Et ego odi

I hate people!

In the same vein, there is literally no one that I don't hate right now! Nice right? I said that once in the car as a way of diffusing a small bout of road rage with the kids present.....dad? No not you guys....you I love.

One would gather that when I call for throat punchers to unite I might have an issue with some homo sapiens. I suppose I could qualify this and limit it to people that are stupid or have pissed me off for being stupid, but that's just using more words.

Let you in on a little secret, I actually do like people...some I even love. People can be spectacularly awesome. All we have to do is look around to see examples of it every day. But sadly right along with those shining examples of awesomeness there are the other people. The dumb ones, the mean ones...those that have gone through life without learning much of anything...you know whom I speak of. But remember, this is our secret...tell no one.

I was relating a story to someone the other day to illustrate my level of comfort with using a few well placed minor swear words. Way back when during my college days, as part of our final year of culinary management, we had a major class project. Each week a different student would be chef of the week. Plan and execute a dinner service with a theme, costings, menu development, organization of work schedules and so on....pretty much what I do every day right now, go figure. Anyhow, my night of Swiss cuisine ran...wait for it...like a Swiss watch. Truly the night was a success and I had a great time running the show. The accolades flew in, many from my fellow students. Part of the process was to have your compatriots make comments and grade you. I have a pretty thick skin so I wasn't worried about anyone with an axe to grind or an agenda but I was pleasantly surprised that I received an almost unanimous endorsement from my band of heathens. Save one...in her comment section she indicated that while the night was a success she thought I swore too much. As luck would have it people were still milling about while I read this, so I turned to her and asked quite innocently..."I don't understand what you fucking mean? I don't fucking swear a lot. Seriously, what the fuck? Fucking Tony over there swears a shit load more than I fucking do? Fuck off" Luckily for me I had a smirk on my face and she didn't kill me where I stood. I briefly dated this amazon in college and she scared me a bit...in a good way. Actually...that reminds me of a story...but that's for later.

Swearing is like punctuation. It is colour, seasoning if you will. And when used properly and with a modicum of restraint it is quite effective in conveying a message...as long as the other side is listening...which brings us back to the hated people. One wishes that a good verbal thrashing would work to some degree on these people, maybe make them slightly less hated. It's almost hard to believe that there are people that can defend Drumph and his ilk....solution? Fucking verbal lashing followed, if needed, by an elbow smash!. It might not change a thing and you risk the chance of stooping to their level but man it would feel good wouldn't it?

Here are some examples of behaviours that may require some errrr, adjustment:

Preaching for conversion sake, be it a Catholic or an atheist or a Jehovah's Witnesses...

just leave the rest of us alone. You do you and I'll do me.

Being an ass hole, in all its many guises. 

Moms and dads that have abandoned their kids. I subscribe to the Godfather belief....

you can't be a man if you aren't a father to your kids.

Politicians. The corrupt, manipulating and obstructionist types.

Those without integrity and honour.

The Donald Drumphs, Bill Cosby's and Brock Turners of the world. 

And the people that enable them.

I should probably stop now, the list would be huge and I want to avoid any more libellous statements.

So, in the end maybe I am just conflicted with how much I like people and how much I hate them, the constant struggle for understanding...the battle between the heart and mind. Send help.

Ciao

D

Summer of '77

Ahh, the glorious parent road trip. Being dragged from historic location to historic location all over southern Ontario when we were young. Visions of Martyrs Village, Pioneer Village, Fort Henry and many more have all blended together 30 years on.  We never had a lot of money growing up so to cut the cost of travel we would get crusty Italian bread or fresh croissants, mortadella and prosciutto with some cheese and fruit for meals on the go. Stopping at whatever version of Denny's or the Golden Griddle we would find along the way before hitting a motel for the night. At the time I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that I was actually learning something, focusing more on the idea of my resting inertia being disturbed for the summer, but now....these are the things I like to do. Discovery, history, simple yet good food.

The venerable Chevy Vega followed by the Chevy Nova being our transport during those summer road trips. Yes, that Nova My Faithful Steed To think its warm and fuzzy beginning was to be sullied by my coming of age as a driver of ill repute. Seat belts were a thing to slip off without your parents realizing it, of course a parents ear is finely tuned to that kind of thing and for a short guy my dad incredible reach to the back seat - I'm sure you get the picture. Certainly no car seats or anything resembling a nod to safety. Parents up front smoking their faces off from a time when they used to smoke. Radio tuned to some nonsense talk radio show for some reason and long boring drives punctuated by visits to little towns and nondescript motels. All the things an 11 year old kid looks for. The only fun was torturing my little sister, I mean pestering her a tiny bit in response to her provocations. She started it!

The summer of 1977 was the year we did the 1000 Islands and Gananoque region. I remember Boldt Castle and the ferry ride to it...sitting atop a cannon with my gaudy brown leather jacket and shaved head. What? Oh...let me rewind a bit. This is the summer that my dad took it upon himself to have my head shaved. I suppose in a fit of like father like son togetherness, he took to be to get my scalp freed of that annoying mop...just like him. Now, truth be told, I don't remember going or even getting the cut but my sister says she vividly remembers it. She might have even been scarred by it. Once again, I swear I was dropped on my head a few times. I understand my mom was quite upset when she got home from work late that night to find me with some stubble where my brown locks were. What I remember was having to face my friends with that shiny dome...baseball hats weren't in vogue back then. If I was scarred I got over it pretty quick.

Now, there may be something to be said for my thick lustrous hair that I currently sport...perhaps that ritual shaving helped, but I suspect that comes from my grandfather on my mom's side. Which brings us back to the cannon between my legs....right. Photos of me look like a mini me to my dad, brown leather jackets, bald heads and silly/sullen grins on our faces. Can you blame us, we've been stuck in a car with no air conditioning for days on end driving all around the damn 401. Are we there yet? In one picture, I am straddling a huge cannon with my shiny noggin and SS era jacket...ahhh, the 70's and their fashion mistakes and photos not thoroughly thought out..

What I also remember is driving along some highway, staring out the window where one could see a sun shower happening off in the distance...it was almost surreal to watch rain falling elsewhere. And almost fittingly in the surreal department was the radio announcement that Elvis had died. The King was dead....one of those where you when moments. Stuck in a car...that's where. I must admit I am a fan of Elvis. My parents, I suspect more my mom than my dad, had a few 8 Track tapes of Elvis that I listened to, I watched all his silly boppy movies and remember most of the lyrics to the songs in them...actually one of my favourite song  lyrics comes from one of those movies, Fun in Acapulco:

"Drink, drink, drink

Oh, fiddle-de-dink

I can dance with a drink in my hand"

And you can watch the video here Elvis ...how does he make his body go in 17 different ways at the same time. Cheesy and really lame? Yep, for sure. So what. The man died, cut him some slack.

Like Michael Jackson after him and just about any mega star, Elvis turned into a caricature of himself...what you heard and saw more of was the excess that he had become. Think his Vegas shows, bedazzled outfits and fried peanut butter sandwiches. Jackson had his ranch and Elvis had Graceland. Something about absolute power corrupting absolutely comes to mind but at least there were the early days. He was a bad ass before he came to be that special agent for the government. He had moves, he could sing and he looked like Elvis...seriously. He was the man...one of five guys that I think are "the man", The others being Johnny Cash, Leonard Cohen, Neil Young and Bob Marley.

Shaved heads, ugly jackets and the passing of Elvis....that was the summer of 1977 for me. What were you doing that summer?

Ciao

D

Auld Lang Syne

This time of year it seems people are either airing their children's achievements in their yearly "update" letter or airing their grievances a la Festivus. For the record, I never liked those letters. Certainly not sending them out, they weren't my idea but invariably I was the one that ended up polishing them before they were sent out. It simply felt too much like bragging for me...my kids did these awesome things and my kids did those awesome things. You see, we never strutted growing up...my parents were proud of us to a fault but we were taught to keep our mouths shut. So this exercise in flag waving always seemed too extreme for me.

Having said that, there was some value to reflecting on the year that passed...much like many of us are now doing as 2016 winds down. With the inevitable march towards the new year, let me add my voice to the chants of "fuck 2016". I'll be glad to see this year go, both personally and on a broader scope...this blog basically exists because of my own personal crap that started nearly a year ago and dominated a big part of the year for me...health wise at least. You can read about some of it right here...knock yourself out.

