Update:

- The relatively new album from the Roots, Game Theory, is a great one. If you love the Roots it's definitely a solid purchase.

- I usually start an update by saying that I haven't done this for a while. I've decided not to do that this time.

- I cut my hair on Sunday.

- Gasp, Niet op Zondag!

- "I mean that a defeat in Iraq will embolden the enemy, and will provide the enemy more opportunity, to train, plan to attack us, that's what I mean. One of the hardest parts of my job is to connect Iraq to the war on terror." - George H.W. Bush

- I wish I had unvarnished access to the truth. That would come in handy during a debate.

- - How much respect should you give a political pundit who appears on a tawdry reality show? Tucker Carlson is the man who once called Canada "America's retarded cousin", and who was schooled by Jon Stewart on the now-cancelled Crossfire show on CNN. Now he showed the world that he is sorely lacking in the rhythm/balance/agility department on "Dancing with the Stars." I would post a link but it really isn't worth anyone's time.

- People need to stop comparing everything happening today to the events of World War II. Until a powerful militaristic totalitarian state appears which is bent on expansion and brutally murders all in its path, the overwhelming majority of these comparisons fall flat. And, quite frankly, they belittle the sacrifices of millions of veterans and the deaths of countless innocents.

- I saw Stephen Harper and Jack Layton up close on Friday.

- I also saw Mohammed Karzai's motorcade.

- One of my students compared my new look, with the haircut, to Jason Statham. I'm not kidding. I must admit, I lack the brawn or pure thuggery of Jason Statham but I have heart . . . and a receding hairline.








Here are a few other famous faces I've been compared to:




















Dustin Diamond














Sideshow Bob



















and Nicholas Cage. Note the receding hairline.

- I got to witness a boat going up the locks on the Rideau Canal on Friday as well. Lieutenant-Colonel John By you're the man.

- Lieutenant is pronounced as "Leftenant." We're in Canada, after all.

- Bill Frist recently claimed that he couldn't reveal what the United States considers torture because then the enemy could train for it . . . wha?

- "There's so much trouble in the world." - R.N. Marley.

- I want to thank everyone for their concern for my sister Linda. Please keep her in your prayers and pray for her restoration, recovery, and healing. We all miss the laughing, smiling, genuinely joyful presence of our dear sister and friend. Here is a newspaper article relating to the cult. Peter Rigo is a false teacher whose blatant sociopathic manipulation of his followers stands against all that the church stands for. Don't let your anger turn to hatred, but let the bitter taste of injustice churn your stomach and bring you to your knees as you approach the Father for justice.

Some Ramblings About Apologies

Not too long ago, Stephen Harper issued an apology on behalf of the Canadian government for the Chinese head tax. The Chinese Immigration Act of 1885 put a head tax of $50 on all Chinese immigrants attempting to come to our beloved country. This head tax increased to $100 in 1900 and $500 in 1903. Basically, the Chinese were paying the equivalent of the average worker's annual salary just for one of them to come into this country. In 1923, the Immigration Act was replaced with the Chinese Exclusion Act, which, as its title suggests, excluded Chinese Immigration altogether.

Some Canadians felt that this apology was setting a bad precedent. They felt that apologizing to the Chinese would force an apology for every single group that was ever wronged by the Canadian government. At least one Canadian asked if this meant that he would get an apology from the Romans for the treatment of their ancestors. How long until the descendents of that shaggy-haired berzerker of the Black Forest get their compensation for a gladius to the solar plexus?

This topic interests me deeply. How long does it take before an entity is no longer responsible for its historical actions? Do the victims of an injustice need to be alive in order for compensation to be doled out? Can we judge a previous civilization or generation according to our present-day values?

When some historians learned that deserters who had been shot during the First World War were being pardoned, they protested. The officers who carried out the punishments were merely following military law, they claimed. By pardoning the deserters we are condemning the officers who carried out their sentences. We have no business retrospectively moralizing history, do we? While it's true that we must place events in their historical context, we also should not fall into a trap where history is viewed from a foundation which is, basically, an amoral soup. Did the Aztecs carry out human sacrifice? Sure, but that was their religion. Did the CIA assassinate Lumumba? Almost certainly, but it was the Cold War.

