Long Time Gone



But I'm back now, and here to stay!

Here's me and my habibi at the wedding of hermano Joe and Michelle

And, here's some stuff that got me thinking lately:


The Inevitable Facebook Backlash

I enjoy Facebook... in moderation... but I must admit that there are some really good points raised in this article

"The whole thing is just a narcissistic exercise in self-branding and image management"

well, that suits me just fine, because I tend to associate with narcissistic, image-managing self-branders! --Heck me and some friends are going down to the ranch next weekend to brand ourselves. Hope Zeke doesn't forget the rubbing alcohol and cold compresses.

Seriously, though... some of the applications are pretty ridiculous. I'm pretty sure I don't want to get involved in any Hobo Wars, nor am I addicted to Grey's Anatomy or interested in vibrating hamsters of any kind! ... But to each his own.

And that's the great thing about Facebook: Customization! Your page can be as streamlined or as cluttered as you want it to be.

*****

The gun is the great equalizer

Think about it. It is the use of a gun that "allegedly" allowed this grotesque troll, an obese career criminal who was barely five feet tall, to get the better of an alpha-male like Constable Chris Worden, who had been a standout college athlete at Laurier. Woorden would have likely snapped the little prick in half, had the alleged killer been unarmed, or had he been given a fair chance. We don't have all the details yet, but I would not be surprised to hear that the Mountie never even saw it coming.

*****

Sopranos Finale

David Chase Responds! His message? Get over it, freaks.

*****


Because it is worth reading

Orson Scott Card's essay on
the end of Empire. A real treat if you are a fan of history, and you actually believe that we can learn something from the past, like I do.

*****

We may not know who we are

But we recoil instinctively, I think, from what we know we are not, and never want to be.

Reading this article, I thought aboutsomeone telling me a story about being obliged to talk to a woman's husband to find out "where it hurts", because she was forbidden from speaking to a man outside her family.

There is something repugnant about that, is there not? Doesn't something inside you tense up? Some little voice tell you "That just ain't right"? But this is Canada! Live and let live! We embrace what makes us different, don't we? And so we are conflicted... and in some places, xenophobia is rearing its ugly head.

Contrary to what some say, it is NOT racist to discuss reasonable accomodation, but it is reprehensible to pander to some bigots and give them a forum for airing their hysteria over “outsiders" in order to score political points.

In Quebec, we discover that the Province’s infrastructure is crumbling and that the transport department is characterized by "widespread negligence" and "generalized irresponsibility", but I guess the politicos are too busy with other issues to do anything about it!

We only have ourselves to blame for any current difficulties, because it turns out that Canadians do stand for something after all... we have just forgotten to advertize it clearly. We need to talk more about the responsibilities and not just the rights inherent in Citizenship. Because being a Canadian should mean certain things, notwithstanding how we have been bumbling along. That honest and blunt conversation, rather than more soapboxes for fearmongers and bigots, is what is needed.

*****

The Egghead War

Vic Hanson went to Iraq. He was struck by the number of PhDs and Masters among the soldiery currently serving there.

I sometimes laugh at how some people paint soldiers as "children" who were probably bamboozled into joining up.

If Hanson is to be believed, the condescending depictions modern soldiers as simpleminded, illiterate gung-ho yokels, seem to be well removed from the truth of the matter.

The high level of education among the military contrasts quite nicely, I think, with the meagre academic achievements of the Hollywood-based punditry; self-proclaimed experts on everything. I'm thinking of borderline retards like Janeane Garofalo, who dropped out of college, or Sean Penn, who didn’t even go.

Visitors from Spain

A couple of weeks ago, Joe and Michelle got hitched. It was a fantastic time for all of us, particularly because so many of our Spanish relations made the trip over for the wedding. Nesrine and I agree: you enjoy a wedding so much more when it isn't your own.



After the wedding, everyone piled into a couple of cars and headed off on a road-trip. The first stop was Ottawa. Here are the primos in front of Parliament.

Rome

Our three-week trek is ending tomorrow, but at least we managed to finish on a high-note. Rome was just as enjoyable this time around as it was three years ago, and what's more, I got to check out some sights I had not gotten to last time around (San Giovanni Laterano, Domus Aurea) as well as revisit some of my faves, this time with Nesrine (the Forum and the Palatine, and the Vatican and Saint Pete's, naturally!). Nesrine is currently finishing her last minute shopping-spree, then it's off to see La Traviatta, and early to bed. We have to catch two flights tomorrow, but with any luck we should back to the old grind by tomorrow, Tuesday latest, sob. It seems that the more travelling I do, the more I want to do in the future. I guess the many fantastic memories I have of this three-week adventure will just have to tie me over until the next trip!

Florence

What does one say about Florence? Well, for starters, it is as amazing as I remember it being the first time I was here. I bet Nesrine that she would like it even more than Venice, and I was right. Venice was great, don't get me wrong... but you can only take so many vaporetto rides before the novelty starts to wear off. I did get to see the palazzo, which I had also missed the first time around --what the hell did I actually do the first time I was in Venice, come to think of it? I was impressed by the Doge's appartments and the state offices, which was kind of the idea behind their whole design, I guess: to overawe any visitor with the military and economic power of the Venetian republic. I actually got a bit creeped out going over the "bridge of sighs", imagining how many poor bastards got a last look out towards the lagoon before they were locked up in those horrible dungeons!

We arrived in Florence last night by train, and had to do a bit of running around to secure lodgings. I had the absurd idea of staying in the same place I had rented last time I was in this city, but of course, the Bellavista was all booked up. Nesrine, who did not appreciate the stench of urine in the vestibule did not mind that the hotel turned out to be unavailable. Nevertheless, we did manage to find a place to stay just a stone's throw from the Palazzo Vecchio.

Our first evening in Florence turned out to be quite an exciting one: Nesrine was in the middle of a heated bargaining session with one of the many African street vendors who sell knock-off purses around this city when suddenly, a half-dozen cops appeared out of nowhere. We slithered away as they took the hapless entrepreneur into custody. Nesrine felt sick about the whole thing, since she blamed herself for distracting the fellow and thereby preventing his escape. I felt less sympathy. Getting pinched by the carabinieri is just one of the risks inherent in his chosen line of work. It comes with the territory.

This morning, after securing tickets to the Uffizi for tomorrow, we wandered across the Ponte Vecchio and did a bit of shopping. I also paid a return visit to the Brancacci chapel to see the Massacio frescoes depicting the life of Saint Peter. That was also worth a return visit, since I had had a chance to read more about the importance of these works (studied by renaissance masters for decades after they were done in the early 15th century) and they were every bit as impressive as the first time I had seen them.

Tomorrow, we hit the Uffizi, and then, on to Rome, for the big finish!

A Fleeting Glimpse of Athens and on to Venice

That's about all we got... but it was enough. We left Santorini on a high-speed ship bound for Pireaus after 9 PM, knowing that we would not be getting to Athens until very late, but we were not 100% ready for the ordeal that followed.

The ship was great--unlike the last high-speed jet boat we had taken from Mykonos to Paros-- those Greeks know how to sail in style. The only downside was the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke wafting throughout the cabin and choking the young'uns. Smoking and non-smoking sections aboard these vessels are adjacent to the point of being almost interchangeable. Anyway, our trip and arrival at the port of Piaraeus was without incident. I wish I could say the same about the next couple of hours.

