jagger at the SARS concert. Here though, it was pretty surreal. Short of actually talking to her – which surely is a bit of a pipe dream – that’s just about as good as it gets.

Aside from one or two crazy people who seemed to have mild hysteric episodes when she came close, the crowd around me at that particular moment was eerily calm. I hate to say this, but it was essentially like being at the zoo when a silverback gorilla or something comes up to the glass: total silence, everyone gaping in awe. It makes sense, in retrospect, but I hadn’t expected that. It’s also a bit like a zoo animal (I really, really hate to make that comparison) in that you have no way to anticipate how she’s going to move, or why, or for how long. You just sorta have to go with the flow, and hope it works out your way.

I guess something inside you changes a bit when the Queen comes up. Up till that point I’d been taking a few photos, but you just feel incredibly self-conscious and almost guilty about it when she’s a few feet away. Here’s an 84-year-old woman a thousand miles from home, in the sweltering heat, with a full day still ahead of her. She doesn’t need yet another rube shoving a camera in her face.

Another thing you notice is how utterly normal and natural it feels. Like, “oh yeah, here’s the frigging Queen, right up in my grill. This is essentially exactly how I pictured it, and it doesn’t seem the least bit odd. Everything I planned for has worked out perfectly.” Although she is maybe shorter than you’d expect.

For her part, the Queen betrays very little. I noticed that she avoids eye contact, at least for the two guys in front of me whose flowers she took. She must be very careful to make any sort of connection with someone, lest she be drawn into conversation with a crazy person; or even a normal person, really. Can’t talk to them all.

Generally, she was fairly stone-faced when I was watching. At one point – in reaction to what, I couldn’t say – she had a big, brief smile. Something about that was nice, and I think the crowd noticed it too.

Dalto McG!

As she made her way along the line, Dalton McGuinty was sort of left behind to chit chat with whoever. It was pretty funny, the way in which nobody gave a stuff about him at that point (in the sense that he had to compete for the Queen for attention, that is to say). He came up to the guy in front of me who had his flowers taken (who seemed to be in shock), and had a nice little talk with him. I think he was just trying to help the guy come back to the real world; seemed very nice of him. He stuck around signing autographs and shaking hands (mine included! Wowee!!) and that was about that. Very good-natured guy. I would have thanked him for sticking to his guns on the HST, or gotten on his case about not sticking to his guns on sex ed, but something about that didn’t seem particularly appropriate at the time.

The Queen had by now made her way around, and, amazingly, it looked like there was a giant open spot behind us where she would pass by. I made my way over. After this, it was a bit strange. Like I said, the crowds at these things have no clue what’s going on, and magically the Governor General, the Queen and Harper made their way in front of me (along with their spouses). Quite where they came from, or where McGuinty went to, I have no clue.

At this point, the Queen was obliged to chit chat with the weirdoes from the Monarchist League, opposite me (Jean had her hand around the Queen, directing her to and fro). They’re sort of… fucking weirdoes, essentially. Insufferable, small-minded campus Conservatives, say. I see what they’re trying to do, but there’s something incredibly off-putting about the organization and them as individuals. There is no way that that’s an effective vehicle for supporting the Monarchy in Canada.

I tried getting Harper’s attention, shouting (respectfully!) “Mr. Prime Minister!”. My first instinct was to rag on him about any number of things, but, as with McGuinty, getting overly political in this atmosphere just didn’t feel right. Instead, I decided that I wanted to find out if it was true that he used to watch Star Trek. I did get him to look back at me, but by then he’d passed a bit too far. The atmosphere was such that I hardly noticed him till he had gone by. I mean, the fucking Prime Minister, right? “Oh, there goes the elected head of the legislature, I guess.”

I would have liked to have had words with Prince Philip, get him to say something funny. God knows what he thinks of any of this. If I was in charge, I would deploy him to mop up the bits of the crowd that the Queen didn’t get to; a sort of consolation prize.

Overall, a pretty good treat. Like I say, it was essentially as good as you could reasonably expect. One never knows when the Queen will return, or whether she’ll even come to Toronto if she does, so I’m pretty satisfied with this one.

I was pretty impressed by the lack of security. Sure, there were cops and secret service guys all over the place, but they were very unobtrusive. One certainly didn’t need to pass through any metal detectors, or anything of that nature, to get in. One wonders what it’s like seeing Obama at a similar function. I guess it’s nice knowing that when the Queen’s around, people are just there to have a nice, relaxing time.

Overheard in New Mexico

2009-06-18T00:41:00.002-04:00

Well that hardly looks dangerous at all

Lunchtime at the Los Alamos cafeteria, July 23^rd, 1945; one week after the Trinity test.

J. Robert Oppenheimer: Hey, listen. Remember last week, at the test, when I yelled out “holey shmoley!” during the explosion?

Richard Feynman: Yeah, yeah. Me and a few of the guys been saying how that was a weird thing to just yell out.

Oppenheimer: Right. Well, I was thinking. Maybe, from here on out, if anyone asks you what I said, you say it was, “I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.”

Feynman: What’s that?

Oppenheimer: Well, I mean, I’m just thinking how maybe “holey shmoley” doesn’t do the, uh, event justice. I mean, you know, world’s first nuclear explosion and all. Maybe if posterity were to record something a bit more… memorable, say, something from an ancient Sanskrit text, that would work best for all involved.

Feynman: Yeah, sure thing.

Oppenheimer: So, “I am become Death, destroyer of worlds” it is, right?

Feynman: Whatever you say, Bob.

It's Not Me, It's You

2009-02-18T12:38:00.006-05:00

This man doesn't even need an actual telephone to make calls

The following phone conversation, intercepted by MOSSAD, was released this afternoon:

Barack Obama: Yo Stevie! Stevie Wonder!

Stephen Harper: I’m sorry, who is this?

Obama: It’s Barack! Barack Attack!

Harper: Oh, yes, Mr. President. Thank you for calling. I must say, we are quite excited about you coming tomorrow. Rideau Hall is looking quite resplendent, and I myself will be wearing my most favourite of ties. It says “The Great One,” and there is a picture of 1980s-era Wayne Gretzky on it. We even have 10, 000 bilingual school children who will-

Obama: Ahh yeah… dude, I so don’t want to be a dick about this, but, man, I can’t make it!

Harper: Well that’s alright. I never cared for the school children anyway. But the rest-

Obama: No man, I can’t come at all. I am just, like… sooooo tired, you know?

Harper: Oh, I… I see. (Awkward pause) Are you sure something can’t be arranged?

Obama: Nah, sorry dude. We, uh, got this, uh, credit crunch, and subprime, like, housing market bubble… you know? And the wife is killing me! You know what I mean?

Harper: Ahh, yes. Wives can on occasion be problematic. Laureen has been acting out ever since I had her take my name.

Obama: Word to that!

Harper: Well, maybe I could come down to Washington tomorrow instead?

Obama: Oh man, I don’t think so…

Harper: Ahh. Or, okay… maybe next month, then?

Obama: Yeah, maybe, maybe. But I totally told Mexico I would go down there next month. Trust me, if I’d known about this, I would never have made plans with Mexico! Agh! I'm, like, pulling my hair out, you know? Feel like such a dick, man.

Harper: I... I see. (Another pause) Mr. President, we’ve already welded the manhole covers shut!

Obama: Dude, I totally know what you’re saying. This is so dickish of me, I know! I should have called yesterday, at least. This is so not fair of me, and I will own up to that, bro. IOU one fighter jet escort next tim… if you come down here. Writing that down right now so I won't forget. "Steven Harpo: one fighter jet escort."

Harper: Nah, no… I mean, I can quite understand. These things happen, right?

Obama: Oh yeah. Yeah, totally normal. (Pause) Alright, listen, I’ve gotta scoot, but I’ve got your number and you’ve got mine so feel free to drop a text to my celly whenever.

Harper: Could I perhaps telephone you sometime?

Obama: (Slight pause) Y… Yeah, dude, yeah. Kay, catch ya later! (Hangs up phone)

Harper: Bye Obama!

The Feeling Is Not Mutual

2008-11-28T19:17:00.002-05:00

Sharon, I have some very bad news for you.

Giving it Straight

2008-11-25T15:48:00.004-05:00

Meet Burt Barlowe, Fan 590’s drive time DJ! He’s got an attitude, and he’s not afraid to use it!

Caller: Hey Burt, I was wondering what you thought about Kaberle last night? Seems to me he ran out of steam after that hit from-
Burt: Kaberle? Kaberle? Listen to me, you mincing little queer – if you want to talk about Kaberle why don’t you go down to the bathhouse and chat with the other princesses? I hear your thousandth visit is free.

Burt Barlowe! With 22 years experience in the sports talk world, he won’t pull any punches!

Caller: How about that Stempniak trade? What the hell is Fletcher thinking?
Burt: Well Fletcher’s probably thinking about that blow job you didn’t pay him for last night, you cum-guzzling cock muncher. What’s the matter, footlong Italians too expensive at Subway this week? Get the Christ off my radio show!

Burt Barlowe! He wears sunglasses indoors so you don’t have to!

Caller: I just think it’s great Walter Gretzky got the Order of Canada. He’s an icon, and a true-
Burt: Hey, if anyone cared what you thought, you’d have your own radio show and I’d be the one masturbating to memories of handjobs I got in the 80s. Go suck your own dad’s dick. Again.

After three failed marriages and a host of unloved children spread across at least six women, Burt knows how to roll with the punches!

Caller: Speaking as an Asian-Canadian, I think the comments you made to that last caller were beyond the pale.
Burt: Listen bitch, why don’t you put down the chopsticks, crawl inside your own cunt and eat your afterbirth?

Burt’s seen it all, and to meet his alimony payments he’ll sit in a tiny booth every weekday from 3 to 6 answering your calls!

Burt: Hey, thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedule of wanking into your mom’s panties to call in.
Caller: What? I just wanted to know if you thought the Bombers were going to be hot this year…
Burt: You feckless little child molester. Go rape your common-law “wife’s” son.

For Your TV-Viewing Pleasure

2008-10-14T13:04:00.006-04:00

Last month marked the 7th anniversary of the premiere of Essex Hall, the critically-acclaimed series that followed a group of mostly handsome young men in their early 20s as they embarked upon their university careers at Western. Over the course of its record-breaking 4-year run, viewers came to know and love characters such as the sullen Andrew, the pensive Adam and the shy, meek Rory. (Whose catch-phrase “Aww, why’s it gotta be me?” became a national sensation in the summer of 2003.)

After the final episode aired in April, 2005, viewers wondering what might happen to the stalwart gang were pleased to hear that while Essex Hall had been cancelled, a series of spinoffs would take its place. Join us as we take stock of these shows, three years after they premiered.

That’s Rory!: In a bid to cut costs, Essex Hall’s London setting was retained for Rory’s spinoff. Low ratings (attributed, by producers, as viewer unwillingness to accept the Rory character in a leading role) at the program’s outset were reversed with the addition of an attractive female character to the cast. Following Rory as he pulls teeth, carves chalk and finds love, viewers are left wondering if the lovable elf will ever leave London.

Producers have indicated fan-favourite Cato may return for a slate of episodes during February sweeps, a treat sure to please longtime Essex Hall fans eager to see the riveting sexual tension between the two on display once again.

In addition to That’s Rory!, the character appears in yearly travelogues across Europe. Panned by most as “formulaic” and “boring,” Rory’s Europe nonetheless has an avid following among viewers aged 65 and older, who find the show’s bus-based format comfortably predictable.

Andy’s Antics: Many were unsure if the “morosely withdrawn” Andrew could sustain an entire show. In response, he was given a trial miniseries in which producers sent him globe-trotting in the hope that the exotic European and Australian locales would allow the character room to develop. It wasn’t until the miniseries’ final installment, featuring a guest appearance by Mike, that ratings were high enough to commission a full slate of episodes for Andy’s Antics. Bizarrely, the series is set in Windsor, and follows Andrew’s adventures as an unlikely, accidental Law school student. Critics have praised the show’s “whimsical” supporting cast, while noting the main character still suffers from the “stilted, wooden delivery” that plagued him in Essex Hall.

Mike at Large: It was thought a radical change of setting would endear the character of Mike to whole new audience while retaining those viewers who viewed him as the “emotional anchor” of Essex Hall’s cast. To this end, producers developed Road to Sandy Bay, a comedy/drama set in a remote Native community in Saskatchewan’s far north. Praised by critics as an uncompromising look into the breakdown of both the Canadian reservation system and the human soul, audiences were put off by the program’s exploration of the darker sides of isolation, sexual deprivation and alcoholism. Unable to find an audience, Road to Sandy Bay was cancelled after just one season. Undaunted and still under contract, Mike was placed in a second spinoff, Mike at Large.

Mike at Large chronicles the trials and tribulations of a man approaching 30 who is without a job, a girlfriend, or a life beyond his parents’ basement. Unsure of whether the program is a dark comedy or a drama, audiences have been slow to pick it up. Nevertheless, fans continue to enjoy Mike’s appearances in the various Essex Hall spinoffs’ 2-hour specials.

Hammer & Sweets, MDs: Virtually unheard-of in English-speaking Canada, this production by the Société Radio-Canada follows fan-favourite Nathan and 4th season addition Nick as they grow moustaches, root through bins of dismembered limbs, and – in one memorable episode – examine each other’s prostates. A unique hook in the pilot episode’s closing moments indicates via flashback from 2009 that only one of the two main characters will finish their degree.

Believed unable to garner significant audiences separately, the unlikely duo of Nathan and Nick was formed in order to take advantage of Nathan’s appeal among manly men and Nick’s among pre-teen girls. The show has been a wild success for the SRC, with talk that an English-language version is in the works.

The show has not been without its setbacks. A controversial statement made by Nathan in the show’s fifth episode regarding the Greek-Canadian community nearly led to the show’s cancellation, though this was smoothed over by the revelation that Nick did, in fact, once date a Greek girl.

A subplot introduced in Essex Hall’s final season involving Nathan’s rapid loss of hair and the atrophying of his once-proud biceps continues to rivet fans in Hammer & Sweets, MDs, even as they are repulsed by Nick’s antics with cadavers – many of them not donated to medical research.

One notable absence has been Adam Kowalsky, who refuses to this day to take part in even the two-hour TV specials occasionally broadcast over the years. His sole television appearance since Essex Hall was the baffling Kowalsky of Kensington, a non-sequential black and white documentary profiling his exploits – such as they are – variously running a soup kitchen, Cambodian immigrant drop-in centre and hot dog stand in Toronto. After a disastrous premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, the documentary sat forgotten on a shelf at the NFB for two years until it was finally picked up by TVOntario. Kowalsky of Kensington has the dubious distinction of garnering the lowest ratings for TVO’s long-running Saturday Night at the Movies, and nearly led to the cash-strapped public broadcaster’s demise.

What’s next for the cast of Essex Hall? The only way to find out is to tune in!

It All Makes Sense Now

2008-02-26T17:40:00.006-05:00

Fig. 1

Time now to take a rare glimpse into the inner-workings of my mind! You can see here (fig. 1) the top ten or so objects of my thought processes at any given time. Let it never be said that I don't give robots their fair shake.

Western New York's Only Source of Potable Water!

2008-02-12T19:03:00.005-05:00

"We'll tell you what the devaluation of the dollar versus the emerging euro means for your weekend at... oh, sorry, evidently we won't."

September 26^th, 476:
The Action News 2 News Team first brought you word of the gradual, almost imperceptible decline of the Roman Empire over the past few centuries. We’ll bring you word on the latest barbarian sacking – and what this means for your Western civilization – at 11!

March 18^th, 1836:
There was a house fire in Tonawanda today, only 3 hours after the city’s incorporation. We’ll tell you how many butter churns were destroyed – at 11!

April 14^th, 1865:
Action News 2 brought you exclusive word earlier today on the president being shot in the head by a bullet. We’ll tell you if he lived or died – and what this could mean for your Union - at 11!

April 12^th, 1912:
Action News 2 and our Doppler 3000 Weather Team were the first to warn you about rogue icebergs in the North Atlantic, and it seems one has claimed another victim! Find out if your loved one was aboard… at 11!

"We here at the Action 2 News Team were the first to exclusively tell you that the Erie County Fair is canceled this year due to a menacing green cloud hovering over western New York. No word yet on which - if any - of the Gambino brothers survived the disaster. Cellino & Barnes are launching a class action lawsuit against WUTV on Union road, where the cloud originated."

June 28^th, 1914:
An Austrian Archduke was assassinated earlier today. We’ll tell you which one in which Baltic pseudo-state – and what this could mean for your weekend – at 11!

August 15^th, 1914:
A man-made canal opened today. We’ll tell you across which isthmus and what two oceans it connects – and what this could mean for the price of your grains – at 11!

August 6^th, 1945:
If you’re thinking of heading to Hiroshima for the weekend, don’t forget your sunscreen! We’ll tell you why… at 11!

You Are All So Far Beneath Me

2008-02-02T17:57:00.000-05:00

The glasses hide the rolled eyes

Speech given by the Right Honourable Stephen Harper on the anniversary of his second year in power:

“My fellow Canadians – I detest each and every one of you. Everything you say, do or think is so utterly trivial, of consequence to nobody but yourselves and your pathetic circle of family and friends. Your most profound ideas and actions are worth nothing but an audible, exasperated sigh. Oh, how I abhor you all.

You cannot begin to comprehend how utterly useless you all are to me. If you had so much as a tenth of my cunning, intelligence and vision my remarks here today might not be necessary; however, to say that you possess even a fraction of these qualities would be to give you far more credit than you could ever hope to deserve.

Who do you think you are, you contemptible gang of cretins who dare to call yourselves Canadian? You are all so far beneath me. From where I stand your myriad faults are so completely obvious. It is this gaping divide between us – vast and unconquerable – that blinds you all to my brilliance. I lie awake at night wondering just why not a single one of you can see – much less understand – the future I will give this country. It would be so blatantly obvious to any learned man, but I can see this pathetic excuse for a country lacks even one. Your ignorance would be laughable if it wasn’t so goddamned pathetic.

Your histories, cultures and traditions elicit nothing but disgust from me. I am repulsed by the things that you hold dear; I vow with every inch of my flesh and blood to wipe them from the earth and replace them with my immeasurably superior vision for this country. What I plan to do and the little you have accomplished together cannot even be compared.

You cowards. You wretched little wastelings. You mangy dogs - curs, all of you. You deserve nothing less than to be culled and wiped from this earth. For the sake of the human race, your genetic heritage and its “potential” must be cleansed now and forever. Who you are as a people cannot be allowed to continue to sully the rest of our civilization.

Words cannot convey the unmitigated contempt I harbour for you all, deep within the recesses of my heart. Thank you, and vive le canada!”

Baby, Why Do You Only Eat My Ass Out When You’re Drunk?

2008-01-13T14:16:00.000-05:00

C'mon baby, not in front of the guys

Baby, why do you only eat my ass out when you’re drunk? Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You know I so love the slippery slide of your tongue gliding over and into my anus, but I have to say that, looking back, you’ve been drunk every time you’ve done it.

What do I have to do, baby? You know I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to lick your ass clean. Night or day, high or sober – I’m there and I’m loving it. So why is it so hard for you unless you’ve polished off a bottle of wine?

It’s getting to be I can’t look at myself in the mirror. Do you not like my ass, baby? Do you not feel the rush, your mouth watering as you spread my cheeks to reveal my tightly-wound sphincter, ripe for a lashing?

I’ve done everything I can think of. I’ve lathered various and expensive oils, lotions and creams all over my asshole in a vain attempt to lure your inquisitive little tongue. But, try as I might, it’s all for naught unless you’re liquored up.

I’m not usually one for ultimatums. You know that, baby. But unless you can bring yourself to ream my anus with your tongue while you have your wits about you, my ass is off limits even if you’ve just downed a twenty-sixer. And as much as it pains me, you can bet your ass is going to stay bone dry until we’ve sorted this out.

Reading Builds Character

2008-01-08T16:01:00.000-05:00

“Alright gentlemen, thank you for coming. Jenkins, I realize your son is ill so I appreciate your coming from his bedside on such short notice. I assure you I would not ask you to make such a sacrifice if this wasn’t of the utmost importance. Before I begin, I must remind you all that what I am about to share with you does not leave this room. The situation I am about to lay before you has dire and far-reaching implications for not only this country and the world, but all of human civilization.

On the board you see 12 people. Every one of these people is either a high-ranking official in the Conservative government, a spouse, a relative or an aide to such an official. Over the past 10 months, each of these people has become, on average, two and a half million dollars richer.

Subject B – son-in-law to the current Minister of Finance - raked in five million in the lotto. Starting earlier this year, Subject D – ex-wife of the Minister of International Trade – gambled hundreds of thousands on sporting events – and won every time. Subject F is the son of the Prime Minister’s chief of staff; he’s made over two million on the stock exchange in the second half of the year alone – this after over a decade of financial blunders that had his family on the verge of brankruptcy. The list goes on, much the same. Either through illegal gambling, the lotto or the stock exchange – and, generally, through a mixture of the three - all twelve of these people have made millions of dollars this year. How did they accomplish this, you ask? Some might argue pure luck; As you’ll see, I postulate otherwise.

