The Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ciao

D

The eyes have it

Mother clucker!!!!

It would seem that I am not yet done dealing with issues around my eye...fuck! After experiencing a further loss in vision out of my irradiated eye I went to visit my super villain ophthalmologist to make sure there was nothing to worry about. Turns there is. I have something called radiation retinopathy which, as the name would suggest, is directly attributed to my radiation treatment in January.

This condition is entirely predictable and expected when working with radiation near sensitive body parts....like sewing a radioactive disk to my eye for a week, that might count as near a sensitive body part right? But no one bothered to tell me in advance of this, which leads to a couple of questions but I don't want to mess with Karma too much today so I'll leave it at this for now.

And what does this mean for your intrepid protagonist? In a few weeks I go back to my Ernst Stavro Blofeld wannabe where he will reassess and most likely tell me that I will need laser eye surgery to repair the issue after getting my eye washed out of all the blood in it....gross eh. I'm told anything done around the eye can carry some significant risk so this may not be a little thing. It's not cancer coming back and I'm not likely to die from it, unlike the doctor performing the treatment as he approaches me with a needle to my eye....sorry doc, didn't mean to kick you in the sack, reflex you know....seriously, you OK man?

A complication to deal with, I'm sure it will be fine but I was hoping to not have any "procedures" in 2017 if you know what I'm saying. We'll see....or not....hahahaha I'm sure it will provide for some funny fodder though, like when I was being wheeled into the OR to remove the disk and the nurses and doctors were asking me a series of questions and marking which eye to work on, as if the bandage over the eye wasn't enough of a marker. One doctor asked me if I had any questions so I asked why I had to remove my underwear for a 15 minute procedure on my eye....supposedly the nylon fibres affect the instruments. If I could have, I would have raised an eyebrow at that moment. Or, when I was being sedated slowly slipping into that foggy state to see the nurses and doctors shrug their shoulders at each other because I didn't get knocked out as quickly as I should have been....pretty funny to me.

A special thank you to my loving sister for once again pushing me to investigate the issue. One would think I would have learned my lesson the first time around, but no...as usual, I was going to blow this latest incident off until she grabbed the phone from my mom and yelled at me for being, how shall we put this...stupid. Can't argue with that. Thanks brat :)

Ciao
D

Caesar

Not the salad. Not the emperor and not Mr Romero. An old friend and colleague and a good guy is the subject of today's little post.

A character amongst characters, Caesar was, when I knew him well, a slightly twisted stylistic semi enigma that had talent to spare in the kitchen and the dance floor. He was quite gifted in the pastry department, his first true love but also quite adept to working the other end of the kitchen with us lesser beings. He was also, at times, frustrating as hell, making choices that would leave you scratching your head in disbelief as well as wondering if true artistry meant some form of insanity...I loved him dearly.

Life being what it is we have drifted apart due to distance and life in general but every once in awhile we do connect for a great conversation. Seems to me that it is way past due for that...so Facebook is being put to work in my desire to say hi. Can't wait to hear what he's been up to.

We met in our first year of college taking Culinary Management way back in 1988....for context, the Leafs had a more dismal year than average, finishing with only 28 wins on the year. Ed Olczyk was the leading scorer and Borje Salming was still playing for the team. The Blue Jays were playing their last season at Exhibition Park and the Raptors did not exist....that's 28 years ago. My, my.

All of us first year chef wannabe's got to know each other really quickly, I'd say we had gelled into a close knit group within the first month and our little groups were well on the way to be formed. Caesar and another friend, Steve, and I had formed a little trio of stupidity. If Steve was the stud muffin than Caesar was the diva and I was the joker. The Id, the Ego and the Super Ego. Good times.

While we were all developing our skills and trying to score with the only two girls in our class we shared some fun times together, I remember much laughter and a special bond being built between us. Steve and Caesar had a love hate relationship going on as well. One most likely driven by Caesars attraction to Steve and Steve's refusal to think with his head based brain...they got on each others nerves constantly but they really did like each other. They took pleasure in egging the other person on, closer to a manic state of mind where literally anything was possible...including threats of violence. Good times.

Caesar is gay, we all thought he was in school but he never came out until a few years later after he left a catering business that he and I and another friend, Peter, had started in 1990. He would regale us with stories of meeting random women and having risque sexual encounters. Really pushing the bounds of legality and morality. None of us believed him but we would have never said a thing...he simply wasn't ready to come out. When the time came it was quite the production for my Filipino frenetic friend. He called me up one Saturday afternoon and asked me to come see him at the restaurant he was working at. For some reason I had the day off so I'm pretty sure I wasn't in the mood to head downtown from the relative safe confines of stylish Etobicoke. He begged me, saying it was important. Sure Caesar, I'll be down in a bit. Once there, sitting in front of him, he looked nervous, he looked stressed out. He talked of how hard it was to be honest and how he was tired of putting up a false face. I really thought he was talking about his job for some reason. He took my hands in his and told me he was gay. Long pause....."you're what?" said I. "I'm gay, please understand" was his reply. I waited for a few seconds before answering, both for effect and for laughs...."you dragged me downtown on a day off to tell me you're gay?" "Are you fucking kidding me...why don't you now tell me about your cat or something else that I already knew?" He actually looked shocked, "what do you mean you already knew?" Caesar, Caesar, Caesar...said in the same tone that Don Corleone whispered Bonaserra's name when the undertaker came looking for vengeance. "Of course I know, we all know...and we couldn't give a rats ass of a fuck about it." We loved the guy for him, not his sexuality and it was a tad off putting to think he was worried that we wouldn't accept him as he was until he explained how some people he knew were pretty homophobic. Well, you're safe with us my friend...now, if there's nothing else please let go of my hand so I can go the fuck home.

A few years later, after I had moved to Nova Scotia, I had an opportunity to meet up with him while I was visiting Toronto. Now, while he was a sweetheart he sometimes made some funny choices. We hadn't seen each other in probably four years, so of course he picked a loud dance club to meet at. On gay night of all things. And while I couldn't care less what your particular preference his for a mate or sexual partner, I am the straightest guy in the world...I think my love of women practically oozes out of me, and this is how I found myself in this cavern of a club with probably 500 men, all shirtless and in jeans, raving to whatever annoying sounds being played that passed for music. I think I stood out a bit. All good of course and we had a great time catching up, drinking and smoking cigars in a somewhat less noisy lounge. Good times.

I'm hoping we can once again find the time to catch up soon....maybe he can teach me to dance, that stylish smooth easy going nut job artist. Good times.

Ciao
D

Ashes to ashes

Just when you might have thought it was safe to wade into the world of all things Catholic, with a new 'progressive' pope that seems quite a bit more open to, well...open to reality really, we get a decree from the church regarding cremation. I don't know if I care either way with what the church might decree but I have to say something about their reasoning...to not comment would be almost sacrilegious.

The Vatican released a statement this week setting out 'rules' for what happens after cremation, an after the fire dies down directive to the faithful flock. In a nutshell, the ashes of the departed must not be scattered, divvied up or even kept at home...a church approved place is called for, so the church community can, together, remember the dead. For the church, in its infinite wisdom and according to one Cardinal Mueller "The dead body isn't the private property of relatives, but rather a son of God who is part of the people of God," Mueller said. "We have to get over this individualistic thinking."
Yes, most definitely, don't be an individual and please for the love of god don't think for yourself...for those that think for themselves shall...they shall, uhmmmmmm...really mess with the status quo. They're gonna fuck it all up for the rest of us sheep....I mean for the flock.

