Culinary 101

The two years spent in culinary school whizzed by so quickly that it seems like a blur looking back. I learned so much, a seemingly exponential growth in what I was being exposed to and learning to do. I really do think the curriculum was set up well enough that each day was spent learning based on the previous days lesson. Took to it like fish to water I did.

Of course, throwing together a bunch of wannabe chefs, youth and hormones made for an interesting dynamic...OK, organised chaos could reign supreme and often did. What was interesting was how each class manifested its own version of insanity. Into the world of chefs we go.....

Patisserie class was over seen by an Irish chef named Michael. Pound for pound probably the most skilled chef I have had the pleasure to learn from and work with. He was a master pastry arts aficionado but he also knew every other end of the kitchen, having worked his way through all departments...with the scars and stories to prove it. This background was probably the reason he wasn't the typical neurotic "artiste" type pastry chef that you run into. He was simply skilled at what he did and left the pretentiousness aside, thank god, because that might have driven me away from the business....being surrounded by prima donnas would have killed my spirit. Chef Mike was someone that commanded respect from the moment you walked into the class, he didn't come across as someone to trifle with lest he rip your arm off and beat you to death with it. Unlike the other Irish Chef on staff that first year, Bobby, who threatened to do just that except he was 5 foot nothing and good have been pushed over with a stiff breeze. That and the fact that people who have to threaten you usually can't delver on the goods. But I digress....more on Chef Bobby later.

Back to patisserie, the class was about both technique and production. For a pastry department to be able to carry its own weight it has to be able to produce every possible morsel of food that can be used in the kitchen...breads, pastries, desserts, savouries and so on. And in massive quantities to feed the hordes....a tough business to be in since year by year that end of the kitchen disappears to pre-made and out sourced products done cheaper than you can do it yourself. Chef taught us how to make fifty cheesecakes at a time, hundreds of petit fours and a multitude of tortes, flans and pastries. He was no nonsense but he was very warm and funny as hell, you just never knew which way he would go at any given time. He expected perfection when it came to work ethic and cleanliness, so if you worked like a slob or failed to clean up properly once done, you could expect a drenching of hot soapy water on your work station, which meant at least another half hour to clean up the sudsy mess. All this happening with every other student watching you and praying their station was up to snuff. For my final exam in year one I had to prepare a Gateau St Honore, a fruit flan and Chantilly cream. My gateau was beautiful, the flan perfect and the cream made him spit out and rinse his mouth....rookie mistake of pouring the vanilla over the bowl and it spilled into the cream...gross. I can still see his face....I was both mortified and laughing at his reaction. Lesson learned though.

The respect for Chef Mike truly came down to the wealth of knowledge he had and his work ethic, not to mention how quick he was on his feet. His sarcastic and caustic responses were epic to me...while I thought I had some chops coming into school I learned whole new levels there...coming to where I am today. Experience and a dash of wisdom mean a lot in that world and I learned from the best. His willingness to pass on knowledge was what really endeared him to us all. In our final semester in our main class, cooking for the Humber Room restaurant, we were tasked with being chef of the week. Plan and execute a service from beginning to end, all costings, menu planning, work schedules, themes and everything in between. It was both daunting and exhilarating....I loved it. This last semester and this class in particular made me as a chef with my classmates. Not only for my night but for others as well. I was the go to guy along with my buddy Steve. We just seemed to be on a new level for the team....the hardest jobs or the ones requiring the most attention were passed to us by default. Our other cohort Caesar always ended up in pastries because that was where he excelled while Steve and I took the mains. What was also happening is that just the same as I would go to Chef Mike for advice or to pick his brain, other students were coming to me for the same. One of my classmates wanted to do something table-side for his French night, the idea being that you increased the guests pleasure experience with something interactive. He couldn't come up with anything that worked on his menu, so he asked me for advice. He had chosen a lobster bisque for his appetiser and that to me was the only way to go. Bring the soup out on a table side cart, ladle it into your bowl, and then set a spoon of cognac on fire and pour it in from high above, falling flames sort of thing. Awesome!!

When my night came I could point to a number of things that Chef Mike had suggested that I used wholeheartedly. What the hell did I know about Swiss food after all, and he had worked in Switzerland for three years...Zuckerkirhe torte and rösti potatoes to go along with Veal Zurichoise. Without sounding like a brag, my night was epic. Everything worked, even the minor disaster when someone screwed the soup up. I had planned the night well, took students out of their comfort zone and moved them around and according to class surveys, easily the best night of the year to that point. My only negative comment from a former girlfriend in class...I swore too much. Fuck that shit, I don't swear to fucking much...seriously? Fuck! It was a good night...and I paid my respect to Chef Mike with a bottle of Irish Whiskey...it says a lot when I didn't go to the Austrian or German chefs for advice on my Swiss night, I went to the Irish guy. In many ways I have styled myself like him...I supposedly have a death chef stare that generally puts people in line, I am generally respected and I am very approachable. I think I'm more fun than Chef Mike but I may be biased.

A true teacher teaches you more than just what is listed on the curriculum and Chef Mike certainly did. The skills he showed us paled in comparison to the "being a chef" skills we needed. Those of us that picked up on those not so subtle lessons are the ones still involved in the business 25 years later. He was an all around chef instead of being good at only one aspect of the field. By example he showed us work ethic, respect for ingredients and respect for the profession. And he spit out my Chantilly cream...just saying.

Bravo Chef Mike...as a mentor you will always be remembered fondly.

Ciao
D

Big brother

The moment is still clear in my mind. I was 21 years old, working out at a gym and in between sets of arm curls I made the decision that being a Big Brother was going to be something I wanted to do. Usually there was a music soundtrack playing at the gym, and if there was a certain guy present it was always INXS...too funny watching this guy preening across the gym to Mystify every other day, but this day it was the radio and there was a commercial for Big Brothers  and so it began. Whatever the reason, be it having a sister as my only sibling, a sense of loneliness at not dating anyone at the time or because I wanted to do something altruistic...I felt I needed to do this.

The call was made, forms filled out, interviews held and finally I was matched with little Christian, all of eight years old and cooler than cool can be. At 22 I really had no clue what I was doing, barely able to take care of myself, and I was now responsible for this kid once a week or every two weeks for a few hours at a time. His single mom wanted a positive male role model because as it was, dad had run off and the neighbourhood offered little in way of what she thought he needed...which happened to be true. I recall her telling me later on that Christian really liked spending time with me despite the fact I was the strictest person he knew. Yes, I said put that seat belt on or we're not moving...real strict. When we burp out loud like that we must say excuse me....true story.

Initially we did what you would expect, we went to the movies...cowabunga dude, the turtles were out then. We didn't have to talk much and who doesn't like skateboarding turtles? Right? But I quickly realised that I didn't just want to be his baby sitter for a few hours every week...I wanted to show him things that maybe he wouldn't have seen...or maybe would never see. The idea of teaching has always been close to my heart so I started doing a few things that would hopefully open up the world to him a bit. While still having the kind of fun we were having...and it was fun.

We did a day trip to downtown Toronto one Saturday. taking the train in and pointing out places in the city that he didn't know about. Union station can be a grand place through the eyes of an eight year old...hell, I still find it special. The highlight was the CN Tower, the aforementioned out loud belching incident happened while in line for the elevator....he let loose a terrific belch and was instantly embarrassed, to alleviate that, I followed suit and got through to letter 'F"...and than I excused my self and asked him to remember to do that as well when he burped the latest hip hop song he was into. 

High above the city, perspective changes and you could see the wonderment in his eyes as we spied different landmarks and neighbourhoods....the ant like people below. My trip to New York provided this same wonderment as I gazed down from the Empire State building. A million people with a million stories...and the damn cars! He was truly excited to be up there.

Knowing me as you do, you could be sure that there would be foolishness to be had that went beyond synchronised burping. I took him to the golf club I was working at for some drives on the range, putting practice and a ride in a dumb waiter to scare the living bejesus out of a bartender. Cooks like to full around but sometimes you simply can't fit into an elevator designed for food orders to be delivered to the bar upstairs. And while putting live lobsters in the lift were always good for a laugh, sending up a little kid was more so....poor old Lena screamed and you could hear her from the kitchen downstairs. Thank god it wasn't Henry up there, the half deaf old curmudgeon that worked up there sometimes....we had an intercom that we would use to let the bartender know there was food in the elevator, I called up once to let Henry know that his steaks were in the lift, he buzzed back, I don't make fucking mistakes, you god damn cooks make all the mistakes.....uhhmmmmm, try and imagine him opening the door to the lift and finding a little black kid.

I introduced Christian to my family and he came over for BBQ's and meals. We had a large backyard with a few cherry trees in it that were great for climbing....and it would seem, great for picking off people with cherries from high above. Water fights and snowball fights...a little like reliving my youth really. 

Eventually I met my ex wife and naturally I introduced the two of them to each other. He never said how he felt about her but I suspect he wasn't a fan...as my time was being monopolised, between work and her, I was slowly starting to see him less. It's easier to blame a person then a job even thought the job was what was really keeping me busy. When we were approaching our wedding I had to break the news to him that we weren't going to be spending time together as I had plans to move to Nova Scotia...easing my way into it months ahead of time. That kind of sucked to be honest...I liked being involved in his life. It felt as if I made a difference to him.