I have read that in the fourth century BC, the Athenians built walls around the road betweeen their city and its port of Piraeus during the Peloponesian war to keep marauding Spartans out and allow the passage of goods up to the city. If only they were still intact! Piraeus is the kind of ugly you see in post-apocalyptic movies starring Kurt Russell or Mel Gibson. Worse yet, the taxi drivers are relentless in their efforts to lure unsuspecting tourists into their cabs as they come off the vessels in the port, unaware that they will likely get fleeced. Nesrine and I ran the gauntlet for about 500 M, fending off the unwelcome attention of these shady characters, until we arrived at the bus stop. After a quick confab with some French Backpackers --I don't speak the Breton version of French, but I could almost understand 50% of what they were saying-- we hopped aboard a bus bound for central Athens.

The driver waved us away dismissively when we told him we didn't have tickets and offered to pay cash-money. Free trip downtown! Nice. Even though it was 1:30 in the a.m. by now, I could still see clearly enough outside the bus to be dismayed by what I saw. Whither the polis of Pericles? This place was a dump. After about 30 morose minutes trundling through a nightmare of urban decay, with the French girls, an assortment of weirdoes, trannies and hookers as our travelling companions, we jumped of as near to our hotel as we could, and headed out on foot after bidding the Bretonnes bonne chance. Downtown Athens at night is not for the faint-of-heart, and after several accidental detours into dark alleys among the labyrinthine streets, we soon lost our nerve. A cab was hailed, and we piled in, agreeing on the reasonable-sounding price of 5 Euros... mostly because I could not see a meter, and the cabbie looked reasonably unfriendly --but not outwardly hostile.

Ha. Barely 5 minutes later, we were in front of the King Jason hotel. What I had thought was the car radio turned out to be the meter. It read 2.60. Somewhat disgusted with myself, I handed the surly cabbie his fare, which included a 100% mark-up thanks to our earlier agreement, and we staggered into the hotel. It was 2:30. We had not been in our clean-but-unremarkable room more than 5 minutes before the wailing started from next door. There is a corner in hell where the tormented damned make such sounds, I'm quite certain, but these noises were coming from right next door. Evidently, some fellow was having a very bad night. I guessed it was a bad-breakup and a late-night drunk-dial gone wrong. Nesrine, the kinder soul, thought that the fellow was sick. We were starting to get a bit alarmed by the cries of anguish coming from the next room, when they suddenly stopped. This was our window of opportunity to get some shut-eye. It was 3 am, and we were getting up at 8 am to see the Acropolis. We took it. I resorted to ear-plugs.

The next morning, we were relieved to hear our neighbour was alive and well... no one could still be wailing so vigourously and have anything physically wrong with them. Mentally? Maybe... At any rate, we did not stick around to find out. We had just a couple of hours to see the Acropolis, the Parthenon, and the Erectheion... all the old stuff that people go to Athens to see. The ruins of the Acropolis are spectacular, but everthing around it in a 10 km radius... I compared it to a pearl in the middle of a pile of manure. A crude analogy, but waddaya gonna do? I was on 4 hours sleep.

The trip to the airport that afternoon confirmed the prejudices I had developed the night before: Athens is huge. It is dirty. And it is afflicted with urban blight. I'll entertain contrary opinions when people show me any holiday snaps that do not feature the Parthenon or anything within a 1000-meter radius of it. Any takers?

After a bit of a white-knuckler on a flight with Alpi-Air --which I suspect is recycling the 19780s-era fleets of former soviet republics ( I swear I saw bulgarian instruction stickers in some areas of the plane) --we arrived in Venice. We took a vaporetto down the Grand Canal to our hotel, the Campiollo, which just a hop, skip and a jump away from the Piazza San Marco. We were promptly upgraded to a ridiculously fantastic apartment and spent a wonderful evening enjoying it -- it was closing on 8 pm by now and we were too exhausted to do any sight-seeing that evening.

Due to some poor planning, I never got a chance to visit Sain Mark's church last time I was here (ridiculous, I know), but I took care of that omission this morning, and it was worth a three-year wait. We saw amazing mosaics and those 4 big horses, cast 1800 years ago, that the crusaders stole from the hippodrome in Constantinople in the 1200s. I think San Marco is everything the Hagia Sofia was and might have been to this day, if history had played out a bit differently before the walls of Constantinople back in the 15th century. The rest of the time, we just kinda wandered around, gaping at everything. Venice kinda has that effect on people.

Some say that La Serenisima ain't the lady she used to be, but after Athens, she was looking pretty spectacular, let me tell ya!

Waiting for the next catastrophe

No, not a personal catastrophe... things have gone pretty well on this trip so far, all things considered. I'm talking about a natural disaster. Santorini (Thira) has seen plenty of them in its day, including several volcanic erruptions --one of which basically ended the Minonan civilization in ancient times-- and a real doozy of an earthquake that levelled alot of the Island almost 50 years ago. And yet, every time, people came back to rebuild. Why?

Well for us, the answer was clear as we arrived on the ferry. It was a bit of an ordeal getting here, though. We left Mykonos on Wednesday, but had to take a Fast-boat and stay overnight in Paros due to a mix-up. The trip to Paros was a horrible experience involving turbulent seas and people getting sick all over the ship-- we managed to avoid that misfortune, but not the smell, though! We vowed to avoid fastboats in the future.

Paros is a lovely island, and the port, in particular, has a fantastic waterfront, but it seemed a bit somnolent to us after the excitement of Mykonos, and we didn't mind leaving after only a day. On Thursday afternoon, as we approached Santorini, we were treated to the awe-inspiring site of the cliff-top bleach-white houses of Oia, which perch precariously above the northern point of the half-moon shaped Island. We cruised down the island's west coast, seeing more such houses with their colourful roofs and windows, as well as little paths here and there down to the small ports at the base of the cliffs. It was only later that we realized we were sailing through the caldera, which was the result of the collapse of the centre of the once-island after a cataclysmic erruption.

The volcanic rocks and fantastic landscapes of this island attest to the turbulent relationship Santorini has had with the forces of nature, but both of these things make travelling around the island a sheer joy. As in Mykonos, we rented an ATV and have made excellent use of it over the past two days, visiting beaches and lovely towns and villages all over the island. We also had the good fortune to stay in Oia, which was postcard-beautiful. This enchanting island will surely remain a highlight of our trip in our memories.

On the critical matter of selection of beaches:

We have been in Mykonos now for just a couple of days. It was Nesrine's idea to come here, but I'm afraid I'm getting used to the vibe of this place and the enviable lifestyle of the Mykonos holidayer: Up at noonish after a late night of carousing, coffee on the closest beach at Ornos, hop on the four-wheeler with my "old lady" and zoom off to some cove to stew in the sun and swim in the Aegean -- the ATVs are de rigeur here, nobody walks. Driving them around is a dangerous business, with all the rough and winding roads criss-crossing this picturesque island. Signs and traffic signals are few and far between. And those that exist (e.g. the speed limit postings) are taken more as suggestions by some of the people here, who seem hellbent on killing themselves in their pursuit of a good time.