When this was brought to my attention I laughed and I laughed because really, don't the princes of the church have anything better to do with their spare time? Shouldn't they be chasing down heretics and non believers instead of adding to the trauma of losing a loved one? Or perhaps look inward and see to that whole mess around paedophilia or making amends for the years of abuse at residential schools...just saying, maybe their efforts and energy could be directed towards actually helping. After the laughter though I really took issue with the tone of the release...chastising and arrogant, not to mention over reaching. At a terrible moment in a families life the last thing anyone need worry about is disappointing the church in how to deal with a deceased soul. Comfort seems far better than confrontation.

Further more, the dogmatic belief in all things Catholic over any and all other thoughts and beliefs harkens back to, well I'll say it, yesterday. Maybe the church hasn't really changed that much if they still look down upon others for having differing beliefs and traditions. Saying the following, "The document said remains cannot be divided among family members or put in lockets or other mementos. Nor can the ashes be scattered in the air, land or sea since doing so would give the appearance of "pantheism, naturalism or nihilism," the guidelines said." I'm trying to understand why they would care. It makes no sense to me.

Trying to imagine Scott caring about this development when considering the passing of his son is a non starter. He would do exactly what he felt right for him and his family and pity the church official that might have thought to say something disparaging. I'm not saying that this happened but it would have been a pleasant distraction to have something to focus some rage onto at a desperately painful time.

So let us try this on for size. Instead of trying to control every thought, movement and decision on the part of all Catholics, you instead help people to be better people by leading a life of compassion and understanding, stop putting up walls in an effort to control and instead allow people to grow and know that they are loved. Stop preaching, stop alienating and stop the madness.

And awesome with you

Ciao
D

You are hereby annulled

I've been ruminating over this one for a little while now, wondering from what angle I should approach my thoughts and words. How best to propose my position and articulate my opinion, really how to paint the picture in my head on to this screen. What seems to keep cropping up for me is a very strong image of a toilet. I mean a huge stink ass toilet because this is a crock of shit....

Yes my friends and loyal readers, whomever you may be, the church, in its infinite wisdom has granted my ex an annulment, in effect saying that our marriage of 19 years never happened. Poof...it's gone. Invalid. Hmmmmm, do you think I may have something to say about this? 

First, let me dispense with this disclaimer. I don't care that my ex wanted an annulment, if she is happy to wipe away the idea that we were married, had three kids and did all kinds of things over that time in an effort to be whole again from a Catholic point of view and to be able to marry in the church again...? Whatever. If a little peace is found for her than so be it. I couldn't disagree more with the process and the reasoning but that's not my decision to make. My day started the same way after being informed of my non existent marriage and nothing changes for me in the way I view the whole issue.

Back to the toilet now. I spent some time thinking about an appeal of the decision, for as I have said previously, there didn't seem to be grounds for granting this request. So I needed to read the decision to see on what notion this was granted and if it was worth any additional effort on my part. I spent an hour or so with the nice church lady reading the decision and asking questions of her...I was pretty sure I was reading it correctly and I just wanted to see if she agreed. The long and short of it is that my ex essentially said that the annulment should be granted because of things related to me...that I didn't know what I was doing, that I wasn't fully invested in the idea of marriage...and so on. Obviously we differ on this point since, without equivocation, we knew exactly what we were doing and we were fully committed to each other at the time of the marriage. Which is the key point, a marriage can be declared null if there was a 'fatal flaw' at the time of the sacrament. There was not...the flaws coming later on. The grand wizard though, in all his glory, declared that the marriage was annulled because she had proven that she was not capable of understanding what she was doing when we were married. Anything to do with me was thrown out of the mix. Kind of poetic and kind of sad at the same time if you ask me.

I wasn't allowed to get a copy of the document, for reasons unknown, otherwise I would be quoting verbatim from it to try and explain the utmost ridiculousness of the argument for annulment and it's consequences. So, if A happened which was followed by B, three B's to be specific than the B's are a product of A. So as not to lose you or me, A is the marriage and B are the kids. The B's, in the eyes of the Church, are legitimate because they were brought forth within the context of A. If A ceases to exist and is declared to have never even happened than it stands to reason that the B's are illegitimate, in the eyes of the church. This FAQ response was taken from a web site called beginningcatholic.com

"At the time of the child’s birth, they were born of a legal marriage in civil law and a putative marriage in canon law (which means that everyone thought in good faith that the marriage was valid). So at the moment of the child's birth, he or she was civilly and canonically legitimate. An annulment DOES NOT retroactively affect a child's legitimacy."

I'll leave the canon law expertise to others but I can't help but think that someone is speaking from both sides of their mouths here. A kind of circular argument that really doesn't work leaving more questions than answers. Kind of like, Jesus loves all, he is a a god of love. Except the church has problems with gays and a whole host of others. It's a hard thing to comprehend when, what should be, a moral compass for the world still stands in the way of people's human rights....the church has close to zero credibility as far as I see it. And a boatload of hypocrisy to boot. Thankfully my kids are fully aware and not bothered by this development...their legitimacy coming from within.

Look, I know certain people see me as a godless infidel, that I may have an axe to grind and I'm not filled with the holy spirit; other fellow non deity judgemental fucks aside, that alone shouldn't stop god from loving me if he is truly a god of love. Right? Or is it love for a special sub sect? It seems arbitrary to me...like somebodies interpretation of somebody else's whims and pontifications. Much like the annulment process, a final determination was made without much thought to the after effects on the flock....leading the church to make up cannon law to support and administer their position. And these positions and decision are made on a perception of faith...what they think God wanted them to do. The whole "what would Jesus do?" sideshow. What could possibly go wrong?

The funny hat brigade has had two millennia to sort out their issues and yet here we stand...still dealing with the repercussions of those issues, of those decisions. Be it as insignificant as an annulment such as mine or the horror of the crusades, the church's hands are not clean in this world, perhaps they should seek forgiveness first.

The duplicity, hypocrisy and down right abhorrent nature of this whole process, from beginning to end has only achieved one thing for me...a further strengthening of my distrust and avoidance of religion. Which to be honest, was quite strong before this....what with all the skeletons, just that much more now. As the kids say...I'm done.

Let the church decree what it needs to decree in the name of whatever made up claptrap it is using to justify itself...my reputation, such as it is, is left intact with this decision and the church and everyone can go to the bed they have made for themselves. I'll be sleeping fine.

Ciao
D

Fourth Estate

While enjoying a morning coffee and a bagel in the confines of my office, as opposed to the confines of a terrace overlooking the rolling hills in Provence or outside of Naples, I was flipping through a business magazine where I came upon an opinion piece by John Risley, multimillionaire business man from right here in Nova Scotia. I read the article once through and thought perhaps I could write a post touching on it but I had to go see my doctor so I left it aside. While waiting in my doctors office, lo and behold there is the same magazine, so while patiently awaiting the Doc I read the article again and found myself with other things to say. Unsurprisingly, many things.

I found it paradoxical that this "one percenter" wanted to talk about people voting against their own interests when choosing say "Brexit" or supporting Bernie Sanders, a supposed socialist. His words are couched as advice to the powers that be, that they should "beware the fallout of increased poverty". At first read I was nodding in agreement, yes, for certain we should be doing something about eliminating poverty...but obviously Mr Risley and I are looking at it from different perspectives. The crux of his argument is that society needs to be careful of people making decisions that seem to be against their own self interest. What I think he means to say is economic self interest and what he is really saying is that why would anyone vote to support Bernie Sanders when a socialist government has never succeeded. Me thinks his self interest is at the heart of the matter here....but more importantly I think this touches on something else entirely.

