Shocking news! Soldiers' job is to kill people!

My jaw hung open as I read a recent Globe and Mail Article that quoted statements made by General Rick Hillier, Canada's recently appointed Chief of Defence Staff (Top General):

"We are going to Afghanistan to actually take down the folks that are trying to blow up men and women," Gen. Hillier said.

He also gave a blunt assessment of the role of the Canadian Forces, which he said are designed to protect Canadian interests at home and abroad.

"We're not the public service of Canada, we're not just another department. We are the Canadian Forces, and our job is to be able to kill people," Gen. Hillier said.

Naturally, condemnation was swift in coming. Maude Barlow, Chairwoman of the Council of Canadians and my own personal favourite idiot, responded:

"I'm feeling it's time for people to be as calm as possible. . . . I would love Canada to play a thoughtful, moderating position in this," she said, denouncing Gen. Hillier's comments as "very aggressive."

Naturally -- because when you are going up against the head-hackers and woman-stoners of the Taliban, a gang of thugs who blew up a couple of Canadian soldiers the last time we sent our troops over, it is important to be "thoughtful and moderate". Al-Qaida leader Osama bin Laden was equally thoughtful when he declared Canada a "legitimate target" in March 2004.

Newfoundland-born Hillier, who earned the crossed-swords on his shoulder straps as an armoured officer in the Eighth Canadian Hussars and Royal Canadian Dragoons, is not one to mince words, characterizing the enemy --and that is what they are, THE ENEMY -- as "detestable murderers and scumbags".

This will shock those who think that Canadian soldiers are trained to hand out lollipops, but when I was on basic infantry training in 1994 --a year that saw Canadian soldiers deployed on several peacekeeping missions in the former Yugoslavia and elsewhere -- they were teaching us that the role of the Infantry is to close with and destroy the enemy. To the best of my knowledge, they are still teaching that very same thing.

The General, described as a soldier's soldier, may have shocked some of the Ottawa establishment with his blunt language, but he he is a man who knows what his job is.

--Stephen Staples, a military analyst at the Ottawa-based, left-leaning Polaris Institute, found Gen. Hillier's comments "rather alarming."

"Are we seeing an Americanization of the Canadian Forces?" Mr. Staples asked.

But other prominent lefties seemed to be cool with it. Jack Layton's reaction:

"Controlled anger, given what's happened, is an appropriate response," NDP Leader Jack Layton said. "We have a very committed, level-headed head of our armed forces, who isn't afraid to express the passion that underlies the mission that front-line personnel are going to be taking on.

"A bit of strong language in the circumstances, I don't find that to be wrong."

Jack Layton said that? What the hell is going on? OK, by this point in the article, I'm grinning. In another G&B article, Hillier is quoted again:

"We're not going to let those radical murderers and killers rob from others and certainly we're not going to let them rob from Canada," he said.

He pointed out that during the Second World War, Canadian soldiers did not shy away from fighting the Nazis.

"Did they say, 'No we might be attacked over here if we actually stand up against those despicable murderers and bastards?' No, they did not," Gen. Hillier said..

One question: Where have they been hiding this guy?

I KEED! I KEED!!! 

Triumph the Insult Comic Dog and Eminem bury the hatchet

Eminmem's Ass Like That video has confirmed my suspicion that Marshall Mathers III continues to be a master of image manipulation. About a year ago, he was ridiculed for panicking and shoving a bodyguard in front of him when Triumph ambushed him at the MTV music awards --A video of the incident is available here.

It was later explained that Eminem's momentary discombobulation was supposedly because he was unfamiliar with the puppet-dog's shtick. Fast-forward several months, Eminem has now co-opted (exploited?) the popular character's persona for a hit single and featured the real Triumph in the Crank-Yankers inspired video.

The media-savvy Detroit rapper has walked a fine line over the last half-decade, jousting with the media over accusations of homophobia and mysogyny while juggling three distinct personas on each of his albums: There is Eminem, the main character --a mainstream rapper with real street-cred who relishes his beefs with Benzino of The Source magazine, and Irv Gotti's Murder Inc; there is Marshall Mathers, (Eminem's real name)--the doting father and troubled-man persona who tends towards introspection in some of the artist's more thoughtful songs... and then there is Slim Shady, the juvenile, puerile, vulgar, and borderline-insane dark persona whose every utterance seems calculated to shock. Each of these personalities appears distinct and fully-formed, as far as I can tell, differing in their style of rapping as much as their respective songs differ in their content.

A glance at some of the lyrics on "Ass like that" would seem to set it clearly in the Slim Shady catalogue. But for this song, Eminem has adopted yet another alter-ego: His former tormentor, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.

I think the reason this song works so well is that Triumph (Robert Smigel's alter-ego) and Slim Shady are cut from the same cloth: They are characters whose outlandish and offensive statements are somehow mitigated by the fact that they are cartoons -- a rubber cigar-chewing puppet and a grotesque parody of a mentally-deranged sociopathic gangster-wannabe: both are so completely absurd and over-the-top that no one can take them seriously.

Throughout the song, Eminem does a pretty-passable imitation of Triumph's distinctive accent and uses many of the acerbic canine's trademark phrases like "I KEED! I KEED!" --one catchphrase that could easily apply to Slim.

In one verse of the song, he raps:

If I offend I'm sorry, please, please forgive
For I am Triumph, the puppet dog, I am a mere puppet
I can get away with anything I sing, you will love it

and in another verse:

I am Triumph, Britney Spears has shoulders like a man
And I can say that and you'll laugh cuz that is a puppet on my hand

Eminem reveals a deep understanding and complicity with the puppet. He knows how to dissociate himself from all the controversy he has churned up, claiming that people who get offended don't "get" the joke: Slim Shady, like Triumph is definitely NOT to be taken seriously. When it comes to Triumph, Eminem gets the joke, because it is the same joke he has been playing on everyone for years.

An Idiotic Knife to her Heart

A GOOGLE search on Natalia Glebova, the Russian-born Canadian winner of Miss Universe 2005, reveals numerous alarming possible scenarios of mistaken-identity.

A Czech golfer, a 35-year-old Russian internet bride, and a Webcam girl all share this name, which I imagine must be something like the russian version of "Jane Smith".

Anyway, in an idiotic move by the City of Toronto, OUR Natalia, a stunning raven-tressed, blue-eyed 23-year old Ryerson student, was recently banned from the Thai festival at good old Nathan Philips Square this weekend on the grounds that

"Activities which degrade men or women through sexual stereotyping or exploit the bodies of men, women, boys or girls solely for the purpose of attracting attention are not permitted on the square."

I don't know what the Thai festival folks had in mind, but I can't imagine it would have involved much exploiting of Ms. U's body, which, unless I'm mistaken, usually appears sheathed in a full-length dress topped by a tiara and circled by a sash. The whole HIV awareness thing that Glebova has adopted as her pet cause doesn't exactly lend itself to the raunchy bikini contest antics that the bylaw was designed to prevent.

Sexual stereotyping? Hmm... debatable. Some would say --but I wouldn't-- that pageants are inherently exploitative and therefore, anyone who wins one is being sexually stereotyped and degraded.

However, I'm certain that it could not have been too long before somebody at City Hall pointed out that, given the City's enthusiastic endorsement and participation in other "cultural" events like Gay Pride and Carribana, both of which feature multitudes of gyrating and thrusting quasi-nude men, women, boys or girls, it might be best to interpret the by-law with a bit more discretion.

The response on the Canada.com
Sound-Off board to this case of political-correctness-run-wild has been incredulous and highly entertaining to read, to say the least.

Mayor Miller has since rescinded the ban, claiming the by-law was "misinterpreted" and left some apologetic messages on Ms. Glebova's voice-mail. Don't hold your breath for that return call, Dave.

R.I.P. Jimmy Doohan

Scotty died today. Paul is wearing a black armband and sipping Glenfiddich as he watches old VHS tapes of the OS. Let's face it, Kirk was a pantywaist. Bones was a one-note character who grunted and bugged his eyes out alot. Spock? Totally overrated.

The true heart and soul of the show was the Scotsman in the bowels of the ship, sweating it out over those dilithium crystals, always trying to give 'em more power! The guy who played Scott was a Canadian WWII vet, who stormed the beaches on D-Day and took four kraut bullets, one of which robbed him of a finger.

Why he never kicked Kirk's ass and took over the controls of the ship, I'll never know.

Let not England forget her precedence of teaching nations how to live. John Milton
 

"Getting on with it"

July 7th, 2005 was my thirtieth birthday. Far from ruining it, the terrorist pigs gave me a reason to be proud. I am honoured to call myself English, and have nothing but admiration for the way the people of London conducted themselves in the face of tragedy... but then, Londoners have always had a remarkable capacity to "carry on" in the midst of adversity, haven't they?