Nevertheless, once you survive the traffic and manage to get to the beach, you are bound to have a good time....unless maybe if you arrive at a gay/lesbian nudie beach that you had not intended to visit. There is a big gay scene on Mykonos. Nesrine and I chuckled about that scenario as we observed a sign pointing in two different directions. One beach, Paradise is populated mostly by younger people, with a sprinkling of old hipsters. The other beach Super Paradise is the Gay/Lesbian beach. How many unsuspecting people, while exploring the many beaches of the island, have heard about Paradise and decided to go, only to showed up Super Paradise and not realize where they were until confronted by the sausage party.

Anyway, we like it here, and we don't think we shall come home!

Groan. OK, even the locals know that you can't live this lifestyle 365 days a year.

More Istanbul, and then south

Day three ın Istanbul was dedıcated to seeıng the Hagıa Sofıa and the nearby Cıstern --that's rıght, even the cısterns ın Istanbul are tourıst attractıons. But thıs one ıs truly unıque. The Basıllıca Cıstern was apparently used by the byzantınes to store water they brought ınto the cıty wıth theır aqueducts. At some poınt, ıt fell ınto dısrepaır and was only redıscovered after tales of local Istanbul resıdents "mıraculously" drawıng water through holes ın theır floors spread. It has been fully restored now and ıs an eery place to spend a few mınutes, wıth ıts creepy underground mood lıghtıng and shadowy fısh flıghtıng about the shallow water around the dozens of columns that support the massıve cavern --ıt ıs longer than a football fıeld.

Before goıng there, however, we vısıted the Aya Sofıa (spellıng varıes) --the former "Church of the Holy Wısdom" whıch, for a tıme, was the largest church ın Chrıstendom. Buılt by Justınıan ın the sıxth century, ıt was transformed ınto a mosque after Constantınople fell to the Turks ın 1453, and then natıonalızed and made a museum ın the early part of the 20th century. Whıle certaınly grand and awe-ınspırıng, ıt seems to have had a peculıar effect on Nesrıne and I. We realızed that our vague sense of dısappoıntment came from our vıew that ın restorıng portıons of the church-cum-mosque they trıed to show ıt both ways, and ıt ended up showıng neıther. The orıgınal paınt and mosaıcs had been plastered over by the muslıms, due to theır prohıbıtıon on the dısplay of ımages of human or anımal ın theır relıgıous art. In some sectıons therefore-lıke the nave-lıttle remaıns of the orıgınal church. If you choose to approach your vısıt ın sectıons, however, there are some defınıte hıghlıghts: The restored mosaıcs of Chrıst Pantocrator in the second floor gallery and the donatıon depıctıon wıth emperors Constantıne and Justınıan ın the south entrance are worth the prıce of admıssıon alone. It ıs ıncredıble to thınk that thıs ıs a 1600-year old church. That alone makes ıt awe ınspırıng.

On day 4, our last one ın the cıty, we tackled the Grand Bazaar a second tıme, and dıd alot better thıs tıme, makıng headway agaınst the ımplacable merchants who assaulted us from every dırectıon. We managed to walk away wıth a few ıtems and our dıgnıty ıntact. Whıle Nesrıne caught up on some bookıng, I vısıted the Istanbul Archaeologıcal Museum, whıch was a real treat for anyone who ıs ınterested ın layıng eyes on the stuff you read about ın ancıent hıstory books. It aın't every day you can see a 6000-year old ınscrıptıon of some God-Kıng braggıng about butcherıng hıs enemıes and rulıng the unıverse. Fınally, perhaps fıttıngly, our vısıt ended at the Blue Mosque, perhaps Istanbul's most famous sıte. We both agreed that ıt was a bıt antı-clımactıc after the splendour of the Suleymaıye Camıı, but the far more tourısty Sultanhamet Mosque ("blue mosque" ıs just a nıckname) was ımpressıve nonetheless, wıth ıts splendıd tılework and amazıng proportıons. I was a bıt put off by the number of people who sauntered ın wıth theır legs uncovered or, ın the case of women, wıthout wearıng the requısıte head coverıng, provıded on sıte by the mosque staff. I thought ıt showed a great deal of dısrespect. After dınıng ın Sultanhamet ınstead of Beyoglu for the fırst tıme durıng our trıp--all of our dınıng experıences havıng been great so far-- we turned ın early.

The reason for that was that the next day, we had to catch a ferry to Bandırma on the Asıan sıde, ın order to catch a traın to Izmır ın the south. It was a welcome respıte from our hectıc days of walkıng all over Istanbul, and we met a nıce retıred couple from Australıa who chatted about theır trıp to Canada. After a quıck bus rıde to Selçuk, we got settled ınto our Pensıon, and slept lıke the dead.

Early thıs mornıng, we got up and vısıted the ruıns of Ephesus. They are massıve, puttıng anythıng else I have seen from the classıcal perıod of Rome or Greece so far to shame. I was partıcularly ımpressed by the lıbrary of Celsus and the Odeon, not to mentıon the 24 thousand seat theatre. The only trouble ıs the oppresıve heat, whıch ıs takıng ıts toll on both Nesrıne and I. We took a bıt of a nap thıs afternoon to recover, and I thınk we are about ready to transıtıon to a bıt of a slower pace-- that means we'll probably be headed for Samos ın Greece, and the Islands beyond, tomorrow. In other words: "enough hıstory... brıng on the beaches!"

The fırst two days

We arrıved ın Istanbul on Sunday evenıng and after gettıng through the ımmıgratıon formalıtıes, hopped ın a cab for our hotel. It took all of 5 seconds for me to reach for my seatbelt as the cabbıe deftly zıg zagged ınto the chaotıc stream of traffıc headıng ınto Istanbul. The cıty sprawls over a numberof hılls around the golden horn, so the roads are seldom straıght or level. In fact, we quıckly dıscovered that our hotel was at the top of one of those hılls --and on a street that dıd not allow car traffıc. Luckıly, ıt was a short 2 mınute walk and wıth packs on our backs, we trudged wearıly ınto the lobby. A few mınutes later we were grabbıng showers ın our lovely lıttle room, delıghted to see that the ınternet and travel gods had favoured us ın bookıng thıs place, the Rıchmond, sıte unseen.

We walked up the aforementıoned street, called Istıkal Cadesı, whıch seems to be swarmıng wıth pedestrıans 24 hours a day, and grabbed a beer at a sıdewalk bar. We had made ıt!

Monday mornıng saw us rıse at a decent hour, notwıthstandıng a brutal case of jet-lag, to go check out Topkapı palace. One day I'll try to put the experıence ınto words, but at the moment, ıt seems too overwhelmıng. The seat of the Ottoman sultan for centurıes, ıt sıts on a promontory overlookıng the Bosphorus and domınatıng the Sultanhamet area of the cıty (the hıstorıc centre). It was expanded several tımes ın ıts hıstory and now houses 4 courts as well as the harem and ımperıal resıdence. It ıs completely unıque, featurıng amazıng ottoman archıtecture and rıch, ıntrıcately detaıled rooms covered ın thousands of ıznık tıles, gold, and lapıs lazulı. It was unlıke any european palace I've ever seen --and ıt was a fantastıc place to spend the better part of a day.

