So Bye-Bye Mr.Canadian Pie

A long, long time ago
I can still remember how that blog used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while

But February made me shiver
With every blog I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the blog died.

Today is that day. I've driven to the levee (in The Dumbo) and you know what I found? It was dry. It's time to move on.

The. Blog. Is. Dead. (Le. Blog. Est. Mort., for my French viewers)

Here's a few interesting stats about the blog:

- it was started on May 22, 2012

- in 2012 I posted 93 blogs

- in 2013 I posted 289 blogs

- in 2014 I posted 365 blogs

- in 2015 I posted 44 blogs

- I used 960 images or illustrations in the blog.

- my most viewed blog was 'Tales From White-Tails' (May 26, 2014) which got 328 views. This stat is a bit depressing because this particular blog didn't really say much other than 'white-tailed deer are called white-tailed deer because they have white tails'. This scintillating text was accompanied by an attractive photo.

- I've had 25 849 page views since the blog started. 14 202 of those views came from Canada. 5268 from the United States. 1116 from Germany. 1093 from Russia. 591 France. 441 Ukraine. 319 Malaysia. 264 Poland. 219 Latvia. 203 Turkey. My spider-senses kind of make me feel that a few people stumbled onto the blog while tripping on the web.

- 30% of my viewers used Firefox as their browser. Safari 24%. Chrome 23%. Internet Explorer 17%.

- 51% of my viewers use Windows as their operating system. 26% Macintosh. 6% Linux. 6% iPad. 4% iPhone. 3% Android.

The most astounding stat that I saw was that someone from Afghanistan looked at my blog last week. Actually that's the second most astounding thing about this blog. The first most astounding thing is......drum roll, please........that you read it! Thank you, and bye-bye.

Ian V.
Friday the 13th, February, 2015

Git Yer Woman Runnin' ('Head' Out On The Sidewalk)

It's been a little over a year and a half since Wendy started jogging. I'm proud to say that she's still motivated to gyrate her gams regularly. She goes downstairs to our condo gym three mornings a week and jogs on the treadmill. If for some reason she can't make it to the gym, she genuinely misses the running and feels less good.

I'm impressed by all of this. I'm so impressed that I decided to put Wendy on the cover of Canadian Running magazine. Wendy's aunt Carolyn will be envious, as will PT who was once a world class marathoner before giving it up to play Radiohead on piano (don't ask...there may well be an explanation in tomorrow's blog).

Go To Hell: Tickets From $50 (for a good cause)

Pope Frank has been having one hell of a time in the past year or so. In May 2014 he announced that mobsters can't take 'blood stained money' to the after-life. Here's more of what he said...

"This life that you live now won't give you pleasure. It won't give you joy or happiness," he said. "Blood-stained money, blood-stained power, you can't bring it with you to your next life. Repent. There's still time to not end up in hell, which is what awaits you if you continue on this path."

In January of 2014 a story circulated that Pope Frank said
that the Roman Catholic Church "no longer believes in a literal hell where people suffer."  The story also attributed the Pope as saying that hell was a "literary device" and "metaphor."

The story was untrue...a media hoax. You can't believe everything you read or see on the internet, including my blog.

Now, imagine the excitement at World Baptist Headquarters (somewhere in the deep southern United States) when this false media report hit the internet. I can imagine that they would have been in a tizzy. It's my understanding that the Born-Again Baptists are not big fans of the Catholic Church. If what the Pope said was true then the Baptists would have had to re-write all of their marketing material and re-tool their rhetoric, plus printing is rather expensive. Their marketing department would have been in utter chaos. They, no doubt, are happy that hell is back in vogue.

So, Ian, what are your thoughts on hell?

Oh, that's easy. I believe that hell was invented to control people. It's one of the most effective marketing tools ever invented. And I do mean 'invented'. I firmly believe that. 

Hell, I proffer, exists in two places:

1) the mind
2) on Earth today.

Hell exists for those who suffer at the hands of ISIS, military conflict, domestic dispute, racism, intolerance, bullying, disease, Vikings, famine, etc. All human-made conditions (mostly man-made). This is the hell that I mention as being 'on Earth today'. The other hell (shall we call it the biblical hell?) lives in the mind, but only if you believe in it.

I suppose there is one other kind of hell....a blended hell that lives in your mind but may also exist on Earth. 

I assume that explains today's image?

Ninety-One!

My Dad (and #1 blog reader) turned 91 years old yesterday. You'd think at this age he'd sit high up on a mountain top, espousing wisdom. He would, except there are no mountains in New Brunswick, plus it would be rather chilly sitting outdoors at the moment.

Dad does, however, sit high on a hill and he often quotes National Geographic to me. Sometimes he quotes Scientific American but he knows most of that is lost on me (as I am not inclined toward the sciences).

Math is more my subject. Take a look at the spin I put on my Dad's birthday card.

Ian, is math a science? Maybe you are a scientific genius? This card has changed my view on you. In fact, it's done a 180.

Is math a science? That's a tricky question. Let's do some scientific investigating (Wikipedia)....

Carl Friedrich Gauss (1777-1855) was a German born mathematician, often being credited as one of the best (not much competition...hehe). Gauss referred to math as the 'Queen of Sciences'. I'm unsure what the King of Sciences was but I assume that it was Entomology, but I can't bee sure.

Just because Gauss called math the Queen of Sciences doesn't mean that math is a science. Gauss could have been a royal bullshitter as well as a mathematical genius.

"In the original Latin Regina Scientiarum, as well as in German Königin der Wissenschaften, the word corresponding to science means a "field of knowledge", and this was the original meaning of "science" in English, also; mathematics is in this sense a field of knowledge. The specialization restricting the meaning of "science" to natural science follows the rise of Baconian science, which contrasted "natural science" to scholasticism, the Aristotelean method of inquiring from first principles."

I didn't Aristotally understand a word of that, but I'm pretty sure that I saw the phrase 'bacon ian'. Mmmm...bacon.

You really are not a scientist, are you, Ian? You might, however, be a science project. If anyone ever studies the science of 'you are what you eat', then you'd be an interesting case. Oink, oink.

