Sloan!

Sloan at the Phoenix. 

Julian and I were fortunate enough to see Sloan (the 'slow ones') play a concert last night at The Phoenix club. The Phoenix is just a half a block from where I live, and I'm thankful for that luxury because I couldn't have walked home from the Air Canada Centre, had they been playing there.

I think standing in one spot for 2.5 hours is very unhealthy for people like me. My feet and knees were numb by the time the concert ended. Walking out of the club was challenging because I felt like I was walking on wooden legs....but my eyes and ears were happy.

Sloan delivered an excellent, full-on alt-rock performance. As they are reputed to do, they switched instruments a number of times during the show without musical sacrifice (i.e. the drummer played guitar, the guitarist play bass, the bassist played drums). Impressive. All members of the band took a swing at lead singing too which brought a Neilson 4 Flavours sort of richness to the performance. This band of depth was formed in 1991 and it shows (interpret that as you will, but it was meant to be a sincere compliment). They are proof that there's cool life after 40.

The only downside to the concert, apart from my lower extremity numbness, was the proximity of others to me during this sold out show. It seemed like the dude in front of me kept inadvertently inching back towards me. As he was drinking non-stop during the performance, I'm sure he was unaware of his invasion of my space. As there was someone behind me, I had nowhere to go. It wasn't so bad until he started to thrust his head forward and back to the music. On the backswing I came close to getting a mouthful of hair each time. His head was just inches away. I was also concerned about losing a tooth or two as I was in a perilous reverse coco-butt (RCB) situation.

To lose a tooth or two would have been a great shame as Sloan had me smiling for most of the evening. The crowd was full of 25 to 40 year olds for the most part, though there was no shortage of older gentlemen such as me. I'd estimate that there was a 60/40 male-female split. What more can I say? Glad that I was there. To see a video clip of last night's show, click on today's image. Note: you'll see Julian in the video. He's the dude wearing the red t-shirt and standing about 8 feet in front of the stage!

Murder A Tree To Protect This Tree

If a tree falls in the city, does anybody hear?

Apparently, yes. I guess I'm not the only person who's bewildered by the City Of Toronto and their Queen's Park arboreal 'abomination'. I walked past the site of the 'trees in tree clothing' the other day and noticed that someone had scribbled something on the Tree Protection Zone (TPZ) sign, They wrote: 'Murder A Tree To Protect This Tree'.

As I stated in my previous blog, I'm sure there's a good reason for this silviculture salvation (?) project, but I can't figure it out. Whoever wrote this message on the sign makes a very good point and it leads to this question: how many trees died to create the shelter for these individual trees? It's a question worth asking, though I have yet to call the Urban Forestry phone number.

So, what's next in Cabbagetown? Cows wearing leather coats? Horses sniffing glue? Goats fiddling? Cabbage eating cole slaw?

What A Bizarre 9 Days...Musically Speaking

One week ago I saw/heard Johnny Marr give a concert at the Danforth Music Hall. Johnny lives at the top of the musical food chain. He is a rhythm guitar god.

On Tuesday night I heard seven young opera singers vying for a spot in the COC Ensemble (as mentioned in yesterday's blog). Following their performance, I heard Adrianne Pieczonka. Like Johnny Marr, she too lives at the top of the musical food chain. It's amazing to watch professional musicians at the top of their game. Very inspirational.

Last night I attended the UofT Opera School's performance of Gilbert & Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore. I've never seen a G&S show before, so it was illuminating for me to set sail into uncharted waters. I've never really experienced operetta of any kind. I don't consider myself qualified to make much commentary on the art-form, though I dare say operetta doesn't quite fill my sails or float my boat. It was certainly livelier than many operas I've seen (this is good), but it's far from being a vocal tempest as many opera seem to be. Opera is like rock n'roll, bordering on heavy metal at times. Operetta, it would seem, is more like fast moving pop music, swiftly tailored for the classical crowd.

Clearly the demand for the product is there. The theatre was packed and the audience was very appreciative. The young opera singers in the program did a masterful job of singing and acting. I'd be very proud of their success if I were them.

But I am a rocker.....

On Saturday night Julian and I are going to hear a band called Sloan. Sloan emerged out of the Halifax music scene in 1991, just prior to Julian's arrival on the music scene (waaaaaaahhhhhh). I always wondered how they got the name for their band since none of them are called Sloan. Here's what I found on Wikipedia:

The band was formed in 1991 when Chris Murphy and Andrew Scott met at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design (NSCAD) in Halifax; Patrick Pentland and Jay Ferguson joined soon after. According to Sloan's official website, the band is named after the nickname of their friend, Jason Larson. Larsen was originally called Slow One by his French-speaking boss which, with the French accent, sounded more like "Sloan". The original agreement was that they could name the band after Larsen as long as he was on the cover of their first album. As a result, it is Larsen who appears on the cover of the Peppermint EP, which was released on the band's own label,Murderecords.

Brilliant story....

Now it has me wondering how H.M.S.Pinafore got its name. I didn't find much, other than the term 'pinafore' being a comic name to bestow upon a menacing warship. A pinafore is a protective apron that a woman might wear over a dress, hardly battle-worthy except in the kitchen. This operetta could have just as easily been named H.M.S.Overcoat or H.M.S.Chastity Belt. I think G&S did well by naming it Pinafore.

Ian, how come you didn't mention the semi-homo-erotic overtones in the UofT's Opera School's production? 

Because I knew you would! Suck it up, Buttercup. This is the 21st century and directors like to put their playfully modern spins on historical works. I think it added another dimension to the story. It was quite engaging, particularly for the tar on the bottom.

Opera...What A Blast!

This past Tuesday night saw me attending the Canadian Opera Company event which they call Centre Stage. It is the COC's annual competition where young singers vie for a cash prize as well as a chance to be invited to the COC's young artist program, known as the COC Ensemble.