A winning lotto ticket here, a good guess on the markets there. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course. But this group of 12, all connected to the highest reaches of government? Seven lotto winners among them. And, sure, who doesn’t make a few bucks betting on the NBA? But what about the PGA? NHL? NFL? Baseball? Hell, even the CFL. Nobody’s that lucky, and nobody can fix that many games across that many sports. Not to mention that not a single one had shown an interest in illegal sports gambling before January this year.

Take a look at Subject G. He’s the brother of the Justice Minister. You might recognize him as the Crown’s representative during the trial of one Carson Collins late last year. Would you be surprised to know that along with him there are other names to be added to this group of 12, including Carson Collins? His defense attorney? The judge presiding over the murder trial? These people have all become rich in the exact same manner as all the rest. How odd, would you not agree?

If you’ll recall, Carson Collins’ trial was an odd one, indeed. Though Collins’ DNA was found liberally lathered on the victim’s charred and unidentifiable corpse, the Crown announced to little fanfare in the middle of his trial that they had found the real killer, some drunken vagabond from the Thunder Bay region who also happened to be dead. Charges were summarily dropped, and that was the last we heard of Carson Collins. This was done a few days after a highly unusual in camera session of court, a session virtually unheard of for a routine murder case.

Jenkins, I can see you getting restless. Please, I implore you to stay focused. The matters I am to continue talking about are of dire importance. Now, allow me to read for you a court transcript of the exchange that led to this in camera meeting:

Crown: Mr. Collins, how do you account for the fact that your DNA was found all over the victim’s body?
Collins: As I have repeatedly said, there is a very logical answer to that question.
Crown: By all means, Mr. Collins, I’d be happy to hear.
Collins: Again, for reasons that will be quite obvious only once I’ve given my explanation, I cannot provide you with any information right now, for the sake of international security.
Crown: I’m sorry, international security?
Collins: That’s correct. If we could meet in the judge’s chamber, away from the public, away from the media, I can provide information that will lead to my acquittal and much, much more. I ask only that the judge provide me with this one indulgence. If afterwards nobody is satisfied, I’ll be happy to admit my own culpability. But so convinced am I of the earth-shattering evidence I can provide, I know it will not come to that.

And so ends the transcript. Following this, the judge granted Collins’ unusual request, and all charges were dropped the following week. By their very nature, in camera meetings are secret. We may never know what Collins said. But what he could have said to explain why his DNA was on a dead man’s body and get himself off the hook so easily is beyond me. I do know that not two weeks after this exchange, however, the 12 introduced earlier and those connected to the trial began making their money.

Around the same time, if you’ve been paying any attention to the newspapers this year, Canada embarked upon an unprecedented string of international successes that would put Pearson to shame. First, a diffusion of the situation in Pakistan. Next, the destruction of the Taliban and al-Qaeda in Afghanistan. With information provided by Canada, Coalition forces were able to destroy the insurgency in Iraq and unite the country. A solution to the conflict in Israel was achieved after Canadian intervention, with the state of Palestine expected to come into being in May. No less than twelve terrorist bombings and nine assassinations were foiled in the past year due to intelligence gathered by CSIS. For these reasons and many more I’m sure you’re familiar with, Stephen Harper was named Time Magazine’s Person of the Year – right after winning a record majority in the House of Commons. It would seem that as the 12 achieved success, so too did Canada and its government.

It all started with Carson Collins, I believe, which led me to take a closer look at the circumstances surrounding the murder he is accused of. After examining forensic reports, I came upon the coroner’s startling discovery that Carson’s DNA isn’t on the victim – it is the victim’s. Unable to identify the corpse through traditional means, the OPP took DNA samples from the body that matched Collins. Assuming him to be the victim, you can imagine how shocked they must have been when they arrived at his house to find him very much alive. And before you ask, Thompson, no, he had no twin. Going back, forensic investigators were unable to find the victim’s actual DNA, and the OPP settled on the idea that the fire set to the body had destroyed it. A believable theory to a layman on a jury, but scientifically impossible.

While it’s accepted that Collins’ DNA found itself on the corpse, I believe that the corpse is a duplicate of Collins created through time travel. Furthermore, this time traveler – be him Collins now or the victim – brought with him information from the future that the Canadian government and people associated with it used to their advantage.

No, Jenkins, don’t you dare get up now. You too, Corrigan. I’m staking my career on this theory, so hear me out. Blast it man, you walk out that door, I’ll have you arrested! There are bigger things than your son! Five minutes of your time, Tom. Five minutes.

A fire destroyed several research laboratories at Stanford University in February. One of these was a small out of the way lab in the basement overseen by three researchers of little esteem. Shunned by their peers, they spent the better halves of their careers in that basement working on a time machine. That this laboratory was destroyed in the fire is no significant fact in and of itself; dozens of others were, as well. But what I do think is significant is that the lead researcher, one Richard Sykes, was killed in a home invasion the week before. Less than a month after the fire, the surviving two scientists were killed in an automobile accident. These are startling coincidences, gentlemen. There remains now no trace of their research, nor anyone who can carry it on.

I posit that at some point in the future, these scientists were successful in creating a time machine. Carson Collins – either by force or with their consent - used this time machine to come back to late 2007 and, armed with knowledge of future sporting events, the stock exchange and winning lottery numbers, wanted to make himself rich beyond belief.

Coming back, naturally, Collins had to contend with the version of himself that existed in the present. His solution was to kill this person and take his place. He did a very good job of hiding the body’s identity through conventional means, but you can only hide DNA so well. Once caught, he was forced to bring the judge and lawyers into his plan. Through the Crown attorney the Conservatives got involved, explaining the record year Canada had during 2008.

Our task here is clear, gentlemen. We have to stop Collins and the Conservatives through any means possible before they’re able to pollute the timestream any further. Now let’s get to work!"

As Tired As This Blog

2008-01-04T17:32:00.001-05:00

Rick Mercer: Too edgy for a tie

In the writers’ room at the Rick Mercer Report:

Writer1: Alright we’ve got the Mountain Dew, a few bags of Doritos and some Great Big Sea on the stereo! Let’s get crackin’ on ideas for the next month!

Writer2: Alright, I was thinking… you know how sometimes, Rick, you go around the country and visit politicians and other notable Canadians and just sorta… hang with ‘em?

Rick Mercer: Yup.

Writer1: Like, a barbeque with Stephane Dion? Fishing with Ed Stelmach?

Writer2: Exactly. Well, this time, I was thinking maybe you could try using comedy and satire to make a point and have an impact on our national discourse? You know, sorta like how the Daily Show or Colbert Report does, only in your inimitable, cantankerous style.

Writer1: We could do that, or we could go mini golfing with Dalton McGuinty! Or do a colouring book with Michaelle Jean!

Rick: Brilliant! Or, how about me and Stephen Harper skate down the Rideau Canal, and then I go down on him?

Writer2: Sorry, what was that?

Rick: Yeah, you know. Instead of providing incisive commentary in order to show that I have principles to stand up for, I can do my patented wishy-washy, gloves-on brand of humour with Stephen Harper while we do some folksy activity. And then at the end, just so nobody’s offended by the few meager, watered-down jabs I took at him, and everyone understands that I don’t mean him any ill will – even though I, personally, would have plenty of reason to – I can just suck him off, right on camera.

Writer2: Wouldn’t his wife have a problem with that?

Writer1: Not from what I hear…

Wherein I Complain About Things

2007-12-19T21:48:00.001-05:00

Using Germany in 1933 and the United States in 2000 as examples, we can see that democracy simply doesn’t work. With that in mind, consider that a benevolent dictatorship, guided by one man’s iron-fisted though well-meaning hand, provides us with the best form of government.

That said, sometimes even a benevolent dictator has his indulgences. The following are rules I would impose after the upcoming February Revolution brings me to power:

Wait... Ror Dawg?

1- Men outside the house should have to wear hats, as in olden times. It makes them look classy and respectful, and people would behave better around them.

2- The number of TV stations will revert to 3. In this world of hundreds of channels, nobody seems to be on the same page with respect to the popular culture. Who are these Desperate Housewives? What the hell is with this Amy Winehouse? These are things I wonder because my attention has been diluted across too many sources of interest. Narrow my options, and everyone else’s, and maybe then something will outrank the M*A*S*H finale as the most-watched program ever. Then we can all talk about it the next day.

3- Movie posters will be painted. What’s with all these shitty movie posters that just show the actor’s face in front of some blurry, non-descript background? I could literally make these myself in Photoshop. Once I’m in charge, we’ll go back to the olden days of imaginative, eye-catching, painted movie posters. On this topic, Bond movie titles should be written in wacky, distinguishable typefaces again, too.

4- News shows can’t trumpet the fact that they were the “first to bring you” something. Really, this is just petty. Even the CBC is getting into the game.

5- All collapsible umbrellas will be replaced with those cane umbrellas. Like men wearing hats, it’s just that much more dignified.

6- Waiters who say that they’re here to “take care of you tonight”, instead of “I will be your waiter”, will be killed. I don’t want to sound as though I have contempt for the working poor, but this whole casual, chipper attitude I notice creeping into my waiters has no place in a dignified society. You perform a service and I pay you a tip. It ends there. I’m not your friend. Don’t be friendly with me.

7- All top 40 radio stations will be shuttered. Morning drive-time DJs will be killed. This one really speaks for itself. There is no greater cancer on society than the top 40 radio station, destroying music for everyone. The worst of it all is that they don’t even know it…

8- Jay Leno will be put off the air, while Carson Daly will be killed. There are no two greater blights on the face of late night TV than these two. Daly is so patently unfunny, so obviously in his job because of family connections that not a soul would care if I did this tomorrow.

Just What Is A Gladrag, Anyway?

2007-12-15T13:56:00.000-05:00

Wait... could it be?

What’s that? You want to hear about my trip into Slough? Oh, well, take a seat! Just as fans of Mary Tyler Moore have Minneapolis, WKRP fans have Cincinnati and Lost affectionados have… letters falling through space, I have Slough.

Slough, of course, is the setting for the BBC version of the Office. I obviously knew nothing of it before watching the show, but evidently it has a reputation for being a boring, soulless parking lot of a city. Picture Mississauga without Hazel McCallion, only drearier.

Now, none of the show was actually filmed there; other than the Slough-centric opening credits, I understand everything was done on soundstages elsewhere. But, jeez… what an opening credits! If you wanted the essence of Slough distilled into a 30-second video, you need only look here.

This would be a lot more effective if YouTube hadn't deleted the video of the intro, trust me.

Before I go any further, I need to state that The Office is probably the best sitcom ever produced (Peep Show running a close second). I think every word, every frame, every glance given by David Brent to the camera is pure genius. Because of it, I have now divided my friends into those who watch it and “get” it, and those who don’t. Finding myself in London, not a 20-minute train ride from Slough… how could I not visit the sights seen in the iconic opening montage? So I did.

Not a kilometre from the train station is most of the action. Within a hundred-yard radius, one can find the bus station, roundabout, and car park. I spent a solid half hour wandering about here, taking in the Sloughness of it all. Do try and match my photos up to the intro above. Rather unfortunately, I think a shot or two was taken from the roofs of adjacent office buildings, access to which I… did not have.

Is that the roundabout?! Yes, it is!

The next stop was the Slough Trading Estates, home to the actual office of The Office fame. I don’t exactly know what a Trading Estate is, but Wikipedia says that Slough’s is the largest in England. At any rate, like Tim, Keith, Garreth and Finchy, I hopped on the bus, went around the roundabout and made the crosstown journey to the office. Eagle-eyed, I spotted it from the bus and made a little hike towards it.

Whatever a Trading Estate is, it seems to be some sort of commercial zone full of office buildings. Companies whose names I forget have their national headquarters around here. It’s a little like that area down by the lake in Oshawa, only less… industrial. Two office workers, presumably out on a lunch break, were more than happy to point me in the direction of the building from The Office. I wonder if they get that a lot.

The teal building sticks out like a sore thumb. Very difficult to miss. Walking up to it, a ridiculous sense of pride and accomplishment washed across me. Here I was, a smalltown boy not a month out of smallertown Saskatchewan, arriving at some useless tourist destination nobody in the world would care to visit.

There she is

Having had my fill of looking at and photographing an office building, I decided to find a pub at which to have a pint – as they say. Now, Chaser’s doesn’t exactly exist, but I figured there had to be something within walking distance. I figured wrong. So, after a fruitless walk around the neighbourhood, I hopped on the bus and headed back to the train station.

And that, my friends, was my afternoon in Slough.

Remember Old Stuff?

2007-10-11T19:00:00.001-04:00

And he's single, ladies!

The year is 1998. A phone rings in Patrick Ewing’s living room. He dashes from the kitchen to answer it.

Ewing: Hello?

Executive: Hi, is Patrick Ewing there?

Ewing: This is he.

Exec: Hi, Patrick, it’s Jim Taylor of the shoe company.

Ewing: Oh, hey! I’ve been meaning to call you guys! Listen, I got some great ideas for new colours for the line of suede shoes you put out in my name!

Exec: Yeah, Pat, that’s sorta what I was calling about.

Ewing: Oh, great!

Exec: Listen, Pat, we’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to… not make the shoes anymore?

Ewing: What the hell are you talking about?! I’ve still got a promising career ahead of me, man! I caught my second wind!

Exec: No, hey, I’m sure that’s true. But the fact is it’s 1998 and nobody really wants suede shoes with Patrick Ewing’s name on them anymore.

Ewing: Bull cookies!

Exec: Pat, I am right there with you. It doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what our figures are showing. I really wish it wasn’t true, but there’s no way around it.

Ewing: Well, goddamn it, see if Patrick Ewing does any favours for you again!

Exec: Alright Pat, there’s no need for that.

Do What I Say

2007-10-09T10:02:00.000-04:00

"Of course, this is just a television poll which is not legally binding - unless Proposition 304 passes, and we all pray it will."

It’s time I, a man with a blog, weighed in on the MMP debate. Ontarians everywhere can now breathe a sigh of relief.

Suffice it to say, I reckon you ought to vote No on the referendum, and I’ll tell you why (note: almost all these points have been culled from various op-eds I’ve read in the past week or so, so don’t try and think I’m especially too clever).

1) The proposed system will lead to nothing more than a string of minority governments beholden to one-issue fringe parties elected by unhinged nutjobs from across the province. Ever drive around rural Ontario during election time and see those signs for the Family Coalition Party? Well, weirdoes like them will have a minority government by the balls under MMP.

2) If first-past-the-post is so awful, why are we still electing 90 of the 129 MPPs under MMP this way?

3) Under MMP, ridings in Ontario would increase in size. This is less of a problem in, say, downtown Toronto, but once you start heading up to Northern Ontario we start running into problems. These ridings are mind-bogglingly huge as it is, and I can hardly see how the interests of the people living in remote, isolated towns up north are going to be served by decreasing their parliamentary representation. Quite possibly, we might see them forming their own Northern Party, again feeding into the pizza parliament problem.

4) The 39 “list” MPPs – the ones elected by percentage of the popular vote who don’t represent any ridings in particular – just who selects these people? A bunch of power brokers we’ve never heard of? To who are they held responsible? What do they do from day to day, anyway? In what way could a guy who represents nobody in particular have the same authority as an MPP elected in a riding?

5) Proponents of MMP say that the system is more just, more representative of the popular vote. And, obviously, that’s correct. But should that necessarily be our prime concern? What about forming stable, long-lasting governments who can accomplish their mandate? I reckon there’s something to be said for that, too. Consider the situation outlined in my first point, where minority governments would have to answer to extreme little parties operating from the margins of society. Just what is “more fair” about this scenario, one where a little party’s influence greatly outstrips its meagre share of the popular vote?

6) Reportedly, the reason why Germany adopted MMP after the War was to assure that no one party would be able to hold absolute power ever again (you know, cause of Hitler). In other words, getting a bunch of minority governments for all time was the entire idea for the Germans. Now, I don’t see many similarities between Ontario today and post-Nazi Germany, but feel free to fill me in.

I may have taken this comparison too far

7) In some countries that use MMP, coalitions aren’t decided upon until after the election. So voting for a party whose ultimate alliance isn’t going to be known until after you’ve cast your ballot somehow leads to more transparency?

8) Listen, I’m sure the guys who came up with FPTP thought of about a million other ways to do things, but this is what they came up with. It’s lasted for hundreds of years without causing too many problems. It seems to me that the current referendum is the brainchild of a bunch of granola-munching NDP and Green voters who were fed up with their permanent minority status (fair enough). Somehow they roped McGuinty into arranging a referendum nobody else cared about, and I can’t for the life of me understand why he fell for that one. Yeah, we knew that the legislature didn’t necessarily reflect the popular vote, but I hardly heard anyone complain about it. I think it says something when everyone from the Post (right wing rag) to the Star (bulwark of modern progressivism) side with good ole, time-tested FPTP.

This Wednesday, vote to repeal Prohibition. And against MMP, too.

London.

2007-10-08T11:24:00.001-04:00

London's famous landmarks, Congress and Large Bill.

As fun as the continent was (oh yeah, I’m using their terms), it was time for us to move on to London. The real London, this time. Sure, the one in Ontario has its Covent Garden, River Thames and underground subway system, but these are pathetic imitations of the real things. London’s a real fucking city, one that makes your entire vacation beforehand seem like nothing more than a useless, forgettable preamble to the real thing.

Trafalgar Square at night. Andrew worked not 2 minutes from here, which hardly compares to a summer in the SubWay at King and Townline.

Lucky for me, Andrew had just come from living and working at a pub there for two months. He’s really quite knowledgeable about the city, knowing all there is to know about attractions, plays, pubs, clubs, sights, the underground, directions… everything. Quite how he picked it all up in two months is beyond me. In addition, he even developed a nice little circle of co-workers/friends that we were able to hang out with for a bit. Undoubtedly, having him there made things pretty easy and enjoyable.

I could go on some more about London. And I will, lucky for you!

Nelson's Column, as seen from an angle no tourist has ever attempted to capture. Until now.

The nightlife is a mixed bag. Near as I can figure out, this is how things work: First, you’ve got a clear separation between pubs and clubs – something I don’t think you can necessarily say of over here. In general, people seem to go out to the pub until last call at 11. And when they say last call, they mean it. They’re like the SS when it comes to serving after the bell (minus the… killing you bit). There is simply no budging them, even if you worked with them for two months. After the pubs are done, people make their way out to the clubs for the dancing and whatnot. These, as with most establishments in Europe, don’t close until the wee hours of the morning. And don’t think that’s so great, either. I mean here, at least you know by at the latest 2ish if you’re going to be, erm… splitting the cab fare, if you know what I mean. In Europe you’re left wondering until 3, 4… 5 o’clock in the morning! And, Jesus, your back is killing you, your hair’s a mess… who the hell wants to put up with that?

This is the National Gallery, looking north from Trafalgar Square.

I find on busy nights that you really have to get out of those pubs well before last call in order to get a decent spot in line for the clubs afterwards. Doing this means you miss out on a nice evening at the pub, unfortunately, so I can’t say the system they’ve got working is the best in the world. Sometimes you like to just get to a place, stay there the night, and leave at a reasonable hour.

This is where Churchill and his cabinet ran the War. That man has been standing there since 1945.

Luckily enough, my visit coincided with the Great British Beer Festival (or somesuch). Extra lucky is that it was being held at the convention centre at Earl’s Court, not 3 stops down the Piccadilly Line from Hammersmith! One shows up, rents a glass, and goes around sampling the… hundreds of beers and ales and ciders on tap. I know nothing of the brewing industry either here or in England, but I gather they have a shitload of independent brewers, whereas we have… one? Two? One could go the whole week and not sample every drink they had to offer there, whereas I think in an evening here you could blaze right through Lakeport, Steamwhistle, Carling and Keith’s pretty damn quick. To top it all off, they had an all-housewife string quartet (who had previously performed for the Queen!) to play a bunch of old standards, including a Bond song. Just about a perfect evening, if you ask me, and I even managed to screw a girl on the underground on the way back home.*

As initially scheduled, I only had a day and a half in London. After doing what little I was able to, though, I just… had to stay the whole week. Just had to.

I have to do it. Just have to. I have to talk at length about London’s underground. First, I mean, I love it. At no point did I ever stay anywhere remotely near the action; tube rides were usually 20-30 minutes if I wanted to get somewhere, yet I loved every minute of being on that thing. Even going home after a long day walking around, it was exciting to walk down into those stations and hop on the train. Westminster station, hell, you could just sit there and look at it all day. It’s like the set designer from a Michael Bay movie made it.

Which of these is Toronto's subway map? You decide!

I really like the signage they’ve developed for the whole damned operation. Everything in the same font, every stop noted in the distinctive Underground-style manner (the blue bar through the red circle). Individual stations have their own character, unique designs in the tube walls (yes every subway station in the world has this, but Baker Street, appropriately, has a Sherlock Holmes motif going on). Every line has a cool name and its own colour (again, not unique to London but they invented the damned thing). An automated voice tells you what stop’s up next, and whether you should “alight” there to check out various points of interest. It’s so simple to calculate a route from one part of the city to the other through multiple stations on multiple lines. Hell, the oyster card. Why the TTC doesn’t use this is beyond me. Even the “O” in “oyster” is a clever little reference to the Underground logo.

And the newspapers! Sure they’re fairly tabloidey, but immigrants hand them out for free outside the Underground entrances! Everyone reads the stupid things cause there’s nothing else to do down there. As such, you’ve got a populace always plugged in to the same info (which can be not necessarily a great thing, I understand). Reading them makes me feel like I’m part of the wider British society, marching in lockstep beside them. Kinda like what Mosley must have had in mind.

