Tomorrow is Canada Day. I realized this tonight as I waited in a serpentine queue of several dozen people at the local liquor store. The wait times at the liquor store are typically relative to variables such as time, day, efficacy with which the lady at the cash can split a roll of quarters, etc. There is a certain ebb and flow about it. The longest lines are reserved for the day which precedes a holiday, and are often characterized by a most eclectic demographic. Flip flops and sunglasses perched on foreheads with pinots and Corona, Velcro and yellow-stained staches with king cans and bottles of paint thinner.
Waiting in such a queue can really allow one to stop and ponder the reason why we Canadians celebrate such a day. Commonly also considered to be Canada’s birthday, July 1st 1867 marks the day that Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Ontario and Quebec formed a union and established the nation as a kingdom under the Queen’s Commonwealth. The British Parliament kept close watch over the new country and maintained some limited form of control up until the final breach occurred with 1982’s Constitutional Act.
Since Canada did not fight a bloody battle to sever ties with Britain, and instead were aided by the slow burning death of the monarchist, it is not considered an independence day as much as it is a birthday. Were that the case, perhaps we would be celebrating Canadian Independence Day, and not possibly the world’s worst named national holiday. Canada Day? Really? Sounds a little too simple for my likes – I much prefer the term Dominion Day, which was first used in 1879 to symbolize the formation of the four provinces.
In 1946, Phileas Cote, a Metis Quebecois in the House of Commons, introduced a private member’s bill to change the name to Canada Day that was later rejected by the Senate. Mr. Cote is also known for his early attempts to establish “O Canada” as the national anthem*. Following the repatriation of the Canadian Constitution in 1982, the name was officially changed in a parliamentary session by a powerful majority to the applause of a people and the ever-bourgeoning sense of national pride. Thanks for planting them seeds Phileas. Leave it to the dude named Phileas to know a thing or two about changing a name.
I think I see ol’ Phil in the queue a few spots ahead of me. He has a king can of 10%Crest nestled under each arm. Anything is better than Corona.
* Editor’s Note: Pretty amazing that a Metis Quebecois fought for two things that are synonomous with our national pride and identity, considering what history teaches us about ethnic cleaveages, the two Red River Rebellions (most importantly 1885) and the fight for sovereignty through referendum. Shitty name for a holiday Phileas, but I respect your efforts, and so should the rest of this nation, most of whom have no clue who you are.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Dick Allen
Congrats there ol' Dicky Allen and much thanks to the people over at Sports Illustrated Vault. Sports journalism in the late 1970's and especially the early 80's was a truly wonderful thing. Not since that era have innuendos and broad statements been used to such effect to mask the ugly-face of baseball's cocaine days.
However unlike many of his peers from this generation, Allen's calling card was not drugs and alcohol, but his outspoken nature and issues with authority. He often spoke out against racism, and was a lightning rod for controversy in Philadelphia. Known as perhaps the worst fans in North American sports, Philly fans would often throw projectiles onto the field towards Allen, forcing him to play his position in the outfield wearing the batting helmet pictured above.
In the 60's Dick Allen was also an established singer, and as a member of "Dick Allen and the Ebonistics" (yes that name is as amazing as it sounds) toured the Philadelphia club scene and even sang the anthem at a 76ers game.
Even a trade Dick Allen was part of proved to be a contoversial moment. Allen was part of the 1970 trade between the Phillies and St. Louis Cardinals for Kurt Flood. When Flood refused to report to the Phillies, deciding instead to fight Major League Baseball over the "Reserve Rule", it essentially began a process that saw Flood win his battle, thus creating the existence of Free Agency in North American professional sports.
For your many talents and lasting memory, Dick Allen, I salute you as this week's recipient of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence.
Monday, June 21, 2010
This Week's Winner of the Dave Parker Award for Excellence: Keith Hernandez
Keith Hernandez was a slightly above-average ballplayer, a shitty actor, a pitchman for a beard-dying product and a snitch (see Bernie Carbo cocaine confessional.) However, because of that stache that he still sports to this day and the way he'd sometime kill time in the dugout, he is the winner of this week's Dave Parker Award for Being Excellent in Excellence.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
G G G G G20. G-Unit.
As the G20 Summit fast-approaches, and this year's host and my hometown of Toronto braces itself for the worst-case scenario of unlawfully violent protesting and property damage, a radically alternative thought has crossed my mind. The best way to protest the summit, its members and their policies would be to not show up at all. What better way to mock the meetings and the millions of dollars spent on security, fencing and additional police than by having it all for naught.