He wrote an article for a business magazine, a pretty specific community that he is a leader in, a magazine for business by business people. And that's all fine and dandy, it's a free world after all, but the whole story isn't being told. There is no context, no perspective and nothing from the other side...there is an opinion and an opinion only. And because he is who he is, he will be heard and some will listen. And those listening will form opinions on the subject. One hopes that they will do so after careful examination of all sides and taking the issue out of the vacuum it may be in, but we all know that there are too many "squirrels" running around for the issue to get proper information on and when we do get information it is almost always biased in one way or another, which is fine in and of it self, but it is also often sensationalised and exaggerated for the sake of content.

What I am chirping about is less about the issue and more about how we get the information on the issue. The election cycle from hell south of the border has yet again ripped open the fragmented, disturbing and downright dangerous reporting that goes on in the world. Screaming the loudest gets you the best ratings and thus the best revenue. True journalism takes a back seat to Nielsen points and everyone is lesser for it. The fourth estate has been turned into a revenue generating arm of some media conglomerate...taking with it a good modicum of integrity, responsibility and respect.

I'm a huge fan of Aaron Sorkin and I loved his show The Newsroom. He held up a mirror to the news industry and the reflection wasn't all too flattering...in a world of 24/7 information saturation he said it simply...the industry is slave to ratings which drives revenue and everything else is paid lip service. Yes, there are pockets of integrity but it would seem that the pool is getting smaller and the chasm between integrity and self serving rhetoric is growing too wide. For a democracy to succeed the electorate needs to be well informed with facts and context. Instead of sombre reflection on issues we get presidential debates being promoted like the Thrilla in Manilla and opponents that dodge questions and out and out lie...and the media has allowed it. They allowed it in the vetting stage...in the early "debates" and in every moment leading up to the conventions. Once the conventions came along and people really started paying attention is when the media tried to dismally report on the goings on. Ham handed editorials and wringing of hands while bringing on to air people that were probably chosen for being both ignorant and controversial....not to mention pretty.

I don't have a problem with a news organization commenting within the context of their ideals, conservative or liberal, I really don't care. I am relatively smart enough to understand that. What I do have a problem with is the almost gleeful misreporting of facts and highlighting of hyperbole as truth. Case in point, back in 2010 the conservative Obama hating right wing loud mouths reported that Barack Obama's trade trip to India would cost 200 million dollars a day and sortie 34 war ships, or ten percent of the navy, to the coast of India for the safety and comfort of the presidents ten day trip...uhhhmmmmm. The complete and total lack of investigation or even mild disbelief at such a ridiculous assertion can be explained as follows, who cares? I got to rant about it first and it makes Obama look bad and in the noise and confusion, I have gained a few more viewers. Irresponsible and dangerous precedents that make it easy to understand why the press isn't trusted.

Mr Risley is free to express his opinion, he is not a journalist reporting on an issue so there is leeway in making allowances for op-eds that advocate one way or another. If you are a member of the fourth estate, the conscience of the public trust, you have a sacred duty to ask the questions...all of them. A flash headline on the Drudge report can't be your soul source of information...you have an important job to do and regardless of the slant, you have to respect the truth and the public's right to be informed. That's both ethical and professional and we need more of that....a lot more of that.

Ciao
D

Don Quixote and Decency

Lying on my night stand, most likely with a thin layer of dust starting to form on top, is the novel Don Quixote, sitting there, mocking me for not having read it yet despite its prominent positioning next to my bed. Screw you mocking book...it is a colossal struggle for me to keep my eyes open while reading in bed. I need a trip to Cuba, and while I am sipping piña coladas poolside I would finish you...so if you have nothing nice to say, bugger off book! Now that I have that off my chest let me say that since I have not read the novel in its entirety what I say in reference to it is from my collection of ideas and themes that are supposedly contained within it's pages.

The novels full title is The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha. Cervantes masterpiece work from the early 1600's. Which is impressive considering it comes only a few hundred years after the invention of the printing press. To have penned such a mini tome for distribution must have pointed to its relevance and popularity, knowing that in the earliest days of this most significant invention the print medium was almost exclusively set aside for the church and nobles.

Our protagonist with his faithful companion Sancho and the ass Rocinante venture out on a series of adventurers to restore chivalry and decency....at this point you are starting to piece together where this is going...we could use a little Don Quixote to bring back some sanity and most importantly decency.

At a time when we have a presidential candidate openly referring to the size of his junk and what he can and will do to women, a barrage of sexism and racism, an onslaught of turpitude and misguided morality that seeks not to find common ground or compassion but instead tearing down your neighbour while building a wall to keep them all out. Quite the contortionists we have, bending into human pretzels while bemoaning the state of affairs and simultaneously turning a blind eye to the repugnant and vile demagoguery that some leaders use as their founding doctrine. Red versus blue versus orange, white against black against brown, women versus men, conservatives against liberals...nothing, nothing, nothing but us against them....or so it seems. In our overly connected world it really does seem like we only hear about the bad stuff, if it bleeds it leads and going for the shock value means you can charge a few more million for that 30 second spot to sell the masses on the merits of the newest iPhone. How did we get here?

Like anything, there is no one answer or one reason, but I think in the end, for too many people, it's just easier to put a fist up instead of extend a hand in greeting or friendship. Stepping over and on people for personal gain, be it real or feigned, seems easier than getting there together. It can be hard to see the positive in the world....but we must, because  it is there. Everyday and everywhere we are reminded of human decency and our collective humanity, we just need to listen more and make that a part of our lives.

Hold that door open for the person behind you. Offer to help someone with the groceries. Go a day without saying anything negative and than do it for a week. And than just keep going....like Forrest Gump with his ridiculous run across country, for no particular reason, just do it. Expect nothing save the knowledge that you are doing something right. Your reward is a smile or a thank you. Let decency breed decency and let us do right by the Don and Sancho.

“For neither good nor evil can last forever; 

and so it follows that as evil has lasted a long time, 

good must now be close at hand.”

    

Ted

The cast of characters that one comes across in this thing of ours is quite the site to behold. Like cartoon characters that are almost too good to be true, we work with and serve an unbelievable flock of diversity and lunacy that when I tell these stories I sometimes wonder if they can be true....but trust me, they are.

In my younger days our staff meals would be sitting around the communal table while sharing a well prepared team meal before or after service...OK, sitting on over turned buckets and milk crates while eating our famous "bunwhiches" or possibly a quick pasta thrown together for the team, we would often share stories from our time in the trenches. A time honoured tradition that is part of the glue that holds us together as a rag tag group of misfits and malcontents...our shared history validating our jobs and lives within the context of what we do, what we have seen and what we have heard. I love those stories, as you can imagine, they provide the colour in what we do and bring us a bit closer together.

A thousand years ago I was part of a small conglomerate that ran the catering for a sailing club in Toronto. Conglomerate may be stretching it...three guys that just graduated college is more apt. Three young and talented wannabe chefs and entrepreneurs that really had no business doing what we were doing, but we were doing it anyway. The club was a meat and potatoes kind of place...specials revolved around burgers and sandwiches, soups were hearty and portions too big. For us aspiring culinarians it was a chance to call the shots and grow the catering end of our business, which we did quite well while serving the club membership their brontosaurus size burgers and troughs of baked beans. Of all the members that we came into contact with one stands out, providing endless entertainment for us....a weather beaten middle aged fellow named Ted. The ever inebriated slurring Norwegian day sailor that could have broken in half any one of us snot nosed young men with his wiry strength and take no prisoners approach. He was both incredibly annoying and down right worth his weight in gold for the stories and anecdotes that we got because of him.

Ted drank only Foster's beer at the club...I should say he only paid for Foster's. I'm sure he had a flask or two hidden on his person, full of rum or Norwegian moonshine made from reindeer milk and juniper berries. He slurred his words so badly that coupled with his accent it was near impossible to make out what he was saying at any given time...generally all he said was "gimme a Foster's" and that was hard enough to understand. And that's what he said to me as he strolled in one morning while I was reading the morning paper, his desire for a Foster's knew no time limits. But today he was soaking wet and two hours too early for the bar being open. "Ted, why are you so wet and where the hell are your shoes?" I asked....settling in for a good story.