I think it's easy to lump the year together and say it sucked ass...I know I feel that way some days. The grim reaper taking legends from us, the strife and abject destruction in Syria and elsewhere, the refugee crisis, daily reports of mass killings and to top it all off the election of the orange clown Drumph. That's a tiny snippet of the broader picture and sure it does look like we had a bleak year, but like in all things, perspective is part of the bigger picture. All around us there was life and beauty, laughter and love...yes, I'm the half glass being full guy, no surprise there is it?

I like that graphic that floats around every once in awhile showing a persons business success trajectory....what some people see as a straight line of an upwards trajectory of someone they know or admire. Reality is something else entirely, a squiggle of epic proportions, ups and downs in constant battle but always moving towards that higher goal. Our lives are like that. Looking back on 2016....I'm not sure how my head is still attached to my body, what with the head spinning and the back and forth that the year was.

It started with a cancer diagnosis and ends with my father in the hospital. How's that for bookends to a year, mortality faced in a very personal way. Stay tuned to how it all comes out. In between I've had kidney stones as a running joke, and by joke I mean excruciating pain. I've lost sight in my eye as a result of the treatment for the cancer. I've loved and lost in my romantic life. Family and friends have gone and continue to go through their own personal crap yard as well as their triumphs

Fuck you 2016! I know, a simplistic response, but seriously...leave us alone, haven't you done enough this year? I'm not saying it was all bad but it just seems that the over arching sentiment, for a lot of people I know, is that this past year was less than stellar...too much negative, too much uncertainty and too much orange. What bothers me is that the things that have contributed to that sense of negative are things outside of my control...I'm reduced to reacting and sometimes I reacted negatively. While it can be explained away and even justified I still don't like it. I made a pact with myself after my separation that I would be me again, and mostly I have been...save for the past few months when flashes of gloom would appear.

I'm turning a page though, after realizing that I was the one having a problem with my responses, I needed to refocus a bit. While I am still very worried about my dad it is something that will have to be dealt with...I know that's the exact way he would move forward. Cracking bad jokes and laughing in the face of his own mere mortal existence is exactly the way I would react so I know I'm on the right track. Bring on 2017!

To all my family and friends, too numerous to list, I feel like you already know how I feel about you, and at the risk of sounding too sentimental, you are truly treasured by me. I find my strength and my soul within you all. In your own little ways you are a part of who I am.

I love you all.

Happy whatever you want to insert here. Be safe, be merry and above all else be happy.

Ciao
D

Highway to Hell

Before I begin, please watch this video Stairway to Heaven It's Heart performing Stairway to Heaven at the Kennedy Centre with Barack Obama and a host of luminaries in attendance, including the surviving members of Zep. Funny to watch Yo-Yo Ma tripping on the performance and when the choir kicks in as the song hits its crescendo it always bring a tear to my eye...powerful performance I must say.

Today's little spiel is about the other place...Hell...metaphorically speaking of course. I was sharing a glass of wine with a friend last week and I made some comment or observation about something that I can't recall. She laughed while telling me that I was going to hell...and that she would gladly be the bus driver. Which got me thinking of who I would want on a bus trip to hell. So in no particular order...here are some of the people (real and not) that I would like to have surrounding me for this journey.

Despite the fact that she volunteered to drive the bus I think I'll give that position to someone else, for my friend Lena though....she's the master of the karaoke. She likes to belt out tunes so let her belt out an homage to the bus ride to hell. The position of driver of the bus is going to be Cosmo Kramer from Seinfeld fame. Anyone that can come up with the Peterman reality tour and save the little toe while making all the stops on a ride to the hospital, well...he's got things covered I think and he'd always be good for a few laughs. We'll bring along George Costanza as well...because he's George. Oh, and Joe Pesci. You think I'm funny?

Of course Scott would be there...hell, he's half the reason I'm on the bus in the first place, willingly of course, because in the end it will simply be a hell of a ride. A combination of anarchy meeting a three ring circus on steroids while living a Marx Brother's movie. Anna and her hubby Danny along with their three daughters would be a great addition as well...unique good people to join the ride.

While Lena entertains with her sing alongs I think I'll have George Carlin and Dave Allen for comic relief, maybe throw in Danny Bhoy as well. I think Neil Young, Johnny Cash, Elvis and John Lennon would be some good musical guests to bring along, to name just a few. Bob Marley, Pink Floyd, U2, Peter Gabriel, Genesis and of course Rush to name a few more. It should go without saying that this bus will have any music I want at the ready so we will never be without tunes.

We're going to need some fun loving ladies that don't take life too seriously. Suzanne, Sarah, Joni, Elizabeth, Susan, Margo....and one of my closest friends Daveda. Please feel free to bring any friends that you feel like bringing, we have lots of space. I think a few guys from high school would be in order as well; Dom, Dave, Steve, Joe, Vernon, Rudy, Connie, Lena-Marie, Stacey, Ciupa, Dennis, Flip and John.

I'll need a bartender, so I think I'll have Don Draper mix a few drinks while smoking his lungs out. Scratch that, Sinatra can do it. Since there's no way in hell that I'm feeding this lot of misfits and malcontents, I'll need Chef Ramsey to do the cooking along with Nigella Lawson, I have a thing for her. Speaking of people that I have a thing for, Minnie Driver, Charlize Theron, Helen Mirren, J.K Rowling and Isabella Rossellini...just to name a few...they will be there as well.

We will want this ride documented, so Aaron Sorkin, Ernest Hemingway and Pablo Neruda can put paper to pen. I think I'd like to have Einstein there....my son could talk to him. Of course my kids will be there. They should get to see this side of dad...hahahaha

Sitting in the corner will be Leonard Cohen doing what he does best, making every other male feel inadequate. Since I'm a fan of movies and a few TV shows, I'll need Alan Alda, Martin Sheen, Jack Nicholson, Dick Van Dyke, Bogart and Steve McQueen to keep order, such as it were. Alan Rickman and Richard Schiff along with Paul Giamatti....I'm starting to think I'm going to need a bigger bus.

I think you're getting the idea...this is going to be one interesting bus ride, it better take a good long while. a take on the classic what person from history would you want to have lunch with. The list is immense and I have scratched the surface, barely.

All aboard
D

Is that a machete in your pants or are you glad to see me

Through my adventures in life I must confess that I think I've led a bit of a charmed life, despite ample opportunity for catastrophe I have suffered only a little by my way of reckoning. Scrapes and sprains where amputation and horrible consequences could have and should have been the result. Actually, while I'm typing this I am remembering when I suffered second and third degree burns on my lower legs and feet when a steam kettle full of boiling water poured over the front of me....narrowly missing the family jewels. OK, maybe I like to gloss over things but I really do believe that I've had it easy...so when I was mugged in grade eight I ended up not with a scar but with a decent story to tell.

Back in the summer of 1983 or so there was a sort of resurgent interest in 3D movies being shown on TV. One of the TV channels was advertising a string of movies that were made using 3D technology, probably from the 60's, and you too could enjoy these movies if you purchased your very own 3D glasses from Becker's...a Kiwk e Mart harbinger where smokes, lottery tickets and milk for $2.99 a jug could be picked up in convenient locations throughout the city. Including all manner of candy and frozen treats, including the "lola"...sigh, I miss lola's.

So, I don't recall the movie that had my buddy Humberto all hot and bothered but he wanted to go pick up some of these 3D glasses. Now, the nearest Becker's was a ten minute walk in the centre of a three building complex that you generally didn't want to be near after dark. To say that it had a rough reputation would be an understatement. I never went there alone and never at night...generally speaking I avoided the place.

As you may recall, Humberto was the older brother of Paula...the Portuguese girl I was half seeing in those hormone charged years. The same Paula that wanted me to commit to marriage at the age of 15...click on this for that little story Piri Piri Humberto, being fast as hell and pretty strong with his wiry drummer strength, was my usual travel partner and I always felt a little safer around him What I didn't know was that he was a runner. As in there is danger...run away!!!! This would have been helpful knowledge before making the trek for our 3D glasses.

