Almond Slices
- J. den Boer
In Hartman’s grocery store in the baking aisle
Checking for sliced almonds proves quite the trial
I finally locate bags of cashews and pistachios
but I only see regular almonds, with the skinless ones below
I hover for some time, scanning the shelf with utmost care,
When fortunately for me, a worker happens there
“Excuse me sir, I hate to be a pest
but I have a recipe for which sliced almonds are best,
kindly tell me where I can find this prize.”
He scans the shelf with sharp youthful eyes,
“I see them not,” he points to an empty part of the rack
“Hold on please sir, I’ll check for these almonds in the back.”
I thank him as I gaze forlornly at the shelf
Pondering the time it would take to slice the almonds myself.
A gentleman slowly ambles through my section
Searching the shelves for some unknown confection.
His eyes stare intently past where I stand,
I move and look to where his eyes have scanned.
“Are you seeking sliced almonds?” I point to the empty spot,
“he should be back soon to let us know if they have them or not.”
He thanks me with a smile and a nod of appreciation,
And I grin to myself at this coincidental situation.
For what are the chances that both of our prey
Happens to be sliced almonds at this time of this day?
The worker returns shortly carrying nothing with him
He shrugs his shoulders, “the warehouse is full to the brim,
And I could not locate the sliced almonds anywhere.”
I smile warmly, “Thanks for trying, I appreciate your care.”
I grab a bag of skinless almonds from their perch,
And say, not wishing to leave my fellow almond seeker in the lurch,
“I can grind these up, no, it won’t be as pretty to view.
The chunky almonds are not the same, but it will have to do.”
I tried my best to get those almond slices, no jest.
Some would have given up, but I did my best.
So I am honest when I say that I did not mean to provoke
with the chunks rather than slices of almonds in the boeter koek.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
“It is an honour to meet you, sir. Read your screenplay and, I must say, I loved it.”
“Thank you, I’m happy to hear that.”
“Now, you might not be familiar with the way the movie industry works, but I have a few suggestions for the screenplay that will make it, shall we say . . . a little more marketable.”
“Alright.”
“The, uh, protagonist, what’s his name?”
“Victor.”
“Yeah, interesting character - needs a friend - can you write black humour?”
“You mean dark humour? There is some of that in there.”
“No, I mean black humour, like Eddie Murphy-type humour. We need a wild and crazy black friend for Victor.”
“What?”
“A black friend, you know, to appeal to the urban audience. Can you write black humour?”
“Victor wouldn’t be the type to have a wild and crazy friend, though. Plus, I wrote him as a slight racist.”
“Yeah, maybe nix the racism.”
“But he’s supposed to be unlikable.”
“Yeah, about that, maybe you could give him better manners, make him interact with people more positively?”
“But the point of the screenplay is how this ugly character finds redemption through Lisette.”
“Yeah, Lisette, great character, can her friend, Dolores, be a little more quirky? I was thinking of maybe an Ellen Degeneres type . . . except really fat. Fat people are funny. Maybe we can have Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”
“Um.”
“Better yet, a black Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”
“ . . .”
“Alright, we’ll leave that on the table maybe.”
“I don’t think so.”
“On the table.”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll put it down as a possibility then.”
“I don’t . . .”
“Also, sorry for interrupting, but not a whole lot is happening in this screenplay. Maybe we could introduce a side-plot to liven things up a bit.”
“What do you have in mind? I think the minimalist tone of this screenplay is key.”
“Aliens.”
“Well, yes, Dolores has immigration issues, but it’s not really stressed in the screenplay.”
“No, no, I mean aliens invading from outer space. We could have Victor and Lisette working out their issues while running away from the invading aliens.”
“No aliens.”
“You’re right, that’s ridiculous.”
“Thank you.”
“It will fit in a lot more to the underlying theme of life and death if we have zombies.”
“There’s no underlying theme of life and death in the screenplay.”
“You can add that, though, right? No sweat. It’ll be a sort of post-apocolyptic art film, the critics will eat that up.”
“No zombies.”
“Zombies are in right now.”
“No zombies.”
“Vampires it is then. We’ll milk this Twilight thing for all it’s worth.”
“Vampires? No. This isn’t science fiction or horror, it’s a drama.”
“Well, vampires are more of a romance thing now and, of course, Victor and Lisette have quite the connection. Victor can be the ugly vampire character who is redeemed by the charm of Lisette. Sound good?”
“No, that’s horrible.”
“You’re right, you’re right, too close to the Twilight thing. Lisette can be the vampire and Victor finds redemption through her.”
“No vampires.”
“Genetic weapons that wreak havoc on the population?”
“No. Out of the question.”
“Alright, alright. I get it, you want something more realistic.”
“Yes, thank you for recognizing that.”
“We’ll go the Day After Tomorrow or 2012 route and have a massive global disaster.”
“That’s not realistic.”
“We’ll tone it down, of course.”
“No.”
“Alright, alright . . . but what if Dolores isn’t a fat black lesbian?”
“She’s not.”
“What I mean is, what if she’s a psychopathic killer?”
“No, that wouldn’t work.”
“Yeah, we need her humour.”
“She isn’t . . .”
“Unless, unless she’s a fat black lesbian psychopathic killer!”
*sigh*
“Thank you, I’m happy to hear that.”
“Now, you might not be familiar with the way the movie industry works, but I have a few suggestions for the screenplay that will make it, shall we say . . . a little more marketable.”
“Alright.”
“The, uh, protagonist, what’s his name?”
“Victor.”
“Yeah, interesting character - needs a friend - can you write black humour?”
“You mean dark humour? There is some of that in there.”
“No, I mean black humour, like Eddie Murphy-type humour. We need a wild and crazy black friend for Victor.”
“What?”
“A black friend, you know, to appeal to the urban audience. Can you write black humour?”
“Victor wouldn’t be the type to have a wild and crazy friend, though. Plus, I wrote him as a slight racist.”
“Yeah, maybe nix the racism.”
“But he’s supposed to be unlikable.”