Guilty. I did have bacon on the weekend.

At this point there is no tidy way that I can wrap up today's blog. I can't think any connection between my Dad's 91st birthday yesterday, Carl Gauss, bacon and the question of 'is math a science'. I'll just have to cast you adrift in your own thoughts, blown gently off course by bacon scented winds of nothingness.

The Table Manners Of A Cowntess

My dear Wendy has earned a great reputation over the years. First as an opera singer and shortly afterwards as a voice teacher. Teaching voice is now her full-time profession and passion. She is known widely in operatic circles as a woman who gets results from those with whom she works. She is held in high esteem both publicly and professionally, but what's she like at home?

I know her better than anyone, so who better to speak of her domestic loveliness than me? But why speak when I can share a little video that I shot? Here's a look at Wendy that the public never sees, at least not since The Ponderosa steakhouse on Prospect Street (F'ton) shut down its salad bar in 1984.

Been There, Dundas?

I've got the remnants of a mild head cold this morning and, as such, I don't feel like writing anything . I really shouldn't even write this much, but I do owe my dear readers a few words.

This street art (alley mural) was photographed near Dundas Street West and Dufferin Street. I have no idea what the artist was saying, but I liked his/her style. That's one expressive face.

Okay, I'm done writing. Now I must go back to feeling sorry for myself.

Real Fur For Real?

It seems like everyone in our condo building has a dog, so Wendy thought she would get me a dog too. Wendy knows that my days are long and lonely, and that a dog would keep me company and give me plenty to do.

Yeah, it'll give you something to 'do' all right, like picking up dog doo-doo and vacuuming dog hairs.

One day, out of the blue, Wendy showed up at the condo with a Spaniel. It wasn't a Cocker Spaniel, an angry little breed of ankle biters of which I'm familiar with, but a Royal Cloaker Spaniel. It turns out that the Royal Cloaker Spaniel is a royal Egyptian breed.

In honour of the dog's heritage I wanted to name it Anwar Sadat, but Wendy wouldn't go for it. I then suggested Hosni Mobarkat but, again, Wendy ixnayed the name. We finally decided on Rover although when Wendy's not around I still call the dog Anwar. Please don't tell her about this. Oh, I suppose it doesn't really matter now (sigh)....

Anwar ran away.

Last week I was walking Anwar in Allan Gardens and he managed to get off his leash. He took off and I never saw him again. I looked high and low, every day, for a week but no sigh of Anwar. I put up signs but still no luck. Yesterday I decided to go back one more time in case anyone had seen him. I spoke to a couple of women who I often see in the park near the fenced off dog park area, One of women was named Cruella De Something-or-other (I think she was Romanian). Odd name. Anyway she curtly claimed that she never saw my dog and then walked away rather briskly.

It's weird but I had a strange sense that Anwar was nearby yesterday. I felt that Cruella knew something but wasn't telling me the truth. I guess I'll never know.

The Wheat Of Zeus

Wendy and I invited friends over for brunch last Sunday. We had a spectacularly good visit as we hadn't seen each other in over 15 years (lots to talk about). We laughed our faces off, as we did 15 years earlier. Some people never change....thankfully!

Our friends, who shall remain nameless to protect their identity, brought us three thoughtful gifts. Today I'm choosing to write about one of them....a persimmon.

Can you believe that I've never eaten a persimmon before? This is amazing especially when you consider that my Dad was directly evolved from chimpanzees, in one generation. My gawd that man can eat fruit, and not just apples and oranges. He'll eat anything that's even loosely considered a fruit, yet I don't ever remember having persimmons in the house. How odd.

This shouldn't come as too much of a shock though. Fredericton is a bit of a backwater when it comes to exotic fruit and vegetables. We just got avocados two years ago, and mangoes are scheduled to arrive in 2016. I remember the near riots of 2012 when Granny Smith apples were introduced at Tingley's. People weren't clamouring to get them as they did for Tickle-Me-Elmos. Au contraire, people were running away from them screaming things like 'a sure sign of the apocalypse' and 'devil come out'. Selling exotic fruit in Fredericton is an exorcise in fruitility.

And along came a Toronto persimmon....

When I was given the persimmon I didn't know what to do with it. It was the most gorgeous of fruit; a rich orange in colour which blended well with our condo colour scheme. I half thought of using the persimmon as an accent to our decor, maybe even building a special shelf on which to display it to future admiring guests. Wendy thought this was a rotten idea. In the end we ate the persimmon and enjoyed it very much.

All this talk of persimmons, Ian, but what do you actually know about persimmons? Where are they grown, for example?

I know nothing about persimmons. This is a job for Wikipedia!

From Wikipedia: Persimmons are the edible fruit of a number of species of trees in the genus Diospyros. The ripe fruit has a high glucose content. The protein content is low, but it has a balanced protein profile. Persimmon fruits have been put to various medicinal and chemical uses.

The word Diospyros comes from the ancient Greek words "dios" and "pyros". In context, this means more or less "divine fruit", though its literal meaning is closer to "Wheat of Zeus". It is, however, sufficiently confusing to have given rise to some curious interpretations, such as "God's pear"

Diospyros kaki is native to China. It is deciduous, with broad, stiff leaves and is known as the shizi, and also as the Japanese Persimmon or kaki in Japanese. It is the most widely cultivated species. Its fruits are sweet, and slightly tangy with a soft to occasionally fibrous texture. Cultivation of the fruit extended first to other parts of east Asia, India and Pakistan, and was later introduced to California and southern Europe in the 1800s, to Brazil in the 1890s. It is edible in its crisp firm state, but has its best flavor when allowed to rest and soften slightly after harvest.

• In Ozark folklore, the severity of the upcoming winter is said to be predictable by slicing a persimmon seed and observing the cutlery-shaped formation within it.
• In Korean folklore the dried persimmon has a reputation for scaring away tigers.
• In Vietnam, the fruit is a part of Mid-Autumn Festival offering.
• In traditional Chinese medicine the fruit is thought to regulate ch'i.
• In philosophy, the painting of persimmons by Mu Qi (13th Century) exemplifies the progression from youth to age as a symbol of the progression from bitterness to sweetness. The persimmon when young is bitter and inedible, but as it ages it becomes sweet and agreeable to humankind. Thus, as we age, we overcome rigidity and prejudice to attain compassion and sweetness.