After we moved out east I lost touch with him, but never forgot him. The time spent with him helped me...prepared me in some ways for fatherhood. I'm pretty much the same way with my kids now as I was with him. Have fun, learn and grow and be yourself...and see how many grapes you can fit in your mouth. I hope he's doing well, still wears a seat belt and excuses himself after bodily functions...and remembers me as a good guy in his life. I almost googled Big Brothers here in Halifax....but stopped myself. I'm not in that place right now and somewhere down the line grand kids will be in the picture....not now please, but I am looking forward to that.

Ciao

D

To all the girls I've loved before

If you've read some of my posts you may have come to the conclusion that I might not be right in the head, or at the very least need to see a therapist. I can assure you I do not and I'm fine...just doing my thing in my way eh. The lens I view the world through provides ample opportunity for both commentary and absurdity, the absurdity often related to what I have done. Specifically what I have done because of my....errrrrr, shall we say flirtatiousness and that terrible affliction known as "heart on sleeveits", not to be confused with diverticulitis. You've read about me singing in a choir in grade three...because of a girl....here are a few more stories to have you reaching for an intervention group to call.

As far back as I can remember I have always liked girls. I remember the name of my first crush in grade two, I probably had earlier crushes but I can't remember their names so grade two it is. Tammy Burden was her name, blond hair, blue eyes and a smile as wide as the sky. I never understood how you could not love girls as little boys. They weren't gross, they were awesome...and still are.

As I mentioned, this was grade two and I went to a school called Yorkwoods Gate Public School. Located very near Jane and Finch in Toronto, yes that Jane and Finch, with danger lurking around every corner my parents moved out of there as soon as they could afford to...which of course is what we did every few years. We may have been on the Jane and Finch turf but we seemed to be cordoned off from the gun violence; starting at our school, maybe two kilometres in any way was considered safe and off limits to the drug dealers and turds that made their living off of other peoples misery.

I remember this school as having a dentist on site, all school supplies were provided for...remember the markers you couldn't sniff enough of? Tether ball games and in the winter a hockey rink. There were places to explore, things to climb and fall off of and hockey games everywhere. We lived in a townhouse complex on the outer ring, our small backyard facing other backyards that led into the centre and was an off limits area for me. It was generally understood that you didn't go in there as a young kid, lest you see something you really didn't need to see. So my time was spent out front on a green area in front of our homes before the street. We played football, foot hockey and war. We built snow tunnels and forts in the winter and had water fights in the summer...it was great. And then there was Tammy, who moved into an apartment building down a bit and on the other side of the street. She was in my grade and I still have those hilarious school photos if you want to see her. I probably had a crush on her from the first moment I saw her...captivated by her eyes and big ears popping out from under her long blond hair...ahhhhh, puppy love. As often happens I have no idea how I started hanging out with her but it happened and I was happy as could be about it.

My best friend at the time was a tall Japanese kid named Ken, actually his mom used to baby sit my sister and I. A great family, very warm and funny...I remember calling her "Ken mother" because I couldn't say her name, Okizawa. Ken and I would walk home and Tammy and her friend Dawn would walk with us. Splitting off when we reached our destinations. Sometimes we would find a bench to sit around, delaying our return home for a few minutes, talking about I don't even know what. In the winter was when we really delved into relationship building, by playing king of the mountain on a large snow and ice hill lovingly built by city workers. Boys against girls and let the best team win.....yeah, we pushed the girls off the hill, thankfully not into the street too many times. If hitting is a way of showing you like someone then she really must have loved me as much as I loved her...we were tossing each other off that mini mountain with abandon. I would regularly get in trouble for getting home late because the mountain top was where I was instead of at home with my sister and Ken mother.

In what would become my MO in later life I went for a grand gesture to show Tammy that I was pledging my heart to her. The hill battles were fun and all but I wanted to show her that I liked her for her and not just her goat like climbing ability. How an idea pops into my head one second and comes to fruition in another is beyond me, but in a split second I devised and executed a plan that would certainly show her how much I cared for her. I would sacrifice my place atop the mountain for her...but first I had to dispose of all others. First I pushed Ken from behind right off the top..he landed a few feet away in a heap. Then I turned to Dawn and shoved her off the edge...as she slid to the bottom cursing me and beginning to cry I sensed that maybe this wasn't working as I had anticipated...but once you're in, you're in. As I turned to Tammy, planning to jump off leaving her the queen she was looking at me with mixture of disgust and horror...uh oh. Before I could say anything in way of explanation, she jumped off to attend to her fallen comrade. Leaving me the king of the mountain, high above but with no power. Smack! Ken had good aim with that snowball, right in the face. And sure enough, Dawn and Tammy joined in, pelting me with snowballs as way of forcing my abdication. In retrospect that response was what was needed to salvage the status quo from abject failure, my punishment for trying to claim the whole hill in their eyes....no one suspected my real motives and until right now nobody ever knew why I did what I did.

Grade three and most of grade four I was gaga over the choir girl and than we moved....clear across to the confines of sultry, sexy, utilitarian Etobicoke. Starting at a new school with a few months left of grade four and then into grade five in St. Dorothy's Catholic School was a shock to my system. French? Didn't speak a word of it. Religion classes and saying prayers in the morning along with the national anthem...weird man. And the stupid portable cluster that I had most of my classes in from grade five to grade seven....stupid school. But there was Angela Meisner...almost a twin to Tammy with her long blond hair and blue eyes. We were in the same class the whole of my time at St. Dorothy's and we spoke a little, but I never seemed to be able to find my groove with her...maybe I was to busy dodging switch blades and we didn't walk home the same way. I do remember riding my bike in her neighbourhood, the early glimpses of a stalker I guess, and talking to her when I saw her, but still no in. Until the end of grade five I think.

The glorious last day of school, truly the best day of the year. Water balloon fights, food and MacDonald's orange drink to give you a sugar rush, as if that was needed. Chaos reigned supreme and literally we ran rampant. It was there, in the dying moments of our hopped up water balloon battle that I made connection with Angela. She had worn a pretty dress on the last day of school, probably forced on her by her parents, but it was also a useful shield against the carnage going on around her. She was still dry....and I needed to show her how much I liked her by hitting her somehow. Again, plan formulated I went in for the kill, surely my smashing her in the head with a water balloon would show her how much I cared for her...right? Uh oh...she turned around at the last moment and threw up her hands in defence...."please don't, my dress" she pleaded. Beauty killed the beast...I stopped dead in my tracks, arm at the ready and jaw gaping I am sure. Conundrum time...let loose the projectile and one of two things happen, she falls for me or she hates my living guts for soaking her and her pretty dress. As I debated this dilemma my hesitation caused me to lose focus and thus my edge...I was pummelled by three or four balloons that I didn't see coming from behind and on my flanks. As everyone was having a good laugh, in my sheepish way I turned to her with an ironic grin about to say something poetic and profound, she nailed me in the face with a big yellow balloon...sadly the colour of friendship. Why no red balloon???

Fast forward to grade twelve, Don Bosco Catholic High School. 1100 students, hormones and kilts abound and the church watching over us as best they could. Of course they failed miserably..all manner of rambunctiousness was around...sex drugs and rock n' roll man. Throw in copious amounts of beer and whiskey and you have the makings of the Fast Times at Ridgemount High. I had crushes and mini crushes everywhere and in every year...man it's hard on the head sometimes, actually...still is...sigh. You would think after living through that whole Danny/Connie episode I would just hold back and chill. Rest my mind and heart....but no....

"What is illness to the body of our knight errant? What matter wounds? For each time he falls, he shall rise again. Woe to the wicked.
Sancho, my armor, my sword!"

Yep....I'm pretty dumb. 

Laurie Murray, not to be confused with Laurie Murphy, someone else I was in love with, came to our school part way through grade twelve. And you can probably guess that she had long blonde hair and blue eyes, which by the way, is so not my type now...just saying. She was a year older than I and totally out of my league...I mean, if Brad Pitt was in our school he would be out of her league. Not only beautiful, but smart as a whip. But wait, there was more...something behind those eyes. Not so deep if you looked closely, but right behind those eye lids laid bare was a deep soul and heart in healing. Like every other guy in school, we saw, we admired, we day dreamed and we came back to reality pretty quickly. Except, I did what I usually did...I became friends with her. It seems we shared the same bus to school, so there on the good old TTC her and I would share a few minutes every morning as friends. And if we managed to catch a few minutes, say in the cafeteria, I would get the stares from my friends followed by the 20 questions. For better or worse, we remained friends only in the brief time until she graduated. There was no time for the grand gesture and really no point, as it turns out she was dating a guy named Sam. And guess who got to hear about all their problems on the bus ride in? Yep. Oh well...I'm OK with that role in my life, big ears and big shoulders have served me well in my life and in no small part all those therapy sessions have helped me to be a better parent to my daughters.

Now Laurie Murphy was an entirely different story. Not that anything ended up happening other than friendship, but she was a totally different story. We worked together at the good ole Golden Griddle. My friend Dom was in love with her friend Shawna and I was gaga over Laurie. But while Dom had no illusions of friendship and no real chance with Shawna as it turned out, Laurie and I became great friends. Which made for a great deal of pain watching her date this ass hole named Tim, even her friends disliked Tim and I had a visceral dislike of him. He was poo. While I would go along with Laurie as she tried on prom dresses and we hung around, Tim was busy cultivating his douche bag persona...and all this culminated on a suburban street in wasteland Mississauga. Someone was having a house party and a few of us from work went out there for an adventure. There may have been a drink or 18 consumed and as luck would have it the party became an outdoor event for a little while. I knew Laurie and I would remain strictly friends and that was OK, but it should be known I am pretty protective of my friends. So it should have come as no surprise when I flew into a blind rage at the suggestion that Tim had slapped Laurie in the face. My back was turned and we were a few lawns away when Dom gasped and told us what had just happened in his field of view. I turned to see Laurie holding her face and a look of anger on Tim's shoe face. I snapped. Before I knew what I was doing I was running full force in his direction....not knowing what I was about to do, but most likely using my body as a battering ram. It should be noted that Tim could have kicked my ass any day of the week, I'm not the fighter, I'm the other guy, but I didn't care..hell I didn't even think of that. I just wanted to see his blood outside of his body. Dom, being both pragmatic and sober tackled me from behind before I got too close. And then the other girl that was with us sat on top of both of us as a way of keeping me down. Dom I'm sure would have enjoyed that a little more if I wasn't involved, he had a thing for this girl.