“Yeah, about that, maybe you could give him better manners, make him interact with people more positively?”
“But the point of the screenplay is how this ugly character finds redemption through Lisette.”
“Yeah, Lisette, great character, can her friend, Dolores, be a little more quirky? I was thinking of maybe an Ellen Degeneres type . . . except really fat. Fat people are funny. Maybe we can have Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”
“Um.”
“Better yet, a black Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”
“ . . .”
“Alright, we’ll leave that on the table maybe.”
“I don’t think so.”
“On the table.”
“No.”
“Alright, I’ll put it down as a possibility then.”
“I don’t . . .”
“Also, sorry for interrupting, but not a whole lot is happening in this screenplay. Maybe we could introduce a side-plot to liven things up a bit.”
“What do you have in mind? I think the minimalist tone of this screenplay is key.”
“Aliens.”
“Well, yes, Dolores has immigration issues, but it’s not really stressed in the screenplay.”
“No, no, I mean aliens invading from outer space. We could have Victor and Lisette working out their issues while running away from the invading aliens.”
“No aliens.”
“You’re right, that’s ridiculous.”
“Thank you.”
“It will fit in a lot more to the underlying theme of life and death if we have zombies.”
“There’s no underlying theme of life and death in the screenplay.”
“You can add that, though, right? No sweat. It’ll be a sort of post-apocolyptic art film, the critics will eat that up.”
“No zombies.”
“Zombies are in right now.”
“No zombies.”
“Vampires it is then. We’ll milk this Twilight thing for all it’s worth.”
“Vampires? No. This isn’t science fiction or horror, it’s a drama.”
“Well, vampires are more of a romance thing now and, of course, Victor and Lisette have quite the connection. Victor can be the ugly vampire character who is redeemed by the charm of Lisette. Sound good?”
“No, that’s horrible.”
“You’re right, you’re right, too close to the Twilight thing. Lisette can be the vampire and Victor finds redemption through her.”
“No vampires.”
“Genetic weapons that wreak havoc on the population?”
“No. Out of the question.”
“Alright, alright. I get it, you want something more realistic.”
“Yes, thank you for recognizing that.”
“We’ll go the Day After Tomorrow or 2012 route and have a massive global disaster.”
“That’s not realistic.”
“We’ll tone it down, of course.”
“No.”
“Alright, alright . . . but what if Dolores isn’t a fat black lesbian?”
“She’s not.”
“What I mean is, what if she’s a psychopathic killer?”
“No, that wouldn’t work.”
“Yeah, we need her humour.”
“She isn’t . . .”
“Unless, unless she’s a fat black lesbian psychopathic killer!”
*sigh*
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
His dirty hands were tanned and dotted with small scars, veins bulging and crisscrossing their backs. His fingers were thick and creased with wrinkles and marked with callouses. They gripped the handle of a sturdy spade as he churned the soil from the hole. The land around him was a monastery, dark and empty, and the strange meditative silence that enveloped him was somehow appropriate. The only sounds were the blade of his spade scuttling through the earth and the rhythm of his heavy breaths.
“Why do you dig in this rolling wasteland?” I asked him, my voice rasping through the calm like a rusted dagger.
He glanced up, his shovel never ceasing its motion.
“I search,” he grunted. He stopped, only for a moment, to wipe the sweat from his ancient dirt-streaked face. He returned to his work, his seemingly aimless hole widening. The silence, only broken his exertions, returned.
I observed his digging, hoping to divine his purpose. He would dig intently in one place and then suddenly abandon the area and begin to dig somewhere else. His hole was a snake-like maze of trenches of varying depths.
Bemused, I broke the quiet again, “What do you search for?”
“I search,” he repeated, the words coming out as a curse.
“Did you lose something?” I queried.
His knotted arms continued their interminable motion, as soil flew into a section of the hole he had previously dug so intently in. “Yes,” he spat, “I know it’s here.”
“You lost it here?” I ask, “what is it that you lost?”
One hand continued to grip the spade and redistribute the dirt, as the other hand gestured with gangly nonchalance toward a distant hill. “Over there, outside the city wall.”
I gazed at the far off green hill, “why do you search here if you lost it over there?”
He laughed grimly, “it no longer suits my purpose, I need another.”
“And you know the other one is here? What does it look like?”
His shovel ceased, and he turned to me, his eyes betraying a hardened sorrow, “I don’t know.”
The shovel scraped against the soil once again as he returned desparately to his labour.
“Why do you dig in this rolling wasteland?” I asked him, my voice rasping through the calm like a rusted dagger.
He glanced up, his shovel never ceasing its motion.
“I search,” he grunted. He stopped, only for a moment, to wipe the sweat from his ancient dirt-streaked face. He returned to his work, his seemingly aimless hole widening. The silence, only broken his exertions, returned.
I observed his digging, hoping to divine his purpose. He would dig intently in one place and then suddenly abandon the area and begin to dig somewhere else. His hole was a snake-like maze of trenches of varying depths.
Bemused, I broke the quiet again, “What do you search for?”
“I search,” he repeated, the words coming out as a curse.
“Did you lose something?” I queried.
His knotted arms continued their interminable motion, as soil flew into a section of the hole he had previously dug so intently in. “Yes,” he spat, “I know it’s here.”
“You lost it here?” I ask, “what is it that you lost?”
One hand continued to grip the spade and redistribute the dirt, as the other hand gestured with gangly nonchalance toward a distant hill. “Over there, outside the city wall.”
I gazed at the far off green hill, “why do you search here if you lost it over there?”
He laughed grimly, “it no longer suits my purpose, I need another.”
“And you know the other one is here? What does it look like?”
His shovel ceased, and he turned to me, his eyes betraying a hardened sorrow, “I don’t know.”
The shovel scraped against the soil once again as he returned desparately to his labour.
Friday, January 07, 2011
Monday, January 03, 2011
New Years Resolutions 2011:
~ Read more. This will in entail going to the library more. Sidenote: Terryberry Library has got to be the coolest name for a library ever.