After a quıck nap, we headed for dınner at a rooftop restaurant, where we got our fırst taste of Turkısh cuısıne --love ıt-- and our fırst real remınder that we are ın a muslım country. At some poınt ın the meal, we began to hear lıttle pops ın the dıstance --fıreworks, we thınk, but we stıll aren't sure. Thıs was followed by a strange dronıng sound that started far away, and was gradually pıcked up ın other parts of the cıty. I soon realızed that these were human voıces raısıng plaıntıve crıes through dozens of loudspeakers, and that the resultıng cacophony was ın fact the competıng calls of many muezzın. It was one of those moments that stops you dead. We're not ın Kansas anymore, Toto.

The next day, as ıf makıng good on a promıse to ınvestıgate the source of those calls to prayer, we headed across the Galata brıdge to Yenı Camıı (the new mosque--whıch ıs only new ın the sense that at 400 years old, ıt ıs a relatıvely recent addıtıon to the ancıent cıty's collectıon of mosques). It was my fırst tıme ın a mosque --and what a mosque for a fırst-tımer! It ıs a fully functıonıng mosque, not a hıstorıc sıte, so we followed the shoe-removal/female head coverıng/modesty protocol and spent a few mınutes ınsıde the massıve buıldıng. The raın had started fallıng, so we found our way ınto the spıce bazaar, where we were accosted from every sıde by frıendly turks tryıng to separate us from our money. We were careful not to get to cozy ın any store we entered because the tea and pleasantrıes would be a prelude to spendıng more than we should on somethıng we dıdn't need. In spıte of the hard-sell, I found the Turks to be frıendly and charmıng, ıf a bıt to smooth.

Eventually, we made our way to the Suleymaıye Camıı, whıch ıs the mosque that was buılt by Suleıman the Lawgıver (or the Magnıfıcent, dependıng on whom you talk to). The greatest of the Sultans, hıs 16th century mosque ıs a manıfestatıon of the power and majesty of hıs reıgn. It was more magnıfıcent than the mosque we had just vısıted, and what's more, for some reason the guard at the front let us stay for noon-hour prayers, whıch meant that we got a front row seat to the local muslım men (and women--behınd a screen at the back of the mosque)performıng the rıtual requıred of theır faıth-- somethıng that ıs normally not really part of the package tour, I'm sure. I was very moved by the whole thıng --Nesrıne even more so. We left ın stunned sılence.

A vısıt to the Grand Bazaar followed, and was somewhat dısappoıntıng, ın the sense that ıt seemed lıke more of the same --remember we had just been to the spıce bazaar a couple of hours before. I guess we just weren't ın buyıng mood. We wandered around Sultanhamet for the next couple of hours, stoppıng by the Hıppodrome to check out the obelısks, before headıng to a hamam, or Turkısh bath. It ıs a bıt early to talk about hıghlıghts of the trıp, but I have a feelıng thıs wıll remaın one of them. The place we went to advertısed ıtself as a 300 year-old ınstıtutıon, and ın spıte of ıts locatıon ın the tourısty part of town, turned out to be the real deal. Nesrıne and I parted company --women have a separate sectıon from men--and reunıted an hour later to compare experıences. You haven't really been clean untıl you have been steamed, gıven a vıgorous massage, scrubbed raw and drenched ın one of these places --take my word for ıt!

That nıght, our thırd ın Istanbul, I slept lıke a baby. All the aches and paıns brought on by the rıgours of trekkıng around a bıg cıty had magıcally dısappeared!

Bloggıng from Istanbul, Turkey

dısclaımer --any bızarre symbols ın thıs post are courtesy of these weırd keyboards

The trıp over was a paın, but after almost a full day of travel, now that we are here all grumbles and jet lag seem to have vanıshed. The cıty founded by Constantıne ıs just as awe-ınspırıng as you would expect from ıts hıstory. What has turned out to be a real pleasant surprıse, however, ıs how thoroughly modern ıt seems --an I mean ın a good way! I wasn't expectıng a place that seems so thoroughly at ease wıth the dıchotomy of ıts ancıent roots and ıts current status as a 21st century metropolıs. Everythıng seems to blend ın seemlessly, and I actually have found nothıng ıncongruous about completely modern buıldıngs sıttıng sıde by sıde wıth centurıes--or even mıllenıa-old structures. The Golden horn ıs just spectacular, and we have a great vıew of ıt from our hotel ın trendy Beyoglu... a very comfortable dıstance away from the carpet-hawkers ın the tourısty dıstrıct and a mere 20 mınutes on foot from just about everythıng. Day 1 we vısıted Topkapı Palace... ıt took almost the whole day and was absolutely worth the tıme spent. Tonıght, we dıne ın Beyoglu, and then ıt ıs back over to Sultanhamet for more tourıst stuff --Aya Sofıa or the Blue Mosque fırst? That's the kınd of dılemma we can deal wıth!

Stay tuned for more updates

We Don't Live In A Fascist Nation

THIS



IS WRONG.

Now, this video is about to go viral, if it hasn't already, so I will not bother giving you much background. You will probably hear all about it soon enough anyway. Essentially, it claims to show three undercover policemen confronted by some lefty union boss and denounced as "provocateurs". These so-called agents-provocateurs are hauled through the police cordon and arrested as protestors taunt them. Dave Coles has been getting alot of airtime on the news networks, allowing him to repeat his claims.

Well....


I believe him


Yup, your eyes do not deceive you. I, Mr. right-wing jackbooted reactionary am in complete accord with Comrade Coles.

It only takes one viewing to see that the whole thing stinks to high-heaven. Of course it is standard practice for the cops to plant "protestors" at these types of demonstrations, as a way of gathering intel and conducting surveilance. That's just common police procedure, and anyone who is outraged should give their head a shake. Prior to the Summit of the Americas in 2000, I was working for Canada Customs and an intelligence guy told us as much in a presentation we were given. I'll never forget it, because it was the first time I heard about black blocs, which I would later see in action at the aforementioned summit. You see, I have seen, up-close-and-personal, the interaction between protestors, both of the violent and non-violent varieties, and police on riot duty, and what you see in this video is definitely not the norm.

Normally, at least as I understand it and based on what I have heard from cops, the plants are supposed to be invisible. They look --and act-- the part of an "activist" or "radical", without actually getting sucked into any of the crazy "direct action" crap that some of the more "motivated" demonstrators (e.g. anarchists)can get up to involving acid, projectiles, and other patently illegal activities. They are like spotters, keeping a lookout for trouble spots at the leading edge of a demonstration, and surreptitiously informing their uniformed colleagues so that they can neutralize threatening behaviour. before it develops into somthing more dangerous. They are grey men --and women-- who are supposed to melt into the crowd and just observe.

This video? It is surreal, really. I'd love to hear from the genius who picked these three of Quebec's finest for this duty. Here we have three muscular douchebags in their late thirties or early forties milling around trying to blend in with a bunch of scrawny adolescent wannabe anarchists. They are so out of place it is almost laughable. But what really gets my underwear in a twist is that one of these clowns is clearly holding a rock --you can hear Coles admonish him and tell him to drop it at one point.