Looking south from Trafalgar Square. It sure was nice of people, not offering to take photos of me along with this stuff.

It’s nice to finally get that out of my system. Seeing London, I mean. It’s in every book, every movie, ever TV show you ever watch. And now, finally, I actually know what it’s like. From my childhood till this summer, I had these mental images of what certain Londonian landmarks looked like. Some I was pretty close to, but others (Trafalgar Square, in particular), I was way off the mark. But it’s weird, how these little places I carried around in my mind for 20 years no longer exist. The city itself is a huge, hulking behemoth. Everything has a certain weight to it that I hadn’t anticipated. I’ll have to get back sometime soon.

* Replace “a girl” with “my left hand”, and this statement becomes more accurate.

Almost Done. Honest.

2007-10-06T12:15:00.000-04:00

(Disclaimer: I know all of this is terribly boring. Do try and bear with me)

Our last evening in Rotterdam we met up with a fellow Canadian, and the three of us took the train to Amsterdam in the morning. I guess one has to figure that the place is pretty unique among cities. First, it’s built atop a network of canals. I can’t quite recall if I knew this before I showed up, but it must surely be similar to Venice in that regard. Second, all the buildings were made for height; they’re all crammed in together, sacrificing length, but rise 4-5 storeys high. The stairways inside are all pretty vertical, and I wonder how the elderly manage to get around. All of this means that Amsterdam has character in ways that Rotterdam, perhaps, did not.

In my defense, it's terribly difficult to lean against one of these things and not look gay

The three of us made our way to the Heineken Brewery the first day we got there. It was less a museum than an advertisement that you have to walk through, and I have to say I was disappointed to find out that it hasn’t been a working brewery since the 80s. Still, something to do, right?

Not long afterwards, we headed to the red light district. Gotta say… a bit underwhelming. I was expecting this giant neighbourhood spread out across many city blocks, a hooker displaying her wares in every window. I wanted to come out feeling like a bad human being for having set foot there. As it turns out, it’s small and actually pretty clean to the point of feeling… antiseptic. It just doesn’t feel like you’re walking down a street staring at a bunch of paid, filthy whores eager to do the things to you that 49.9% of you wants to pay them for. And, I mean… it’s legal. And they’re clean! I’m not a bad person! And, sorry Ror, but I guess you lost that bet.

Amsterdam has other stuff besides hookers, like Anne Frank’s house. It all seems a bit silly, lining up with tourists in their touristy t-shirts and cameras to walk around in there. Once you get into the place, though, and realize you’re literally walking around in their footsteps (as opposed to figuratively hiding from the Nazis for two years, I guess), I have to say it sorta gets to you. It’s surprisingly effective, too, the way they’ve blocked the windows with these heavy screens; you can sorta see outside, but not enough to distract you from what the space you’re in means. By the time I left, the museum had become less a place to have been to just to say I did, and more of an actual, honest-to-goodness touching experience. In these cynical, post-Letterman times, isn’t that saying something?

Towards the end of our stay in Amsterdam, Andrew and I took a day trip into Zandvoort to sample its beach on the North Sea. Nothing like being on an ocean, and now I’m up to four of ‘em, baby. It’s hardly a half-hour from Amsterdam, and it’s funny to think of what Toronto would be like if we were only a train ride from water worth swimming in. There would be no point in doing anything else. Another great thing was the three topless chicks just lying out there, one of whom I had sex with in the beachside changeroom.*

For all to see and do, though, I find that my limit for most cities is about 2 days. We did 4 in Amsterdam, and I have to admit that it was wearing a bit thin towards the end. You can’t be on your feet the whole damn time, and Andrew and I took advantage of the quiet moments to read a few books between us. I don’t think I’ve read that much in such a short period of time, and I guess it reflects pretty poorly on me that I’ve hardly read a page since I got home.

Next: London!

* Demonstrably false.

If You Go to Holland, I Don't Recommend the Tulip Bulbs

2007-09-06T12:03:00.001-04:00

This is me. On a train.

After a solid 4-5 days in Berlin, Andrew and I hopped on the train to sunny Groningen, Holland. Even considering that the trip took 7 hours, it was actually quite enjoyable. Not to sound like an old biddy, but traveling by rail or car in another country can actually be a treat. We even unwittingly got into first class; since the Dutch are first class people, the ticket guy didn’t even care. Or maybe he picked up on our accents…

See, we did wholesome things, too.

Never heard of Groningen, you say? Well, you ought to. It’s a respectable 100, 000 + sized city in the north of the country, and I don’t think Andrew would disagree that it was maybe the highlight of our trip. After the… newness of Berlin, it was nice to be in a place that was certifiably European. I could use my skills in the written language to convey the atmosphere, but that would be silly considering I took photos of the place.

My God. People walking about on foot on a Saturday? Don't they have a big box store they could be driving to? Those Europeans are maybe just a bit too permissive.

Unknown to me at the time, my parents had been there a few days before Andrew and me. During the War my mother’s dad stayed with a family in Holland that he kept in touch with over the years. The parents are long gone, of course, but their children who were only infants while he was there are now in their early 70s or so. One of them lives just outside Groningen now, and she showed my parents around for a few days. Had I known she was so close, it would have been nice to drop in on her.

The nightlife in Groningen is pretty happening, and Andrew and I were lucky enough to show up on the weekend. We made friends with a few folks in the hostel and had a few nights out on the town. I would say those two evenings were the closest to what I was expecting out of the whole vacation, and it’s a shame we didn’t run into more people like them. Ahh well. At the least I was able to confirm my theory that, owing to their superior genes, Dutch women are the most attractive in the world.

If there's one thing the Dutch are fond of, it's canals and bikes (top right).
That, and hookers (top left).

From Groningen we made our way to Utrecht for a night. Why? Not exactly sure. At this point we’d already booked a ticket the next week for a flight from Amsterdam to London, so we couldn’t exactly leave the Netherlands. As such, we found ourselves hopping from town to town while we awaited our flight.

Our path through the Netherlands arriving form Germany in the northeast, if you're curious.

Now, I don’t want to say Utrecht is a horrible town. It just happens to be a bit… old. I suppose there is good Old World charm and then… dumpy Old World charm. From my limited experience, Utrecht is more of the latter. In Utrecht’s defense, it would really have needed to put on a show to one-up Groningen (now would be a good point to mention that all my observations on cities, countries, people, cultures and races are all based on fleeting, ephemeral encounters, tainted not in the least by my own preconceived expectations and judgments).

A lot of Utrecht's Old World charm comes from the fact that everything there is, in fact, old.

After one night in arguably Europe’s worst hostel, we went to Rotterdam for a few days. Again, I hate to disparage a whole city, but it was a tad underwhelming. Like Berlin it had been destroyed during the War, so most of it is all pretty new and fancy. Impressive for what it is, but that’s not exactly what I came to see.

This it the aforementioned worst hostel. Is that... urine leaking from the ceiling?

Andrew and I stayed in an odd hostel where each room had its own theme. Themes included Multiculturalism, History, Art and Party. Ours was Shipping, because Rotterdam was until recently the world’s largest port. Shipping. The room was decorated to look like the hold of a cargo ship, with crates, warning signage and nautical livery all over the walls. Why, they were even kind enough to throw in some steel drums to really give us the whole… sleeping in a cargo container feeling. Muuuuch better than the Art room, and it really provided a great backdrop for when I screwed this one chick.*

Walking around one evening, we noticed a bunch of floozies sitting in a bar near the hostel. After much persuading, I convinced Andrew to go in, for just one drink. We go in, and what greet us are 3-4 semi-attractive girls sitting at the bar, unaccompanied. We take our seats, order drinks, and are… attended to by two of these women. Andrew caught on immediately that these were hookers, but it took me some thinking. For a few brief moments, I thought I was being hit on by a moderately attractive woman not ten seconds after entering a bar. We finished our drinks (Andrew perhaps earlier than me) and got out of there. Those Eastern European hookers can be quite pushy.

* Not remotely true.

Adventures in Berlin!

2007-09-04T22:32:00.000-04:00

Here is a photo of something that is in Berlin

Since we bombed the crap out of it, there isn’t too much of the Old World charm left in Berlin. Rather disappointingly, it looks much like any major city you might find in North America (with a few twists). I could never tell if I was in East or West Berlin at any given moment, and the layman would be hard-pressed to figure out from the buildings. The change this city must have undergone in the past 15 years is pretty radical.

One thing I like about Berlin is the permissive attitude. Want to piss on the street? Go ahead! Care to drink in a nursery school? Hell, you can probably do that, too. Andrew and I stumbled upon this old department store that is now a squatter’s… something. It’s not full of homeless people or anything, but I can hardly say it’s all too inviting. People have set up studios in there, unlicensed bars… probably some brothels, I’d imagine. Interesting place to walk around, but I get the feeling people get murdered there every so often.

I could bore you with tales of the various bars/clubs Andrew and I went to. I’ll spare you that, though, but mention two things: one, mixed drinks are prohibitively expensive. I just don’t get it. Second, the whole atmosphere in a club is really uplifting. Everyone’s just sorta doing their own thing, having a good time and being happy to be around other happy people. Clubs here, by comparison, have a real strained, poisonous feeling to them.

There is a club in Berlin called the Kit Kat Club. It is run by this couple from pornos. The woman manages the door, and only lets in those who exhibit through behaviour and dress some sort of indefinable quality that she’s looking for. Then you go in and have sex with people. Andrew and I had a hard time figuring out how exactly we could get in here given that we’d forgotten our assless chaps back home, but here were my suggestions:

- Actually go out and buy something hardcore with spikes and fake leather and shit. Surely the cost would be worth it, even if we had to throw the outfits out as quickly as possible afterwards.

- Do ourselves up in really emo-type makeup. Mascara, black lipstick, diamonds around eyes, teardrops, etc. I would have been prepared to show up in line topless with metal spikes through my tits if it’d helped.

- Just show up naked. We weren’t exactly sure how the logistics of this one would play out, though. We couldn’t go naked in the cab, so I guess we’d have to take it off before we got in line? But what to do with our clothes? And how would we get back into the hostel afterwards? This really would have needed some planning.

In any event, Andrew and I never ended up going there. It pains me to think that the next time I show up in Berlin, I’ll be far, far too old. And probably have kids and shit. Ahh well. I still screwed this one girl at the hostel anyway.*

* This is a lie

Right, So I Went to Europe

2007-09-03T23:28:00.000-04:00

Victory!

There’s no point in having a blog if you can’t talk at length about a trip to Europe, right? I mean, who doesn’t love reading about vacations in far-flung places that you’re not currently having?

The whole thing began not long after I returned from Saskatchewan. Good friend and former roommate Andrew had been traveling about and was in Italy or something at the time, and suggested that I join him for the rest of his trip. I reckoned that if I didn’t do it now, when else was it gonna happen?

I arrived in Munich a week later, excited to finally be on a different continent. It really is a weird little feeling, to be on the other side of the world while the surroundings are still so familiar. I met my parents at the airport who were also on vacation, and they ferried me up to Berlin to meet up with Andrew.

I must say it’s an odd feeling, walking around and talking in a language that nobody else is speaking. You know those weird families with weird skin colour who walk around and talk in their funny language, and you have no idea what they’re saying? Well, for a few brief moments, I was one of them. It’s empowering. It feels kinda what it must feel like to be invisible. No wonder they talk like that. Now, this is all tempered by the fact that 99% of Germans can probably at least understand English, but…

The drive from Munich to Berlin is about 600Km, and I’d like to think I’m a better, more rounded person for it. First, the Autobahn. Very orderly, very… efficient. All of the trucks and heavy vehicles stay in the right lane and always go the speed limit. I saw in my 8 hours perhaps one truck overtaking another (possibly an exaggeration). This makes a huge difference, and one wonders why they don’t have to do this here. There are definite rules to the road that everyone follows, and traffic progresses smoothly. Should things have to slow down due to construction, even the guy that was speeding along at 180 ten seconds ago will obey the signs to the letter. I used to think that the 401 and its drivers were the best in the world (which is naively small-minded). Ha! Any German driving in Canada must think he just showed up in downtown Calcutta or something.

Second, the countryside. Very odd. I was under the impression that Europe was one giant city, with people crowded together shoulder-to-shoulder. But damned if I passed a village more than 1000 people on the entire drive. The whole thing was rolling hills, fields of grass, farms, little towns and rows upon rows of wind generators. Quite where the Germans cram their 80 million citizens I do not know. It blows my mind. A detour had us off the freeway and driving through little villages scattered about. It was really quite nice.

On the way up to Berlin we stopped by Nuremberg for lunch. Well, while there, I mean… how could one pass up the chance to check out the stadium where the Nazis held the rallies (and where my grandpa himself had been some 65 years previously)? An example of Speer’s impressive Nazi architecture, the place looks like an ancient ruin now (that's it above). There’s something spooky about going up there, literally standing in Hitler's footsteps, but one feels compelled. I do have to admit that the Germans seem pretty reflective and honest about their past, as evidenced by an uncompromising installation on the site detailing the stadium’s history. During the immediate postwar period the Americans blew up a giant swastika that served as the sort of… centerpiece of the area from which various officials addressed the crowd. My mother made the observation that they should have just left the thing, as a friendly reminder.

With our trusty GPS unit in hand, we were able to drive right up to the doorway of the hostel in Berlin that Andrew had booked for us. Handshakes were made and goodbyes said as my parents departed, and Andrew and I began our trip proper.

What adventures await our intrepid duo? Turning down unwanted advances from the chap on the left, that's what.

You Are Now Officially Old

2007-08-26T00:40:00.000-04:00

Goldeneye on the 64 (hereafter referred to as “Bond”). Has it truly been ten years? Yes, dear reader, it has as of yesterday, making this Goldeneye 007 10^th Anniversary Retrospective timely indeed.

The most famous washroom in the world

I take you back to the summer of 1997. The Nintendo 64 wasn’t yet a year old, and Mario Kart and Star Fox were all the rage. Their 4-player multiplayer modes, in particular, were quite the phenomenon for kids whose sole multiplayer experience had been confined to two-player original Mario Kart and Ninja Turtles action. If after purchasing Mario Kart 64 you hadn’t bought 3 extra controllers, then you didn’t have 3 extra friends.

In late summer there appeared on rental shelves at Blockbuster a game based on a two-year old Bond movie. Curious. The game did not seem to have aliens, nail guns, or space lasers (okay, that last one is a lie). Bad guys took different amounts of damage depending on where you hit them. Weirdest of all, the player had to reload their gun after emptying a magazine. What manner of first-person shooter was this?!

Rather than levels set on space stations or in the depths of Hell, Bond was set off to such exciting locations as… a Siberian dam? Russian military archives? What with your Rainbow Sixes and Counter-Strikes being all the rage these days such common surroundings are practically passé. But with Doom and Quake the first-person shooters of record in 1997, it could be argued that Rare took a real risk in rendering such prosaic locations for Bond to shoot his way through.

As noted, Bond really kicked things off in the “realistic” first-person shooter category. Bullets left holes in walls. Panes of glass could be shot out. Bad guys would duck behind cover, or run off to an alarm to warn their buddies. It was refreshingly believable.

These days the first-person aspects of a game often play second fiddle to the multiplayer mode. Back then the idea of 4 players on the same screen was pretty nutty, so it was with some skepticism that the multiplayer mode was explored. It didn’t take more than one or two games in the Facility to know we had a winner.

Slowest computer programmer... ever

It is said that one man took the game’s single-player code and reworked it into a multiplayer mode. One man. He truly is the king of kings. Bond multiplayer is where boys became men, where minds were shaped and legends born. Complex. Facility. Archives. The Room. Siberian Special Forces. Remote mines. Bunker. Meaningless to those who haven’t played, but icons to those who know.

In the fall of 1997, girls had sleepover parties and did each other’s braids. Boys - real boys - by contrast played Bond every fucking minute they could. Sleepovers were organized not so we could sit around and get to know each other, but to shoot the shit out of each other with the Dostovei in teams of two while holding down The Room in the Complex. Video games are an important way in which males socialize, and I can only wonder how the social circle would have turned out if we didn’t have Bond to congregate around. Here we were: young, impressionable youths fully ensconsed within a world of PP7s, Soviets, Complexes, and Bond. It shaped our very patterns of thought.

Baby boomers have their moon landing, Woodstock and JFK assassination. Males of my generation have Goldeneye on the Nintendo 64.

Programming Notice

2007-08-06T15:22:00.000-04:00

I'll be extending my stay in London for another week, to return on Sunday the 12th. I regret any difficulties this may cause.

As always, I endeavour to make your friendship with me a success. If you have any comments or questions, please direct them to me once I get back. In the interim, you may print photos of me off Facebook and hang them on your wall. Additionally, there are several Mike-approved lookalikes operating in the GTA you may wish to contact.

Yours most sincerely,
Mike

The Eagle Has Landed

2007-07-18T11:54:00.000-04:00

I can now confirm to you, my loyal readers, that I have returned to my adopted homeland of Ontario. Well, okay, I’ve actually been back nearly two weeks now. And that 4-day stay in Kenora? Funny story. Turns out the car repairs I paid hundreds of dollars for and waited an entire long weekend to get didn’t actually fix anything. Ahh, good times.

I recall the drive up last August being rather inspiring. To be exposed to so much of my own country, so much of it I was ignorant of. Natural beauty and all that jazz. The drive back, though… much less fun. I hated every fucking inch of that road. Every kilometer turned over on the odometer got me further out of Hell. I had grand plans to go on about a million different road trips, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do this ever again. Kenora? Thunder Bay? It was nice knowing you.

I haven’t got anything against air trips, however, so on Monday the 23rd I’ll be meeting up with Andrew in Berlin. The one in Germany. Two weeks later I’m flying out of London. What we do in between is anybody’s guess. Paintball in Hitler’s bunker? Overnight at the Eagle’s Nest? Tea with the Queen? Could be in the cards.

The Best Laid Plans...

2007-07-01T20:58:00.001-04:00

Well, I didn’t see this one coming. I should have. But I didn’t. To save you the trouble of reading through the post, let me say that I’m stuck in Kenora until at least Tuesday, when, hopefully, the minor car part needed will arrive from Winnipeg.

There - I just saved you a trip to Wikipedia

I chalk it all up to hubris. For months I’ve suspected that Ole Yeller wasn’t firing on all cylinders and… well, literally, that’s what was happening. George can attest to this, having driven to Saskatoon and back with me while this was a concern. I pushed it to the back of my mind, thinking that over a 3300Km drive, it wouldn’t pose a problem. Ahh, what a fool I was.

I woke up Friday morning in Flin Flon, said my goodbyes to the Trevors, and motored my way across the great province of Manitoba. It was a fairly lonely drive, filled with hours upon hours of nothingness. Take a look at a map to see if you can find anything between The Pas and Winnipeg, and you’ll see what I mean. After 10 hours of this excitement, I saw the sign: Kenora – 1.5 (I assume they meant kilometres). Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the car sputters, lurches, and gives out. I manage to get her onto a little side road, from where I walked to a driving range on the outskirts of town to call the tow truck. Mercifully (for you as much as me), this is where it got interesting.

The tow truck driver said he was sad that he wasn’t picking up the real Michael Smith (the decathlete, as opposed to either the Nobel laureate or actor). I give him the obligatory laugh, since I’ve heard that one a few times. No, he says – Michael Smith is actually from Kenora. Presumably he was back in town for the long weekend visiting family. So, see? That was the one time in my life where that joke would have worked.

Tow truck driver and I seemed to hit it off. Very affable fellow, and had only been on the job for a week. Once he had my car dropped off at the dealership and I’d checked into my hotel, he had me over to his sister-in-law’s for a few beers. I met his woman and two-week old son. There was a bonfire, a nice little pond with fish in the backyard. The whole deal. I owe him a few drinks so perhaps we’ll meet up sometime before I leave.

The remainder of the evening was spent at the hotel’s lounge. Kenora seems to have a pretty active nightlife in the summer, with some pretty nice bars, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Those places are full of younger groups having a good time, and I can’t see what the single loner can get out of that atmosphere. For my money, the better evening is to be had in the hotel lounge with its… erm… other single loners, I guess. Real “characters”, they are, and not necessarily in a bad way. And, hell, I even ran into a woman who knew George from his Leaf Rapids days (the ones you need parental permission to hear about).

Kenora isn’t so bad. I just have to approach it as a sort of… forced vacation. It sucks to have my homecoming delayed for a not insignificant number of days (and the hotel isn’t exactly cheap), but there’s truly no other option (well, unless one of my true friends wants to hop on a plane and get up here with my car parts).

There’re fireworks tonight down at the waterfront, and who knows what other sorts of fun a resourceful fellow like myself can get up to? Until Tuesday, when my minor car part arrives from Winnipeg, I don’t really have much choice, do I? But, Christ… it just had to be a long weekend. So happy Canada Day to you all (well, not you filthy leeches down on St. Pierre et Miquelon and those of you living on the Alaska Panhandle – you buckets of scum can go fuck yourselves).

It should come as no surprise that the captain of the Titanic was a Smith.