~ Blog regularly.
~ Keep in contact with the family more.
~ Keep a tidier home. This will involve folding laundry.
~ Watch the King's Speech and True Grit. This will be a tough one to keep, but I'll do my best.
~ Discover new music.
~ Maybe I'll run? I don't know. There is no resolve behind this resolution.
~ Eat more vegetables, except for cucumbers. Sidenote: Pickles are fine.
~ Eat less pizza. Sidenote: vegetarian pizzas are only half a pizza.
~ Become proficient enough at FIFA to defeat my two brother-in-laws with ease. Or at least win against them fifty per cent of the time.
~ Smile more.
~ Stop balding.
~ Go to church.
~ Write something here so that I have an even number of resolutions.
~ Read more. This will in entail going to the library more. Sidenote: Terryberry Library has got to be the coolest name for a library ever.
~ Blog regularly.
~ Keep in contact with the family more.
~ Keep a tidier home. This will involve folding laundry.
~ Watch the King's Speech and True Grit. This will be a tough one to keep, but I'll do my best.
~ Discover new music.
~ Maybe I'll run? I don't know. There is no resolve behind this resolution.
~ Eat more vegetables, except for cucumbers. Sidenote: Pickles are fine.
~ Eat less pizza. Sidenote: vegetarian pizzas are only half a pizza.
~ Become proficient enough at FIFA to defeat my two brother-in-laws with ease. Or at least win against them fifty per cent of the time.
~ Smile more.
~ Stop balding.
~ Go to church.
~ Write something here so that I have an even number of resolutions.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
At one of the central bus stations in Ottawa I had a strange yet profound experience. As strangers bustled past me, I became acutely aware of the fleeting nature of life and the imperminance of the scene around me. I've had this feeling before, but this time it was incredibly strong. Every person walking past me seemed to belong to a moment that would soon be lost. I stood, gazing over the edge of the exceedingly vast chasm of all the preceding time before this moment, and the moment was overwhelmed and swallowed - insignificant yet so precious.
I felt as if I were an observer from the future - as if I knew that all the people around me would soon be gone. I was fascinated by the faces moving past, I could almost see them in the sepia tones of a crinkled nineteenth century photograph. It was as though everyone was just a fleck of foam on a wave in the ocean, just here for a moment and gone in an instant. All of the hurrying seemed meaningless, all of the people seemed beautiful. The feeling was indescribable . . . but I thought I'd try anyways.
I felt as if I were an observer from the future - as if I knew that all the people around me would soon be gone. I was fascinated by the faces moving past, I could almost see them in the sepia tones of a crinkled nineteenth century photograph. It was as though everyone was just a fleck of foam on a wave in the ocean, just here for a moment and gone in an instant. All of the hurrying seemed meaningless, all of the people seemed beautiful. The feeling was indescribable . . . but I thought I'd try anyways.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Horrid Little Article Called "The horrid little game called soccer"
David Warren is an entertaining Ottawa Citizen columnist. Sadly, this entertainment doesn't come from well-constructed columns, but from an incredible ability to be consistently wrong while maintaining a flare for absurd arguments. Warren recently decided to grace the world with his opinion on the game of soccer, entitling a recent column "The horrid little game called soccer." Now, the article was somewhat tongue in cheek (I hope), but it nevertheless contains Mr. Warren’s actual opinion of the great game.
The column opens with Warren readily admitting that he knows nothing about soccer. Does this slow him down in the least? Absolutely not. He opines that journalists should not be slowed down by ignorance. He fails to mention, however, that a journalist of any quality who was admittedly ignorant on a topic would engage in some research, perhaps talk to some experts. Does Warren do any such thing? Absolutely not. Instead, he readily admits hating soccer despite his admitted ignorance. Here is a list of his reasons:
1) At the age of seven poor little Mr. Warren was tackled in a game of soccer. He was humiliated because people were watching and goes on to say, misplaced comma and all: "Like any red-blooded Canadian, I cannot remember having played, since, except under compulsion."
2) In what sounds as if it had been a high school gym class, Mr. Warren scored three points. He found scoring to be a simple task of aiming at a "ridiculously large" net.
3) Subsequent to scoring his third goal Mr. Warren was mobbed by his teammates. Once again, he was injured and claims to have limped for weeks afterwards.
4) Soccer is not a sport for free men (?) and growing enthusiasm for it in the United States is "symptomatic of Eurosclerotic socialism." He further argues that "soon Canada may find herself alone in defending the values of western civilization."
5) Poor Mr. Warren was subject to soccer on the television whenever he tried to get a beer at a bar in Canadian cities.
6) Mr. Warren is dismayed at the traffic delays that were caused by celebrating fans.
7) Mr. Warren was further dismayed by "the triumphalist displays of 'multicultural' chauvinism" in said traffic delays.
8) Mr. Warren has a Swedish acquaintance who was of the opinion that ice hockey is superior to soccer because a scoreless draw in ice hockey is more exciting than a scoreless draw in soccer. A scoreless draw in soccer is boring and "quite possibly fixed."
9) A German octopus correctly predicted the results of eight World Cup matches, so why should anyone watch?
10) The final match was ugly and would have ended in shoot-outs if the referee had not given a red card and ensured Spanish victory. We should just watch the referees, argues Warren.
I’ll deal with each of Mr. Warren’s contentions one by one.
1) Perhaps more detail is needed as to why, at the age of seven, it would be so humiliating to get tackled. Is Mr. Warren so sensitive that having the ball taken from him was so completely embarrassing that he would not willingly attempt the sport again? More importantly, however, is the strange contention that any red-blooded Canadian would cease playing soccer after being tackled. Perhaps Mr. Warren was arguing that red-blooded Canadians don’t play soccer? If so, he should know this is false, we happen to have many people who play soccer (even after being tackled) and we have our own national team. And yes, they all have blood that happens to be red.
2) The argument here seems to be that soccer is very easy to score in. So easy, in fact, that a less than athletic looking windbag can score without trouble. With all due respect to Mr. Warren’s hat trick from his high school days, scoring against a team with a respectable defence and goalkeeper is quite difficult. Hence, soccer often has low-scoring matches.
