Welcome Christmas come this way
Fahoo fores dahoo dores
Welcome Christmas, Christmas day
Welcome, welcome fahoo ramus
Welcome, welcome dahoo damus
Christmas day is in our grasp
So long as we have hands to clasp
Fahoo fores dahoo dores
Welcome Christmas bring your cheer
Fahoo fores dahoo dores
Welcome all Whos far and near
Welcome Christmas, fahoo ramus
Welcome Christmas, dahoo damus
Christmas day will always be
Just so long as we have we
Fahoo fores dahoo dores
Welcome Christmas bring your light
Fahoo fores dahoo dores
Welcome Christmas, Christmas day
Welcome Christmas, fahoo ramus
Welcome Christmas, dahoo damus
Welcome Christmas while we stand
Heart to heart and hand in hand
Fahoo fores dahoo dores
Welcome welcome Christmas Day...
Christmas.
It's a special time of year, it doesn't matter what your beliefs are, its something that transcends all spirituality and individualism. It also changes as you age. As a child, its all about excitement and gifts, the magic of Santa Claus. It grows and changes to time off of work, time with family and friends. Indulgence in sweets, alcohol and food. Then it changes again to seeing your children and grandchildren excited about the same things you were so many years before.
In A Christmas Carol, the ghost of Christmas present appears as a jolly giant with dark brown curls. He wears a fur-lined green robe and on his head a holly wreath set with shining icicles. He carries a large torch, made to resemble a cornucopia, and appears accompanied by a great feast. He states that he has had "more than eighteen hundred" brothers (1,842 to be exact, the story being set on Christmas Eve 1843, the year of its publication). He also bares a scabbard with no sword in it, a representation of peace on Earth and good will toward men.
All in all he is happy. Happy in the joy of the moment. Living for the now, but mindful that our actions today have reprecussions in the future. He also only lives for the one Christmas, reminding us that our time on this earth is fleetingly short.
Christmas' have come and gone. Some more memorable than others; I don't remember the year, but I remember the firemans helmet with flashing light and siren from my Aunt Barb and Uncle Paul. There was the year I got a firetruck and a yellow Big Bird. I remember the year I got the Millenium Falcon and a swag of Empire Strikes Back toys. I remember the year we had Henry family Christmas at my Aunt Mary's townhouse and my Grandparents gave me the Oxford Companion to English Literature, that was more than 20 years ago and I still cherish that book as a reference tool. I remember my first Christmas back home from university. The first year I spent Christmas on my own.
But all of them have paled since I started my own family.
I cherish the growth of them, how Liv and I spent a huge amount on a fake tree knowing it would last for ages. The way our decorations have increased. In Liv I found a kindred spirit, one who sought the magical Christmas of the movies like It's a wondeful life, A Christmas Carol or Christmas Vacation, warts, explosions and all. We would alternate who put the Santa on top of the tree each year. We would work everything out based on what hours we were working, but we always had some sort of celebration together at home. Some years we would be on our own, others we went down south to Liv's family. The other years we were always invited and welcomed to join her Queensland relatives.
When I was a kid, we would spend Christmas lunch at my Mum's parents and dinner at my Dad's. In later years Christmas would be done at our house or at one of my Aunt and Uncles place. It didn't matter where it was held, there was the same warmth, smells, cheer, conversation and congenial hospitality. Relatives that you only saw at Christams were caught up with, relatives that you saw regularly were avoided. Football was watched. People fell asleep on the lounge with drinks on their laps. Coffee and tea followed dinner, toys were shown off, music was played, traditional movies like Christmas Vacation, It's a wonderful life, merry christmas Charlie Brown were watched. It was always warm memories.
When Arwyn came and joined our little household, Christmas took on a whole new meaning. It was all about her. The first Christmas we went and put her in a stocking with an elf hat on. The second Christmas we watched as she crawled and gummed the gifts more than actually ripping them open. The third we watched her as she was more excited about the boxes than any of the gifts themselves. On her fourth Christmas, it was all about ripping the gifts open as quickly as possible in an orgy of excitment.
This year, our little girl, spent time opening each, looking at the gift and expressing excitement and saying thankyou for each one. She was just as excited about having Christmas pancakes for breakfast as she was about the gifts.
As the day progressed, we watched the little one play with her new toys, watched a movie together and had Christmas lunch. We had planned on having a roast duck, with wild rice pancakes, dried cherry and shallot confit, with arugula, endive, and watercress salad with roquefort and walnut salad. But, the past few days I just haven't had the energy. I'm a little disappointed that the 'tradtional' Christmas meal was over looked, but, the pasta meal I did up was just tasty and satisfying.
After the afternoon naps, we headed out on the long drive to the north side. Arwyn singing along to Christmas carols as they came on the stereo and asking questions as they pop in her head, like what colour do you get when you mix green and white.
We arrived at my surrogate family and the extended family.
I love the Taylors, one and all and everyone that is associated with them and their families as well. They are such a loving group of people, they accept everyone and make them feel as one of their own. In fact, you are one of their own. You are greeted with hugs, handshakes and warm greetings of genuine concern and hospitality. Christmas at the Taylors reminds me of the old days at the Henry households. The days when the kitchen was filled with the smells of roasting ham and turkey, sweet potatoes, gravy, carrots, eggnog and rum punch, and all the other goodies.
But I digress....
Back to the Taylors.
There was food, drink, laughter and conversation. It didn't matter how long it had been since you last saw someone, you are made to feel welcome, conversation just progressed naturally. It didn't matter what it was about, it was people showing genuine interest in what you were talking about and responding in kind. Eventually, the leftovers came out for dinner and we all settled down to watch Arwyn's Christmas Dance recital to her glee and the delight of everyone else.
There was the nap in a dim room in an astoundingly comfortable chair.
Everything was perfect.
Of course we also HAD to play cards.
No visit to the Taylors is complete without a game, or five, of cards. I think they are a shining example of a family playing together staying together.
Finally, the day had to end and we were seen off, with hugs, kisses and well wishes and the plans for seeing each other again soon.
I said it earlier, but I love the Taylor clan. Since coming to Australia they have made me feel like one of their own, they have filled that void of family that distance has seperated me from my own. I am proud to be a small part of their family and I am proud that they are part of my family.
I want to take this oppurtunity to thank them one and all for making this the best Christmas ever.
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Friday, 23 December 2011
Ghosts of Christmas past
Of all the days in all the year
that I'm familiar with
There's only one that's really fun
December the 25th
Correct!
Ask anyone called Robinson
or Brown or Jones or Smith
Their favourite day
And they will say
December the 25
Correct!
December the 25th, me dears
December the 25th
The dearest day in all the year
December the 25th!
Correct!
This is not actually a Christmas story, it happened a few weeks before Christmas in 1991. In Charles Dicken's classic the ghost of Christmas past comes to Scrooge and shows all of the past Christmas's that have brought both sorrow and joy to him. This is one of pure joy, to me at least. It is a memory that always wraps me in a warm blanket of nostalgia and constantly resurfaces at least once a year.
I was living at Thompson Residence at the University of Ottawa and a dozen of us decided on a whim to bundle up and head out to the singing of the carols and lighting of the lights (its the muppet show tonight.... bum, bum, bum, ba) at the RMOC building on Lisgar and Elgin. It was a grand time, on arrival everyone was given a candle with red plastic glow cone over it, the carols were sung, the lights all pretty blue and white were turned on and glistened under a lightly falling freezing drizzle.
The crowds dispersed and we went walking in a winter wonderland, up Elgin, past the golden warm glow of the Lord Elgin Hotel and then down Sparks st to walk up to Parliament Hill to take in the lights. I can still remember the way the ice and snow glittered and shone on the medieval looking stone buildings.
The conversation amongst the dozen or so of us was light and airy, circling around classes, who was sneaking into which room at night and what we were all doing on the upcoming break. The cold and wet started to get to us and we made our way back to the university, well, more importantly to the Royal Oak on Laurier.
This was the place that cinched me going to this university.
It was a traditional style English pub, with white stucco walls and lead light windows. Wooden booths, dim lights and good staff.
But it was the sound that always welcomed you, the clinking of glasses, the multiple conversations, the laughter. It was this warmth that we walked into, moving to a booth area we sat down and had our drinks of Irish coffee, Guinness and scotch, all of us squeezing into a tight area, leaning against once another in the way that only university camaraderie allows.
I can still recall everyone that was there that night, but I have no idea where any of them are anymore. I hope that every now and again the same memories creep into their thoughts where ever they might be and look back fondly on a special moment in our lives that are made up of the snapshots of our lives.
So to you Serge, Jim, Norm, Rachelle, Gloria, Jen, Holly, Ron, Karla, Shelagh, and Renee - Merry Christmas to all of you.
that I'm familiar with
There's only one that's really fun
December the 25th
Correct!
Ask anyone called Robinson
or Brown or Jones or Smith
Their favourite day
And they will say
December the 25
Correct!
December the 25th, me dears
December the 25th
The dearest day in all the year
December the 25th!
Correct!
This is not actually a Christmas story, it happened a few weeks before Christmas in 1991. In Charles Dicken's classic the ghost of Christmas past comes to Scrooge and shows all of the past Christmas's that have brought both sorrow and joy to him. This is one of pure joy, to me at least. It is a memory that always wraps me in a warm blanket of nostalgia and constantly resurfaces at least once a year.
I was living at Thompson Residence at the University of Ottawa and a dozen of us decided on a whim to bundle up and head out to the singing of the carols and lighting of the lights (its the muppet show tonight.... bum, bum, bum, ba) at the RMOC building on Lisgar and Elgin. It was a grand time, on arrival everyone was given a candle with red plastic glow cone over it, the carols were sung, the lights all pretty blue and white were turned on and glistened under a lightly falling freezing drizzle.
The crowds dispersed and we went walking in a winter wonderland, up Elgin, past the golden warm glow of the Lord Elgin Hotel and then down Sparks st to walk up to Parliament Hill to take in the lights. I can still remember the way the ice and snow glittered and shone on the medieval looking stone buildings.