It was a BIG deal. I could hype it here myself but I couldn't do as good a job as the COC's promotions department did with their video trailer leading up to the event,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9hg8-q_Yl0

I am, however, qualified to talk about the event after the fact. First and foremost let me just say what gigantic balls the seven finalists must have in order to sing in front of a large live audience, with the COC Orchestra, in the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. I would have imploded on stage, or exploded (hence today's image).

One really nice thing that I noticed was that the audience was clearly on the side of the singers. Happy hoots and generous applause greeted the singers on both their entrances and exits. It was a 'feel good' moment for all. Another thing that struck me was how fortunate Wendy was to get into the COC Ensemble program in 1988. Imagine that, this year, 150 young singers (ranging in age from 22 to 30, roughly) auditioned for the competition. Seven made it to the finals, and perhaps two or three will be invited to join the Ensemble program. Daunting odds.

Wendy has come full circle with the Ensemble. She is now the Head Vocal Consultant for the COC Ensemble, and was one of the five judges for Tuesday night's competition. The emcee of the Centre Stage gala was none other than Ben Heppner, himself a graduate of the COC Ensemble program. Are you getting a sense for how important this program can be to young singers, if only by judging the company they keep and/or those who have come before them?

For me it's always enlightening to hear young opera singers at the 'start' of their careers because I don't think I fully comprehended what transpired when Wendy did the same. To put things in proper context, the COC asked Canadian soprano, mega star Adrianne Pieczonka, to entertain the audience with three numbers while the competition judges were deliberating. Though the competition singers sang beautifully, it was Adrianne who gave the audience a masterclass in opera. Here's how I would describe the evening as though I was in the driver's seat....

Imagine that you're driving along Toronto's major thoroughfare, the 401. It has been newly paved and traffic is flowing smoothly. The highway is the COC Orchestra. It bends. It weaves. It flows. It brings you up, but never down except in planned decrescendo. It is smooth. The lines are bright and crisp. It is, in a word, gorgeous and you thank your lucky stars to be on it. The competition singers are like cars on the highway. There are all polished and shining. They are the BMW and Mercedes 3-series of the world. They're just a little bit fancier than your ride. Some overtake you momentarily. You take admirable notice, and smile. There's no fist shaking, no bad vibes. They belong on this highway...they were built for performance. Everything is going at a buoyant tempo when all of a sudden you see something approaching at twice the speed limit, with considerably more volume than anything else on the road. Its paint shimmers and its chrome glistens as it passes. The leather inside is sumptuously tan; warm and inviting. You sit more upright in your seat and wonder what just happened. Make no mistake...you've just been overtaken by Adrianne Pieczonka. In a word....wow!

That was my evening.

Corktown Street Art

Toronto is such a massive city that it's divided into smaller chunks which are more digestible. I, for example, live in The Village (unofficially 'the gaybourhood'). I take finger-style guitar lessons in The Annex and my Monday morning ukulele lesson sees me walk through Cabbagetown to get to Corktown. Yes, Corktown.

Corktown, eh? What's in a name?

Corktown got it's name as follows (from Wikipedia): the neighbourhood's name derives from its origins in the early 19th century as an Irish ethnic enclave, particularly for Irish emigrants from County Cork, though some say the presence of a distilleries, breweries and cork-stopper manufacturers in the vicinity may have secured the nickname. 

Saturday's Globe & Mail ran an article about street art (graffiti and beyond). There was a picture which accompanied the article and it was rather arresting. I knew exactly where the picture was taken as it was only a two minute saunter from the locale of my Corktown ukulele lesson. I was early for my lesson this Monday so I wandered over to the street art locale with my (un)trustworthy p&s (point and sh_t) camera. What you see as today's image is only part of what I saw.

This was not a random act of art. The City of Toronto hired an artist to paint murals on a rather ugly underpass. The results are quite stunning and they go a long way towards turning us into Philadelphia.

Huh? Why would we want to be Philadelphia? I was there once and I thought it sucked!

The Globe article singled out Philadelphia as the one city in North America that leads the way for planned and authorized street art. Who knew? I happen to love graffiti but I fully understand that it's usually/often an illegal act. Just as there is beauty in a storm, there is also aftermath. Cities like Philadelphia and Toronto are actively trying to channel street art into something planned and rejuvenating. In Corktown, they hit a home-run.

If you'd like to read more about the City of Toronto's street art endeavours, then here's a link to the Globe & Mail article that I read: http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/toronto/the-new-face-of-street-art/article21710260/

What The Devil....(Mootha Goes 'A' Triple Plus)

I try to call my Dad every night but lately it's been once every two days. You can blame my social life on that, or perhaps my lack of a long distance plan. Wendy has long distance on her cell phone but her cell phone tends to be with her and not me. I can't seem to turn the damned thing on or off anyway, plus my cheek causes the phone interface to do strange things like place calls to Botswana and do Google searches for Moroccan banana bread recipes (neither of which I ask for).

I did manage to call dad last evening and he gave a glowing report on Mom. It was an ultra rare A+++ rating for Mom. An A+++  visit has only been experienced a few times in the past two or three years. Fortunately my brother and niece were there and, even better, a short video was captured. You can hear Mom clearly saying "what the devil" and I think she was saying 'what the devil is going on'. I've heard her say that pre-Alzheimer's, but not post Alzheimer's. It's a classic quote of hers. I probably heard it the most when I was a teenager, or when Doug was a teenager, or when Alex was a teenager. Or when Dad bought more shrubs for the garden!

The Forbidden Fruit Tree?