Now, this, ladies and gentlemen, is where we go beyond standard operating procedure and into the realm of incitement. What the hell was this joker doing with a rock in his paw? We have no way of knowing, but I'm quite certain this is inappropriate behaviour for someone undercover and I also imagine it crosses some police procedure line. What's worse is that if he is in fact an undercover cop (and I am convinced that he and his buddies are) video evidence of that rock is very damaging to the police. The demonstrators are claiming he was trying to stir up some violence so that the cops could retaliate, and they are pointing to the rock as evidence of this intent. It is compelling evidence.

The denouement of this little drama is laughable to say the least. A frenzy of sotto-voce negotiations between the three cornered "protestors" and the riot police followed by a pantomime arrest. Conveniently, the takedown takes place in the opposite direction of the demonstrators, allowing dozens of photographers to get a very nice view of the matching Vibram soles on everyone's boots. those Vibrams -- so popular with Tactical teams and soldiers, to say nothing of young anarchists!

We'll see how this all plays out in the days to come.

What is behind the "Peace Movement"?

One can begin to form a picture of the typical peace studies student by reading the testimonials by students and graduates that many of these programs have posted online. Essentially the same story occurs over and over in these accounts: the privileged upbringing; the curiosity about other cultures; the visit to the Third World, where the poverty shocks, even transforms, the student (“I . . . would never be the same after experiencing what I did in Honduras”); and, finally, the readiness to swallow the peace professors’ explanation for it all—namely, that it’s America’s fault—and to work for revolutionary change. Many students make it clear that they’re ashamed to be American; one of them, listing her aspirations, writes, “I envision myself American, not needing to be embarrassed of it.” They view themselves instead as “global citizens"

Read it all here.

*****

Bonus stupid content:
Unqualified Candidates. Following this guy's line of reasoning, I nominate Matthew Coon-Come for Indian Affairs Minister, Eddie Greenspan for Justice Minister, Peter Gzowski's Ghost as Minister of Canadian Heritage and Wolverine from the X-Men for Minister of Defence.

Two recent articles have prompted me to change the title of my blog.

One was this one in Slate:

What not to name your blog.
After reading it, I realized that Vis Comica might be a bit obscure --and pretentious.

Then I read this article on web litter and dead blogs.
Web litter... and inspiration struck.

I give you the new title for

Litter-blog

Q & A with myself:

Q. What the hell is with you lately? You sure don't blog much!

A. Instead of writing in my blog, I've been listening to music and skanking around the house. acting all crazy because the Harbster and I are going on a trip for three weeks to Turkey and Greece (and a bit of Italy, if there is any time left over).

Q. Skanking... Is that the dance that punks do?

A. Are you thinking of pogoing?

Q. No that other one.

A. skanking. People do it to ska songs.



Q. When I was in high school, skanking meant something very different.

A. That's not a question. But yeah, I guess it was a vulgar way of refering to people making out, as in "people are always skanking on soap operas".

Q. Do you watch soaps?

A. Not since the early nineties, when, I am ashamed to admit, I did occasionally catch Days of our Lives when I was at home writing an essay in front of the TV. I prefer comedy. I particularly like good sketch comedy

Q. Remember SCTV? The Italian guy who was on at the end is in trouble with the law, right?

A. Yup. Tony Rosato. It's a sad story

Q. Speaking of sad, how badly did
this blogger get owned when she ran afoul of Kate from Small Dead Animals?

A. Very badly. Check out the comments from Kate's minions. She got her own ass handed to her.

Q. Thanks for your time.

A. My pleasure, back to skanking.

The last mournful note

In July of 1861, the United States was at war with itself, and the union army was massing for a march into Northern Virginia. Just before his departure from Washington,Major Sullivan Ballou of the Second Rhode Island wrote a letter to his wife.

Two weeks later he was dead, having succumbed to wounds sustained at First Bull Run.

He left this moving love letter to posterity, parts of which will be familiar to anyone who watched Ken Burns' seminal documentary "The Civil War". That explains why you may find the tune Ashokan Farewell popping into your head as you read it:

July the 14th, 1861

Washington D.C.

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure—and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows—when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children—is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death—and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.


Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar—that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

Sullivan

People don't write like that anymore, do they?

The war that started out as a conflict over "States' rights" soon evolved into a crusade to end slavery. How sad, then, to read an article like this one, and realize how far, even today, black Americans still have to go in their own emancipation:

In the heart of America, in chains

*****

From another conflict, one in our time playing out this very minute in a hundred towns and villages half a world away: Michael Yon's incredible stories from Iraq More riveting than anything you could make up.

Is the internets are craving the return of my postings?

I been too damn busy to post during July. What has happened up to this point during the month? Here follows the summarization...

Part One:

in which the brothers Ellard and Paterfamilias Timothy James venture into the depths of the wilderness of central Ontario during the celebrations of the founding of the Dominion (a.k.a Canada Day camping trip)

That weekend featured the double Rs of rest and relaxation and the 4 Ps: paddling; portaging; pounding (tent pegs as well as beers); and puking.

Actually there was no ralphing... although I think we came close on one or two of those portages. That's what happens when you attempt to transport your own bodyweight in booze.

We eventually found a great campsite on a lake almost entirely devoid of other campers. We really were all alone out there!

George soon broke out the rod drown a couple of worms.

While we set up camp, Dad was posted as a sentry to keeep a sharp eye out for bears, wolverines, sasquatch, and other predators that infest the perilous forests of Algonquin Park.

He drank TWO BEER. That was two beer two much.

He was subsequently found to be incapable of carrying out his duties, and was relieved.

After he was sacked, Tim hit the sack. Lucky for him Jim brought his hammock!

Later we woke Tim up and feasted upon small forest vermin that we caught using diabolical pungi stick traps that Joe had learned to make when he was in 'Nam. The chipmunk was particularly succulent. We may have eaten some burgers and dogs too. I'm hazy on that detail. Next day, Joe caught a fish and beat it to death with his paddle. It was rather gruesome, but ultimately delicious.

Basically, the rest of the weekend was spent getting wood, drinking beer, cooking, drinking beer, swimming, drinking beer, and fishing. It was a blast. We are looking to make it an annual event.

Part Two:

The commemoration of the anniversary of my birth - Jaimito is 32 and all grow'd-up:

My main squeeze got me new camping gear! She must have seen how enthused I was when I came back from our canoe expedition.

Had some friends over for supper... this old-timer ain't been out on the town since ought-six on account of my bum hip that troubles me something fierce these days, dagnabbit!

So that's how I spent the first part of July. How's about you?

Youtubitude

Crazy South-African Animal Battle Royal Free-for-All!



*****

The craze that is sweeping the nation



Christopher Hitchens on Islamic Rage Boy:

*****

If the Hamas Mickey Mouse clone must die, it is only fitting that "the murderers of children" do the dirty deed, right?

New Nonsense

Here's some stuff I found outrageous/humourous/generally compelling:



Islamic rage boy: Book him for your next demonstration!