The conversation amongst the dozen or so of us was light and airy, circling around classes, who was sneaking into which room at night and what we were all doing on the upcoming break. The cold and wet started to get to us and we made our way back to the university, well, more importantly to the Royal Oak on Laurier.
This was the place that cinched me going to this university.
It was a traditional style English pub, with white stucco walls and lead light windows. Wooden booths, dim lights and good staff.
But it was the sound that always welcomed you, the clinking of glasses, the multiple conversations, the laughter. It was this warmth that we walked into, moving to a booth area we sat down and had our drinks of Irish coffee, Guinness and scotch, all of us squeezing into a tight area, leaning against once another in the way that only university camaraderie allows.
I can still recall everyone that was there that night, but I have no idea where any of them are anymore. I hope that every now and again the same memories creep into their thoughts where ever they might be and look back fondly on a special moment in our lives that are made up of the snapshots of our lives.
So to you Serge, Jim, Norm, Rachelle, Gloria, Jen, Holly, Ron, Karla, Shelagh, and Renee - Merry Christmas to all of you.
Monday, 19 December 2011
There are places I remember.... part two.
Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.
Contre nous, de la tyrannie,
L'étandard sanglant est levé,
l'étandard sanglant est levé,
Entendez-vous, dans la compagnes.
Mugir ces farouches soldats
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger vos fils,
vos compagnes.
Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons
And for those of you whose French is as bad as my own...
Let us go, children of the fatherland
Our day of Glory has arrived.
Against us stands tyranny,
The bloody flag is raised,
The bloody flag is raised.
Do you hear in the countryside
The roar of these savage soldiers
They come right into our arms
To cut the throats of your sons,
your country
To arms, citizens!
Form up your battalions
Let us march, Let us march!
That their impure blood
Should water our fields...
I like making fun of the French. The silly little cheese eating surrender monkeys. I really do. But, at heart I'm a Francophile. I love the culture, the language, the hospitality, the literature, the food. Almost all of that came together in one special location. Le Classic in Coorparoo.
*sigh*
I wasn't sure if I was going to give this particular cluster of memories a part under all the places I have worked, but Liv convinced me that it needs its very own special entry. It was a glorious six week romance, a summer fling, one of those little moments that you just get back to fondly reminisce about for all the following years. Le Classic doesn't sit in the fore front of my memory, but when a certain aroma or musical phrase trips, it all comes rushing back at once.
Liv brought up today that she missed the place and how we enjoyed taking everyone we knew there. I knew what she was referring to, it was a happy moment in our history. One we were able to share together and with as many others as we could. The staff at it were as welcoming on your first visit as on your one thousandth.
I first started working at Le Classic in the winter of 2005, I'd just finished at FUDE and had just left Hog's Breath (god that was a nightmare). Liv was getting justifiably worried about money running out and I was looking through the classifieds when I found one about a fifteen minute walk away. Casual waiters wanted.
Awesome.
When I walked in, through the woman's clothing boutique, I stopped and had to laugh.
It was wonderful.
A hodge podge of decors and motifs that had been added to as the place grew. There was an outdoor area that was enclosed in marquee material so that you didn't feel you were actually outside. There was wood everywhere. Adorned with musical instruments. The coffee counter was cluttered with wine bottles, liqueur bottles and water carafes. I was greeted by a ....smiling (I'm always nervous when a Germanic person smiles), brutally efficient Dutchman wearing a black beret, burgundy shirt, and the Tricolore bow tie. I was escorted over to a table where a good looking slight Frenchman was sitting, given a cup of coffee (black with lemon) and interviewed by the entire establishment that was there at the time: the owner Alex, his father the head chef, his sous-chef Jean-Marc, the Dutch waiter and the chef du partie.
Oddly enough, it wasn't at all intimidating.
We dispensed with the interview resume necessities, and then moved onto the real interview.
A love of France.
Turns out, our good looking slight young Alex and his family hail from Provence.
I've had a love affair with Provence ever since reading Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence. I just had to go as soon as I could and find if he was full of shit or not. Surely no place is that idyllic.
It is.
So, we chatted about food and family run restaurants, wine, coffee, simple foods, the heritage of culinary traditions that are passed down from generation to generation.
It was bliss.
These people got me.
I was finally home in Australia.
As you can guess I got the job.
Which, truthfully wasn't hard, they actually only had three or four servers on staff, the rest were all casuals. It seems they loved to hire backpackers that would breeze through for a few shifts and then be on their merry backpacking way.
"Hey need a job?"
"Oui."
"Go see Alex at Classic, he'll fix you up."
Fortunately, the backpackers were always very good and never interfered in the amounts of shifts available for the rest of us. Which was fantastic, it established a competition within the servers for the most tips, which were pooled amongst everyone at the end of the night. This competitiveness would have always been a sight watching a bunch of people running around in burgundy or blue shirts, black pants, white aprons, berets, tams for the ladies and the ever present tri-colore. I, sadly, was always second in the tips pool. Which was always heartily laughed at by all the staff when we sat down after shift for plates of food, bread and wine. It was tradition to eat together, we were family. I hadn't felt this way since the days of the Arrow and the Loon. To be honest, it felt even more of a family in some respects.
Then came the Christmas in July and Bastille day festivities.
Classic took on a whole new atmosphere. But live music played on violin by the owners wife and accompanied by an accordion will do that.
So will Can Can dancers.
It was alive, it was energetic, it was bawdy.
Everyone had a grand time.
I continued to want to work for free just to keep that magic alive.
Now, the food.
The food was very traditional southern French and Provencal fare that bursts with deep flavours. Most of what was available was stews, lots of pate and terrines, soups, breads and potatoes. There was nothing at all fancy. The food was what it was, traditional meals that Alex's dad learnt from his grandparents, who learnt them from theirs and so on. A pompous TV host would call it authentic, of course its authentic who do you think is cooking? It was so much more than authentic, it was a time machine. It whisked, not just me, but whoever ate it back to their travels, or childhoods in France.
God I loved that place.
I eventually had to quit, when a head chef job came along. But I was always welcomed back whenever I was available and I did go back and fill in whenever I could. Always welcomed with the same hospitality and enthusiasm. That's the key word when describing Classic, hospitality. You were always, always made to feel welcome. You were always right as the customer and the customers knew it, as such I think I only EVER took back one or two plates. Of course I had to deal with an angry chef, but the problem was always immediately resolved.
I finally brought Olivia in for dinner.
She blushed at the flirting from Jean-Marc, and had eye orgasms over the food with ear orgasms over his thick MontMarte accent. After the surprise amuse bouche and various courses with extraordinary attentive service, she declared it her favourite restaurant ever.
We quipped about celebrating our 50th anniversary there.
Well, sadly that won't happen.
Classic closed in 2009, I have no idea why, sometimes good places just close.
Everyone I've ever spoken to that knew Classic has the same fond memories, the same happiness. I am so glad that I was welcomed into their family and that I was able to bring my family to it as well.
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.
Contre nous, de la tyrannie,
L'étandard sanglant est levé,
l'étandard sanglant est levé,
Entendez-vous, dans la compagnes.
Mugir ces farouches soldats
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger vos fils,
vos compagnes.
Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons
And for those of you whose French is as bad as my own...
Let us go, children of the fatherland
Our day of Glory has arrived.
Against us stands tyranny,
The bloody flag is raised,
The bloody flag is raised.
Do you hear in the countryside
The roar of these savage soldiers
They come right into our arms
To cut the throats of your sons,
your country
To arms, citizens!
Form up your battalions
Let us march, Let us march!
That their impure blood
Should water our fields...
I like making fun of the French. The silly little cheese eating surrender monkeys. I really do. But, at heart I'm a Francophile. I love the culture, the language, the hospitality, the literature, the food. Almost all of that came together in one special location. Le Classic in Coorparoo.
*sigh*
I wasn't sure if I was going to give this particular cluster of memories a part under all the places I have worked, but Liv convinced me that it needs its very own special entry. It was a glorious six week romance, a summer fling, one of those little moments that you just get back to fondly reminisce about for all the following years. Le Classic doesn't sit in the fore front of my memory, but when a certain aroma or musical phrase trips, it all comes rushing back at once.
Liv brought up today that she missed the place and how we enjoyed taking everyone we knew there. I knew what she was referring to, it was a happy moment in our history. One we were able to share together and with as many others as we could. The staff at it were as welcoming on your first visit as on your one thousandth.
I first started working at Le Classic in the winter of 2005, I'd just finished at FUDE and had just left Hog's Breath (god that was a nightmare). Liv was getting justifiably worried about money running out and I was looking through the classifieds when I found one about a fifteen minute walk away. Casual waiters wanted.
Awesome.
When I walked in, through the woman's clothing boutique, I stopped and had to laugh.
It was wonderful.
A hodge podge of decors and motifs that had been added to as the place grew. There was an outdoor area that was enclosed in marquee material so that you didn't feel you were actually outside. There was wood everywhere. Adorned with musical instruments. The coffee counter was cluttered with wine bottles, liqueur bottles and water carafes. I was greeted by a ....smiling (I'm always nervous when a Germanic person smiles), brutally efficient Dutchman wearing a black beret, burgundy shirt, and the Tricolore bow tie. I was escorted over to a table where a good looking slight Frenchman was sitting, given a cup of coffee (black with lemon) and interviewed by the entire establishment that was there at the time: the owner Alex, his father the head chef, his sous-chef Jean-Marc, the Dutch waiter and the chef du partie.
Oddly enough, it wasn't at all intimidating.
We dispensed with the interview resume necessities, and then moved onto the real interview.
A love of France.
Turns out, our good looking slight young Alex and his family hail from Provence.
I've had a love affair with Provence ever since reading Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence. I just had to go as soon as I could and find if he was full of shit or not. Surely no place is that idyllic.
It is.
So, we chatted about food and family run restaurants, wine, coffee, simple foods, the heritage of culinary traditions that are passed down from generation to generation.
It was bliss.
These people got me.
I was finally home in Australia.
As you can guess I got the job.
Which, truthfully wasn't hard, they actually only had three or four servers on staff, the rest were all casuals. It seems they loved to hire backpackers that would breeze through for a few shifts and then be on their merry backpacking way.
"Hey need a job?"
"Oui."