This does not mean that we shouldn't be understanding of historical moral differences -- far from it. We would be horrible historians if we didn't contextualize. We should, however, recognize that there are moral absolutes that transcend time. Murder is always wrong, whether you're a 7th century Norseman or a 21st century guerrilla. Injustice and immorality are not new; they've been here as long as sin. Of course, reading history would get very tedious if the historian kept interjecting every so often to express moral indignation. In the same way, history would get rather romanticized if the historian kept interjecting every so often to excuse certain behaviour. Often it is enough to portray a historical event or character in its context and allow the reader to draw their own conclusions. Humans have an innate sense of justice and morality.

It is true that we need to be sensitive to the context of an event. We can condemn American support for brutal rebels and dictators in Africa and Latin America, but we would be remiss if we didn't place this in the wider context of the Cold War. The Cold War doesn't justify a coup d'etat, but it would be wildly unresponsible not to mention it.

Is it possible to read history without some kind of moral foundation? Perhaps, but if someone can read about the Holocaust and find the cold hard rationality in it, excuse the perpetrators of this heinous act, and deny the cancerous existence of evil then they ought to be examined. Any good historian, however amateur, would have a difficult time denying the human capacity for truly evil acts.

I read one editorial which complained that if Canada apologized for the Chinese head tax, then some poor schmuck down the road will have to apologize for something the present government is doing. People, the writer argued, are just reacting to the forces of their time and we shouldn't condemn them. Besides the distasteful implication that this was not a racist policy, this also implies that only contemporaries can offer moral judgements, or worse, that there can be no moral judgements. What kind of justice is there if its standards change after every age? I can only hope that unjust actions of today are scrutinized and apologized for in the future and I hope that past actions continue to be judged and apologized for.

This leads to the question of how an entity can be held responsible for something which occurred 50, 100, 200 years ago when the individuals making up that entity are entirely different. If someone truly believed that an entity bore no responsibility for its past actions then they would be fundamentally opposed to returning stolen art, for example.

A common retort to demands by black Americans for reparations for slavery is "My ancestors may have had slaves, but I never had a slave, why should I pay?" Historical injustices perpetrated hundreds of years ago can often still be felt today. While I may never have had a slave, my ancestors certainly benefitted directly or indirectly from the slave trade. Thus, if I can take pride in the Dutch resistance to the Spanish, I should also be ashamed of the Dutch role in the international slave trade. Surely if I can glory in Vimy Ridge, I can also feel shame for the Chinese head tax. I am not personally responsible, but I am connected to these things.

Of course, when money enters the equation, the whole thing becomes that much more complex. After all, how do you measure suffering in monetary terms? Personally, I would hesitate before suing an organization on behalf of my ancestors. Although I would still feel the sting today, I would not feel comfortable profiting from their suffering. Sure, it is compensation and not a bribe and, yes, every apology is empty without true remorse, but I would still feel uncomfortable. As always, there are a lot of questions which remain unclear and unanswered in my mind.

The Four

I walk through glowing green fields
the grass is damp and the earth yields,
soft and uncertain like a newborn deer
tottering, bounding, now leaping with glee
bold and lively, prancing without fear
Ah, what a pleasure this is to see!
I walk under the baking sun
my breaths are deep, and my sweat runs
the earth is firm like a ripe plum
sweet and juicy and tart on my tongue
thunder rolls and grumbles like a drum
See how the August skies have sung!
I walk through forests dark and deep
the wind whips my face and makes me weep
the breeze swirls all the rusty leaves
which snap and crumble beneath my feet
like all the things you once believed
Aye, see how the wind scatters those empty sheets!
I trudge the icy rocks and snow
the sun is faint like the dying glow
of a fire fading as it grows old
and the embers fade to blackened coal
as my bones crack in this icy cold
Lord, its clammy claws spear my soul!



and then I awake in those glowing fields
and feel that soft earth as it yields
. . . I use this memory as my shield.