3) This isn’t really an argument against soccer, I guess. It’s more of an argument against over-enthusiastic celebrations and the delicate men who can’t handle them.
4) If soccer is not a sport of free men, what is it a sport of? Is it the sport of the oppressed men? Are free women allowed to play soccer? Can oppressed people play the sports of free men? What about oppressed women? What are the sports of free men? What’s happening here? What possible linkage is there between socialism and soccer, never mind the “Euroclerotic” variety of socialism? Like it or not, Mr. Warren, soccer is the most popular sport in the world, not just Europe. Canada is part of this world and soccer is just as popular here as in the United States, if not more. Forget defending the values of Western civilization, which, incidentally, soccer is a byproduct of, and start thinking about a global world where everyone can appreciate a beautiful game.
5) True, that’s a very legitimate complaint. It’s so uncomfortable when I’m trying to enjoy a beer and a sport I don’t understand is playing on the television.
6) I think it’s more dismaying in Ottawa when everyone is trying to get to and from the Scotia Bank place way out in Kanata. Any traffic delays caused by flag-waving fanatics speeding up and down the road pale in comparison to that.
7) So members of Canada’s cultural mosaic celebrating the victory of the nation of their cultural background is the equivalent of ‘multicultural’ chauvinism. Does this mean that when, say, Leafs fans celebrate a win this an example of ‘municipal’ chauvinism? Are Leafs fans somehow disrespecting the fans of other Canadian teams by their fervent celebrations? I’m sorry that the fact that many Canadians have origins in other lands offends Mr. Warren so greatly, I think this diversity is one of the things that makes this country great.
8) Shoot, I don’t have any Swedish acquaintances to counter Mr. Warren’s. I think, if I had one, he or she would say that soccer and ice hockey are completely different sports and should be appreciated for their own qualities. He would also say that a scoreless draw is not necessarily boring and, at World Cup level, definitely not fixed. The joy of watching soccer is not just the scoring, it’s the passing, the movement, the back and forth, the close goals, and the amazing skill these players have with a simple ball.
9) As far as sports go, octopuses should only be brutally thrown onto rinks by Red Wings fans. I nominate Paul for this duty.
10) The match was ugly. The Dutch certainly were asking for a red card, not that particular red card, but a red card nonetheless. The card didn’t guarantee Spanish victory as teams sometimes come back with a goal after losing a player. The refereeing of the final left something to be desired, and the game would have been (a little) better if the referee had been better. Although that particular game was far from the best example of the beauty of soccer, soccer remains a beautiful sport.
David Warren is an entertaining Ottawa Citizen columnist. Sadly, this entertainment doesn't come from well-constructed columns, but from an incredible ability to be consistently wrong while maintaining a flare for absurd arguments. Warren recently decided to grace the world with his opinion on the game of soccer, entitling a recent column "The horrid little game called soccer." Now, the article was somewhat tongue in cheek (I hope), but it nevertheless contains Mr. Warren’s actual opinion of the great game.
The column opens with Warren readily admitting that he knows nothing about soccer. Does this slow him down in the least? Absolutely not. He opines that journalists should not be slowed down by ignorance. He fails to mention, however, that a journalist of any quality who was admittedly ignorant on a topic would engage in some research, perhaps talk to some experts. Does Warren do any such thing? Absolutely not. Instead, he readily admits hating soccer despite his admitted ignorance. Here is a list of his reasons:
1) At the age of seven poor little Mr. Warren was tackled in a game of soccer. He was humiliated because people were watching and goes on to say, misplaced comma and all: "Like any red-blooded Canadian, I cannot remember having played, since, except under compulsion."
2) In what sounds as if it had been a high school gym class, Mr. Warren scored three points. He found scoring to be a simple task of aiming at a "ridiculously large" net.
3) Subsequent to scoring his third goal Mr. Warren was mobbed by his teammates. Once again, he was injured and claims to have limped for weeks afterwards.
4) Soccer is not a sport for free men (?) and growing enthusiasm for it in the United States is "symptomatic of Eurosclerotic socialism." He further argues that "soon Canada may find herself alone in defending the values of western civilization."
5) Poor Mr. Warren was subject to soccer on the television whenever he tried to get a beer at a bar in Canadian cities.
6) Mr. Warren is dismayed at the traffic delays that were caused by celebrating fans.
7) Mr. Warren was further dismayed by "the triumphalist displays of 'multicultural' chauvinism" in said traffic delays.
8) Mr. Warren has a Swedish acquaintance who was of the opinion that ice hockey is superior to soccer because a scoreless draw in ice hockey is more exciting than a scoreless draw in soccer. A scoreless draw in soccer is boring and "quite possibly fixed."
9) A German octopus correctly predicted the results of eight World Cup matches, so why should anyone watch?
10) The final match was ugly and would have ended in shoot-outs if the referee had not given a red card and ensured Spanish victory. We should just watch the referees, argues Warren.
I’ll deal with each of Mr. Warren’s contentions one by one.
1) Perhaps more detail is needed as to why, at the age of seven, it would be so humiliating to get tackled. Is Mr. Warren so sensitive that having the ball taken from him was so completely embarrassing that he would not willingly attempt the sport again? More importantly, however, is the strange contention that any red-blooded Canadian would cease playing soccer after being tackled. Perhaps Mr. Warren was arguing that red-blooded Canadians don’t play soccer? If so, he should know this is false, we happen to have many people who play soccer (even after being tackled) and we have our own national team. And yes, they all have blood that happens to be red.
2) The argument here seems to be that soccer is very easy to score in. So easy, in fact, that a less than athletic looking windbag can score without trouble. With all due respect to Mr. Warren’s hat trick from his high school days, scoring against a team with a respectable defence and goalkeeper is quite difficult. Hence, soccer often has low-scoring matches.
3) This isn’t really an argument against soccer, I guess. It’s more of an argument against over-enthusiastic celebrations and the delicate men who can’t handle them.