As I wander the baffling streets of Toronto I notice trends. For example, almost everyone wears a black coat. Most people are hard wired to some sort of mechanical device (phone, iPod). Male specimens of one specific ethnic origin really like to spit (a lot!). Women in their twenties and thirties like to wear their hair tied up into what is known as a 'top knot'.

There's a lot to see in the town. Most of it is irrelevant in the construction of a resonant life, but it helps to fill the time between ukulele lessons.

I am an observer. I am observant.

Last week I happened to walk by something very strange, and strangely enough it wasn't a homeless person peeing on the sidewalk with their pants to their ankles (that was October). It also wasn't a pack of dogs wearing designer sweaters (that was last winter), but it was akin to it. I walked past a building that is part of the provincial legislative building complex, and every tree around one particular building was encased in some sort of protective cage. Weird. Just plain weird.

 Someone went to extraordinary lengths to protect the tree that you see in today's images. That someone was the Urban Forestry division of the City of Toronto. Undoubtedly their mandate is to keep the trees of Toronto healthy. Big job.

Overkill (def): an excess of what is required or suitable, as because of zeal or misjudgment.

Now, I'll confess that I have no idea what the gang at the Urban Forestry department is up to, but it sure looks like overkill to me. For one thing, it's an eyesore. It looks like a construction site where no construction is happening.

There are twelve sheets of plywood surrounding this one tree (today's first image), plus countless two-by-fours which hold everything together. When you consider the manpower that went into this tree condom, then you start to wonder two things (other than plain old 'why?'):

1) how much is this costing the city (us)?
2) what kind of friggin' tree(s) are we protecting?

I sure hope it's a money tree because someone's got to pay for this. Now, if this was an isolated shrub in a forest of naked trees then I wouldn't be so interested, but almost every tree on this property has some sort of expensive sheath around it. The trees on one side all have protective metal cages around them, the kind of cage that you might see in an Ultimate Fighting match. I'm wrestling with the justification for such measures.

Is the plan to cage some, or all, of the trees in the city? Obviously not, but what is the purpose of this exercise?

I couldn't find out the answer on the City Of Toronto's web site, but if you want to learn more about the Urban Forestry division and their endeavours to keep Toronto trees healthy, then you can follow this link:

 http://www1.toronto.ca/wps/portal/contentonly?vgnextoid=470bdada600f0410VgnVCM10000071d60f89RCRD

Eve's Temptations...'...sinful desserts....'

Every now and again I see something in Toronto that reminds me of someone else. Yesterday that 'honour' was placed squarely upon my brother-in-law's wife. Her name is Eve, so this sign couldn't help but catch my eye. Eve likes to bake, and as a born again Christian she's crumble-coated with sin. Apparently we all are,  Yup, we're bad before we come 'out of the oven' (chuckling at that thought).

Because of my personal burden of sin and pending damnation, I bought a box of brownies, three dozen cookies, and twenty pounds of fudge. Hey...I was 'tempted' and couldn't resist. I ate it all myself on the walk home. I didn't offer a single bite to the poor, homeless or starving who I encountered.

Anyone ready for another fairy tale?

The Garden Of Eden? Ian? Indian?

If you're anything like me, then you lie awake at night wondering where your next meal would come from if your morning toast was toast. I don't actually fret over food, but what would happen if your local Tingley's was vapourized? And all other grocery stores? Collectively, most of us would starve, right?

This past summer I read a lot of Farley Mowat books, many of which chronicled the plight of early explorers to what is now Canada's Arctic regions. Oh, how the Europeans suffered from maladies such as scurvy. Starvation was a killer too, sometimes for the Eskimo as well. It got me thinking about food. The people of the Arctic managed just fine on their diet of caribou except in years of lack of caribou, but the Europeans couldn't adapt to their surroundings without their bangers and mash. They croaked like Arctic frogs.

The success of the Eskimos (Inuit) at living in such a seemingly inhospitable place was matched by the Indians (First Nations). Note: some might argue that surviving in Manitoba was oddly more inhospitable than Baffin Island. I won't argue that point. The Eskimos and Indians managed just fine living off the land, but could we if we had to right now? What did the First Nations people eat?

Waiter, I'll have the pemmican, medium rare, with a side-order of fiddleheads.

I happened to be walking along Bloor Street in Toronto last week when I stumbled upon something other than a texter or an empty Tim Horton's cup. Immediately in front of a UofT building that houses the OISE (Ontario Institute for Studies in Education), I spotted a series of over-sized concrete container gardens. The one that was of the most interest had a sign that said 'Aboriginal Education Garden'. This, for me, is a big deal because it marked perhaps the only time that I learned something about the natural world while being physically stationed at ground level in the concrete jungle we call Toronto. Note: city living feels like a false reality to me. I'm still running with wolves in my mind, though in reality I'm swimming with sharks and tramping with texters.

The sign for the Aboriginal Education Garden gave a web link: www.oise.utoronto.ca/ese. Let's see what we can learn....

You didn't think I'd spoon feed you my findings, did you?  Find your own food, you lazy louts. You might be nourished, or feel encouraged, by what you find! I was.

Johnny Marr....Live In Toronto!

The stars aligned....

My favourite all-time guitarist, who also happens to be one of Julian's faves, just happened to be performing at the Danforth Music Hall last evening. It was no accident that I had two tickets. It was a pre-Christmas miracle that Julian and I were able to attend the concert together.

To say that Julian has been busy as of late with his studies at McMaster University would be a gross understatement. There was never any guarantee that he'd be able to make it to the concert. In fact, I doubted he would. He had a mid-term exam yesterday afternoon, got on a bus to Toronto, attended the concert, slept in the condo, then left this morning. He had marking assignments due this morning (part of his T.A. responsibilities). As I said....busy.