In any event, a momentary lapse of reason was followed by a pause for thought and a couple of hundred pounds on my back...so I wasn't going anywhere. But the verbal assault from the grass was in full force...I think I might have even swore a little, who knew eh? As per usual, the crowd did what the crowd did best...dispersed anger and people. It was over before most people knew what had happened and I was ushered into a car to drive away home....my rant in the car was epic as far as remember. Don't fuck with my friends...

And there you have it, a few tid bits of insanity coupled with the complete lack of fear over looking like a complete fool...without knowing it Epictetus was my sage, my guru, my better angel whispering in my ear. Thank you my friend.

Bueller...Bueller...Bueller

Sometimes it feels just so easy to throw rocks and shake my fist at the collective stupidity of people, you know the ones I mean, racists, fascists, misogynists, Trump supporters and their ilk. Can Trumpists be a word? Or Trumpism? Ferris Bueller was right, don't believe in "ism's", believe in yourself. And after that, if you find people that share your ideals and allow you to be yourself while returning the favour, well...you're gold. Stay gold Ponyboy...stay gold

I watched a video of Penn Jillete talking about libertarianism recently. At first I found it interesting and a little funny, the reasoned declaration coming, literally, from a clown. I mean seriously, he is a clown, he went to clown school...but then I listened to his words and felt his passion. It was quite impressive and he makes some excellent points which led me to a bigger question for myself...why was I going to dismiss this 'clown' outright? Is he not allowed to voice his opinion? As it turns out it was a logical and thoughtful opinion, why should it matter what I thought about him going in to the video? And if I extend him this courtesy should I not do the same for Trump? My visceral response is no...but what if he spoke reasonably and with logic about his his beliefs. If instead of his ludicrous assertions he spoke with a few facts to back him up. In that case, I can listen and decide for myself if I should support him or not based on the ideas as opposed to his buffoonery. Which, in the end, is just as much about me as him,  me and my preconceptions. We all make assumptions, jump to conclusions and colour what we see and hear through our own lenses of reality...it's just the way it is. But what are we, sorry, what am I missing by not "hearing" what is being said because I've already formulated my response based on those assumptions? And if he starts from a position of anger and finger pointing, by responding in kind with an equally dismissive and visceral response am I not just playing his game. What's the old adage, "don't pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel" ...maybe by stooping to his level I am handing him a match and more lighter fluid. Hmmmmmm

Side bar here, Trump is trailing in the polls but seemingly on the rise as of today. By every measure I use, he is not fit to run for student council, but yet he is still hanging in there with Hilary, who for some reason is not leading by leaps and bounds over this train wreck. She should be running away with this election. I think it speaks volumes about the state of politics below the 49th parallel and it worries me. Really, really, really worries me. And if he, Trump, could speak, I don't know, say like George Bush, he would win in a landslide...and what does that say? Bush was a tool and set the bar pretty low for the lowest common denominator, but compared to Trump he was a Rhodes scholar that also studied at the Sorbonne...god damn scary my friends. Now back to our original programming...

This forum has opened many doors and windows on myself...what had started as a knee jerk response to some terrible news has grown into a way for me to express myself out loud. I rant, I pontificate, I reminisce and I dream..all out loud and I do it for me. Some have you have shown me incredible support and encouragement in this endeavour and I am truly appreciative of it all...but I wonder how I would feel if I was getting dismissive feedback from you. If you felt I had no place writing another word let alone another full post. I suppose my response would be exactly what you think it would be, whatever dude, go fuck yourself. And you'd be right of course, but maybe the seed is planted that I am wasting my time and bandwidth with my daily dose of all things related to my brain. And now, incubating away in my fertile mind is that maybe my devil may care attitude isn't working anymore. Then I am measuring my words and worrying about what my audience may be thinking, all ten of you, in effect, changing who I am because you or someone like you felt it necessary to comment negatively on my posts. Well, that I don't like and if I don't like it, chances are that someone else won't like it when it happens to them..which is my point, I guess. In the end it boils down to if you have nothing nice to say than say nothing at all....god damn platitudes, right again. Save for this caveat, have a lively discussion, share ideas and disagree all you want, but try not to convert, that shit simply does not work well and usually ends up badly. I can voice my opinion on religion with my daughter and she takes it in stride...she doesn't agree with me in the least but that's OK....I want her, and everyone else for that matter, making decisions based on what she feel and thinks, not my biases.

And in the end, should we not see eye to eye, please know that I am doing my thing for me...not trying to convert the masses and have my own little Jonestown...I have no agenda, simply a desire to say things. Sometimes they make sense and those are the life boats I use when they don't make sense.

I really do appreciate the kind words and support...it matters

Ciao
D

Swirling winds

Ever been nearly arrested on Easter Sunday? No? Guess what, I came close once...too close for comfort. What a way to celebrate that holiest of holy days for Christians...by very nearly getting thrown into the back of a squad car. For the record it was less my fault than the other guy but my parents didn't care...guilty by association as far as they were concerned. The other guy? Aldo. I'm not even sure if I was related to him but lets say he was a distant cousin...not distant enough for my liking, but there you have it.

If I have lived my life in a somewhat fearless way by challenging just about everything Aldo was the type of kid that would not only push boundaries but break through them on a regular basis. The more moronic the better, the more illegal the better. And this is the kid that my parents encouraged me to hang out with when we did the family visiting thing...the kid was nuts, and I got dragged into all kinds of nonsense. OK, maybe dragged wasn't entirely correct but at least I never would have got arrested for my antics....wait....ok, he was nuts.

The aforementioned Easter we were visiting my aunts house for the Easter meal. No turkey and ham here by the way, screw that crap. We had lamb, little spicy homemade meatball like things called cevapcici, probably some BBQ chicken and all the fixings for a Croatian get together. The adults were doing their normal arguing in a language that was quickly slipping away from me, save for the swear words and the kids, between 4 and 8 of us were left to find entertainment in other ways in-between asking if we could go home now...really, an hour in and you want to go home? Don't make me come over there! I'm sure the Daisy air rifle was my cousins that was haphazardly stored in a closet somewhere, probably next to his collection of Penthouse. It could have been locked in a vault with security guards and it would not have mattered, Aldo would have gotten it out, because he wanted to shoot things. Those things were cans and trees, which we (mostly he) peppered with bb's for awhile and when we ran out we tried pebbles. Sometimes it seemed to work but mostly it did not, thankfully for us in the end. You see Aldo didn't give any thought to consequences, I guess all boys are like that and most men...go figure, and as luck would have it, a few girls happened to be standing across the street from my aunts place by the variety store. Moron Aldo scooped some ground debris and tried firing in their direction, it didn't work this time. I think the sand and debris jammed the gun somehow and thankfully that was what the police concluded when they had arrived. You see, the girls did not take kindly to being used as target practice, go figure, so they ran home and told their parents. And sure as you can say vortex of stupidity the police showed up in their yellow police cars (yes, Toronto used to hand out bright yellow police cars...haha). The fine men in blue were probably the only thing standing between me and a swift kick to the ass from my folks...I seriously had nothing to do with the infraction but again, guilty by association. Thankfully it all ended with much ado about nothing, the gun was jammed and Aldo lied through his teeth about it to get away from any form of legal repercussion. All I'm saying is good thing they didn't question me too hard, because I can't lie worth a shit.

Another example of the vortex of stupidity effect that came with being forced into the same vicinity as Aldo was a weekend away at my uncles cottage somewhere on that crazy river. This place was the stuff of dreams or nightmares, depending on context. The first incarnation of the cottage was a ramshackle run down potential fire hazard sitting right by the rivers edge. All the charm of the Toledo Holiday Inn circa 1971. But it was away, there was water to frolic in and of course, the crazy family...resplendent in their lunacy and idiosyncrasies. And the other cottage dwellers were no better...who the hell names their daughter Bibi and why was she sitting naked on the log beside a couple of young teens, Aldo, my cousin and me?

At some point my uncle decided to build a new cottage to replace the soon to be driftwood structure, and while under construction we ended up sleeping in a tractor trailer of all things. Don't know how it got there but it was there, regurgitated farts and all...I hated that thing. The new cottage, once finished was more suburban home than cottage, with carpeting and all the comforts of Etobicoke. I want to say it was Easter again because we had the traumatising lamb incident this same weekend as the vortex of stupidity. On this weekend one of my uncles showed up in his low slung white Chevy Impala, he exited this chick magnet car, flipped up the front seat to reveal a little baby lamb...so cute, so white. So...oh my god what did you do to fluffy!! Hung upside down to bleed out in preparation for the spit. I recall being put off the whole process and not eating lamb that weekend, but not so traumatised as my sister, as she still won't eat lamb while I love it.