4) If soccer is not a sport of free men, what is it a sport of? Is it the sport of the oppressed men? Are free women allowed to play soccer? Can oppressed people play the sports of free men? What about oppressed women? What are the sports of free men? What’s happening here? What possible linkage is there between socialism and soccer, never mind the “Euroclerotic” variety of socialism? Like it or not, Mr. Warren, soccer is the most popular sport in the world, not just Europe. Canada is part of this world and soccer is just as popular here as in the United States, if not more. Forget defending the values of Western civilization, which, incidentally, soccer is a byproduct of, and start thinking about a global world where everyone can appreciate a beautiful game.
5) True, that’s a very legitimate complaint. It’s so uncomfortable when I’m trying to enjoy a beer and a sport I don’t understand is playing on the television.
6) I think it’s more dismaying in Ottawa when everyone is trying to get to and from the Scotia Bank place way out in Kanata. Any traffic delays caused by flag-waving fanatics speeding up and down the road pale in comparison to that.
7) So members of Canada’s cultural mosaic celebrating the victory of the nation of their cultural background is the equivalent of ‘multicultural’ chauvinism. Does this mean that when, say, Leafs fans celebrate a win this an example of ‘municipal’ chauvinism? Are Leafs fans somehow disrespecting the fans of other Canadian teams by their fervent celebrations? I’m sorry that the fact that many Canadians have origins in other lands offends Mr. Warren so greatly, I think this diversity is one of the things that makes this country great.
8) Shoot, I don’t have any Swedish acquaintances to counter Mr. Warren’s. I think, if I had one, he or she would say that soccer and ice hockey are completely different sports and should be appreciated for their own qualities. He would also say that a scoreless draw is not necessarily boring and, at World Cup level, definitely not fixed. The joy of watching soccer is not just the scoring, it’s the passing, the movement, the back and forth, the close goals, and the amazing skill these players have with a simple ball.
9) As far as sports go, octopuses should only be brutally thrown onto rinks by Red Wings fans. I nominate Paul for this duty.
10) The match was ugly. The Dutch certainly were asking for a red card, not that particular red card, but a red card nonetheless. The card didn’t guarantee Spanish victory as teams sometimes come back with a goal after losing a player. The refereeing of the final left something to be desired, and the game would have been (a little) better if the referee had been better. Although that particular game was far from the best example of the beauty of soccer, soccer remains a beautiful sport.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Things I Don’t Understand . . .
- People crying when celebrities die.
- Those weird sandals that are half boot and half sandal.
- The dream I had last night where I had a huge goiter on my face.
- Why people bother yelling from their balconies for drunk people to shut up. These drunks think they’re talking at a conversational level until you tell them to shut up. Basically you’re actively encouraging a louder volume of the yelling that they didn’t realize they were even doing.
- Fergie fans. The fact that they exist.
- Vampires that twinkle and the girls who love them.
- Vuvuzela enthusiasts.
- Crotchety bloggers that complain about everything, even when their team makes it into the final.
- Advanced physics.
- How expensive pop corn is at the movies.
- Paying to advertise a clothing company on your chest.
- How in some places pop is called coke so that if you say that you want coke they ask you what kind of coke. Sprite is coke, make sense?
- Why cookie monster had to stop eating cookies. How can he even be called cookie monster anymore?
- People crying when celebrities die.
- Those weird sandals that are half boot and half sandal.
- The dream I had last night where I had a huge goiter on my face.
- Why people bother yelling from their balconies for drunk people to shut up. These drunks think they’re talking at a conversational level until you tell them to shut up. Basically you’re actively encouraging a louder volume of the yelling that they didn’t realize they were even doing.
- Fergie fans. The fact that they exist.
- Vampires that twinkle and the girls who love them.
- Vuvuzela enthusiasts.
- Crotchety bloggers that complain about everything, even when their team makes it into the final.
- Advanced physics.
- How expensive pop corn is at the movies.
- Paying to advertise a clothing company on your chest.
- How in some places pop is called coke so that if you say that you want coke they ask you what kind of coke. Sprite is coke, make sense?
- Why cookie monster had to stop eating cookies. How can he even be called cookie monster anymore?
Monday, July 12, 2010
Facing It
Yusuf Komunyakaa
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
Yusuf Komunyakaa
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
World Cup Final Reflections
I was disappointed in the way the Netherlands played the final yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, there were flashes of brilliance by the talented Oranje. Nevertheless the free-flowing Total Football was showcased not by the Dutch, but by the Kruyff-influenced Spanish side. The Dutch seemed intent on fouling their way to a World Cup victory, with the Spaniards content to take advantage of this aggressive intensity to rival Robben and the great Ronaldo for theatrical diving.
I think the Netherlands had the capacity to play a smoother more beautiful game of soccer, but they cared more about winning by any means necessary than by wowing the world with their undeniable talent. This game will never be sold to new fans if the final is just a contest between mixed martial arts and community theatre. For me, the Dutch side that was eliminated in shoot-outs against Brazil in ’98 played a better brand of football. The Dutch side that shocked the world with their one-sided victories against France and Italy during last Eurocup is what I wanted to see this year. In South Africa, I never saw a full game of the beautiful free-flowing soccer that I have come to love and expect from this team. A team with such a rich legacy should have showed the world that they were made of better stuff than this.
Don’t get me wrong, this team was talented, they played with heart, and they had more than enough inspiring plays. This was a united team who had a remarkable run of fourteen victories, and who made it to the final despite all of the nay-sayers. With all respect to Van Marwijk’s grand accomplishment, I say that they should bring in Kruyff or Hiddink.
Yes, Hiddink, I forgive you for coaching Russia to victory over the Dutch in ’08.
But how can I argue with Van Marwijk’s success? Success, for me, would be a return to the beautiful game with continuing contention for years to come. Maybe it's just me though.
Hup, Holland, hup!
