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.