It seems that Ted had gone out for an early sail. A peaceful way to spend the morning, out on the waters of Lake Ontario with very little human contact. Ted, I suspect, was happiest by himself on the water and this morning should have been a happy one for him. But sadly it was not, Ted didn't pay attention to weather reports, or police advisories either, but that's for later on, Seems the wind speed for the morning was going to be negative 8 knots. The lake was like a sheet of glass with its calmness and if you sail, you know you need some wind to make those puffy things become puffy. He had enough dwindling wind to get him out a few hundred metres past the break wall before it all died away, leaving him stranded with no oars. True to character he drank his Foster's out on the water soaking up the sun while waiting for the wind to pick up or be pulled into shore by a passing fellow sailor. As he tells it, he realized after an hour or so that he wasn't going to make it to shore by waiting, I think he got thirsty for another beer...so he dove in, put the rope from the boat in his mouth and started swimming to shore. Of course he did...what else would Ted do but swim into shore while half in the bag dragging his boat behind him in his teeth.

Another favourite Ted story has to do with him ignoring police directives out on the water. When there are events happening on or near the lake all sailing clubs are informed of any restrictions for their own safety...makes sense, during the air show maybe you shouldn't be idling by with your 35 foot mast as a jump harrier skims the surface of the lake at 25 feet...just saying. By the same reasoning, perhaps sailing too near to a barge shooting off fireworks during a large Canada Day display wouldn't be a good plan...what with the fire and all. On this night, we the cooks were invited to join the commodore on his big boat for a night sail to get a great vantage of the fireworks being set off. A nice and quiet sail with a couple of beers and a few people around to enjoy the show with. Quiet that is until the police boat patrolling the area dashed past us at a high speed with sirens going, heading for a barge. Hmmmm, what's going on? Is that a boat near the barge? Aren't boats supposed to stay from the barge? Seems that Ted was buzzing the barge, literally buzzing the barge and from what was reported to us later, the barge captain had himself radioed in an emergency call because he thought they were in danger. Only if they smelled his breath would one be in danger from Ted and his daring "Raid on Entebbe" The police were not amused but oddly Ted was never charged with anything, fools and drunks I guess. The commodore and guests were laughing all the way back to our mooring with another Ted story to save for the campfire.

I sometimes catch myself thinking about those two years and the cast of characters we met, how many of them are still alive? How many stories have they shared about the crazy cooks that ran the catering for that club? Do the people involved recall the time I jumped into a crash boat to help with some over turned sailing school boats, in my chef whites, pulling out of the freezing water some very scared and exhausted kids. Or that year end staff party that ended up with all but one getting thrown into the lake? Wanna take a guess which one wasn't? Me, in case you were wondering...if I don't want something to happen to me it usually is impossible to do that something to me. Four guys couldn't put me in that cesspool of a lake....hmmmmmm, memories.

Ciao
D

Let me say this about that

On December 28th of 2015 I was diagnosed with ocular melanoma...eye cancer, on January 28th of 2016 I was flying back from Toronto after the successful treatment. One month from diagnosis to completion of treatment. In that time I was scanned and re-scanned multiple times, flew to Toronto twice and put through an emotional and physical wringer. I'm not complaining...I'm very happy it went that well that quickly...I'm alive after all. And I know my particular type of cancer, rare as it is, is not the norm for cancer treatment...weeks and months of treatments that are far worse than I could begin to imagine...Simon's treatment string of beads was in the range of 19 feet long, each bead representing a procedure...let that sink in for awhile. I had it easy.

My point in bringing this up is that the system jumps into high gear instantly at the dreaded "c" word, as it should...but why isn't this the case for mental health? Seriously...why? I was listening to the CBC yesterday and there was a discussion about a young girl getting diagnosed with schizophrenia and the treatment that she received. The established procedure was to get this girl into treatment within 72 hours...to see a psychiatrist within three days. It was over a month. How is this possible? How are we not investing in strengthening the mental health services and support? How is there not emergency staff on hand at hospitals to deal with very real mental health crises? Why can it take months to see a therapist? I don't get it.

I think the measure of a society is how we treat each other...all of the others. despite evidence to the contrary everyday in the news it is easy to treat the people we know with respect and dignity, but we don't do a great job of treating everyone in the same way. The marginalized, the poor, the sick...we can leave it all out on the field for a brother or a best friend, but that guy pan handling in front of Tim Horton's...avert your eyes. The lonely woman living in a half way house while recovering from an addiction...it's her problem, she made choices. That may be so and I have made assumptions in my life as well....although I try not to anymore, the simple truth is you don't know what path has brought that person to where they are now...there is always a story. But why should that even matter...they need help, are we not our brothers and sisters keepers? From Mr Mellencamp..."we shame ourselves to watch people like this live"....We can all do better. Our society can for sure do better...we simply have to choose to do so. The true measure of our humanity should be how we treat  the weakest amongst us and if we aren't putting our resources into the places they are desperately needed but can give tax breaks to oil and pharmaceutical companies, well...we have problems.

Three First Nations girls committed suicide last week, all were between the ages of 12 and 14. And the barn doors are thrown open to bring help and counselling. That's great...a little late for them but thanks for coming. This is a system failure, not a personal failure...I know a few therapists, they are as dedicated and committed as anyone I know....but the system ties theirs hands too often, either through lack of support or misguided decisions. And then we have the chief of one of those tribes choking back tears trying to talk about the pain they are going through...right there in front of that flowing river....

We simply have to choose to do what is right and then make it happen. It won't be easy, it won't be cheap and it won't happen right away but it has to happen...we need to do it.

Catastrophe of Life

Reading an on line review of a John Mellencamp concert the other day I came across a song lyric that was cited by the writer...

“I’ve been married two dozen times
Raised 10 children on a workman’s pay
And I’m glad to say I’ve enjoyed every day
Of the full catastrophe of life”

Me being me thought it was worthy of some google search to see what I could see because that last line struck me as important somehow. That search lead me to a quote from the movie Zorba the Greek 

"Am I not a man? And is a man not stupid? I'm a man, so I married. Wife, children, house, everything. The full catastrophe." 

I'm guessing John took his inspiration for this song from this movie, this very quote. And I'm taking my inspiration for this post from them both....except I don't know what it is that I'm thinking about, why this is somehow worthy of extra thought. When I walked out of the movie theatre with my ex wife after watching Cloud Atlas I was thinking the same way...I saw or heard something important just now. I don't know why but I need to follow up on it. She hated it. We were separated two weeks later....and to be clear, it wasn't the movie that did in my marriage. Other stuff figures more...maybe I'll write about that one day...hmmmmmm But I digress, I'm processing the full catastrophe of life as I write so if I sound like gibbering gibbon please forgive me.

One of the definitions of the word catastrophe is as follows "a momentous tragic event ranging from extreme misfortune to utter overthrow or ruin" as opposed to what you may usually think of when someone says catastrophe. Such as what a catastrophe it would be if Donald Drumph won the election or that meteor hitting the earth 65 million years ago was a catastrophe. Not so subtle connecting of Drumph and an event that probably wiped out the dinosaurs along with a whole host of life forms...just saying. But again, taking the whole of those quotes one may come away with an appreciation of the fact that while life may be a catastrophe it doesn't necessarily mean it is a bad thing. The tragedy in life is that we as main characters all die...one of the certainties in life is our inevitable deaths so yes, a tragedy...a catastrophe. 