And there we are, a long weekend away with roasting lamb, stubby beer bottles for the adults and time on our hands to get into all kinds of trouble. At some point, most likely as a result of my not wanting to be near Aldo, I decided to nail some boards to a tree to make a ladder to climb up. Two issues here, my nails weren't nearly long enough for grip and I picked a tree near the waters edge. Yep, you guessed it...fifth rung up I fell backwards onto the bank. I'm not sure how long I was knocked out for but luckily my head wasn't submerged in the flowing river. When I came to I did what everyone does when they were stupid enough to almost kill themselves, I said nothing. Until this moment my folks wouldn't have heard about this. This was a regular thing with me, if I fell out of a tree and winded myself...I would have stopped my friends from going to tell my parents. I'd rather suffer than have my parents know the extent of my stupidity.

And then the vortex came to be, let's take the boat out and go fishing says Aldo. Go ahead say my parents...really, do you remember last Easter? Fine. So out we go with my uncles boat and what looked like a brand new motor to me...for the first little while we were fine. No run ins with Loch Ness's distant cousin, we hadn't scraped the bottom of the boat on the boulders dotting the river and I hadn't clubbed Aldo with an oar...things were looking good. Until it was time to go back....as usual Aldo was in control of the outboard and was steering us back to shore when he decided to cut the engine for some reason. Instead of gliding into the shore under our own power in the flowing river we were being taken with the current away from our destination...dumb ass. Start the motor will ya. And yes, you guessed it...this is where we got ourselves into trouble. Aldo trying to restart the motor was like watching a penguin try to fly...no chance. And the sounds emanating from the housing on the motor didn't sound right as he pulled the cord....from bad to worse. Maybe we should just row in....no, we'll be fine. Well we were not fine, when he removed the cover off the motor and pieces of engine starting to fall into the river we knew we were going to be lucky to escape without a paddle to the head. God damn it!! So we rowed to shore, actually tried to hide the boat and pretend it had nothing to do with us. That went over like a lead zeppelin, which is to say not so well. Everyone knew we had taken the boat out so it should have come as no surprise that we were responsible for the missing motor innards. See...vortex of stupidity around this guy. I made it worse when I decided to be defiant to my dad...I tried staring him down as a rebellious teen, ha...pretty funny in hind sight. My mom was offering suggestions on what he could hit me with for daring to stare back....I believe she coached for the broom.

Once again I was guilty by association because this magnet of trouble would be forced upon me. I knew he was bad news and I knew I was going to get into some sort of mischief with him around but what choice did I have when my parents were pushing me to hang with him when families converged. Next time I'm bringing a book...ugh

Ciao
D

They called him Peter

I used to think that one of my greatest truisms is that I have learned more from people doing the wrong thing than from being taught the proper way to do something. An endless parade of managers and owners that simply needed to be observed and than the complete opposite action was to be applied to ensure you didn't fall into their dangerous trap of mediocrity. Of course I now realise that this isn't true at all as I have had plenty of positive experience to draw from. Maybe it's inevitable that the negative would stand out when it is so blatantly bad...I have lost count how many people fall into this category for me, but one is above all others.

Of course I have had some wonderful and influential teachers and mentors over the years. My parents top the list as they should and to name just a few...Mr Chiovettie, Mr Reid, Mr Raso, Mr Shoreman, Chef Rico, Chef Michael, Chef Alan, Mr Myagi...just saying. The list is endless, and life being such as it is...I learned good and bad from all of these people, and that's not to say I haven't done my fair share of bone head things in this world, how could I not after all, but this post is about one in particular which, at one of my most formative times, influenced me without my realisation at the time...I owe a lot to him, so without further ado....I give you Peter

Peter was the son of the person that bought the Golden Griddle that I had been working at, Peter was given the reigns on the second restaurant of his fathers empire...and to leave no suspense, fast forward, he ended up declaring bankruptcy on that location...so you know how it ends.

Where to begin with Peter? A coke addled wannabe buddy buddy kind of guy that would routinely ask hostess to not ring in bills that were paid for by cash...get the idea? Skimming from your dad, nice guy right? I gather he grew up working in the restaurant that his dad ran so one would think he would have learned the business from the ground up. And maybe he did, but how he ended up is an entirely different kettle of fish. He lacked subtlety and had not garnered any respect from anyone that worked for him. We could all see right through him and we didn't like what we saw....be it nepotism, cocaine use during a shift, stealing from the restaurant and whatever else we chose to care about...he was generally not liked and certainly not respected.

It probably started when he got his girlfriend to work at the restaurant as a waitress. She wasn't any good at her job and he gave her obvious preferential treatment. The best shifts, the best sections and when she couldn't handle the business, someone else got the blame. Typical of that kind of behaviour for a guy like Peter. So now he has the other servers pissed at him for his favouritism and the cooks are pissed at him because he would let her continue on with her spoiled rotten attitude. And from there...worse, much, much worse.

I mentioned that Peter had no respect from anyone that answered to him, here are two reasons why, and they both boil down to a lack of a back bone in my humble opinion. Firstly, he capitulated every single time when someone threatened to quit if they didn't get a raise. Every cook at that place was getting paid over $10 an hour, back when minimum wage was in the $5 range...to put that in context, minimum wage today is in the $11.00 range here in Nova Scotia. Instead of calling people on their threats, lest he need to work a shift on the line or do some dishes, he would over pay us all. Don't negotiate with terrorists...or amped up cooks. I will cajole, guilt, grovel a bit but that's it...threaten me, you might as well leave because I'll do it if I have to. You can't respect a man that can't stand up for himself in that way.

Similarly, you can't respect a man that doesn't stand up for others...especially if they happen to be your fiance. Some context to this little story since it really isn't going to cast me in the most positive light. Remember, I was young and stupid back then....now I'm just older. The restaurant chain was rolling out new menus one summer, the hopes being that it would revitalise the brand in response to sagging sales; a cardinal sin in my view...if you're a pancake house stick to pancakes, why are you putting escargot on the menu. One of these new dishes was a delightful frozen garlic shrimp dish that you microwaved for three minutes and squeezed out into a dish for service....sprig of parsley for garnish. ICK! Someone had broken open a box of these rubber nuggets to try at some point. For the record it wasn't me...I didn't like shrimp back then. And if I did you can be damn sure I would not be eating them in that way. Peter took exception to this sampling...he deemed it stealing from him, as opposed to the regular sticky fingers he used on his dads money. I hear coke is expensive. Now, granted, this could have been all avoided if the guilty culprit had simply said, yep...it was me. Sorry Peter. Such was the environment in the kitchen at that point that no apology was in the offing...and Peter lost his shit. Maybe the coke was bad, maybe his girlfriend wasn't pleasing him in that special way...whatever, he over reacted badly. And that's saying something from some over paid snot nosed teenage boys. "Until someone confesses to this crime and pays me for it, there will be no more beers for the kitchen" he declared. What? I work on Saturday and Sunday in this non air conditioned kitchen with sweaty nether regions, feeding 500 people a day and you're not going to reward me with a beer to quench my thirst? Forget for the moment that I was under age. Whatever dude.

Two days later the line in the sand was ready for breach. Our usual way of begging for beer was to wait for Peter to stroll by and talk about how thirsty we were or how hot we were, how a beer would go down just right. He wasn't buying this time...I told you, no beer. Fine, be that way. Twenty minutes later I was in the middle of a verbal brawl and it was pretty much my fault. You see, five minutes earlier I had asked a waitress to bring me a beer that I was going to pay for, $2.95 wasn't too much for a nice cold beer right? So...I was making this guy a few bucks with my purchase. Important to remember once the shouting starts. As I sipped my beer while working on my clean up as my shift neared it's end, Peter walked in and by the line. Then, almost comically, he backed up and glared at me while I took a swig. What? I told you no beers for the kitchen. Now, in hindsight, perhaps if I hadn't answered so flippantly my next eight minutes would have been a little more cordial, but of course I did answer flippantly. I paid for this beer...made you a few bucks, you're welcome. I've never seen a red line rise on someones face like that so quickly, and that's taking into consideration my dad...it was impressive. The ensuing tirade was epic, if only because his face was redder than a tomato in pure anger...one of us was joining Muhammed on the way to the mountain...wanna take bets? I gave back to Peter as much as he doled out, remember, he had no respect from me or anyone else...everyone else was just watching the show. I used a little logic and a lot of disdain to drive my point home, I paid for the beer and I don't like fucking shrimp. At some point his, errrrr....lovely fiance joined the fracas and so now one became two and little ole me was outnumbered. But not outgunned, I can handle myself fine with these two coke addled "bosses". I let her have it as well...left no stone unturned and may have used a version of the phrase, "if I want your opinion, I'll give it to you" Now, if someone talked to my beloved that way, they would be quite simply out on their ass. Peter did nothing as Lucia was now fighting his war...and losing badly. No respect. Truth is I should have been fired right there and then...I don't argue that point and while I'm not proud of my behaviour that day I do remember feeling justified in my response (ahhh, the folly of youth). It ended when I got my money back for a half drunk beer. Peace in our time.

Let's call it detente. The beer was flowing the next week, I was a minor legend for battling on two fronts with the boss and still having my job at the end of it all. I chalked it up to a "just another teenage boy" response at the time, but I do think that the episode was the beginning of my change in attitude. Slowly but surely I began the transformation into a slightly more mature worker. I was always responsible and my work ethic was always good...I was just a snot when it came to authority, well...that changed a bit over time. No longer being the good worker with the volatile personality, I morphed into the good worker with a better attitude, one of understanding and an appreciation for the sacrifices made by all to be in business. If I have an appreciation for seeing the bigger picture now, the seeds of it were born right there and then. Without a doubt those two dysfunctional bosses weren't capable of running a shoe shine stand much less a restaurant, and they chose to stand up forcefully in an attempt to erase a years worth of erosion in a spectacularly stupid way, but in hindsight, they had no choice...it was their method that was lacking, not their reasoning. Running into my sphere of idiocy simply made for good TV.