311 Days, 447,840 Minutes and 26,870,400 Seconds of Fun

2007-06-23T22:16:00.000-04:00

I''ll, uh... get back to you on that one

Boy, is it the end of June already? Where does the time go? Pull up your pants, sit back and join me on this, the occasion of my triumphant last post from sunny Sandy Bay. It’s a watershed moment, something for the grandkids; consider it an hour-long season finale of sorts as we head into the summer months that will rival the time Picard got turned into a Borg.

With the drive back ahead of me it’s not quite time to crack the champagne. Still, I can’t help but feel a certain sense of accomplishment mixed with a bit of elation on the last day of school. Sure, hardly any of my kids passed and I didn’t really have any sort of positive impact on their lives or the community at large in scientifically-measurable ways. But, look on the bright side…

Anyway, I did it. I feel like Armstrong walking on the moon, like Yeager breaking the sound barrier. Like Salk curing Polio and Lincoln freeing the slaves. I am Von Bismarck uniting the Germans, Fleming discovering penicillin. A woman doing something notable. I fucking did it, man.

It certainly wasn’t a foregone conclusion. I’m told they were taking bets at the start of the year to see how long I’d last, and who can blame them? Some lanky, effete young guy shows up from Southern Ontario, a first year teacher who is by far the youngest guy on staff who got suckered into something that’s way more than he bargained for. Some kids made it a living hell, presumably to get me out of here (bless their determination). There were some nights – and I can say this, for once, in all seriousness – that I just hoped one of them would burn my car to the ground and give me a plausible reason to leave with dignity. The graveyard in Sandy Bay is littered with the bones of those who came before me and failed, and I could easily have been the latest in a long, unbroken chain. A chain that is made out of their bones! But I’m not.

That said, let us now have a tribute to the fallen – those pour souls who shuffled off this mortal coil long before the year was through:

Mr. G. You mandolin-playing rascal, come back! I do declare, the place just hasn’t been the same without you. Few people can balance guitar playing, proselytizing, ponytail growing and their job as well as you can.

Mr. W. He who took a gamble on an untested young man from Ontario. What words can I say about him that haven’t already been spoken? Ever the avid outdoorsman, he was more than happy to “give” me a fishing rod from his considerable collection (which, I assume he had in case he had to catch 17 fish at once) when I caught the fishing bug earlier this year. Sadly, like Mr. W, his rod didn’t quite make it through the year, its tip having snapped off last week. If your many anecdotes were anything to go by, you must have lived an interesting life. I can only wonder what adventures you’re getting yourself into in the great crawl space in the sky.

Mr. R. Oh, the fun we had together, chum. Sure, you unwittingly brought your wife and children into a war zone (the rent was cheaper than in Baghdad), but at least you figured it out before too much irreversible damage was done. Sorry about Mrs. R’s involuntary liver donation, but do try and see if the Band won’t cover the costs of Junior’s therapy. (note: Okay, you actually were a cool guy, and your presence was missed, I’ll admit)

Before we continue, I have a confession to make. I know the occasional staff member reads this page and I have to say… I’m not actually from Oshawa. I’m from its neighbouring, smartass, yuppie younger brother, Whitby. I told you Oshawa all this time because that’s where I grew up, where I went to school and lived. My family has only been in Whitby for barely two years now, and I’ve been away at school (and here) for most of that. In the GTA there’s barely any difference between cities the way it is up here, anyway. Second, nobody has even heard of Whitby (and rightfully so), whereas I’m sure to come across people with a cursory understanding of where Oshawa is and what it’s about (Eric Lindros and GM). You’ll forgive this little fib, but it was for the best.

Now we turn our attention to one of the unsung heroes of this trip: my car. Yes, her characteristic yellow covering of paint brought my sexuality into question numerous times, but she sure has seen me through some rough spots in the Great White North. It would be a crime not to point out the effort Ole Yeller’s put in for me. Take, for example, this rough estimate of how far she’s traveled these past ten months:

- 3300Km: Whitby to Sandy Bay
- 4000Km: Sandy Bay to Flin Flon/Denare Beach and return (est. 10 times in my car)
- 6000Km: Sandy Bay to Saskatoon and return (5 trips, and you’re damned right it felt like 6000Km)
- 3300Km: Sandy Bay to Whitby

For a grand total of 16,600Km, give or take. Okay, screw it, that doesn’t actually sound like all that much now that I’ve written it all down (“Why, that’s almost 42% of the earth’s circumference around the equator!), but you get the idea.

To get a real sense of her selfless sacrifice, Ole Yeller’s been doused in latex floor covering, had her windshield cracked and replaced, her passenger side window smashed in, her engine mount cracked in two (that one was my fault), been subjected to two flat tires, scratches, an attempted break-in to her trunk, spit, attempted license plate theft (“attempted” in the sense that the plate was later found), and stuck in about a million snow banks. She’s been around the block, alright, and if she can just hold it together for the drive home, there’s a hand wash in it for her.

Much was made of the plan George and I had to photograph a series of dead dogs we came across up here. I think we ended up with 4 or 5, far short of the 12 necessary for our calendar. Let it simply be said that sometimes in life we come across things that are so unbelievable, we would not believe it ourselves later while reminiscing if we didn’t have photos to prove it. My big plan was to reveal our efforts in my final post, but… ehh… somehow, a bunch of photos of dead dogs just doesn’t sound like fun.

Now, I can’t go on at length like this without mentioning the positive aspects of my year in northern Saskatchewan. I did come up here in part because I wanted to follow my mother’s footsteps in teaching up North (there, I said it) and in certain respects that paid off. The expansiveness of it all – the curious mix of isolation and marvel one feels up here. The Northern Lights were really something to behold, and I consider myself fortunate to have seen them. Additionally, the bitter cold does something to you, and it’s not altogether bad. I don’t know when I’ll next live through minus 40-degree weather, but I look forward to it.

I almost cry to think that my weekends in Flin Flon with the Trevors are over. I suspect I’ll encounter them again in the future, but never again quite like this. If I could single out anyone who really opened up their lives for me in order to make this a livable experience, it would be Sarah, Buz and George. They’re exciting, accommodating and generous beyond words, and I’m going to miss them greatly.

Some words, quickly, on the city of Flin Flon. It’s a marvelous town where legend and history collide. It’s unlike any you are likely to experience. I am richer for having been there, and without question my fondest memories of the past 10 months are of that place and its love for rough, northern junior hockey, tall smokestacks, rocks, and above-ground sewer systems. It has character in ways that London, Oshawa, Whitby and Kingston can only dream of. The people who live there have a steadfast devotion to the North, to roughing it, to ploughing through life and making the most of their situation with no apologies. They are the unsung heroes of our country, manning a desolate outpost and taking from the earth with their bare hands the very resources we live on. So, fare thee well, you bastion of the North. May Flintabatty keep you on the right path.

Driving up here means going great distances with nothing in between. Thus, you can be miserable for 6 hours or learn to enjoy it. For my part, I gradually came to look forward to trips into LaRonge, Prince Albert, Flin Flon, and Saskatoon. I felt a sense of attachment between myself and the road; those long, majestic highways that link Northern Saskatchewan’s disparate little communities, traveled for decades by a certain breed of human seeking life, adventure and fulfillment in Canada’s North. Surely their construction is an overlooked achievement; a feat rivaling the construction of the Great Pyramids. Turning off these great arteries and arriving in a small town of barely 5000 feels like traveling from the desert to a bustling metropolis. Places like LaRonge have an admirable atmosphere comprised of a palpable determination and unparalleled resilience you won’t find anywhere else on earth. I’ll likely never come across a barren yet exciting environment like this again, and a part of me is sad to be leaving that.

And my truly beloved co-workers. What can be said? I understand how things work in the staff rooms back home, and I know I’ll never encounter such camaraderie again. By necessity you make fast company up here that, hopefully, turn into lifelong friendships. You both work and live with the same people, day in day out. Shared situation, shared experiences and - with very little else to do in town - in many respects, shared lives. Yes, you were older. And, yes, I was obnoxious more often than not. In spite of this you took me - the new, young, clueless fool – under your wings and helped me through my first year of teaching. We had each other for 10 months and little else, and I could not have done it without you. Even the ones I hate I love, for nobody can go through something like this beside someone and not feel a certain kinship with them. They are that rare breed, the Northern Teacher (who lives on a diet of rye), and for ten brief months I counted myself among them. I talk often of writing a book about this whole thing, as each and every one of you is the most interesting, unforgettable character. Well, except that boring old Shukin guy.

It is odd to be one of the very few who appear to be leaving. There were moments, particularly around February, where I had to figure we were all one shitty 7th period away from packing our bags and leaving en masse. To think that the majority of them are hanging on for another tour of duty while I’m leaving is strange. I’ll be doing whatever I’m doing, and there will be the lot of you, doing it all over again without me while someone comes to take my place. It’s sorta like being the youngest kid in a family of 20, and even though you’ve left they’re still watching TV, eating supper and going out to have fun together without you. Oh, and they adopted a cuter, more fun child to take your place. I’m jealous.

I couldn’t end things here without talking about the situation in Sandy Bay in a wider sense. You are familiar through me with the place. It’s no secret that living here puts a strain on a person that nobody should have to bear, least of all children. There are those who make it work; Tony, in particular, strikes me as a man who has built a comfortable life in Sandy Bay for himself and his family. On the other hand, you have many, many people living in Third World conditions assaulted from all angles by all the things you might imagine: Drugs. Alcohol. Poverty. Abuse. Death. The human spirit can’t develop properly up here; people can’t reach their potential, and many die far, far too young. It hurts, it really does, to be going back to Ontario while thinking of the people I’m leaving behind, and the seemingly-hopeless situation in which they live. I have no clue how to fix this, and I can’t offer more than a stern “something must be done.” But now you know. And if you think that Natives have it easy with their government hand-outs, I’ll punch your teeth down your throat.

I think that’s it, isn’t it? It’s everything I have to say upon my departure from the Northern Village of Sandy Bay. Nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here. This time wasn’t what I wanted, in some ways it was harmful, and in many respects this feels like something of a wasted year (I’m sure my students would agree with that sentiment…). On the other hand, I have lived through exciting experiences beside amazing people in an unforgettable land. So to George, Roger, Marion, Brenda, Peter, Chuck, Ken, Douglas, Dale, Tony, Roseanne, Ted, Robin, Sharon, Lyndsay, Luke, E.D., Arden, Orville, Kevin, Jamie, Barb, the other Brenda, Sarah, Buz, Munchkin and Meagan at the Orange Toad, I thank you for your friendship, patience and help, and wish you all a fond farewell. May we meet again another day (particularly that last one).

Spot the Difference

2007-06-22T20:02:00.000-04:00

For your consideration, a comparison:

Exhibit A: Walter Cronkite

"Nah, I'm just shittin' ya. He's out screwing Marilyn Monroe, who is also not dead."

Veteran journalist Walter Cronkite began his esteemed career covering local sports in print and over the radio in the Midwest during the Depression. From there he was dispatched to the front lines, reporting from North Africa and Europe for the United Press.

In 1950, Edward R. Murrow added Cronkite to the staff of CBS’ nascent news division. After a decade of distinguished reportage, Cronkite became anchorman of the CBS Evening News in 1962. It is in this role he is most remembered, delivering to the baby boomers (and their parents, who, like him, are members of the Greatest Generation™) news of the Kennedy assassination and the moonshot, while holding their hands through the tragedies of Vietnam and Watergate.

Walter Cronkite probably did some stuff after this too, but I think that’s enough Wikipedia summarizing for one day. Rest assured that in retirement he has remained as respected as ever, offering scathing criticisms of the war in Iraq and voicing cartoons.

Exhibit B: CNN’s recent journalistic output

1.31.07
Cat stuck in washing machine is YouTube rage

2.2.07
Lovesick pup seeks date with first dog Barney

2.3.07
Orangutan likes the Bears
Orangutan defies experts on Super Bowl
(note: I was unable to confirm if these are two separate orangutans, or if there are two football-predicting organgutans that are worthy of CNN's interest)

2.5.07
Paris Hilton tape features 'n', loving 'f' words
(note: no fucking clue what this means)

2.7.07
'Hoohaa' monologues better than (bleep) play
(note: again, if anyone can explain what they're trying to get across with this...)

2.8.07
Funny side of an 'astro-nut' 'lust in space'
(Nice to see CNN can find the humour in a mentally ill woman's attempt at murder)
Dumb thief walks into closed door, falls down
Aunt's complaint turned 'vagina' into 'hoohaa'

2.9.07
Fat dog skateboards down Arizona streets
(see, now, if the dog hadn't been fat, would this have made the cut?)

2.11.07
Upstate New York buurrrr-ied under snowfall

2.12.07
Dolphins may protect the nation, one fin at a time
Husband-in-chief forgets Valentine's Day
Bill Cosby's dog wins title paws down
(I wasn't going to read this article about Bill Cosby's dog until I read the pun. Then I just knew I had to!)

2.15.07
Where there's smoke, there's ... Obama's cig?

3.3.07
Coulter drops f-bomb onto political battlefield
("f-bomb" has now made its way into professional journalism?)

3.7.07
Britney's antics make K-Fed look like good dad

3.15.07
Time.com: Meet Angelina's boy: Pax Thien Jolie
(CNN had to tag this one off to Time.com, so big was this story)
Scalper profits off Scouts; the problem is ...?
(Seriously, who writes this shit - some snarky yuppie?)
Anderson Cooper: I know Regis. I'm no Regis
(note: Anderson Cooper is gay. Like... literally)

3.29.07
'American Idol' says 'bye-bye, curly'
A prez walks into a journalists' dinner ...
Trump has 50 percent chance of losing hair

3.30.07
Guy with walker swings bat at naked intruder
(really, “guy”? Who is editing this stuff?)

3.31.07
Why is Sanjaya still in 'American Idol'?

4.4.07
Coyote jumps in Quiznos drink cooler

4.5.07
'Porn & Pancakes' fights X-rated addictions
Kindergarteners kept quiet -- with clothepins
Cemetery wedding is to die for, newlyweds say
Anna Nicole Smith's private diaries revealed
(not so private anymore, Nicole! Ha ha!)

4.6.07
He's dying!' wife cries, so hospital dials 911
Halle Berry to go bald for new movie
Kitten stuck in wall, so rescuers smash holes
(Stop the presses!)

4.16.07
Madonna back in Malawi to adopt?
Station airs best of Imus, plays that broadcast
Smith diaries: 'We have a buy-it-now situation'
I-Report: Gunshots captured on a cell phone

4.17.07
Edwards locks into pricey haircuts

4.19.07
You-know-who finally gets boot on 'Idol'

4.21.07
What's behind Baldwin's rant at his kid?

4.23.07
On payday, it's still a man's world
(nice way to sum up one of society's most egregious power imbalances)
YouTube phone guy didn't take CNN's 4 a.m. call
(At this point, a smart reporter would maybe not write a story about YouTube phone guy)

4.24.07
Funny Lunch: Baby Cakes Sees A Play

4.25.07
YouTube rage is piano-playing cat

4.27.07
Bush dance is catnip for late-night comedians

5.1.07
Funny Lunch: Fark is cookin' & cruisin'
Anna Nicole Smith's baby now in U.S.

5.2.07
Uh, you should expect fat in your KFC, judge says

5.4.07
Duckling follows, grooms, naps with puppy
Funny Lunch: Maria Bamford's kicked out

5.8.07
Aging cheese Web site molds following
Knut baby cuteness lost to long nose, belly sag

5.9.07
'Dancing With the Stars' boots another star

6.11.07
*&^%! You CAN say that on TV, court rules

6.19.07
Judge Judy: 'Vacant' Paris Hilton deserved jail

The Home Stretch

2007-06-11T18:59:00.000-04:00

(Note: If the formatting of this blog is weird to you, get Firefox already, loser)

Ringham Originals, eat your heart out

On this, the three week pre-anniversary of my homecoming, let me pause to take a moment and reflect upon the current state of affairs here in Sandy Bay.

There is, needless to say, a certain energy in the air. It’s as if the winds have changed direction, and everyone can feel it. This all started some two weeks ago, when our principal called the staff in for a meeting after school. It was there that he announced my decision not to come back next year, which produced some strange feelings within me. It felt as though a weight had been lifted, his saying that. I’d been wrestling with the question for some time of how to tell the locals I’ve become friendly with that I wasn’t returning (the implicit statement being that their hometown is so unbearable, I can’t stand to live in it). Well, good ole Arden got that out of the way for me, so that was nice.

I now find myself in this odd position whereby I’m only one of two staff members who are definitely not coming back (there are one or two on the fence, so far as I can tell, but no decisions have been made to my knowledge). There have been a few meetings lately about timetabling, scheduling, attendance and the like for next year, and I definitely feel like the odd man out at these affairs. Hell, the VP and others have said on numerous occasions that there’s really no point of me being there. They’re just being nice and saving me some time, of course, but I do feel like something of a pariah; a quitter sneaking out of town with his tail between his legs. I mean, the year was as tough on the rest of the staff as it was on me, so why am I the only guy taking off? It’s an odd little feeling, like I’m no longer a part of the team.

The next three weeks or so should be interesting. At school, there is the matter of cramming in some end of year business and trying to pass those 2-3 students who are on the bubble. After 3:30, though, I think things are going to start getting interesting. Northlands College teaching for George and some others is starting to wind down, freeing up his after school schedule; the weather is finally starting to turn (Saturday afternoon had to have been in the single digits again), making way for some prime fishing time (with the possibility of a tan); and liquor.

I must say, the after school “extra-curricular” meetings have been on the rise lately, along with staff attendance. There may be a tacit understanding between some of us that there’s no shame at this point in getting snarbuckled more often than not until we hit the end (or perhaps I’ve been reading into it the wrong way). I had a teacher grab me a half gallon of liquor over the weekend and… after taking a look at it last night and asking myself if it could really withstand the next 2.5 weeks, I’ve requested that another teacher make a trip to the bottle shop in Flin Flon on my behalf tomorrow to give myself an even gallon. And if that doesn’t cover it, there’s always Listerine (a word that MS Word will capitalize for you if you don’t). Maybe I’m getting a tad too dramatic, but I don’t quite know how I’d have made it this far in the year without booze. There is definitely a shared appreciation of alcohol among staff members, and it’s something I quite enjoyed. It’s a good way for the staff to bond that I doubt you’d find in a school back home.

Last week was Sandy Bay’s annual Culture Week. Basically, a bunch of people from the community show up and teach kids how to make crafts, drums, baskets and the like. It was a real gong show with respect to planning and timing, but I’d like to think that the kids got something out of it… right? Friday’s closing ceremonies in particular were a disaster of comical proportions, and I don’t think I’ll ever quite forget that day.

Wednesday was interesting, as it was the annual Treaty Day in Sandy Bay. Very curious affair, that. Back in the 1870s, I do believe, when the ancestors of the native residents of Sandy Bay entered into the Treaty agreement with the government, they and their descendants were promised $5 a year, each. Now, back in those days I’m sure $5 wasn’t chump change. It is today, though, but that doesn’t stop the odd spectacle of a few hundred people showing up to grab their crisp $5 bills. It’s quite a thing, with dancing, dignitaries and even RCMP in dress uniforms.

Hey, the Union Jack at Treaty Day! Guess there's no hard feelings?

On a different note, I made an interesting scientific discovery this past Saturday at 4 am. I started playing Mega Man 2 (inarguably the greatest Mega Man game of all time) at 1 or so, and just never gave up. Looking out the window at about 4, I noticed it was bright! Like… really bright. I knew the sun got a little wacky this far north, but I’d never been awake to really notice. So, essentially, the sun goes down somewhere after 10:30 (you can still see its glow over the horizon well past 11, thus ruining any chance of seeing the Northern Lights), and comes up around 3 am. Very strange. Note the photo I took at 4 in the morning (and the sightly chicken wire over my window).

Damn you, tilted axis of the planet!

Anyway, that’s the lay of the land right now. Not much longer to go until George and I hightail it out of here and head for the nexus of rampant crime, depraved beastiality, brazen drive-by shootings and other examples of moral depravity that is the GTA – as per a number of resident Saskatchewanians (which, technically, I’ve been for 9.5 months).

Overheard on Mustafar

2007-06-03T04:07:00.001-04:00

I grew this beard for you!

Obi-Wan: You were the Chosen One! You were supposed to bring balance to the Force, not destroy it! I loved you like a brother!

(Obi-Wan walks away, leaving a dismembered Anakin to die)

Obi-Wan: Alright Threepio, let’s get out of here.

C-3P0: So I guess you took care of Anakin. Cut his head off with your lightsaber?

Obi-Wan: Well, not exactly…

Threepio: Oh, you son of a bitch! Sliced him clean in two, eh?!

Obi-Wan: I just kinda left him there at the edge of a river of lava. But he was on fire when I was taking off!

Threepio: On fire?

Obi-Wan: Right, and I cut off all his limbs.

Threepio: Alright, no prob. You left his dead body to burn.

Obi-Wan: Well, alright. He wasn’t dead dead. He was dying.

Threepio: Okay, okay… you sure you don’t wanna go back there and just finish the job?

Obi-Wan: Well, we really should get going…

Threepio: No, seriously. Just gimme a blaster or something, I’ll just shoot him in the head. Just go right over there and get it done. I mean, Christ, he has no limbs. It’s not rocket science.

Obi-Wan: I’m really more eager to get outta here…

Threepio: You sure now? Because, I mean, he ended up being one evil son of a bitch and I think we really could save ourselves a lot of trouble if we just took five minutes to go back there and make sure he’s dead. Again, I’d like to point out that he has no limbs.