There...I think you now know enough to go buy one for yourself or to give one as a gift.

Everyone Has A Nemesis Or Two

Almost every day I walk along Wellesley Street, and the same thing keeps happening over and over. I keep encountering the same guy in the same place and all I want to do is punch him in the face. He's never actually said anything to me but he always gives me the same rotten look. I try to ignore him but it's not easy. I've thought of using physical aggression against him but I have to be careful. I've got a bad back and he looks like he's pretty solidly built. He's got a thick neck and a tough looking mug. I've even contemplated bringing a billy club, as an 'insurance policy' with me, and really giving him the goods!

I suppose everyone has a nemesis. Superman had Lex Luthor. Batman had a host of archenemies: the Joker, the Riddler, and most recently White Nose Syndrome. Sherlock Holmes had Moriarty. Darkwing Duck versus Negaduck. The entire television audience (those with high IQs and a pulse) against Ben Mulroney. The Road Runner has Wile E. Coyote as a nemesis...or did (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54d21XS_GbQ).

I assume that if I have a nemesis, and all these characters have nemeses, that you probably have a nemesis. I think it's quite natural to have a nemesis or two. The funny thing is, though I have a nemesis, I can't imagine that I'm anyone's nemesis. And if you don't see yourself as anyone's nemesis, then there must be a slew of people out there who are the nemesis to many. I already gave you Ben Mulroney as an example, but there are countless others: Kevin O'Leary, Donald Trump, Donkey Kong.

Do you now, or have you ever, had a nemesis? Perhaps it was someone who bullied you, or someone who got the promotion at work that you didn't get. I can easily imagine that you would. Can you imagine what my Toronto nemesis looks like? What kind of an idiot would stare me down daily for no apparent reason? Well, I have good news. I did manage to take a picture of him. Look at the coldness in his eyes and his sour scowl. This guy is trouble.

Imperial Reproductive Futures (Academic Gobbledygook?)

One of my longstanding blog readers recently sent me something that I felt worth sharing with my readership of six and three quarter souls. What you'll see below is the text from a poster that appeared on a university bulletin board. I assume that it, like most things that appear on bulletin boards, was intended to inform the public about an upcoming event. Rarely have I ever read something so incomprehensible, and this includes posters written in foreign languages!

Enough talk! Why don't you take a look and form your own opinion....

The Department of English and Cultural Studies and the Graduate Program in Gender Studies and Feminist Research are pleased to present:

Cecily Devereux, Professor
Department of English and Film Studies, University of Alberta

"Reproduction Fetishism:  Salome, The Maternal Body and Early Twentieth-Century Erotic Dance"

Wednesday, February 11, 2015, 2:30 PM
HSC 1A4

Cecily Devereux’s work engages broadly with questions of gender, race, and mobility in the late years of the long nineteenth century of British imperial expansion, focusing primarily on popular cultural texts that circulate across the Canadian context, and on the ways in which those texts index particular histories of the performance of femininity and the place of the female body in social space.

This paper focuses on a pivotal moment in the history of the erotic dance business—Canadian-born dancer Maud Allan’s sensational performance of “The Vision of Salome” in the first decade of the twentieth century—tracing the ways in which this dance, in particular, stages the white maternal body as it is valued in the context of empire’s commerce in imperial reproductive futures.


Me again...this presentation might be the most interesting talk ever given in the history of imperial reproductive futures, but sadly no one knows what imperial reproductive futures are. My best guess is that it involves the likelihood of getting pregnant if you're a dancer who eats margarine. The dear reader who sent me this information summed things up more succinctly: 

I think "Pole Dancing in Victorian England" may have got more to the point.

That headline might have put my bum in a lecture hall seat. As it stands, I won't be sitting because I have no idea, as in zero clue, what this presentation is about thanks to a few paragraphs of textbook-worthy academic gobbledygook. When academics talk only to other academics, the world of 'street people' like me is neither propelled nor nudged forward. The future is not enhanced (imperial reproductives not withstanding).

The Names Have Changed....So Has The Menu

I grew up in the most white bred of white bread suburban neighbourhoods: Skyline Acres in Fredericton, N.B.. Everyone was middle class. Everyone had kids. Everyone knew someone called Dave, they had a neighbour called Dave, or they themselves were named Dave. It was boring as hell, and I'm thankful for the experience.

I hung out with people called Robbie, Peter, Andy, Pam and Doug. Oh, yes, there was also Dave. We ate Campbell's Soup (and we thought it was good). We ate Kraft Dinner (and added hot dog slices to make it gourmet). We had cookies for dessert (they were chocolate chip cookies....the only type guaranteed to not rock anybody's world). No one used white chocolate or macadamia nuts. That would have created a riot.

Fast forward to Toronto 2015. I was at a dinner party for 24 last evening. It was unlike anything I experienced as a child. The names of the guests were 'different' as you can see in the comparative chart I produced for this morning's blog.

The menu for last night's dinner was outstanding; standing out from what I ate as a child. The salads of my youth might have had iceberg lettuce and tomato slices. Maybe celery, but only for special occasions. Last night's salad was expertly mandolined fennel with orange slices and black olives. There were two pasta dishes offered. The pumpkin ravioli with sage butter was out of this world. In contrast, we only saw pumpkin one day a year in Skyline Acres (and that's if Frankie Crouse didn't steal it off your front doorstep).

Of course there was cheese at the party. No sign of Velveeta or Kraft slices. There was a block of Shropshire blue that probably cost the same as my car (remember The Dumbo?), and was only slightly smaller than The Dumbo. There was one white cheese with hay on the top. A double cream Brie. A truffle goat cheese. An ash-coated goat cheese. A goat cheese with flowers on top. Get the picture?

You aren't in Kansas anymore, little Dorothy. There's no one called Dave here. This is Toronto....get used to it. Now, someone pour me a glass of Akvavit.