Through that experience and so many others I have learned what not to do as a boss...earning respect is one thing, treating all with respect and dignity has been the key to my success I think. I don't need to be your friend but I do need to work with you. I was young once and remember the way it was, we're not so different. I hope you'll learn from me in either way really, my good and bad habits. So why don't we make it a pleasant experience and I'll thank my lucky stars that I haven't ran into a mini me yet.

Ciao
D

No dress rehearsal, this is our life

As I sit here the day after the final Tragically Hip show, Gord Downie's farewell to us, I and many people I'm sure, are reflecting...a confluence of emotions, both high and low. More bitter than sweet for me and it has me in a funny place in my mind and in my heart.

My oldest daughter joined me on the grand parade for the evening, she knew nothing of the Hip but it didn't seem to matter really. Time with dad was the motivation and we turned it into a great evening of food, drink and music. We grazed at a few different restaurants which is our thing to do together, and in doing so we were given a glimpse of what life will be like ten years from now. Sitting next to us in a pub was a father and daughter pair sharing a drink and a chance to catch up, it was nice to see and we both realised that this would be us down the road, continuing our tradition of binding over a table. Their conversation, according to my daughter, was all about cross fit training that the daughter seemed to be passionate about. Banality aside, the topic of conversation wasn't the point, the opportunity to capture a few moments with a loved one was the take away, the real important thing. I think she understands that, otherwise why was she with her old man on a Saturday night listening to music she didn't even know. It makes my heart smile...this is our life.

The night slowly turned surreal for me as it progressed. We, the entire country it seemed, were marking a point in time to celebrate the words and music from a Canadian that really held up a funny looking mirror to us. The Hip are anti conformity, they do not fit into that round hole and they are more than fine with it. I get the sense Canada as a whole feels the same way. It matters not that they never found commercial success in America, they played by their own rules and did what they felt was right for them. Like Rush before them they weren't going to sacrifice their souls for the chance to sell a few more records and have their faces on cereal boxes or video games. Taken by himself Gord isn't a great singer, but together he and the band make great music and they tell stories. They paint a picture for us all to take what we can from it...Bobcaygeon means one thing to me and something else entirely to you, and that's a good thing because we are all different with unique perspectives and dreams and feelings. Being able to tap into that on some level is what make the Hip, well...hip.

On this night my heart ached for what Gord, his family and friends and all of us are going through. Not many people can say they haven't been touched by cancer in one way or another, it's a scourge and that's the sad reality of our lives. With tears streaming down his face and primal screams coming from deep within during Grace, Too, Gord lay bare his anguish and his fear and anger. It doesn't matter if it was because he is dying, the unjustness of it all or the fact that he wasn't going to be doing exactly what he wants to be doing; what matters was that it was there and he allowed us to share in it with him one last time. I shed a few quiet tears at a few points and around me and the country people were weeping openly...we needed it.

While I don't for a second put myself in the same category as Gord with my own cancer diagnosis, as of right now I'm not in danger of dying, we are part of a rather large club that nobody wishes to be in. When the moments of doubt have subsided, the fear put in a box and self pity thrown away what was left for was an appreciation of the here and now. Insert any number of cliches here, life is short, live for today...you get the idea, and they are right, there is a reason a cliche is so, because over time it has come to be a truism. Again, smarter people have already laid out the answers...listen to them..."no dress rehearsal, this is our life"

The night played itself out with Gord as our focus and our voice for the night and all around us the world went on. Food trucks sold their offerings, people drank from not so hidden flasks and bottles, wafting through the air the smell of Willie Nelson. Lovers, family, friends and strangers hugged and kissed. A gentle hand to show that you weren't alone, that tomorrow will be better and someone would be there with you. In person or in spirit. The people I shared the night with will always be associated with that bittersweet time when we were allowed in to the confines of Gord's heart, to share in his pain, his love and his hope.

Thank you Gord

Ciao
D

Pontification personified perfectly

I hope I'm not coming across as preachy or anything similar, I figure it's my blog and I can cry or, not cry such as it is, if I want to. And I have warned you that I will be all over the place with this little exercise in putting words to my thoughts. I'm not trying to convert anyone to anything, just saying my peace...I have many moving targets and it seems that each story, anecdote and musing begets another...or seven. Tangential thinking is what comes to mind...most times I can bring it back to the original point that I started off with in my head, for the other times....oooops

I say this only because I was going to start with a song lyric and it dawned on me that it might come across that I am telling you how to live your life. Well, for sure I am not, I'm not even qualified to tell myself how to live my life so why would I think I could presume to tell you....get over it will ya ;) The title above should have a tongue in cheek emoji...just saying.

From The Trews 

"on a night like this life could change you with a kiss

if you don't second guess, and you go with it"

I had a version of that line on my dating profile because I like the imagery it presents and it seems to fit with the way I approach things in life, that whole genuine and authentic thing that I am so fond of, not to mention the fact that I also believe you have to be willing to take that step and risk getting pummelled to find your heart. Scary shit my friends.

In the spirit of honesty this was never my default position, I had to grow into this mind set and it wasn't always easy. It's easier not to look up, to not take that risk, to not be vulnerable, but when I do a whole new world of possibilities opens up in front of me. Taking those baby steps when I was younger allowed me to open up a few businesses over time, leave the confines of my home and move to the East Coast, fall in love, fall out of love, fall in love again...and so on, weaving that tapestry stitch by stitch, knowing that tomorrow will be another few stitches. It never ends, or it shouldn't is what I should say. Keep living and growing with eyes wide open...get to that finish line smiling, full of memories and with no regrets.

Preachy? Dough eyed? Naive? Possibly, but I don't actually care. It's my voice talking to me...not you. I don't even tell my kids what to do in specific terms unless I am teaching them some manners or something similar. I want them to be themselves so who am I to tell them they should do this or that...no. I'm here for guidance, support and tom foolery. And a good tickle fight, even though they profess to be too old for that these days.

Insert any number of quotes here to finish it off....why don't you post yours?

Ciao
D

I'm not impressed

Yesterday marked the 50th anniversary of The Beatles playing their last show in Toronto, images of screaming girls surrounding Maple Leaf Gardens and The King Edward Hotel intermixed with clips of the mop tops playing on their sparse stage with their sparse equipment. How did they even get heard over the screaming girls with the gear set up they had? The coverage of this got me to thinking about the almost bat shit crazy way some people react over stars in their midst. Seriously, some people lose their shit in an epic way..tears flow, screams of undying love abound and minor stalking incidents are normal, serious stalking incidents have led to some pretty messed up incidents...Ronald Reagan getting shot by Hinckley because of his infatuation of Jodie Foster, David Letterman stalked by Margaret Mary Ray and I don't know if it is stalking as much as celebrity infatuation, but he who shall remain unnamed killed John Lennon..fucker. All in adoration of a famous star.

The cult of celebrity personality has never been my thing, I've never asked anyone for their autograph, although I have been asked for mine once...pretty funny actually, I've never camped out in anyway to catch a glimpse of anyone, and the times I have come across celebrities my reaction varies from indifference to a mild gawk and smile. I don't care, I'm just not impressed that much. Maybe if I had met someone that I really respected or admired, say Alan Alda or Neil Peart or John Lennon...I think I would be a little more gaga and it would manifest itself in a handshake if appropriate or today's equivalent, a selfie...hahaha. I wouldn't be looking to get them to sign my arm or my butt, and for sure I would be giving them space out of understanding that most people don't want to be touched, poked and prodded by complete strangers...weird uh?

A few years back I was running the food and beverage operations at a golf club and we had in a fundraising tournament with some minor celebrities in attendance. The boys from Trailer Park Boys were in with some sports guys as well, to my mind minor, to others? Cue the gaga...seriously, Bubbles and Ricky? Who cares? What I cared about was that these three clowns were keeping me late at work while they were trying to canoodle some young beautiful "beer girls". I actually heard Bubbles say "you know, you can be a model, I might be able to help with that" Oh get the hell out will ya...I will admit that I do take offence to guys my age trying to pick up girls my daughters age, because I have a daughter that age and I would punch you in the throat if you did try that crap with her....the father in me comes out from time to time. But I digress, it was a long day and I wanted to go home and these guys were literally keeping me from my bed. So I called last call and let them know we would be closing at 10:00. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Awe come on man, stay open for a few hours, it's us, we'll sign something for you....haha. Sorry gentleman, but we will be closing shortly. And then they did the ignore the guy thing, they went out to smoke a joint on my patio. Hey man, I don't care what you do in your spare time and at your place, but my ass is on the line for your drinking infractions and your drug paraphernalia and I have no desire in taking the heat for you. I stuck my head out the door once I caught whiff of the dubage, sorry boys but I'm going to have to ask you to put those out now and settle up, the night is over. Bye, don't let the door hit you in the ass as you leave. Not impressed.