Having this knowledge, as we all do, what we choose to do with every day in the lead up is what forms our perception of what kind of catastrophe our lives really are. Are you happy bro? Despite what may have happened to you do you enjoy your life? Live abundantly? I try to and mostly I succeed...I'm a pretty happy guy and rarely let the negative crap around me dictate my whole life. It really is too short for that kind of garbage....and for bad wine. So drink good wine. And look for hope and for positivity...seems simple right?

This journey that we all take is full of smaller side road trips that help to form part of that whole journey. Because you dated this person these things happened and most likely would not have happened if you had dated that other person. Taking that much needed vacation to Cuba, while excellent did open doors which when walked through eventually led to my divorce. Cuba didn't do it but I can trace a line back to some of the contributing factors on why I am currently divorced and possibly annulled.....yeah, that came through last week. I'll have something to say about that soon...don't you worry. But, and this is the important part...I'm happy, not because I am divorced but in spite of that fact. The catastrophe of life can still make for happy times...it's how you approach and react to your circumstances. Put another way...choose to be happy and then work towards being just that.

I don't want to come across as Dr Phil....this is for me and me alone. Much like this blog actually. But since I have a few people reading, hello Russia, it may come across as me telling you to act one way or another...which couldn't be further from the truth. Remember my motto? No, not "break everything"...although....what I meant this time around was "you do you and I'll do me". I bet I have more than one motto.....hmmmmm.

Not as disjointed as I thought. Maybe, just maybe I'm more coherent then I give myself credit for.....hahahaha, I couldn't even type that without laughing about it.

Thanks for listening....or reading.

Ciao
D

Things that happen after the sun sets

I wish I was as creative as real life can be. Seriously, the true stories that get related often have the "you couldn't make this shit up" disclaimer attached to them. As you know, I am a huge fan of the story. I love the tangential thoughts, the serpentine way a story comes together and if there is a lesson to be learned, all the better. I'm not above making myself look like a moron and I truly appreciate that in others...be real I say. A comic such as Danny Bhoy is a joy to watch and laugh with because he spins a good yarn...just like Dave Allen before him. To that end I like that this blog has morphed into a venue for sharing stories in addition to ranting about whatever has managed to get my ire up on any given day. Today it will be the former...

My parents had decided to move again in 1986, from the confines of middle Etobicoke to the upper end of north Etobicoke, straight up Martin Grove road....moving on up! This move led to a decision to have a garage sale, of which I made it quite clear that I would not be participating in any way, shape or form. And under no circumstances will you sell any of my things that I haven't deemed expendable...I can be sentimental. Seemingly I can also be a bit of an elitist but that's for another day. Everyone clear on my duties and responsibilities? Which is to say none....great. I lugged a lot of crap to the garage leading up to that weekend...yes father....yes mother. Work managed to keep me away from the deal seekers so I guess all was not lost.

The Saturday evening was my typical Saturday night...a party of some form or other. Whether we were crashing someones house party, having our own get together or hitting a bar to see a band there was a bit of libation involved. How do I know this? Because I walked home drunk...wait!!!! I remember this night now. We had invaded a preppies house party, the gang and I still not being invited to many things at this point. We arrived at what looked like a southern plantation mansion with white columns and a large front lawn, knocked on the door and got the shoulder droop by whoever answered the door. Yes you fuck, we're here....where's the basement? Oh yes...I remember this night well now.

Our usual MO was to show up unannounced, and uninvited, head for the basement, the laundry room or whatever out of the way room we could find to begin our "book reading session." Usually with a couple of garbage bags full of ice and beer. We never caused trouble and we stayed away from the people we knew would end up causing it....hence the basement. We drank and joked and told stories and had epic arguments fuelled by beer and testosterone...it was always fun. After a short while the party would invariably start drifting towards us...at first others would join us in the basement and then bit by bit we would start flowing back into the main part of the house, joining the "cool" kids. We were fun to be with because we didn't take life too seriously and we knew how to drink, seriously.

The fact that we never looked for trouble didn't mean it didn't find us, preppies seemed to really have an issue with us and this party was at a preppies house filled with preppies....go figure. It didn't stop us from hitting on the preppy girls, which I guess actually explains why they didn't like us, the preppy guys taking issue with us hitting on their girls...whatever dude. The party moved outside and somewhere along the line one drunk or another said something wrong and words were exchanged...a fist or two flew and all blew over. Not by me of course, unless you slap someone I care for you're pretty much guaranteed to not suffer my wrath...I'm the lover, not the fighter.

As the night wound down we realized that our drive had left...I don't remember exactly who it was but I'm pretty sure we were abandoned by the girls in our group, left to find our own way home. So a cab was called for the last six of us at the party and can you believe the cab driver wouldn't take six drunk guys in his cab....he took only four people and I wasn't one of the them. Mother clucker!! Screw it, I'm walking home! "Yeah, me too" chimed in Steve...what could possibly happen?

Steve and I started the long trek home, and to be clear, mine was a lot longer than his. If we were at Royal York and Weston Road, he wound up at Kipling and Weston for his place and I still had another 45 minutes after that.  All told I think it would have taken me an hour and a half to walk home. No biggie right. And the truth of the matter was that the damage that we caused was minimal to the city...and maybe one garden gnome. We had discovered that a well placed upward kick would knock the cover off the hydro boxes that dotted the lawns we passed at 2:00 in the morning. Not something I'm overly proud of but I told you I would be honest. We kicked a number of these boxes on our way home. Angry amped up teens that we were...of course we did.

Miraculously we didn't get arrested and or mugged on our trek home. Especially me when I made the last part of the journey home by myself. Funny how I never felt unsafe back then...even though I had been mugged I just never thought to be wary. Hmmmmmm. In any event, as I trudged along not kicking anything anymore, turning onto my long winding street I spied a figure walking ahead of me...also, quite obviously, drunk. Side bar here, if the zombie apocalypse happened, would you remain a drunk zombie if you were changed over while drunk? Anyhow, as I got closer to the fellow inebriate my amazing powers of deduction concluded that the person was a she, long hair and all, and she was favouring her right foot. Seems she had twisted her ankle a bit, what with the high heels and loads of gin she drank...go figure. I had lived on that street for four years and I had no clue who she was...she wasn't new to the street and lived maybe 15 houses away from me. My new found friend was named Karen and we struck up a conversation as we walked along. Did we discuss Socrates and James Joyce? No...probably Motley Crue and Iron Maiden...she was a fellow rocker after all. Which led to a discussion of leather jackets. Which led to her joining me in my garage because I was sure I had a leather jacket in there that my parents were trying to sell at the yard sale....it might fit her. Which led to...well, you know...a kiss or two. Until the garage door flew open with my dad standing there looking wild eyed in his pyjamas. Uhm...oh, hey dad! Seems I'm not ninja like in my stealth while drinking...Lucy!!! You have some splaining to do.

Hey, I was just showing Karen, it is Karen right?, Karen my leather jacket. Where is that thing anyway? You should have seen the look on his face....a mixture of surprise, pride and anger. He composed himself, smiled and lowered the door. The moment ruined Karen decided she should get home...but she left with my leather jacket after some routing around in the garage. And a promise to see each other again was made. Never saw her again. We moved a couple of weeks later so any moments we could have shared disappeared as the truck pulled away. What if? hahaha

Good times
D

Betrayal

This past, somewhat long, weekend provided opportunity for us to binge watch some Netflix...the we being the kids and I. And what did we watch? In between episodes of The Newsroom, please genuflect when you say that, we watched a bunch of How I Met Your Mother...like Friends, a guilty pleasure. A funny show devoted to the search for the one, getting laid, growing up and the Bro Code. The Bro Code you ask? Yes, the unwritten laws that govern male relationships...sometimes known as the Dude Law, and what should be known as The Don't be a Dick Theorem. As an aside my kids have pointed out that I'm a lot like Ted in the show...stupid stories and bone headed romantic misadventures...what? Stories? Me?