*****

Jaime Weinman blows our minds: Jack Bauer for the Supreme Court

*****

One day, someone will write the definitive history of this operation, and I think it may well make Blackhawk Down look like a slapfight in the schoolyard: Operation Arrowhead Ripper

*****

This is kinda cool: Chuck Palahniuk interviews Stephen King

*****

Tony Sleeps With the Fishes?: Here is a compelling case for the end really being "The End"

*****

Celebrity Colonialism: Brad and Angelina shut down Namibia

*****

Superhero Porn?: Greg Land: Great artist; Unabashed pervert

*****

The University of Virginia takes us back to the Eternal City; June 21, 320 AD:Rome Reborn 1.0

*****

Finally, this should be required reading for every Canadian: Talbot Papineau and Henri Bourassa correspond during the First World War

Taro Tsujimoto

Remembering Taro Tsujimoto

In honour of the upcoming NHL Entry Draft, we look back at one of the most tantalizing "what if" selections in the history of hockey.


The 1970s was the decade that brought a number of overseas imports to what had been seen as a "North American" league. Some, like Borje Salming, would eventually rise to the pinnacle of their sport and earn their place in hockey's pantheon of immortals, but it was an unknown prospect out of the Japan Ice Hockey League's Tokyo Katanas that was to shock the hockey world in 1974.

Legendary National Hockey League general manager Punch Imlach stunned the hockey world when he selected Taro Tsujimoto in the 11th round of the 1974 NHL Entry Draft. Hockey journalists initially hailed the selection, noting that the speedy centre, who went 183rd overall, would be a good fit with the organization. More importantly, the NHL had its first Japanese player.

While the diminutive Tsujimoto showed early promise in his first few months with the Sabres, surprising those who had expected little from this "novelty draft pick", a serious mandrus infection he picked up over Christmas left him bedridden for several weeks and he would ultimately end up missing half of his rookie season.

Never truly breaking out in a league of larger, tougher players than those he had faced in Japan, he would go on to have a credible career as a utility forward with several NHL organizations after being traded by the Sabres in his second year, including the Kansas City Scouts (76-79), the Cleveland Barons (79-80) and the Atlanta Flames for his final NHL Season (80-81). Throughout the 80s, Tsujimoto would bounce around the minor leagues, ultimately ending up back in his native land, where he has continued to play continuously since the early nineties as a semi-professional, and later, as an old timer.

It is said Tsujimoto never really recovered from the early setback of a severe illness in his rookie year. George Burdell, who played several seasons with the Tokyo native, had little to say to The Hockey News about his former teammate, characterizing him as "inscrutable" and an "enigmatic presence" who never quite got back on track after his bout with illness. Had he done so, some hockey historians opine he might have opened the floodgates to a new generation of Japanese player inspired by his trailblazing ways. We'll never know.

Bobby Orr: Regrets never having played with Taro

How about some nice gabagool?

Some people remember the first time they heard their favourite band, or where they were when they heard something tragic happened, like the JFK assassination for boomers, or maybe 9/11 for Gen Xers, for example.

I, however, remember the first time I saw that show about a mob guy who saw a therapist.

It was at Mike Arpin's house up in the Bay in '99. Mike, as anyone who knows him will remember, was a sucker for new electronics. If a video format or new satelite was coming out in six months, chances are he already had it. He had video game systems in his house that only existed in Japan, he had dozens of movies in multiple formats --including lazerdisc --and he had just about every cable channel that existed hooked up to his bigscreen, including a pay tv channel that was just starting to dabble in original programming in the late nineties: HBO.

One day, Fabian Silva and I were over at his house when he started raving about this new show he had been following. It starred that big dude who had that harrowing scene with Patricia Arquette in True Romance



and the guy who plays Spider, who gets shot by Joe Pesci in Goodfellas



and I was intrigued! No shit? I thought that scene with Gandolfini as the hit man character really stood out in TR... well, that one and the one with Chris "the anti-christ" Walken and Dennis Hopper --Come to think of it, I love that movie! What does that say about me, I wonder?



Anyway, Mike told us that unlike network, HBO did not have to insert commercials in its shows, and because of this, the programming tended to be more "cinematic" in nature. HBO also didn't need to tone down the violence or language either, so you almost ended up with some kind of bastard hybrid... like a pygmy movie, or a souped-up network drama.

So, intrigued by all this, we sat down to watch an episode of this new HBO show with the weird name at Mike's --what would turn out to be the first of 86 episodes, as it were-- and, from minute-one, I was transfixed.

All the superlatives have already been exhausted on the Sopranos, so I won't even bother trying to match the praise I've seen elsewhere. I'll just say that it is the closest thing I have ever seen on TV to literature, in terms of scope or ambition. And, what's more, it is yet to be surpassed in that regard. Can anyone point to any other programme on the small screen that painted universal themes in such grand strokes on such a broad canvas? You may be able to, but you could probably find someone who would call you on it, maybe someone who isn't even a Sopranos fan, but who recognizes it for what it is. Is is Sui generis.

It really did rewrite the rulebook of what could and could not be done on TV, and in the process, dared one to embrace it and invest in it. And yet, for all its complexity, loyal viewers have managed to stay hooked for eight years, and have been richly rewarded for their continued attention.

Some creative fans have gone to great lengths to plot out the overarching narrative of the show: who would have thought that the first five-and-a-half seasons of David Chase's opus could be summed up in such a clever way in seven minutes?



I wonder if he'll ever give us an updated version incorporating part 2 of Season 6...

Now the show is over. After a marathon viewing of the last 8 episodes, I watched the finale on Sunday night, and it was sublime. Once again, I'll refrain from providing a review. The final episode has been dissected to death by every Johnny-come-lately reviewer who wouldn't know a goomar from a garbanzo. If you want to read the thoughts of some really smart people who just happen to be big fans, you should go here.

I'll just say it was everything it needed to be, and so much more. David Chase, never concerned about meeting the expectations of the viewer, thumbed his nose at convention with the sudden shocking ambiguity of the ending, and, refusing to tie things up neatly in a bow, the Sopranos simply left us.

The end is bittersweet. Even moreso when you consider you can't really "re-experience" watching an episode for the first time. Like revisiting a favourite childhood park when you are an adult, or tasting candy you used to eat as a kid, the return visit is never quite the same. Not that repeat viewings aren't rewarding, but even before the final touches of this masterpiece had been applied to the canvas, TV turned on the show, like Saturn devouring his children.

Over the past couple of years, instead of airing the Sopranos in its unadulturated form in syndication, networks began wedging commercials into a format never designed for them. The result, as I found out watching "The Sopranos on CTV", was disconcerting, to say the least. The breaks are jarring. The flow of the narrative is interrupted. The end result is a facsimile, a fairly convincing imposter. Something exceptional masquerading as something mundane.

What's more, who would have thought that they would ever think of airing the Sopranos without the foul language? A&E is doing just that, and the result ain't pretty. I now refuse to rewatch the bastardized episodes:




OK, that clip is not actually from A&E, but you get my point. Colourful language makes for realistic dialogue in a show about the mob, and the dialogue is such an integral part of the Sopranos, that when you mess with it, the show suffers as a result.

Let's face it folks, the real Tony Soprano, the Tony of HBO is gone, and we shall not see his like.

Except on DVD.

FIN



But there is suffering in life, and there are defeats. No one can avoid them. But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggles for your dreams than to be defeated without ever knowing what you're fighting for.

Ben Stein

Game Two

EMERY IS A HERO

The guy dresses like a million bucks, even though he makes less than a million bucks a year.