As we left the centre ring of the complex heading for the path along the fence on the edge of the highway we were chatting away about Rosemary's butt or something similar, so we did not notice that guy walking up behind us. What we did notice was the second fellow come out in front of us from the bushes along the path. That stopped us dead in our tracks, which also allowed us to see that we had that other fellow right behind us...uh oh. As they closed in Humberto did his 50 yard sprint routine and left me for dead. Literally he ran off and I had two rather large and menacing looking guys closing in on me...or shall we say, they had closed in while I watched Humberto run away. To his credit, he stood on a hill looking down yelling something like..."hey you, leave him alone!!!" Thanks man.

There I was, left to my own devices with two Jamaican wannabe gangsters in my face. At this point I'd love to be able to tell you that I fought my way out of the predicament or even better, I talked my way out with a combination of guile and humour and me and the boys are still friends to this day. Nope. One of them had grabbed my arm in a vice like grip and started pulling me down an embankment. With his other hand he grabbed the 3D glasses from my back pocket...I was being mugged for 3D glasses, can you believe that shit? You may be wondering what the other fellow was doing as I was being pulled down this little hill to my certain demise, well, let me tell you. He was moving slowly towards me when he lifted his shirt and pulled out what looked like a scimitar or machete from down his pants. Read that again. He pulled a huge ass knife from his pants and walked towards me...and in between visions of being shish kabobed I was seriously trying to figure out how he walked around with that thing down his pants...what with the legend of endowment and all.

I was shitting bricks...this guy was going to knife me for a pair of 99 cent 3D glasses. He was saying something to the effect of let go of the glasses, despite the fact I wasn't in possession of them. The dude holding me now had both of his hands holding onto my arm as I tried to pull away, thus exposing my arm to the machete wielding fellow. He stepped up, raised the blade to shoulder height and came down on my arm sharply and quickly....with the flat edge of the knife. I then yanked my arm as hard as I could breaking the hold and bolted as fast as I possibly could.

Obviously these guys were not going to kill me for these glasses, but it sure felt like it at the time...they did manage to put a shit scaring into me though with that knife. I never saw the movies and I never went back to that complex....and I gave Humberto quite a bit of shit for bailing on me.

And that my friends is my "I got mugged" story. Told ya!

Ciao
D

Dinner with Stephen Fearing

A few years back I was dating a wonderful woman that was instrumental in my growth as a newly single 45 year old man. She was eclectic and interesting along with being a whole lot of fun to be with. She also managed to say one of the nicest things that anyone ever said about me, I felt encapsulating my persona; when responding to a pet nick name I had for her she said that I was a combination of a farmers market in the south of France, an Italian man sitting in a sidewalk cafe watching the women go buy and a whistling Irish man setting off on a long walk. I liked that a lot...her perception of me brought a smile to my face.

She also knew a shit load of interesting people, famous and infamous in and around the city. Where she grew up and the business she had once owned made for ample opportunity to get introduced to them...and by extension I had met a few of these people in our short lived romantic time together.

We were planning on attending a show at a local brew pub one night, Tom Wilson was playing a solo acoustic set during HUFF. Tom is a hulking beast of a man that used to lead Junkhouse, with their classic bit of Canadiana in the song Shine. More recently and currently he is part of Blackie and the Rodeo Kings along with Colin Linden and Stephen Fearing, a sort of country roots, but not really country, homage to Willie P Bennett. Prior to the night of the show she had suggested we go to dinner with Stephen Fearing and his wife, whose name I forget. Not being one to shy away from things I was all in. Plans were made and off we went for what turned into a very interesting evening.

We dined on Lebanese food, drank wine and got to know each other a little bit. I was definitely the odd one out as I didn't know any of these people outside of my girl and I had no history with them to make a connection with. It didn't matter though, I was made to feel very welcome and, most interestingly to me at the time, an equal - no better or worse than anyone there. My married life did a good job of casting people into categories and grading those categories, something I was always uncomfortable with especially related to the church. We all came from differing back grounds with different careers and experiences, but what mattered that night was what we were doing in the moment. No pretense, no bullshit.

Stephen was genuinely interested in my life as a chef as I was in his life as a musician. We asked questions and told stories and I like to think that his warmth and interest in every one was authentic. I felt at ease. I also felt that this was how he gleaned ideas for songs...life expereinces forming the basis for his music. I do that now with the writing of this blog, as you have probably figured out by now.

After dinner was done and our goodbyes were said we parted ways and headed to the pub for the show and some more wine. This is where the night takes on a bit of a surreal tack. It seems that there is a slightly famous comedienne that has a thing for Tom...and I guess they had a thing for a while and she reportedly wanted some more of that thing, but Tom was not obliging with his thing. Which is the pre-amble on how we found ourselves sitting behind this lady, in her very short and tight skirt doing her Basic Instinct routine for Tom who was playing in front of her. The show was great, he is a performer of note, but it was distracting to have this lady do what she was doing a few feet away from us. I wondered how distracted Tom might have been but I think he was high as a kite at that time so he probably never even noticed...that and the lights were probably in his face the whole time.

Suffice to say I have no idea how the night ended for the two former love birds but it really did cap the night off in hilarious fashion. That and the rendition of Shine he did using only his voice and his body as a percussion instrument...wow...just wow.

It was a good night all around, one of those nights where you can imagine yourself sharing a cab with Neil Young or having a late night drink with Peter Mansbridge in the lobby bar at the Chateau Frontenac, all by chance and circumstance to be sure. A treasured memory born of serendipity.

As things happen to go, she and I parted ways as a couple but we have remained friends. Every once in awhile getting together for a coffee or a glass of wine. Wishing eachother the best when things change for the better and being truly happy for eachother when it does.

Life is beautiful

Ciao
D

27 Bones

"Look at your hand. It’s one of the most incredible instruments in the universe.
Of all the bones in the body, one fourth are in the hand.
Forget the hand. Look at your thumb; that wondrous mechanism that separates us from the other animals.
The world-famous opposable thumb, that amazing device,that has transported more students to college than the Boston post road. Ideal for sucking, especially as a baby, and lauded in song and story as the perfect instrument for pulling out a plum.

Or, in the case of the Caesars, for holding it down for the gladiator to die, or holding it up, which means "See you later at the orgy." My friends, for getting up and down the pike, in your pie, in your eye, I give you the thumb.

Have you any idea, Farmer Brown, of the incredible complexity of this piece of human apparatus?
Of course not. Never having spent any time at Sol and Sol’s swilling borscht and jamming Latin into your brain while trying to imagine if Lefty the waitress is wearing a garter belt, you have no idea of the balletic interplay of parts that make up the human thumb.

The flexor ossis metacarpi pollicis flexes the metacarpal bone, that is, draws it inward over the palm, thus producing the movement of opposition. And the Boy Scout salute. Because of this magical engineering, we could do this. And this. And this.
But our greatest triumph comes not from flexing the metacarpal bone and making a fist,
which always seems to be thirsting to be clenched…No, no, no, no, no.
Our greatest moment is when we open our hand:

Cradling a glass of wine, cupping a loved one’s chin. And the best… the most expert of all…
keeping all the objects of our life in the air at the same time. My friends, for your amusement and bemusement, I give you the human person. Thumb and fingers flexing madly, straining to keep aloft the leaden realities of life: ignorance, death and madness. Thus we create for ourselves the illusion that we have power,that we are in control, that we are… loved"

My friends, if you believe, as I do, that we are the sum of everything that has happened to us...that we are nurtured into what ever it is that we are, than this quote from MASH is probably as good as any in coming to an understanding of why I am the way I am. I grew up on MASH, the combination of humour and humanity that made that show one of the best ever helped to mould and form my way of being and thinking. I am Hawkeye....that Alan Alda shares the same birthday as me confirms it in my mind.

But my being the way I am is not really what I wanted to talk about. Rather how his semi soliloquy from the show, where Hawkeye finds himself stranded in the arms of a Korean family after rolling his jeep and suffering a concussion, has always stayed with me as one of those brilliant illumination events. You know the ones I am talking about...where maybe your world makes a little more sense after having the light shone on it from an outside source. Music and movies have done this countless times for me. A number of times people have stepped up and showed me the way and on a few occasions I've even woken from dreams with this sense of definition.