Another Day at the Government Office

He arrived at the wicket, clutching the small paper showing that he was, indeed, C73.

The man in front of him had a face that somehow reminded him of a styrofoam plate. The face was round, pale and had such forgettable features that they seemd to have faded into his marshmellow skin. Two cold eyes, unremarkable in their greyness, probed him with apathetic nonchalance. The small mouth, bordered by two thin lips, parted and a dry voice intoned, "Can I help you?"

"Yes," he said, presenting the small scrap of C73, "I'm here to register."

The two beady eyes blinked twice in the moment of silence that followed, "May I see your documentation, please?"

"Yes, certainly," he answered, rummaging through his pockets.

The monotone listed the necessary items with uninspired precision, "Your license, your health card, your birth certificate, a copy of a bill, your social insurance number, and your grade four science notebook."

He laughed, "I have all of those things except the notebook, of course."

The man sighed in bored exasperation, "All the applicants need their grade four science notebook or at least, in lieu of said notebook, a photocopy of the cover."

"Are you serious?" he smiled.

"Do I appear to be joking?" the man's inflexible mouth asked.

"Well, no, but you can't expect me to have my grade four science textbook," his smile was rapidly vanishing.

"Notebook," the man corrected.

"You can't expect me to have my grade four science notebook."

"Government regulation S-33, paragraph four, line two clearly states that, and I quote: 'all applicants are to present a copy of their grade four science notebook or a photocopy of the cover of said notebook."

"You're serious," he gaped.

"Indeed," the man said.

"My grade four notebook?" he asked incredulously.

"That is correct," the man's eyes had a remarkable ability to do absolutely nothing but stare with blank impersonality.

"I don't have my grade four science notebook. I don't even remember taking science in grade four," he stated.

"I am sorry sir, this is not my problem," the man droned in what seemed a routine statement.

"I don't have my grade four notebook," he said with a pained expression, "it's probably underneath four hundred tonnes of waste and has likely decayed beyond all recognition."

The man waved his hand in mild annoyance, "I suppose you could show us your library card."

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"You could show us your library card," the man repeated robotically.

"Why didn't you say that earlier?" he scratched his head as he was wont to do when he was irritated.

"You didn't ask," the man said as he methodically gathered all of the cards and papers from the counter in front of him.

"How was I supposed to know that I had to ask?" he queried as he handed the man his library card.

"I am sorry sir, this is not my problem," the man answered.

"Right."

The man typed furiously for several minutes, checking the various cards in front of him from time to time. "I am sorry sir, it appears you have a two-dollar late charge on your library card," the man uttered with impassive flatness.

"Okay."

"Would you like to pay that now, so I can continue your application process?" the man prompted.

"This is not a library."

"I do realize that, sir, this is not my problem," the man said with mild detachment.

He muttered under his breath as he searched his wallet, "Here's five dollars."

"We do not carry change," the man said as he lazily pointed to a sign bearing the message "WE DO NOT CARRY CHANGE."

"Then keep the change," he said in vexation.

"I am sorry sir, that is against public policy. We do not accept bribes," the man said in a voice that betrayed something that approached conviction.

"I was not offering a bribe," he growled.

"It certainly appeared that you were," the man replied.

"I was trying to keep things moving," he said.

"In other words, sir, you were greasing the wheels or, to put it bluntly, bribing a public official," the man shook his head in unemotional condemnation.

He dug in his pockets and counted out two dollars in change in assorted quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies, "here."

The man counted the money, "this is $1.98."

He fished out two more pennies from his back pocket, "here."

The man placed the coins with metallic clank in a drawer in front of him.

"It sure sounds like you don't have change," he said sarcastically.

"You're right, sir," the man's grey eyes stared ahead blankly.

"Of course."