Obi-Wan: Don’t do this…

Threepio: Five minutes of our time, man.

Obi-Wan: Didn’t he build you?

Threepio: Okay, you’re way out of line.

How the Mighty Have Fallen

2007-06-01T00:42:00.000-04:00

A number of years ago, Rory discovered that one could get on a “guest list” at GT’s and skip the line. I really only have vague recollections of this, so it probably had something to do with his birthday. Not “vague” because we got snarbuckled, but because Rory’s birthday parties usually have us folding old refrigerator boxes and taking them to the recycling plant. Just really dreary, unmemorable stuff. Not unlike Rory, I hasten to point out.

In our first installment of People Who Are Having Less Sex Than You: Guy in the middle there

Anyway, to get on this guest list one had to give up an email address. Thus, as a consequence, I’ve been getting various promotional emails from GT’s for the past 3 years. Somewhat annoying. The other morning, however, I got an electronic communiqué that brought a tear to my eye, so depressing a picture did it paint of a once-glorious drinking spot/site of almost thirty Smith shoot-downs over a five-year period (in that they were shooting me down).*

GT’s is now enforcing a dress code. This on its face is pretty lame, but wait till you get a load of the stuff they’re codifying out of the place:

- No hoodies up in the bar
- No angled hats
- No gang coulours/tattoos
- No medallions/chains worn over clothes
- No grills
- Lugz must be tied up
- No baggies

See people, this is what happens when you open your bar to Fanshawe students. Ha, no, I kid (no, seriously). And, all good things to guard against to be sure, but – my god – why do these have to be prevented in the first place? Has the vaunted GT’s – once a place to spend a solid evening any night between Thursday and Saturday, inclusive – sunk to the point where they have to ask patrons to keep their grills at home? Dress code or no dress code this is a bad sign, for, as the old adage goes, “if she says you don’t need a condom, you probably do.”

Or maybe it’s that the old Spikester has entered his Carlsberg years, hmm? I must admit, the siren song of the dance floor is less alluring than it once was. And a lanky, balding, creepy, (comparatively) old school teacher is probably not the hottest ticket going.

Yep, reckon I ought to start packing it in. Start tucking in my shirts outside of work, brush my hair forward over my forehead, put the Nintendo in the closet and start saving for that widescreen plasma today. While I’m at it, better start paying attention to interest rates, figure out just what a GIC is and start putting a little something away for Maximus’ education (he’ll be my son). And, heck, why stop there? Now that I’m about to become a reputable member of society, what use have I for 6.0 Schlitz tall boys? No, it’s Moosehead, Rickard’s or Keith’s for me, or Stella if the wife’s calendar is right.

Ahh, and that pesky wife! Without a dance floor on which to snag one, to where will I turn to get a woman? I’ve been trying in vain for years to get my name out there with graffito tagging, sky-writing and hobos wearing sandwich boards. None of these (particularly the last one) has yielded results. Efforts must be redoubled upon my glorious return to civilization. Right after I get Anarchos to level 70, that is (note Cameron's amusing pun).

Ahh, alcohol and the objectifcation of women. How I'll miss you.

* How did I arrive at this figure? In a typical school year, we get (or “got”, if you want to ruin things) roughly 30 weekends. Many times we went out multiple times per week. However, I guess that there were an equal amount of times where – again, due to Rory – we stayed in. Thus, I estimate my chums and I went out an average of 30 nights in a year. You multiply that by 4 (owing to the year I was “off the market”, as the kids say) and get a solid 120 nights out during which I was available. You have to figure we spent a quarter of those at GT’s, bringing us to 30 evenings once more. Accounting for the 2 instances at GT’s during which the odds somehow went in my favour, and you’ve got yourself 28 sad, lonely cab rides home.

Interesting bonus fact: The chimpanzee from the Tarzan movies from the 1930s is still alive.

A Word From The Saskatchewan Board of Tourism

2007-05-13T22:21:00.000-04:00

I take pains (pains, I say!) to make this blog something worth reading (on some level). Too often I find that blogs are little more than colourless lists of what a person did on the day of the posting. You know, utterly boring fare like,

Woke up today at 10 am… a little late, LOL! Met Shelly for lunch and then worked the fries off at the gym! Then I came home, fed the cat, watched some Gilmore Girls and chatted with R. I think he likes me.

And so on. To this end I try to avoid updating anyone about what I do, since it’s usually more boring than the example I just made up. That said, living up here does have moments that can just barely qualify as interesting – and I just happened to bring my camera along for them. The following incidents have taken place within the past month or so.

First up is the trip to Saskatoon George and I embarked upon some weeks ago. I’ve spent a little time in the city’s airport, but I figure it would be a crime to come all this way west and not do things right.

Oh, those wacky locals. This car can still be found on the treacherous 121Km road out of Sandy Bay that I have mentioned numerous times. If the dust wasn't on the hood, you would find "Vote for Herald" spray-painted on it. Interestingly, they didn't bother swiping the tires from the passenger side.

Saskatoon being a six hour drive, George and I decided to make the stop in Prince Albert the Friday evening after school. Saskatchewan works like this: You’ve got your Regina towards the bottom, Saskatoon not two hours north of that, and then as close to the middle of the province as you can get, you’ve got Prince Albert. I believe they call it the Gateway to the North or somesuch, because there isn’t much worth writing home about above it. I mean, really, north of PA (as those in the know call it), and you’re scrounging for anything close to 5000, even. And I’m five damned hours north of it.

Loyal readers will recall PA as the site of October’s northern teacher’s conference, so George and I had spent some limited time there already. It’s a very attractive town in its own way, not the least because there’s nothing else but it for hundreds of kilometers. It has around 40, 000 people living in it, a quaint yet impressive downtown, considerable selection of bars, and so on. It really wouldn’t be an awful place to live, although I do understand it has its problems. With the paper mill shutting down earlier this year, I can’t imagine that situation getting any better. All the same, George and I had a nice cooldown after the drive from Sandy Bay, and I have to admit I am not opposed to spending one last weekend there before I head back (hint hint, chum).

This is a photo of a particular stretch of "highway" from Sandy Bay to Prince Albert. It typifies the natural environment up here.

I guess this is probably the most impressive photo of Saskatoon I could find of what I took. So don't let it be said that I didn't try to make the place seem interesting.

George and I were up early enough and on our way for the 1.5 hour drive south to Saskatoon. I’ve done this leg five times now, and I have to say it’s grown on me. You begin to move away from the lakes and trees that characterize the northern half of the province and gradually make your way into more… prairie-like conditions (although it’s not quite like the postcards – I suppose that’s more Regina’s neck of the woods). Along the way you pass many Northwest Rebellion-related sites, so the route is rather interesting from that perspective, too.

This statue in downtown Saskatoon recognizes the meeting of a boyhood John Diefenbaker and PM Laurier. I think that's actually kinda cool.

We didn’t exactly have a game plan for Saskatoon. We figured we’d roll into town, grab a hotel at some point and do some shopping and the like. It took some legwork, but we finally found a seedy little hotel to take us in at 5. This gave us quite a lot of time to kill, but we managed to get shopping and sightseeing accomplished in what turned out to be a rather productive day. All told, we drove 80Km in and around Saskatoon that day, so I’d like to think I have a pretty decent impression of the place. To top it off, George and I dined at what the waitress assured us was Saskatchewan’s only Red Lobster… so suck on that, everyone. Quite the feather in my cap.

Typical street in downtown Saskatoon. See, I saved you the trip.

The following week, I believe, I accompanied George and some staff members on the grade 4 class trip into Flin Flon. Primarily we were there to see Flin Flon’s stage production of Beauty and the Beast, but we also crammed some swimming and McDonald’s in there for the kiddies. It was a fun little experience, but I have to say that in retrospect there wasn’t a moment where I wasn’t hounding or supervising the kids in some way. It’s like the mind starts running when you get in the van with the kids, and doesn’t stop till you drop the last one off at home the next day. You also have to be in your “teacher” persona 24/7, which is like being in a play yourself all day.

I must commend the Flin Flon Arts Council on their excellent production. Flin Flon’s a tiny little town in the grand scheme of things, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in character and, I think, great civic participation. The show put on by a town of 6300 rivals anything Oshawa, London or Kingston could have done, without question. There are a lot of people there who give of themselves to create and maintain an identity for the town, and it really pays off.

And while I’m commending, I have to say that George did an excellent job in planning the trip. Little touches like the swimming and the weenie roast were really appreciated by the kids, and his choice of the Rocky View lodge for our, erm… lodgings was very convenient.

I sure as hell can't show you any photos of students from the trip, but here's the view we enjoyed from the balcony at our hotel/lodge. I imagine that ice has come very close to disappering by now, but what the hell do I really know?

Finally, this list of moderately notable stuff I’ve done lately would be incomplete without last week’s “jazz” night of sorts in Flin Flon. I’ve said it before, but Flin Flon is a very social little town and if you get in the right group you can have a really marvelous time on a Friday night. This particular weekend they brought in some live music and people just sat around tables, brought their own food (Buz brought his old staple again, caviar), and drank booze. To top it all off, the Trevors and I headed over to the seediest little bar I’ve been in and we had a grand old time with two of the locals. If all this wasn’t enough, I was even threatened with molestation by one of the city’s more attractive citizens. All told, a pretty positive experience.

George and his dog (who asked not to be named online) perched perilously close to the edge of one of the many crevices not far outside Flin Flon last weekend

This coming Victoria Day weekend in Flin Flon will see a solemn recognition of Her Majesty’s birthday, maybe some fireworks and some friends of George’s from down Minnesota way. I am told they are Vietnam veterans with some strongly-held beliefs, so I think this could be quite the experience. Also – and I don’t want to make you too jealous – this weekend will see the long-awaited appearance of two particular east-coasters at the Trevors’. Quite simply, this has been months in the making, and I cannot wait.

Overheard in the Mushroom Kingdom

2007-05-03T19:24:00.000-04:00

That goddamn tease...

Princess Peach: Boy, that sure was a tiring tennis match, Mario! I think I’m gonna take a breather!

Mario: You and me both, Princess. I’m pooped!

Princess: It sure is a nice day out today!

Mario: Yeah, and you’re not looking too bad yourself.

Princess: Why thank you!

Mario: And, Jesus, your little tennis skirt…

Princess: Oh, Mario… please, don’t get like this again.

Mario: Part of you wants it Princess, admit it.

Princess: Mario, I don’t think we should be having this conversation.

Mario: Listen, I get where we stand. I get it, okay? You’ve made it pretty clear. But my point now is that you owe me. You owe me. After all the shit I have been through to save your tight little ass – four times I can think of off the top of my head, but I know there’s gotta be more – I think I’ve got a little taste coming, wouldn’t you say? To say nothing of the instances during which I thought I’d found you, only to be told that you were in another castle. That happened at least seven times. At least!

Princess: So you’re saying now that you’d have left me with King Koopa to die if you knew you weren’t getting anything more than my most heartfelt gratitude?

Mario: You’re goddamn right that’s what I’m saying. I mean, what does a guy have to do?! Christ, I even bought you that pink go kart.

Princess: Well excuse me, but I thought you gave that because you were nice.

Mario: Nice? Nice?! That thing cost me 300 coins! I could have had 3 free lives instead of that thing! Listen, alright, I know I’m not doing myself any favours here. I’m short, a little pudgy - moustache might not be the most fashionable - but cut me some slack, for chrissakes. What are my options here? There’s a couple turtles, some walking mushrooms with faces… and then you and Princess Daisy.

Princess: And what’s wrong with her, anyway?

Mario: Jesus Peach, she gave it up for Luigi after one round of golf. One!

Princess: Goodness…

Mario: Well, that’s it. I am done. You want yourself saved, you’d better think about finding some other sap to string along.

Princess: Mario, I don’t think you’re being fair…

Mario: Fuck this, I’m giving Pauline a call.

Scientific Fact: Hitler = Comedy Gold

2007-04-02T23:21:00.000-04:00

"Dude, what you wanna do today?"
"I dunno - watch Hitler drive his car around?"

Rich: Alright, new guy, I’m going to need that quarterly report from you before next Thursday, kay?

Hitler: Ja, und I am sorry I haven’t had it on your desk already.

Rich: Whoa, whoa… Jesus Christ, are you Hitler?

Hitler: Ja ja, guilty as charged. Is dis goink to be die problem?

Rich: Holy fuck, what the hell? Hitler?

Hitler: Alright, dis is not die first time I am to havink dis conversation, ya? In 1945, I vas cryogenically frozen und, 60 years later, I vas unfrozen und hired by die temp agency. Und now you are findink me here.

Rich: No, no way. I am not going to let Adolph Hitler work for this company. You can find work elsewhere, pal.

*****

Susan: Well, after I got my Master’s degree, I decided I’d travel around Europe for a few years, and then I ended up staying in New Zealand for a while after I met this guy… oh, goodness, I must be boring you! I’m so bad at this!

Hitler: Nein, you are doink fine. I must say, I am qvite fascinated by your life’s story, Susan.

Susan: Ahh heck, you sure know how to charm a lady. Say… there’s something so familiar about you…

Hitler: Vell, you know, dis I get qvite often.

Susan: Oh… oh Jesus. Jesus Christ, you’re Adolph Hitler!

Hitler: Ha, ja, die vun und only! You should see die look und your face!

Susan: Oh, my god, I need to get out of here. Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus…

Hitler: Hey, you are thinkink dis is easy for me?! Try beink cryogenically frozen for 60 years und findink out zhat you are die vurld’s most hated person! It is very difficult for me personally, ya?

*****

Hitler: Vaiter, I vas vunderink vhat you might recommend on die menu, ya?

Waiter: Well sir, the lobster bisque is a perennial fave if you’re looking for an appetizer.

Hitler: Oh, nein. I am not die fan of die seafood, I’m afraid. Let us just say dat me und die shellfish do not get along!

Waiter: In that case, our pan-roasted duck breast is an excellent choice. It comes served in orange mead sauce over a… wait, hold on…

Hitler: Ach, here ve go again…

Waiter: Oh, oh Christ… you’re Adolph fucking Hitler?!

Hitler: Ja ja. Vhat gave it away, Einschtein – mein moustache? Or maybe it vas die haircut?

Waiter: Good Lord, this is not happening. Oh Jesus, this is awful. God, please, somebody phone the police!

Hitler: Ja, und vhere vere die police vhen I vas schtuck in die cryogenic chamber for 60 years, ein?

Waiter: Oh, sweet Jesus, no! I can’t believe this… Christ! This is the most hated man in history!

Hitler: Oh, come on, man! I am sittink right here!

Overheard in Beijing

2007-04-02T01:00:00.000-04:00

Man: Oh my god, can you believe they’re playing this song?!

Woman: Ha, I know! It’s totally 80s!

Man: Yeah, you should probably get some leg warmers and maybe I should wear sneakers with a sports jacket. And Ray-bans!

Woman: Ha ha, totally!

Man: God, remember Thundercats?

Woman: Of course! ‘Thundercats, ho!’ Man. Say, what about She-Ra?

Man: Oh man!! I totally forgot! Wasn’t she He-Man’s sister or something?

Woman: Ha, something like that.

Man: Man. I can’t believe you remember this stuff!

Woman: Are you kidding? The 80s are so ghetto!

Man: Wait – ‘ghetto’ is a good adjective now?

Woman: Oh, totally.

Man: Hey, listen, sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Li!

Woman: Hey Li! I’m Lanying!

Li: You, uh, going to school or anything?

Lanying: Yeah, I’m in my 3^rd year of Polly Sci. You?

Li: Oh, I just graduated Agriculture last year.

Lanying: An aggie, eh? What’s your specialization?

Li: Rice.

Lanying: I love rice! I eat it all the time!

Li: Well, you’ve got me to thank. Ha ha!

Lanying: Ha ha!

Li: Nah, I’m just kidding. (silence, then…) You’re a Moosehead girl?

Lanying: It’s the best!

Li: Totally! But you know what they say about people who rip off their labels!

Lanying: Oh shut up, silly!

(conversation starts to fade)

Li: So, Lan – can I call you that? – Lan, you remember Tiananmen, right?

Lanying: Shh! We can’t get caught talking about that!

Li: I know, I know, but you remember that dude standing in front of those tanks?

Lanying: Are you joking? Between you and me, he’s such an inspiration! To do what he did, to risk so much to show the government and the people that we need freedom… I’m sorry, it’s just so moving.

Li: Alright, don’t tell anyone or anything, but that was me.

Lanying: What?

Li: Yeah, I was the Tiananmen Guy.

Lanying: That’s you in that photo?

Li: Totally. That was totally me. You see the dark hair?

Lanying: Yeah, but a lot of people have dark hair…

Li: No, totally. I still have the white shirt and black pants in my closet… back at my apartment.

Lanying: I dunno man, that’s a bit much to swallow.

Li: Oh, you like to swallow, eh?

Lanying: Okay, fuck you, I’m out of here.

Li: Bitch.

That takes some brass ones, I'll say

Look Ma, I'm Artsy!

2007-03-30T21:01:00.000-04:00

Second-year photography assignment, here I come!

Whoa, what the hell happened there? For those of you following at home, I haven’t had a new post since March the… 3^rd?! Hell of a way to lead things into our 1^st anniversary. Apologies to those of you who have signed up for the IKBIC Premium Club featuring exclusive interviews, music and video clips; my sit-down with J. D. Salinger will be up on Sunday.

You know, running a blog is hard work. Just ask Cameron I-Shut-Down-My-Blogspot-Account McKay. Keeping that thing up to date nearly gave that poor man an ulcer. Oh, sure, he’ll say he had more important things to do, like… I dunno, gank some newbs in Tirisfal Glades, get a Master’s in less than 5 years (just sayin’…) and have a social life, but you and I both know it was his demanding legion of fans, rabid for every last detail of his life that made him quit.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes - running a blog isn’t always fun and games, and sometimes it’s a real goddamn stretch to come up with anything worth mentioning. And since I still got nothing, here’s a lame post filled with photos I took the other day! Enjoy, losers!

This first batch of photos was taken in Sandy Bay right at the end of winter. Photos taken literally the next day would have looked totally different in terms of how much snow is on the ground. This first one shows the actual… bay of Sandy Bay fame.

Next up is our church… oh, psych! It was actually a courthouse that day. What a way to run a railroad, eh? Not to sound like a prick, but there’s something very evocative about this photo. I think it accurately hints at a lot of the issues this community faces.

No, these children didn’t sign a waiver to appear on my blog, but what are you going to do about it? Nah, I kid. In order to avoid legal difficulties, these are actually mannequins I dressed up and pushed around on the swings before taking the photo.

This photo shows off a lot of what this town looks like, if you’re curious.

Oh, you naughty dog! Who’s a bad boy! Who’s the bad doggie that opened up the trash box, took the trash out, ripped it open, spilled my used beer cans on the ground and showed everyone I have alcohol in my home? Is it you? Oooh, you’re so fucking adorable! I hope nobody kills you in the cull and sends you to the Band for the $30 bounty on dogs! Oooh, you good boy, I really hope nobody does that!

(PS: My home is in the basement there)

You’ll notice that most of these next photos revolve around melting snow. Normally such a thing wouldn’t merit a use of film, but up here a melt is really something to behold. It all started last Friday, and literally overnight the landscape and whole atmosphere does a 180. Snow starts to disappear, water starts seeping through on the ice (or something – anyone up here want to tell me what’s going on there?), the dirt road is an actual dirt road for the first time in 5 months… and tons of mud and so on. Obviously the concept of melting snow is no different here than in the GTA, but it’s the way it just starts melting out of nowhere and doesn’t let up for a week that gets to me.

This one here was taken down the Trevors’ street near Flin Flon on a particularly lovely Saturday afternoon last week. I cannot stress how insane it was to see melting snow that day. I mean, Christ, I took a goddamn photo of it.

Poor abandoned truck. Nobody loves you. Handsome-looking shadow down in the left, though.

Here, by the way, is the view the Trevors have across the street.

So that's that, your semi-monthly check-in from Northern Saskatchewan (not to be confused with anywhere on Earth that you'd want to live).

Read This And Weep

2007-03-03T22:27:00.000-05:00

(Update at end!)

Continuing my series of exploring things that remind me of Poochie, we take a look at the currently-airing cartoon, Loonatics Unleashed. Now, it seems a bit silly to make Loonatics the focus of what is only my second installment; there is nothing in the history of mass media that is as vapid, insulting, uninspired, cynical and just plain awful as this cartoon show. After this, dreck like “The Batman” is going to seem like frigging Shakespeare. All things considered though, I am compelled to write about it.

"Jump the shark" just doesn't seem to cut it

What more is there to say? These character designs speak for themselves. Focus group-tested and toy company-approved, creativity and originality take a backseat here to unchecked commercialism. Look at those anime-influenced eyes, the hard, inorganic edges that have been carefully measured to ensure maximum profitability. Garbage, pure and simple.

Not having seen it, Loonatics Unleashed seems to be some sort of futuristic cartoon show involving characters that are loosely based on ones from classic Looney Tunes. According to the press release, these characters are descendants of the originals who have banded together to protect Earth after a meteor strike. Like, what… Daffy Duck had kids? The fucking Road Runner had kids? Insane.

You can just picture it, can’t you? The little meeting where they came up with the show, came up with their names. Picture no more, friend, as I have here a transcript from that very same meeting:

Executive 1: Hmmm… we need a cartoon that will appeal to the kids today. Something with skateboards and, possibly, iPods.