I remember watching this episode and being struck by the simple but pure truth behind it. Those 27 bones in our hand have the power to do so much, both good and bad, and what we choose to do with them really depends on where we are in our lives and in our heads and how we came to be at that point. As an illustration, I really only had one fight growing up...one where I purposefully swung my fists to injure. Not because I am a pacifist extraordinaire or anything like that, I just never felt the need to fight and usually tried to diffuse the situation before fists were a flying. This has almost always been the case, even verbally...I don't care to fight and I certainly don't care to carry anger and resentment with me, so I, by nature, try to make the peace if the peace is breached. That one fight on the bus home ended in a couple of swings by us both and the driver kicking us off. I don't recall what it was over but I'm sure it was trivial. No harm done to my knowledge.

Conversely I remember thinking that G.W. Bush was the wrong guy at the wrong time when 9/11 happened. Absolutely a hard response was needed, but not the way he did it and to the extent that he responded. Call me crazy but maybe the Muslim world really does have some legitimate beefs with the west. The extremists way of responding ends up feeding the fire even further by ensuring a like minded response, but what if instead of bombing the shit out countries that farm rocks for a living we sat down and talked to them. There is bad blood and history that goes back to biblical times...I get that, but surely any long and painful discussion is infinitely better than worrying about if the next guy walking down the street has a suicide vest under his coat or if that buzzing in the air is a drone about ready to drop it's load on my family. Bush wouldn't see this as an opportunity to do anything other than to feed the war machine in the search for "revenge". It seems that clenching that fist is just easier. I wonder what Drumph does when an attack happens...do you think the "art of the deal" will come into play here? Yeah...me neither.

The wisdom of Solomon might not be able to solve any of the serious issues that we face. Is it simply too much? Would we be better served by everyone simply acknowledging we have issues and than turning our attention to finding a solution together? I wish I knew but I can't help but feel that opening those 27 bones instead of clenching them into a fist is the way forward.

Perhaps taking those 27 bones and holding on to life and all that it offers, metaphorically and literally speaking, is a good way of showing respect for the marvels of the human body and spirit. As 2016 winds down, a year I would like to see in the rear view mirror, we naturally come to a time of reflection. My own reflection on the year has me trying to look forward to more positive times to come...2016, in too many ways, sucked ass. It wasn't all bad by any stretch but all the same I'm ready for a kick ass 2017.

I read an op ed piece just this morning in the NY Times and I think I may have found a buddy spirit in one Roger Cohen. He writes well and with a certain amount of passion, something to aspire to for myself and my new career goal....a recluse writer with an affinity for wine and women..the three W's. While 2016 does it's disappearing act and we can declare "fuck you 2016" we should be looking up to 2017 with excitement and anticipation, actually everyday we should be doing this, why wait for a new year. But since we are in that season, when in Rome....you know the rest. Read the piece here if you like Do Not Go Gentle

Grab the coming year with all those bones and do as Mr. Cohen exhorts, borrowing from Dylan Thomas "Love more, love better. Do not......go gentle into that good night."

Ciao
D

Mirrors

Maybe I can call this Askew Revisited, for the original see here Askew

I tend to be a very positive and fun loving kind of guy, but I must admit that the past month or so I have felt off in that department. And it took me the better part of that month to first realize it and than figure out why it was so. Was it the "eye"? Was it work? A budding relationship? All those things in small doses but the conclusion was that because I was getting dragged back to court for a divorce that was signed, sealed and delivered I was feeling kind of bitter and angry. Maybe rightly so but I do dislike going down that negative road...it's not me.

From time to time a mirror has to be held up right in front of me, the me that can be my harshest critic, so that the first step to correcting a problem can take place. Which of course is realizing that there is a problem. Sometimes someone else will do the mirror holding for me...close friends, family and lovers...and I am always and forever grateful that they would do this for me. It makes me feel kind of special to be honest.

So, while I work towards rectifying this confounded divorce once and for all....I hope, I'm hitting the reset button on my attitude thing. Hmmmmm, I wonder if Drumph winning has anything to do with it? But seriously, despite the above mentioned Debbie Downer routine I already feel a little better about things.

Unfortunately the budding romance fell apart the other night...a result of a number of factors that just seemed to weigh on us both. We ended well though and I have a good feeling that we will remain friends and that is a good thing. While writing an email to an old friend of mine relating this turn of events, a quote popped into my head (go figure right). While I'm unhappy that the relationship fell, the fall didn't kill us...which led to this from the movie The Lion in Winter...  

"As if it matters how a man falls down. 

When the fall is all that's left it matters very much"

It does matter how things end and it does matter that we take the high road. Putting aside feelings of hurt and understanding that sometimes things simply stop working and no one is to blame. If you can take a positive or two away from the experience than that should be considered a good thing. I do and almost always look for the positives...I think in the end that's one of the things that people like about me.

A new month, full of holiday parties and turkey polluza out the wazula, a little melancholy aside I'm feeling like I've crossed a bridge from that negative shit. So welcome back to normal, or what passes as normal in my life.

Ciao
D

Mixed tapes

From time to time I get asked what my speciality is when I tell people that I'm a chef. This happens quite a bit in the dating world actually, and my stock answer is either hot dogs or scrambled eggs, my way of helping to break ice and keep people laughing I guess. Sometimes I wish it would come across like this scene in the wonderful movie The Big Night It would be worth the price of admission just to see someones reaction to my answer. I told you my brain works funny...blah, blah, blah. The truth of the matter is that I could no more name a favourite dish than I could a favourite song or movie. The time of day, the mood I'm in, what I'm doing, who I'm with...all of these factors contribute to choosing my favourite anything.

When it comes to food, I have to explain that I'm the kind of cook that likes to throw things together, trusting to experience and good ingredients that the meal will be edible. Not working from a recipe per se, instead using an understanding and appreciation of food, hopefully leading to a good meal. Part of the reason that I'm not a fan of baking is because it is a science and precise measurements aren't in my nature. I think this also translates over to my thinking about music. The seeming randomness that I approach cooking is mirrored in my taste of music....if you looked at my Spotify play list you may scratch your head in wonder. I listen to most genres, save rap and twangy country music, and for me, there are no issues with Iron Maiden following Leonard Cohen following Talk Talk following Howard Jones. I suspect most people are like that, especially us old fogeys that have been around the block a few times.

This quote was lifted from an article in Rolling Stone I think, about the ageing of rock and roll...talk about going around the block.

We fall in love with the singers of our youth, 

and the best of them travel with us through life. 

True story. I still listen to Rush, U2, Genesis, Pink Floyd and so on....they are my go to artists. Whether driving down the highway air drumming to Xanadu or getting comfortably numb listening to Comfortably Numb, the music from my early teens forms the foundation of my life's soundtrack. Over the years layers have been added, coloured with forays into everything from classical music to folk to reggae to...well, just about anything really. I still love dropping the needle on some classic vinyl and listening through an entire album from time to time but am just as happy to let whatever algorithm is controlling Spotify to decide my next song from my play list...like a mixed tape that changes every time you play it. 

I think back in 2008 or 2009 I bought a used VW Golf. Great little car for my commute to the resort I was working at from the city. One night while driving home I was sliding a CD into the drive when my finger slipped down and landed into an opening on the face of the stereo...at first I was alarmed, what the hell happened to my stereo? But I quickly realized that my finger had slipped into a previously unknown tape deck in my 2005 golf, that opening unmistakable...I lost my shit with excitement driving along the 103 at 125 km/h. How I never realized that the tape deck was there is beyond understanding but I say better late than never.

To once again have those tapes I so cherish from my youth on the road with me had me leaping with joy...woooohooooooo The flood of memories associated with those tapes made my day...hell my month even. I used to make tapes called double shots...then and now songs from my favourite bands that showed progression and change. She Sells Sanctuary followed my Love Removal Machine. Minutes to Memories followed by Theo and Weird Henry. My "metal" tapes, the ubiquitous "best of" tapes and one simply called "Raaarrrrrrr" I was in seventh heaven on those twice a day long drives to and from work. 