I was disappointed in the way the Netherlands played the final yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, there were flashes of brilliance by the talented Oranje. Nevertheless the free-flowing Total Football was showcased not by the Dutch, but by the Kruyff-influenced Spanish side. The Dutch seemed intent on fouling their way to a World Cup victory, with the Spaniards content to take advantage of this aggressive intensity to rival Robben and the great Ronaldo for theatrical diving.
I think the Netherlands had the capacity to play a smoother more beautiful game of soccer, but they cared more about winning by any means necessary than by wowing the world with their undeniable talent. This game will never be sold to new fans if the final is just a contest between mixed martial arts and community theatre. For me, the Dutch side that was eliminated in shoot-outs against Brazil in ’98 played a better brand of football. The Dutch side that shocked the world with their one-sided victories against France and Italy during last Eurocup is what I wanted to see this year. In South Africa, I never saw a full game of the beautiful free-flowing soccer that I have come to love and expect from this team. A team with such a rich legacy should have showed the world that they were made of better stuff than this.
Don’t get me wrong, this team was talented, they played with heart, and they had more than enough inspiring plays. This was a united team who had a remarkable run of fourteen victories, and who made it to the final despite all of the nay-sayers. With all respect to Van Marwijk’s grand accomplishment, I say that they should bring in Kruyff or Hiddink.
Yes, Hiddink, I forgive you for coaching Russia to victory over the Dutch in ’08.
But how can I argue with Van Marwijk’s success? Success, for me, would be a return to the beautiful game with continuing contention for years to come. Maybe it's just me though.
Hup, Holland, hup!
Monday, July 05, 2010
Sunday, July 04, 2010
The Earthquake
Here at Boerishbwoy, we place a high importance on keeping you informed on the latest trends and news items. In the words of your local news channel we "break the news as it happens" and "give you the latest news from around the world." For this reason, we would like to report on the recent earthquake that rocked Canada's capital.
Yes, we know what you're thinking: 'Uuuh, didn't that happen on June 23rd? Isn't it July 4th today?" True, but what does Independence Day have to do with our "up to the minute news reporting"?
Moving on.
Where was John when the earthquake that shook Ottawa occurred? He was at work at his desk. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from the ceiling. John looked upwards, wondering if a group of people had perhaps started to stamp in unison on the floor above him. Then every loose item in the room started to rattle, the floor itself began to move, colleagues screamed. John wasn't actually sure if the loose items hadn't been rattling before the ceiling shook or the floor began moving, he just noticed everything in a very particular order. John pondered the possibility of ducking underneath his desk. He had vague memories of grainy videos of students huddling under their desks due to the threat of nuclear attacks - or was it tornadoes? He couldn't remember. He decided against cowering under his desk, but by the time he had made this momentous decision everything had stopped shaking. Workmates streamed toward the doors. John was instructed to do the same, but he was also quite sure that he should finish his e-mail. He sat for a few moments considering the importance of the e-mail versus the advice of his workmates. He decided that he would go out into the sun with his fellow workers.
People were running, some seemed far more unnerved than others. The range of emotions among those assembled outside were from jovial to distraught to non-chalant. John, because of his extreme talents, managed to display all three simultaneously. He waited outside for a few minutes before returning to work. He was allowed to leave early, though, which was cool.
Don't worry, he was also able to finish that e-mail he had been working on before that sudden seismic interruption.
The earthquake, apparently, was a 5.0 on the Richter scale and the epicentre was about thirty kilometres north of Ottawa. No one was hurt, although a few buildings crumbled a bit and a bridge collapsed.
Here at Boerishbwoy, we place a high importance on keeping you informed on the latest trends and news items. In the words of your local news channel we "break the news as it happens" and "give you the latest news from around the world." For this reason, we would like to report on the recent earthquake that rocked Canada's capital.
Yes, we know what you're thinking: 'Uuuh, didn't that happen on June 23rd? Isn't it July 4th today?" True, but what does Independence Day have to do with our "up to the minute news reporting"?
Moving on.
Where was John when the earthquake that shook Ottawa occurred? He was at work at his desk. Suddenly there was a rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from the ceiling. John looked upwards, wondering if a group of people had perhaps started to stamp in unison on the floor above him. Then every loose item in the room started to rattle, the floor itself began to move, colleagues screamed. John wasn't actually sure if the loose items hadn't been rattling before the ceiling shook or the floor began moving, he just noticed everything in a very particular order. John pondered the possibility of ducking underneath his desk. He had vague memories of grainy videos of students huddling under their desks due to the threat of nuclear attacks - or was it tornadoes? He couldn't remember. He decided against cowering under his desk, but by the time he had made this momentous decision everything had stopped shaking. Workmates streamed toward the doors. John was instructed to do the same, but he was also quite sure that he should finish his e-mail. He sat for a few moments considering the importance of the e-mail versus the advice of his workmates. He decided that he would go out into the sun with his fellow workers.
People were running, some seemed far more unnerved than others. The range of emotions among those assembled outside were from jovial to distraught to non-chalant. John, because of his extreme talents, managed to display all three simultaneously. He waited outside for a few minutes before returning to work. He was allowed to leave early, though, which was cool.
Don't worry, he was also able to finish that e-mail he had been working on before that sudden seismic interruption.