"Go see Alex at Classic, he'll fix you up."
Fortunately, the backpackers were always very good and never interfered in the amounts of shifts available for the rest of us. Which was fantastic, it established a competition within the servers for the most tips, which were pooled amongst everyone at the end of the night. This competitiveness would have always been a sight watching a bunch of people running around in burgundy or blue shirts, black pants, white aprons, berets, tams for the ladies and the ever present tri-colore. I, sadly, was always second in the tips pool. Which was always heartily laughed at by all the staff when we sat down after shift for plates of food, bread and wine. It was tradition to eat together, we were family. I hadn't felt this way since the days of the Arrow and the Loon. To be honest, it felt even more of a family in some respects.
Then came the Christmas in July and Bastille day festivities.
Classic took on a whole new atmosphere. But live music played on violin by the owners wife and accompanied by an accordion will do that.
So will Can Can dancers.
It was alive, it was energetic, it was bawdy.
Everyone had a grand time.
I continued to want to work for free just to keep that magic alive.
Now, the food.
The food was very traditional southern French and Provencal fare that bursts with deep flavours. Most of what was available was stews, lots of pate and terrines, soups, breads and potatoes. There was nothing at all fancy. The food was what it was, traditional meals that Alex's dad learnt from his grandparents, who learnt them from theirs and so on. A pompous TV host would call it authentic, of course its authentic who do you think is cooking? It was so much more than authentic, it was a time machine. It whisked, not just me, but whoever ate it back to their travels, or childhoods in France.
God I loved that place.
I eventually had to quit, when a head chef job came along. But I was always welcomed back whenever I was available and I did go back and fill in whenever I could. Always welcomed with the same hospitality and enthusiasm. That's the key word when describing Classic, hospitality. You were always, always made to feel welcome. You were always right as the customer and the customers knew it, as such I think I only EVER took back one or two plates. Of course I had to deal with an angry chef, but the problem was always immediately resolved.
I finally brought Olivia in for dinner.
She blushed at the flirting from Jean-Marc, and had eye orgasms over the food with ear orgasms over his thick MontMarte accent. After the surprise amuse bouche and various courses with extraordinary attentive service, she declared it her favourite restaurant ever.
We quipped about celebrating our 50th anniversary there.
Well, sadly that won't happen.
Classic closed in 2009, I have no idea why, sometimes good places just close.
Everyone I've ever spoken to that knew Classic has the same fond memories, the same happiness. I am so glad that I was welcomed into their family and that I was able to bring my family to it as well.
Friday, 16 December 2011
Andre's steakhouse, kalamata olives and the birth of a foodie...
Eat steak, eat steak eat a big ol' steer.
Eat steak, eat steak do we have one dear?
Eat beef, eat beef it's a mighty good food.
It's a grade A meal when I'm in the mood.
Cowpokes'll come from a near and far
When you throw a few rib-eyes on the fire.
Roberto Duran ate two before a fight,
'Cause it gave a lot of mighty men a lot of mighty might.
Eat meat, eat meat, filet mignon.
Eat meat, eat meat, eat it all day long.
Eat a few T-bones till you get your fill.
Eat a New York cut, hot off the grill.
Eat a cow, eat a cow 'cause it's good for you.
Eat a cow, eat a cow it's a thing that goes "Mooooo".
Look at all the cows in the slaughterhouse yard.
Gotta hit'em in the head, gotta hit'em real hard.
First you gotta clean'em then the butcher cuts'em up,
Throws it on a scale, throws an eyeball in a cup.
Saw a big Brahma steer standing right over there,
So I rustled up a fire cooked him medium rare.
Bar-B-Q'ed his brisket, a roasted his rump.
Fed my dog that ol' Brangus steer's hump.
Every chef or foodie that I have ever met has a single defining moment that they can pick that changed their taste buds forever. A moment that opened up a whole new world of taste, aroma and texture and all of it to be experienced with the fingers, nose and tongue. Anthony Bourdain, one of my culinary gods attributes his enlightenment to a fresh shucked oyster. For Marco Pierre White I am told it was foi gras, for me it was the simple and ever so humble Kalamata olive. The combination of the velvety oils mingling with the salt of the brine it was marinated in opened a whole world. I can remember eating an entire bowl of them with bread and churned butter at Andre's steakhouse in London. I would have been all of eight no more than ten. I had always seen the restaurant and wondered what it would be like inside, finally I wore my parents down and they agreed to take me.
WoW!
It was nothing like anything I had ever seen. The waiters wore tuxedo pants, white shirts and black vests with aprons and towels over their arms. There was a bar on the main floor and a dining area downstairs - wood and leather was the main motif. I think the menu's came to us in these massive dark red leather books, the type you fortunately don't see anywhere anymore.
I can only recall a few items that I had read on it - and much of that maybe fabricated memories of things I think should or would have been on it.
Steak Tar tare with raw egg.
Black Angus steak with potatoes and broccoli
Filet Mignon with mushrooms
I have no clue as to what I ate that night besides the olives, it could have been a burger, steak or pork chops.
I do remember seeing the bloody red meat that my dad ordered and was both repulsed and fascinated by it. I tentatively asked for a bite and ......
Sorry, Dad, but your steaks and BBQ'ing that sustained us for so many years, all those nights that you trampled down the snow to the gas BBQ, the times you sat diligently reading a book while the meat cooked next to you. I appreciate all that time, but your steaks sucked.
They were always overcooked and tough.
Andre and his chefs raised up the bar.
For ever after that moment, I was like a heroin addict, chasing the dragon for that first hit sensation all over again. Fortunately I've found.
More importantly I can recreate it at home whenever I want.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that, that dinner at Andre's turned me from an eater to a foodie. I wanted to try and enjoy whatever little taste creations came my way.
I've learnt over the years how to cook just about everything. Culinary school actually helps with that. But the main secret I discovered is keep it simple stupid.
Everything tastes great on its own.
Toasted Turkish bread with butter or olive oil, avocado and sea salt. yum
Asparagus pan seared with olive oil and sea salt and lemon. yum
Pasta tossed with buerre bruin and foix gras. Yum
A rare steak with butter sauce, seasoned only with salt and garlic. Let it rest. Yum.
The list goes on.
I don't think I would have ever discovered any of those treats without that experience at Andre's. Ever since I have been indebted to the humble olive, bread and butter. Its the complexities of the simple flavours that trap me every time.
To this day I always have a special desire for mezze and antipasto platters, just to enjoy those little briney morsels. I even went so far as too plant an olive tree in the backyard. It does well, flowered for the first time last year, I wonder if I'll ever get to try its fruits. No matter how unripe or bitter they turn out to be, I'm certain they'll taste just as magical as those first ones all those years ago,
Eat steak, eat steak do we have one dear?
Eat beef, eat beef it's a mighty good food.
It's a grade A meal when I'm in the mood.
Cowpokes'll come from a near and far
When you throw a few rib-eyes on the fire.
Roberto Duran ate two before a fight,
'Cause it gave a lot of mighty men a lot of mighty might.
Eat meat, eat meat, filet mignon.
Eat meat, eat meat, eat it all day long.
Eat a few T-bones till you get your fill.
Eat a New York cut, hot off the grill.
Eat a cow, eat a cow 'cause it's good for you.
Eat a cow, eat a cow it's a thing that goes "Mooooo".
Look at all the cows in the slaughterhouse yard.
Gotta hit'em in the head, gotta hit'em real hard.
First you gotta clean'em then the butcher cuts'em up,
Throws it on a scale, throws an eyeball in a cup.
Saw a big Brahma steer standing right over there,
So I rustled up a fire cooked him medium rare.
Bar-B-Q'ed his brisket, a roasted his rump.
Fed my dog that ol' Brangus steer's hump.
Every chef or foodie that I have ever met has a single defining moment that they can pick that changed their taste buds forever. A moment that opened up a whole new world of taste, aroma and texture and all of it to be experienced with the fingers, nose and tongue. Anthony Bourdain, one of my culinary gods attributes his enlightenment to a fresh shucked oyster. For Marco Pierre White I am told it was foi gras, for me it was the simple and ever so humble Kalamata olive. The combination of the velvety oils mingling with the salt of the brine it was marinated in opened a whole world. I can remember eating an entire bowl of them with bread and churned butter at Andre's steakhouse in London. I would have been all of eight no more than ten. I had always seen the restaurant and wondered what it would be like inside, finally I wore my parents down and they agreed to take me.
WoW!
It was nothing like anything I had ever seen. The waiters wore tuxedo pants, white shirts and black vests with aprons and towels over their arms. There was a bar on the main floor and a dining area downstairs - wood and leather was the main motif. I think the menu's came to us in these massive dark red leather books, the type you fortunately don't see anywhere anymore.
I can only recall a few items that I had read on it - and much of that maybe fabricated memories of things I think should or would have been on it.
Steak Tar tare with raw egg.
Black Angus steak with potatoes and broccoli
Filet Mignon with mushrooms
I have no clue as to what I ate that night besides the olives, it could have been a burger, steak or pork chops.
I do remember seeing the bloody red meat that my dad ordered and was both repulsed and fascinated by it. I tentatively asked for a bite and ......
Sorry, Dad, but your steaks and BBQ'ing that sustained us for so many years, all those nights that you trampled down the snow to the gas BBQ, the times you sat diligently reading a book while the meat cooked next to you. I appreciate all that time, but your steaks sucked.
They were always overcooked and tough.
Andre and his chefs raised up the bar.
For ever after that moment, I was like a heroin addict, chasing the dragon for that first hit sensation all over again. Fortunately I've found.
More importantly I can recreate it at home whenever I want.
I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that, that dinner at Andre's turned me from an eater to a foodie. I wanted to try and enjoy whatever little taste creations came my way.
I've learnt over the years how to cook just about everything. Culinary school actually helps with that. But the main secret I discovered is keep it simple stupid.
Everything tastes great on its own.
Toasted Turkish bread with butter or olive oil, avocado and sea salt. yum
Asparagus pan seared with olive oil and sea salt and lemon. yum
Pasta tossed with buerre bruin and foix gras. Yum
A rare steak with butter sauce, seasoned only with salt and garlic. Let it rest. Yum.