I used to say that I'd rather be blind than deaf because at least I'd have my music to keep me company. I was of course quite a bit younger, so I don't really know what my answer would be now. Hard to make a living while blind. To see my kids faces. to gaze down from the Empire State Building, to see that sun rise...all very much harder to do when blinded. And living through being blind in one eye now isn't fun in the least, but the music.....sigh. Hopefully I won't ever need to choose or suffer the loss.

The golf is gone now so my tapes languish in a cupboard at home, waiting for the chance to come out for another ride. Racing down the shore, Run to the Hills blaring and knowing the next song will be Crazy Train...how appropriate. Soon I hope.

Ciao

D

Bent

This business of mine can be a literal meat grinder, as you know from reading and re-reading my posts. Weakness is not accepted and we expect a lot from everyone. Sacrifice, perfection, passion, blood, sweat and tears are the norm. And little thought is given to what we may be imposing on people and what the long term repercussions may be. But....the world is turning in someways and I think the things we went through when we first started out are no longer acceptable to the young ones coming into the business. Millennials or hipsters or whatever....they are changing the face of reality and in the end it is going to be incumbent on us older folk to adjust to this paradigm shift. But my opinion and my experience as an older guy is not without merit...my grey hair is a testament to being in the trenches....so maybe listen to what I have to say for a bit, it might help.

This article The Way It Is came across my field of vision and I was struck by a couple of things in it. I feel bad for this guy...not only is he going through some shit with his health, but his issues may be exacerbated by a greater issue...as I see it, his all consuming need to be all consumed. His obsession with bourbon, collection of specific guitars, meticulousness on the plate...they are all a reflection of his personality and I'm sure his success is partially achieved by these character traits, but holy hell Hannah, how is this healthy? Is his "mania" making his condition worse? I'm not a doctor so how the hell do I know but I can't imagine it being good for him.

The idea that you have to be mad to be a genius may very well be true and completely foreign to me personally. I have found, I think, a balance in my life. I have no burning desire to be the best of anything....I'm not committed to the idea that good enough is not good enough. It is good enough and besides I think my good enough is pretty darn good. On top of that, I have other things I am interested in. And sometimes I actually don't want to do a god damn thing. The mania surrounding knowing everything about something holds no interest for me. It's admirable in some ways that this guy knows as much as he does and I'm sure his food is very good....but so what? A case of being defined by what you do? I asked my daughter the other night what was the first thing she thought of when thinking of me and she said silly. I like that. I like that a lot. It works for me. While I identify as a chef it's not my whole life.

Far from me shooting someone else down for their desire to be viewed in a certain way, to each his own I say, but if I can make a comment...I do find that these "extreme" personalities are the ones that have difficulty with acceptance, with plurality. Like atheists that look down on you for being religious, they just can't accept differing points of view. I can just see this guy looking down his nose at you for ordering a Jack Daniels shot while in his presence. He wouldn't be able to help himself. What do you mean JD? What you want is a pouring of vintage hand drawn, free range cask aged, organic sour mash poured through a 75 year old pair of cotton skivvies to give you a true taste of the smokey goodness in your hand blown whiskey glass. Actually what I want is another shot and for you to shut the fuck up before I decide on having a rye rage right on your ass.

So this fine cook continues to live in a world of absolutes, where he will create 25 iterations of one dish to achieve "perfection". I know I'm not wired that way so I can't even imagine what it is like to be inside his head. Nor would I pay the kind of money this guy needs to have this all make sense. Sorry man. And by no stretch is this confined to the world of food but it does seem to be more prevalent as we Instagram our dinner and turn cooks into celebrities. I think it's crazy but there you have it.

I think back to the chefs that I have worked for....a crazy group of people to be sure but I don't recall the all consuming obsessive types. Maybe I steered away from them and gravitated towards people that more closely reflected my views...taking the whole picture approach and appreciating that there was life beyond those swinging doors and that stinking hot line. But again...maybe the industry has been fed for the past ten years by the cult of celebrity and the extreme personalities have been drawn in to this world. Whatever the reason, my generation of cooks do get a chuckle from the attention seeking celebrity wannabes and what they do to food for the sake of their "art". I'm sure Alinea in Chicago is quite good and I'm also sure that the people there take it way too serious for my liking. The desire to break bread with a friend, family or a lover is far more important than the food in front of me and whether or not it is locally sourced from the navels of virgins...get stuffed man. And don't get me started on tweezers and liquid nitrogen.

That is all for today my loyal readers...hello to the Philippines

Ciao
D

Dumb and dumber

Do you ever look at someone and wonder how the fuck are they still alive? Unsurprisingly I do it often and have been for a very long time. From my first job smashing up that sock factory to my current employ as executive chef at a hotel, a lot of people have crossed my path in that span of time, the memorable ones are so remembered for being good workers, good people, funny, did something crazy or lastly...because they were dumb as hell...a group of people that you find it almost hard to believe that they are still breathing.

This instalment revolves around the two years that I spent as caterer to a sailing club in Toronto with my partners Peter and Caesar. This was a sweetheart gig for a our little catering business, no rent and no costs outside of what we were selling and our cut of the profits. A little gem that fell into our laps a few weeks after actually establishing the business as a side thing to our full time jobs. Exciting times ahead.

The good ole TSCC (Toronto Sailing & Canoe Club) was a meat and potatoes kind of place. No high cuisine here, feed the masses a few times a week, keep it simple keep it cheap. Not having to worry about the reducing demi on the stove or the salmon curing in the fridge left ample opportunity for trouble seeking, tomfoolery and our normal slightly anarchist based outlook on life. Actually, it would not have mattered a bit if we did need to tend to those things...we still would have done what we did to amuse ourselves.

Our dynamic within the company was kind of unique and opened up all sorts of avenues for exploration. All three of us were quite liberal in our thinking so we would often be at odds with club members and employees who seemed to gravitate to the more traditional and conservative side of life. This set the table, so to speak, for daily run in with the club managers that were hired for summer jobs. Two years at the club and we saw two "managers" flow through the place and they were both so ridiculously stupid that one could imagine that they were caricatures of real people. Thing One was named Matt and Thing Two was Scott, and a more moronic pair of half wits you could not find...where did they advertise for these guys and were they seriously the cream of the crop.

Our dealings with any management, to be honest, were minimal. We didn't answer to these guys and we were given pretty much free reign to do right, which we mostly did. Staff parties aside...just saying. Naturally, conflict would arise when one of these mental midgets would try and expand his power base outside of making sure the garbage was being collected and the boats had gas in them. As one would expect, we would start off the new relationship well enough...cordial and professional, but it wouldn't take too long for it to devolve into something else entirely. My ex mother in law used to say "the devil never rests"...I like to think stupid never rests.

Matt, it seems had been drop kicked in the head one time too many at his weekly "Drop Kick Matt" parties. He had a way of looking at you when he spoke that almost instantaneously made you question if he was even present while standing in front of you...dazed and confused were only the beginning. Matt made an art of looking like he was contemplating the universe when what he was actually doing was procrastinating on the job. Often I would find him staring out towards the lake, one hand resting on a shovel or an oar, seemingly deep in thought. Once or twice, sure whatever man...five times a day....something is wrong here.

When the early hustle and bustle of getting the boats launched in the spring gave way to school letting out and sailing school running in full force is when one truly saw his legendary creepy persona come out. This mullet wearing neophyte manager seemed to have a liking for the young teen girls in the sailing classes. So, now we find Matt standing in the same pose but without his shirt...and his gaze aimed towards the small sailboats dotting the area with class attendees all around. Picture the white underbelly of a fish sporting a mullet and saggy jeans....eeeeewwwwwweeeeeee

So while the work at hand was piling up along with the complaints about him, Matt would try and look sexy for 13 year old girls. How he never got hit with an oar is beyond me. Our dealings with him gradually turned more toxic because he wouldn't follow through in the things that he needed to do. Kegs weren't ordered, supplies ran short for the bar, the place was never clean enough and so on. He began to dislike us quite a bit because we were, as he put it...foul mouthed cooks. Who? Us? Put your fucking shirt on ass hole....how dare you say I'm foul mouthed?