One day after luncheon the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Kingsley Wood, came to see me on business at No. 10, and we heard a very heavy explosion take place across the river in South London. I took him to see what had happened. The bomb had fallen in Peckham. It was a very big one -probably a land-mine. It had completely destroyed or gutted twenty or thirty small three-storey houses and cleared a considerable open space in this very poor district. Already little pathetic Union Jacks had been stuck up amid the ruins. When my car was recognised the people came running from all quarters, and a crowd of more than a thousand was soon gathered. All these folk were in a high state of enthusiasm. They crowded round us, cheering and manifesting every sign of lively affection, wanting to touch and stroke my clothes. One would have thought I had brought them some fine substantial benefit which would improve their lot in life. I was completely undermined, and wept. Ismay, who was with me, records that he heard an old woman say: "You see, he really cares. He's crying." They were tears not of sorrow but of wonder and admiration. "But see, look here," they said, and drew me to the centre of the ruins. There was an enormous crater, perhaps forty yards across and twenty feet deep. Cocked up at an angle on the very edge was an Anderson shelter, and we were greeted at its twisted doorway by a youngish man, his wife, and three children, quite unharmed but obviously shell-jarred. They had been there at the moment of the explosion. They could give no account of their experiences. But there they were, and proud of it. Their neighbours regarded them as enviable curiosities. When we got back into the car a harsher mood swept over the haggard crowd. "Give it 'em back," they cried, and "Let them have it too." I undertook forthwith to see that their wishes were carried out; and this promise was certainly kept. The debt was repaid tenfold, twentyfold, in the frightful routine bombardment of German cities, which grew in intensity as our air-power developed, as the bombs became far heavier and the explosives more powerful. Certainly the enemy got it all back in good measure, pressed down and running over. Alas for poor humanity!

Winston Churchill, The Second World War, Volume II: Their Finest Hour

I watched the Live 8 Concert yesterday... yes the whole thing. I just spent two weeks in Spain and the splendour of the Canadian Summer is lost on me at this point.

Altogether, a mixed bag. Some bands were as good live as I expected them to be, some surpassed my expectations, and some should never be permitted to play live again, because their offensively poor performance may risk turning public opinion against the cause they are trying to help.

I'm fairly certain that some of the acts were not entirely sure of what the point of Live 8 was. You could tell by the way they spouted vague inane cliches between songs: Come on, people, we gotta do the right thing! We need justice! We need to make those leaders understand! We have the power!. I think one moron from A Simple Plan spouted something about "Your Vote"?

Did anyone else also notice that each of the concerts, while offering a variety of acts, seemed to be centred on a particular type of music?

For instance:

Toronto (yeah, actually Barrie, but who outside of Canada has heard of Barrie) featured:

ClassicRock/fogey music - BTO and Deep Purple, who were both great; Neil Young and Gordon Lightfoot who were, um, themselves.

Can Con - Simple Plan (derivative wannabes playing generic pseudo-punk); Les Trois Accords (some Quebec band that nobody has ever heard of); Two dreadlocked Quebecoises who I found obnoxious; Brian Adams; The Hip; Barenaked Ladies; Celine Dion, who is better off in Vegas: She was boed in Barrie, but the Vegas crowd loved her.

80s Hard Rock - Could anyone else understand what the hell Vince Neil was singing? I figured he couldn't remember the lyrics to the bloody songs!

Philly

Hip Hop - Will Smith (formerly known as the Fresh Prince, before he became an actor)

Hip Hop and Rock - Jay-Z and Linkin Park, who tore the mother down

Hip Hop featuring members of the Marley family - The grossly-overrated Black Eyed Peas

Did I mention Hip Hop? - Kanye West

London

Legends - Sir Paul, U2, Pink Floyd (those three alone worth the price of the DVD)

People who think they are legends, but ain't - Robbie Williams (know outside the UK as "Who the fuck is that?"; Coldplay and Richard Ashcroft; Madonna (looking pissed-off at the crowd); Sir Elton John (OK, he's a legend, I just don't like him)

Paris

Terrible music - cuz that's what the French like!

Berlin

Current Rock and Punk - Audioslave, Green Day
One-hit wonders - A-ha (man, did they look uncomfortable!)

Moscow

Gay acts from the eighties - A very mellow and grey Pet Shop Boys

Tokyo

Strictly B-listers - Good Charlotte, anyone?

Rome

Country music, naturally! - Faith Hill

Johannesburg

Music destined to never be televised - Various African acts

I seem to recall there being one more city, but I'll be darned if I can remember it!

Got my Eurotrip 2005 pictures up on the Kodak site... drop me a line if you want to see them and I'll send you a link. Here's one of Ness and I on the day of the wedding... it sure was a scorcher. 

While in Madrid, Nes and I took the opportunity to catch up on some sleep, do some laundry, and spend time with my cousin Celia, who now lives right in the centre of town. We had a great time with her over two nights, eating and going from bar to bar enjoying Madrid´s incomparable nightlife. The second night was similar to the first, except that my Dad and sisters tagged along, having arrived from Torrelavega a day after us.

Finally, on Wednesday morning, we jumped on an Ave train and headed south to Cordoba. Arriving in this old Andalucian town in mid afternoon was a shock to the system. The thermometer said 43 degrees celsius. We quickly made our way to our air-conditioned hotel and, after waiting out the mid-day heat, headed for a walk around town. We were struck by the incredible distinctive architecture, the highlight of which was the Mezquita, a former Mosque-turned-cathedral smack-dab in the centre of town. We also ate an a great arab restaurant and enjoyed a Flamenco performance before turning in for the night.

The next morning we got on a bus headed to Granada (but we didn´t stick around), and then on to La Manga, a coastal resort in S-E Spain where we have spent the past three days. I can´t think of a better place to finish off the trip... on the beach surrounded by family. Tomorrow, we have to go back... I´m sad, but relieved, in a way... it has been an amazing four weeks!

I hope will forgive my horrible spelling and bizarre punctuation (question marks? randomly? inserted¿?¿?¿)... these Eurokeyboards are pretty funky.

So the wedding on Saturday was everything we hoped. Bizarre, unseasonably warm weather in Cantabria (a supposedly humid, temperate mountainous region in northern spain), meant that we enjoyed a good post-ceremony roast in the sun, sipping cocktails outside the church, before we headed in for a belt-busting lunch in the hall next-door. The area around Torrelavega is absolutely beautiful, if nothing like what people expect when you say "Spain". It is lush vegetation, towering mountains, and misty valleys.

The night before, we had had a big Segura family reunion feed in the centre of town. The enviable lifestyle of spaniards means that even completely untouristy towns like Torrelavega (which does not even rate a mention in Lonely Planet) still has a bustling nightlife scene most days of the week --when DO these people sleep?

On Sunday we packed into cars to visit Santander --San Sebastian´s somnolent coastal cousin, and then Santillana del Mar, where my parents got married 31 years ago. We went to mass in a medieval Romanesque church, where the same priest who was there three decades ago still presides over his flock. He remembered my parents, and my brother Joe, who was baptised by him. The place was a 11th century dream, and a definite recommendation for anyone looking for a romantic spot to slip away to.

After a busride to Madrid, we are now enjoying the blast-furnace temperatures of Spain´s capital in the midst of June. It promises to get worse when we head south to Andalucia tomorrow... God help us!

My family has abandoned the use of e-mail!

What is more likely is that most of my messages are not getting through. I´ve been having trouble sending e-mail through hotmail... but one can´t complain about the quality of a service that one is getting for free right?

After fleeing Paris for the relative calm of Chartres, where we spent Tuesday admiring the incredible cathedral (beats Notre Dame hands down), Nesrine and I jumped on a train to Bordeaux, planning on spending one or two nights there, depending on how much we liked the place. Ultimately, we spent one day in Bordeaux (which is nothing special) and we are in San Sebastian now, which is quite beautiful, and will be taking a bus to Torrelavega tomorrow. Since I haven´t heard from anyone about the name of the hotel where we will be staying, I may have to wing it! I´m actually going to give Tia Celia a call today to let her know that we will be arriving in town and I will try to come up with some rendezvous point for me to meet up with the familia. If any of you read this, I miss you all and I hope everyone is OK. All my best to all.

On Friday, we checked into our oddly-brazillian themed hotel, the Acacias St-Germain in the Montparnasse area and took a stroll around. Eventually we ended up eating at a nice restaurant in the quartier Latin called Perraudin. Next we headed down to Place Saint Michel to browse the tacky tourist stalls and take in the atmosphere. By the time we arrived along the banks of the Seine, night had fallen, so we wandered West along the left bank, enjoying the view of Paris at night.

The next morning, we grabbed the obligatory petit-dejeuner at a cafe and jumped on the Metro (which ain't half as bad as some people make it out to be) and headed for Notre Dame. While I found it impressive, I can't say it is the most awe-inspiring church I have seen on this trip, and I was put off a bit by the inevitable tourist hordes. Next, we wandered across Ile Saint-Louis and towards place de la Bastille. The Marais is really a fantastic neighbourhood during the day? but I bet it is even better at night... of course, because this is Paris I'm talking about, you could probably say the same thing about half-a-dozen other neighbourhoods. Eventually, we ended up walking dozn the Rue de Rivoli, which kind of reminds me of Saint Catherine street in Montreal....times 100. The crowds were insane, but we got occasional respite by wandering up side streets and taking in the magnificence of Place des Vosges or Les Halles. Finally, after exhausting ourselves with all the walking? we left Eglise Saint Eustache and jumped on the metro to see the Arc de Triomphe. This is one monument that a photo can simply not do justice to.... the thing is IMMENSE, a true tribute to the glory of Napoleon, who started it, and to the history of the French nation over the following two centuries, whose leaders expanded and added to it? so that it is now a tribute to the achievements to all veterans since Napoleon.