Worldwide media outlets covering the annual gathering would report scenes of tranquility and wasted security measures with the city's downtown core resembling a scene from a post-apocalyptic film. Could a better statement be made by protests? No. Protests are within our rights as a people of a democratic western nation and are for the most part peaceful, however even if the crowds are %95 well-behaved and merely vocal, the other %5 who smash windows and deface buildings are the ones who get all the press and merit the millions of dollars spent on security.
An angry English protester shows his distaste for world markets/Band-Aids. Apparently angst is not as good of a coagulent as initially thought
Has a violent protest ever changed anything for the better? In 2009, a G20 Summit was held in London, and protesters, both violent and well-behaved, lined the streets of the Bank district, the financial centre near St. Paul's Cathedral. Bank windows were smashed and brick walls were tagged by protesters, however months later, the demonstrations of free speech are viewed as more of a headache than any catalyst for change. I've recently walked down these very streets in London and no evidence remains of these protests. The summit changes locations, the host cities prepare themselves, there are a few days of stress and apprehension, then all that remains is a massive clean-up and removal of security fences.
A protester in London smashes a RBS branch windows. The same man was also recently seen protesting a fitness convention in Sheffield.
A perimeter known as the "Red Zone" has been set-up downtown surrounding the Convention Centre and surrounding hotels where much of the action will be taking place. 3 metre high fencing surrounds this area, with openings featuring security checkpoints available for those who must enter the perimeter (there are several condos, restaurants and offices in the "Red Zone".) Hundreds of businesses and thousands of employees and residents of the area are being greatly affected by the summit. Many people are being forced out of their offices for the week, and several others who do not have such an option have been forced to acquire security cards and present valid photo identification at security crossings. The Blue Jays interleague series against the Philadelphia Phillies and ex-Jay and talisman starting pitcher Roy Halladay has been moved to Philly as a precautionary measure. I had tickets and must say of all the changes taking place in my city to accomodate the meetings, this is the one that really has my blood boiling. I assume that spending hundreds of millions of dollars on security was not sufficient to ensure the safety of a few dozen thousand baseball fans.
A map of the designated secure area in Toronto's downtown core.
As residents of a democratic nation, we have the inherent right to protest government institutions and their policies. As it so often happens, because of a handful of angst-ridden wannabe revolutionaries, these protests turn violent, giving a bad name to all those in attendance and creating problems rather than solving any.
People of Toronto and those surrounding areas who choose to protest, I respect your passion for policy change and the criticism of corrupt or power-abusive world leaders and bureaucracies, however I implore you to stay home and take a passive approach towards this year's G20 Summit. Let's laugh at the security precautions and waste of taxpayer's money, not be the laughing-stock ourselves for our sophomoric behaviour.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Things Done Changed: The Inaugural Dave Parker Award for Excellence
In lieu of writing anything at all today, I've decided to just post a photo of something that amuses me. Typically, I'm not one for just cutting and pasting a photo, but is there another photo that better captures the seedy undertones of baseball's cocaine era.
Fuckin' love me some Dave Parker.
Fuckin' love me some Dave Parker.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
"If You Don't Have a Dream, How You Gonna Have a Dream Come True?"
The content of my dreams derivates from an unknown region buried deep within my thoughts, assuming our thoughts are a container of sorts and not a transparent instinctual process. Many relate in some manner to my waking-life and its habitual constitution.
It’s not uncommon that many of these dreams cross the hypothetical border into nightmarish realms. Issues that are a catalyst for my anxiety often litter my dreams with sobering realities and self-doubt. There’s nothing worse than having a visual of a made-for-dreamland sloppy porn-patented brunette cottage romper than a brief notion of your unflattering credit score or irresponsible career choices. These brief moments of self-awareness during a whimsical slumber usually result in minutes of pacing and volume adjustment for the am sports radio program and the BCS Bowl bias controversy. If this sort of redundant and pointless conversation can’t put one to sleep – what can?
When I smoked earlier in my 20’s, if I awoke from a bad dream stressed over its all-to-clear revelations, I would have a smoke and some water, sometimes crushing cans of coke at 4 am to quench the pasties au lieu to having a black coffee, red bull or line of Charlie. Actually, I have never been a fan of coke, the drug, but the drink yes, preferably the aspartame-rich version in the gray can. There’s not much more I could do to sub-consciously avoid the imminent sleep and the continuation of unwanted self-introspection.