The earthquake, apparently, was a 5.0 on the Richter scale and the epicentre was about thirty kilometres north of Ottawa. No one was hurt, although a few buildings crumbled a bit and a bridge collapsed.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
North American History: The 1st Three Intercontinental Wars
French and Iroquois Wars (encompassing King William’s War/ 1st Intercolonial War) (1642-1698)
The French and Iroquois Wars, or Beaver Wars, were a succession of bloody clashes fought by the Iroquois against the French and their Algonquin allies. The Iroquois relied on the beaver trade in order to obtain European goods and firearms from the Dutch. These firearms, in turn, had caused them to become so efficient at hunting beavers that they needed to expand their territory in order to find new hunting grounds. The Iroquois looked down on the other tribes who had edged in on their trade and they sought to displace the tribes who were growing rich through trade with the French. Initially, the Iroquois merely attacked those they saw as trade rivals, but eventually their brutal efficiency at waging war against the French allies led them into direct confrontation with the French. Armed by the Dutch and the English, Iroquois tribes drove rival tribes northwards and westwards, made raids on French homesteads and settlements, and blockaded Montréal. Finally, in the 1660s, France sent a small group of regular troops to New France to defend their settlers. These, combined with the Dutch loss of the New Netherlands to the English, helped lead to the pacification of the Iroquois. After a nearly twenty-year respite, the war resumed after the French began pushing aggressively into the western fur-trade, placing pressure on the Iroquois. The newly formed French militia was joined by regular troops and eventually became Canada’s first standing professional armed force. These French troops imitated the guerilla warfare of the Iroquois and became specialized in swift silent strikes against the Iroquois. They also carried out brutal raids against English settlements. The wars finally ended in 1698 when the Iroquois sued for peace with the French and signed the Great Peace of Montreal in 1701. The Iroquois now saw the English as a greater threat and saw themselves as holding the balance of power between the French and the English.
Queen Anne’s War/ 2nd Intercolonial War (1702 – 1713)
Corresponding with the War of Spanish Succession (1701 – 1714), Queen Anne’s War was fought in North America by the British against the Spanish and the French. Responding to the Spanish attack on Charleston, English colonists attacked and burned the Spanish-held city of St. Augustine, Florida. Later, in 1704, the Apalachee of Florida were massacred by the English, sold into slavery, and relocated. A second attack in 1706 by the French and Spanish on Charleston was also repulsed by the English. In 1703, in response to the destruction of the village of Beaubassin in 1696, Leneuf de Beaubassin, a French naval captain, led a few French troops and Abenaki Indians into Massachusetts. The deadly guerilla warriors laid waste to over 72 square kilometers (44 square miles) of colonial farmland and killed or captured nearly 200 colonists. In February of 1704, Hertel de Rouville accompanied by a force of Abenaki, Caughnawaga, and French-Canadian soldiers raided Deerfield, Massachusetts and killed over 50 settlers, capturing approximately 120. New England colonists responded in July of the same year by capturing the Acadian settlements of Minas and Beaubassin. Two attempts by English colonists to capture the Acadian fort of Port Royal failed in 1704 and 1707. Finally, Port Royal and all of Acadia were captured by British and colonial forces in 1710. A large British fleet floundered in their 1711 attempt to capture the French cities of Montréal and Québec. Finally, the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 brought a close to the war. The French were forced to recognize British control over the Iroquois and lost most of Acadia, Newfoundland and their trading posts in the Hudson Bay region to the British. The French retained their territory surrounding Montréal and Québec and the island of Cape Breton.
Dummer’s War/ 3rd Intercolonial War (1721 – 1725)
Dummer’s War was less of a war and more of series of clashes between the French and the English over competing land claims. Samuel de Champlain had explored the Kennebec River in Maine already in 1604 and the French considered it to be part of Acadia. Angered by the English settling along the Kennebec, the French supplied arms and ammunition and used their Jesuit missionary, Father Sébastien Rasle, to goad the Abenaki into launching raids on the encroaching English settlers. Finally, in July of 1721, a force of Abenaki delivered a letter addressed to Governor Samual Shute in which they demanded that the English settlers leave Abenaki land. The English responded in January of 1722 by launching a raid on the main Abenaki settlement of Norridgewock. The tribe was out hunting while their village was ransacked. The Abenaki, encouraged by their Jesuit father, responded by launching raids on English settlements on the Kennebec River. Governor Shute declared war on the Abenaki and offered £100 for every Indian scalp. In August of 1724, English troops snuck up on Norridgewock and launched a surprise attack, killing and scalping 26 Abenaki warriors. 14 Abenaki were wounded and the rest fled across the river. Refusing to capitulate, Father Rasle fought until he was shot through the head. The remaining Abenaki buried their dead and relocated to Québec. In December 1724, John Lovewell, a retired soldier, led a militia in response to an Abenaki raid. He and his men only managed to gain one Abenaki scalp. Another expedition launched in January of 1725, led to the killing and scalping of ten Abenaki in what is now Wakefield, New Hampshire. Lovewell, with a force of 46 men, launched his final raid in April. After killing and scalping a lone warrior, Lovewell’s force was ambushed by the Abenaki, resulting in the death of eight of Lovewell’s militia. In the resulting battle the Abenaki chief, Lovewell and twenty-six of the militia were killed.
French and Iroquois Wars (encompassing King William’s War/ 1st Intercolonial War) (1642-1698)
The French and Iroquois Wars, or Beaver Wars, were a succession of bloody clashes fought by the Iroquois against the French and their Algonquin allies. The Iroquois relied on the beaver trade in order to obtain European goods and firearms from the Dutch. These firearms, in turn, had caused them to become so efficient at hunting beavers that they needed to expand their territory in order to find new hunting grounds. The Iroquois looked down on the other tribes who had edged in on their trade and they sought to displace the tribes who were growing rich through trade with the French. Initially, the Iroquois merely attacked those they saw as trade rivals, but eventually their brutal efficiency at waging war against the French allies led them into direct confrontation with the French. Armed by the Dutch and the English, Iroquois tribes drove rival tribes northwards and westwards, made raids on French homesteads and settlements, and blockaded Montréal. Finally, in the 1660s, France sent a small group of regular troops to New France to defend their settlers. These, combined with the Dutch loss of the New Netherlands to the English, helped lead to the pacification of the Iroquois. After a nearly twenty-year respite, the war resumed after the French began pushing aggressively into the western fur-trade, placing pressure on the Iroquois. The newly formed French militia was joined by regular troops and eventually became Canada’s first standing professional armed force. These French troops imitated the guerilla warfare of the Iroquois and became specialized in swift silent strikes against the Iroquois. They also carried out brutal raids against English settlements. The wars finally ended in 1698 when the Iroquois sued for peace with the French and signed the Great Peace of Montreal in 1701. The Iroquois now saw the English as a greater threat and saw themselves as holding the balance of power between the French and the English.