Let us delve deeper into that code as I relate a story of betrayal as the summer of 1987 and my life as high school student came to an end. The summer ending party that I related in ROOI talked of our band playing our swan song show...as a tribute to our friends and really as a farewell to our youth. A fun drunken night save for this story, which in hind sight should have ruined a lot of things but instead was a footnote ending to my high school years.

My place in the band as the bassist was, as I have related, nothing more than me being included in the fun. Ironically, at the close of that summer, I was the only person in the band from when it was started...the lineup having changed a number of times due to arranged marriages, the never ending search for lead singers and drummers, a separate breed unto themselves. Not that it matters a bit as almost all of us looked at this as a diversion, something to do and something to help in the meeting of girls. Nothing more....except for Locked in the Closet Danny. For some context read Losing It

And now you know a little of the back ground....let us continue.

Now, I'm the first to admit that I had no idea what I was doing when playing bass for the band...never thought myself a bassist other than the fact that I had the four string instrument and an amp. My parts were taught to me with a lot of help from Danny and Dom, they being the real musicians. We had some fun playing together in that brief window of time in our lives. Most of us had no illusions of anything more than meeting girls playing that last party, so it came as quite the shock when there was a plot revealed to remove me from the band and have me replaced by an actual bassist. And it was revealed to me by chance on the night of that party...by the way told you I was naive.

As I recall, this bassist named Chris came with another friend of ours to the party. That friend, Steve, worked with Chris and Steve had cryptically said to me, at some point earlier in the summer, along the lines of watch out for so called friends. At the party was when I met Chris but supposedly he had met Danny previously and whether that was when this plot was hatched or not I don't know. I didn't think anything of it as I was more interested in playing our set and getting on with the important stuff....drinking and girls. The night was legendary for the amount of alcohol consumed and the small junk yard of scrap being dumped in with the tomatoes...it was just fun. We played our set and than commenced to have some fun....around 11:00 I drove the girl I was dating home. We hung out for a few hours at her place so it wasn't until 2:00 or so in the morning when I strolled back into Dennis' house to commence my partying.

Lo and behold there was Danny and Dom and Chris huddled together and like deer in headlights they reacted by running off in other directions when I proclaimed my desire for many beer while walking in the front door. I don't think you could look any more guilty by leaping away from each other as they did. Instantly my spidey sense was tingling but honestly I was more interested in getting on with the buisness of drinking. I came to find out later that Dom wasn't really interested in doing anything with the band if it didn't include me and was kept as is, meaning a diversion as opposed to devoting our lives to music...for us it was some fun, nothing more. Danny, it seemed, thought that we could go places and to do so a real musician was needed to play my part...I wouldn't argue that point at all. Dom and Danny were very good and I was not. And if it was brought to me in that way, sure a bit of hurt feelings would have ensued but that would have been it...who am I to stand in your way of super stardom. But the code was broken. You don't do that shit, ever. And I'll tell you folks...when I found out after the fact I was pretty pissed....in the end it was the beginning of the long slow decline of our friendship. To have a back stabbing incident on top of the past years nonsense between Connie and Danny, well...fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Despite the obvious uncomfortable air about the party now, I went on my merry way and pickled my liver for the rest of the morning. I pretended I saw nothing and acted in accordance...let them sneak away and continue the plot, I had beer to consume. Some time later on the news was dropped by Connie, as I recall, that I was being replaced by Chris...sure, thanks. Yeah, I'm OK, no worries man. What would you have me do? Launch a lawsuit to keep control of what? Sulk in the corner? Sorry, I don't do that...ever. So, from time to time there was awkwardness to deal with as we would all get together for drinks and Chris would be there but that was all.

The elephant in the room was the betrayal as opposed to not being in the band anymore. You don't break that sacred bond between dudes for your own betterment or advancement. It had half happened with the whole mess surrounding Connie, but as I was pulled into the fracas by one of the participants and of my own misguided free will participation, I couldn't hold that against him...save the fact that he wasn't up front with me...oh wait, just like this time. Hmmmmmmm, I see a pattern emerging. The fact that our friendship meant so little to Danny was what really bothered me...the previous three or four years of high school life was built around our friendship first and foremost. There was always us, until there was no longer just us. As the fall turned to winter and we began seeing each other less and less due to school and other nonsense our paths were set on different courses. The band, such as it was, never played any shows and disbanded not long after...less because of my departure and more because it was never meant to be the thing for us...Dom, Ivan and Flip knew it, I knew it...Danny had other thoughts in his head. But sadly the damage was done and when you break the code you have to live with the repercussions...the nature of our friendship was forever changed. Sure we hung out some over the next few years but our paths were moving away from each other, like a too long married couple that didn't really fit together in the first place, the slow inevitable decline was in progress. Made worse by the code being broken.

Are we friends today? No. I have been to Toronto many times over the years and have met up with Dom and other friends almost every time I have visited. Plans would be made by Dom and Danny would always back out or simply not show. There was one time many years ago that we did meet up with a bunch of the gang...we shared drinks and memories at our favourite bar but most of our lives were far too different to try and forge more than a few emails and Facebook posts....such is life I guess. Earlier this summer, at Danny's urging we were going to meet up while I was visiting...I had a few hopes since it was his idea, but the not unexpected last minute cancellation came and I was not surprised. Dom and I both realize that Danny has his own life and our part in it is over. That's fine...I won't be bothering to try again. I wish it wasn't the case but there you have it.

And there you have another somewhat painful moment from my distant past. A few more weaves that formed the tapestry of my life to that point. Without us noticing, those strands change us, they give us context and experience, so much so that we ultimately change the hanging art work into something else entirely. While I like to think of myself as essentially the same person as I was in grade 13 with the same passions and outlook, I am with out a doubt different. Passionate about different things, my outlook is viewed from the prism of my 48 year old life. A life of experiences, both good and bad, are of course going to give me a different perspective. It would be impossible to have an un-nuanced life if we are being truthful with ourselves and open, truly open. Where will it take me? How will it end up? I have no clue...and that's kind of exciting to ponder.

Ciao
D

Abu el Banat

I seem to recall saying that what Hilary should do is simply shut up and let the Drumph keep going, he would, in his own way, shoot himself in the foot, narrowly missing his brain. Well...lo and behold maybe, just maybe, we are witnessing the implosion of the Donald, finally. And I say maybe because he should have been sunk on his first day with his Mexicans are rapists comments while declaring his unfathomable campaign...and just about every other day since. But his candidacy has been anything but normal and what would have tanked any other person has elevated him to where he is now...shit rises I guess.

So, I'm not going to speak of him as a voter (not that I can vote in the US), I believe my thoughts are well known on what I and most rational people believe would be the election of a second Hitler. No, today I speak as a father of daughters. Two beautiful girls that are growing up in a world that bombards them with images of the "perfect body" entertainers that call them bitches as a punchline and now a presidential candidate that has come to personify misogyny. I'm blessed that my girls are strong enough and smart enough to realize that their sense of worth and happiness should come from within, not from the messed up world of memes and music videos.

My girls and I talk regularly about many topics, we are pretty open with each other and I wouldn't want it any other way. From abortions to zebras we have talked about a lot of things together, it's a way for them to develop their open minds and think critically, to not be sheep. While I have my beliefs and opinions, some very strong, I have mostly stayed away from trying to impose my beliefs on them. But I mince no words when it comes to issues surrounding someone attacking someone else for being a woman, a minority, poor, gay or with mental or physical health concerns...I have and will continue to say my peace on these issues and if it flies in the face of someone else's faith or belief, too fucking bad. Wrong is wrong...and I'm not abdicating my responsibility as a father or a human being for the sake of some sort of political correctness.