The Table Manners Of A Cow

It seems outrageous to me that I once attended the Nova Scotia Agricultural College (1982-1984). I grew up in a placid Fredericton suburb where everyone had a modest house with modest a front and back yard. No one had any acreage. Other than flowers and the odd vegetable garden, there was very little happening agriculturally with one glaring exception. My neighbour's daughter kept a horse in the basement of her parents' house, I believe the civic administrators have since come up with by-laws which prohibit the keeping of 800 pound pets in residential basements. City Hall has no sense of humour.

As a teenager I spent some time on farms, and those were the most miserable times of my life. I had two friends that had relatives that owned farms and I would often be asked to spend the weekend on the farm. Sometimes I would be invited to help with the haying. I loved the countryside but unfortunately I was allergic to animal fur, dust and pollen. These three items are three of the four things that define a farm. The fourth is poop, or manure as they like to call it. Man, you are standing in poop.

You can see that I had no good reason to attend NSAC, but I did anyway.

So what did you learn there, Ian?

I learned how to drink excessively. I learned that farm boys acted like animals and farm girls were built like them. I learned how to give people nicknames. Anyone named Jennifer was quickly re-christened Jen-heffer,although there was one Jennifer who was singled out for the name of Jen-cow. She must have been the biggest of the Bessies. My nickname was Stringbean which had some agricultural overtones. I didn't like that nickname but it was better than my room-mate's nickname: Pindick. He was given that nickname not on account of any genital shortcomings, but rather because he came from the community of Arthurette (N.B.). A year ahead of him at NSAC was another character from Arthurette who was given the nickname Pinhead. You can see the logic, right? Pinhead, then Pindick. Okay, not much logic.

At NSAC I also learned to act like a farm animal, as you'll see in today's video. Have you ever tried to load up a fork with a springy pile of arugula, or get that last piece of arugula off your plate? It doesn't work that well. Cows know best, and I learned the ways of the cow. Try it yourself....it's the best way to eat arugula.

Life Is But A Soap Opera

The Economist magazine has declared Toronto the best city in the world in which to live, narrowly beating out Damascus, San Pedro Sula (Honduras), and Minto (N.B.). What makes Toronto so good? So, umm, livable?

I live here and I'm not sure. I think maybe it's the water, unless dog shit on the sidewalk makes for a winning lifestyle! Yes, it must be the water that puts us over the top. I was doing the dishes last night and was appalled by the amount of soap suds in the sink (in my defence, Wendy applied the dish-washing liquid and filled the sink). We have soft water here in Toronto; lovable, livable, adorable soft water.

Soft water is water that contains little calcium, magnesium, arsenic, mercury, or plutonium 238 (with its associated half-life of 87.7 years), or other unwanted ions.

You mean Ians?

No, I said 'ions'. There are two things that are appealing about soft water:

1) soap lathers well with soft water
2) you don't get a horrible looking yellow stain in your potty (just visit us in Cambridge-Narrows).

In Cambridge-Narrows we have hard water. Our toilet is forever yellowish and looking like I never flush it (which I do, at least once a week). It's like a tar sands tailing pond! When we wash clothes in our Cambridge-Narrows hard water, our whites are never white. It's hell, I tell ya. I get mocked by the other big city house-husbands because my lacy white frocks and bonnets always look stained. The jokes are as 'off colour' as my frilly bonnets. Sigh.

It's tough being you, isn't it, Ian?

It's hard like the water. Thank goodness I spend part of my time rehabilitating in Toronto. Toronto, if nothing else, may be the best city in the world to do the dishes or take a bubble bath. That's worth something. It's the best city in the world to clean the bathroom! My toilet is so clean that you could drink out of it. Many do...and then they go poop on the sidewalk. Bad, Fido!

No, Toronto is not the most livable city in the world. Not if you walk on the sidewalks everyday like I do.

Can Ye Guess Today's Cryptic Puzzle?

Every Saturday morning I acquire the Globe & Mail. I buy it solely for the Cryptic Crossword. Wendy, on the other hand, absorbs everything that is written from the front cover to the back page. She doesn't do the crossword or the Sukoku. I believe this is one of the reasons that we have a successful marriage. We know our own turf.

I love the Cryptic Crossword. It absolutely busts my brains, every week. This morning I've decided to create my own version of a cryptic clue. Unlike what appears in the Globe and Mail, my cryptic is visual. If you look at the three images above and then combine the words you'll end up with one larger word. The word is someone's last name, and it's a name that appears in the tabloids with great frequency.

Sure, this morning's blog is a dollop of fluff. It has the nutritional value of a marshmallow...without any hint of sweetness. Note to my Dad: don't feel badly if you can't figure this one out. In fact, I'd admire you even more if you can't!

A Sticky Situation - Part Deux

This is a heartless expression which is also untrue (except for the line about becoming Premier)....

Those who can't do, teach.
Those who can't teach, teach phys.ed.
Those who can't teach phys.ed. become Premier and ruin the province.
Those who can't do any of the above, blog.

Yesterday I wrote about Douglas Coupland, artist. Why should I write about an artist when I really want to be the artist? Today's video is step #1 in my metamorphosis. It's a small step.

A 'Sticky' Situation

In the year 2011 Wendy was awarded an honorary doctorate from Mount Allison University. She was in good company. Shelagh Rogers was also being given an honorary doctorate, as was some dude called Douglas Coupland. Wendy knew little or nothing about Coupland but mentioned that he gave a riveting speech to the graduates. As if this wasn't enough, Peter Mansbridge (who, it was once noted, looks a lot like my Dad) was the Chancellor at Mount A. It was a star studded cast (Mansbridge being the stud, Rogers/Coupland/Nielsen the stars).

Originally an unspecified honorary doctorate recipient was scheduled to address the graduates. Something happened at the last moment and Shelagh Rogers was asked to make the address, to which she agreed. As it turned out, Mr.Coupland hit the stage before Shelagh and ended up speaking at length. Wendy remembers his speech as being brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that when Coupland was done Shelagh Rogers leaned over to Wendy and said something to the effect of 'how can I go on and speak after such brilliance',

Douglas Coupland's name was loosely on our radar after Wendy's chance encounter in Sackville, New Brunswick, though it wasn't until May 30, 2014 that he re-emerged again in a big way. I read an article in the Globe & Mail about him and I came to the following conclusion.....cool!