So, who's the musician? Johnny Marr. This may be a name that's unfamiliar to you, but for me I've been listening to his music for over 30 years. He was the rhythm guitarist for a British band called The Smiths. In the 1980s (my decade, baby) they ruled the airwaves for about 5 years. They had a refreshing sound that I enjoy as much today as I did then. The big difference between then and now is my knowledge of guitar playing. In the 80s I simply liked their sound. Now I know why....the guitarist! Johnny Marr is a rhythm playing god. He's a veritable weaver of sound. A texturist, and he doesn't sound like anyone else. He is a master of his art form.

When you listen to today's video, you might think 'Master??' but that's only because my shitty camera makes for an even shittier video camera. The microphone isn't any better. It's a classic case of 'you had to be there' and I'm glad I was. Julian felt the same way. We're both pumped to play Mr.Marr's music on our guitars. Julian, unlike me, can play a lot of Johnny's songs. I may forever be an audience member, at least in guitar playing terms, but that still makes me exceedingly happy. How many Johnny Marr fans have someone in their family who can play the guitar like him? Very few, I suspect. 

I. Am. Very. Lucky.

Truth In Advertising

Street level in Toronto is my 'worst' nightmare, yet the cause of much whimsy and hilarity (usually at the expense of my fellow concrete conquistadors). The other day I was tramping along Queen Street West when I spotted this shopfront window. It gave me a huge smile....finally some truth in advertising!

In all my 51 years in Fredericton, I've never seen anything quite like this. I think the sheer mass of Toronto allows businesses to express themselves irreverently, almost anonymously, while at home (N.B.) almost every business conforms (don't stand out, don't stand out, don't stand out.....when what you need to do is stand out).

To the owners of this ugly Christmas sweater shop I say a profound 'thank you'. You scared me off, but you'll be just fine (and you know it). I apologize for not going into your shop or buying one of your sweaters, but I appreciate your honesty. You told me what you do (and what you do well), and there was no guessing. I admire efficiency. In less than one second I was able to make a decision whether or not to enter your operation. You'll not see me in your store.

On second thought.....

I need to buy a certain someone a Christmas gift.

Ian Varty And The Career Change (Piano Lesson # 1)

For the duration of Wendy's career she's surrounded herself with brilliant colleagues. I've always just sat on the sidelines and watched. In the early years I would play with my Thomas The Tank Engine while the musicians would do the real work (sometimes I'd be cleaning the toilet when I felt inspired). Lately I just go off and strum my ukulele and leave the professionals in peace. Well, something has got to change....

Think about it....here I am, the world's greatest amateur musician, and by that I mean the world's most amateurish musician, surrounded by people who can help me learn the craft of opera. I already have a weekly ukulele lesson as well as a weekly finger-style guitar lesson, but my opera career has stagnated since I released my groundbreaking O Mio Babbino Caro recording. One problem: I don't want to be an opera singer (or better yet, Wendy doesn't want to be married to one). One solution: I'll learn to be an opera coach!

The role of the opera coach is to collaborate with opera singers. The opera coach must be a gifted pianist <insert sound of screeching brakes>  and skilled in almost every aspect of the operatic voice. So, it would appear that I need to become a skilled pianist first and foremost before worrying about teaching that other stuff (pitch, rhythm, diction....whatever that stuff is!).

Fate smiled upon me....

As luck would have it, we had one the world's finest vocal coaches/accompanists in our condo last evening. To protect his reputation and identity, I'll only refer to him as Michael M. Michael's stratospheric musical skills are perfectly balanced by his subterranean humour. Like me, he has a sense of humour firmly entrenched in junior high. This is why we get along so well, plus we both appreciate that Wendy endures our childish shenanigans with grace and aplomb.

As I was sitting on the sofa (wondering where my Thomas set was), it occurred to me that this was a perfect opportunity for me to have a lesson with Michael (known casually as 'a couching'). If you've already watched today's video then you'll know that things went extremely well. A couple more lessons and I'll be ready to work with real live singers!

Toronto Sports Franchises And A Grammar Lesson With A Geographical Quiz At The Finish

The Jays? Yes. The Leafs? Yes. The Argos? Not.

I took this picture in the Narrows of Cambridge in early November. We've had a bountiful crop of acorns and the blue jays have been going crazy on my lawn. They swoop down, grab an acorn and then flutter up to an overhead branch. Then the peckin' begins. They're quite aggressive with the acorns, but they have to be. Even as a human it takes a lot of strength to crack an acorn (without stepping on them).

The Leafs in this image aren't maple, they're oak. They're leaves, not Leafs. I wonder how the Toronto Maple Leafs became Leafs and not Leaves. Hmmm...is there an answer to my question?

Some very spotty research has yielded this explanation: The team was formed in 1917, but wasn't called the Maple Leafs until 1926 when the new owner, Conn Smythe, renamed it after the Maple Leaf Regiment from WWI. Since the proper name of the group is "Maple Leaf Regiment", Leafs, not Leaves would be grammatically correct. I think it is because they are a group wherein each member is a Maple Leaf; used as a proper title. If a family has the last name Leaf, you do not refer to them as the Leaves, you refer to them as the Leafs.

I'm going to buy in to this explanation, and I hope the other Vartys who read this agree with me. Or perhaps the other Varties will disagree? You see....it makes sense for now, and forever.

In days of yore, from Britain's shore,

Wolfe, the dauntless hero, came 

And planted firm Britannia's flag 

On Canada's fair domain. 

Here may it wave, our boast our pride 

And, joined in love together, 

The thistle, shamrock, rose entwine 

The Maple Leaf forever!


Chorus:
The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear, 

The Maple Leaf forever!

God save our Queen and Heaven bless

The Maple Leaf forever!

At Queenston Heights and Lundy's Lane,

Our brave fathers, side by side,

For freedom, homes and loved ones dear,

Firmly stood and nobly died;

And those dear rights which they maintained,

We swear to yield them never!