The list goes on.
I don't think I would have ever discovered any of those treats without that experience at Andre's. Ever since I have been indebted to the humble olive, bread and butter. Its the complexities of the simple flavours that trap me every time.
To this day I always have a special desire for mezze and antipasto platters, just to enjoy those little briney morsels. I even went so far as too plant an olive tree in the backyard. It does well, flowered for the first time last year, I wonder if I'll ever get to try its fruits. No matter how unripe or bitter they turn out to be, I'm certain they'll taste just as magical as those first ones all those years ago,
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Frankenstein or Superman All I wanna do is Bicycle bicycle bicycle
I've got a bike, you can ride it if you like.
It's got a basket, a bell that rings
And things to make it look good.
I'd give it to you if I could, but I borrowed it.
I have a love affair with bicycles.
The simplicity, the efficiency, the lines, the colours, the shape, the sounds.
Its all so very beautiful.
I love the way the wind feels blowing against your face as you ride, the breeze in my hair.
I love the sound of the bearings clicking in the hubs.
The precision sound of a chain gliding into place as you shift to tackle a hill.
I love the feel of the ground coming up through the wheels as you take a corner a sharp angle.
I love the sound of your own breathing and the blood pounding through your head as you finish a long sprint.
Even the knocks, bangs and clicks from a less than ideally maintained bike are comforting to me.
I think our love for a bike is mostly nostalgia - it brings back the carefree moments of our youth. They represent freedom, the ability to move on our own, to manipulate machinery, to stretch our boundaries beyond the reach of our parents - beyond the horizon of their eyesight.
I started off with a blue metallic tricycle, it had a white banana seat with red trim, white handle grips with red, white, yellow and blue streamers hanging from them. I know it had a horn, a bell and I think it had a white basket as well, but I'm not sure. I do remember a little yellow sticker on the riding platform on the back that had to do with firefighting. I imagine it was sold off in a garage sale many years ago.
That was replaced with a red ccm swinger convertible. The convertible meant the cross bar could be adjusted as a top tube or a step through a girls bike. I started off on it with coaster wheels, it had a spring saddle, a bell and a horn. I never gave a thought about the chrome fenders and how tiny the wheels would have been on it. I remember tearing down woodrow crescent, trying to make the bike "cooler" by covering up the swinger logo with masking tape that had "General Lee" written on it. That certainly dates me as a relic doesn't it.
This one is not mine, or who knows, maybe it is just under a different owner. I hadn't thought of it in years, but was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the details came back to me.
The 'swinger' would have served me well for a while, I have no idea what age I was when I retired/out grew it. But it was replaced with my first 'real' or at least what I thought of as real bike. A CTC Road King SuperCycle 10 speed. It was blue with gold/bronze labelling on it. It had drop handle bars with big thick foam grips. It had the standard brakes and the pull levers as well. There were reflectors on the wheels, front tube, seat tube, the orange ones on the pedals which were they type of platforms that would whack you in the shin leaving a scratch or puncture from the spikes on them. I tried finding a pick of it, but just couldn't find one anywhere. I do seem to recall it having a suntour gruppo on it, but that might just be wishful thinking. The ten speed marked even more freedom. I'd ride it on my own to baseball practice in the summer, to morning swimming lessons which meant locking it with a cheap cable/combination lock 6934 - that just came to me out of no where.
I can distinctly remember the drag I would get on the wheels from the light generator being put into place. And I had reduced the warning system to just the bell, I suspect I would have been reluctant to even have it on there, as it wasn't "cool". I would have gotten four or five years of use out of that one,
and after saving some money, I went into my first true bike shop.
Rainbow Cycles on Wellington Rd.
Rainbow was my first introduction to the world of cycling. It had good bikes, road and the popular BMX machines of the time. The spread of mtn bikes had yet to take over the world. It had that unique smell of grease, rubber and citronella chain cleaner. There were parts and gruppos in display cases, it had spandex clothing with advertising of european companies you'd never heard of. There were magazines like: bicycling, cycle, pedal etc.
I was in heaven.
Every few weeks I'd hassle mom and dad into stopping so I could pick out my new steed and see how long is was going to take me to save for it. I settled on a Fiori Monza 12 speed. It was black and pink, with quick release hubs for the front and back wheels, I put toe cages on it to go with my Nike Look pedal system shoes. There was no horn, no light, no reflectors, no bell.
I was a rebel!
This was the bike that got me all over town, I could go from my house downtown along Upper Queen and Ridout in just 16 minutes! It made me the king of my domain. I made rides to St. Thomas and Port Stanley on it, I thought if I fitted it with panniers I could go anywhere in the world. I didn't need my parents for their car anymore, although thank you guys for when I did need a ride.
As much joy and happiness the Monza brought me, it also brought me my most pain. It was the bike I had my first spectacular experience with road rash with 20 years later the scars are still visible. It was
also the first bike of many that was stolen. It was taken one night at work, I stopped into the petrol station and stayed for twenty minutes, I didn't lock it up, thinking who would be so brazen as to steal it with me standing right there. I suspected it at the time and I feel the same still, that it was the other little teen punks that worked next door at the Sunoco car wash that pinched it, but who knows. Fortunately, we had the foresight to insure a $400 bike, so it meant a trip to find something new! By now the times had changed, it was 1990 and Mtn Bikes were no longer the monstrously heavy balloon tired garage sale clunkers. Sadly, Rainbow Cycles hadn't embraced the new trends and I had to find a new shop. This one on was Two Wheels on Dundas. I never felt comfortable there, it was too bright, too clean, it smelt more of carpeting and packaging than it did of those smells I associated with a bike shop. It must have affected my choice of new mounts - a Diamond Back Topanga - I picked it as a bike to take to university with me, something that would survive the Ottawa traffic, weather and streets. I got it a month or two before it was time to move, and as I wasn't allowed to keep it in residence with me I had to keep it locked up out front of the dorm. We left it at my aunt and uncles place for the first few weeks while all of the new school year festivities took place, just to keep it safe. We brought it down, locked it up and then went home for the thanksgiving weekend. On arriving back, Uncle Paul quipped how's the bike? I looked over and....
It was gone!
Not just the bike the entire rack was gone!
Heartbreak struck yet again. I was livid, I hadn't had time to fall in love with this bike, we never bonded, oh what could have been!
You thieving Bastards!
Thank god for insurance!
That brought around the Specialized Rock Hopper.
I always thought the Rock Hopper was a step down from the Topanga, it cost more, but it was what the insurance covered me for. It was my first bike as a courier. I remember all too well suffering through the snow trying to push it along. Its weight and terrible handling. It too got stolen from me. This time while I was chasing government bureaucracy in the passport office at Place du Portage in Hull.
*sigh*
The next one was a Trek 950 Singletrack. My first all aluminium bike. It was pretty cool, and yet it got abused by me as a work bike. I adorned it with the head of a Wil E. Coyote mug from KFC, and loved it fondly for the few years we were together. It too was separated from me far too quickly, this time from out front of a lawyers office. I admit it was my fault for not actually locking it, but it was meant to be an in and out pick up and I was able to watch it the entire time. Apparently those few seconds it was out of my sight, were all that was needed.
That brought around the Specialized Stumpjumper M2 with Rock Shock mag 20 forks! I even fixed it out with a Tioga wheel disc! It was my first real racing bike and man did I race it. That one only ever saw a few days on the road as a work bike, I was always too nervous to take it out as I couldn't get insurance coverage anymore. It spent a lot of time hanging from hooks in my ceiling, a constant reminder of the importance of bikes in my life.
Shit.
No more insurance coverage.
Now what do I do?
I need a bike to earn money and I have no money to get a bike.... maybe I should steal one? No that's just karmically uncool.
Lee Cooper helped me out by selling me a used bike. It felt too big at first, it was my the first roadie I'd had in close to a decade, it took a long time to get used to, but it became part of me. It was an extension of myself. We were symbiotic. Until a cold, cold, cold winter morning in 1996. I thought of every excuse I could to not work, but couldn't get out of it. On my way to picking up one of my last packages in the morning run, I heard a snap and soon I was flying through the air in a most unnatural way. It was brought about with an abrupt and painful crash to the ice. I looked down at my steed with rear wheel still spinning half heartily and saw that the front fork had snapped directly below the crown on both sides. There was another crack forming in the top tube as well. Hmm, no more riding today at least I get to get out of the cold.
It's got a basket, a bell that rings
And things to make it look good.
I'd give it to you if I could, but I borrowed it.
I have a love affair with bicycles.
The simplicity, the efficiency, the lines, the colours, the shape, the sounds.
Its all so very beautiful.
I love the way the wind feels blowing against your face as you ride, the breeze in my hair.
I love the sound of the bearings clicking in the hubs.
The precision sound of a chain gliding into place as you shift to tackle a hill.
I love the feel of the ground coming up through the wheels as you take a corner a sharp angle.
I love the sound of your own breathing and the blood pounding through your head as you finish a long sprint.
Even the knocks, bangs and clicks from a less than ideally maintained bike are comforting to me.
I think our love for a bike is mostly nostalgia - it brings back the carefree moments of our youth. They represent freedom, the ability to move on our own, to manipulate machinery, to stretch our boundaries beyond the reach of our parents - beyond the horizon of their eyesight.
I started off with a blue metallic tricycle, it had a white banana seat with red trim, white handle grips with red, white, yellow and blue streamers hanging from them. I know it had a horn, a bell and I think it had a white basket as well, but I'm not sure. I do remember a little yellow sticker on the riding platform on the back that had to do with firefighting. I imagine it was sold off in a garage sale many years ago.
That was replaced with a red ccm swinger convertible. The convertible meant the cross bar could be adjusted as a top tube or a step through a girls bike. I started off on it with coaster wheels, it had a spring saddle, a bell and a horn. I never gave a thought about the chrome fenders and how tiny the wheels would have been on it. I remember tearing down woodrow crescent, trying to make the bike "cooler" by covering up the swinger logo with masking tape that had "General Lee" written on it. That certainly dates me as a relic doesn't it.
This one is not mine, or who knows, maybe it is just under a different owner. I hadn't thought of it in years, but was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the details came back to me.