He was, in short, a piece of work. But compared to Thing Two, Scott...he was the cats meow of a manager. Sir Scott came to us the following spring and to his credit, he actually started out pretty well. He seemed to be interested in cleanliness, didn't seem to want to extend his empire over us and wasn't standing around holding shovels down from the effects of gravity. The honeymoon, however, was short lived. It didn't take too long to see how boneheaded this guy really was.

I personally saw him stick a screwdriver into a wall plug when investigating why a fridge in the bar wasn't running...instead of say, plugging the fridge back in. When one mops a floor one generally mops oneself out of the room, walking backwards to ensure you leave a clean floor in your wake. Scott seemed to like mopping in front of him while he walked forward over the just mopped floor...thus leaving a trail of foot prints across the room.

One morning he came in to work and trudged up to the bar and asked for a coffee. As he sat down one couldn't help but notice the two shiners he sported along with a swollen nose. The boy had been in a fight, which he admitted to, but not for a second did I believe his Ramboesque story that he tried to peddle that day. He was defending the honour of a young bar patron and two muscle heads attacked him from behind....but not before he managed to inflict a certain amount of his own damage on them. Right.....this guy was 98 lbs soaking wet and I'm pretty sure he was afraid of his own shadow. If I was a betting man I would have said he drank one too many beers, looked at a girl the wrong way, said the wrong thing and her boyfriend cold cocked him. When he got up he made the mistake of saying something else to them both and she cold cocked him for the final count out.

My favourite story of Thing Two involved little ole me. One afternoon the sailing school got itself into some trouble by going out in swells that were just a tad too high for the novice sailors to handle. We had a couple of boats flip over....and this is where the crash boat is supposed to come to the rescue. But Scott wasn't manning the crash boat he was eating a hot dog on the deck. I happened to be standing outside when the boats tumbled over. Uhmmmmm, Scott....shouldn't you be out there, you know...saving people or something. To his credit he didn't take another bite of his dog and sprinted towards the crash boat. He implored me to come along and help which I of course did, nothing like piloting a souped up dinghy. Suffice to say I didn't get to drive the boat, I was tasked with pulling out some frightened and wet kids out of the water, resplendent in my white chef jacket as I was. Now...I'm so sailor but I'm pretty sure that you want to keep the motor running in rough waters so as to maintain some semblance of control in the swells. Scott it would seem was no sailor either but he was stupid, so he cut the engine...and while we made our way towards the break wall under the power of the waves he tried to restart the motor...and was failing miserably. "Hey you dumb fuck...start the fucking motor before we get smashed on that wall. Why are you looking out behind you...the wall is front of us....holy shit get out of the way" He actually tried to stop me from starting the motor...not wanting to relinquish control of the thing. This lasted two seconds as I grabbed him by the scruff of the shirt and pulled him away from the motor...I should have thrown him into the lake but I wasn't thinking straight. The motor was restarted and off to the relative safety of the dock we went.

Once safely tied up the true absurdity started...the sailing school guys were yelling at each other and at Scott, the kids were crying, Peter had moseyed on over to say hi to me and was there just in the nick of time to stand between Scott and I when he approached me shouting some nonsense over how I couldn't do that to him and the board of directors were going to hear about this. I've mentioned that I have been told I have a look, Well...Peter told me that the look made an appearance right there on that dock and if it wasn't for his proximity to me Scott would have certainly ended up locked in the trunk of my car. In fact he could see that look from when I was on the boat and that is why he had come down to the dock from the safety of the kitchen. To save me from the justifiable homicide wrap I was going to get.

Scott was let go the next day. I'm sorry, if you fall for the "is Mike Hunt here" gag you deserve what happens to you, so nobody had any sympathy over his dismissal. He's lucky he wasn't thrown into jail...one of the members kids that I pulled out of the water had a cop for a father. Consider yourself lucky it was only getting fired.

I've said it before and I have no doubt I'll say it again....I can't fix stupid. But I will certainly get my stories from it.

Ciao
D

Schadenfreude

For those of you not familiar with one of my favourite words or phrases, right up there with go fuck yourself, schadenfreude means the following:

 "pleasure derived by someone from another person's misfortune"

It could be the ridiculous and slapstick, like watching someone getting hit in the head by bouncing a baseball off of a wooden board at a carnival game and hitting themselves in the head...not once but twice. Yes, you guessed it...that happened to me. And Dom had quite the laugh at my own expense and it has made it into my repertoire of self deprecating stories.

It could be more personally gratifying, likened to the Karma is a bitch school of thought when your ex ends up with a dick head douche bag and suddenly you don't seem so bad anymore. In case you're wondering...not a personal experience for me. I'm quite content to let bygones be bygones and move on with my life...I wish her and all nothing but happiness and peace.

I will admit that I have gotten a certain amount of pleasure watching certain people in my profession meet their comeuppance for being dicks in their own right. I work in a business for people by people and I do believe in treating people as I wish to be treated, so when I see others treat people like dirt or serfs....I have a special place in my own personal hell for them. Fuck them.

This post might seem a tad weird coming on the heels of my last post of love and all that jazz, further proving to you that my mind truly goes off in many directions and that I can tend to ramble on in semi coherence. But I'm thinking maybe that's the point for me...I'm saying exactly what I think. Fucking the filters and making sure I am not living my life with fear as the ruler. I have a perspective that I view the world through and since this is my blog I get to say what I want, when I want and for how long I want. Sometimes it's painful, sometimes it's funny, sometimes it only makes sense to me and sometimes it makes sense to others...but it is always me.

So if I take a little pleasure from someone else's pain I don't take offence to someone doing the same because of my pain. In the end, it really doesn't matter to me. Hell...I put my pain out there on full view. Case in point To all the girls I loved before If it makes you smile or laugh at me, fill your boots my friends, there is more where that came from.

The idea that there is a single word to encompass the Karmic principle as well as taking some guilty pleasure in watching someone fall down a flight of stairs could only be put in place by the Germans...they're so damn efficient that way. And while their language can sound like bull frogs mating while being run over by a horde of warthogs in heat it is still a pleasurable thing to hear and understand when used correctly. Perhaps later we can explore other languages and their words used for grand designs.

For now, explore the possibilities that schadenfreude can bring you. Taken in proper doses and with an understanding that there is more to life than laughing at other peoples pain. I think maybe it helps us to understand another concept we should all be aware of. The "there but for the grace of God go I" principle seems a worthy counterpoint to schadenfreude. Who knows?

The day is ending and so I must sign off.

Ciao

D

What is the universe trying to say....

Please go to this link and read this fellows story.... Christopher Mitchell Allen

What the hell did this guy do to deserve this kind of bad Karma from the universe? If you wrote this as a script for a movie nobody would buy it...not believable they would say. And you thought the guy in The Revenant was having a bad few days.

Yet, there he is, truly inspiring people with his never give up, the world loves you and I love you message. I truly don't know how I would respond to this kind of misfortune and bad luck but it certainly puts into perspective anything I may be going through or have gone through. Which leads me to some reflection. On Scott and Fifi losing Simon to leukaemia in 2014 and how they reacted. With grace, dignity and humour. Or Gord Downie and his last months being spent fighting for others. Time and time again we are reminded, if we allow ourselves to see, the true measure of humanity and its greatness. I'm awe struck with the indefatigable spirit of us as a whole.

Which brings me to my point...kind of. With the clouds of doom and the ugly spectre of a raft of isms bubbling to the surface with Drumph being elected, it becomes ever so important for men and women of hope and good to fight even harder to ensure that this isn't the end of it all. I know it won't be the end simply because I know that enough people will come forth to stand up to bullies, racists, homophobes and misogynists that we will get through this. The important thing to remember is that we need to stand up. Call him and his ilk out every time. Phrases like give him a chance or see what happens are nice for the papers and in the spirit of coming together but we should always remember who he is and who he is surrounding himself with. Simply put, apathy is not an option when it comes to the current state of affairs we find ourselves in. In fact, it never was, but this game changing development brings in to sharp focus what we really have to deal with.

And I truly hope we, Canada that is, don't wimp out because of the a new direction down south. It is an imperative to keep our leaders feet to the fire at all times...because we have a responsibility to and because that's the only way to ensure we get better. Get out and vote, be active, say what you think. Be plural.