We then meandered our way down the Champs Elysees before jumping on the metro to Montmartre, which provided the first real surprise of the trip. Montmartre has to be one of the coolest and most delightful places I have ever visited. Even the throngs of tourists cannot detract from the charm of its winding streets and charming buildings. It is bohemian and down-at-the-heels in some parts, but altogether spectacularly romantic. We ate at a tiny restaurant called la Maison Rose, and then checked out the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, where a crowd was gathering because, unbeknoznst to us, a big fireworks show was being put-on. We listened to a narrator trace the past two centuries of Paris' history, with syncronized music and lights as well as the fireworks? the overall effect was fantastic. What a great way to round out the day!

Sunday saw us grab a coffee and viennoiserie in the Saint Germain area, which I loved. It has some amazing historic buildings, including the oldest Church in Paris, for which the area is named: Saint Germain des Pres, which was first founded in the Merovingian period 1500 years ago ( it was named in honour of the first bishop of Paris, Saint Germanus). Next, was the Louvre. No words can do this place justice. It is the sine qua non of art collections, surpassing even the Vatican in scope. I managed to see all the must-sees, including the Mona Lisa, but I also took in some personal faves of my own that certainly pleased me. Eventually, after an exhausting few hours of touring this gargantuan palace of art, we took in a fez more sights, including Place Vendome, La Madeleine, and Place de la Concorde, before heading back to Saint Germain to eat at L'Arbuci and enjoy the incomparable nightlife.

Finally, having decided to head to Chartres in the evening, we checked out the Eiffel Tower (I think there is actually some kind of law for tourists that they can't leave the city without visiting the metal arparagus, because the place was crawling with sightseers). We walked up the stairs to the second level to avoid the queues for the lifts and got a great workout as part of the bargain. Finally, we parted ways for a couple of hours - Nesrine wanted to shop, I wanted to indulge my inner military history nerd and visit les invalides (which featured an incredible collection of Napoleonic memorabilia in its museum) and l'Eglise du Dome, which houses the Tomb of Napoleon --a monstrous thing that could easily house the bodies of Napoleon; all of his Marshalls, and his beloved Josephine all at once. By 4 pm we had met up back at the hotel, exhausted and exhilerated. We strapped on our packs and headed for Gare Montparnasse, thrilled with Paris, but definitely ready to move on to something a little slower paced. So we headed for Chartres.

I'll save that story for my next update....

Paris is everything the tell you it is... and more. What a whirlwind two-and-a-half days here in La Ville-Lumiere. Can't possibly go into details now, particularly since my internet counter is running rapidly down to zero, but I just spent a lovely evening with Nesrine in the F-B Saint-Germain on the left bank... that contrasted nicely with a fantastic evening spent in Montmartre last night... and an amazing evening walking along the Seine and dining in the Quartier Latin the night before. It is absolute heaven here... I haven't seen half of the things I wanted to, and yet I have seen so much! Hopefully, in the next couple of days I will be able to put it all down... for now it is just a blur! Next stop: Versailles.

Ghent has been one pleasant surprise after another. Yesterday, after taking in an impressive number of sites, I grabbed a quick nap at the hotel (something I never do back in my "normal" life), and then headed off to find a place to eat. This city is absolutely lovely at dusk --people wander the streets and sit outside the cafes, the canals bestowing an air of tranquility and laid-back coolness you just don't seem to find many places. This is not a city that tries to seduce you. It just shows you what is has to offer and lets you decide if you want to take the relationship further.

Instead of finding a place to eat, I ended up wandering into a canalside pub that I remembered was highly recommended by Lonely Planet. I struck up a random conversation with an ex-pat Canadian guy who wqs soon joined by some colleagues from work: a Belgian and an American. We chatted away for hours, sampling the variety of incredible brews --including one called Delirium Tremens, which has a pink elephant on the bottle (a warning?). Before I knew it, I was stumbling into a frites shop for that long-deferred dinner before stumbling the rest of the way back to the convent. I slept a nice long boozy sleep.

Today, I have hit a few more can-t miss sites, including a twelfth century castle in the heart of the city knozn as Gravensteen... and the day ain't over yet!

Tomorrow, I head to Paris to meet up with my main squeeze. Hope it lives up to the hype....

Today, I arrived in Ghent, a beautiful historic city in Western Belgium. It is very close to Bruges, which I had originally intended to visit, but I'm not so sure I will anymore.... I like it too much here!

I am staying in a fantastic guest house, Monasterium Poortackere, that used to be a convent and I am only a hop skip and jump away from the centre of this town, which in the middle ages, was the biggest city north of the alps after Paris... Just my kind of place... crammed full of history!

I arrived here today from Brussels, after spending the day wandering the Capital of Europe and visiting various sites like the Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinee-- which prompted fond recollections of reading Tintin, Alix, and Asterix as a kid. After 2 days in Brussels (not including my side-trip to Waterloo, I was more than happy to leave. Don't get me wrong, I like the place fine, but somehow, it felt a bit too close to Ottawa for me, with all the Eurocrats running around;

One thing I will always remember with great pleasure is the beer --my God, the BEER! After tasting beer in this country, I dread returning home and drinking the stuff we have in Canada, which no longer qualifies as beer to me. I have sampled Lambics that tasted as though the angels themselves had crafted them, Trappist brews with a kick strong enough to knock you on your ass, golden brews; chocolaty rich ale delicacies... and my God, I want MORE!

I have a feeling I will be spending alot of the summer working off the beer-belly that will be the inevitable result of my new hobby....

WATERLOO (not the ABBA song/not the town in Ontario)

was a truly mindblowing experience. I am sure that most people go there, see a bunch of rolling fields and placid Belgian countryside, a couple of monuments, and a big pyramid with a lion on top, shrug, and move on....

But I saw The Guards poking muskets out of loopholes in the Hougoumont chateau, firing blindly as canister rattled against the stone walls and the Prince Jerome's troops screamed forward with eagles held aloft through the orchard. I saw Sir Thomas Picton crash to the ground with a bullet in his brain as his highlanders tore into a French column. I saw the union brigade, swords held high, stream over the ridge south of Mont Saint Jean and savage the French infantry columns just below the crest. I saw red-haired marshall Ney, the bravest of the brave, leading the flower of the French Cavalry in a mad charge around a dutch-belgian batallion formed into square. I watched men groan and die under the hail of musketry and the flail of grapeshot as the King's German Legion abandoned La Haye Saint to the victorious French and I heard the Imperial guard chanting "VIVE L'EMPEREUR!" as the climax of the battle grew close. Suddenly, Wellington shouts "Now's your time!" and redcoats sprout like dragon's teeth on a ridge turned into a nightmare of carnage and pour volley fire into the Emperor's pampered favourites! LA GARDE RECULE! Then a wave of the hook-nosed Duke's cocked hat and the line flows forward! The Prussians are sweeping in from the West! Blucher has arrived. The guard dies, the guard does not surrender... and so it does, as Buonaparte is borne away in defeat. Many on the field do not stir to follow the battle south. Many will never stir again. I hear mournful pipes play and watch the smoke waft across a field were tens of thousands lay dead or dying....
well, I could have sworn for a minute there anyway....

bloody Belgiqµn Keyboards!!!

If ever you have the misfortune of having to type something on a computer in belgium.... know that i feel your pain. I have encountered foreign keyboards before, but nothing like this é"&àççà!!!!!

Anyway, just got to brussels... lovely city but terrible weather right now. No matter, a good beer and soome moule frites will raise my spirits! I have a room in the coolest part of town and a few euros to my name... life is good!

Seen 24?

Amazing show! Just got hooked this year (Season Four). I Also watched Season 2 on DVD --in three days-- just before leaving on my trip. One weird thing about 24... it happens in realtime, and yet nobody is ever shown eating, drinking water, or going to the washroom. Are CTU agents trained to fast and "hold in" in a crisis situation? While looking for trains and flights, I took an "internet detour" (I goofed off for a couple of minutes). It seems that next season, producers will address fans' nitpicks about lack of normal bodily functions in series:

Upcoming '24' Focuses on Jack Bauer Eating a Sandwich

My favourite line: "Listen to me,I need you to take the pickles off now. There's no time to explain – you're going to have to trust me."

OK, so flying the red-eye rules.

I had a great flight over, and the plane was alot nicer than I expected, for a charter. I got on board, buckled in, and nestled my head against the window... next thing I remember, I was waking up as they served breakfast and the pilot announced our imminent arrival.

Once on the ground I bought a train ticket at Gatwick --and a pack of Marlboroughs-- and jumped on the train to East Croydon. From there, I caught the bus to Bromley, but I actually hopped off halfway to grab a bite to eat at a pub in West Wickham around 3:30 before getting back on. London being as HUGE as it is, Bromley (which is considered part of London) is over an hour away from the airport... Eventually, I made it to Bromley, and was met by Sara's fiance.

It is really great to be with my cousin Sara again... she is alot of fun to be around, as is Danilo. We are all getting excited for their wedding, which will be the first time I meet alot of family as an adult (last time I saw some of these people I was 15... or even 12.) Sara and Danilo are insisting I stay at least until Saturday, and right now, being in a nice place that is very far from the craziness of work, I am in no particular hurry to leave.