He crashes hummers, punches out other goalies, and he stood on his head last night to keep Ottawa in the game.

Like I said, he's a hero.

Why do these fellows look cranky?

Their team is down 2-0

What is the solution?

They need to eat their
DIAMOND SHREDDIES

Game One



Great consternation seized on the senators... lest such conspiracies and nightly meetings might be productive of secret treachery and mischief

Livy, History of Rome, Book XXXIX

"On my signal... unleash Spezza"

Trust in Alfie... Sens will prevail!

Thoughts on the 24 Season 6 Finale

How did I feel about it? I was actually a bit pissed at the end. "What a cop-out!" I snorted as the final clock of the season came up. Then I let the ending sink in, and it actually came to make sense. The finale of this season was better than it had any right to be, given what had preceded it. Uneven is the best way I can describe this season of 24. Like the first four episodes of this year, the death of Fayed was just about as intense as anything we have seen on this show, but 24 kinda lost steam again after that as it limped toward a finale. Ultimately, hours 23 and 24 somewhat rehabilitated the show, even though I was secretly hoping that a very-much-alive Tony would show up at the end for the shocker ending that some spoiler sites had been predicting.

What did I like specifically in those last two hours? In particular, I liked the brief “telepathy” shot, between Bauer père and Bauer fils…that was bizarre. There was a good build up of tension up to the climax, followed by the inevitable action set-piece on the oil rig, and the confrontation with not one, but two father figures in Jack's life! I thought the last ten minutes with Jack laying his soul bare to SecDef Heller were particularly powerful. Best of all, the finale tied up most if not all loose threads up from outstanding storylines, laying the groundwork for the “retooled” 24 the producers have been talking about. What will that look like, I wonder? I think you can almost tell, just by looking at the way the season finale played out, who will probably be back, and who probably won’t. Here is where I think we stand for next season, or if you prefer

“if I was a 24 producer, this is how things might go down”:

Jack: potentially suicidal at the moment, apparently. DEFINITELY won’t be working for CTU again… will probably get caught up in some ongoing CTU operation in some other city (producers have hinted that CTU LA, which gets breached more often than the Sabres’ defence, won’t be a factor in next season’s storyline). I know some people think they will be getting rid of CTU altogether, but I doubt it! Bauer without CTU is like Alfredsson without Spezza and Heatley –it just wouldn’t be 24.

Cheng: Hopefully gone. He’s been a thorn in Jack's side for long enough and he's kinda f-ed up now anyway, isn’t he? How do you like your Cheng, Mr. Bauer? Extra Crispy

Audrey and papa Heller: Gone. Their three-season arc has run its course. Jack has let Audrey go… as he should. Please don’t bring this tired character back. Need new love interest! Perhaps…

Marilyn Bauer: I could see her return. There’s definitely some chemistry between her and Jack. And is Josh the new Kim?

Papa Bauer: Nope. Appears to be deceased. I doubt James Cromwell will return.

Bill and Karen: Done like dinner. They won’t be back –Bill should count his lucky stars he survived no less than three seasons on this show, given the fate of his predecessors.

Chloe and Morris: Also finito. Both characters’ storylines have been wrapped up nicely and they should definitely not be reintroduced, or they risk having another “President Logan and Martha” coda that goes nowhere.

President Palmer: Gone for good. And his sister too. PLEASE.

VP Daniels could be the Commander-In-Chief next season (President Palmer having eventually succumbed to his injuries sometime between seasons).

Tom Lennox: Hopefully to return…he was actually one of the few interesting people introduced this season, and as one of the few bits of continuity from season 6, he would be an anchor at the White House, a bit like the Mike Novick character in earlier seasons.

Nadia Yassir: Another little bit of continuity –like Chloe from season 3 to Season 4-- she could realistically be introduced as a transfer to the new CTU from CTU L.A. (Mike Doyle was a transfer from CTU Denver, right?). Hopefully, everyone else would be new AND interesting, unlike Nadia.

Mike Doyle: Minus one eyeball, he can now retire and practice pirate imitations. Alternatively, could be at CTU riding a desk and sporting a cool eyepatch, going out with Nadia, or show up as a cameo, à la embittered Tony Almeida from Season 4. Speaking of…

Tony Almeida: Still dead, potentially resuscitated as a zombie, with Curtis, of course. I can hope, can’t I?

Cameos:

Even though just about everyone has been ruthlessly killed off in recent seasons, thereby depriving us of characters we can be “invested” in, potential non-dead returnees include:

Kate Warner (reunited? She is still the hottest love interest)

Kim Bauer (reconciliation with pops?)

Chase Edmunds (but minus one hand, he wouldn’t be able to team up with Jack in any action scenes)

So basically, Jack, Nadia, and Mike (maybe) would be back at CTU, and Daniels and Lennox at White House. That would be as big a cast change as the one that happened between seasons 3 and 4. Definitely a “fresh start”!

Keep the Faith

To the beards go the victory!

Sens in FIVE.


*****
Monsieur Spielberg, un film avec Tintin....
C'est très cool!

I'm famous for playing make-believe and having someone record it. You should listen to me!

Sometimes I am filled with self-loathing when I realize I am one step removed from a movie-geek. Especially when I visit the fora on sites like AICN, populated as they are with so many misfits and creeps.

Call me an aficionado. I have seen just about everything mainstream made since the seventies worth seeing, and a fair bet of indie stuff besides. But, I could not tell you who the Cinematographer was in Chinatown, nor who wrote the script for C.H.U.D. I simply ain't that invested. To me, most movie geeks come across as sad faux-intellectual posers, trying to ascribe greater significance to the craft of what is essentially a bunch of people pretending to do things while a bunch of other people light and record them. This ain't philosophy or literature, it is make-belief, pumped full of ego and hubris and adrenaline.

That being said, I love movies. I don't mean I appreciate film as an art form. I mean I enjoy watching flicks... the same way some kids enjoy reading comics. As mostly-mindless, but occasionally thought-provoking entertainment. That's why I can't take the people who are involved in this business too seriously... and I certainly don't believe that their success in that medium somehow entitles them to use their public profile as a soapbox to preach to the rest of us about their pet causes.



In that spirit, I generally laugh at the earnest, hypocritical pronouncements of multimillionaire entertainment industry types, and I love seeing something like this: Lewis Black on Earth Day celebrities


Further proof that the stupidity of Cameron Diaz and her ilk truly knows no bounds


*****

Iranian Prez involved in hot porn scandal!

*****

Top 15 unintentionally funny comic book panels "Aunt May should know better than to snoop around a teenage boy's room!"

*****

At the risk of exagerating: Elizabethtown = disaster of mythic proportions

*****

Next in the series: Little Red Riding Hillary and the Big Bad Wolfowitz

*****

The touching tale of Emperor Norton of San Francisco

Peace-Loving Oil Rich Mordor

Removed, because it screws up my blog template! Can be seen at ifilm.com

Michael Moore's searing examination of the Aragorn administration's actions in the wake of the tragic events at Helms Deep.

*****

My Mob Nickname:

James "Chimpy Nuts" Ellard

*****

9 things I learned about the world according to anonymous
stock photo models

*****

Check out who is encased in carbonite

*****

Writing Like an Executive

I'm a Mandarin!