I liked his work. It was original, big, bright, whimsical and interactive. Fast forward to January 2015. I happened to noticed that Mr.Coupland's art was being feted by the Royal Ontario Museum and the Museum of Contemporary Canadian Art as part of a collaborative effort. Bingo! This is my chance to see his work firsthand.

I just mentioned that Coupland's work is interactive. Take a look at today's images. Coupland has built a seven foot high likeness of himself. This sculpture currently sits in Holt Renfrew's new men's store on Bloor Street. I assume that it's there to build up excitement for the new exhibition, and to lure people into Holt's new store. I went there yesterday to photograph the sculpture, and not to augment my already impressive menswear collection. If I return to Holt's today, things will be different, but not in a fashion sense.

The public has been invited to chew bubblegum (provided) and stick it to the sculpture. Every day dozens, if not hundreds, of wads are added to the sculpture. Eventually the blackness of the piece will be replaced by gummy rainbow coloured badness. I'm well versed at this kind of art, having spent many enforced (gumless) hours sitting behind a school desk. Now, thanks to Coupland, my nefarious acts of youth are being celebrated in a place that sells $600 shirts.

Victory will be mine, albeit in a $30 shirt from Winner's.

I think I'll go back to Holt Renfrew today and chew up a wad myself. Why photograph and write about art when you can be the artist? On that note, I've decided to challenge myself to do/make a Couplandesque art installation. I'm going to see his exhibition on February 3. I'm hoping, after seeing the exhibit, that I'll be inspired to create my own work. If nothing else, I'll have absorbed a lot of information upon which to chew.

Want to learn more about Douglas Coupland?  http://coupland.com/ or perhaps https://www.artsy.net/artist/douglas-coupland

If you think he's just a visual artist, then I'm sorry to burst your bubble. He's also the author of fourteen novels, numerous essays and God knows what else. It wouldn't surprise me one bit to learn that he has a pet unicorn and can juggle five poached ostrich eggs simultaneously.

What else can I say, other than 'cool'!

RIP - The Little Lap Devil

Computer companies, at least Hewlett Packard, have the strange habit of asking you to name your computer when you first set it up. I never thought a traditional name sounded quite right, thus my computers were never called Ben, Caroline, Mark or Nicholas.

I remember naming my first desktop computer 'the devil box'. When I bought my first laptop computer I named it 'the lap devil'. When I bought a notebook computer, the one you see in today's image, I named it 'the little lap devil'.

It is with some sadness that I announce the passing of 'the little lap devil'. Everything seemed fine yesterday with the little lap devil. I was using it like I normally would. I put it down on the bed and it went to sleep. Later I tried to rouse it and it was gone. I guess it died in its sleep, you might say.


You see in today's image that the little lap devil is in a cemetery. This is just a fictional representation. My real plan is to take the little lap devil back to New Brunswick and slip it into one of my many rock walls. It'll fit like a charm...same shape as many of the rocks already in the wall, and almost as useful. In the future I'll challenge my guests to find the little lap devil in the wall. There will be prizes for those who find it.

What will the prize be?

A small bag of chips.

How small?

Tiny.

Ahh...micro chips. How fitting.

As an aside, I have a little tidbit of computer history regarding names. Did you ever wonder why the computer company Hewlett-Packard was called Hewlett-Packard and not Packard-Hewlett? Of course you didn't, you all own Apples and you're all rotten to the core. The fact is that the two founders of the company flipped a coin. Hewlett said heads, and that's today's tale.

Oil On Our Lips

I was walking down Bay Street yesterday when my progress was 'arrested' by this poster. It said:

I left the house without my husband's permission.

This poster is part of a campaign by a group called The Match International Women's Fund. You can find out more about what they're doing at www.matchinternational.org. I have yet to check out their web site but I feel that I have a pretty good sense for what they're lobbying against.

The poster's immediate effect on me was to make me think of Saudi Arabia. Did you know that it's illegal for women to drive a car in Saudi Arabia? Saudi Arabia is the only country in the world to enact and enforce this law. Yes, a woman can be arrested for this heinous act. If you'd like to know more about women's rights in Saudi Arabia, take a look at this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women%27s_rights_in_Saudi_Arabia  I feel embarrassed to call them women's 'rights', because it feels like wrongs.

This creates a dilemma. Am I trying to foist my views on another country? I guess the answer is yes, sort of. What I really would like to see is gender parity. I'd like the women of Saudi Arabia to vote on what they want their country to be. I can't imagine they wouldn't want the ability to drive. Driving is just the tip of the iceberg. I'd like to think that Saudi Arabia women would like to have their citizenship upgraded from second class to first. Don't we all want that?

King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia died last week. World leaders flew to Saudi Arabia to pay their respects. This is troubling in some ways. Do we really 'respect' the man and what he stood for? Can we in good conscience pretend that everything is okay there, or look the other way?

The other side of the coin is that King Abdullah made positive changes for women. Not enough, mind you, but he was instrumental in allowing women the right to vote and also the right to run for political office. Maybe this was Abdullah's way of getting women 'behind the wheel' of their own destiny. Maybe it's just going to be a very slow process. I think Saudi Arabia is showing some signs of what I call progress.

I do wonder why we pay so much attention to Saudi Arabia....oh, wait, they have oil. Lots of it. Do you think we're collectively kissing their asses because they have oil? Let's ask this question: if they didn't have oil, would we care? I suspect that The March International Women's Fund would, but I'm not so sure that our political leaders would feel the same way.

It's all quite troubling. I suppose it's better that we stay on Saudi Arabia's good side and try to affect subtle change. Labeling the Saudis as sexual discriminators and cutting off all ties to them would probably make the situation worse for women in Saudi Arabia.

Is male subordination of women a women's problem? Yes, but ultimately it's a men's problem. What are men afraid of? The answer must be themselves.