OK.... I'm outta here! My four-week escape begins now. Next stop: LONDON

A few hours from now, I will be getting off the plane in Gatwick, hopefully with a few hours of shut-eye under my belt.

I'll keep you posted

Pat, Raha, George, James and Nesrine in downtown T.O. 

Visiting George in Toronto 

7 days and a wake-up, I'm off to Europe. With all the craziness around planning a four-week vacation and putting my affairs in order at work, I needed a serious break. On Friday, I went to the cinema at noon to see Revenge of the Sith with some friends who, like myself, happen to be unreformed Star Wars fans.

You may recall, if you have been reading for a while, that I tried to speculate on how this final movie would be viewed. Well, it is too early for a final verdict, but early indications are that there is unlikely to be a Phantom Menace-style backlash, where people were initially blown away, but once the hype died down, the disappointment set in. It has broken 4-day box-office records and is being received by the fan community and critics alike with enthusiasm and a positive response not seen since 1980's The Empire Strikes Back. I consider myself neither a hater nor a Lucas apologist (as far as labels go), and I gotta say... I really really liked this movie.

Aside from a couple of brief groan-inducing moments (all the movies have those: "Tochi station power converters" anyone?), I found the whole thing very satisfying. There have been countless reviews of ROTS, but I haven't seen any that pointed out how long this movie acutally is. I think it has a running time of about 2:20, but I could have sworn it went on even longer. This thing is DENSE. Lucas himself admits that he packed in about 60% of the overall prequel story he wanted to tell into this one film --something that would explain the pacing issues and filler found in the two previous entries in the prequel trilogy.

In spite of the dark tone, it is a cround pleaser, and in my book, ranks in the top three of the series. The FX are basically better than anything seen in any other movie ever (how is that for a superlative?)I find this movie superior to Jedi, and if pressed, I might say it is on par with A New Hope in terms of overall quality. The plot would seem to make sense --to a nerd like me, at least, the sense of fun is back, and more importantly, characters recognizable from the original series (the Emperor, Yoda, and Obi-Wan, in particular) emerge as the strongest performances and come to the forefront in a way they hadn't in the previous outings.

Of the three aforementioned characters, Palpatine, most of all, steals the show, using that same slow, staccatto delivery I remember from Jedi ("Quite OP-ER-A-TION-AL!")once he is revealed as a Sith Lord. As Chancellor-turned-Emperor, Ian McDiarmid is over-the-top, terifying and hilarious all at once. Kenobi and Yoda finally show us what true kick-ass Jedi can do in a series of freewheeling fights and duels with their adversaries. Both even get in a couple of quips and inside jokes that will have Original Trilogy fans chuckling.

Problems? Performances of course. Hayden, although less wooden and much improved, still doesn't quite get to where he should be in terms of performance-- I mean, this is Darth Vader we are talking about. Sam Jackson still looks to be sleepwalking in Episode III, that is, until he <> bites it in a key scene --His promise to "not go out like a punk" has been kept. Portman: Pretty to look at, but still hasn't gotten the hang of acting in Star Wars flicks. Whatever... nobody goes to Star Wars for Oscar-worthy performances. We go because it is fun, and each new Star Wars reminds us of our childhood, and the days when we could marvel at what was on screen and think of the possibility that all of this really happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

In discussing the movie "Finding Neverland", the film in which Johnny Depp plays J.M. Barrie, the creator of "Peter Pan", Dustin Hoffman spoke about the importance of never growing up: "By all means, be an adult, but never grow up". He was talking about the importance of maintaining our ability to dream, and to use our imagination.

Now that Star Wars is all over, just what is a thirty-year old kid like me gonna do to ensure that he never grows up?

THE FORCE IS STRONG WITH THIS ONE

REVENGE OF THE SITH has been hovering around the 80% fresh mark for the past few days over at rottentomatoes.com (In contrast, the first two movies in the prequel trilogy ended up around 60-65%)

A. O. Scott, the New York Times Critic says "This is by far the best film in the more recent trilogy, and also the best of the four episodes Mr. Lucas has directed. That's right (and my inner 11-year-old shudders as I type this): it's better than "Star Wars."

My own inner 11-year-old is starting to get seriously amped about this last movie. Here's hoping George pulled it off.

Fault lines shifting

Are we heading for a major re-alignment in the political landscape? Like the Federalist/Sovereignist divide in Quebec, the issues of the role of the Federal power and how power is shared among the different orders of government cuts a swath across the political spectrum, bringing quasi-commies and borderline libertarians under the same ideological umbrella:

What is your vision of this Canada

Big Federal Government in a strong Federation: NDP-Liberals

Small Federal Government in a loose Federation: Conservatives-Bloc

Big Federal Government in a loose Federation: Liberals-Bloc

Small Federal Government in a strong Federation: Conservatives-Liberals

Throw each party's attitude toward the U.S. into the equation and well....

it's enough to make your head spin!

This just in:

PM no longer cool

UPDATE:

PAUL WELLS is stealing my brainwaves!

A laboured analogy

Paul Martin reminds me of a guy I went to high school with in Thunder Bay. He was a couple of years ahead of me and several steps above me in the social echelon. He was the younger brother of a student who had been very popular, and had,with little effort, inherited his sibling's mantle. Above average athlete, clever enough to get by, winning personality, but his most noteworthy attribute, as far as I could tell, was his incredible ability to ingratiate himself with the teachers. He was a permanent fixture on student council and sailed to the presidency in his final year, which meant that he spent a ton of time out of class. I doubt that this guy did half the schoolwork of a normal student. He always seemed to be organizing this, or spearheading that. Too busy for silly stuff like homework, you see. I'm pretty sure he was on a first name basis with most of the teachers, both of the VPs and our weird Principal, who wore white socks with every suit he owned, no matter the color. If ever there was a chosen one, this guy was him.

I remember hearing teachers saying that this guy was destined for big things. I was perplexed. I found it remarkable that a guy who apparently spent so little time in pursuit of academic excellence managed to pull off straight As, but as some students noted sourly, teachers are a forgiving bunch, if you make the right noises, and you know which buttons to push. Needless to say, on paper, the guy was a scholastic superstar, a real leader who had been heavily involved in running the school from nearly the first moment he arrived in Grade nine as a snot-nosed greaseball in a Club Monaco sweatshirt and Zubaz pants. Universal admiration gave way to adulation when the faculty and student body heard the news that our man had made it into one of the best schools in the nation. A promising young man justifies the faith of his legion of supporters. And yet.... there were whispers of skepticism. Some questioned if this guy, who had coasted on charisma, could cut it as a small fish in the much bigger university pond. Could he meet the impossibly high expectations that had been set?

Fast forward one year later: Total wash out. Having had it easy, having had everything handed to him on a silver platter for five years, he was completely unprepared to take it to the next level when push came to shove. Maybe the doubt began to set in the first time he spoke up in a lecture. Instead of obsequious head-bobbing from cronies and a benevolent smile from the teacher, his words were greeted with the hostile stares of his fellow freshmen and a dismissive chortle from a prof thoroughly unimpressed with his intelect.

Maybe he found himself dismayed to discover that his quips, which played so well in the cafeteria, bombed in the pub, surrounded as he was, by wittier and cleverer guys.
Was he shocked to see the kind of guys he had dismissed as dull nonentities back in high school become the stars of their new fraternities, puking their guts up after shotgunning a couple of wobbly-pops behind the bleachers at the game? How about those weird hippy guys who were so terribly tiresome in high school, with their social activism and their hemp clothing... what were they doing chatting with the brainy co-eds in the student centre? When did they get so cool? Maybe he tried to join some clubs, but it wasn't the same. He was deprived of his ready-made high school social network and someone else, some other alpha-male, had usurped his spot as "the man".

I'm sure he tried to work those relationships with the faculty. But an overworked prof is too busy meeting with grad students and lecturing dozens and dozens of students to pay much attention to an anonymous freshman. Didn't do your assignment? Tough. Failure compounded failure, and the golden boy eventually found himself on academic probation. Eventually, our hero dropped out of school, and returned to his hometown, defeated and chastened.

"What happened?" incredulous observers asked. I think that ultimately, he was crushed by the weight of expectations, and reaching the dizzying heights to which he had aspired, a position that by rights, he was told, BELONGED to him, he found that he simply wasn't cut out for the gig.

Oh, to have been tested and be found wanting.

The Rock Under John Paul II

Father Ray DeSouza in the National Post speculates on the name choice of the new guy, whom has already been pilloried in the media for his rigour and orthodoxy -- as if those were flaws in a Pope:

...what then did the new pope wish to say to us? Vocabor Benedictum. "I will be called Benedict."

Commentators immediately looked to Benedict XV, the last pope of that name, who, assuming the papacy in 1914, tried to stop a Europe on the brink of the First World War from committing suicide. With Europe today in an advanced state of cultural decline and demographic suicide, the comparison is apt.

Yet it was likely that the newest Benedict had in mind none of his predecessors on the Throne of Peter, but St. Benedict himself, the father of Western monasticism and patron saint of Europe. Benedict (ca. 480-547) studied in Rome as a young man, but was soon disgusted with the decadence and degeneration he discovered amid the detritus of the Roman empire. He fled the city, and so attracted to himself the monks who would found the monasteries that would preserve the cultural patrimony of the West during the Dark Ages.