Our watchword evermore shall be

"The Maple Leaf forever!"

Chorus

Our fair Dominion now extends

From Cape Race to Nootka Sound;

May peace forever be our lot,

And plenteous store abound:

And may those ties of love be ours

Which discord cannot sever,

And flourish green o'er freedom's home

The Maple Leaf forever!

Chorus

On merry England's far famed land

May kind heaven sweetly smile,

God bless old Scotland evermore

and Ireland's Em'rald Isle!

And swell the song both loud and long

Till rocks and forest quiver!

God save our Queen and Heaven bless

The Maple Leaf forever!

Chorus

The Maple Leaf Forever is a Canadian song written by Alexander Muir (1830–1906) in 1867, the year of Canada's Confederation. Therein ends today's Canadian Heritage Moment...almost.

Today's Patriotic Challenge: do you know where Cape Race and Nootka Sound are located?

November March May Have August Aspirations

There is some irony seeing an image of protesters, wearing clothing made with fossil fuels, protesting fossil fuels. Their signs were made using fossil fuels. Everything about them is fueled by fossils. I could only take them 100% seriously if they were naked or draped in grape leaves, and then I'd be too distracted to even absorb what they were protesting.

It's kind of like Al Gore trying to reduce greenhouse gas emissions while living in a monster house and driving a monster vehicle. I'll confess that I don't know where he lives or what he drives, but I doubt he lives in a two bedroom semi-detached or drives a fuel efficient Toyota Echo. Al is doing some good work, but is he saving the planet....or money for himself?

The Fossil Free UofT marchers state on their poster 'It's us or fossil fuel corporations. Choose us.' I believe that fossil fuel corporations are NOT the problem. WE are the problem. Fossil fuel corporations supply a demand, and WE demand the product. WE need to change OUR ways first. We are the addicts, they are the dealers. Only once we wean ourselves of our habit will the fossil fuel corporations become dinosaurs. We need the Government to help us.

Personally, I believe that our Governments are at fault, and since the Government is the people, then we know where we should point our fingers...at ourselves. Government is the one organization that can effect change most effectively, so let's target Government, not the corporations. That said, we'd best keep an eye on the fossil fuel corporations too because they're only really concerned with making money. BIG Money. I doubt they give a real shit about the places where they drill, or the aftermath of their activities.

I'm not poo-pooing this protest march. In fact, I'm all for it but I think their sights are set on the wrong target.

CHUMP, I AM

I walked past this poster the other day and I was struck by how stupid I was, at least in the pop culture arena. The poster extolled the simple virtue of CHUM-FM and their crackerjack deejays...today's best music.

Here's the stupid part....the poster mentioned the names of Roger, Darren and Marilyn, but there were four people on the poster. I don't recognize any of the people on the poster, so if they're famous singers, then I'm either out of touch or stunned, likely both.

The one with the jazzy yellow collar looks like a pop star and not a scuzzy deejay, but I'll be damned if I know who he is. I'm fairly sure the guy on the right is Fredericton's own Taylor White. What's he doing on a Toronto radio station's billboard.

I'm confused and out of touch...and I've never been happier. In the 1980s I educated my father as to the heartthrobs and stars of the 80s music scene. Now I think I need a tutor to get me through the 2010s. Anyone willing to coach me? Does anyone know who these mugs are on the poster, since I'm pretty sure they're not the deejays?

A Rake Of Sunshine

I've decided that I need to be more 'charitable' to the people of Toronto, but why bother being charitable to strangers (who potentially could be nefarious sidewalk texters) when I can be charitable to good friends? I've offered my landscaping services, for free*, to a couple of friends of mine and Wendy's. To protect their identity and the sanctity of their garden, let me just refer to them as Peter and Robert (not their real names..wink, wink).

So, Ian, why are you volunteering? That seems out of character.

I'm volunteering for somewhat selfish reasons. I need to be active. It's a physical need. Yes, I could go to the gym, and I do, but it's not the kind of exercise that I want. When I'm landscaping I'm working towards something creative and/or aesthetically pleasing. It's good for the mind and body. When I leave a gym, everything looks the same as when I arrived (i.e. no rock walls built, no leaves raked, no muscles getting any bigger). Going to the gym is better than nothing, but it feels hollow in the garden of my mind.

Peter and Robert's garden is interesting to me. It's a perfect rectangle and very different from my own irregularly shaped property in Cambridge-Narrows. The shape of the garden practically begs for the introduction of round, soft shapes. Peter has already started this by laying down a snaking granite block walkway through the middle of the garden, from front to back. Very clever and effective.

So far I've raked about 20 bags of leaves/debris. I've cleaned out some tangled garden vegetation. I cut down a dead tree. I've extended the granite walkway by reclaiming some granite blocks. I have a few other ideas, but as it's not my garden I have to temper my plans. They probably wouldn't go for a three-times life-size bronze statue of me anyway. Or would they? In any event, I'm not yet done for this season.

A big thanks to Peter and Robert for allowing me to 'feel real' in this city. I hope my landscaping services will be an annual, on-going event.


* by working for money I'd lose my designation as 'Leisurologist' and that ain't gonna happen!

Harvey Station From Above

There are three types of airline passengers as far as I'm concerned: those who demand window seats, those who prefer aisle seats, and those who simply don't care where they sit. I know where I stand when it comes to where I sit...I 'demand' a window seat.

I love flying and I love the view from above. I was born to be an eagle. Gawd, just look at me. I've got the beak. I've got the wingspan. I've got the (bird) brain. Where the hell are my feathers?!?!?