Talent: 23%
Lifer: 59%
Mandarin: 62%

Take the Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin quiz.

*****

I was reading a great blog post by David Thompson on cultural equivalence-- David has a blog that explores comic books and culture-- when I happened across a link to this video:



I remember seeing Jeff Dunham do some pretty tame stuff back in the nineties with characters like Peanut, and the Jalapeno-On-A-Stick... I guess times have changed!

The thing is, Achmed the Dead Terrorist may seem like an edgier act, but is it funnier than the middlebrow schtick that Dunham used to do with Walter the cranky old coot? Braver, sure. Funnier? Debatable.

*****

My Favourite Toronto Star headline. Ever.

*****

I know everyone seems to be blogging... but Val Venis?

Thoughts on Bauer Withdrawal

Apparently while I wasn't paying attention, someone changed the name of this 24 show to "Karen and Bill's Tales of Woe and Misfortune (featuring crazy Audrey Raines)".

A couple of weeks ago I asked for more Bauer, and the producers delivered, but now it would appear we have entered the post-crisis period, which like the post-War period in Britain is marked by rationing. Only in this case, it isn't butter and sugar, but Bauer and shootings that are being rationed.

So Bill and Karen are having marital difficulties now. Yeah, and uh... we care why? Watch for Dr. Phil to make a guest appearance and appeal to the soccer mom demographic. And Audrey has returned.. something that is sure to please those 23 people in the continental United States that loved Kim Raver in
The Nine. Bully for them, but for us 24 fans, if Bill and Karen and Audrey subplots equal less Bauer induced mayhem, then I say bring back one-armed Chase and Kim. I'd rather watch cougars and Mexican subplots that go nowhere than this season's three least compelling characters.

And yet, I won't repeat my earlier mistake and lose faith in my favourite show. Instead, I choose to believe that this is a brief detour on the road to season-ending ass kickery... and the last five minutes of the episode gives us all reason to believe, I think.

Spring Cleaning

Walking the streets of Ottawa yesterday, I was amazed at the effect that the change in weather had had on people. The mercury rises a couple of degrees, and all of a sudden the streets are packed. Because I live just north of Sandy Hill, at the edge of Lowertown, I often walk back from work along Rideau street. It's a fantastic walk, really, because the area around the Byward Market is arguably the most interesting part of town. Yesterday evening it was alive with the sights and sounds of the residents of the National Capital coming out of their long hibernation.

That, more than anything, has convinced me that Spring is finally here. It has been a rough winter, but Nesrine is finishing her courses, and I have begun a new job at PCO, so it really seems that both of us are making a fresh start.

So for the next few days, I'm doing some Spring cleaning on my blog... posting some of the interesting nonsense I've stumbled across and kept in my favourites. Should be fun...

Attention Quebec Separatists

Jon Cassar says YOU may be Jack Bauer's next target

Tabarnac!

Penitence

The last episode of 24 was so good, I hereby renounce my heretical views, and recite the act of 24 contrition:

Oh Mr. Bauer
I am heartily sorry for
having doubted thee,
and I detest my cynicism,
because I dread the loss of 24,
and the pains of reruns;
but most of all because
I offend thee, Jack,
Who doth kick ass
and are deserving of all my love.
I firmly resolve,
with the help of the end-of-season stretch,
to return to the fold
to do penance,
and to believe in thee again.

let us now pause and call to mind he who has suffered for us all...



AMEN!

P.S. I'm sure the Lord has a sense of humour

24 Apostasy

Ok, here we are two thirds of the way through the season, and I'm genuinely starting to waver in my faith. I'm not saying that I have left the church of Bauer, but I must admit I'm starting to flirt with heresy... First of all, where is Jack Bauer? 25 minutes into the last episode, and nary a glimpse of the man! Is this "The Hillary Clinton-approved Ricky Silverspoons leDouche variety hour'? Hells no! This is the "Jack Frickin' Bauer Power Hour"! So the producers better make with the Jack Bauer killery and murderistic brutality that is the show's hallmark.

The problem, I think, is that they are focusing on the wrong plot threads:

Anything at CTU? Mostly blows this season, except for Chloe (who is also getting less screentime), and anyone who goes out and gets brutalized, like when Milo and Morris had to take their medicine -- that was good. Putting characters in peril is guaranteed drama, because given the history of 24 supporting character kill-offs, you really never know if they are going to make it out alive.

Nadia? irrelevant eyecandy; zero chemistry with Milo --Tony and Michelle they are not.

Bill Buchanan? Waste of skin. We don't care that you and your wife miss each other. A nuke went off today. Do your bloody job.

I picture the scenario not so long ago: Some 24 writer bursts into a producer's office and says: Wait, I've got an idea! Let's drop a number of intriguing plot threads (papa Bauer, the fate of the former Prez and first lady) just so we can resurrect the most reviled character from the begining of the season. Sandra Palmer, enter stage left, sans muslim boyfriend.

So now we have episodes of boring White House Bunker nonsense as weak president and annoying sister square off against a scenery-chomping Veep and his nefarious aide. At least Karen Hayes and dude from Ally McBeal, both of them fairly interesting characters, are making the best of a bad situation.... 25th amendment...rehashed plot much? I liked this story the first time around, when they did the screw job on Wayne's big brother in season 2.

The last 10 minutes the last night's episode (excluding the insane presidential about-face) reminded everyone of this show's true strength. It is always at its best when it is squarely focused on JACK, and JACK's immediate adversaries, not the political machinations that form the expository backdrop to the narrative. The Ruskie selling out Abu Fayed was classic! Now THAT is the kind of twist we have come to expect.

OK, I'll admit it

I actually fell for this April Fool story:

Ben Mulroney to Run in Papineau for the Conservatives

After all, if one pretty-boy dilettante can enter politics on little more than the strength of his old man's brand, what's to stop another?

Feeling Bastardish?

Here's a good site for the crusty curmudgeons:

101 people who are screwing up Canada

The blog is not really that original: the idea is an "homage" to this book, but that doesn't make it any less relevant or entertaining.

This Spinks guy really spews some venom on alot of Canadian icons, many of whom had it coming --Boisclair comes immediately to mind. Have a read-through, and see how many of the takedowns you find yourself nodding at.

Facebook

I bit the bullet. I'm on it, and guess what? It's kinda cool. Look me up. I've also got a feed from this blog, so you can read my demented ramblings on my Facebook page, and see the stuff that has caught my eye.

Like:

The Story of Canada's original "unofficial" national anthem

A beginner's guide to hosses... not horses, pilgrim, I said HOSSES.

The Anti-Hoss... who would have thunk he had an MA?

Potter offers a dissenting opinion on the joyous new era that pundits claim the rise of the ADQ has ushered in: Potter Gold is another good blog from the people that brought you Inkless Wells.

Saw 300, loved it. If you did too, you might find this interesting

My morning smile

Don Martin on the Budget:

My francophone colleagues had a good guffaw when they spotted the title of the budget document. It's "Aspire," as in to strive for greatness. In French it means "suck," as in draining the federal treasury of more than its share of the spending surge.

Aspire: the theme for Budget 2007
Perspire: what the thought of a Spring election makes the opposition do.