There will be no fleeing from Rome for Pope Benedict XVI. He must now attend to what he indicated on Monday was the pressing need of preserving the Christian patrimony of faith and culture in the third millennium.

Easily the funniest thing I have read on the Internet in months:

I may be mistaken...but I think John Ratzenberger from "Cheers" and "The Empire Strikes Back" has just been elected the new pope. Now that's unexpected.

I nearly peed myself.

It's all about ME

I think that essentially modern post-Christian Europe, and Canada, and large
parts of the United States, too, have replaced the traditional impulses of
civilization, which is to breed, and to prosper, and to expand and survive with
a culture of narcissism. You know, I'd like to have, if you put it to me in
those terms, I'd like to have meaningless, promiscuous sex, and just think about
myself all day long, and all week long, and all year long. But in the end, when
you prioritize that, you actually destroy the culture that enables it. It's a
completely absurd culture and brazen. And that's what we've done.

Mark Steyn on Hugh Hewitt show.

In contrast:

It's all about YOU

"TOTUS TUUS"

All the more profoundly I feel myself totally in the Hands of God — and I remain continually at the disposition of my Lord, entrusting myself to Him and to His Immaculate Mother (Totus Tuus).

the preceeding is text found in the last will and testament of a recently-departed fellow, who lived in opulent surroundings, and walked with kings, yet was buried in a simple wooden box and, except for a few personal articles left no property behind him.

FATBODIES

HARTMAN Are you allowed to eat jelly doughnuts, Private Pyle?

PYLE Sir,no, sir!

HARTMAN And why not, Private Pyle?

PYLE Sir, because I'm too heavy, sir!

HARTMAN Because you are a disgusting fatbody, Private Pyle!

PYLE Sir, yes, sir!

Full Metal Jacket

I've been accused of having a weight obsession. I like to think of it as more of a fat obsession. I don't care if someone is stout or thick-limbed, because stout people can be "built solid" (hard-fat, some call it), but I despise excess fat, particularly on myself. Maybe it stems from my youth --I was a porky kid growing up, in spite of the fact that I was quite active and played alot of different sports. Slow metabolism, maybe? My parents were delighted when I got a paper route at age 12. Besides the valuable lessons to be gained in managing one's own business and learning responsibility, they also imagined that the daily physical activity would help me get rid of my baby fat. Unfortuntately, they did not forsee my eventual transformation into a newspaper delivery tycoon and the inevitable delegation of legwork that followed.

At my peak, I was managing the deliver of 200 newspapers a day on 4 different routes. I say "managing" because I wasn't really delivering the newspapers myself. I devised an ingenious business model which involved recruiting a couple of lucky neighbourhood kids every day to accompany me on my deliveries (they tended to hang out near my house in hopes of getting "the word" --think the longshoremen in On The Waterfront. Carrying two bulky newspaper bags over each shoulder, like bandoliers slung on a bandito's chest, I shuffled up and down the streets of my town, handing papers out to my "runners". The runners were the two or three snot-nosed urchins whose job was to sprint up each driveway and drop off a paper. My job was simply to hand each of them a fresh paper as they returned. It was a fantastic system with very low operating costs --payment for the kids consisted of one chocolate bar at the end of the route (worth about 50 cents in those days). I myself could clear eight or nine bucks a day. As my wealth grew, so did my waistline. I was walking less and less, and eating more and more chips and chocolate bars as a result of my newfound prosperity.

Eventually, I overextended myself when I tried to take on an extra route and adapt my clever system to bicycles in order to make my deliveries on time. Newspaper bags are heavy, and they bump your knees when you try to pedal. A few scraped knees and hands convinced me of the folly of my ambitions, and I eventually scaled back my volume of business as new kids (potential paperboys who did not want to work for me) arrived in the neighbourhood to threaten my racket. I was under pressure. The circulation manager had menaced me with the loss of one-or-more of my routes if I didn't finish deliveries sooner. Luckily, I was saved from this ignominy by a timely career change courtesy of my dad: I was forced to quit the route when we moved to a new town.

In spite of my continued participation in a number of team sports; soccer, hockey, football, I remained chubby throughout my early adolescence. It was only when I became a lifeguard and took up running, cycling and weightlifting that the chub began melting away. Sure, I could get in great shape if I put my mind to it, but I distinctly recall that the minute I stopped working out, lovehandles would appear as if by magic, a symbol of my egregious slackery. I gritted my teeth through high school as I watched beanpole classmates down triple-decker cheeseburgers and tubs of coca cola in the cafeteria. I suppose I wasn't blessed with their metabolisms--which, incidentally, seem to have slowed down significantly in the intervening years, so that formerly svelt boys have now become lard-bellied men (much to my delight). Not so for this boy. My slow metabolism turned into a blessing in disguise. I figure that as I approach the start of my fourth decade on this earth, I still have to maintain approximately the same level of activity as I did when I was in high school in order to stay trim. How many other guys my age can say that?

My neurosis, if you want to call it that, truly coalesced when I joined the military. In the military, thin is ALWAYS in, and FAT equals LAZY plus undisciplined, which is a bad thing, if you are part of an organization that sees discipline as an absolute imperative. It stands to reason that lardasses are treated with contempt in the army. On basic training, I distinctly recall one of my fellow recruits, a tubby fellow, tortured by sergeants as he attempted to do pushups: Private, you look like a dog humping a football! You look like a f*cking beached whale, you fat piece of sh*t and so on... There was little sympathy for the guy. After all, if you are going to join the military as an infantryman, one of the most physically demanding jobs around, it stands to reason that you will get in shape before showing up for training. In this, as in most instances, the transgressor is not the one punished, the group is, as a whole. Everyone does pushups FOR the guy who can't do them himself. It was left to his fellow recruits to "motivate" the private and show him the error of his ways. I think a blanket-party (see Full-metal jacket)ensued, and possibly an RTU (return to unit, for discharge or re-training at a later date), but I don't remember.

I suppose in our infantilized culture, it is conceivable that someone would say to themselves "ah, I won't worry about taking responsibility for my own health and fitness... I'm joining the army! The army will take care of that for me"(Mark Steyn would say this is an inevitable result of the growth of the Nanny-State). Some recruits show up out of shape because it hasn't occurred to them that they bear a share of the responsiblity for ensuring their own well-well being and preparing themselves for their new career-- and that there are consequences if they don't. Nowadays, it seems individuals have abdicated all responsibility for their own personal fitness and health.

Maybe that's why some seem to be drawing the wrong conclusions from Morgan Spurlock's acclaimed film Supersize Me: the "Corporations" (traditional scapegoats and boogeymen of the left)are conditioning young people to eat shitty food, and therefore are to blame for the obesity epidemic in North America. Excuse me? What about the fact that people are simply too bloody lazy to make the necessary lifestyle adjustments that their questionable dietary choices demand? Normally, I wouldn't have any regard for an opinion on this subject from Colby Cosh, a very sharp journalist-turned-Blog superstar who happens to be an overweight chain-smoker (from what I gather), but he makes a fairly good point in bringing up the seldom heard-of idea "personal responsibility" and Les Sayer's clever little experiment, where he actually managed to LOSE weight eating a McDonalds-only diet. HOW you ask? Short answer: Unlike Spurlock, he worked his ass off. Says Les:

Seeing my fat and sugar intake be 200% of "normal values" while eating McDonald's food for a month, caused me to really value the importance of regular exercise. If I can lose weight, lower my cholesterol and triglycerides, and have blood work that reveals a healthy liver and kidneys, and all the while eat at McDonald's, it proves to me two things: firstly McDonald's food isn't laden with the "poisons" some people believe it to be. This makes me smile because the same people who earnestly warned that my liver would "collapse" or "explode" within a couple of weeks of the diet, are now insisting that 30 days wasn't long enough. Some people really believe this stuff. And secondly, diet is important for a healthy lifestyle, but not essential. Exercise, however is essential.

Ultimately, I'm more on Les's side than on Morgan's. I don't think that MacDonalds is trying to con me and everyone else. I don't think that they need to change their menus or their marketing practices (but bully for them if they do it, even as just a PR thing) While I find their food mostly distasteful, I recognize that it is marketed cleverly and I can appreciate the appeal it must have for youth. Nevertheless, as far as I'm concerned, McD's should keep doing what it does --unapologetically selling fatty food of questionable nutritional value to folks. I sure don't think that it's their fault that everyone is getting fatter and fatter because we are eating too much, and letting our kids eat too much, of their crap, or that we are not getting enough exercise, and that we are not forcing junior to get off the frigging couch and go split his XXL trackpants doing a few laps around the track. That's where the personal responsibility part comes in. It isn't a corporation's responsibility to fix things. It's up to you and I.

When I start to put on weight (which happens every once in a while), I know I basically have three options:

A) Eat healthier (How do you know you are on the right track? A good clue is when you stop putting on weight)

B) Exercise more (how much? As much as it takes to stop putting on weight)

C) A combination of A&B

Failure to follow one of these three options will result in me becoming a fatbody -with all the attendant health implications that has (body acceptance my ass-- being fat is unhealthy. Period).

YES, it is that simple. I'm responsible.

Action Comics Presents... POPEMAN!

Please excuse my irreverent take on this subject, but it just occured to me that John Paul II was the nearest thing the 20th century ever had to a real life superhero.