As a father of daughters I am appalled by Drumphs behaviour and for his apologists continuing support...how can you stand there and equate this to a boys being boys kind of thing? Boys being boys is about taking the cinnamon dare or anything that happens after the phrase, "hold my beer for a second". Not this, not for a real man. If you claim that he speaks from the heart, well, he has shown you what's in that pit of hell quite clearly, don't you think? Why is an image of an office full of beauty pageant contestants flashing through my mind when I think of Drumph as president, which is followed by an image of the world actually set on fire and him holding the mother of all flame throwers?

Our daughters need to be protected from people like this, not led by them, and our sons need to be taught that this isn't anything remotely close to acceptable behaviour for a man...ever. I believe in educating both boys and girls on what true equality means and to give them the tools to stand up to the outside pressures that would condone any "isms". It's good that we help girls to stand up to sexism but we also need to include boys and teach them to see that this kind of behaviour isn't acceptable. It will take a lot of time but it's well worth the effort if we can relegate the Drumphs of the world to the darkest corners...make it reprehensible to be like him.

So, Donald, on behalf of mothers and fathers, I feel compelled to end this little post thusly, with all the respect that I can muster....go fuck yourself you ass hole dung beetle.

D

Loco for local

While cleaning out the inbox of my email account I stumbled across an email from last summer. I was asked to write an article for possible inclusion on an amateur wine blog That never materialzed ....this is what I came up with. Hope you enjoy it.

Loco for Local

To neophytes and seasoned (pardon the pun) veterans alike, the wonderful growth of the “local” food and wine movement over the last 10 to 20 years or so is both stunning and welcome. What may seem like an overnight phenomenon would be undoubtedly described as a long and arduous journey by those at the grass roots. Chasing ones passion usually is.

If one were to compare today to twenty years ago, the availability of quality local food and wine, one would be shocked at the differences. In the days before the web as we know it, I spent a lot of time on the phone, at farmers markets and on the road tracking down what I wanted to serve to my guests. I couldn’t hit up the Halifax Farmers Market in its old location on the weekend….no, no….nothing so easy as that, because I was busy making breakfast for my guests. I drove to the valley to get free range chickens from Oulton’s Farms. I would meet a guy in a parking lot in Dartmouth to get some wonderful Northumberland lamb. Forging relationships with farms, fisherman and growers is certainly a great way to understand where your food comes from. Farmers markets are, in my humble opinion, one of the best things ever and it puts you in the vanguard of the local movement.

Conversely, the wine industry, such as it was, was truly in its toddler years. Few wineries with a selection that didn’t inspire the pallet. If you found a Nova Scotian wine on the menu it was generally there because of price. Unlike today where we have some wines we can truly be proud of. Recognition and accolades from the industry and our very own appellation. Of course this was to be expected, despite having some of the first vines planted in North America, we had a young and immature industry. The early stages of building a culture and industry around food and wine takes time, patience, perseverance and of course passion.

That passion, built on the shoulders of the veterans in the food and wine industry, is why we now boast such wonderful and world class artisans and purveyors. Think Dragons Breath Blue Cheese, haskap berries, Nova 7 and Buried Red. We have craft breweries, distillers, wine tours, farm markets and a thriving “foodie” scene that promises to get better.

This inaugural article is an introduction to what will come later. We want to talk to guys and gals with dirt under their fingernails and the smell of hops in their hair. Ok, that’s a little gross, but you get the idea. We hope to bring their stories and make it a part of your story.

Cheers
Dolce Far Niente

To sleep, perchance to dream

The morning sun is peaking through the slats on the shutters, teasing me as I try to get past six hours of sleep. Teasing me with a new day, full of possibilities and discovery. My bed isn't overly comfortable but compared to that cot I slept on in the basement when we separated, it's the king size bed in the presidential suite. I'm warm and cozy as the night chill lingers, the day promises to be glorious...a beautiful fall day that will serve as a back drop to the exploration of my new home, temporary as it is.

I've taken the plunge and chased my dream of living in Europe, taking myself right out of any comfort zone I have, leaving behind family and friends to immerse myself in all things Greek. Here I am, a little apartment over a taverna on the isle of Santorini in the town of Oia, one week in on my three month experiment. Everyone has heard me talk about it and now I get to live it...it took a lot of time and a lot of effort but here I am. Slightly petrified but excited as hell and, so far, loving it.

I came at the tale end of the tourist season because I'm not interested in being a tourist. I want to experience what's on the table as if I am one of them...I'm not of course, nor will I ever be, but I do believe it's infinitely better than stopping in for a week while rushing around to see the Expedia top ten, or worse, pull in on the latest homage to cruising hell at 7:00 AM to "experience all that Santorini has to offer"...please be back on the ship for departure at 5:00 PM. Twelve hours to explore an island? How about a dock and perhaps take a few pictures on the famed white walls overlooking those blue seas. No thanks. I have had first dates last longer than what an average tourist might spend wandering around...and that's why I am living the next few months over this wonderful little cafe.

A bit of time researching and reaching out to people and lo and behold I have a relatively cheap room to stay in for a few months while I absorb. I've already had a night helping out downstairs, just doing dishes and stuff. My reward, some wine and broken English chat...my does it ever feel good. Being born in France to Yugoslavian parents I imagine the pull of the old world has been in my blood always, but has truly taken hold since my 40's...I feel it in my bones, my soul belongs here. I just think that they do life better here, and these few days have confirmed that for me. Sure, it's far from perfect but what is not to like about the warmth of new friends being made, good food without pretension, wine aplenty and a depth of history to explore. I suspect I will return home a changed man.

Today, as I have everyday since getting settled, I will stroll down the narrow streets to the small open air market for a coffee and a nibble of some fresh pastries and fruit. While I can cook my meals in my apartment I like the experience of getting out and seeing, meeting and doing. My grand plan for today is to explore a few streets over from me, to walk the narrow paths that countless others have walked over for generations. Find that out of the way book store, the little shop with the passionate artist doing his pottery...who will I meet today?

For a lunch, taken before a new found joy, the afternoon mesimeri, I will find some fresh fish and light salad to dine on...my room has a large window with a small table in front of it to watch the town move and the seas swell. Fresh fish done simply in the wonderful olive oil of the region with a few pomegranate seeds thrown in last minute and a salad of delicate lettuce dressed with tomatoes and the thinnest red onions gently kissed with a lemony vinaigrette....le sigh. The idea of taking a two hour nap seems odd to my Canadian sensibilities but my god isn't it a wonderful thing to be able to turn off and rest your body, mind and soul before getting back to life. An appreciation of what life should be about and truly embracing "la dolce far niente"

The night will bring cooler air, starry skies and a melange of conversations shared over food and wine...rising and falling in passion as everything from the the national team's latest football qualifier to the state of the street repairs finally being done after years of neglect. The little things that matter for locals provide me with an insight into their world, if conversation flows to grander themes it will be because I sat and listened to the trivial, to the inane and to the deeply held convictions of my neighbours.

And while this all swirls around me I will slowly be working up an appetite for whatever is being cooked over that open fire out front...nothing beats that flavourful meat cooked over the embers of a charcoal fire. The delicious odour of garlic, lemon and lamb or pork grilling away mingles with the scent of the fresh flowers and the saltiness of the sea wind. I am holding out as long as I can, an appetizer of saganaki will hopefully tide me over. My server dousing the flaming cheese with lemon as he places the dish in front of me...that aroma, that sizzling sound...how could you not love this forever?