The 'swinger' would have served me well for a while, I have no idea what age I was when I retired/out grew it. But it was replaced with my first 'real' or at least what I thought of as real bike. A CTC Road King SuperCycle 10 speed. It was blue with gold/bronze labelling on it. It had drop handle bars with big thick foam grips. It had the standard brakes and the pull levers as well. There were reflectors on the wheels, front tube, seat tube, the orange ones on the pedals which were they type of platforms that would whack you in the shin leaving a scratch or puncture from the spikes on them. I tried finding a pick of it, but just couldn't find one anywhere. I do seem to recall it having a suntour gruppo on it, but that might just be wishful thinking. The ten speed marked even more freedom. I'd ride it on my own to baseball practice in the summer, to morning swimming lessons which meant locking it with a cheap cable/combination lock 6934 - that just came to me out of no where.
I can distinctly remember the drag I would get on the wheels from the light generator being put into place. And I had reduced the warning system to just the bell, I suspect I would have been reluctant to even have it on there, as it wasn't "cool". I would have gotten four or five years of use out of that one,
and after saving some money, I went into my first true bike shop.
Rainbow Cycles on Wellington Rd.
Rainbow was my first introduction to the world of cycling. It had good bikes, road and the popular BMX machines of the time. The spread of mtn bikes had yet to take over the world. It had that unique smell of grease, rubber and citronella chain cleaner. There were parts and gruppos in display cases, it had spandex clothing with advertising of european companies you'd never heard of. There were magazines like: bicycling, cycle, pedal etc.
I was in heaven.
Every few weeks I'd hassle mom and dad into stopping so I could pick out my new steed and see how long is was going to take me to save for it. I settled on a Fiori Monza 12 speed. It was black and pink, with quick release hubs for the front and back wheels, I put toe cages on it to go with my Nike Look pedal system shoes. There was no horn, no light, no reflectors, no bell.
I was a rebel!
This was the bike that got me all over town, I could go from my house downtown along Upper Queen and Ridout in just 16 minutes! It made me the king of my domain. I made rides to St. Thomas and Port Stanley on it, I thought if I fitted it with panniers I could go anywhere in the world. I didn't need my parents for their car anymore, although thank you guys for when I did need a ride.
As much joy and happiness the Monza brought me, it also brought me my most pain. It was the bike I had my first spectacular experience with road rash with 20 years later the scars are still visible. It was
also the first bike of many that was stolen. It was taken one night at work, I stopped into the petrol station and stayed for twenty minutes, I didn't lock it up, thinking who would be so brazen as to steal it with me standing right there. I suspected it at the time and I feel the same still, that it was the other little teen punks that worked next door at the Sunoco car wash that pinched it, but who knows. Fortunately, we had the foresight to insure a $400 bike, so it meant a trip to find something new! By now the times had changed, it was 1990 and Mtn Bikes were no longer the monstrously heavy balloon tired garage sale clunkers. Sadly, Rainbow Cycles hadn't embraced the new trends and I had to find a new shop. This one on was Two Wheels on Dundas. I never felt comfortable there, it was too bright, too clean, it smelt more of carpeting and packaging than it did of those smells I associated with a bike shop. It must have affected my choice of new mounts - a Diamond Back Topanga - I picked it as a bike to take to university with me, something that would survive the Ottawa traffic, weather and streets. I got it a month or two before it was time to move, and as I wasn't allowed to keep it in residence with me I had to keep it locked up out front of the dorm. We left it at my aunt and uncles place for the first few weeks while all of the new school year festivities took place, just to keep it safe. We brought it down, locked it up and then went home for the thanksgiving weekend. On arriving back, Uncle Paul quipped how's the bike? I looked over and....
It was gone!
Not just the bike the entire rack was gone!
Heartbreak struck yet again. I was livid, I hadn't had time to fall in love with this bike, we never bonded, oh what could have been!
You thieving Bastards!
Thank god for insurance!
That brought around the Specialized Rock Hopper.
I always thought the Rock Hopper was a step down from the Topanga, it cost more, but it was what the insurance covered me for. It was my first bike as a courier. I remember all too well suffering through the snow trying to push it along. Its weight and terrible handling. It too got stolen from me. This time while I was chasing government bureaucracy in the passport office at Place du Portage in Hull.
*sigh*
The next one was a Trek 950 Singletrack. My first all aluminium bike. It was pretty cool, and yet it got abused by me as a work bike. I adorned it with the head of a Wil E. Coyote mug from KFC, and loved it fondly for the few years we were together. It too was separated from me far too quickly, this time from out front of a lawyers office. I admit it was my fault for not actually locking it, but it was meant to be an in and out pick up and I was able to watch it the entire time. Apparently those few seconds it was out of my sight, were all that was needed.
That brought around the Specialized Stumpjumper M2 with Rock Shock mag 20 forks! I even fixed it out with a Tioga wheel disc! It was my first real racing bike and man did I race it. That one only ever saw a few days on the road as a work bike, I was always too nervous to take it out as I couldn't get insurance coverage anymore. It spent a lot of time hanging from hooks in my ceiling, a constant reminder of the importance of bikes in my life.
Shit.
No more insurance coverage.
Now what do I do?
I need a bike to earn money and I have no money to get a bike.... maybe I should steal one? No that's just karmically uncool.
Lee Cooper helped me out by selling me a used bike. It felt too big at first, it was my the first roadie I'd had in close to a decade, it took a long time to get used to, but it became part of me. It was an extension of myself. We were symbiotic. Until a cold, cold, cold winter morning in 1996. I thought of every excuse I could to not work, but couldn't get out of it. On my way to picking up one of my last packages in the morning run, I heard a snap and soon I was flying through the air in a most unnatural way. It was brought about with an abrupt and painful crash to the ice. I looked down at my steed with rear wheel still spinning half heartily and saw that the front fork had snapped directly below the crown on both sides. There was another crack forming in the top tube as well. Hmm, no more riding today at least I get to get out of the cold.
Once again, no money, no really usable bike. What to do, what to do.
I had found a new bike shop since becoming a courier, and I was in love again. The staff were informed, sarcastic, rude, lazy, dirty, and frequently high or drunk. What wasn't to love about them? They were ideal! The shop had all the right amount of dirt and grease everywhere. It was like walking back into Rainbow cycles again, but this time I was already on the inside of the cycling world. I was accepted as a true two wheeler. And the boys, most of them former couriers themselves, recognised their own kind. I was sold a used Kona Kahuna on consignment, I'd be back on the road in less than a week.
The Kona became an extension of myself, it was as much a part of me as any limb. It went with me everywhere. It would go to the bottle shop, the grocery store, the bars, it went with me on treks through France, Switzerland, Germany, India, Belgium, Ireland, U.S.A and so on. It came with me to Australia, and it aged and changed with me that entire time as well. I put 700cc wheels on it and Magura Hydraulic brakes, I changed the paint to something more unique. A bronze Buddha adorned the headtube, along with the Tibetan prayer flags, while St. Christopher and St. Gabriel medals adorned the wheels keeping me safe after I slid under the moving truck.
There were other bikes as well.
The Gary Fisher
The Cannondale Black Lightning with all Campagnolo groupo.
The handbuilt Gardin fixie.
The Scott full suspension.
When I came to Oz, I quit riding and the rust and dust seemed to build up on the old mare at the same rate the inches went onto my waist. Eventually Liv backed into it and it bent the wheel and possibly then rear forks and with that my riding died. I'd thought several times of getting it fixed, but just never seemed to have the time or money. I don't know what will happen to it when I'm gone, but I'd like to think it will sit quietly in a shed waiting to be dusted off, the Brooks saddle oiled, greased and ridden again, this time by a young girl exploring the sense of wonder at what vistas await around the next horizon.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Riots, politics and growing up or these things I believe.
White riot - I wanna riot
White riot - a riot of my own
White riot - I wanna riot
White riot - a riot of my own
All the power's in the hands
Of people rich enough to buy it
While we walk the street
Too chicken to even try it
I've been called everything from a Communist to a Fascist. Although my politics have remained relatively unchanged ever since I became politically aware. And, despite being outspoken, as well as a devil's advocate about various political stances, I have tried to remain as aloof as I can be about my own personal politics. So, here, now, for the record.
I am and always have been a Libertarian. I believe in keeping the government and any other institution of control as limited as possible in the operation of our daily lives. I feel that our lives are exceedingly micro-managed by a government that is no longer responsible to its protectorate. I've tried to express my dissatisfaction over the years by various means, both peaceful and violent, silently and vocally.
I firmly believe in the freedom of speech - to quote Evelyn Beatrice Hall "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it".
I believe in the right to bear arms. Responsible gun ownership. To simplify this, an armed populace is much harder for a centralised government to control.
I believe in the freedom of religion.
I believe that it is your body and you have the right to decide what happens to it.
I believe in the right of choice.
I believe in the freedom to choose who you love and want to marry.
I believe in universal health care - $200 million USD for a single F-35 or funding cancer wards?
I believe in consequences, that you should be held accountable for the choices that you make, this applies to individuals and corporations. The recent global financial crisis disgusted me - I put it on the same level of atrocity as the holocausts committed by the Nazis, the Khmer Rouge and the Hutus.
I believe in the death penalty - if you have it, use it.
I believe that everyone should be treated equally, but I also believe that skill sets some apart.
I don't believe that the successful should be penalised for being successful. The rich shouldn't be taxed at a higher rate they still only have one vote.
I don't believe in political correctness. I feel it restricts my freedom of expression out of concerns about offending or expressing bias regarding various groups of people. Please tell me if something I say upsets you and why, and I will gladly enter into a discourse as to why I feel the way I do.
If I disagree with something I will tell you so and why. If you choose to take it personally that is your choice. But, if you cannot defend your beliefs from my criticism then maybe you should re-evaluate them. I promise that I will listen to your arguments and will accept those that you convince me of.
I was involved in the G8 and World Trade Summit protests and riots.
I've protested against Pro-Life groups.
I've protested against the Church.
I've protested against the USA, I've also been a very outspoken advocate for it as well.
I've protested against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
I've protested against racism.