When I fly (commercially) I spend the entire time looking out the window, watching admiringly at the ground below. I see field and fountain, moor and mountain. Actually, I've never seen a fountain from the air, but I'm usually ready to create one myself by the time the flight ends (and unlike my mother, I always find the 'gender correct' washroom).

That reminds me of a story, and I hope I get the details correct. One time my parents were flying somewhere and they had a bit of time to kill in the airport terminal. My dad decided that he needed to go to the washroom, so off he went. My mom decided, moments later, that she too had to use the washroom. Imagine my dad's horror when mom walked into the same washroom where dad was likely washing his hands. Though I wasn't there (thankfully), I believe the conversation went something like this:

Mom: Bill! What are you doing in the ladies' washroom?

Dad: It's the men's washroom.

Mom: (indignant) No it isn't.

Dad: (equally indignant) Yes it is.

At this point mom looked around and saw the urinals.

The score: Dad 1, Mom 0

I scored a nice image of Harvey Station when I flew from Toronto to Fredericton on October 21. It looked wonderful from the air. You can clearly see Harvey Lake and you can see Cherry Mountain at the top of the lake. Amazingly, I have never done anything in or on Harvey Lake in my 27 years of marriage to a Harvey Stationite, other than photograph the lake from the air. That's just plane weird.

Fashion Bashion

You know that I'm very much interested in fashion, right? Umm, wrong. I think fashion is often outrageous, wasteful (by times) and sadly shallow. Even more so, it's inefficient unless you think a $1400 manbag is going to get you what you deserve in life. Yesterday I was flipping through EnRoute magazine when I stumbled upon the fashion page.

Oh. My. God.

The model, who I'm sure is a nice young man and likely terribly embarrassed by everything except the pay-cheque, is dressed like my granny. And what's with the handbag? Masher!

He. Looks. Ridiculous.

Oh, but it's far more than looking ridiculous. It's criminally wasteful of money. I can type this with impunity while wearing my $25 DC jeans from Winners (that fit like a glove and keep my privates warm with military precision). Let's take a closer look at his ensemble:

Coat: $595
Sweater: $114
Chemise: $45
Pants: $325
Chaussures: $325
Bag: $1435
Watch: $2400
Chaussettes: $16

The grand total of this man's 'look' is $5255. I repeat, $5255. The car which I recently bought cost about $7000 (tax included).

This. Is. Madness.

Maybe this fashion page appears simply for the shock value. Maybe the people at EnRoute know that dolts like me will be talking about the over-sized manbag to their beer swillin' buddies (and blog readership). Maybe people will be encouraged to fly Air Canada just to read enRoute (in disbelief). Air Canada always gives me something to gasp about....what, no pretzels anymore?! <insert gasping sound>. A $1400 manbag.<insert gasping sound>. You get the picture, and I apologize for today's.

Lest you think me full of negative energy, allow me to end on a positive note. Did you happen to notice that model-boy is wearing flood pants? Serious flood pants. This is my 'in' to fashion because I can do flood pants without trying. Buying pants long enough for my skin stilts is excruciatingly difficult. Even in places like Toronto, I can't find pants long enough for my Wilt-the-stilt gams. I suspect that the flood pant look is not functional (oh, it's raining) other than to show off metro-sexual man's pretty chaussettes (a bargain at $16, in relative terms, though I can get a three-pack of tube socks at Winners for $8).

All of this fashion talk reminds me of a story....I know that I don't dress as fashionably as other Toronto men, particularly in our neighbourhood (or Yorkville). I dress myself like a rural New Brunswick man (a dim-witted victim from a David Adams Richards novel). One day Wendy and I were walking along a Toronto side street when I got all excited. I spotted a man who was dressed just like me, in our neighbourhood! He was wearing white sneakers, khaki cargo pants, a red-checked lumberjack-jack-jack-jack-jacket and a ball cap. Here's how my brief conversation with Wendy unfolded:

Ian: (effusively) Look! There's someone dressed just like me!!

Wendy: (dryly) Ian, that's a homeless person.

Ian: Sigh (not really).

My New Shampoo Is Working!

I have a few friends who have bucket lists. You know what a bucket list is, right? It's a list of things to do before you die, not that death has to be imminent. I don't have a bucket list, but I do have a bucket that I use it when I'm at work.

Most bucket lists involve travel and adventure. I have one friend who recently played golf at the famed links of Pebble Beach. I stayed home and ate sausage links and PEI's Linkletter brand potatoes.

So, do I have a bucket list? Actually, no, but I think I'd like to grow my hair out before I die. Alas, the bucket list has to be comprised of things that are actually doable. Hey, I could buy a wig....or have my niece Franny sit behind me for extended periods of time.

How do you like my new look?

Weiner Supreme (the ultimate culinary oxymoron which includes a misspelling)

 I ate a lot of hot dogs as a child because they were quick to make and they tasted good (note: my taste buds were not fully formed). As an adult I eat about one hot dog a year, and that's plenty.

My Mom's nursing home, which is excellent I must say, never serves hot dogs....they serve wiener supreme (note: I misspelled wiener in the images but I'm too damned lazy to go back and change the spelling at this point...I'm a busy leisurologist after all).

Wiener supreme is, of course, a hot dog but what makes it 'supreme' is the manner in which it is sliced down the middle and then topped with cheese. A cheese slice. As Mom is currently eating her food in a ground consistency, her wiener supreme does not include cheese. So basically she's eating a minced hot dog. Based on the first image, I'd say she's pretty happy to be eating wiener supreme. Based on the second image....not so much. When I was feeding her the wiener supreme she'd often screw up her face like this. It was quite comical and I think she was having some fun with it too, but you never can be sure.

Three Brothers, Two Beards

Believe it or not, this is the 'normal' photograph.

And now with three beards....the evil Protestant sea captain look for me!