Popeman's origin issue introduces a young Polish man and his intrepid band of seminarians boldly pursuing their studies in wartime Cracow under the very nose of Uncle Adolph and his nefarious Nazi no-goodniks. Right from Panel one, you know that this story will have major fan appeal: a dark street in the Polish city, circa 1943: Spoltlights scour the rooftops as sinister SS men run through the streets. "Mein Gott!" says Hauptmann Heinrich "That Jew-loving priestling has escaped me again!" -- "Better luck next time, herr Heinrich" Young Karol shouts from the roof of the cathedral, before leaping down into the alley and running off to live another day.

No one can forget that successful multi-issue run in the seventies, when the Crimson Cardinal (that's Popeman before he got his new identity in the Action Comics 1978 Super Special Rendez-vous Rome issue) battled the Poland's red menace "the Communist Establishment" with the help of the Social Justice League and a squad of crucifix-wielding nuns; the first of what would be many memorable team-ups and cross-overs.

One of my personal faves was Issue 453 (still have mine mint condition in mylar), where Popeman took three bullets from a would-be assassin and came back to lay some serious doctrinal ass-whuppin' on would be reformers a few pages later. At this point in the his run, the globetrotting caped-and-capped crusader presented the very picture of the man in charge.

No one stepped out of line with this successor of Saint Peter. He was a muscular man of the cloth, an ascetic avenger, a power-packed pontiff. Our hero ran a tight ship. Woe to the hapless political figure who challenged his authority--You best believe that he would set the fool straight with a well-placed encyclical to the proboscis.... and of course, he would be back battling human rights abusers a few pages later-backed up by his priests and bishops. Foes trembled in fear of the Papal ban, but Popeman also had a softer side, and every issue issue featured a friendly encounter with one of the members of his legions of adoring faithful, who were always there to cheer their hero on no matter where he went.

Following his defeat of most of his commie arch-nemeses (and their nefarious Atheist Acolytes) at the end of the eighties, some observers thought that the character had run his course and should be put out to pasture, but Popeman emerged revitalized at the beginning of the nineties, thanks largely to the introduction of the Young Catholics, who had always been background characters, but who now began to take on a greater role in Popeman's struggle against secularism and agnositicism.

After a run of several decades, which has seen Popeman confront every major evil of our time and emerge triumphant, the series now comes to a close. It is fitting that in the final issue of his title, Popeman leaves the world with a message of hope, arms his followers with his greatest superpowers --faith and love-- and urges us onward in our battle with the forces of darkness.

Don't toss out any of the back-issues folks. They are all collectors editions.

Requiescat in pace, John Paul II

Pax Vobiscum,Pontifex Maximus

Lomins, the Alfinator and Meels in the kitchen of the family homestead. Alfie wants to eat, as usual. 

Easter 2005: The folks and my girl on the banks of the Detroit river. The best view of Detroit is from this side of the river... trust me, you don't actually want to GO to Detroit.  

My main squeeze calls this my "Bin Laden" look, infidel swine! 

"George Lucas raped your childhood?"

I'll admit it... I am an unrepentant STAR WARS fan. That being said, most of the real fans would laugh at such a bold statement. Although I have seen each of the installments more than once, and can remember the odd quote from a memorable scene, I'm not, you know, THAT INVESTED. Not so, the true Star Wars devotee. The true fan lives and breathes Star Wars. Anyone who has seen that hilarious bit from Late Night with Conan O'brien with TRIUMPH and the geeks at the "Attack of the Clones premiere knows the type of person I'm talking about.

There are men and women (but, let's face it, mostly men) who own thousands of dollars worth of priceless memorabilia, from the first edition action figures still in their original packages to the hundreds of comics and movie-tie ins and crappy merchandise trinkets, not to mention multiple versions of the Original Trilogy -VHS, Laserdisc, DVD, Original Trilogy, Special Editions, etc... These are the jokers that wait in line in their costumes at each of the premieres for days before tickets go on sale, clusters of Jedi Masters, legions of stormtroopers, and the occasional Princess Leia with cinamon-bun hairstyle. Many of them first saw the original movie (now known as Star Wars Episode Four: A New Hope) in theatres when if first premiered in 1977, long before it was the cultural landmark that it has become in the years since. They are now in their thirties, and they take their Star Wars very seriously.

If you needed any greater proof of this seriousness, harken back, if you will, to those heady days of 1999, when, in the wake of the triumphant release of the 20th Anniversary Special Editions, George Lucas birthed the first of his prequels, a movie which told the story of how Anakin Skywalker, the boy who would become Darth Vader, was discovered by the Jedi. The ear-shattering buzz around this film, brought on my a wicked-ass trailer and brilliant marketing campaign, infected the fans in the weeks leading up to its release and was impossible to ignore... many outside of the general fan community could not help but feel a frisson of excitement as well. This would be a cultural event for a NEW generation, a space mythology updated and beefed up with CGI to cater to our more jaded and discerining movie-viewing eyeballs.

While some like me kept expectations as low as possible in order to avoid disappointment, others proclaimed the second coming of the Jedi, and made of the as-of-yet unseen film a golden calf to be worshipped mindlessly. A backlash was inevitable. At pre-screeings, some of the mainstream critics grudgingly recognized the briliance of the visuals, even while they panned the performances in the same breath. The word was out, and it was not good. George Lucas had botched the direction. The dialogue was stilted, the performances, particularly those of younger castmembers, woefully poor. I remember a quote from an actor in the OT (I think it was Carrie Fisher, or maybe Harrison Ford): "You might be able to write this shit, but you sure can't speak it" --or words to that effect. i hesitantly interrogate those who had "seen the elephant", as it were: "Yeah, but the action... great action right?" I had heard about the amazing lightsaber fight that put anything in the OT to shame, and my hopes rested on that, if nothing else.

Ultimately, Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace , or TPM, as the fans call it, proved to be a pretty satisfying movie experience for me. Was Jar Jar annoying? --Does a bear shit in the woods? The only justification I can find for that egregious creation was that it was there to amuse the kiddies. Yeah, the dialogue was groan-enducing... and how! But I distinctly remember some cornball lines from the Original Trilogy, too. The story was a bit dense and sometimes difficult to follow, but the visuals more than made up for it. Bottom line, I was entertained.

But how did the true believers greet the movie? Well, some of the more forgiving ones seemed to find it acceptable. "Third-best Star Wars movie" was an opinion I heard more than once (Some of the original fans had never gotten over the feeling of being let down by Return of the Jedi after the crowning glory of the Empire Strikes Back, strangely, and figured anything was better than Episode 6). But in some corners of the Internet, the Dark Side held sway. The indignation and vitriol that I saw spewed out onto movie site message boards like AICN and TheForce.net when the first movie in the new trilogy was released was nothing short of alarming.

"Lucas sold his soul for CG!" they raged. The legions of Internet critics- a distinctly diffenrent breed from the Eberts and Roepers of the world- piloried it: "Derivative kiddie-popcorn fare devoid of the magic of the OT (original trilogy)!". "George Lucas Raped my Childhood!" one despondent dork wailed.

Jesus, why don't you tell me how you really feel! The only way I could account for these puzzling deep-seated feelings of anger and betrayal was to hypothesize that somehow, over the years, because of nostalgia and the subjective nature of our childhood memories, these three movies released so many years ago (lest we forget, they were MOVIES, people!) had grown into something much more singular and significant in some people's twisted psyches, a philosophy, a zeitgeist, a way of life -- the same way that Star Trek has for others. "IT BETTER NOT SUCK" had been the mantra of their trepidatious and timorous subconsciouses for so long as they awaited the messiah's return. For these people who had invested so much of themselves in this imaginary universe, so much more than an entertaining cinematic experience was at stake. A trivial film could trivialize their very selves, the essence of who they were.

Fast forward three years, much the same story: For some, Episode II, Attack of the Clones (AOTC) the 2002 follow-up to TPM, was redemption or vindication, for others, it only added insult to injury, as their hopes were again dashed. Personally, I found the second film an improvement on the first, but a flawed film nonetheless. Entertaining overall, and containing some virtuoso sequences, but certainly not in the league of, say, The Lord of the Rings movies, for example. How traumatic it must have been for those sad fellows who had spent countless hours dreaming of new star wars movies to not have their gargantuans expectations met. "But I thought the Jedi would be cooler!" "I thought we would see Darth Vader being a bad ass!" "I would have shown more of the Clone Wars!"

So now we come to the moment of truth. We are on the cusp of the Third Act, the denouement, the one that everything has been leading up to. Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith opens on May 10, 2005. The movie tells of Anakin's final descent into evil and his betrayal of the Jedi will be the yardstick against all the other films will be measured. The Trailer looks very promising: Plenty of kickass action and mayhem and a decidedly dark tone. "Ah, but the other trailers were great too... and look how the movies turned out" the haters warn. Will ROTS provide a suitably spellbinding and thrilling climax, tying up all loose ends and bringing the Saga together in one cohesive narrative, or will it be the final betrayal: a sprawling, shambolic mess that colapses under its own weight and ends the series on a bad note?

The fascinating thing is that it may end up being the former to some and the latter to others. Perhaps ultimately, it wil be seen as a flawed masterpiece lacking the wide appeal of the best episodes in the series, but rising above the level of the lesser installments in Lucas' opus.