Executive 2: Anime is big. Maybe some anime with iPods?

Executive 1: Brilliant! Wait, no no. We don’t own the trademark on the iPod.

Executive 2: Well, what do we own?

Executive 3: What about the Looney Tunes? We definitely own the rights to that. You know, the cherished cartoons of not only our youth, but of our parents and their parents? The series of cartoon shorts with a pedigree extending past the Golden Age of animation, back more than 70 years? One of the few shared cultural experiences that have stretched across gender, age and ethnicity for, literally, generations? Why don’t we just make more of those?

The boardroom in which Loonatics Unleased was created. Incidentally, this is also the place where the outcome of the 2008 presidential election was decided last week.

Executive 2: By Jove, Edwards, I think you’ve got it! Oh, wait, hold on… that’s not anime. It’s a veritable hodge-podge of artistic styles created and refined by peerless animators over the course of four decades. There aren’t any shots of characters placed in static poses in front of dynamic, abstract backgrounds, are there? I don’t remember any, at least. It’ll never fly.

Executive 1: Wait, no… gentlemen, prepare yourselves. What if we were to make the Looney Tunes anime?

Executive 2: Weinstein, are you insane?!

Executive 1: Far from it. Picture this: hard-edged, X-Treme versions of classic Looney Tunes characters fight crime in the – wait for it – future!

Executive 3: I think we’ve got it! Now, what characters will make it to the show?

Executive 1: Well, Bugs Bunny, of course. We’ll call him “Buzz Bunny”, with two Zs!

Executive 2: Wait, hold on there a minute. “Buzz Bunny” is the name of a vibrator. How about “Ace Bunny” (note: this is true and the name was changed)?

Executive 1: Just as good! Then, Daffy Duck, naturally. We’ll call him “Danger Duck”.

Executive 3: Oooh, sounds dangerous!

Executive 1: That’s the idea!

Executive 2: Right, and we could have Porky Pig, only we’ll call him “Porxy Pigg”, and…

Executive 3: Oh, might want to hold off on Porky there, Dave. According to our focus group research, Porky is among the least marketable characters.

Executive 2: Really? Porky Pig? The very first classical Looney Tune character? The one who, in dozens of shorts, was the only one who could keep his head on? The beloved everyman, Porky Pig?

Exec 3: Yep. Kids don’t like him. Too gay.

Exec 2: Alright, shit. Then howabout the Tasmanian Devil? He’s not remotely gay, and his image is second only to Calvin taking a piss when it comes to the working class and the decals they like to stick on the backs of their trucks. He’ll be called “Slam Tasmanian”. And, heck, before I sold my soul, I vaguely recall as a child being fond of the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. The first shall be known as Rev Runner, while the second, I will name Tech E. Coyote.

Exec 3: You sure about that Tech E. Coyote name?

Exec 2: Absolutely. I know what you’re thinking… pretty silly, right? Silly, that is, until you remember that kids love technology! And “tech” is an abbreviation of “technology”! And people who are adept at using technology – like children – are sometimes called “techies”. Get it – Tech E.?

Exec 3: Good lord, you are a genius. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on that!

Exec 1: Now, I like what I’m hearing, but what about a woman character? Seeing as how our attempts to disenfranchise them fell flat in the 60s, I guess we should maybe start catering to them, albeit very tentatively?

Exec 2: Well, not a bad idea, but I can’t really think of any notable female Looney Tunes. I guess there’s always Granny…

Exec 3: The hell there is! You want this program to succeed? You think featuring a character over the age of 18 is going to do that? Start thinking!

Exec 2: Christ, you’re right. Hey, what about that Lola Bunny we cooked up for Space Jam last decade? I know she’s not really a Looney Tunes character and was only created as a means to placate our female audience, but why not dust her off and call her, shit, I dunno… Lexi Bunny?

Exec 1: Gentlemen, I think we owe ourselves a pat on the back… and a nice, 50-year old bottle of scotch! Any takers?

Exec 2 & 3, in unison: You bet!

Exec 1: Oh, wait, let’s not forget to saddle them with inane powers that will hamstring writers and replace any sense of whimsy with abject predictability.

Your childhood has now been officially ruined. Thanks for reading!

And thus was born Loonatics Unleashed! This show is one of those things that is so bad, you would think I was joking if there wasn’t so much evidence to the contrary. It’s so ridiculous that you would have to look into it yourself before you’d actually believe me. But it exists. It’s real. Someone came up with the idea, it was okayed, developed, and is actually being broadcast across the airwaves. I don’t know how many graves are spinning over this one. Probably a couple. For these reasons and more, Loonatics Unleashed receives an unqualified 5 Poochies!

Update: And for you brave souls, here's a link to the show's intro. Maybe the kids find it cool, I dunno, but it really hammers home to me what a stinking pile of crap this show is.

If You Really Want to Hear About It

2007-02-24T23:55:00.000-05:00

Now the first thing I noticed when I sat down on the plane is that the lady behind me had a baby that just wouldn’t quit crying. I don’t know what was making it be so noisy, and I guess the baby probably didn’t either, but it just wouldn’t shut up. And I know it’s just a baby so it’s not really responsible, but to tell you the truth I really just would have killed that thing to get it to shut up. I even thought about how I’d do it, too. No kidding. I actually thought it through. First, I’d wait until the lady had to use the bathroom. Then I’d just turn around, reach my hand through that space between the seats, and just grab hold of its neck real tight until it died. And you’re probably thinking, well, wouldn’t the person in the seat beside the lady stop me? But the way I see it is he’s probably just as happy as me for that goddamn baby to shut up.

The thing of it was that even though her kid was a real pain, the mom sure was real good-looking. And I guess it’s weird to think of a kid’s mom as even a little bit sexy, but she really did it for me. She really did. I looked at her hand to see if she had a ring. You know, to see if she was married and all. She did, and I guess it was alright, but you know, that doesn’t mean anything anymore. I once read in a magazine that sometimes women who aren’t even married go around with rings on their fingers, just so guys’ll think they’re married and won’t bug ‘em. I figure that’s a fine way to act if you want to end up an old maid. And I don’t know if this lady was married or if she wasn’t, but it sure is a hell of a thing to do to your wife, making her fly across the country all by herself and her baby. A hell of a thing to do.

Before I could think about it more, I noticed there was a guy standing beside me in the aisle. He was taking his ticket out of his pocket and comparing it to the seat numbers in front of him, like he couldn’t believe it. Like he couldn’t believe that he got stuck sitting beside boring old me for three hours. Like he would rather share his seat with some pretty young girl, or maybe even the lady behind me. I shouldn’t have done it, but I looked up and him and we made eye contact, and suddenly he had this big huge smile across his face, like he’d just won the lotto. Boy, what a real phony he was. He even had on this real crumby pair of sunglasses, like he expected it to be sunny inside the airplane! He sat down beside me and introduced himself, said his name was Larry Hooper. Boy, what a name. Me, I said my name was Jack Reynolds. Then he asked me what I was doing flying into Saskatoon, as if he really cared. He was such a phony though, you could tell he only asked because he thought he had to. I told him that I was coming back from school early because my sister’s new baby was sick and might die. The second I said it I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t really go back. Suddenly his phony smile was replaced with a real sincere frown and he said he was sorry, and you know, for a moment I actually believed it. But, nah, I figure if you can’t smile for real, why should you be able to frown for real? The rest of the flight he talked about his business, something about sports equipment. Said he was going into town for a trade show. I didn’t ask him for any of this stuff, he just told me. You’d figure if he thought for real that my baby niece was dying that he wouldn’t talk so much about himself, but he did. It just about killed me, the way he wouldn’t shut up about sports equipment, it really did.

Come to think of it, Larry reminded me a lot of this one kid I knew back in school, Alan Parker. The other kids just called him “Parker”, but I was the only one who called him “Al”. Anyway, the thing that reminded me of Al was that he could sometimes be just as phony as this guy sitting next to me. Sometimes it really cracked me up the way nobody else but me seemed to notice it, but other times I just got so mad I could have punched him. I really could. One day I was playing Al for marbles, and everyone was watching. I almost had both our marbles sunk, but I sneezed and my hand brushed against the marble. It didn’t move, but Al said it was his turn anyway and he sunk the last one. Now nobody said anything about that, and they just let the crook walk away with my marbles! Nobody said anything because they all thought Al was the greatest, nicest, most sincere guy they ever met, and would never steal a guy’s marbles. I was the only guy there who had him figured out, right from day one. No kidding.

So the plane lands and we get off, and Larry Hooper is out the door before you know it. No goodbye, no good luck. Nothing. Goes to show what a phony he turned out to be, I guess. Even if I hated the guy so damned much, at least I would have said goodbye if he’d let me. Still, there was the lady behind me and her baby hadn’t cried at all since takeoff, so I guess she was alright after all. While we were waiting around for our bags, I went up to her and asked her her baby’s name, and if it was a boy or a girl. I hope she didn’t get offended by that last question. It’s just that when babies are that young, I sometimes can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl unless you go by the colour of their clothes, and even that nowadays doesn’t always work. She said her baby’s name was Madigan. Madigan. Boy, that almost killed me right there. Where do people get these names for their babies nowadays? Anyway, I obviously didn’t say anything like that to her. I just said it was a really pretty name. I almost felt like puking when I realized I was being as phony to her as Larry Hooper was, but then I figured that she probably couldn’t even tell. Thought I was being the most kindest, nicest guy in town to her and her crumby baby. By this point I think I was being pretty suave, not coming on too strong, just being casual. And confident. Girls like it when you’re confident. I think that’s because sometimes girls – even the real pretty ones – don’t have much confidence, so they like to be with guys who do. Anyway, after a few minutes of chit chat, I asked if she wanted to go have a drink. She asked a question, as if she didn’t understand what I meant and I just asked again if she wanted to go out for a drink just us right then. There’s even a bar right in the airport if she didn’t want to go too far. I said she could bring the baby with her, even. Well, she started getting all funny and said some stuff about how it’s early and she already has someone waiting to pick her up. That really cracked me up right there because if she had someone waiting for her, then they’d be at the airport already. Our flight was even late, so it’s not like you could say the person waiting for her didn’t have enough time to get to the airport yet. Anyway, our bags started coming out and luckily mine was the third one. Usually I have to wait until right near the end to get my bags, but not this time. That really gets me mad sometimes the way that works out. I took it and said goodbye to her and Madigan and walked out into the parking lot.

The drive home was really depressing. It always is. Even though it’s 600 Km, you hardly pass through any towns with any people at all. It just depresses me so much thinking about all these little towns with a few dozen people in them, the way I can’t even stand to drive through them and these people live their lives there. Goddamn it, it really depresses the hell out of me, especially when you think about all the people who have died right on the same road I was driving, probably not even their fault half the time. Maybe the oncoming guy hits a snowbank by accident and swerves right into them, or maybe the weather’s just awful. God, that really got to me, thinking about dying and it’s not even your fault.

Anyway, there’s not much to talk about there. After six hours, I finally got home. But stupid me, I forgot before I left to tell the maintenance guy that I was coming home on Saturday, instead of Sunday! I get to my door and there’s a goddamn piece of wood drilled over the frame. What a way to live, having to board up your house if you leave town for more than two days. What a way to live. I guess it’s my own fault though, not telling the maintenance guy what day I was coming home at. It’s not like I didn’t know before I left. My mom says that a lot, that I forget important things like that. One time, to get into this fancy school to get my education degree in, I forgot to send the right kind of cheque. Then, the day before it’s due, this school phones my parents up to tell them they need my money! So my dad had to drive a 4-hour round-trip to the school to get my cheque in on time, and on the way the car even broke down! I’m not even joking. The whole wheel axle fell right in two or something. To tell you the truth, I’m not too good at cars. And to top it all off, the school was mostly filled with phonies anyway. Anyway, I guess it’s because of stuff like that and the door thing that my mom is always saying that I forget important things.

So... yeah.

2007-02-14T01:03:00.000-05:00

I have nothing to say, but I would direct you to this post in the blog of my colleage, one Mr. George Trevor. It will tell you what we've been through today just as effectively as I could.

Here ya go

Weirdest of all? He filed for divorce

2007-02-08T23:11:00.000-05:00

Oh, his bum might be on the Swedish, but I can tell you where it's not

The following messages were found on Drew Barrymore’s message machine the week ending 2.3.07:

1.28.07:
Heya Drew, it’s me, Tom! God, I hope this isn’t weird or anything. It’s been so long! I was just watching that movie you were in, “Batman Forever”, and it made me think of you, and here I am phoning! So, anyway I guess you’re not in… if you wanna talk again maybe, I’m still at the same number!

1.30.07:
Yo, Drew! Tom here. Maybe you missed my last message or something? Anyway, yeah, I was just thinking about that place we went to on our first date. You remember that one? Ha ha, remember that waiter… Pedro! Ha ha. Man, that guy was funny. I wonder if he ever found out that he had that rip in his shirt. Anyway, you know how to get me!

1.31.07:
Drew… it’s Tommy! Guess you’re on vacation or something? I mean, that’s cool. Hope you’re having fun! Ha, God, remember that vacation we had in Cancun? It was like everyone working at the resort was Pedro’s brother! It was so weird! Ha ha, remember how you got that sunburn and when we got home your back was peeling? Poor Drew! I told you to put sunblock on your back, silly girl! Anyway, Glen’s here, so I should probably get going. I still have the same email address if you want to write me back there, too!

Isn't this the weirdest thing you have ever seen? Yes. Yes it is.

2.1.07
Hey Drew, it’s Toms! I guess on Wikipedia it says you’re not dating Fabrizio anymore? Heck, since anyone can write whatever they want on Wikipedia, I guess for all I know you guys are married and have kids! Ha, God, wouldn’t that be weird?! Anyway, just wanted to let you know what your Wikipedia page said about you.

2.1.07:
Hey, Drew, Pedro here! Hey, here’s a rip in my shirt! How long’s that been there?!! Ha ha, just kidding, it’s me, Tom! God, I hope I’m not filling up your message machine or anything! Anyway, if you wanna get together again for coffee or something sometime again, that’d be cool. I mean, I still have some cash left over from the MTV show so I could fly down to LA for a week(end?) and we could just chill?

2.2.07:
Ha ha, Drew, it’s Tom again. I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be weird if the reason you weren’t phoning back is because you moved and this wasn’t your number anymore, and someone else was getting all my messages? Ha, I bet they’d be all, like, “Who the hell is this Tom guy?!!”, and I’d be like “Helloooo?! Never hear of Tom Green?!”. Anyway, yeah, you know how to get me. Talk to you soon!

This is CNN

2007-01-28T23:41:00.000-05:00

Edward R. Murrow would be rolling in his grave if his consciousness hadn't been transferred to a robot body

America’s most trusted news source. How is that measured? How can they be sure? I don’t exactly know. If anyone is giving credibility to CNN (or any other major news outlet), then they’re insane. In a world where:

- The U.S. is engaged in a war they so obviously lied their way into
- The U.S. wishes to provoke another war with Iran
- The President of the U.S. has demonstrably violated the Constitution on multiple occasions
- Pakistan and India both have nuclear weapons
- Climate change is quickly becoming irreversible
- People paying into social security will soon be outnumbered by those taking advantage of it
- The world’s supply of fossil fuels will be exhausted within my lifetime
- Galactica is close to finding Earth
- Small handful of corporatations are increasing their control over the world's disparate media outlets
- Wealth is being increasingly concentrated in the hands of a shrinking minority
- Billions of people live in poverty, some of whom are dying from a lack of potable drinking water and hunger

CNN has, over the past couple weeks, had the following items at the top of their page. Again, consider the context I have laid out above when reading these headlines and ask yourself if these are at all pertinent to our current societal discourse.

12.9.06

"Anderson Cooper: Man, my laugh is annoying"
“Gunman felt cheated over toilet invention”

12.10.06
NASCAR champ breaks wrist in golf spill

12.12.06
That Osama, Obama thing nothing but B, S
Lohan: I haven't had a drink in a week

12.14.06
A Mustang wagon?!? Say it ain't so

12.15.06
Is the Brangelina baby cuter than a panda cub?

12.17.06
Pet-cassos demonstrate their technique
Tail-wagging artists put paws to canvas

1.3.07
Baby pandas! Baby pandas! Baby pandas! (note: Yes, this is a headline)
Britney's Vegas new year didn't stay there

1.4.07
Rush hour! Baby can't wait, born on interstate

1.9.07
Suzanne Somers' Malibu house burns

1.11.07
Walrus does sit-ups, can't reach his toes

1.16.07
Is there any limit for 'American Idol'?

1.18.07
E-mailing during sex: Technology gone awry?

1.24.07
Freaky-eel-looking-bulb-headed shark in Japan

1.25.07
Incredible blinking Pelosi clocked at 85/min.

Ooh, now there's some serious journalism for you!

Note that all of this is merely a sample of the idocy that is displayed daily by CNN. Keep it in mind, is all I ask.

This is Both Tasteless and Offensive

2007-01-25T22:31:00.000-05:00

It’s time for the first installment of my new series, “Who Will Die First?”. Our first contestants are none other than America’s dad, Andy Griffith, and Spartacus himself, Kirk Douglas.

The winner of Round 1 will go on to face Mickey Rooney in the semifinals

To our parents, Andy Griffith is the warm-hearted father they never had; a dad who solved vicious rapes and murders in small-town America while taking them fishing on long, midsummer afternoons (at least that’s how I think the show went). For us, he’s the crotchety old defense attorney with more ingenuity than MacGuyver. And for people younger than myself, well… they have no idea who he is.

Just keep cuttin', Floyd. Andy will have your kiddie porn ring busted in no time.

If a woman looks at this image for more than six seconds, she will be impregnated

Kirk Douglas, on the other hand, is the guy who looks like Michael Douglas, but with a better chin. He also portrayed one of the greatest humans to ever live, Spartacus, in a movie whose title escapes me (little known fact: Spartacus’ real name was Leonard Goldstein). He then went on to portray a Viking (seriously, why don’t they make any more Viking movies?). Even after having suffered a stroke a few years back, the bugger keeps on ticking.

"You see Opie, the killer left one of these cards at each murder scene."

Which of these men – one a sheriff in America’s heartland, the other a gladiator who defied an empire – will die first? I’m gonna buck the trend here and go with Griffith, even though he is ten years Douglas’ junior.

This photo was taken three weeks ago

Like I say, Douglas has staying power. I mean, he made it to 90 after a major stroke… why not a few more? Andy Griffith on the other hand… when was the last time you ever heard of that guy? Also, I figure if he were still in decent shape they’d be making Matlock TV movies, yet I haven’t seen a single one.

Oh, you keep laughing, Griffith

So, there’s my prediction. Start saving for your commemorative Andy Griffith plates today.

My Friends Now Have an Average Age of 52

2007-01-22T00:19:00.000-05:00

Not to be gay, but I thought this looked particularly nice.

I’m often asked just why in the world I came up here. On days like Saturday, one remembers that the sheer vastness and remoteness of our pristine north (or south, if you’re living in, say, the Yukon) is hard to ignore. Sure, I wasn’t ready for the rocks through the car window, the “Mr. Smithers you fucking white cunt” and the nauseating smell of Flin Flon (I keed, I keed), but I was hoping for some ice fishing and damn it, I finally got a bit of that in this weekend.

The day started innocently enough with an early morning phone call from one of my colleagues. Let’s cal him, oh… Roger (because, you know, that’s his name). This was surprising to me, given that Roger the night previously likely drank the equivalent to three mickeys of rye. Being a Newfoundlander of some age, Roger is no stranger to the booze.

One Roger P. The height of healthiness!

Myself, along with Roger and George (the latter of which regular visitors will be familiar with) had planned to visit Rob out in his cabin this weekend. Before I continue, I should say that the very act of visiting Rob’s cabin is the whole reason to go out there. This man, another teacher at the school, is the former VP here in Sandy Bay. To get to his cabin, you drive for a half hour through a winding winter road (that is to say that in the summer it’s just an unpassable strip of mud in the wilderness) and across a lake. I guess to write that down and then read it back it doesn’t sound like much but, brother, it sure the hell was an ordeal.

Observant readers will wonder how Rob gets across when there is no ice. The answer is, literally, a homemade hovercraft. Don’t forget that on his way to and from school, Rob is doing this every fucking day. Yep, that’s the kind of people we’re dealing with.

Yep, that's remote. And, note the 1949 Bombadier that Rob picked us up in to cross the ice.
Extra note: George is drilling a hole to make sure he won't die if he drives his truck across the ice.

Rob has been living out in his cabin, near as I can tell, for most of the past quarter century. It is insane. It’s a one-room cabin, a few bunks, a kitchen, TV, satellite Internet, generator outside… probably some other stuff. It boggles the mind to think that a normal, well-adjusted person has been living like this, literally, for decades. Rob was the VP. He teaches computers now. There is nothing in his behaviour, conversation, attitudes… nothing that would betray the fact that he is, essentially, a hermit. I am also boggled by the fact that he makes this insane odyssey every day. To see him in the morning, you would not know that he just went through it and has to do it all over again at 4:30.

The cabin in question. Note that it is unsafe for human habitation.