I'm also not even remotely impressed by celebrity chefs, the new bad ass rock stars of the paparazzi world. Where did it go from Julia Child teaching you proper techniques in simple every day cooking, to Charlie Trotter and Thomas Keller showing you the magic of good ingredients to Out House Gourmet, Engine Block Cooking for the Serious Redneck and the name calling donkey lover known as Gordon Ramsay...WTF Ramsay knows how to cook, but his schlock for TV is just simple lunacy. I was once approached about doing a segment for a show called Opening Soon, a show that I had liked because it told real stories. I had noticed that the show had taken a more confrontational edge in the latest season and sure enough on a questionnaire I received the second or third question was do you currently experience or foresee experiencing any conflicts with trades people, landlords or anyone similar? No, but I can see myself beating the camera man to death with a cabbage. Thanks but I'm OK. The majority of cooks do their thing in obscurity and without a press agent, we're cooks for God's sake, nobody is putting up a statue in our honour, nor should they. We didn't solve world hunger, cure a disease or bring us closer to world peace...we came up with a new grilled cheese sandwich for fucks sake. To my way of thinking it's like doing a TV show about accountants...would you do it? Forget about food porn for the moment, it's really not that difficult. But hey, if you want to use me as a consultant call my agent will ya....

There is no doubt that I would love to sit down to dinner with some famous people if given the chance, really just to let them talk and learn from them. But to follow them around and think that it was normal behaviour to lose my shit over any or all of them, sorry....no. Keep our heads please.

Ciao
D

Initiation

I may have mentioned how much I hated moving when I was younger. Sure it taught me how to pack a truck really well and fulfilled the requisite Kentucky Fried Chicken fix, but man it pissed me off. Learning the new lay of the land, navigating the politics of school and trying to not get murdered were all very real concerns. I knew why my parents were moving every couple of years but I didn't like it much, mostly because of the rituals that you had to go through to get accepted at a new school or in a new neighbourhood....not fun. Of course, moving experiences always provided initiation stories, and you know how much I like a good story.

Way back when hockey cards meant nothing further than the sheer joy of owning them and then scrambling all your extras to the adoring younger grades, when recess meant tether ball, soccer or foot hockey, with the ensuing red bruised face from where the ball hit you, the mud caked sneakers from the field or the ripped up knees from playing goal (I remember bleeding into my shoes once) There was another time honoured tradition that us grade five students pursued...the game of chicken. The ultimate show of machismo for young boys to show their mettle and in the process impress a girl or two with fearless bravado. They were probably laughing at us all along but there was no way you were going to show weakness in front of a bunch of people after school.

And so it came to be at this new school that I had to show, once again, that I belonged or at least could take the punishment being doled out. The school was St. Dorothy's Catholic School...real tough sounding place eh? Actually it was pretty tough because of the area where it was located, a mixed neighbourhood of low to middle class families, lot's of immigrants and more than a little tension. It wasn't Jane and Finch, which I had lived in just before this area, but it wasn't Rosedale either. Remember the eye poking story...this was the place.

I had arrived with a couple of months left in grade four so I really never had the opportunity to develop any real friendships and the switch from public school to the catholic system was messing around with me, especially in regards to French class. I hadn't spoken a word of it prior to landing in the new school so I was four years behind everyone else...nice when the teacher calls you out for that by the way. Hated my new school, I'm pretty sure that I let my parents know in no uncertain terms. Bit by bit over the summer I met some kids from the school and made some friends as well. There was a local tough kid that I had seen and learned to stay away from in the townhouse complex, he scared me a bit to be honest. Wouldn't you know that this kid, Wayne, went to my school instead of the public school next door to St. Dorothy's. Seems he has been kicked out of the other school...you know where this is going.

I don't really recall what the mild disagreement was over when we started off the new year but it seemed that master Wayne had an issue with me. This being before my revelation to not give a flying fuck about what people thought of me, I probably took it the wrong way, which didn't help matters I am sure. I do recall playing foot hockey this one day and stopping him every time he had the ball on his feet and he being way more athletic than I for sure he took some frustration with him back to class when the bell rang. Whatever...I did what I was supposed to do for my team, stop the damn ball in those epic games that meant the world back then. And he didn't like it. And probably he didn't like me because I was white and he was black...he really was angry kid, which made him all the more intimidating to me. Which mattered not a bit when I somehow found myself facing off with him in a stupid game of chicken. There we were, two feet separating us and we were throwing switch blades at each others feet....yep. We had sneakers on but still....yep. The idea was to get the other guy to get his feet as close as possible together by throwing the blade between the feet, and one foot move to the new standard indicated by the knife....yep

Now, I may have been a bit scared of him but I was not going to let that stop me from this moronic game we were playing....I wouldn't call chicken with this clown, not a chance in hell. And here he is with the knife and my feet completely together...if he was throwing there was a good chance it was going into my foot, go ahead man, your turn. "You're not calling chicken?" Nope...throw man. So he did and the knife bounced off my foot harmlessly....phew. My turn, I brought his feet right together with my next shot and waited while he decided what to do next. Bam...he missed to the right of the foot. My turn, "you calling chicken?" No! There was no shortage of bravado on this day but there was a pair of ripped pants...seems like I put a slice into them with my next shot and I was staring down this angry guy after nearly stabbing him. His shot, I don't think he even asked if I was going to call chicken so he threw down, he managed to put it in the gap between my feet....hahaha On my next turn I pierced his shoe and the knife was sticking out of the rubber at the head of his foot...very close to drawing blood. This seemed to shock him, I saw the uncertainty in his eyes...he was getting nervous. His next shot bounced away again and I decided to fuck around with him at this point. I picked up the blade, felt for sharpness and made a crazy eyed face at him as I wound up for my throw....he jumped out of way before I could release. I had won and without injury, but what I seemed to get most was street cred with these guys...I didn't back down and guys appreciate that from other guys. I now had a friend to watch my back in case I needed it...I didn't but it was nice to know that crazy Wayne was there.

Fast forward a few years and guess what, we moved again....woooohooooo This time we moved in to the St. Marcellus catch area the summer before grade eight started. You already heard of my Portuguese encounters but there was also the mafia connection with all the Italians on my street, and as I was about to find out, my school. I was definitely in the minority by not being Italian but I don't know if that ever bothered me...I could hold my own playing ball hockey with these guys and that counted for something. I didn't know what to expect my first week of school but it certainly wasn't what was about to happen. Back in grade eight I was definitely in better shape than I am now, which is to say I wasn't pear shaped. I could run...both cross country and I had some speed. Both of these would be needed for day two of school. Seems we were playing murder ball that lunch period, for those of you unaware of the subtleties of murder ball, please allow me to explain. Kid chases other kid with tennis ball, wings it at the other kid as hard as possible (hence the murder) preferably at his head. That other kid is now it and must find a new target to murder. Who ever was it at the first bell lost the game and would suffer some sort of punishment. Fun right?

It took me two rounds to realise what was going on with these guys, I would be it, I would chase a kid down and ping him off. This guy would in turn give the ball to Tom Fazzezi, whom I later learned was the fasted kid in the school, and Sir Tom would chase me around the entire school yard waiting for the perfect shot hoping to put one in my ear or worse, right in the face. Because I was shifty and not so slow, I managed to do some great evading...I remember it as an epic battle and I'm certain their were trumpets blowing as we ran around the yard trying not to squash younger kids. When is this recess over? If I had been a little smarter I would have waited until the bell was about to ring and ping someone off right at the buzzer but well, you know. Sure enough I was it at the end. Fine...what form of punishment will I need to endure? They called it the gauntlet...14 guys by my count standing with their legs spread wide as I had to quickly crawl through as they punched me from above. Awesome, sure...great...fuck. Not one to shrink from danger I started plowing my way through and truth be told, it wasn't too bad. I noticed who it me the hardest as a way of marking who to watch out for and sure enough the prick got back into line. Well...let's just say he shouldn't have done it as I raised my rather large noggin at the exact right time to have him consider wearing a jock strap next time he partook in this wonderful game. That's what you get for being a dick...a sore dick.

Like in grade five, I had won over some people and my year never saw that kind of madness again. Indeed I found myself a little niche that year by somehow being one of the smartest kids in the three classes. There was a ranking system based on grades and so on and my name was always in the top ten and if I recall correctly, I finsihed the year as the top boy...not sure how that happened because I rarely handed in my homework on time and hardly ever studied for a test. I feel maybe what I had studied the year before in grade seven at St. Dorothy was an advantage for me, but who knows. I ran cross country, track a little and would have been considered the MVP in foot hockey if there was such a thing. I did well in public speaking contests, learned about styling my hair a bit and I got to dance to Stairway to Heaven on the final song at the last school dance with Nadia....and she picked me, because I wasn't going to dance at all....hahaha I had a good year.

I will have to come back to the boy with the sore balls sometime, Mr Tony Marchese and I had a couple of more run ins a few years later that would make for a good chapter on false bravado.

I hope you're enjoying my reminiscing as I am surely enjoying recounting these stories...lots of memories have flooded back recently.

Ciao
D

Dear younger me...circa 1981 -1987

Well, somewhat surprisingly you're still alive in the year 2016. No, we don't have flying saucers for cars and food can't be replicated in a futuristic machine, but there are some pretty cool things going on. Remember your math teacher saying you wouldn't be able to bring your calculator everywhere you go? Well, you don't need it, you have what's called a smart phone and it's essentially a computer in your pocket that has access to just about anything you can think on it and it does calculations to boot. I know your addled brain can't comprehend this, hell I have trouble with it now as well, but to think you can, from something the size of a calculator, have the entire history of knowledge at your finger tips while you're riding the bus.

So, why am I writing you? Other than telling you to buy stock in Apple and a company called Google when it launches I won't really tell you what to do. I suspect if I do my life as I know it will be different and I kind of like my life right now. It's a lot of fun despite the crap that sometimes happens, we'll learn from it all and become a better us in the process. I'm writing you to pass along some wisdom that I have gained over the years, so this letter will be pretty short. Just a few nuggets to really confirm what you already know deep down and perhaps open you up to a few more experiences.