Lucas himself has said "I feel that I've made the movie the best I can and it turned out the way I wanted it to be, so I'm happy. I never try to anticipate what the world's going to think or even worry about whether they're going to like it or not. That's not my job, to make people like my movies. They either like them or they don't. That's completely out of my hands."

Wise words from the original Jedi Master.

DELWIT!

My brother and his friends came up with this word a couple of years ago. When I first heard them use it in conversation, I couldn't quite figure out what they were saying. They would use it as a response to a question: "Are you going to go out tonight?" Answer: "Del-wit!". It worked as a greeting "Wassup?"..."DEL-WIT!" or as a description for someone "That dude is so delwit."

Sometimes it would be modified into an emphatic statement "Del-wit... TOTALLY!"... or made into a prediction "Soon to be... del-wit" (or to be del-wit soonly). In time, it became as ubiquitous within my brother's peer group as that most Canadian of exclamations: eh.

I find the etymology of this word fascinating. It is basically a contraction of the words "dealt with", as in "That issue needs to be dealt with".

Apparently, the word originated from the good-natured mimickry of an acquaintance of theirs who made constant over-use of the verb "to deal": "Deal with that open window" (close the window, please). Could you deal with the phone? (Answer the phone for me, will you?). Naturally, over time, the standard response to the request after someone had carried it out would be to say "It's totally dealt with",
In time, this became "totally, deal'with!" and eventually, "totally delwit!" (or when you feel like changing things up: "totalled!"). If you hadn't done something yet you might say "soon to be delwit", or "to be delwit soonly" (Why soonly? I don't know, I'm not an etymologist!)

Now everything is delwit. I find myself using the expression all the time with my brother. It has even developeed into a bizarre patois that sounds like gibberish to the unaccustomed ear. If I want to know if he'll be catching a lift with me to go visit our parents, for instance, I might ask "Will you be delwit down to mom and dad, soonly?" To which he would answer, of course: "Totally!"

Somehow, this weird dialect hasn't gotten stale for us yet... in fact, I have a feeling that if we keep using it, it may CATCH ON...

Now deal with that.

Why Paul Martin blows, big time, according toSteyn:

I overestimated Paul Martin. I assumed that, underneath the autopilot boilerplate pol-drone, he had a view on Iraq, Canada, the world, etc., and it was only because of the interminable holding pattern he was stuck in, waiting to land at Sussex Drive, that he felt unable to reveal it to us.

But, if anything can be clearly seen these days, it’s that Paul Martin has wanted to be prime minister his entire life and has worked ruthlessly toward that end, and yet has never troubled himself to acquire a political philosophy. I don’t mean like Thatcherism or Reaganism. He doesn’t have to invent a top-to-toe Martinism; he could just latch onto someone else’s philosophy, one he happens to--what’s the phrase?--believe in. But it’s clear, and it’s increasingly being clearly seen to be clear, that he doesn’t believe in anything.

Cool? I'm fricken frozen! 

Blogosphere hails The 'Donkey's return!

Fans clamoured for more heaping helpings of bloggy goodness.

Indeed, like Julius Caesar, Triumphant triumvir, entering the Eternal City at the conclusion of the Civil Wars, I have returned... Now that my classical allusion has you convinced that I an insufferable blowhard, allow me to elaborate.

Three long months have passed since I had a decent internet connection, and for several reasons, after months of living web-free, I fell off the wagon. What that means, dear reader, is that you'll be hearing from me a bit more often.

Hollywood runs afoul of Hebrews

I had to laugh a bit when I read this article. Somehow, the image of the loverly miss Portman getting chased through the streets of Jerusalem by enraged ultra-orthodox jews brings a smile to my face. Never mind the fact that the Israeli-born actress has been studying at Hebrew University in Jerusalem for several months and should have known better... what the heck were the film producers thinking? I mean, how clueless and disrespectful can you get? This is why, Kabalah bracelets aside, its nice to see trivial, narcissistic, secular Hollywood take a big bite to the ass (a la
Passion of the Christ)every once in a while from some old-school religious types.

I hope the director got his ass kicked by some IDF guys for that....

So another week races by, and what do we have to show for it? You first! No really... oh, OK, if you insist! I finally got the official word: I am being appointed to my position as a permanent employee. Over 50 months in this program, across 3 government departments and 5 different assignments, and at last we arrive at the end of the journey. Finally, I don't have to (figuratively) wear the MacDonald's trainee button, anymore. I can tear it from my breast, strip off my wifebeater and button-down shirt --exposing a hirsute torso, pull my pants down, and play the bongos as I run around the office in my tighty-whities. I'm expecting the letter any day now. Dude, I SO rock.

Incidentally, this once-a-week blogging thing is where it's at! No more self-indulgent daily navel-gazing that doesn't seem to go anywhere and ends up coming across very trivial ( oh woe is me! I must vomit all my innermost thoughts into this blog everyday because I'm so deep and what I had for breakfast is so fascinating and what I think of some flick is so important and nobody understands me! ) Yup, Just straight-up quality content from now on. I'm gonna write about important shit! You know, actual interesting events that occur in my life?

Oh, yeah, did I mention I saw the movie SAW last night? That is one M-Fing scary flick, y'all! Oh yeah, and that Quaker instant oatmeal cinnamon cereal bar really hit the spot this morning. By the way, nobody understands me.

Being at work after-hours is always a bit eerie. Everything gets really quiet and you begin to notice the subliminal sounds. You know, the ones that are always there but that your brain filters out as you go about your daily routine. The hum of overhead lights and computers; rasping breath, wheezing, throat clearing, snorting, knee-or-ankle-cracking... the little noises that people don't even realize they are making. When you are in a work environment that tends toward the geriatric, like mine (average age appears to be about 73-- I still get called kid or sonny even though I am pushing 30... I think you get the idea), people make alot of noise, even when they aren't speaking. When you pick up on them, tt can be distracting and a bit disconcerting to listen to all of these groans and gasps --a subtle reminder of one's own mortality. One day, I will be all bloated and gassy and uncomfortable, sitting in my orthopaedic chair, with my feet on a footrest to ease the pain of my gouty extremities... and maybe, unlike so many around me today, I will have an epiphany: Holy Shit!... What the hell am I still doing at work at age XX? I need to F*ing RETIRE already!!.

You see, it is my firm belief that too many people work long past the point that they are making any significant contribution to their workplace. At what point does going to work become a convenient way to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock of life (y'know, like gradschool can be for so many scared undergrads?: Grow up? No thanks, I think I'll read Nietsche and study radical Feminist thought for another 4 years... now, THAT will make me marketable!). In the words of Mr. Kenny Rogers, "You gotta know when to hold'em, know when to fold'em". So many people stay in the game for so long, it's years before they realize that, not only are they no longer welcome at the table, but they aren't even able to keep up with the revised rules. Maybe I sound like a jerk, but I guess I'm just alarmed at the number of grandpas and grandmas I work with. Are you OK financially? (If you aren't, that's a whole different kettle of fish).... then buy a frigging Winnebago! Go fishing! Spend time with your family! There is more to life than work! We'll find someone to replace you, honest.

On a completely different note, if "How many gazebos do you she-males need" isn't the best line ever spoken on The Simpsons, I don't know what is.

Word.

It has been so long since I posted anything, I actually forgot my password for a second or two. I feel like I have broken into someone else's blog and I'm surepticiously banging away on the keyboard hoping I don't get caught. Speaking of getting caught --I have been completely ensnared by Norman Spector's daily press review over at Macleans It is now a part of my daily routine, as essential as that cup of dark roast I pick up across the street from my office before starting my workday. Why read the paper when you can have someone like Norman read twenty of them and report back to you?

Work has settled down a bit, thanks to the departure of a boss whom, in the words of one of my old army instructors, "failed to live up to the low expectations she set for herself". I'm taking the time to enjoy life a bit more, and be blown away by something wonderful happening in the world every so often. --Like elections in Iraq, for instance, where burqas and blue fingers are the new fashion statement. Western democracies have been put to shame by people who risk life and limb to do something practically half of us can't be bothered to do every four years or so. A treatise on the value of democracy is being written before our eyes.

I'm also staggered by the response of the world to the Tsunami. A cynical part of me wants to think that it came about because so many westerners know Thailand, or at least know someone who is there, was there, or soon will be. Way to go, everyone, but we musn't forget other disasters, like the situation in Darfur, or more mundane tragedies, like poverty and homelessness at home. I dropped off some clothes and food to the local shelter last week. I figured that the usual stream of good will might have been temporarily diverted into the flow of goods to Asia.

Part of me wants to sign up for internet access again, just so that I can go back to doing this with some regularity... until I do, go read some Spector.

Where to begin?

Weaning myself from my compulsive blogging habit has been tough, but the transition to a blog-free existence is necessitated by the fact that since my move, I have not had my internet re-connected. Having my umbilicus to the world wide web severed has proven to be quite liberating, actually. No more racking my brain to come up with interesting topics to write about (--aha! but you never wrote anything interesting anyway you are probably saying right now--fair enough)... I can now concentrate on more important things, like drinking and eating, f'rinstance!