At any rate, that was Saturday. Sunday I had the pleasure of driving out to the junction (that is, the end of the 120 Km of gravel where the road to Sandy Bay meets the “normal” highway) to pick up none other than Mrs. Buz Trevor, George’s mother. She will be staying the week and lending her expertise and experience to the school’s library. Oh, and after George and I picked her up I drove back the 120 Km. All in all a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, eh?

You kids still think being a hermit is cool? It's not always drugs and naked ladies!

This is a Prequel

2007-01-16T23:17:00.000-05:00

There's the Mike you all knew and loved... what happened to that Mike?

Maybe Tara, Sarah, Kristina, Steph or any other Western Visual Arts grads who are reading this can back me up when I say that in the John Labatt Visual Arts Centre, sculpture was probably the most ignored medium. I can count a number of accomplished painters, printmakers and… drawing-type people, but few of us really took to sculpture (not that there weren’t some people who made some excellent 3D art in that building). I count the high costs associated with pulling it off successfully as the barrier (I’d definitely say my greatest unrealized ideas for projects were sculpture-based) rather than the facilities and sculpture professors, who were excellent.

Nevertheless, generally accounting to scheduling needs, I found myself taking a few sculpture classes over the years. They suck, man. Each project can take you back dozens – nay, nearly a hundred dollars if you want to do it right. And if you want to half-ass it, you can always go the messy and time-consuming papier mache route. If I want to look back at my university career and feel that it was a depressing waste of time during which artistic vision took a backseat to more pragmatic needs, I need only think of every single fucking sculpture assignment I ever did.

In order for my coming story to make any sense, I’ll have to outline the way in which my 4^th year sculpture class was set up, scheduling-wise. Basically, the 4^th year and 3^rd year sculptures were the exact same class, except 4^th year was divided into two half-year courses for some reason I’ll never understand. And if you got under 70% in the first half, you wouldn’t get back in for the second. Thus, I found myself in early December just barely scraping by, desperately hoping to grab a 70 so that I could… well, graduate.

Our professor, the inimitable Colette Urban, gave us an assignment at the end of the first semester in which we had to involve our bodies (those of us from the VAC know that sculpture is always billed as “Sculpture and Performance” for some reason). These can be difficult, as you’re really having to put yourself “out there” to really get a decent mark. My 2^nd year body-related project is a story for another post. If you are lucky.

Desperate to get a 70, and with time and money running low, I took a look around the shop (managed, as always, by the esteemed Doug Mitchell). There I saw two planks of wood measuring 4X4 feet, as well as a roll of saran wrap that was basically as tall as myself. It took me a minute, but I figured that if I attached the wood together (creating a plank 4X8 feet long) and put a bubble of saran wrap over it, I could encase myself inside, attach the shop vac, and create an airtight seal around myself as I rested on a bed of wood. Maybe it was a commentary on our consumerist society? Shit, I dunno. I figured it was good enough for a 70, at least.

I spent an evening or two in the shop getting things ready, making sure to keep the plastic airtight. If this scheme was to fall apart, that was the one thing that would throw the whole damned thing off-course and send me packing for a “victory lap”. I taped the plastic to the wood, cut two holes (one for air and one through which to insert the shop vac) and… went home to enjoy a few Lakeport Honeys (my drink of choice at the time). Tomorrow would bring with it either victory or defeat, and my half-assery assured neither one.

Upon completing an assignment, we spend 1 or 2 classes (3 if you’re with Dave Merritt – Oooh, I went there!) critiquing the class’ work. This particular class had only 6 people, so we managed to get things done in one evening. Given that this was the bi-annual “involve yourself in the project” assignment, there were some interesting entries.

Eventually my turn came. The moment of truth. I had no less than Justin Min himself, brother to the delightful Emily, to work the shop vac. I climbed into my little bubble of saran wrap, making sure to bring with me my trusty roll of packing tape. From the inside, I took a few minutes to seal the plastic from the interior and, placing the end of my breathing tube in my mouth, gave Justin the thumbs up.

Brilliant? You tell me. Wait... don't.

The deafening roar of the shop vac was followed by an intense pressure spead across my entire body. Like a vice, the plastic pressed against my chest, restricting my breathing; it clung to my forehead so tightly that I began to feel light-headed; movement in my extremities was out of the question. Beyond my wildest dreams, my lame-brained, half-baked sculpture assignment had succeeded!

With this under my belt, I managed to pass 4^th year with flying colours, go on to Education at Queen’s and begin my illustrious career here, teaching in the Far North of Canada. So, basically, I should have taken Andrew’s long-standing advice and shat on a board. Also, Chris Burden’s idea of jacking off under a ramp while gallery visitors pass overhead isn’t too shabby, either.

Once in a lifetime comes an artist as genre-defining and genre-defying as myself. Also, I'm about to pass out here.

Back in Action

2007-01-10T22:46:00.000-05:00

I saw the new Bond over the Christmas break and it would be remiss of me not to remark upon it. So, I’ll just do that.

First, a general impression. Casino Royale is a pretty kickass movie, but not quite a genuine Bond film as I’ve come to expect one. After the success of the last one, Die Another Day, the producers took the unusual step of overhauling the whole franchise. Even though DAD had been the highest-grossing Bond film of all time (Each Brosnan Bond was more profitable than the last), they decided to change the Bond actor and the tone of the whole operation. Coming off a huge bomb, I could understand; but taking a chance on a property that was still pulling in ever-increasing amounts of cash? Quite the risk.

Casino Royale, I like. It’s got some kickass action sequences (most of which are concentrated in the first half of the film), a good baddie, decent enough plot. In spite of this, though, I find something lacking. I mean, where’s my space laser? What about Q? How come Bond’s car doesn’t shoot stuff out of it? Quite deliberately, these elements have been avoided and I can’t say that I’m particularly thrilled about it.

One of my favourite moments in the recent Bonds came at the start of The World is Not Enough. Bond is piloting a boat that turns into a submarine and, while avoiding some flaming debris, runs it underwater. Cut to a shot of a submerged Bond, straightening his tie. I mean, come on! That’s awesome, but if they’d tried it in Casino Royale Daniel Craig would have been laughed off the screen.

Much is being made of Craig being a “gritty” and “darker” Bond with the unstated implication being that this is a good thing. I don’t get it. First, who the fuck wants a gritty Bond? I want a goddamn Bond who wears a suit and tie and shoots people, and then says something clever that relates in some way to that person’s death (“Maybe he should have ordered the lobster” if he throws a guy into a tank of piranhas). I don’t care how realistic that is, damn it. Bond films have almost always tended towards outright fantasy, and I don’t see why all of a sudden people want them to be realistic. Go see the Jason Bourne movies if that’s what you want.

Holy Christ! Bond's hair is messy and he has dirt on him! Not since Eisenstein has the world of cinema been thrown for such a loop.

They also talk about making Bond more human. Well, Christ, the whole appeal is that Bond’s not human, he’s superhuman. Has anyone’s complaint been that they want a more average and relatable portrayal of Bond?

Related to this, I’m also not sold on Craig as Bond. Sure, he seems a competent sort of action hero, but… James Bond? Bond is supposed to have a more pronounced sense of humour, and he’s definitely not supposed to fall in love (once, and that is it). I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on this one though, since all the promotional material for the film stressed that this character was Bond “before he was Bond”. I take that to mean that he has learned from his experiences in this film and that, by the end of the movie and into the rest of them, he’ll be the same old guy we’ve always known. The final scene, in which he greets the Mr. White character with “the name’s Bond… James Bond” seems to indicate this might be the case.

Now, onto some random thoughts.

- They do a good job in this movie of making the nameless little henchmen in the movie seem like genuine physical threats to Bond. I’m thinking particularly of the bomber at the airport who gave Bond a pretty rough go while fighting in the tanker truck, but there are others.

- The foot chase in Madagascar at the start is really excellent. There will never be a better foot chase in any movie ever. Again, they do a good job of making the bad guy here seem pretty competent in the way he is able to jump and climb his way through the construction site while Bond is left busting through walls, climbing ladders and using his brain while he chases him.

- There sure the fuck were a lot of cell phones being used in this movie. They could really have cut down on that, but I guess some company had a new phone to sell. On that note, Bond actually says the brand name of his watch? Pretty tacky.

- Like I said, all the good action is crammed into the first 45 minutes or so. After that, it’s a good long while of poker playing. This I do not mind, but then they try to break it up by cramming in not one but two action scenes in between hands. Especially in the case of the poisoning, these seemed really tacked on.

- I like how they gave Le Chiffre that screwed up eye. It’s not in the book (evidently), so I like how they went the extra mile to give the baddie some sort of physical deformity. At least some of the old Bond is still kicking (prior examples include diamonds embedded in face, metal teeth, midget, bullet in brain, scar on face, prosthetic hands, really tall black lady).

- You know, I thought I would hate this, but I didn’t really mind the way the movie saves the gunbarrel bit till right at the end of the first scene. I look forward to a traditional one next film, but it works here.

- I can see how space lasers and volcano hideways are probably going to be out of the next couple Bond movies, but now I wonder if Q is going that way, too. I mean, certainly if he was to appear in the next one, he couldn’t be the jokey, cantankerous Q we’ve always known. If the next movie is to be anything like Casino Royale, Q will clash entirely with every other scene in the rest of the movie. Also, the idea of having a scene where some guy shows the main character all the gadgets he will be using is in itself pretty outdated and makes for some poor storytelling. I like it, of course, but I can see the arguments against. The obligatory banter between Moneypenny and Bond might also fall victim to the same reasoning.

- The Brosnan Bonds had a few recurring characters working alongside M at Mi6, none of whom make an appearance in this one. Given that they brought her back, I’m a tad disappointed to see them gone.

- The whole idea of Bond falling in love has been done to death, especially in the last 3 Brosnan movies (Paris Carver was supposed to have been an old flame; we were to believe that he was getting close to Elektra, moreso than usual; Halle Barry’s character was supposed to be his “equal” that he felt something for). I feel odd to say that I long for the days of Roger Moore where, clearly, Bond was in it for the sex. I’ll give this one a pass because, ostensibly, this is Bond before he’s Bond, and maybe he’ll learn from this encounter that he’s not supposed to fall in love? Time will tell.

Yeah, cause I want to find out how Bond feels about this woman

- It was cool to see Felix Leiter for the first time in a while. Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of him.

- I love the way the movie ends with the Bond theme. I mean, they don't even try to redo it for the 21st century; near as I can tell, it's the exact same arrangement (including bongos, for Christ's sake) as the original from 1962, only re-recorded. That's commendable.

- The opening titles over the song are fucking awesome. The whole card motif is just great; it makes silly things (Bond shooting his gun and then a heart flies out of it) seem kickass. Then you’ve got the whole spiral motif (like on the backs of cards) going nuts, and the weird little designs on face cards, roulette wheels, targets, etc. It’s brilliant. To top it off, the arrangement of the title song uses the orchestra a lot more than the radio versions you might have heard and really takes the song from “meh” to “huh” territory. I am still unsure if these ones beat the Goldeneye titles though, which I was floored by when I saw the movie as a kid.

- Then you have the score. Oh, I could go on at length about the score. And I will. The composer, David Arnold, is one of the few things that were retained from the Brosnan era. Listening to the music, though, there are very few stylistic elements that have carried over from his old work. You can really tell that Arnold stepped up to the plate and changed his whole game for this movie.

Die Another Day, the last Bond movie, was Arnold’s third. By that point he was going insane with the techno and the electronic manipulation. At certain points in that score, he wrote the music backwards, had the orchestra play it that way, and then reversed it all for the movie. It’s nuts, and I had the impression that if Brosnan had stuck around for a fifth, his stuff really woulda been interesting and off the wall.

Brosnan didn’t, of course, so Arnold was forced to abandon the style he’d been developing for a while and start all over again. Listening to the album it’s a bit sleepy, but it totally works in the movie. Part of the problem is that a huge portion of the movie is either talking (all romance-like between Bond and Vesper) or poker playing. I guess I could be wrong, but this sort of thing doesn’t exactly lend itself to the most dynamic and in-your-face music, so Arnold keeps a lot of his stuff pretty low-key. It’s serviceable, at best, and I can’t fault him for writing to what’s on the screen.

But then you have the action scenes, and that’s when things get more interesting. Starting with the track Backseat Driver in Tomorrow Never Dies (played over the car chase in the parking garage where Bond’s controlling the car with the remote in the backseat), Arnold began making this sort of… signature chase sequence music. You can definitely trace a line from that to the boat chase music in The World is Not Enough through to the hovercraft chase music in Die Another Day (with honourable mentions going to the bike chase in TND and the ice palace chase in DAD). These tracks are always the highlight of Arnold’s Bond scores, and I was eagerly awaiting the next iteration in Casnio Royale.

Regrettably, however, there are no vehicle chase sequences in this movie. Thus, the momentum Arnold had been building on the vehicle chase music has been stopped dead in its tracks (the closest we get is the stuff accompanying the foot chase, but that’s about that). This is especially a bummer because these parts are also where Arnold tends to let loose with homages to old Bond scores (which I particularly enjoy). Oh well. Maybe next time.

Submarine car. Suck on that, Aston Marin that is in the movie for 30 seconds.

One good thing to mention is that Arnold comes through with more plodding, protracted overlong action sequence music. These sound like negative adjectives, but I must say that this stuff has grown on me over the years. In the tradition of Submarine from TWINE and Antonov in DAD, Casino Royale brings us Miami International. Like the first two tracks, Miami International is ridiculously long (over 12 minutes). When you first listen to it, you hate it. Gradually, however, you begin to really warm to it and enjoy the way in which tension is built up over… well, a long time (and I suppose it’s not Arnold’s fault that the action sequence lasts 12 minutes). I’m no music-type person, but all of these tracks sound the same: they start slow, have a slow build (with the same descending three-note motif introduced in the pipeline scene in TWINE), and then gradually build to this massive climax in the final few seconds. You will also notice that the titles to all three of these tracks are rather prosaic, giving away no more than the location in which the action takes place (A submarine, an airport, etc.). I think the name Miami International is Arnold’s way of indicating that this track is placed firmly in the lineage established by Submarine and Antonov.

You can come up with your own caption for this one.

- I am curious about this evil organization alluded to towards the end of the movie. I am desperately hoping that it’s SPECTRE, but I don’t think the producers actually own the rights to that (or even Blofeld) anymore. Perhaps this is for the best, however, since Dr. Evil has pretty much ruined the character of Blofeld for the average moviegoer, so a bald guy heading an organization that fights Bond might just be laughed out of the theatre. For the record, though, I am rooting for SPECTRE.

- I am concerned about the precedent set by this bad guy. I mean, he’s just a lowly terrorist financier. Where’s the nuclear blackmail? I fear that the next guy might be some drug lord or some other bullshit.

Anyway, that’s it for me and Casino Royale. I’m sure you haven’t read this far, and, hey, no harm done. It’s good to get that out of the system either way. All in all, I would say that of the Daniel Craig Bonds, Casino Royale is definitely the best.

And Screw You Too, Saskatoon

2006-12-23T20:17:00.000-05:00

Those are Head of Government-quality jowls

So I drove from Flin Flon to Saskatoon for a 7:35 PM flight, got to the airport at 4:15, and now have to wait until 10:20 for the thing to actually leave. I guess that's really not a big deal in the grand scheme of things (I certainly wasn't going to originally arrive at a decent time anyway), and it does afford me the opportunity to post a blog post from Saskatoon John G. Diefenbaker International Airport, just for the hell of it.

So... yeah, that was basically it. My first and, God willing, only post from Saskatoon.

Poetry Corner

2006-12-19T18:37:00.000-05:00

Ironic or heartfelt? You be the judge

On the long path
All white with white snow
An old man comes forward
With his cane in his hand
And all above the wind
That whistles in the branches
Whistles to him romance
That it sang little child

Live the wind, live the wind
Live the wind of winter
Which goes blowing and blowing
In the big green pines
Oh! Live the times, live the times
Live the times of winter
Snowball and New Year’s Day
And Happy New Year's Grandma

Worth a Shot

2006-12-11T02:01:00.000-05:00

I do not want to imply that your mother is of considerable girth, but might I kindly suggest that she purchase the Slim Effect for Larger Figures?

Dear Sears Canada,

In your fall/winter 2006 catalogue, I came across a photo on page 16 of a woman modeling a “Jessica” brand vest. She looks a bit petite, blonde… maybe a B-cup. As a male I have no interest in the product being advertised, but I was wondering if you could provide me with the model's address, or even her telephone number? Maybe if you know if she uses MSN, maybe you could send me her MSN address? I promise I won’t do anything weird. I might just chat her up, see if I can’t get anything going, you know?

Anyway, I thank you in advance for your help in this matter. Even though I would never buy clothes without trying them on in a store first, and I don’t think anyone has ever really used a catalogue since the 1950s, I like to look through yours. I look forward to getting the next one in a couple weeks!

Sincerely,
Mr. Michael J. Smith

PS: Whatever happened to Roebuck?

*****

Mr. Smith,

Regretfully, due to company policy, we are unable to provide you with the contact details of any of our models. We hope you appreciate our concerns with respect to their privacy.

If you have any further questions regarding our catalogues, department stores, Sears Home Outfitters or our Mastercraft brand of power tools, please feel free to contact us or visit our website at www.sears.ca. We thank you for your interest in Sears Canada, and look forward to your continued patronage.

Sincerely,
N. Allan Underwood
V.P. Consumer Affairs
Sears Canada

PS: Mr. Alvah C. Roebuck died in 1948 at the age of 84.

"Always Recycle... to the Extreme!!!"

2006-12-09T00:21:00.000-05:00

Ha, Poochie has a fanny pack. I just noticed this. See, Simpsons never quits.

Poochie. Do I really have to explain who he is? More than anything, he represents a concerted and cynical attempt to attract an audience while attempting to appeal to the lowest common denominator. During his creation, absent was deference to creativity, originality, artistic integrity or a respect for the audience. Instead, he is nothing more than an attempt to reign in cash, a committee-created trademark to appeal to as wide a base as possible. He is everything that thought-provoking, intelligent fictional creations are not: he is “extreme” in the negative, mid-90s sense, wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket while carrying with him a surfboard and a devil-may-care attitude.

In the Simpsons episode bearing his name, Poochie is scorned and eventually rejected as the trite marketing gimmick he was. If only the real world’s inhabitants were as clever as the citizens of Springfield. Starting today, I begin a semi-regular feature profiling those intellectual properties that I feel are more Poochie than… fuck, I dunno, Great Gatsby?

Today’s instalment: Sonic the Hedgehog

He's cool 'cause his shoes have lots of detail, and his eyes are angry

In the early 90s, Mario was the dominant video game character. So popular was he that, in fact, more children could recognize him than Mickey Mouse (which I can’t back up with proof, but you know it’s true). Sega, seeking to claim dominance in the video game wars, decided that they needed a mascot more popular than Nintendo’s humble plumber.

Let us consider Mario for a moment. Despite his popularity, his design is incredibly “lame”, vis a vis the Poochie mould. The reason for this is the technical limitations in place at the time of his creation. Think back to Donkey Kong, Mario’s first appearance. Graphics weren’t exactly life-like, and many of Mario’s signature visual trademarks are a result of this: He was given overalls to better indicate his moving arms, while the moustache was a way to cover up what would have been a ridiculous looking mouth. Finally, his cap was added because the hair would have just looked too blocky in 1981.

Only a homo would design this

Can you imagine a major video game mascot being created today who was fat and had a moustache? No fucking way. But Nintendo stuck to their guns and today Mario is one of the best-loved video game characters around.

In 1991, Sega was not as constrained, visually, in their creation of a character. The 16-bit era brought with it better graphics, and basically anything imaginable could have been designed. After a few false starts, Sega settled on Sonic the Hedgehog.

Oooh, he had attitude. And he was cool. You know why he was cool? Because the song in his ads said so through the refrain, “going fast is cool/going slow is not”. He was spiky, and blue, and ran fast and had “attitude”, because he wagged his finger while looking angry. He wasn’t some lame ethnic plumber who walked around really slowly; he fought robots and shit.

This is literally one of the characters Sega considered before settling on Sonic

The original 3.5 Sonic games are considered pretty decent. Classics, even (although gameplay never changed that significantly between the original and the 16-bit opus, Sonic and Knuckles). No self-respecting video game player, however, places any amount of importance on today’s Sonic games. Quite simply, really fast moving characters don’t translate well to 3D, and Sega hasn’t figured this out yet.

With the jump to the next-next-generation systems, Sonic is able to talk. And when he does, he sounds like an ass. Kids, do you really want your favourite character to be all badass and attitudey? He just comes off as really mean and stand-offish. Were you a woman, you would not want to enter into a relationship with this guy. Compare this to Mario or even Link, those two ciphers who – though they hardly speak a word – are characters I feel more comfortable spending my afternoons with.

For his irritating “cool” attitude, the fact that his games have sucked since 1994, the way he was deliberately created to be a corporate mascot and the fact that Nintendo, in their own, low-key and accidental way made a traditionally “lame” character 25 years ago who represents to this very day the pinnacle of video gaming, I say that Sonic the Hedgehog is a piece of crap in the same vein as Poochie.

Sonic the Hedgehog gets 3 Poochies out of 5.

"I mean, women loved him! I didn't see that one coming."

2006-12-07T22:56:00.000-05:00

Yep, nothing weird going on here, folks

“Hey, Steve, what’s up!”

"Oh, hey Liberace! Haven’t seen you in ages, buddy. How the ladies been treatin' you?!”