Be nicer to your sister is the first thing I will say. You can torment her if you like, it helps to toughen her up for the world but maybe tell her or show her every once in awhile that she is loved. She's a good person and to let you in on a little secret, she saves your life later on so being nice to her now is the least you can do.

You already know how awesome the parents are and you already treat them with respect so nothing there to worry about save for these two things. Don't be a dick teenager when dad wants to show you something or help him out with a chore. The man works hard and knows some stuff that could be useful to you. You're going to figure it how later so why not start now. And mom worries a lot, be there a bit more for her, she'll appreciate it a lot and it will make you feel good. Oh, and stop ignoring your Croatian heritage...trust me. Right now you avoid it like the plague but you'll want to, at the very least, keep some language skills. The whole of Europe will be calling you later in life and maybe it will be useful to speak a language other than English. Remember what dad said about that....it's true.

I won't be so obtuse as to tell you who to date and who to avoid, that could have repercussions for me today and I don't want certain things changing. For better or worse you'll need to live the life you're going to live, you'll be better for it in the end and enriched beyond belief as well. I will caution to maybe open your eyes a bit more to the people around you. Remember the time you were shocked because that goody two shoes girl was smoking weed, I mean you were shocked. Well, the world is like that, people do the dardnest things and it will shock you to your core sometimes, opening your eyes a little may prevent that shock from hurting you. A little quote here might help "those that matter don't mind and those that mind, don't matter". Trust me.

When you go to Europe with the family, try not to eat so many chickens. It's not your fault of course, you visit five families every day and each family feels the need to kill a chicken and make you some food, it would be rude not to eat, but you gotta find a way to maybe pass off the food to the dog or something. And while there, take a little appreciation in what you're immersed in. Yes the scenery is great and the food is good and that waitress at your aunts inn is really cute, but look and listen for the everyday wonders around you. That market is the stuff of dreams, that cafe where all you were looking for was a hamburger is at a crossroads of peoples everyday lives...check it out man.

Speaking of markets, when the parents are dragging you down to Kensingnton market every other weekend take a moment to really see what you have there. A cornucopia of food, culture and people that spans the globe...right there in the middle of the city. The Italians, Portuguese, Brazilian, Spanish, Chinese, Jamaican and on and on...you may not see it now but believe me when I tell you it's heaven.

You know, I may have more to say later but for now let me say you're doing a great job of being you. You're discovering your voice and growing into yourself quite nicely. I may be biased but who cares, it's my letter to me so I can say what I want.

Keep up the good work you magnificent bastard and keep smiling

Ciao
Me to you

Post hoc, ergo propter hoc

Don't mess with the older sister! Wise and sage advice to be sure. In my case it could be said that I was an inch away from losing my eye a lot earlier than now, all because an older sister decided to stick up for her brother.

Back in Mid to Upper Etobicoke we were living in a townhouse complex just off of John Garland Road and Martingrove Road. One of those attempts in urban planning to make the community feel as one. Nice blocks of actually nice homes that had winding paths, lots of green space and a ton of places to hide for illicit behaviour. I was too young for that scene but I certainly found my own trouble often enough. Hanging from a cliff collecting chestnuts. bike races that ended in destroyed bikes and knees, epic hide and seek games and the obligatory ball hockey marathons. And ball hockey is what brought me to two new friends when I moved in. Abbas and Manam were passing the ball around near my place and having a stick near by I sheepishly walked around with it in the hopes they would ask me to join them...they did and friendship was born. Abbas was Indian and Manam was, I want to say, from the Philippines. They went to the public school right next door to the Catholic school I went to, but that never came up for us...the schools hated each other but we were cool with our friendship.

We did what all grade seven kids did, rode our bikes, played hockey, fought and made up and so on. I remember good times with them. I was a little more of a risk taker and I wonder if that got me into some trouble with Abbas' parents, they were quite strict and I sensed that the father hated me just a little bit. Nothing was ever said but you kind of know, I figured if he was still out playing with me I was OK. Now, like all boys and girls we had our share of fights over important things like the goal didn't count and I'm faster than you in a flat out bike race, human nature right, at some point we ended up in an argument over god knows what...maybe hockey cards. These kinds of fights between guys is normal and usually end within an hour or so, the hatchet buried and move on the important things in life, like marbles.

I didn't give the fight any thought the next day as I was walking to school, in fact I probably wan't thinking of anything at all and hence didn't notice Abbas' sister ride up on her bike stopping right in front of me. Here's where that Latin quote comes in. Essentially that quote boils down to this...after this, therefore because of this. Because she did what she did, I turned out the way I did. I have mentioned that there is something that I like about the exotic, perhaps the mystery, perhaps the differences - but I've always been gaga that way. Now one could say that because this exotic beauty stopped me and threatened to push a paper clip in my eye I developed an attraction to the exotic and even dangerous. Horse hockey!! Even before she stared me down I was taken by those eyes, so different than mine and I was always looking for a way to push boundaries with my own safety. She rode right up to me, told me that she knew about the fight Abbas and I had and that if I ever talk to him again she would stick this paperclip in my eye and push to her finger tips. My thoughts during this tirade? God she has beautiful eyes...I could lose myself in them. Yep, pretty stupid I know. My brain works funny.

I didn't think of my safety or trying to explain to my folks what that piece of metal was doing in my eye, I thought of how those eyes attached to that face belonged on a stamp or magazine cover. If I had thought about it I might have guessed that this was her response, as the eldest child, to do her fathers bidding with regards to my friendship with Abbas. Going medieval on my ass, so to speak. Obviously I didn't get stuck and just as obviously Abbas and I drifted apart. We saw each other around the neighbourhood but we didn't hang out like before. Sad but such is life in the boonies.

We went on to live our lives but I still remember those eyes....

Ciao
D

Piri Piri

Have you ever found yourself wondering just how you managed to get yourself into the current pickle you are in? Unsurprisingly I have had a few occasions myself...didn't see it coming or couldn't believe it was happening. Here is one of my favourites...

In the summer of grade eight we moved, again, to a nice tree lined subdivision in mid Etobicoke, and now you're thinking it all comes together...Etobicoke, of course. You'd be right of course, most of my formative years were spent growing up in the wasteland of industrial parks, town house developments, high rises and nondescript subdivisions. A swath cut through it by the Humber Valley River and directly under the runway approach to the airport...nice eh? It was pure vanilla despite the plethora of cultures that occupied it. I think like most people, my parents kept moving around in the area to make a better life for us and keep us away from the downtown core in the belief we would have more opportunities. The debate is there for another day I suppose.

So, anyway, here I am the new kid on the block surrounded by Italians, Portuguese and the whitest Canadian family in the world. My Italian friends would have labelled them as "Mangia Cakes" a not so nice slur for a people famous for eating mayonnaise sandwiches on white bread. Just saying. I hated moving around so much when we were younger, the whole making new friends dance and trying to figure out how things worked in the neighbourhood. Important stuff like, who not to piss off lest ye get beaten with a two by four and which dad was actually crazy. Him I figured out pretty quickly, he lived next door. An angry little Portuguese man with two daughters and a fool for a son, as you can imagine the daughters were where the trouble would lay with...but I had my eye on another Portuguese girl....Paula. She was a little shorter than average, cute and somewhat mysterious to me...almost exotic. Which reminds me of another story....I'll need another post I see. I think the exotic came from the fact that she spoke with an accent and was 3 or 4 years older than me. As in I'm thirteen and she was seventeen, what was I thinking? Her brother was older still and he became my friend on the street. All kinds of good stuff going on here.

Well, in the awe shucks slap you in the back kind of way of showing affection, she liked me I liked her. So we were "going out", sort of maybe. I don't know if at the age of thirteen you could expect anything different but going out meant stolen kisses behind the shed, secret hand holding when angry fathers weren't around and a general understanding that you better not look at another girl...ever. Looking back, we had the same maturity level or worse, meaning I was more mature than she was....think about that for a minute.....right? I remember things like, I'll kiss you for twenty seconds than I have to go...and then giggle all the way through it. Smooth she was. This arrangement would last a few weeks, we would "break up", get back together a month or two later and so on. The stuff dreams are made of I tell ya. At one point, we had broken up for what seemed like a permanent and final time. She was older and went to a different school and she was still counting our kisses, WTF. A few months passed and Valentines Day approached, I must have been feeling sentimental or something at the time but I foolishly sent her a Valentines Day card. She broke up with the boy she was with instantaneously and we were back together...wow! And this is where I caught myself wondering how I ended up here. We were in her basement doing what all teenagers on hormones do, sitting on her couch watching TV and keeping our hands to ourselves as best we could, when she looks over to me and asks me when I'm going to talk to her father. What? "When are you going to talk to my father?" Paula, your dad doesn't speak English and we haven't said a word to each other since I moved in two years ago. "Well, you know, I think you should talk to him still" came her reply. In the far off reaches of my mind a siren starting going off. I'm not sure I know what you mean by talk to your dad. "Tell him you want to see me more, you know" That siren got incredibly loud and flashing lights were everywhere..."you mean sort of like talking about a sort of engagement kind of thing?" Yes, you know what I mean. DANGER!!!! "Sorry, you want me to ask your dad for his permission to marry you at some point in the not to distant future...I'm fifteen, have you lost your mind?" Never saw her again. And her oldest brother Eddie threatened to beat the crap out of me if I ever talked to her again. Yep...no problem. I could just imagine the look on my parents face if I came back engaged while I was supposed to be eating Paula's moms cooking...yummy. Thankfully we moved again a year or so later.