The Price Of Oil, Essentially

So I was sitting on the sofa last evening, minding my own business. Wendy sat down next to me (married couples do this) and everything was just hunky-dory until I smelled something odd. It wasn't what you might think....no, it smelled like pizza. Our plan was to have pizza for supper so this shouldn't have been startling, except that we were planning on going out for pizza!

How the hell could the condo smell like pizza when no one was making pizza? Was I dreaming of the smell of pizza? I turned to Wendy and made a startling proclamation. I said "I smell pizza." Wendy then exhaled in my general direction. She had pizza breath! How could this be, I asked.

Wendy explained to me that she just ingested a sip of oil of oregano. "Oil of oregano", I gasped, then added "but we're going out for pizza! Why not wait and eat some pizza?" Wendy believes that oil of oregano will perform the following miracles:

- kill germs when you first feel that troubling tickling in your throat that indicates a cold may be brewing.
- that is all.

Wendy claims that it's a natural antiseptic, like Listerine. Hmm, why not use Listerine? Sorry, that was silly 'man thinking', or as Wendy might say 'silly man' thinking.

I asked Wendy how much a 30ml bottle of Oil Of Oregano cost? She said about $20 and she qualified that statement by saying it lasts her a year. When a woman tells you something costs about $20, you know of course that it doesn't cost $20. When a woman uses the word 'about', it means 'way more than'. So 'about $20' means 'way more than $20'. Being generous (today only). let's assume that the 'essential oil' (love that term!) is $22. But not just $22....when a woman tells you the price of something, she never ever includes tax. Don't think me sexist as I readily admit men do the same. My chainsaw was only $300. In fact it was $399....plus tax. And $150 for work boots. $45 for gloves. $85 for helmet with face guard. None of these other figure include tax, by the way.

The big difference is that I didn't buy a chainsaw and all the accouterments.

Here's another interesting way that I operate differently from Wendy. Wendy spends about $20 a year on the essential oil of oregano. That gets her 30 ml of the magic elixir. Let's crunch some numbers and turn that into a price per litre, keeping in mind that the second most precious liquid on Earth, gasoline, was selling for 74 cents per litre at Costco the other day. So a litre of oil of oregano is about $660.

$660 per litre! Plus taxes!! Oil be damned!!!

We went to an Italian restaurant last night and I had an $18 pizza. It was the cheapest thing on the menu! That tickle in my throat seems to have disappeared, amazingly. I can only assume that there was 5 cents worth of dry oregano on my pizza....or maybe, just maybe, the tickle was never in my throat, just in my fantastic mind.

Editor's Note: As of the writing of this blog, Wendy is still married to Ian. Stay tuned.

In other news....I saw in the grocery store the other day (tabloid section) that Bruce Jenner is now a woman.

Brewing Elliott in the Manitoba Wilderness

I wouldn't bother watching today's video because it's really boring. This is not some kind of ruse to get you to watch it as it is truly a lousy piece of footage (give it the boot, I say). Last night Wendy and I went to the Phoenix Club to watch a band called Elliott Brood. Elliott Brood is well know to us. Their opening act was not.

Who was their opening act?

A band called The Wilderness Of Manitoba? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbSLB0pkmAo

Are they Canadian?

Like, duh. We knew nothing about them so we went to Youtube to check them out. We liked their sound. At the Phoenix The Wilderness Of Manitoba were a bit disappointing. They were incredibly less folksy sounding live, and the sound quality was terrible. I couldn't make out a single word that they were singing, so their poetry was lost on me. It looks to me like they're very talented, but I feel like this was an opportunity lost for all of us.

Elliott Brood (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgfy2SRSQZA) took to the stage around 10:30 p.m., already well past my bedtime. They showed their polish by giving a lively show featuring their distinct sound.  Their sound quality was noticeably better than those from Manitoba's outback, though my video clip (don't watch it!) does nothing to convince you of anything positive. 

It was interesting to compare the sound quality of The Wilderness Of Manitoba to Elliott Brood, in the same venue on the same night. I guess it just proves that mics and amps makes a difference. What's even more interesting for me is to compare last night's sound quality to that of Johnny Marr's show which I saw in November. The Johnny Marr sound quality blew last night's show out of the water. Hearing Johnny Marr play the guitar demands nothing short of superb sound. His poetry is written on six lines: E - A - D - G - B - E. The singing is almost an afterthought, though I like it too.

If you watch the link that I've provided for Elliott Brood (not my video...which you absolutely should not watch) then you'll see a clip of them performing on CBC's radio program Q. At the end of the clip you'll hear Jian G's voice. It's strange to hear his voice now.  

Today's blog.....

Sounds you know and like (Elliott Brood).

Sounds you don't know and want to like (The Wilderness Of Manitoba).

Sounds you used to like but now can't (Jian).

There...I've sounded off. Now I'm signing off.

Aluminyze

In 2009 (when I was just a boy) I spent a month in New Zealand. Never in my life have my eyes been treated to such an outdoor splendor. It was spectacular.

There was one thing that I saw that was notable, in particular, because it was something of incredible beauty and artistry....and it was indoors! I was staying in the home of a professional photographer by the name of Sally Mason (http://www.sallymason.co.nz/). On Sally's wall was a print of hers...a gorgeous slow shutter zoom of a Marlborough vineyard. What made it truly astounding was that the image was printed on metal instead of paper. That metal, I assume was aluminum. I've never seen anyone doing it since. I've never known where I could get this done with one of my images, until yesterday....

I was flipping through the real estate section of Fredericton's award winning newspaper The Daily Gleaner when I stumbled upon an article about a company that prints images on aluminum. The company is called aluminyze.com. Though I can't endorse them just yet, I do intend to engage their services. I know that I love the finished product. Let's see how their pricing and service stand up to my Scottish standards. I am somewhat concerned because they're located in the United States.

Our dollar is low. My expectations are high, and then there's the black hole of duty and shipping with which to contend. It's the perfect storm of shopping, and I'm about to go fishing. Stay tuned.

