Saturday, January 31, 2004

Fast forward to the year 2080...

when the metropolis of Watford finally get its subway. And yet another word for my hometown - but this time in cockney slang.

Please excuse me, but I also find this interesting.

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Tabernanthe Hostie Calisse!

What kind of generician would doubt the power of a piece of rootbark?

Saturday, January 24, 2004

Harder than a Dino Ciccarelli bodycheck.

The Tie Domi express comin' at ya.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Elephantits_Stew does it again.

104 year old Churchillian foul-mouthed parrots, WWJD bargains and other random inspirations.

Also see the Queen's Box. Apparently 'everyone' eats there.

Friday, January 16, 2004

Jerky, 'Hard Oilers' and the Oil Springs Odyssey- Life on the Edge in the heart of Lambton County

In the span of 24 hours, I have become one of the most avid jerker line fans in the world. Leaving school in the dust, I chose to spend my day traveling to the world famous Oil Museum of Canada in dear old Oil Springs, followed by a afternoon jaunt to the Petrolia Discovery. The pungent smell of black gold permeating my soul as I crossed the endless snowswept plains of my youth. Oh my N. Pants, what times!!! Jerker lines stretching as far as the eye can see... the largest pumping rig in the world... and oozing gumbeds... I saw them all and was in awe. Life in the S.W.O. has never been sweeter.

I have resolved to create a jerker system of my own.

"Soon jerker lines were running everywhere through the oil fields and also in town. They ran up and down streets, under bridges and roads and sometimes through backyards. One unique Victorian touch was a special timer that turned the oil wells off during Sunday." Holy cripes!

Furthermore, just as I suspected, the Town of Petrolia officially confirmed that the Iraq War was started by none other than Petrolia.
"In view of the conflict in Iraq, the question has been posed "Is Petrolia responsible for the conflict In Iraq?" It was drillers from Petrolia that discovered and developed the oil fields of Iraq. If the oil was not there would the USA be involved in the region? Some would say if it was not Hard Oilers that discovered the oil later on others would have. I am sure that the oil fields of the Petrolia region stand ready to fill in for any inadequacies in the world oil supplies."

Heady stuff indeed.

With opening act The Gumfields...

Oil City Jerkin' It and Other Stuff.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

I can't make this up

Pressing news: Bombers drop Europe, sign Canada.

Monday, January 12, 2004

Enjoy Every Sandwich

Ten days and ten nights without a post? Pish-posh!

Here's the thing: I like Warren Zevon. Bless his soul, wherever it may fly, etc., but I think he's the coolest. The good doctor Hunter S. Thompson agrees with me, as do the Daves: Barry and Letterman. While I can't claim to have grown up listening to Zevon records on my dad's broke-ass Panasonic, the accounts I've read of this man's life make me wonder what exactly I'm doing with mine. Even during times of misfortune, he laughed, made records, toured, watch sports, canoodled, cavorted, and wrote dark and oddly boisterous music. If I had Warren Zevon around, I wouldn't have to drink.

And yet I find his music secondary to his character. I find the nimbus of worship surrounding him to be, at its core, an appreciation of his persona, of this relentless optimist, a man who could make you laugh about getting lead poisoning. I'm just saying...Werewolves in London, Excitable Boy, all these Zevon greats...they don't do a lot for me, musically. Lyrically there's no denying. And his singing is top-notch. But the man was no composer. Flaccid piano stompers and limp guitars abound, and it leaves me cold. As always, I'd love to be shown wrong.

While Dick is out at the electric motion pictures, I am taking the time to recollect myself after being so cruelly debased at the teat of Mother Liquor on Saturday. A deep violet Kev-O-Licious is delicious, but a Kev-O-Licious with a top-up of disinfectant is divine. A drink born of hoary nights, my friends.

Friday, January 02, 2004

A Night of Legends – Velvet Lounge Story #2

It’s 9pm and the night has just begun. Super G is in a cantankerous mood – as usual – when we meet up at the Bishop and Belcher for the customary few pints of Keith’s and a basket of fries. After a few minutes, Funk Doctor B and Mr. Gairns arrive to complete the quartet and we head out into a slapdash downtown Toronto Saturday night with one mission in mind. Complete with various hockey jerseys, sticks and skates slung over our shoulders, we walked down Queen Street four abreast. While unsaid, the four of us felt like we were beginning some sort of Canadian epic – equivalent to a legion heading into battle with the dreaded Celts. But alas, this is Canada… and such things usually go unnoticed. Rave kids dutifully part in our wake as we lumber along in our skateguards.

Passing Osgoode Hall, it becomes visible… first the looming arches and then the bright white glow of the pond. The square is suprisingly silent, the cool, damp drizzle having shied away the unworthy I suppose. Tossing a bag of pucks on the ice we take flight on the flawless clear glass. Passing back and forth reminds me of the countless hours spent on the pond back home on the farm. Remember Busher Jackson? If there is peace on earth, this is it… right here in the heart of the hustle and bustle of the biggest city of the land.

The game does that to you. At its core, the game is not a sport of warriors as is so often portrayed, but a pastoral pastime meant to brighten the infinite dour of our endless winter. The quiet of the blades against the ice, the call for the ‘pass’ and the toque tight against your head remind you of what truly is good and important in the world. Its simplicity and perfection block out the trials and troubles of ones life – if only for a little while.

However, the game has become seized from within. Rampant competitiveness and greed have altered the game into something it was never meant to be. Young children spend summers in hockey school and winters at tournaments from Moncton to Saskatoon. Rabid parents curse imaginary wrongs against their children by other 10-year-olds. Gone is the finesse, respect and natural talent earned on the ponds of old, replaced with the brute force, ‘systems’ and mind-numbing Top40 swill of today’s ‘entertainment’. These kids all seem to be robots who all play the same techniques and shoot the same way, taught at some nameless hockey ‘school’ by some macho who played one game in the NHL as a bruiser.

The rain slowly turns to flakes as the temperature dips and soon the ice is alive with numerous pick-up games of shinny. Super G puts a wobbly would-be pass through the legs of Dr. B. and the game is won. Tired out and after 3 a.m., I wearily hop aboard the Queen Car for home, happy and content.

Busher Jackson? Once the greatest star on the greatest team that Toronto ever produced, he ended up a pauper selling used sticks outside of Maple Leaf Gardens to make ends meet. Let us hope the game is not resigned to the same fate.

Terrorist Attack Thwarted!!!

Thankfully Sony has changed it's mind and spared the TTC from being overrun by Quebec separatists.
But maybe the TTC needs some action... some life if you will. As the subway currently 'illustrates the culture of prim docility which characterizes Toronto', maybe what we need is a reason to cut loose and have a little fun.

My question is... why don't we fix up the bloody thing instead of proposing earth shattering alterations?