Mr Allen has gotten up from the mat more times than one would think possible and while I'm sure he has his dark days he should be an inspiration to us all for his desire to help and improve other peoples lives. Choosing the light over the dark is a choice...what we do after that choice is how we end up defining ourselves. Like Gandalf telling Frodo, in the face of regret and pity over their dire predicament..

"So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. 
All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

What will we do? What will the world do? It's hard to imagine that anything one of us may say or do can make a difference but in a time of connectivity that we are living in now, surely we can muster the troops of goodness and responsibility to build a better response to the fear and hopelessness that the far right has cornered us into. To once again quote Monsieur Cohen...

"There is a crack in everything 

That's how the light gets in"

Reflecting over the total mess the world has fallen into in the past few weeks I am confident that the good side will triumph. Yes it sucks and yes it is depressing to think what this maniac will do and the damage he can cause but we the world need to take a deep breath and play the long game. We lost an inning or two....there's still time to win the game.

Ciao
D

Lovevolution

I unexpectedly found myself driving the streets of the city the other day on a couple of quick errands, always a joy during the traffic chaos that this tiny city offers up...especially around the bridge. Since I have mostly mastered my road rage, reducing it to venomous stares, universal shrugs of WTF and an occasional extended finger. This new found inner peace allows me to pay slightly more attention to what I am hearing on the radio, so when I'm not air drumming or singing my heart out I listen to the CBC most often.

And this day I was listening to the "Q" while navigating around and I caught the tail end of an interview that the host was doing with D'bi Young Anitafrika. I've never heard of her but Mr Google tells me she is an actor, playwright and dub poet. In the short time I was listening I was moved by her passion and her message. The message I think is more important than ever in light of the coming chaos and uncertainty that will goes like hand in glove with the ascendancy of one Mr Drumph.

In a week where he won the election and phrases like the House Committee on Un-American Activities are bandied about, Leonard Cohen passed away and the annual Remembrance Day ceremony took centre stage...maybe pulling back and truly thinking about the ways of the world is in order. Maybe we react too much instead of being proactive. I'm as guilty as the next person when it comes to throwing the mud at something I don't like, hell it's a pastime for a lot us. I seem to always come back to the idea that it starts with a change of direction....opening the clenched fist in an embrace of understanding and acceptance. She talked of a lovevolution...a revolution of love, using mentoring as a vehicle of spreading positive ideals...check out the segment and feel her passion D'bi Young Anitafrika on "Q"  You get high marks in my book when you are connected to Stephen Lewis and his foundation.

It's never going to be easy but now, especially now, we need to come together...throw off the fear and hate and use the message of hope and love as our starting point. While the darkness seems to be overwhelming, take solace in the words of Leonard Cohen...

There is a crack in everything.

That's how the light gets in

Peace and love my friends

And on that note....

How appropriate that today is the anniversary of Kristallnacht, the coming out party for Adolph and his goosestepping brown shirts. Today we awoke to the stunning news that Drumph had won...against the odds, against the polls and pollsters and against better judgement. He is the President Elect...excuse me while I puke.

I'm not an expert on the political landscape and so it would seem can be said of every "expert" trotted out over the past year and a half of non stop electioneering, but I can't for the life of me see how this was possible from a country that had voted in Barack Obama, twice. What I can say is that no one, not one single person knows what will happen now. Anyone that says they know are just trying to get their fifteen minutes. With the trifecta of a Republican Congress and Senate alongside his Presidency, anything is possible...nothing will surprise me anymore but I suspect there will be much to worry and wring our hands over. Every Thursday could turn out to be Tuna Thursday, where he and his cabinet ride 300lb yellow fins down the Potomac or we could see images of internment camps full of "undesirables". Nothing is off the table.

I get that there is a large portion of the population that feels disenfranchised, left behind and angry...and these people just voted with their feet and have raised to the top post in the land, a man that, I think, pays lip service to the people that just voted him in. Well, now The Donald will have to deliver to his supporters...good luck I say as more than likely he will be in it for him. And if I'm wrong and he defies his image and actually does good, I'll be the first to say it...I was wrong. But I'm betting on somewhere in between Tuna Thursday and Armageddon.

Trumpsters collectively felt short changed, marginalized and lost at sea. The establishment ignored them at their own peril and a valuable lesson has been learned...and now we have to get used to the idea of a President with a pocketbook agenda. It's almost hard to believe that he won't be mired in scandal after scandal but the damage he will wreak in the meantime will be profound. The Supreme Court is not a plaything and this orange clown will get to name at least one justice. The steps forward to a progressive society may well be set back to the 50's. Nobody knows, and that's the scary part right now.

George Carlin called it though, "never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups" Clinton must be devastated, Obama probably needs a stiff drink right about now at the thought of what this maniac may do to his work over the past eight years. His remaining days in office will be a dark cloud of doubt and fear. The people have spoken and one thinks they probably got what they deserved...since this is what they asked for, voted for. America just said "hold on to my drink, I want to try something."

The rights of women, minorities, the LGBTQ community and a whole host of others have a right to feel nervous and scared,he has provided plenty of fodder for this feeling. One hopes against hope that cooler heads will prevail in the months to come.

My Drumph rants will fade away from here for awhile I think...I'm tired of it all and especially of thinking of him. I didn't sleep well at all last night, like much of the world I suspect, and I just want to turn my attention elsewhere. Good luck America, and to the rest of the world...have hope, maybe he will surprise yet again.

Ciao
D

On the edge of a cliff

Finally the carnage is just about done. It's almost hard to believe but the election cycle from hell comes to a close tomorrow. Billions of dollars, words and eye rolls have brought us all to this place...staring into the abyss, hoping for the best but not believing it until the final declaration is made.

Despite the ludicrous nature of this entire process and the unlikely ascendancy of one Mr Drumph, Hilary Clinton should be elected as first female President of the Untied States. Knock on wood, because anything can and probably will happen. Drumph's refusal to acknowledge her as the victor aside, we should wake up on Wednesday to the coming new reality. A despondent and fractured Republican Congress, a possible Democratic Senate and a rather reviled Democrat President. Can you say grid lock and insanity? Well...say it, because that's pretty much what we're getting. And while that is infinitely better than the alternative of a Drumph presidency, it ain't gonna be a picnic for Madame President. Picture what Obama went through over the past eight years times ten...and that will be the real tragedy of electing her, the white boys club that will do whatever it can to avoid anything resembling governing in the interest of posturing and demagoguery.

If there is a God he would wipe out the Republicans, not in the biblical sense, but electorally. I think only then could one hope that they rebuild the common sense party into just that, as opposed to what the tea baggers and bible thumpers have hijacked the conservative arm of the country in to. The US, like Canada, is actually pretty evenly divided with liberals and conservatives but the far right, with God on their side, are yelling too loud for the moderates to be heard. Time to hit reset I think.

First a black President, now a woman. Nice, but I'll be truly amazed when an atheist transgender Muslim is elected with a Congress that reflects the actual make up of the country. Now that would be the highest glass ceiling don't you think?

In any event, I think I speak for many when I say, Mr Drumph, we hope to never hear your stupid voice, see your stupid face and hair and have to ponder the hatred and fear that you spout. Go back to that gilded cage you built and try launching another reality show or something. Fuck you!

Debt of Honour

When thinking about the upcoming Remembrance Day ceremonies and what I wanted to say about it, I found myself casting about a bit for some sort of relevance. A story that I can relate as to why Remembrance Day is meaningful to me, a connection beyond the simple fact that I do hold the day as sacred, maybe more so than any other "stat" day that is graciously bestowed upon us by the powers that be. But I don't...I don't have a grandfather that fought and died for our country in World War Two or a distant uncle or cousin that lost his life in Korea or Afghanistan. That lack of a tangible and specific connection to the horrors of war does not diminish the incredible amount of respect and gratitude I have for the people that have chosen to make sacrifices for our nation. Whatever their reasons for enlisting were, be it a sense of duty, patriotic fervour or simply for a way forward, these men and women put themselves in harms way for us and I think they deserve every possible measure of our respect. 