The Farfarers

Farley Mowat, writer and Canadian icon, died on May 6, 2014. At the time of his death I listened to an archival interview which the CBC rebroadcast. It occurred to me that I had grossly overlooked his work because I had never looked over anything he wrote. I decided to read one of his books as a tribute/education. I began with People Of The Deer. Since that time I have read the following Mowat books:

The Dog Who Wouldn't Be
Coppermine Journey
Ordeal By Ice
The Serpent's Coil
Never Cry Wolf
The Polar Passion
The Boat Who Wouldn't Float
A Whale For The Killing
Tundra
And No Birds Sang
Walking On The Land

I'm currently reading The Farfarers. I guess you might say that I'm enjoying his writing.

The Farfarers has taken me back to the land once known as Alba, now known as Scotland. With a great deal of horror, I read how the Norse (Vikings) came to Alba and destroyed everything and everyone. Raping and pillaging is just a polite way of describing what they did, not unlike the term 'ethnic cleansing'. I hate that term, by the way.

The Vikings remind me of some people in the Middle East (ISIS). Their 'my way or the highway' approach to life is appalling. One main difference between the Vikings and ISIS is 1300 years of experience. A lot has happened in the intervening years, and we're well aware of our many follies, yet they continue. I guess the perpetrators don't see it this way....

It's a strange world in which we live. Thank goodness we live in Canada. Thank goodness for Farley Mowat. Thank goodness for freedom of speech. Thank goodness for the CBC....

Think about it.

94.5 FM - The Fisher

I received an e-mail from one of my pseudo-loyal blog readers with some feedback regarding my recent blog posting about radio stations with stupid names (remember The Fox?). Though I know the identity of the blog reader, I shall use the pseudonym that he utilized, and that was "award winning former broadcast journalist D.J. Blathers."

So, thank you D.J.Blathers for your insightful commentary. Here, dear readers, is what D.J. wrote:

How about 94.5, The Fisher?   I like it because the fisher is an under appreciated animal (they kill porcupines, after all), and because it is a homonym of a painful anorectal condition, one which feels much like listening to most commercial radio stations.

Succinctly stated, and I can't argue with the facts as presented. Ironically, I wasn't sure whether he was kidding or not when he mentioned 94.5 The Fisher. Radio stations come up with some idiotic names, so The Fisher was not completely unbelievable. As it turned out, it was a ficticious station. <sigh>.

As I was researching 94.5, I did find stations that air (err) under the names: the Moose (it's a country station and they wouldn't know any better, so they're exempt from my scorn), the Lake, the Beat, the Buzz, the Beat, Jack (of which/whom they do not know), Boom, Mix, Star, Kiss, the Coast, Kool FM, el Patron, Kats, the Ranch and finally the Bull.

The Bull sums it up, at least halfways.

The Science Of Yhhuup

Today we're going to talk about the Maritime phenomena of 'yhhuupping' (see today's video for an over the top example). It's when you say a word while inhaling. The word is typically an affirmative like 'yes', 'yup' or 'aye' that is a reaction to something that has been said during a conversation. The question is 'why do we do it'? We don't typically disseminate our words by inhaling, so why do we do it at all? Where did this habit originate?

This might come as a surprise, especially when you consider that there are people starving in this world, but there's a researcher who has looked into the origin of yhhuupping as part of a Master's thesis. Of course they don't call it yhhuupping, they call it the Gaelic Gasp. Gaelic Gasp....isn't that awesome!?!

One of my readership of six (yes, we've gained a reader somehow) sent me a fascinating link to what appears to be a research paper on the topic of inhaling while speaking. It turns out that we Maritimers come by the trait honestly. Our 'people' have been doing it for centuries. We even brought it across the Atlantic with us. Yhhuup.

The article/thesis is called The Gaelic Gasp and Its North American Cousins - A Study Of Ingressive Pulmonic Speech In Scotland. When blog reader Peter T sent me the article yesterday I felt like I had won the lottery. How he stumbled upon this is mind-bending, though I know he found it on Twitter. Twitter? Yhhuup. How odd to think something like this (of such great depth) would appear on Twitter. Twitter...that social media platform that allows little more than 140 character quips and Ellen selfies.

The Gaelic Gasp is an 89 page Master's thesis and I'll confess that I didn't read all of it. I'm usually only good for about 3 pages of anything, though I will often extend my range for articles involving ingressive pulmonic speech (or nudity). Don't you just love that term....ingressive pulmonic speech? If you want to read the thesis, or part of it, then here's the link:

https://www.academia.edu/656901/The_Gaelic_Gasp_and_its_North_Atlantic_Cousins

I wouldn't expect you to read the entire article because you, dear reader, have better things to do. It is, however, an interesting read that takes you from Europe to the Maritimes and Newfoundland. Shockingly, the use of Ingressive Pulmonic Speech is rampant on the island of Vinalhaven (Maine) Who knew? Here's a list of other places where it is common: Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Finland, Greenland, The Faroes, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Cape Breton Island, Maine and Prince Edward Island.

Clearly the author of this thesis has never been to New Brunswick or met with any of my mother's friends. Nhhhope.

Beyond Ugly There's Fugly

Yesterday was an ugly day. It was raining, for one thing, as I drove The Dumbo into Fredericton. The radio was on, not tuned to 'The Bounce' I must point out. I was listening to CBC while Terry O'Reilly's program Under The Influence was being aired. I enjoy this show. Do you ken it?

Under The Influence examines the world of marketing and advertising with a decidedly pop culture spin. It's a program that's accessible to everyone, not just Madison Avenue ad execs. Hmmm, does Canada have a place that's equivalent to Madison Avenue? Not that I know.

Anyways....the name given to this week's show was 'Selling Ugly'. It was really interesting. It told the tale of the marketing of some of the world's ugliest products that went on to become success stories. If you're like me then you're probably tired with all the hoopla about selling beauty (remembering that Gwyneth Paltrow was likely wrong about everything). If you haven't got enough ugly in your life, then you can listen to this show (or read the transcript) at this link: http://www.cbc.ca/radio/undertheinfluence/selling-ugly-1.2912698

Yesterday I decided to embrace ugly because it was all around me, especially in my rearview mirror. I parked The Dumbo and went into Winner's to purchase a piece of carry-on luggage. I could have opted for a basic black suitcase that was $20 less expensive than the ugly duckling you see in today's image, but I didn't. I bought the uglier of the two.