And now the 'real normal'

A Birthday Party For Wendy

The Varty family threw a birthday party for Wendy yesterday. We had great food, delicious drinks, and a cake with a candle. We had everything...except Wendy's presence!

Happy Birthday, Wendy!

It's November 8, the day that Wendy made her first public appearance. The year was 1962. Doing some quick math, or scanning today's stolen image, you'll deduce that Wendy is now fifty-two.

Fifty-two. Sounds good to my ears. It doesn't sound old unless you're twenty-two (JNV). It doesn't sound young unless you're eighty-seven (Mootha). It's just right!

Fifty-two weeks in a year. Fifty-two cards in a deck. It's a balanced number. In addition (from Wikipedia), Fifty-two is the 6th Bell number and a decagonal number. It is an untouchable number, since it is never the sum of proper divisors of any number, and it is a noncototient since it is never the answer to the equation x - φ(x).

I didn't understand a damned bit of that either. Happy birthday, Wendy. At fifty-two, you're simply perfect. Of course I'll be saying that when you're fifty-three as well. Oh, and congratulations on reaching the decagonally delightful and noteworthy 6th Bell number, I guess.

Last Wall And Testament

Someday, Julian, all of this will be yours....if you want. Okay, now that I've got my last wall and testament out of the way, let's get down to the facts of my rock wall building year.

It all started back in May or June. I decided that I wanted to build two walls on the property. I enlisted Julian to help as I wasn't sure that my back would be able to do the heavy lifting. We built the two walls (thank you, Julian) and it didn't kill my back.

Julian retired after those two walls but I decided that I could build them on my own so I kept going. I built twelve more walls! I would estimate that I made 60 trips to the rock pit and I carried about 750 pounds of rock in every load. That's 45 000 pounds of rock. When you think about it, I had to lift this rock into the car, then I had to lift this rock out of the car and into the wheelbarrow. Finally I had to lift the rock out of the wheelbarrow and place it in a wall. Doing the math: 3 lifts x 45 000 pounds = 135 000 pounds of rocks lifted. Julian probably lifted 10 to 15% of the total so that still leaves me lifting over a hundred thousand pounds of rocks <insert thunderous applause>.

Building rock walls has not killed my back, it's saved my back! No one is more shocked than me. My back, though far from perfect, feels better than it has in 10 years, plus my yard looks better than ever. Today's image is of my latest rock wall. It's the last one I will build this year and since I'm selling the Ford Focus wheelbarrow, it may be my last wall period. Too bad, because I loved doing it. I was born to do manual labour. I'm a grunt.  I eschew the suit, tie and office.

Here's another look at The Last Wall....

I built it to raise a flower bed that was in a low spot on the property. During heavy rains or the spring melt, my perennials would almost drown. With the newly raised beds they'll prosper.

So what will I do with my life now? In the next few days I'm going to be raking leaves like a demon. Beyond that I really don't know.

Before I sign off, I want to say a massive THANK YOU to Harold and Joan Jones. Harold owns and operates the rock pit where I got every single rock. Harold wouldn't take any money for the rocks, though I did manage to give him a gift certificate to one of his favourite stores. He didn't really want any compensation for all of the rocks that I took, and he tried (unsuccessfully) to give the gift certificate back. Harold's donation of rocks to my property was an incredibly generous gift, and I've thanked him profusely for it. He's a class act. Harold even went out of his way to use his excavator to make more rocks available to me. A lot of people try to keep up with the Jones'. I effusively thank them.

Give It Up For......

I've had a bad back for twenty years and in that time I've had to give up a few things like I like and a few things that I love. Volleyball, which I loved, had to be dropped. Ditto for trampoline training. Biking, which I only barely liked, is gone-daddy-gone.

For years I've been stating that windsurfing will be the last sport to go and, thankfully, I'm no where near retiring from that sport. When I do finally have to hang up my harness, I'll undoubtedly continue to photograph the sport.

Now, let it be known that I didn't take today's image. This image was taken by one of windsurfing's pre-eminent photographers, a Brit called John Carter. The windsurfer in the image is American Robby Naish, the most famous windsurfer of all time (never heard of him, eh?). The location: Hookipa, Maui, perhaps the best known windsurfing spot on the planet. Anybody who's anybody in the windsurfing world has windsurfed there. I haven't (but I took pictures there in 2005 if that counts for anything).

I think this picture captures the beauty of windsurfing in just about every sense. It also captures the beauty of nature. The two are interminably intertwined.

PhD In Leisurology

If you click on today's image you'll be whisked away to a magical place. It's called Youtube. Perhaps you've heard of it?

Today's blog feature is a video. I've combined some high speed rock picking with an original song written by the Village Idiots. The song is called PhD  In Leisurology, and I think it was written in my honour.

The Village Idiots are: Julian Varty (guitar), Shane Armstrong (bass), and Ken Appleby on drums (he's the sexy one, but he's too sexy for this viewing audience so you won't actually see him on the video). I used to be a member of the Village Idiots but I ran away with another bunch of rockers.

As they say in bad restaurants when they deliver your goat-burger and grease fries....enjoy!

This Is My Kid...On Baked Goods

For my entire life I've had people tell me how much Julian looks like Wendy. I agree, although every now and then someone has said that he looks like me. I just smile politely and then feed their seeing-eye dog a Milk Bone.

When you compare Julian's baby photos to Wendy's, you can hardly tell them apart. I'm not complaining. Just because Wendy's genetic code destroyed mine, well, it's nothing to get upset about. It's not like I'm going to go out in my neighbourhood and tip tractors, burn outhouses, etc.

Regardless of who Julian resembles, he's his own person. The fact that he's now studying economics and he used to play football....that puts him in a league of his own. Although....Wendy can throw a mean spiral and I'm a home economist.