I try to imagine what it must have been like, taking a boy of my sons age and placing him in one of the hundreds of landing craft making that journey across the channel to the beaches of Normandy. All of 18 years old, knowing that the chances of survival were small, that death was near...the vision is unsettling, the reality must have been terrifying. The opening scene of Saving Private Ryan was supposed to have come close to depicting the horror of those first few hours...I'm sure it was worse, exponentially so.

I think it's easy to romanticize the idea of going to war to fight tyranny and evil personified in Hitler; to fight the good fight if you will, but reality strikes like a thousand knives when you are faced with the inescapable laws of physics. Bone and muscle are no match for fire and metal. And in that moment, when the realization comes that you may not get out of that fox hole alive is when, I think, the most heroic of all things happen...you move forward anyway. That's how Hitler was beaten, the sacrifice of many to stop an "ism" Getting up, despite the fear, together with your brothers in arms, and fighting for every foot of dirt.

Land and sea strewn with the wreckage of humanity, and lost amongst the carnage and totality of war is the warrior returning home to fight again. All too often suffering in silence, living with the memories, the severe shock to the psyche. We owe a debt of honour to all of these people, every last one of them, to help and support them. Always and forever.

Spare more than a moment, look around at the unbelievable amount of freedom that we take for granted. See how blessed we are when you consider the suffering at the hands of modern day Hitler's around the world....this freedom was guaranteed and won through sacrifice and through blood. Honour that unwritten covenant with those that died.

We will remember them

The Game

I had the privelege of seeing Lennie Gallant this past weekend with good friends. A small perfect setting in Chester for a superb singer song writer, the man tells a good story through song. He played a song he had written to celebrate hockey in Canada, called Has Anyone Seen My Skates and as he strummed along and painted his picture I was brought back to this point in my life...probably hidden from my companions, I teared up a bit thinking of this. Once again proving that bond between music, words and emotions...here is what I "wrote" while he sung away...

There was, when I was growing up, a ritual for young boys growing up in suburban Toronto that was as certain as the coming winter, an absolute really, that you adhered to no matter the consequences. It revolved around the most Canadian of all Canadian things, hockey of course. You followed it, you played it, you lived and breathed it…it was sewn into the very fiber of your being. Even for me, despite not being born here, I was pulled by the tradition around me and the mania that surrounded the start of the season. There was no avoiding it.

In the later 70’s and early 80’s, for me and my mates, you were either a Leafs or a Habs fan, there was no other choice. Hockey cards were treasured bargaining chips and testaments of allegiances and persona. When your cards were pulled out of your too full pockets, the card on top was your calling card, marking you as if you had been branded by your chosen team. For me, let us say that I bleed Blue and White.

With this background it was no surprise that I wanted to play hockey. I pleaded with my parents to put me in hockey. As a way to follow my ‘passion’, as a way of fitting in with my friends and in the end, as a way of being Canadian. Whether you were new to the country or a fifth generation Upper Canadian you had to play hockey. It mattered not that I could barely skate and hadn’t played anything organized outside of pickup games of ball hockey. Nor that I had nothing outside of skates and a stick to call my own…I wanted, I needed to play. They had to understand.

What I didn’t understand though was what kind of position I was putting them into. How could they afford this extravagance? How were they supposed to make any sense of this stupid game? Barely in the country for ten years, accents as thick as bramble and their English not even a second language, third at best. I was ten years old and I had no concept of anything that they might have been going through, I simply wanted to play hockey.

Somehow they made it work. Resplendent with new equipment from Canadian Tire, not really certain how or where any of it went I showed up for tryouts. I assumed my combination of ball and foot hockey skills as well as plenty of Saturday Night Hockey games on TV would carry me forward just fine. I had this. Hell, I was going to make the Rep team. A first for a kid with zero experience playing on the ice, I was going right to the top tier, with the accompanying maroon and gold jackets. If team coaches picked teams the way we did while playing a game of pick up, trading back and forth from best to worst, I would have been near the bottom and grudgingly taken with a sigh. It was obvious I didn’t belong, not owning a hockey sweater I did my tryouts in a sweater that would have won honourable mention in a ugly sweater contest stretched over my shoulder pads. I was playing house league

Looking back what becomes apparent is that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. We were working poor working towards working middle class. Recent new comers to the country with factory jobs, no support and nothing to fall back on, my parents did as so many before and after had done…uprooted their lives in search of a better life for us all. Can you imagine showing up the shores of a new country, babe in arms, not speaking the language and making a go of it? It must have been terrifying.

Fast forward one year and my second season is just a few games into the schedule. We had won the league championship the year before and now I was a seasoned veteran, meaning that I could actually hold my own from time to time. When not tripping over the blue line I managed to play some decent defense…the poke check was my best friend. I hadn’t scored a goal but that was OK, I would have thought myself as the old school stay at home defenseman…Bobby Orr could take the glory. I was quite happy, even with the 6:00 AM outdoor practices. On this particular game night, as usual, my dad was driving me to the game and as usual I was already half dressed in shin pads, socks and hockey pants as we made the short trip to the arena. All I needed to do when I arrived was to throw on my upper body padding and lace up my skates. I was ready and excited. We pulled into the darkened lot at Albion Arena, dad got out of the car to retrieve my gear and in a momentary lapse of attention he left the key in the ignition…and then locked the door behind him. There we were, staring at each other with the car running, doors locked and my bag locked in the cavernous trunk of that ’77 Chevy Nova.

As I was running down Albion Road for home, half dressed in my gear, I was thinking how this exertion was going to affect my game. Which was probably good because if I was thinking about the darkened streets and dodgy neighbourhoods I was going to pass through to get home…two kilometers away, I might have taken a longer safer path. If I made it through alive I still had to play a 45 minute game. I reached my door knocking wildly to be let in. Probably from the lack of oxygen and extra exertion I simply grabbed the spare keys and started running again after a brief explanation to my mom…I got to get going!! It didn’t cross my mind to have her drive me back to the arena in our second car, the venerable Chevy Vega. Like Forrest Gump, I simply started running.

I can truly imagine trumpets blaring as I rounded into the parking area, striving those last few steps as I gave over the keys to my dad. Doubled over trying to catch my breath it dawned on me that we should have simply called my mom to bring us the keys from the payphone inside the front doors of the rink in the first place. Oh well, the ice awaits.

I asked my coach to sit me for a couple of shifts to let me get some energy back and in those few moments I lost track of the game. Something had gotten my attention, my dad sitting in the stands had grabbed my gaze and I watched him. Quietly sitting there on the bleachers, trying to follow the game, I came to see something different. For the first time I thought of what it must be like for him, the sacrifices he was making to simply just watch the game. All of eleven years old, I was only scratching the surface of those thoughts. I knew he hated hockey, it wasn’t his thing. How could it be? Growing up in war torn cobbled together Yugoslavia, he was far removed from the world of Salming and LaFleur. But there he was…my hockey dad.

Now, 38 years later, I have a deeper and much more profound understanding. Like Joni’s reinterpretation of Both Sides Now, there is more depth and more context to appreciate what I had seen. He wasn’t a “hockey dad” in the traditional way. Not because he didn’t want to be there for me and cheer me on, but because he did it despite the obstacles in his way. When I wasn’t on the ice did his mind wander off as my mind did when my kids played basketball. Sitting there was he thinking about how much gas was wasted while I did my Chariots of Fire run? How tired he must have been at 8:30 at night, working overtime whenever he could and putting in 50 and 60 hour weeks. Instead of being at home resting he was watching me play this stupid game. Speaking to no one because maybe he was self conscious of his accent and his education. The fear of standing out can be a strong motivator. How did he end up here? Was he thinking of his family back home? I bet he was. How could he not after all? Missing the language that he grew up with, his mother and brother still toiling away scratching a living out of the dirt back home. How hard it must have been for both of my parents.

In my short two year hockey career I never had a better night than that night. I scored a goal, my only goal, and added two assists. This was my silent dedication to the guy sitting alone in the crowd, huddled against the chill of the arena, watching but maybe not seeing a game he didn’t love. My sprint through the wilds of Etobicoke were small compared to what my parents had sacrificed so I could play that game. He embodies what I believe fatherhood stands for, in his way a quiet humbleness, content in knowing that he was doing his very best but always driven to do better.

Ciao

D