The light was absolutely paralyzing, a solar eclipse with a side of epileptic stroke-inducing strobe lights that shook rhythmically in a vertical fashion. I soon realized I was running towards this blinding light. It was the sun, and at no point was it mistaken for the ‘white-light’ many have reportedly faced, only to revive miraculously for a second shot at death. Sorry, life. What the fuck does this mean?
In theory, escapism is man’s explanation for finding comfort and solace through entertainment. We momentarily forget of all the problems of real life by enveloping ourselves in a good book, movie or television program. Perhaps my most brilliant, surreal dreams act as a means of escapism for me, only to be awoken in the morning by the harshness of reality and the discomfort of sleeping on a futon for the last five years of my life. Inversely, perhaps my dreams act as a fuel for the proverbial fire which can be found in the bellies of all great men. Like Dizzee Rascal said ‘if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?” Maybe they are a bit of both.
In Thomas Hardy’s quintessential work “Jude the Obscure”, we meet Jude Fawley as a young, impressionable boy from working-class Marygreen who has aspirations to be a great academic and leave the confines of his rural hamlet. His small English town is littered with those who have long ago given up on the outside world, and choose to focus not on their now deceased dreams, but on their limitations. From a young age, Jude is an idealist with lofty aspirations of experiencing the academic institutions at the University of Christminster. He attempts to teach himself both Greek and Latin by reading outdated texts in hopes of one day attending said university. One of my favorite moments of the book comes early on, when on one of his many lengthy walks outside of Marygreen, Jude finds a large home with two men perched upon its roof working on the shingles. Jude notices the massive ladder used to climb to such a height, and politely asks the two men if in the distance they can see Christminster. The one man replies that at the moment, the afternoon mist was too dense to see much of anything in the distance, but that there are times when a vague silhouette of the city can be seen on the horizon line. The same man asks Jude what he could possibly want with a town like Christminster, to which Jude replies with his academic aspirations. The man snickers and mentions something about the people of a town like Marygreen and how they lack the pedigree of an academic town like Christminster. Jude walks along, before hiding in a bush or grove of trees until the men leave, only to courageously climb the ladder himself. As the dense fog begins to rise and the night air becomes thin, Jude squints in the distance to see the lights of Christminster. For the first time, his notions have a physical representation, and his dream has grown that much bigger.
As he grows into his teens, he begins apprenticing as a stonemason in Marygreen, and soon realizes that his frustration with poverty and the indifference of the academic institutions in Christminster are too much to handle. Jude’s dreams have now become a catalyst for his desperation. Hardy’s portrait of Jude Fawley is of an idealist and a dreamer who becomes a desperate prisoner of his own limitations. This is not a synopsis of Hardy’s genius work, and if you really want to read a story that becomes darker, yet more compassionate with each page I suggest picking-up a copy for yourself.
The point I am trying to make is that whether our dreams are an extension of our subconscious or that of our waking lives as it is for Jude Fawley, they are essential for not only our well-being, but our sanity. My utopian visions of mounting Beyonce from the rear on a $5000 King Size Sealy Posturepedic being clouded by thoughts of the struggles of a freelance writer or my Ontario Student Loans payments are a necessity for making my dreams a reality. For Jude to continue to aspire for greatness despite the narrow minded and judgmental ways of the world around him and his increasingly prevalent thoughts of himself as a social outcast are equally as necessary.
If much of this doesn’t make sense or lacks continuity, you must excuse me, I wrote much of it while I was asleep.
Okay wardies, now that i've posted one Dizzee video and spent the last half-hour watching others on youtube, thought I'd post a few more though they don't have much relevance, if any to today's post. Dizzee needs to get grimey again ya. Enjoy.
It’s not uncommon that many of these dreams cross the hypothetical border into nightmarish realms. Issues that are a catalyst for my anxiety often litter my dreams with sobering realities and self-doubt. There’s nothing worse than having a visual of a made-for-dreamland sloppy porn-patented brunette cottage romper than a brief notion of your unflattering credit score or irresponsible career choices. These brief moments of self-awareness during a whimsical slumber usually result in minutes of pacing and volume adjustment for the am sports radio program and the BCS Bowl bias controversy. If this sort of redundant and pointless conversation can’t put one to sleep – what can?