As a result I have been clubbed with batons, tear-gassed, and herded back by riot squads. I've never felt anger towards the police for doing their jobs. I've never whined that a "peaceful" demonstration was met with a heavy response. In my younger years, I would not have hesitated in standing nose to nose with a police line or from lobbing a CS canister back at the police lines. But that has changed now in my later years. Now, I don't like the idiots that do show up at demonstrations for the simple fact of creating violence and mayhem. The sort that were seen during this summers London Riots.
I fully support the occupy movement and I am dismayed at the criticism directed to it by people pointing out the corporate products that the demonstrators still have with them. To me it is akin to saying that you couldn't partake in the civil rights movement if you were white.
Even though I support the current protests, even if I was healthy I think my days or actively taking part are past. But I am certainly with them in spirit.
I first heard White Riot when I was fourteen. It instantly appealed to me, the driving guitar the attack of Joe Strummers voice. It was incendiary, making me question authority and establishment. I listen to it nowadays with a certain nostalgia, but there is always that little jump in my heart, making me want to go out and right the wrongs of the world. The Clash amongst many others helped shape my political mindset, as I'm certain they did many others.
I hope that in ten years when Arwyn turns on the Clash she feels the same profound effects.
White riot - a riot of my own
White riot - I wanna riot
White riot - a riot of my own
All the power's in the hands
Of people rich enough to buy it
While we walk the street
Too chicken to even try it
I've been called everything from a Communist to a Fascist. Although my politics have remained relatively unchanged ever since I became politically aware. And, despite being outspoken, as well as a devil's advocate about various political stances, I have tried to remain as aloof as I can be about my own personal politics. So, here, now, for the record.
I am and always have been a Libertarian. I believe in keeping the government and any other institution of control as limited as possible in the operation of our daily lives. I feel that our lives are exceedingly micro-managed by a government that is no longer responsible to its protectorate. I've tried to express my dissatisfaction over the years by various means, both peaceful and violent, silently and vocally.
I firmly believe in the freedom of speech - to quote Evelyn Beatrice Hall "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it".
I believe in the right to bear arms. Responsible gun ownership. To simplify this, an armed populace is much harder for a centralised government to control.
I believe in the freedom of religion.
I believe that it is your body and you have the right to decide what happens to it.
I believe in the right of choice.
I believe in the freedom to choose who you love and want to marry.
I believe in universal health care - $200 million USD for a single F-35 or funding cancer wards?
I believe in consequences, that you should be held accountable for the choices that you make, this applies to individuals and corporations. The recent global financial crisis disgusted me - I put it on the same level of atrocity as the holocausts committed by the Nazis, the Khmer Rouge and the Hutus.
I believe in the death penalty - if you have it, use it.
I believe that everyone should be treated equally, but I also believe that skill sets some apart.
I don't believe that the successful should be penalised for being successful. The rich shouldn't be taxed at a higher rate they still only have one vote.
I don't believe in political correctness. I feel it restricts my freedom of expression out of concerns about offending or expressing bias regarding various groups of people. Please tell me if something I say upsets you and why, and I will gladly enter into a discourse as to why I feel the way I do.
If I disagree with something I will tell you so and why. If you choose to take it personally that is your choice. But, if you cannot defend your beliefs from my criticism then maybe you should re-evaluate them. I promise that I will listen to your arguments and will accept those that you convince me of.
I was involved in the G8 and World Trade Summit protests and riots.
I've protested against Pro-Life groups.
I've protested against the Church.
I've protested against the USA, I've also been a very outspoken advocate for it as well.
I've protested against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
I've protested against racism.
As a result I have been clubbed with batons, tear-gassed, and herded back by riot squads. I've never felt anger towards the police for doing their jobs. I've never whined that a "peaceful" demonstration was met with a heavy response. In my younger years, I would not have hesitated in standing nose to nose with a police line or from lobbing a CS canister back at the police lines. But that has changed now in my later years. Now, I don't like the idiots that do show up at demonstrations for the simple fact of creating violence and mayhem. The sort that were seen during this summers London Riots.
I fully support the occupy movement and I am dismayed at the criticism directed to it by people pointing out the corporate products that the demonstrators still have with them. To me it is akin to saying that you couldn't partake in the civil rights movement if you were white.
Even though I support the current protests, even if I was healthy I think my days or actively taking part are past. But I am certainly with them in spirit.
I first heard White Riot when I was fourteen. It instantly appealed to me, the driving guitar the attack of Joe Strummers voice. It was incendiary, making me question authority and establishment. I listen to it nowadays with a certain nostalgia, but there is always that little jump in my heart, making me want to go out and right the wrongs of the world. The Clash amongst many others helped shape my political mindset, as I'm certain they did many others.
I hope that in ten years when Arwyn turns on the Clash she feels the same profound effects.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Crazy train
Everyone has a "crazy" friend. They vary in their antics from idiotic to just head shaking groaning.
I am no different and my crazy friend was Paul. Crazy Paul. He was one of the couriers, but he was also so much more. Paul was a traveller, accomplished moocher, drug fiend, and doctorate of bio-chemistry amongst many other things.
Paul was the friend that your mother warned you about with the phrase "If Paul jumped off a bridge would you jump off too?" Yeah, I probably would have and I guarantee I'd have been laughing the entire way down.
The camps always seemed divided on Paul - and various experiences seemed to galvanise that opinion of him, but Paul never cared what others thought. For him it was always a shrug of the shoulders a big smile and a cheerful 'fuck ya' that wasn't aggressive or belligerent. He never sought any ones approval or acceptance.
I loved Paul from the moment I met him. More importantly I loved travelling with Paul. It was his spontaneity that won me over. There are many places, people and things I never would have experienced without him. On many occasions we would be drinking at the Royal Oak or the Manx on a Friday night after work and Paul would skull the rest of his beer and say 'let's go wake up Deanne and drive to New York.'
"Paul, its 1 am."
"I know, time is short, it will take ten hours or so to get there."
"OK, lets do it."
Deanne was unimpressed to be woken up and being dragged into a car, but she always went along.
Time is short.
How true those words are. Thanks to friends like Paul I have lived many life times in this short one.
India.
India is an assault on the senses.
The noise, the smells, the sound, the colours, the crowds.
The clash of cultures of the old and new India.
Unless you have been, it is impossible to fully comprehend just what it is like.
I first went to India with Paul, we back packed and trekked from Kashmir up to the Nepalese border and then south to Hyderabad. Along the way we took in all that the country had to offer, the food, the drugs, the culture. It was a fantastic experience. One that became all the better when on a whim, we headed to a Buddhist Monastery in Dharamsala and met his Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama Tenzin Gyatso. It was his birthday and we greeted him with the traditional white silk scarves, he in turn greeted and blessed us. I still have the scarf he blessed and while I am not one for overly sentimental attachment, I am greatly attached to that scarf - which had originally come from Guatamala and travelled to many, many places.
I was in such awe of meeting such an esteemed person, that I couldn't tell you what we spoke of. All that I remember is that there was a lot of laughter and good tidings. Sitting there drinking tea, I was happy and content just to bask in such wisdom and the radiance of joy.
Drugs.
Paul had a problem with drugs.
He mostly used weed and mushrooms but would try just about anything that was offered. We were once at a party and Paul was rolling a joint, I looked at him and asked how he expected to share. Paul responded that he couldn't as he had to make his stash last a week. He was trying to cut down to an ounce a week. Yes, you read that correct, an ounce a week. An impressive amount by anyone's standards.
During that trip to India, Paul ran out of money, he sold his return ticket to Canada, and then ran through that money as well. This wasn't out of the ordinary for Paul, as I mentioned he was an impressive mooch, a skill that he honed in just these circumstances. So, he set to work. Instead of working or getting food, Paul got as many drugs as he could from other backpackers as he could. He then proceeded to take them all at once and went insane. Quite literally. He was placed in a psych ward for 24hr observation and was promptly flown to England in business class by his travel insurance and from there back to Ottawa. Turns out, he had thought it all out. Why not make use of the insurance you pay for he figured.
It's a fine line between insanity and genius.
For most, Paul would have fallen into the former. However, when you consider that Paul received his doctorate in Bio-Chemistry, for developing a bacteria that feeds exclusively on human waste, reducing the water in treatment plants by 40%. It puts his mindset into a different light.
Fortunately, Paul met a girl named Hadassa. She kicked his arse. She got him to cut way back on the drugs and drinking and I am certain it was her influence that got him to finish his degree. Its now been thirteen years or more since I've heard from Paul and honestly I don't think I will ever find him again.
I'm alright with that. Its the memories of the adventures we shared that I am forever indebted to him for. Also, I think it was Paul's example of finding the right companion and changing a lifestyle while still staying true to yourself that made my transition into who I am now with Olivia all that much more possible.
So, to you my friend, where ever you are and whatever you may be doing. Thank you.
I am no different and my crazy friend was Paul. Crazy Paul. He was one of the couriers, but he was also so much more. Paul was a traveller, accomplished moocher, drug fiend, and doctorate of bio-chemistry amongst many other things.
Paul was the friend that your mother warned you about with the phrase "If Paul jumped off a bridge would you jump off too?" Yeah, I probably would have and I guarantee I'd have been laughing the entire way down.
The camps always seemed divided on Paul - and various experiences seemed to galvanise that opinion of him, but Paul never cared what others thought. For him it was always a shrug of the shoulders a big smile and a cheerful 'fuck ya' that wasn't aggressive or belligerent. He never sought any ones approval or acceptance.
I loved Paul from the moment I met him. More importantly I loved travelling with Paul. It was his spontaneity that won me over. There are many places, people and things I never would have experienced without him. On many occasions we would be drinking at the Royal Oak or the Manx on a Friday night after work and Paul would skull the rest of his beer and say 'let's go wake up Deanne and drive to New York.'
"Paul, its 1 am."
"I know, time is short, it will take ten hours or so to get there."
"OK, lets do it."
Deanne was unimpressed to be woken up and being dragged into a car, but she always went along.
Time is short.
How true those words are. Thanks to friends like Paul I have lived many life times in this short one.
India.
India is an assault on the senses.
The noise, the smells, the sound, the colours, the crowds.
The clash of cultures of the old and new India.