The first few days of December, I was living a spartan existence in a cubby hole full of boxes. My routine went something like this: wakeup -go to work- come back from work- unpack- sleep - repeat until done. To my great surprise, as days turned into weeks, I gradually emerged from my dwindling mountain of boxes to discover to my delight that I did, in fact, have a rather nice new appartment. By no means am I completely settled in, but a month on, I'm becoming more and more optimistic.

Perhaps because of my new found optimism, I seem to have transformed into some kind of bon-vivant in the last few days, gorging myself on good booze and fine food during the holiday season. The ever-increasing tightness of my waistband is evidence that this type of behaviour is not without effect, so before I burst my buttons and split the ass out of my dungarees, I'm gonna head out on a lung-bursting 10 K today. I figure my recent social smoking will come back to haunt me, but I need to get a headstart on my 2005 resolution (Get in real shape!), particularly since I managed to keep my resolution for 2004 (learn to dance properly) and I don't want to break my streak of two years and counting.

About six months ago, I acted on last year's New Year's Eve promise I made to myself, and thanks to a bit of self-discipline and commitment, when the music comes on, I no longer caper or mince around the dancefloor like a jackass, but can actually perform a serviceable waltz or foxtrot. I'm pretty good with the latino stuff too --cha cha and mambo are two of my favourites-- and I'm at the point where I look like I actually know what I'm doing up there. Some of you may laugh at my quaint notions, but, having been born about 200 years late, I am a firm believer that learning to dance properly is an essential part of any young gentleman's education... and besides, chicks dig it.

Being in Windsor with the family for the holidays has been a welcome break from the craziness that was December. First of all, I met a fantastic girl...we get along amazingly well and we enjoy each other's company--I'll just leave it at that. Angst-ridden overanalysis has been the death of more than one fledgling relationship for me and I'm not gonna continue to make the same tactical error over and over again. I'm not overthinking things, just going with the flow. Only time will tell, I suppose. Work has alternated between frenetic and depressing, but a couple of good Christmas parties and some fun off-hours has helped me shake off any winter funk that might have started to set in, so all things considered, I'm in pretty high spirits.

Because I don't know when I will get a chance to write again, the most fitting way for me to close this entry is to wish you, my unknown reader, a wonderful Christmas and extend to all my best wishes for 2005.

J

Blog Going On Hiatus - Network Executives Cite Poor Ratings

Ottawa - November 30 2004

Network stuffed shirts announced today that ailing internet Web log Vis Comica would be put on hiatus and all new postings suspended while new writers attempt to "re-tool" and "work out some kinks".

The once-popular site, known for its rambling diatribes on politics and pop culture, has been struggling of late in the ratings, lagging just behind Triumphfan's "Poopblog" and perennial favourite "ANABLE-US", a site run by the Arkansas chapter of the National Association of Belly Lint Enthusiasts, in the quest for daily hits.

When asked to comment on the site's downward slide, spokesperson Luis Bernstein-Garcia offered the network's theory:

"We think this may have something to do with the fact that the guy who runs this thing --I think his name is Jeff -- has not been posting nude pictures of pre-op trannies, which was how this blog was pitched to us in the first place"

The head writer of the site, alcoholic recluse Jamal Leders, could not be reached for comment, but is believed to have retired to his cabin in the woods of Northern Quebec to work on new topics for the blog and shave his backhair. Sources close to the writer describe his state of mind as "strangely euphoric", but caution that this may be largely due to the copious amounts of glue he has been sniffing following the end of his short marriage to a philipino mail-order bride.

It is said that Leders suffered a complete emotional breakdown following a recent meeting with network honchos where he was told his blog would be suspended, but staffers remain confident that he will return to the network family if he can put his personal life back in order.

"No one likes to see someone go to pieces like that. You tell the guy that it's OK to cry, but part of you is thinking Come on man, have some dignity" offered Clovis Van Der Veldt, Associate editor for Blogworld Syndicated, who was present at the meeting.

At the present time, officials refuse to speculate on Vis Comica's return date, but assure loyal readers that they remain behind the blog and are committed to its continued existence, as long as something more profitable does not come along. They remind visitors to the site that the links and archives will remain operative until they figure out how to pull the plug.

Now that I have seen how little storage space I'm gonna have in my new place, there's no getting around it... I'm gonna have to get my IKEA on!

I'm such a hypocrite. Barely two weeks ago I was bragging about my minimalist tendencies, and now I'm scurrying off to that unholy temple of swedish conformity to stockpile lamps and bins!...

What would Tyler Durden say?

We were meant to live for so much more
Have we lost ourselves?
Somewhere we live inside


We want more than this world's got to offer
We want more than this world's got to offer
We want more than the wars of our fathers
And everything inside screams for second life

SWICHFOOT
is a San Diego Rock band with a distinctive sound and a refreshing outlook on life.

Their style of rock is as accessible as any mainstream act you are liable to come across, and yet their lyrics are infused with a spiritual message that is far from "preachy".

Little known fact: Their single "We were meant to live" was inspired by this 1925 poem by T.S. Elliot with the frequently-quoted ending:


The Hollow Men

I


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


V


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow


Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom


For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Vindicated

I am selfish

I am wrong

I am right

I swear I'm right

I swear I knew it all along

And I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well

I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself


Vindicated by Dashboard Confessional

True story:

Today I stepped into the elevator at work at around 5:45 pm. An exhausted-looking gentleman was standing in one corner with his trenchcoat in the crook of his elbow. I gave him a quick glance and said "Good evening sir! How are you?" as cheerfully as I could. "Good evening... I'm doing fine... um, being kept very busy.... very busy" murmurred Michel Dorais, Judy Sgro's Deputy Minister.

"I'm sure you must be" is all I could answer.

one last party at 259 Bay 

Farewell to 259 Bay 

I was telling a friend the other day about my theory regarding Iraq, and it
occured to me that I had never properly articulated it before, so, for the first time in writing, here goes.

1991: Gulf War. Coalition Forces defeat Saddam Hussein's army, driving it out
of Kuwait and back into Iraq. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin
Powell is among those who advise against the invasion of Iraq, intimating that a
full-scale invasion would commit the U.S. and the international community to a
long term occupation of Iraq, possibly involving a drawn out period of fighting
insurgents, islamic fundamentalists and foreign fighters from the region who
rush in to fill the vaccuum in the wake of Hussein's downfall. "No way" says
President Bush Senior. A no-fly zone is established, the U.N. imposes economic sanctions and puts forward resolution after resolution in the U.N. calling for Hussein to disarm in the years that follow.

next ten years: First World Trade Centre Bombing, al Qaeda's rise to prominence. Bombing of U.S.S. Cole, ect. ad nauseam.

2001: September 11th.

2003: There is no direct link between September 11th and Saddam Hussein. U.S.
administration's strategy: Create one. Expansion of "War-on-Terror",
Axis-of-Evil, Doctrine of pre-emptive war paves the way. States giving aid and
comfort to terrorists are now legitimate targets. Following the failure of
sanctions and the expulsion of UN weapons inspectors, Secretary of State Colin
Powell is among those who advise against the invasion of Iraq, intimating that a
full-scale invasion would commit the U.S. and the international community to a
long term occupation of Iraq, possibly involving a drawn out period of fighting
insurgents, islamic fundamentalists and foreign fighters from the region who
rush in to fill the vaccuum in the wake of Hussein's downfall. "Exactly" says
President Bush Junior.

Fight them there so we don't have to fight them at home.

One event can change everything.

Demon Diarrhoea?

Historian Donald E. Graves describes the conditions in Winfield Scott's camp near Buffalo prior to the invasion of the Niagara peninsula during the War and 1812:

"Discipline is but the second object," Scott informed his officers, "the first is the health of troops," and from the outset he followed this credo. He ordered his men to bathe three times a week in the lake under the supervision of an officer who was to ensure that they were to "wash themselves from head to foot, but not to remain immersed in the water more than five minutes." Unusual for the time, this insistence on hygiene paid dividends - from April to the beginning of July, only two men died of sickness at Flint Hill and, to the amazement of medical personnel, "even the demon diarrhoea appeared to have been exorcised by the mystical power of strict discipline and rigid police!"

From the book Where Right and Glory Lead! The Battle of Lundy's Lane, 1814

Just think: This was an era where sickness often decimated armies before their campaigns had even started... If a few more American Generals had told their men to take baths like Scott did, Canada might now be a part of the United States!

Have you seen THIS SITE? Nothing more pathetic than a bunch of weepy wankers pretending to apologize in order to make a political statement. OK, so you are pissed about the fact that Bush got back in, but excuse me... what the heck are you really sorry about? Sorry that the Democrats blew it? Sorry that others don't agree with your particular world view? Are you really apologizing for the results of an election? Why should you apologize for the fact that your countrymen and countrywomen exercised their democratic right?... on the bright side, some of the photos, with their ersatz sentimentality, are downright hilarious.

Y'all just about done with your self-abasement and self-loathing? Good... lets move on, cause honestly... the knockoff sites are getting
OUT
OF
HAND

While everyone is apologizing, I'd like to apologize to our friends to the South for having such a high opinion of all of you... This type of degrading behaviour indicates that not all of you are worthy of my regard.


R.I.P. BIG BABY JESUS.

I dedicate this to all the pretty girls
All the pretty girls, in the world
And the ugly girls too
Cause to me your pretty anyways baby


ODB: the man who introduced KELIS to the world.