I am intrigued by today's image. It would appear that when you put Julian in front of a baked good that he does, kind of, take on the appearance of his father, albeit with better hair and teeth. He's attacking an adult Pop Tart from Toronto's Harbord Bakery. I once wore that same expression at the Harbord Bakery, but only upon discovering the price they charged for their donut holes.

Perhaps I should have cropped today's image and ran it as a contest....

What Has Shocked Julian?

My answer: he just saw Renee Zellweger's new look.

Can you do better than my answer? The Grand Prize winner of this contest will get a donut hole from the Harbord Bakery. Good luck!

Holy J_____s!

Those who know me well know that I rarely swear, but the first words out of my mouth this morning were 'Holy Jumpins'! It was a rude awakening to see snow. I'll apologize to my tender readers for using such profanity, but be it known that I occasionally say sh_t under my breath too. There....it's out. I suppose my political career is over with this revelation. Alas, I was never cut out for public office, like 51% of the people we elect.

Snow. We had snow overnight and it's only November 3. Sigh...drat/dang/shucks (a veritable barrage of profanity as Ian 'loses it'). I desperately need to rake my lawn this week, and my father's lawn too, so this snow better depart soon.

Stress. All of this PLUS it's garbage day today. I haven't even looked out my snowshoes yet. I'm wholly unprepared for this morning. Holy jumpins.

Holy jumpins. That's an odd expression, and it makes me wonder where it came from. So far as I know I first heard it coming from the mouths of Robbie and Peter Allaby, likely given to them by their older brothers. I doubt that speaks to its origin. I'll do a little internet sleuthing to see what I can find, even though most of what you read on the internet (this blog included) is full of shit stuff.

Here's some copy that I stole from someone else's blog:

Most folks tend to agree that the phrase is one of many used as  alliterative euphemisms – phrases to replace profane swearing or cussing.  Instead of crying out, “Jesus!” or “Jesus Christ!” different words were substituted that had the same initial consonants.  So for “Jesus!” folks might shout out “Jeepers!” or, for “Jesus Christ”, “Jiminy Cricket! and Jeepers Creepers!” are common substitutes.  The list is endless.  One of my favorites I first heard when we lived in the northwest corner of Vermont, in St. Albans.  The favorite JC phrase there is “Jeesum Crow!”

As far as the name, “Jehosaphat” (also spelled Jehoshaphat, Jehosephat, and about as many different ways as you can think of) goes, he was a prominent King of Judah, the son of Asa.  There are a number of stories concerning this mostly righteous and God-fearing king that can be found in scripture.  Possibly the best known of the stories is found in 2 Chronicles, Chapter 20. It is a rather fun read – especially using “The Message” translation.  What you won’t find there, or anywhere else in scripture is a reference to Jehosaphat doing any jumping.  So, go figure.

And therein ends today's lesson because I've got to go outside. Someone pass me my gosh darned shovel.

I'm A Gluten For Punishment

Dear Kijiji,

I love you.

Fondly,

Ian Varty

In the old days I used to read the Daily Gleaner, Fredericton's six-day-a-week fish n' chip wrapper/newspaper/budgie cage liner. These days I find the Gleaner to be little more than a bland manila folder for the flyers that accompany the paper. As a newspaper it's very uninspiring. It has no soul. No personality. It does, however, have some great typos from time to time. There have been some real doozies over the years.

I no longer glean the Gleaner as it's been usurped by the internet. To the credit of cbc.ca, where I get most on my on-line news, I rarely, if ever, find a typo except in the 'comments' section where typos are an epidemic. Just because you can start a computer, don't assume that you can spell or craft a coherent sentence. Your comments are proof that you can read, but not proof that you can proofread.

Without my daily fix of the Daily Gleaner, and not a viewer of the Daily Show, I need to find daily humour elsewhere. Enter Kijiji. Let me just say right off the bat that I love Kijiji. I have bought and sold many wonderful items there. I have also found a delightful source of humour in the many typos I regularly see. Take today's image for example. That camera is barley used! I'm assuming that it's not being sold by a grain farmer or an agronomist, and that it's simply a typo. Or could it be the work of someone with a rye sense of humour? <insert wink>

Toast

"My name is Barbara from Lunenburg and I'm interested in barbershop."

Those were the last words I heard before I thrust my hands toward my clock-radio, like a bayonet into a known enemy, and turned the god-damned thing off.

Welcome to Weekend Morning. <insert whinny in 3, 2, 1....now!>

Sigh.

I start almost every morning by listening to the CBC radio news. On the weekend it just happens to be a local (Maritime) show featuring some of my least favourite music. Where else can you hear a Barbara Streisand/Michael Bublé duet, a novelty song about a chicken (they incorrectly played the wrong novelty chicken song the previous week), Hank Snow singing about a train engineer's son, a contest where inane people guess the same incorrect answer week after tedious week, and a horse whinnying? I defy you to find another radio station that would do this to their listening audience....and the audience can't get enough of it.

So, Ian, why were you listening to this program? You claim to dislike it vehemently, but....

It's a total train wreck and I can't pull myself from the wreckage. I need to make sure that the train engineer's son is safe, plus there's no other radio station in New Brunswick where I'm more or less guaranteed not to hear a Kim Mitchell song or something by The Headpins. For that fact alone, I love my CBC.

On the upside, the musical selections make the 7 a.m. news more palatable (war, famine, eBola, violence, hockey scores). Even Jian made it into the morning news. Two women have approached the police with complaints of abuse at the hands of Mr.Ghomeshi. Good, I say, even though almost everything about this news/life story is bad. Very bad. If the allegations are true, then let's let the court deal with them. That's where they belong because it's a legal matter, not one that should be played out in a Toronto Star article or anywhere else other than a court of law (speaking in terms of formal justice).