While I am alone now I won't be for long, in a few weeks my love is coming for ten days to explore with me. I miss her terribly and she I, at least I hope so...she has been so understanding and supportive of my decision to follow this path. In many ways our strong connection is what helped me to get here....her support and understanding helping me to realize that it was OK to go away for a bit. While a long distant relationship is a hard thing, this is a temporary distance...a brief time apart and I do truly believe absence makes the heart grow fonder. I can't wait to see her smiling face again.

For now, as I watch the sun set behind the hills and my glass full again, I will count my blessings and marvel at what I am getting to do. I remember hearing an interview with Mandy Patinkin a long while ago, while talking about his role in The Princess Bride, he was relating what he said to his wife when they first saw the film, through tears he said that he didn't have the chance to dream about being involved with something so magical...tears for the pure joy, well, that's how I feel. Pure joy as I marvel at the beauty around me....my dreams never coming close to the reality of what I have in front of me.

I can hardly contain myself at what tomorrow will bring......

Dreaming indeed.....

Ciao
D

ROOI

My friends, 1987 goes down as the best year of my youth. Everything seemed to click for me that year and in many ways it was my glory year...when asked if I could go back in time this is when I would go. It was fun, so much fun. And even when it wasn't fun it was always interesting.

1987 was when I graduated from high school, barely. Seems my parents were right on a few points when I started to drive the year before...I fucked off so much and studied not a bit that I was kind of shocked that I did pass. This being before the time of not being able to fail students...meaning there were consequences for your actions or lack there of. The great big wide world was before us and I had no particular plan...I hadn't been accepted to the fine arts program at York University and I didn't want to go just for the sake of going. So my summer wasn't going to end in August with the start of university...it was weird but not scary. I was too stupid to be scared. And if my parents and friends pressed me for a plan I was going to take the year off, take night school to bring by GPA up and work to save money...all of which happened except the saving money part. If you're interested, one of my previous posts Artsy Fartsy details how I fared the following year...this one is about the summer to end all summers.

As the school year was drawing to a close, along with it our time at Don Bosco, there seemed to be a lot of nervous energy for me and my cohorts. Times were a changing and we all knew it, whether we wanted to believe it or not...life as we had come to know was about to fade away. We did, in all our own ways, move on with our lives after the epicness of that summer. Of course we fought bravely to keep our gang together. We spent a week up at a cottage after grad and prom, which will probably get it's own post someday. Our local watering hole, a sports bar called Stripes, had become an almost nightly ritual for us. Drunken weekends at one house party or another and the coup de grace of it all...the month of August hanging at Dennis' house because his parents were in Italy...jack pot baby!!!

Dennis had warned us repeatedly, don't shoot your bottle caps into the tomato garden. Every time we were there the same warning was issued and every time we ignored him and his older brother Fred....a real life caricature Fred was. Flick, right into the garden. As a side note, when his parents came back home from their month long trip to the home country the father went straight to the garden to check the tomatoes...I bet you could hear the yell of "Dennis!!!!" across the neighbourhood. Italians and their wonderful tomatoes. Sitting around the garden table drinking and telling stories, relating the days events...it could have gone on forever as far as we were concerned but we knew it couldn't. And born from that knowledge, that certainty, a plan was hatched to have our band play one last party at the house before the summer faded away. This was the last time that our band would play together...our way of saying good bye to the summer of 2017.

I was working at the Golden Griddle still and I had requested the Saturday night of the party off and if possible the Sunday morning as well. I knew Sunday was a no go but I had no worries about the Saturday night as I was always scheduled for morning shifts. Well, moron Peter decided to get cute and schedule me for a 10 to 8 shift for the first time ever...there had never been a 10 to 8 shift until this day. This may have been payback for my errrr....less than exemplary attitude but we were at a crossroads now. I talked to Pete to no avail, I tried switching shifts, again with no luck. Well....this was going to be an issue, I was not missing that party and my chance to play. So, with no one willing to do me a solid I did the only rational thing I could do, for the first and only time in my life I walked out on a job. I didn't even bother saying anything, I just walked...fuck you. I didn't say anything to my parents and when I got to the party I just did my thing. Eventually the story got out and it made for some good laughs. At some point my mom had called to ask me what had happened, which is odd because I never gave out my friends phone numbers so I have no idea how she tracked me down. Anyway, she told me that work had called and said that it was OK and I could still come in the next morning...not fucking likely, I didn't get home until close to noon the next day and besides, I quit.

So, back to the band....we had won the second annual Battle of the Bands earlier in the year and while we wish we were planning a world tour we knew, well most of us knew, that it was fun while it lasted, time to move on. There was one person that had visions of grandeur and this night figured prominently in that vision...but that will be for another day. The night was about to begin...

The five of us arrived early to set up the gear and do a quick tune up, as I recall we were only playing 5 or 6 songs but we wanted them to be our best...our little gift to all of us, a thank you to good friends. Slowly the people started to arrive, cases of beer, bags of ice, bottles of vodka, rum, rye and probably a few of those disgusting two litre bottles of glow in the dark alcoholic coolers...ick. The house seemed to swell with people...every room seemed to be occupied, the back yard was full of people and more were coming all the time. It was shaping up to be quite the night...

In the early stages of the night I didn't drink much as I was going to drive home the girl I was seeing...my beer infusion would have to wait but that was OK, for most of the night I was observing the gang...trying to soak it all in. Let's see if I can recall them all: Steve, Joe, Vernon, Ciupa, Tony, Dennis, Rudy, Lena, Connie, Stacey, Zvonko, Dave, Sue...and of course the band, Flip, Dom, Ivan, Danny and yours truly...a core of 16 to 20 people that eased in and out of the ROOI gang. A non official moniker that simply stood for Right Out Of It...you see, we weren't preppies, ginos, jocks or rockers...although individually some of us fell into those groups we really weren't part of them. We did our own thing. And if you're wondering, I would have been closest to the rocker clan...long hair and all. Partying up with these people was almost always fun and watching the interactions between us all was better than TV...a lot of fondness when I remember those times.

At some point, the band took to the stage in a low ceiling basement with, I'm sure, wood panelling on the walls. A few songs to entertain the masses...our swan song before life took over. And than back to the business at hand...drinking. The stereo replaced us with classics from the Doors, The Who, The Stones and whatever else the DJ of the night could come up with...the most important job at any party is the person controlling the music. You had to have American Pie near the end of the night so all could sing out their hearts. The obligatory Stairway to Heaven to allow for dark corners to be used properly. Throw in a little Ozzy or AC/DC to get the blood pumping. Avoid The Doors song The End, lest you want to bring the night down. I love the song, but not for a party. A few 80's songs would make it in to the mix to keep everyone sufficiently mollified...one can never underestimate the soundtrack of ones youth.

After a few hours absence for driving home my girlfriend I returned to catch up on my drinking, I had a reputation to live up to after all. The party was still going well although we had started to lose a few people here and there by midnight...the witching hour for some I suppose. The consumption of alcohol was slowing a bit, a few yawns could be seen and the music slowly became broodier. The die hards were still there at 3:00 in the morning but we were all starting to fade...a microcosm for the summer, for our high school days. Like this party slipping into the early morning and fading to memories, our lives within ROOI were doing the same.

The party was unrivalled in our addled minds. Music, booze and friends and that's all we ever needed. We didn't aspire to anything more than being with each other and having some laughs, it was the secret of our success in that final year...until reality and doing adult smacked us in the face we were happy as a pig in shit just doing our thing. Minor dramas and affairs of the heart sometimes got in the way but it rarely stopped us from being us. A glorious time in our lives fuelled by beer and music for our gang of misfits. The seasons turned and of course lives went off in other trajectories but like Bryan Adams sang, those were the best days of my life...I wouldn't trade those memories for anything.

Ciao
D