Unless you have been, it is impossible to fully comprehend just what it is like.
I first went to India with Paul, we back packed and trekked from Kashmir up to the Nepalese border and then south to Hyderabad. Along the way we took in all that the country had to offer, the food, the drugs, the culture. It was a fantastic experience. One that became all the better when on a whim, we headed to a Buddhist Monastery in Dharamsala and met his Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama Tenzin Gyatso. It was his birthday and we greeted him with the traditional white silk scarves, he in turn greeted and blessed us. I still have the scarf he blessed and while I am not one for overly sentimental attachment, I am greatly attached to that scarf - which had originally come from Guatamala and travelled to many, many places.
I was in such awe of meeting such an esteemed person, that I couldn't tell you what we spoke of. All that I remember is that there was a lot of laughter and good tidings. Sitting there drinking tea, I was happy and content just to bask in such wisdom and the radiance of joy.
Drugs.
Paul had a problem with drugs.
He mostly used weed and mushrooms but would try just about anything that was offered. We were once at a party and Paul was rolling a joint, I looked at him and asked how he expected to share. Paul responded that he couldn't as he had to make his stash last a week. He was trying to cut down to an ounce a week. Yes, you read that correct, an ounce a week. An impressive amount by anyone's standards.
During that trip to India, Paul ran out of money, he sold his return ticket to Canada, and then ran through that money as well. This wasn't out of the ordinary for Paul, as I mentioned he was an impressive mooch, a skill that he honed in just these circumstances. So, he set to work. Instead of working or getting food, Paul got as many drugs as he could from other backpackers as he could. He then proceeded to take them all at once and went insane. Quite literally. He was placed in a psych ward for 24hr observation and was promptly flown to England in business class by his travel insurance and from there back to Ottawa. Turns out, he had thought it all out. Why not make use of the insurance you pay for he figured.
It's a fine line between insanity and genius.
For most, Paul would have fallen into the former. However, when you consider that Paul received his doctorate in Bio-Chemistry, for developing a bacteria that feeds exclusively on human waste, reducing the water in treatment plants by 40%. It puts his mindset into a different light.
Fortunately, Paul met a girl named Hadassa. She kicked his arse. She got him to cut way back on the drugs and drinking and I am certain it was her influence that got him to finish his degree. Its now been thirteen years or more since I've heard from Paul and honestly I don't think I will ever find him again.
I'm alright with that. Its the memories of the adventures we shared that I am forever indebted to him for. Also, I think it was Paul's example of finding the right companion and changing a lifestyle while still staying true to yourself that made my transition into who I am now with Olivia all that much more possible.
So, to you my friend, where ever you are and whatever you may be doing. Thank you.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
This must be the place
Home.
Home is where I want to be.
Home is where the heart is.
If this is true, then home is wherever you are. Which is how I’ve always felt. I’ve often been asked whether or not I miss home and I’ve always replied with where’s home or which one? I’m certainly not like Papa the rolling stone and calling wherever I laid my hat home, but home has to be something more than walls and a roof. It needs to have a warmth and that intangible quality that makes your heart and soul say ahhhhhh.
The first place I called home was a small apartment called the Try lon on Adelaide St north in London. I haven’t seen it in decades and I don’t have any memory of it.
The next place I called home was on Woodrow crescent. It was a hideous grey brick suburban semi-detached. It was home for a long time. I had a large room that looked out onto the street. That I and all the other neighbourhood kids would play on. Snow forts in the winter, street hockey, football, hide and seek in the summer. There was trick or treating on Halloween and the kids would walk to school together. It was a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie.
When I was 14 we moved again. This was a nicer less hideous reddish brick suburban back split.
It was hideous on the inside.
My room, the smallest, had red carpet. The living room was golden. The lounge room had blue carpet. For a while, the main bath was carpeted as well.
I never liked that place, I never felt a sense of neighbourhood, it never felt like home.
I moved away after four years there to go to university, which is supposedly why I had the small bedroom, I moved into room 613 of Thompson residence at the University of Ottawa. It was a fantastic place. Twenty six people lived on the floor and only seven of us were guys. I just call that a great ratio. My room mate was never there, he spent most of his time just off of campus at her place, so I effectively had a double room to myself. I was able to bring up my stereo, such as it was at the time, as well as all my vinyl and cd’s. It was in residence that I first learnt to cook, more out of necessity than anything else. But I soon built a reputation for making great meals and other students from the twenty floors would come knocking to have me make special date meals. I did it on the condition that I got a portion. Which freed up more money for drinking.
Not everyone got along on the floor all of the time, but we all had more fun together than not. I’m not in contact with anyone from residence anymore, but I would like to think that everyone is doing as well as they would like to be. I was asked not to come back for my second year in residence, even though it was a lottery, I was told not to apply. Perhaps it was because of the gin still.
It’s not like it ever exploded.
I spent the summer back at the house on Renny, but I was just a guest now. When I came back to Ottawa, I lived in a wretched building on Clarence St. in Lowertown. It was one of those places that should be demolished not just physically but from memory as well. The litany of its woes:
It was surrounded by housing projects
There was a men’s mission around the corner, so you frequently stepped over passed out homeless people.
There was always a supply of empty sherry bottles lying around.
The neighbourhood kid’s favourite pastime was vandalizing abandoned cars.
The drug dealer across the street would come out and make deals in a ‘banana hammock’
The two security doors could be open with sharp tug.
The balcony would crumple if you stepped on the edges.
As we moved in, someone moving out, gave us his boric acid insecticide saying use it every week. “Oh, and good luck you’re going to need it”
The first week after we (Tim and I) moved in, we woke to police lights, as a dismembered prostitute was found in a hockey bag in the buildings dumpster.
Three nights later there was gunfire from the parking lot. Tim moved out the next day. I stuck around for the month of September.
It wasn’t all bad. It was bright and spacious and airy. It was quiet and as it was in the middle of the building there was plenty of hot water. And since it was in such an undesirable, I mean an unsafe area, no one would drop by unexpectedly.
I was rescued from that horrid place by my cousin Richard who found a place for me in the Glebe, it wasn’t available till the end of Octiober. So, I spent the next month living at my Aunt and Uncles place in Kanata. A special thankyou once again to Paul and Barb.
6 66 Fifth Ave. That was home. I lived there for the next ten years, almost to the day. It was small, only one bedroom. The kitchen was barely functional. You could hear the neighbours, I got broken into five times, the landlord raised the rent more than he was legally allowed to. But, it was a place in the Glebe and everyone was always welcome.
It was Home. No matter where I travelled too, it was a constant.
When I first moved to Australia and lived with Liv at her dad’s place for six months, it never felt like home.
Our first place on Bluefish never felt like home to me either.
East Gosford started to feel like home, but something was missing. It was large had a fantastic balcony with great water views and was cheap, but it just didn’t quite fit.
Then came Pembroke in Brisbane, it was small, hot, and had too much noise from the street. So,once again we packed up and moved five streets away.
Mansfield could have become home – it was close, but the constant intrusions from the real estate always reminded me I was a tenant.
Finally we settled in Sadlier’ s Crossing. It felt like home when we first viewed it. I remember Liv looking at me and saying she loved it. Maybe it was because Arwyn was already with us, although she wouldn’t grace us with her presence for another five months, but it was home right away. Even before we were able to put any of our own touches on it and scrub away the lonely spinster aroma, the house had welcomed us as its new caretakers. Which is what I hope our family will be, caretakers of a building that is currently 90 years old, I would be very happy if decades from now Arwyn is bringing her own children around for Christmas and feeling the warmth and love I feel surrounded by loved ones in a place that is truly our home.”
Saturday, 10 December 2011
There are places I remember...part one.
There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends, I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all
Man, Lennon hit it on the head. When you are in a nostalgic, retrospective mood, nothing sums things up better than this particular song does it? I was pondering what to write about today, and then a friend sent me a message and it clinched what I wanted to write about. I apologise if what I write here embarrasses him, or makes him feel uncomfortable with its sentiment. It was something I had always known I was going to write about here, he just happens to be the first one. While I thought about the times we spent together it also got me thinking about places as well, places that shaped me into the person I am.
I've always felt that music and literature are two of the most important things in life. My choices for both were deeply affected by Chris W. and City Lights Book Shop.
I've known Chris for well over 30 years, we both went to St. Francis elementary, we both lived on the same street about seven houses away from each other. It was the typical 70's childhood friendship, playing in yards, hide and seek, Star Wars, Battle of the Planets, fights and the inevitable stupid apologies. Then Chris and his family moved away, I don't remember when, but it was a few years until I saw him again and then we started High School together. Our high school years were no different than anyone else, a tight knit clique that seemed to do everything together. Even when we didn't want a particular person there, it just seemed wrong that they weren't. It wasn't a lot of parties, or drinking, but a lot of music and movies, had we been more inclined it very easily could have become a Tarrantino Rodriguez combo.
Our movie and musical tastes changed over the years, growing and influenced by each others tastes. The early years marked by Friday the 13th movies and Triumph (Chris) Genesis and Yes (me). By the end of school I was fanatical about The Who, Pink Floyd and Tom Waits. Chris had gravitated towards the big guitar sounds of the blues legends and masters like Jimmy Page.
In 1988 - Chris gave me a book that changed my life. For some adults this would be something banal like Eat Pray Love (shit) or The Book Thief (Brilliant). But, for a teenager that had already decided to go into politics, The Prince was a lightning bolt. That coupled with a conscious decision to be an arrogant, egotistical, narcissist, changed me into who I am today. For those that really know me, understand that I don't see any of those traits as negatives.
It was Chris that introduced me to City Lights Book Shop in London. This was a place where we spent our lunch breaks, ditched classes, cut church service and spent many Sunday afternoons. It was and still is my idealised used bookstore. You weren't going to get to find any rare and valuable tomes, but you would always find what you were looking for. The used comic section was huge, there was always porno mags hidden in the stacks of popular science in the very back. (This was always a happy moment for 15 year old hormone driven teens). There was a large selection of original print pulp novels. But it was one thing more than anything else that got me.
It had atmosphere.