"Yeah, just, erm... great. Listen, glad to run into you. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

"Well heck, shoot!”

"You know this new song you’re writing, ‘Mr. Sandman’?”

"You bet I do! It’s gonna be top of the pops!”

"Right, and I was thinking for the lyrics, when the girls are talking about qualities they'd like to see in their dream guy, why not add the line, ‘and lots of wavy hair, like Liberace’?”

"And I would do this... why?"

"Well, I mean… I was just thinking. Just a suggestion. Use it – don’t use it - no worries.”

“I mean, okay, I just don't see your reasoning.”

"Right. Just that, you know, I have some pretty distinctive hair, a little wavy, and, I mean, that’s obviously part of the reason why people of the opposite sex – women - find me attractive. Sexually attractive, I mean.”

"Yeah, I guess…”

"And I noticed in the song, you were listing qualities that a woman might want in her dream man, and I was thinking, shoot, why not my wavy hair? Because women find that really sexually attractive.”

“Hmmm…”

"Like I say, take it or leave it. I honestly won’t be offended. I just think that listing one of the qualities that has made me really sexually attractive to women for a number of years now would put this new song of yours over the top. Just really hammer home how handsome this guy would be, you know? Just so there’s no doubt as to how appealing I am to women.”

“Yeah, thanks Liberace. I’ll give it some thought.”

"Oh Steve, you're a sweetie!"

For Ever and Ever

2006-12-06T01:16:00.000-05:00

A handy mnemonic for folks like me. Incidentally, if you need a mnemonic for the word "mnemonic", just think of Keeanu Reeves' 1995 opus, "Johnny Mnomonic".

I teach in a public school funded by Saskatchewanian (since MS Word hasn’t put a jagged red line underneath it, I assume “Saskatchewanian” is actually the word describing people who live in this province) taxpayers who believe in various things, religiously speaking. Christ, as odd as it sounds, I am actually one of these taxpayers, even beyond the GST/PST (seriously, that’s odd).

Every morning, at 9 o’clock Indian time (it’s okay for me to joke about that, y’see, cause the Indians joke about it too), some old lady comes over the PA system and does the Lord’s Prayer. This is ridiculous for the reasons outlined above. Like, it’s so fundamental a part of the taxpayer system/separation of church and state/democracy that I really oughtn’t have to explain why this is wrong. Yet, every morning like clockwork, Lord’s Prayer in a public school.

This is wrong, but I will gladly tolerate it. First of all, it wastes time. Anything that wastes time is okay in my book. Sometimes, if they’re feeling frisky, they’ll even do a musical, folksy version of the prayer to guitar (JP2 must be rolling in his grave. Also, probably all the rest of the popes). This wastes a huge amount of time, and I really love it on that level. The notion that a taxpayer-funded school is promoting a particular religion… not so loveable.

During Lord’s Prayer, I have taken to leaving the classroom. Nobody has really caught onto this, however. I have also started picking staples and shit off the walls in the hall during the prayer to make it obvious that I am not participating. Still, no comments on this, and I guess it is a reflection of how petty I am that I even care. I want to be that guy from outside the community that shows up and starts causing some shit, getting kids to question whether they need to be doing this every day, eventually getting an interview on “As it Happens”. I want to be like Edward James Olmos, but instead of teaching them math, I want them not to be religious. But I’m not. It’s ten times more mundane than that.

Staff meetings have started with the Lord’s Prayer. This is the one that pisses me off. I can see the argument for having it for the kids in the morning, however wrong it may be. The community needs something to hold onto, even if it, ironically, happens to be a religion that destroyed their own culture and values centuries ago. But the staff? That’s bullshit, and I brought it up with the VP one evening while drunk. Given that he turned out to be a sober and religious man who wholeheartedly supported the Lord’s Prayer in the school, I ended up regretting that one.

During the observance of the prayer during staff meetings, I sit down in my chair while everyone else stands. I don’t know why I am the only one. Many of these people I know to be irreligious. Why the fuck do they let this happen? It pisses me off.

So enjoy it, Sandy Bay. Enjoy your vaunted Christianity. I have never understood why they place such importance on it. You run into the odd religious nutbag back home, right, but since everyone here is also big-time into the Jesus, it becomes less of an issue (and, thus, less obvious). But, press them on it and every one of them will steadfastly defend their religion just as much as that weird kid back in grade 11 Math (you know who you are). Then, later in the summer, they will engage in their pow wows, and they will stick to their native traditions, but it’s all rather incongruous; your Pope, people, doesn’t really want you to do this. At best, he finds it quaint. At worst, it’s heretical and he wants you to stop. Figure it out.

If Only I Knew What He Was Smacking

2006-11-26T02:55:00.000-05:00

You know, sometimes when life is getting me down, I like to turn to music to get me back on my feet again. The combination of words and music to express an idea, an emotion or a point of view can be a powerful tool. It’s food for the soul. Dylan and Lennon are as latter-day Byron and Keats, taking our innermost hopes and desires and expressing them through their art. That said, I’d like to give you guys a little sample of a song that has really been carrying me these last couple of weeks:

Smack that
All on the floor
Smack that
Give me some more
Smack that
’Till you get sore

- Akon

Riveting Black and White Photographs From the 1930s!

2006-11-22T01:56:00.000-05:00

Looking through my computer, I see I have an odd collection of images. Odder still is that I have actually bothered to transfer many of them from not one but two computers onto my laptop. At some point, I must have subconsciously given a damn about them. Given that, let us now take a look at five notable photos I have on my computer.
Here are some of the airship Los Angeles over New York and Washington, D.C. back in the thirties before people realized that airships were about as ridiculous a method of transportation as you could imagine. I think it’s just cool that the US Navy had a small handful of these suckers. New York in the thirties looks awesome, while you can make out the Capitol building underneath the airships in the second photo.
Here is a coloured lithograph proclaiming the Atlantic cable as the eighth wonder of the world. I guess this would date to the late 1850s (if the Wikipedia is anything to go by). At first it might seem silly that such a thing would be considered a wonder of the world, but then you figure that, for the first time, instant communication from North America to Europe was a possibility. Add to that the realization that they actually laid a fucking piece of wire across the ocean in the 1850s and then it does sound pretty nuts.
Elements from this lithograph that I love and can be found in many similar pieces from this era:
- Animals representing countries (how did a lion come to be associated with the UK, anyway?)
- Classical gods
- The scenes around the border (which is itself a cable) showing the laying of the cable and the points at which it makes landfall

Here’re some samples of the Atlantic cable they had to lay over the years to get a long-lasting, secure connection, which, as I take it, was all the rage.

The following I also take from the Wikipedia:

"On August 16, Queen Victoria sent a telegram of congratulation to President Buchanan through the line, and expressed a hope that it would prove "an additional link between the nations whose friendship is founded on their common interest and reciprocal esteem." The President responded that, "it is a triumph more glorious, because far more useful to mankind, than was ever won by conqueror on the field of battle. May the Atlantic telegraph, under the blessing of heaven, prove to be a bond of perpetual peace and friendship between the kindred nations, and an instrument destined by Divine Providence to diffuse religion, civilization, liberty, and law throughout the world."

These messages were the signal for an outburst of enthusiasm. Next morning a grand salute of 100 guns resounded in New York City, the streets were decorated with flags, the bells of the churches rung, and at night the city was illuminated."

Here we have a section of none other than the mighty Highway 401, lifeblood of Ontario, under construction in Oshawa sometime right before the War. As I understand it, the 401 began as a project designed to link Oshawa (at Harmony) to Scarborough. At the time, it was known as Highway 2A, as it ran parallel to and was meant to relieve some of the congestion on Highway 2. Then the War happened and things didn’t get started again until the 50s, by which point they just went ahead and started making the 401 proper, incorporating a lot of what they’d made of 2A into the 401.

If you ask me, these overpasses must be Simcoe and Ritson. This must also explain why that part of the 401 is rather odd (it’s lower than the city, and peoples’ houses back up right onto the freeway, so close that they have to put some road signs up on top of those ugly green barriers because there is no land between the shoulders and someone else’s property to put them on) – it’s the oldest part of the 401 and they were still trying to figure things out. You can see how they obviously fixed that problem in the newer, post-War parts of Oshawa, like east of Harmony and west of, say… Park.

Special note: Just to see if anyone is paying attention, an alcoholic beverage will go to anyone who has noticed the running theme thus far in my profile photos in the upper right-hand corner.

Don't Let the Tie Fool You

2006-11-15T23:10:00.000-05:00

I had my first round of parent/teacher interviews today. I’d done it last year in my practicum, but that’s obviously not the same thing. For starters, my dick was actually on the line this time.

Quick, think of something ironic to say so it doesn't look like you're just putting up photos of you wearing a tie.

Uhm... "According to Jim" is my favourite show.

I had about 10 parent/guardians come in today, out of a potential… hell, let’s just say 60. To be fair, I doubt many more ever came at Central. It’s also somewhat anticlimactic, since the parents who give a shit enough to come in have generally sired children who are decent students already. There’s rarely much to discuss beyond, “Uhm… yeah, just, er… tell him to keep it up, I’m guessing?”

But there is that nagging fear in the back of my mind that after all these weeks of scraping by, of making my co-workers believe that I am actually competent, some hard-assed parent is finally going to figure it all out. They’ll look at the assignments their kids did or did not hand in, look at the final mark, and realize that my entire operation here is a sham.

“You’re saying you don’t know what level my daughter’s been tested to?”, ”What do you mean you have no evaluation mark for this unit?”, ”Do you think I could take a look at the unit plan you’ve been running the class by?”, ”Are you absolutely positive my son hasn’t handed in these assignments?” and “What particular curriculum requirements does this assignment meet?” are all questions I was never asked today. But, shit, if I have… that woulda been it. The gig would have been up.

I mean, it’s all fun and games until you’re held accountable. And the minute that I am, I do believe that’ll be it for me. And speaking of people who won’t be lasting the whole year here in Sandy Bay, word has filtered down of a posting for a new principal. So, if you have ~~a minimum of 3 years of school based administrative experience and post-graduate training in educational administration or curriculum studies~~ a vagina, by all means, send in your application.

People and Places

2006-11-03T01:58:00.000-05:00

A Moustache-less Wayne Rostad: Creepier Than You Ever Imagined

Director: Okay Wayne, let’s get started on these promos.

Wayne: Right on, champ!

Director: Okay, let’s go. Take one.

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! Join me as I visit a man in Moose Jaw who has a collection of over 15, 000 hubcaps!

Director: Great stuff, Wayne. Let’s do the next.

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! This week, be sure to follow me as I visit a woman in Churchill who has Canada’s largest bag of toenail clippings!

Director: Perfect. Next one?

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! This week, I’ll be dropping in on a family in Nanaimo who have been sharing the same pair of shoes between them for the past 34 years!

Director: Just great. I’m already there, man. Okay, a couple more.

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! Don’t miss us this week, as I visit a man in Medicine Hat who has the world’s only locket of Hitler’s hair!

Director: Whoa, okay, Wayne, you actually taped that?

Wayne: Oh, you bet! Back in April. You should see the thing. It’s like holding a piece of Hitler in your hands.

Director: Well, sure thing. Let’s move on, kay?

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! Next week, I’ll check in on a man in Waterloo who doesn’t think Black people should be allowed to vote!

Director: Ha ha, nice try, funny pants. Just read what’s on the card, okay?

Wayne: But I did. We recorded that segment back in June.

Director: About a guy who doesn’t want Blacks to vote?

Wayne: Yep, just another slice of Canadiana. Wacky country, eh?

Director: Okay, sure, I guess. Let’s try the next one?

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! Next week, be sure to tune in as we visit a man in Trois Rivieres who forces his wife to defecate on the front lawn!

Director: Okay, Wayne, just stop it.

Wayne: What?

Director: The fake promos. I mean, I’m not saying it’s not funny, but Rex Murphy is in here in five minutes to do his thing, and we need to get out.

Wayne: But they’re not fake. Listen, I’m just taking a look at Canada’s wacky, whimsical side. If you’ve got a problem with that, you can shove it.

Director: Alright, alright. A few more.

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! Next week, come with me as I visit a woman in Goose Bay who has had the hiccups for 17 years!

Director: Okay, thanks. That’s more like it. Last one, Wayne.

Wayne: I’m Wayne Rostad! On this week’s episode, I’ll be in Flin Flon to visit a man who’d rather have intercourse with young boys than women!

Director: Chirst Wayne, that’s it!

Rex Murphy: Did somebody mention young boys?

Or Just Sit Around and be Miserable. Your Choice.

2006-10-29T22:05:00.000-05:00

Yeah Hal, real active

Joanne: And finally, with as little as 20 minutes a day spent riding a bike, you can strengthen your cardiovascular system in a few short weeks!

Hal: So remember… keep fit, and have fun!

Director: Cut!

Hal: Hey Joanne, great piece.

Joanne: You don’t think I looked too goofy in that bicycle helmet?

Hal: Are you kidding?! You looked great!

Joanne: Watch it, mister – flattery will get you everywhere!

Hal: Ha ha ha. Good one, Joanne!

Joanne: Thanks!

Hal: Say, Joanne… I was wondering if you’d like to maybe get a drink later tonight? Or, you know, maybe just a bite to eat?

Joanne: Boy, I don’t know Hal…

Hal: Oh, alright…

Joanne: Well, it’s just that I told a friend that I’d give her a phone call tonight.

Hal: Right, no, that’s cool. I totally understand, trust me. No prob.

Joanne: But thanks!

Hal: Well… I mean, what about tomorrow, maybe?

Joanne: Okay, Hal, I don’t mean anything by this, but… we’ve been over this before, right?

Hal: But that was 7 years ago, Joanne!

Joanne: Listen, Hal, I’m not trying to embarrass you, I’m really not. But you know I don’t feel that way about you. I mean, what more can I say?

Hal: So you’re saying that in 16 years, you’ve never even thought about it?

Joanne: Yes Hal, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Why is that so difficult for you to understand? Can two people of the opposite sex not work together without… you know…

Hal: Going for some drinks after work?

Joanne: Hal, you know it’s not about that.

Hal: Is it the moustache? I could grow it back. It only takes me, like, four weeks.

Joanne: No, Hal, that’s not it. I ‘m just not into you like that. And I really do have to make that phone call, so I’ll see you tomorrow.

Hal: Okay… I hope this won’t make things all, you know… weird from now on.

Joanne: It’s alright. You’re a great guy, Hal. Hang in there. You’ll find someone, kay?

Hal: Thanks Joanne. Keep fit and have fun.

Joanne: You too.

Not Since the Bataan Death March Has Japan Inflicted Such a Horrible Injustice on Humankind

2006-10-27T01:34:00.000-04:00

This is worse than that game Hitler made

Mario Kart: Double Dash!! (don't forget them exclamation points) was an awful sequel to one of the greatest games on the Super Nintendo. That's my thesis, and I'll thank you for letting me back it up.

Let's begin, shall we, by outlining the franchise's history in an attempt to understand how completely this game dropped the ball. First, we have the incomparable original, Super Mario Kart. Recall your reaction to the screenshots first shown at CES '91. "A racing game featuring Mario characters," you might have been heard to exclaim. And what of this odd map that was taking up half the screen? Donkey Kong Jr. (with original undershirt) frollicking with the likes of Yoshi? I could play as a Koopa Troopa? Were those fine folks at Nintendo out of their minds? Not even close. They'd hit upon the magic formula, creating both the kart racing and mascot game genres all in one fell swoop.

We are now intimately familiar with Marios Tennis, Golf, Party and Baseball. Well, maybe not intimately familiar with Baseball, since it's not out yet. And it will probably be derivative and boring, but that's not the point. The point is that, before Nintendo turned these Mario games into soulless vehicles spawned from the depths of their merchandising department, Super Mario Kart was a breath of fresh air. A revolution. Nintendo took a chance, as it is sometimes wont to do, and created a wonderful game that nobody saw coming.

And the battle mode? Before these things became the standard, Nintendo had to create it. And, hey, if you saps would rather play online against some monkey you'll never meet (and who is, in all likelihood, as much of a loser as you are), then be my frigging guest. I'll stick with the unbridled fun and interaction that springs forth when two people are playing a game together in the same room. I mean, girls bonded while combing each other's hair and making fun of the ugly ones. Boys - those who have grown up to become Real Men - bonded playing Mario Kart.

Nintendo makes sequels about as often as Granny has bowel movements. So, after a 23-year wait, they pumped out Mario Kart 64. Not as good as the original, I'm not gonna lie to you. Now, with Double Dash!! out, even, one can see a steady decline in quality through these three games. Nonetheless, this game was competent. They put some effort in there, and managed to squeeze a few innovations into the game. Holding your banana peel behind you to protect against red shells? Inspired. Having 3 shells circle around you in such a way that you can mow your opponents down with ease? Brilliant! The tracks also hold up well, for the most part, and nothing will beat the rush you get after screwing a guy up on that last big jump at Wario Stadium (especially if that guy is Nathan).

Problems were mostly related to slowdown, and those damned pixellated sprites. And, come to think of it, you could never get a solid lead on your rival no matter how well you raced. The new Rainbow Road was also ill-conceived. Hey, Nintendo - if I wanted to waste six minutes of my life, I'd play Star Fox Assault. Finally, the battle mode was pretty lame, ensuring that since 1992, there has only been one battle mode worth playing. That's 14 years, man! You'd think this much-beloved feature of the original would be pretty easy to replicate. You'd also be wrong, apparently.

Years later, we arrive at Mario Kart: Double Dash!!. Yes, you knew it was coming. Nintendo wasn't going to let a whole generation go by without an entry in the venerable Mario Kart franchise. Screenshots were non-existent, but you knew it was only a matter of time. You figured that with all the processing power at their disposal, the programmers would be able to fix many of the second installment's bigger mistakes. Why, you even let yourself think that it just might go online so that you could play your friends and Nintendo could make themselves a mint! You damned fool. You stupid, silly man. When those first screenshots came in, featuring a car with Yoshi's head stuck on the front, your heart sank. Nevertheless, you soldiered on, assured by the delusion that only a rabid Gulag escapee could mess up a Mario Kart game.

In a move that you would later regard as the second biggest mistake of your life, you bought Double Dash!!, sight unseen, on the day of its release. Oh, what a fool you were that afternoon as you played through that game, bravely assuring your roommates that the game did not suck. How desperate you must have seemed to them as you tried in vain to unlock 150cc in the hope that it would speed the game up to acceptable levels. It was perhaps out of pity that they picked up your three extra controllers and played alongside you, but it was out of boredom that the four of you turned the system off after not a half hour of soldiering through the awful multiplayer mode. And the battle mode? Somewhere, Battle Track2 is rolling in its grave.

I have a theory about the Mario Kart franchise which states that the frequency with which the lightning bolt appears is inversely proportional to the game's quality. First, because lightning bolts just plain suck if they're used too often. Mostly though, I think that if you're a programmer and you allow one, maybe two lightning bolts per average round of Mario Kart, then you just don't get it. This fundamental lack of understanding will also invariably show up elsewhere in the game you design, ruining it for everyone. Mario Kart isn't about your flashy lightning bolt. It's not about your giant green shell. It’s not about your blue shell, that impossible-to-avoid projectile that hits only the guy in first place (which is almost guaranteed to hit you once per race, so you’d better pray it doesn’t happen in the last 30 seconds of the last lap). It's not about losing all of your items after every minor bump or scrape. It's certainly not about having a grand total of two battle mode levels in one game which are wide open arenas with no walls so that there's no way to avoid a red shell. It isn't about sticking two characters in a kart and calling it "innovation". It's not about giving each character their own gimmicky kart, and filling these karts with some pretty obscure characters. King Boo? I have vague recollections that for one Shine challenge in Mario Sunshine, I might have fought him or something. Mario Kart isn't about cutesy characters and everything from bananas to signposts having a set of cute little eyes. It isn't about getting rid of the few innovations of Mario Kart 64 (namely, the shell shields and holding your items out behind you) for simplicity's sake. I mean, if you're gonna give us 3 red shells as an item, Nintendo, we're also going to need some sort of defensive capabilities to balance that out. Not that it would matter, mind you, considering that nearly every hit slows you down for all of half a second.

I am in the territory of ranting now, and an itemized list of the game's flaws is a waste of all our time. Each of us, those who recall the ground-breaking original, as well as its so-so follow-up, are well aware of Double Dash!!'s faults. They are so apparent, in fact, that I have a hard time believing that Nintendo didn't notice. Come to think of it, I would go so far as to say that Nintendo purposely cutesied up and dumbed down this game to make it appeal to children, at the expense of its more mature customer base. You want the older market, Nintendo? We're right here. You think we'll shy away from a game featuring Princess Toadstool? Take a guess as to what was the most-played game in my hall in first year. It didn't have your Master Chief, your tactical espionage action or even your hookers in the cars and whatnot. It was a kart racer, featuring characters named Luigi, Toad and Wario. And even girls played it.

this is teh suxors!!!1!!1

2006-10-24T00:44:00.000-04:00

Somehwere, in an alternate 1991, instead of getting the SNES for Christmas, your parents bought you a bootleg copy of Super Mario World on an NES cartridge. The name of this alternate 1991? Hong Kong. Because, really, if you were living in crippling poverty, why would you pay full-price for a video game?

PS: I'm not gay, but the Scissor Sisters are pretty good.