I heard she got married after dropping out of high school, her brother that I hung around with did the same. He had met a girl on a trip back home...when he got back he quit the band we had, and started planning to bring this girl to Canada. To each his own but I sometimes wonder what happened to them. What their lives became and how they were doing in this world of ours....despite the too close for comfort marriage thing I remember some great times with them both. Some funny stories which are coming back to me as I write.....hmmmmmmm

Tchau
D

Losing It

Love lost or love never realised? Either way the love is gone. Uh oh, what the hell is he going to go on about now? Actually something only a few people know and even less understand. I said I was going to be honest with this thing and if you look above under the title I pretty much told you that I was going to ramble and muse out loud. So there.

My very first foray into the real reason high school exists, a social gathering with libations and hormones, was in grade ten as I recall. Somehow one of the geek guys I was friends with convinced me to go to someones house party. This was a huge departure for me as I had always been the socially inept somewhat quiet but brilliant outsider. See what I did there, slipped in the brilliant part. Going to a party with people was new. Not that I hadn't indulged previously but it was a small group of friends, where a six pack could get four of us hammered type thing. This departure promised to have it all, people, including girls, beer and music. With more than a little trepidation I went forth and tentatively stepped into what would become the new me.

I rode my bike to my friends place and we walked the rest of the way to the party. Someone handed me a beer and the night unfolded. I must say here that I remember nothing of the party save the stupid sweater I had on and her. I wasn't drunk I was smitten, so nothing else mattered. Oh, the sweater was one of those early 80's confused geometrical shaped and bright coloured lines things...maybe they will make a come back but hopefully not. Her name was Connie, and Connie, if you somehow end up reading this, my apologies.

I don't recall how we ended up talking that night but we did and it was kind of special, we shared words through the music and chatter around us. The conversation wasn't about the weather and who was getting drunk and doing who, it was about real things that seemed to matter to both of us. And that my friends is the hook for me. Sure, be beautiful but be engaging more, I love a big brain and in those few minutes we had made a connection that wasn't based on our hormones as much as wanting to understand the other person. If you're wondering, nothing happened that night, not even a hug. I did mention I was shy right. I also remember mentioning that I always ended up making friends with girls I was interested in, thus negating any chance of anything ever happening...this is important to the story by the way because nothing ever did happen.

The party ended, we walked back to my buddies house and I rode my bike home. Well, first I rode it into the back of a parked car that I didn't see and than I rode it home...slightly bruised up from landing on the trunk. And life went on. I went to a large high school and I don't recall talking to Connie until sometime later the next grade. She travelled in different circles and I don't even know if we shared any classes to be honest....not the point OK.

Sometime in late grade eleven another house party happened and this was the second step in the life altering course thingy, I got really inebriated. I danced, really badly with other drunk guys to Alexei Sayles Didn't you kill my brother. Wow, stupid us. This is where the basis for our relationship, Connie and I, was started. We became friends but always in the back of my mind I remembered her from that first party, soft eyes, dark hair and quiet passion. Bit by bit we became closer through the next couple of years. We talked at school and when we got home we talked on the phone, all the time. I don't know if she ever knew how I felt about her and I was conflicted about what, if anything, I should do or say. I really loved her as a friend, she called me out on my bullshit and made sure I was being me and we were each others confidants about all sorts of things. We got each other. Just not romantically. And we were in the friend zone.

The only person I ever confided in with how I felt was my best friend Danny. Yes, the locked in the closet guy. So you can appreciate how what I am about to tell you really fucked me up at the time. Connie threw a little house party and as usual it was just us, the gang of 16 that hung around together. At some point Connie whispered that she wanted me to stay back after the party to talk....uhmmmmm, sure. My Spidey sense was tingling for sure. So there I am pretending to help clean up as everyone is leaving and we sit down to have the talk. I remember the pain in her eyes as she spoke, "I like someone and I think you know who it is" You know how stupid I can be over things that should be as simple as the sun coming up, but I had no clue what she was talking about, and furthermore my heart jumped a few beats thinking that she may be talking about me. "I like Danny a lot".....Oh, I used to go by Danny in high school by the way, and I actually pointed to myself and said, not this Danny right? Hold on while I get that rather jagged knife out of my back. What? What the fuck did you just say? And why are you telling me? Ready the next knife...."I think he likes me as well but he won't do anything because of you" Ouch...stop doing that will ya.

Pause for thought here, I am supremely stupid in many things, but this one takes the cake I think, because as I reasoned, I was Connie's friend and friends help each other out, right? So while you shake your head in disbelief I agreed to talk to Danny to seemingly give them my blessing. A few things became instantly apparent to me. I wasn't going to get the girl in this case, more people knew about how I felt for Connie then I thought, I am blind as bat and certain people weren't being honest with me. No soup for you ass hole.

So yes, I did talk to Danny. Feigned concern for me aside I was blunt in my speech, she likes you that way and not me. That's her choice and now yours if you want to pursue it, I have nothing to do with this anymore. Except, obviously I did, because I am Costanza, Lord of the Idiots. Over the next few months they both talked to me about the relationship. "It's so hard, we fight all the time", "I don't know what the other wants"...really, and why are you telling me this? Because they knew I was an idiot and I tried to help when they asked for it. All I ever did was be the guy they could talk to. I never offered advice that could have been interpreted as self serving, until the very end when my advice was taken as just that. Total cluster fuck but that's what you get for being in the middle of two friends that became lovers. A few more ounces of grey matter and I would have told them while I can still be friends with them they should refrain from including me in any discussions about the other one....oh well

I don't look back at the what ifs as you know, nor do I wish she had ended up with me instead of him, that's life and shit happens, but I do wish we were still friends. Maybe I'm crazy and can't see that a friendship would be an impossibility but why does that have to be that way. I'm friends with women I have dated since getting divorced. Most of us are adults and can handle the fact that the romantic didn't work out but the friendship can. I suspect I know the reason and it is inconceivable to me that if it were the case that it would be possible to think that way but then again, my brain works funny.

So Connie, I hope you're doing well, your heart is the same and you have all that you wish for. I miss the person I knew 30 years ago, the one that challenged me, got me and allowed me to get you.

Ciao
D

Validity

While in Edmonton a few years back at that stupid big mall I bought a t-shirt for my son that had a Rubik's cube on it with the caption "I cube therefore I am" Actually, I designed it and taught the guy running the machine the proper spelling on it and watched, with some amusement, him run three times to the other side of the big ass mall, to his other location, for more material...hahaha. But I digress, self serving validation comes to mind with that caption, and this one...I blog therefore I am? Meh...I am therefore I am and I'm OK with that. But that's not the validity that I'm talking about today...I'm talking about the validity of the church and marriage and more to the point, annulment.

I will begin by saying that despite the way my marriage unfurled and the crap that went along with the divorce process I am not against marriage at all. I'm open to it if it feels right sometime in the future. And if it doesn't happen that's OK as well. And I bare no ill will towards my ex. I'm not a fan of hers right now but I hope she finds happiness and peace that truly works for her. So this isn't about my ex per se, it's about her desire to have an annulment now that divorce is final and the seeming duality of truths that the church will tell you about when it comes to annulment.

As far as I understand it, an annulment is granted when a certain narrow set of requirements are met, and it really boils down to the fact that at the time of marriage there was a sort of fatal flaw that meant the marriage never happened. It never happened....got it? Well, if that's the case can I have my marriage course fee, the priests gratuity and the $14,000 that I spent on the wedding back? No? OK, than I get to say what I want to say.

Fatal flaws would include, lying about wanting to have kids, lying about being a good Catholic, not being able to actually get married (think kissing cousins here) or not understanding the enormity of what you were about to enter into. Well, no disrespect to my ex but none of those standards are met with her request for an annulment. And I said as much when interviewed by the nice church lady. This tangent, if followed, would leave me chirping about a few things that really shouldn't be chirped about so suffice to say that my ex and I don't see eye to eye on if our marriage ever existed.

Now, if you follow what the church says, an annulment means that our marriage never existed which leads to my youngest asking the inevitable question, does that mean we don't exist, and if we don't exist does that mean we will simply vanish in a puff of holy smoke? Well, no sweetie. The church is kind of funny here. They will tell you that the children were conceived in wedlock and are a product of marriage so they are valid. but if the marriage was not valid, the kids couldn't be valid. Of course they are, says the church, they were conceived under the assumption of validity so they are valid. You see where this is going?

Like a politician, me thinks the church is speaking out of both sides of their collective mouths. I'm no cannon law expert but I find it difficult to reconcile the mixed message that is being put out there with regards to the kids and annulment. Kids were conceived within the confines of a recognised marriage until the marriage was declared to have not existed, but it's OK - the kids are still legit. Well, thanks for that but perhaps a gut check is in order, will you please. Oh, and one other thing...get real!!

I'm not trying to convince anyone of anything here, just pointing out the dichotomy of the situation and what kind of message it sends to the world out there and to my kids. Every time this subject comes up with people I know, every time, the response is the same...get the fuck out, or something similar...hehehe Right. I've said all along, I could not care less if her wish is granted and the church gives her an annulment. It's no skin off my nose and if it makes her a little happier, fill your boots. But I don't think the decision can't be based on lies or half truths, what little credibility the church may have gets eroded if there is a simple rubber stamping process. And as far as I can tell the church has enough PR issues to deal with, you know what I'm saying.

Delving into church and religion.....oooohhhhhhh And awesome with you!

Ciao
D