When I smoked earlier in my 20’s, if I awoke from a bad dream stressed over its all-to-clear revelations, I would have a smoke and some water, sometimes crushing cans of coke at 4 am to quench the pasties au lieu to having a black coffee, red bull or line of Charlie. Actually, I have never been a fan of coke, the drug, but the drink yes, preferably the aspartame-rich version in the gray can. There’s not much more I could do to sub-consciously avoid the imminent sleep and the continuation of unwanted self-introspection.
The light was absolutely paralyzing, a solar eclipse with a side of epileptic stroke-inducing strobe lights that shook rhythmically in a vertical fashion. I soon realized I was running towards this blinding light. It was the sun, and at no point was it mistaken for the ‘white-light’ many have reportedly faced, only to revive miraculously for a second shot at death. Sorry, life. What the fuck does this mean?
In theory, escapism is man’s explanation for finding comfort and solace through entertainment. We momentarily forget of all the problems of real life by enveloping ourselves in a good book, movie or television program. Perhaps my most brilliant, surreal dreams act as a means of escapism for me, only to be awoken in the morning by the harshness of reality and the discomfort of sleeping on a futon for the last five years of my life. Inversely, perhaps my dreams act as a fuel for the proverbial fire which can be found in the bellies of all great men. Like Dizzee Rascal said ‘if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?” Maybe they are a bit of both.
In Thomas Hardy’s quintessential work “Jude the Obscure”, we meet Jude Fawley as a young, impressionable boy from working-class Marygreen who has aspirations to be a great academic and leave the confines of his rural hamlet. His small English town is littered with those who have long ago given up on the outside world, and choose to focus not on their now deceased dreams, but on their limitations. From a young age, Jude is an idealist with lofty aspirations of experiencing the academic institutions at the University of Christminster. He attempts to teach himself both Greek and Latin by reading outdated texts in hopes of one day attending said university. One of my favorite moments of the book comes early on, when on one of his many lengthy walks outside of Marygreen, Jude finds a large home with two men perched upon its roof working on the shingles. Jude notices the massive ladder used to climb to such a height, and politely asks the two men if in the distance they can see Christminster. The one man replies that at the moment, the afternoon mist was too dense to see much of anything in the distance, but that there are times when a vague silhouette of the city can be seen on the horizon line. The same man asks Jude what he could possibly want with a town like Christminster, to which Jude replies with his academic aspirations. The man snickers and mentions something about the people of a town like Marygreen and how they lack the pedigree of an academic town like Christminster. Jude walks along, before hiding in a bush or grove of trees until the men leave, only to courageously climb the ladder himself. As the dense fog begins to rise and the night air becomes thin, Jude squints in the distance to see the lights of Christminster. For the first time, his notions have a physical representation, and his dream has grown that much bigger.
As he grows into his teens, he begins apprenticing as a stonemason in Marygreen, and soon realizes that his frustration with poverty and the indifference of the academic institutions in Christminster are too much to handle. Jude’s dreams have now become a catalyst for his desperation. Hardy’s portrait of Jude Fawley is of an idealist and a dreamer who becomes a desperate prisoner of his own limitations. This is not a synopsis of Hardy’s genius work, and if you really want to read a story that becomes darker, yet more compassionate with each page I suggest picking-up a copy for yourself.
The point I am trying to make is that whether our dreams are an extension of our subconscious or that of our waking lives as it is for Jude Fawley, they are essential for not only our well-being, but our sanity. My utopian visions of mounting Beyonce from the rear on a $5000 King Size Sealy Posturepedic being clouded by thoughts of the struggles of a freelance writer or my Ontario Student Loans payments are a necessity for making my dreams a reality. For Jude to continue to aspire for greatness despite the narrow minded and judgmental ways of the world around him and his increasingly prevalent thoughts of himself as a social outcast are equally as necessary.
If much of this doesn’t make sense or lacks continuity, you must excuse me, I wrote much of it while I was asleep.
Okay wardies, now that i've posted one Dizzee video and spent the last half-hour watching others on youtube, thought I'd post a few more though they don't have much relevance, if any to today's post. Dizzee needs to get grimey again ya. Enjoy.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Gingers United
After a week-long hiatus, I'm back with another post. This is M.I.A.'s controversial video for the track Born Free. Some of the content may offend the squeamish, but I had to post it because it serves as a metaphor for cases of ethnic cleansing. If you know me, you'll quickly understand why this particular video resonates with me. Male caucasians with red hair are the smallest ethnic minority in the world and with each generation, this number continues to shrink. Enjoy.
M.I.A, Born Free from ROMAIN-GAVRAS on Vimeo.
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