Queen Anne’s War/ 2nd Intercolonial War (1702 – 1713)
Corresponding with the War of Spanish Succession (1701 – 1714), Queen Anne’s War was fought in North America by the British against the Spanish and the French. Responding to the Spanish attack on Charleston, English colonists attacked and burned the Spanish-held city of St. Augustine, Florida. Later, in 1704, the Apalachee of Florida were massacred by the English, sold into slavery, and relocated. A second attack in 1706 by the French and Spanish on Charleston was also repulsed by the English. In 1703, in response to the destruction of the village of Beaubassin in 1696, Leneuf de Beaubassin, a French naval captain, led a few French troops and Abenaki Indians into Massachusetts. The deadly guerilla warriors laid waste to over 72 square kilometers (44 square miles) of colonial farmland and killed or captured nearly 200 colonists. In February of 1704, Hertel de Rouville accompanied by a force of Abenaki, Caughnawaga, and French-Canadian soldiers raided Deerfield, Massachusetts and killed over 50 settlers, capturing approximately 120. New England colonists responded in July of the same year by capturing the Acadian settlements of Minas and Beaubassin. Two attempts by English colonists to capture the Acadian fort of Port Royal failed in 1704 and 1707. Finally, Port Royal and all of Acadia were captured by British and colonial forces in 1710. A large British fleet floundered in their 1711 attempt to capture the French cities of Montréal and Québec. Finally, the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 brought a close to the war. The French were forced to recognize British control over the Iroquois and lost most of Acadia, Newfoundland and their trading posts in the Hudson Bay region to the British. The French retained their territory surrounding Montréal and Québec and the island of Cape Breton.
Dummer’s War/ 3rd Intercolonial War (1721 – 1725)
Dummer’s War was less of a war and more of series of clashes between the French and the English over competing land claims. Samuel de Champlain had explored the Kennebec River in Maine already in 1604 and the French considered it to be part of Acadia. Angered by the English settling along the Kennebec, the French supplied arms and ammunition and used their Jesuit missionary, Father Sébastien Rasle, to goad the Abenaki into launching raids on the encroaching English settlers. Finally, in July of 1721, a force of Abenaki delivered a letter addressed to Governor Samual Shute in which they demanded that the English settlers leave Abenaki land. The English responded in January of 1722 by launching a raid on the main Abenaki settlement of Norridgewock. The tribe was out hunting while their village was ransacked. The Abenaki, encouraged by their Jesuit father, responded by launching raids on English settlements on the Kennebec River. Governor Shute declared war on the Abenaki and offered £100 for every Indian scalp. In August of 1724, English troops snuck up on Norridgewock and launched a surprise attack, killing and scalping 26 Abenaki warriors. 14 Abenaki were wounded and the rest fled across the river. Refusing to capitulate, Father Rasle fought until he was shot through the head. The remaining Abenaki buried their dead and relocated to Québec. In December 1724, John Lovewell, a retired soldier, led a militia in response to an Abenaki raid. He and his men only managed to gain one Abenaki scalp. Another expedition launched in January of 1725, led to the killing and scalping of ten Abenaki in what is now Wakefield, New Hampshire. Lovewell, with a force of 46 men, launched his final raid in April. After killing and scalping a lone warrior, Lovewell’s force was ambushed by the Abenaki, resulting in the death of eight of Lovewell’s militia. In the resulting battle the Abenaki chief, Lovewell and twenty-six of the militia were killed.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Dear Fellow Tenant,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sure it does, you seem cheerful.
We don’t know each other. In fact, we’ve probably never spoken and it’s possible we’ve never even seen one other. If you’re wondering who I might be, I’m the tall ruggedly handsome gentleman with the dignified receding hairline and the rapier wit. You’ve possibly never experienced my rapier wit because I tend to hold back on it when travelling in the elevator with strangers. I’m not certain who you are, although I know you’re a male, you’re exuberantly cheerful, and you were on your balcony this morning.
This leads to the reason I am writing this letter. At 5:04 this morning when you decided to visit your balcony, I was sleeping. Then, when you greeted the entire city of Ottawa with jubilant abandon by loudly proclaiming “Good morning Ottawa,” I was awake.
I would like you to know that I had no desire to wish you a good morning in return. In fact, at this point, I was hoping something bad would happen to you. I was honestly wishing that you would stub your toe on your way back into you apartment, that your favourite team would lose their next important game, and that you would one day fall in a mud puddle on the way to the most important meeting of your life. I’ve reconsidered since then, and I only wish that you stubbed your toe.
I would just like to ask that, in the future, you address Ottawa with your cheerful greeting only after 8:00 am on weekdays and pretty much never on weekends.
Thank you,
Your fellow tenant.
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sure it does, you seem cheerful.
We don’t know each other. In fact, we’ve probably never spoken and it’s possible we’ve never even seen one other. If you’re wondering who I might be, I’m the tall ruggedly handsome gentleman with the dignified receding hairline and the rapier wit. You’ve possibly never experienced my rapier wit because I tend to hold back on it when travelling in the elevator with strangers. I’m not certain who you are, although I know you’re a male, you’re exuberantly cheerful, and you were on your balcony this morning.
This leads to the reason I am writing this letter. At 5:04 this morning when you decided to visit your balcony, I was sleeping. Then, when you greeted the entire city of Ottawa with jubilant abandon by loudly proclaiming “Good morning Ottawa,” I was awake.
I would like you to know that I had no desire to wish you a good morning in return. In fact, at this point, I was hoping something bad would happen to you. I was honestly wishing that you would stub your toe on your way back into you apartment, that your favourite team would lose their next important game, and that you would one day fall in a mud puddle on the way to the most important meeting of your life. I’ve reconsidered since then, and I only wish that you stubbed your toe.
I would just like to ask that, in the future, you address Ottawa with your cheerful greeting only after 8:00 am on weekdays and pretty much never on weekends.
Thank you,
Your fellow tenant.
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