So, let's celebrate ugly together. Put on your Crocs, your Birkenstocks or your Uggs and wear them with pride! Did you ever wonder how Ugg boots got their name? You'll find out....when you're Under The Influence.

Bounce The Foxers

I've made plenty of mistakes in my life and one of the most glaring is to listen to New Brunswick's radio stations (CBC excluded). There's nothing wrong with New Brunswick's radio stations, per say, they simply don't appeal to 'me lugs'.

I remember snapping the radio on a number of years ago and all I heard was someone talking about 'the Fox'. At first I got quite excited, thinking that there was a radio station that only talked about Megan Fox (an attractive young actress perennially overlooked at Oscar time). In fact it was the radio station that called itself 'the Fox'. At the time I thought to myself 'what a stupid name for a radio station'. Nothing much has changed.

I wondered how and why they named the radio station 'the Fox'. It turned out that they were acting more like a cat.

Yea, a copy cat. Or a Kopy Kat, since they're airing their carbon dioxide in Harvey Station.

Do you think that Fredericton's 'the Fox' has ever had an original thought?

Not sure. There are radio stations in Virginia, El Paso, Fairfield County, Brazos Valley, Charlotte, Kansas City, and Jonesboro....all called The Fox. And this is just to name a few!

Yesterday I foolishly pressed 'seek' on 'The Dumbo's' radio. The Dumbo is my car's name, by the way. The dial stopped at 101.3 which, apparently, is now a station called 'The Bounce'. "The Bounce!?!" I said aloud with tones of incredulity. I often speak to myself while in the car. I guess I like the sound of my own voice, or the fact that nothing has legs until you shout it, shout it, shout it out loud. Or write about it.

The Bounce? What a stupid name! 

"That'll never stick", I said with a pseudo-clever little nod to an similarly named fabric softener. It'll never cling in the minds of the listeners (though it probably will because there won't be much competition).

After I settled down a bit I started wondering 'where did they steal that name', quite convinced that it couldn't be original. I did some sly (like a fox) sleuthing on the internet. I did find one other station called The Bounce, in Edmonton. In fairness to Saint John's The Bounce, these two radio stations were sister stations (from the same litter, one might say) until the Edmonton station was sold to Rogers Communication. Saint John's The Bounce is part of the Bell Media oligopoly.

It's one thing to whine about stuff, it's another to try and make the world a better place, Ian. Got any better suggestions for radio station cutesy names?

As a matter of fact I do. How about 101.3 'The Hindenburg'? It'll stay in the air for a while but eventually will come crashing down. Or perhaps 91.7 'The Stupid Chameleon'. It'll keep changing it's colours (tune) until someone notices it. How about 102.1 'The Dyson'. It sucks, more than most.

How about 106.5 'The Blog'? Only five people make it to the end of the broadcast!

The Dwight Stuff

Last week I posted a blog under the title of 'An Oasis Of Memories'. In this blog I compared the look of young Julian to Oasis frontman Noel Gallagher. I provided 'dear reader' with graphic evidence to back up my claim. I did, however, make one tactical error. I made the off-handed comment that Julian believes that he looks like Elton John. One of my more astute readers, who shall remain nameless to protect his/her identity, provided evidence to substantiate Julian's claim.

The unnamed reader will be given a pseudonym for the purpose of telling the story, and that pseudonym is Dr.Thug. I spoke to Dr.Thug a day or two after my blog post appeared. He said to me that the picture of young Julian did in fact remind him of Elton John, more so than Noel Gallagher. A day later he sent me an image with the message "I rest my case". He's got a compelling argument. Let's take a look at the image that he provided (which I manipulated with Photoshop for comparative purposes)....

I'm afraid that Dr.Thug was right! There is a shocking resemblance!!

In a slightly bizarre twist, I'm now looking at Elton and he reminds me of someone other than Julian (someone I used to play volleyball with at the Cambridge-Narrows School). Now I'm starting to wonder if everyone in the world has a twin? What do you think, dear reader, do you have a twin out there? Should I write a blog about would be twins....with graphic evidence? Could be fun!

We Do Not Except Spelling Errors

I'm going to tearfully dedicate this blog to my father because he whipped perfect grammar and proper spelling into my life with the zeal of an Iditarod top three finisher.

You're getting all mushy, Ian.

He also instilled a sense of 'punnery' which knows no bounds. Dad was forever correcting my grammar and my friend's grammar, but me and Robbie Allaby didn't mind.

That's 'Robbie and I don't mind'.

That's okay by I. Me don't mind one bit if you feel the same way as Robbie.

My father had two jobs, as you can see. One was from 9-5, Monday to Friday. The other was full-time. One of the lasting side-effects of my father's pursuit for my own grammatical enlightenment was that I feel almost tortured when I hear bad grammar being spoken, or when I see spelling errors. I make them myself, but I strive not to condemn the language of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Bill Varty (ranked alphabetically, and not by literary greatness).

Yesterday I filled my car with cheap gas (89 cents per litre) at one our our local gas stations. Being a sizable metropolitan area, we have more than one petrol provisioning place. We have two. As I was gassing up I noticed the sign 'WE DO NOT EXCEPT FLEET CARDS'. I had seen it before but this time I had a camera in my pocket. That's when I'm at my most menacing. Click.

I except that no one is perfect and mistakes will be made, accept I do have a problem that no one has corrected this sign. It's been like this for over a year! Sometimes I'll write a blog and post it. Afterwards I read it on-line (dirty truth: I'm one of the five people who read the blog) and I'll find a mistake. I always correct it immediately, usually after punching myself in the nuts a few times. I never say 'oh, those dummies will never notice'. When you've got Bill Varty and Peter T. reading your blog, it damn well better be perfect.

Note: now I'm all paranoid that all future blogs will be put under the microscope.

Yea, me too. That's just how it's going to be, I guess. We might just as well except it.