The smell of the dust, mouldy book bindings, cigarettes from the staff behind the counter and of course stale coffee. The staff were an eclectic bunch - The owner will be well known to residents of B.C. - Mark Emery. Mark was already a young rabble rouser at the time, his current battle against the fascist hordes was Sunday shopping laws. For young teens in the 80's with little or nothing to do, having places to shop on Sunday was fantastic. Now, as a working adult - I miss those days of stores being closed for at least one day. I wonder how Mark feels about the cult of commercialism he helped create. The last I heard Mark was in a US prison on federal drug and mail charges, being held under circumspect law violations. Whatever his politics these days, I want to thank Mark for giving me a place that was always stable and unchanging every time I made a trip back to London.
Chris, has always been just as steadfast. We lost touch when I moved away to University, only getting to see each other if I came down on the Christmas holidays. But, it never mattered, we could go months or even years without seeing or speaking to each other and we would always be able to pick up as if we had only just seen each other a few hours ago. It was with great happiness I found Chris again a few years ago through face book it had now been at least seven years since we'd had any contact and once again - friendship showed that it can transcend time and geography. We both had careers and families now, and I love to see that Chris kept his love of music alive and more importantly he has passed his love of guitar onto his kids.
He's been on my mind a great deal lately whenever I see a movie from those years long past, or when I pick up a particularly well written book I can't help but wonder what Chris would think of it. The Book Thief and Life of Pi being two recent ones.
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends, I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all
Man, Lennon hit it on the head. When you are in a nostalgic, retrospective mood, nothing sums things up better than this particular song does it? I was pondering what to write about today, and then a friend sent me a message and it clinched what I wanted to write about. I apologise if what I write here embarrasses him, or makes him feel uncomfortable with its sentiment. It was something I had always known I was going to write about here, he just happens to be the first one. While I thought about the times we spent together it also got me thinking about places as well, places that shaped me into the person I am.
I've always felt that music and literature are two of the most important things in life. My choices for both were deeply affected by Chris W. and City Lights Book Shop.
I've known Chris for well over 30 years, we both went to St. Francis elementary, we both lived on the same street about seven houses away from each other. It was the typical 70's childhood friendship, playing in yards, hide and seek, Star Wars, Battle of the Planets, fights and the inevitable stupid apologies. Then Chris and his family moved away, I don't remember when, but it was a few years until I saw him again and then we started High School together. Our high school years were no different than anyone else, a tight knit clique that seemed to do everything together. Even when we didn't want a particular person there, it just seemed wrong that they weren't. It wasn't a lot of parties, or drinking, but a lot of music and movies, had we been more inclined it very easily could have become a Tarrantino Rodriguez combo.
Our movie and musical tastes changed over the years, growing and influenced by each others tastes. The early years marked by Friday the 13th movies and Triumph (Chris) Genesis and Yes (me). By the end of school I was fanatical about The Who, Pink Floyd and Tom Waits. Chris had gravitated towards the big guitar sounds of the blues legends and masters like Jimmy Page.
In 1988 - Chris gave me a book that changed my life. For some adults this would be something banal like Eat Pray Love (shit) or The Book Thief (Brilliant). But, for a teenager that had already decided to go into politics, The Prince was a lightning bolt. That coupled with a conscious decision to be an arrogant, egotistical, narcissist, changed me into who I am today. For those that really know me, understand that I don't see any of those traits as negatives.
It was Chris that introduced me to City Lights Book Shop in London. This was a place where we spent our lunch breaks, ditched classes, cut church service and spent many Sunday afternoons. It was and still is my idealised used bookstore. You weren't going to get to find any rare and valuable tomes, but you would always find what you were looking for. The used comic section was huge, there was always porno mags hidden in the stacks of popular science in the very back. (This was always a happy moment for 15 year old hormone driven teens). There was a large selection of original print pulp novels. But it was one thing more than anything else that got me.
It had atmosphere.
The smell of the dust, mouldy book bindings, cigarettes from the staff behind the counter and of course stale coffee. The staff were an eclectic bunch - The owner will be well known to residents of B.C. - Mark Emery. Mark was already a young rabble rouser at the time, his current battle against the fascist hordes was Sunday shopping laws. For young teens in the 80's with little or nothing to do, having places to shop on Sunday was fantastic. Now, as a working adult - I miss those days of stores being closed for at least one day. I wonder how Mark feels about the cult of commercialism he helped create. The last I heard Mark was in a US prison on federal drug and mail charges, being held under circumspect law violations. Whatever his politics these days, I want to thank Mark for giving me a place that was always stable and unchanging every time I made a trip back to London.
Chris, has always been just as steadfast. We lost touch when I moved away to University, only getting to see each other if I came down on the Christmas holidays. But, it never mattered, we could go months or even years without seeing or speaking to each other and we would always be able to pick up as if we had only just seen each other a few hours ago. It was with great happiness I found Chris again a few years ago through face book it had now been at least seven years since we'd had any contact and once again - friendship showed that it can transcend time and geography. We both had careers and families now, and I love to see that Chris kept his love of music alive and more importantly he has passed his love of guitar onto his kids.
He's been on my mind a great deal lately whenever I see a movie from those years long past, or when I pick up a particularly well written book I can't help but wonder what Chris would think of it. The Book Thief and Life of Pi being two recent ones.
Friday, 9 December 2011
Where Everybody knows your name
Thank you Char Char-
You brought me back to 1990. I know this was years before we met, but it was when I first met sweet lady poutine.
I had become smitten with a young Acadian girl named Nadine who was a second year aged studies student and on our ramblings around downtown Ottawa she introduced me to the delicacy of French fries, cheese curds and gravy and of course you needed to top it with even more salt. I discovered that cheese curds actually made a difference instead of cheese and that the very best poutine came from the seediest looking chip waggons rather than anywhere else.
There are few things I like as much and miss as fondly as the smell from chip waggons and Polish or German sausages cooking in the cold autumn air.
How awesome does all that taste being washed down with a cold can of coke?
I tried a lot of experiments with poutine over the years – I never liked Italian poutine (made with tomato sauce instead of gravy). I was underwhelmed by a poutine we served at a Cape Breton function one night at the Loon that was made with summer savoury added to it.
Sorry Joanne & Derek. But the music and event itself was fantastic.
I even tried a decadent poutine once or twice – made with proper potato rosti, bacon and beef pan drippings.
But the crème de la crème was the poutine made from chips cooked in duck fat. I will state that you have not lived until you’ve tried it.
Sadly, there is no poutine in Australia. I found it once at a solitary New York Fries franchise that has since closed and introduced a very reluctant Liv to it. Getting to see the eye roll and blissful reaction cross her face as she bit into it was a happy moment for me and I wonder if it was the same expression that Nadine saw on mine. Every other Aussie I’ve met has put up the same fight against trying something that sounds good in theory and each an everyone of them has reacted with something akin to good sex.
I will readily admit to being hungover on a fairly regular basis when writing up specials at the Loon. I’d apologise to Rose but she already knew the state of most of her staff from the night before. So yes, the specials did suffer and you could always tell just how bad things were in the kitchen by what specials were on.
Quesadilla = Hungover
Meat lovers pizza = Hungover
Red onion, bacon and mushroom pasta with rose sauce = Hungover
Poutine perogies? That was a hangover but one that was also a special for Char, Marcie, Lisa, and Sarah Sausage.
There was a magic at the Loon, one that wasn’t kept to one group. It spread from kitchen and floor staff to the customers as well. I’ve never found that same formula anywhere else. I’m not saying it was always sunshine and roses, there were fights, we all occasionally lumbered through like a piece of farm machinery. But it is always a fond memory to look back on those six years of my life, to have known that just outside my door was a place that everybody knew your name and was always glad you came.
Sorry, couldn’t resist.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
Like teardrops in rain...
Bladerunner one of my favourite films of all time. I admit to owning the five disc blu-ray ultimate cut edition. I even admit to preferring the original 1982 theatrical cut with the voice over to all the others. This movie has been on my mind lately. Well, not the entire thing, but the essence of it.
Memories.
The Nexus 6 replicants are chasing after more life and memories.
Oddly appropriate. Don't you think?
In the closing scenes of the film Roy Batty sits down and recounts the memories that he has, that are going to be lost forever when he dies.
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those ... moments will be lost in time, like tears...in rain.
Time to die"
It occurred to me that we are in fact the sum total of our memories more than anything else. We may have climbed Mt. Everest, scored the winning touchdown, or thrown a packet of Kraft Dinner from the gallery of the Parliament, and they would have been defining moments that made us into the individuals we are, but, are these really just memories after the moment has passed?
I am dying.
Not in the Sylvia Plath sense of dying, that we are all dying all of the time, but actually dying.
The cancer has spread again and again and has now decided to take up residence in my head. It's likely to change my personality and the treatment for it may change it as well. So, I'm not going to be around to share my experiences and memories with my little girl or with any grandchildren. And I don't want the last memories my beautiful wife has of me being a stranger. And Arwyn's memories of her dad being one of sickness and death.
So here we are...
A retrospective history in no particular order of events in my life, profound and mundane. Please feel free to comment and share stories of times shared together.
Memories.
The Nexus 6 replicants are chasing after more life and memories.
Oddly appropriate. Don't you think?
In the closing scenes of the film Roy Batty sits down and recounts the memories that he has, that are going to be lost forever when he dies.
"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those ... moments will be lost in time, like tears...in rain.
Time to die"
It occurred to me that we are in fact the sum total of our memories more than anything else. We may have climbed Mt. Everest, scored the winning touchdown, or thrown a packet of Kraft Dinner from the gallery of the Parliament, and they would have been defining moments that made us into the individuals we are, but, are these really just memories after the moment has passed?
I am dying.
Not in the Sylvia Plath sense of dying, that we are all dying all of the time, but actually dying.
The cancer has spread again and again and has now decided to take up residence in my head. It's likely to change my personality and the treatment for it may change it as well. So, I'm not going to be around to share my experiences and memories with my little girl or with any grandchildren. And I don't want the last memories my beautiful wife has of me being a stranger. And Arwyn's memories of her dad being one of sickness and death.
So here we are...
A retrospective history in no particular order of events in my life, profound and mundane. Please feel free to comment and share stories of times shared together.
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