The man's fingers slid nimbly across the keyboard. He frowned, his expression approaching something resembling concern. There was a long pause, the two beady eyes blinked in consternation and the man appeared genuinely agitated.

"I am sorry, sir, it seems you have been reclassified as a potato," the man finally uttered.

"Pardon?"

"You have been reclassified as a potato."

"Right. A potato. Can you please just register me?"

"Sir, it is against the policy to register any kind of tubers as voters in this country."

"Well, of course," he said, "but as you can see, I am not a potato, and you can, therefore, register me."

"Sir, you according to my computer, you are a potato," the agitation had disappeared.

"Your computer is wrong," he said, as he scratched his head in consternation.

"Don't be absurd," the man's lips formed something which resembled amusement.

"Absurd? Absurd is reclassifying a human being as a potato!" he snarled.

"I am sorry, sir, potatoes do not have the franchise in this country," the man declared.

"Yes, and with good reason," he replied, "but I am obviously not a potato."

"As long as you are classified as a potato I cannot allow you to register."

"Potatoes are a vegetable and vegetables are incapable of thought or action. In fact, when people lack the ability to move or speak they are called vegetables," he stated in rising anger, "I am obviously capable of movement and speech and therefore I cannot be classified as any kind of edible plant."

"Sir, this is not my concern."

"Why do you suppose that potatoes have not been granted the franchise?"

"I am not required to answer that question."

"Humour me."

"Sir, I am a public servant. I am not required to serve as your personal entertainment," the man stated coldly.

"Why can't potatoes vote?" he asked.

"Potatoes cannot vote because, among other things, they are incapable of higher thought processes," the man replied.

"What else are they incapable of?"

"Sir, there are a plethora of things that potatoes are incapable of doing," the man answered, "if I were to list all the things that potatoes cannot do we would be here all day."

"Can potatoes, for instance, wait in line for an hour and then hold a ludicrous conversation, such as this one, with a seemingly mechanized bureaucrat, such as yourself?" he asked.

"Sir, there is no need to call me names," the man said tepidly.

"I apologize, I do, but I really need to know if you think that potatoes are capable of conversation," he said as calmly as he could.

"Potatoes are incapable of higher thought processes and, thus, a conversation is impossible for a potato."

"Precisely."

"Well, sir, I am glad we could help you, now would you please allow the next applicant through?" the man waved his hand lethargically in the direction he should go.

"How do you feel about holding a conversation with an individual who, as a potato, is incapable of conversation?"

"Sir, you're being facetious."

"There! That's another thing potatoes are incapable of," he said triumphantly, "Have you ever given up on your potato salad because it was being too facetious?"

"I do not particularly like potato salad, sir."

"Neither do I, although I suppose for me to consume potato salad would amount to cannibalism."
"Sir, please do not make this difficult or I will be forced to call security."

"Do you suppose I should fight for potato suffrage, or do you think that I would have better luck re-classifying myself as a human being?"

"Sir, please."

"I mean, how many potatoes get library fines?"

"Sir, I am not a librarian."

"You would make a good one, I'm sure."

"Thank you."

"Could you please recognize my humanity and re-classify me as a human being?"

"I am sorry sir, it is not my place to categorize you."

"And I suppose I should just telephone Carl Linnaeus up and have myself classified correctly, shouldn't I?"

"He's dead," the man intoned, "that would be impossible."

"Maybe I should appeal to government to stop taxing potatoes without giving us representation."

"That might be a good place to start."

He sighed, looked into the empty souless eyes in front of him, and lost all hope of ever being anything but a starchy vegetable.

I got this from Jake Belder: You type in your name + needs and give the top twenty results. I eliminated the repeats, of course.

1) John needs to get his patootie back here.
2) John needs help.
3) John needs your bone marrow.
4) John needs a way to assign an item's UUID to an attribute.
5) John needs to see.
6) See number 10.
7) John needs, John wants, John gets.
8) John needs . . .
9) John needs to borrow a car on February 25.
10) John needs to embrace family values.
11) John needs a Yoko.
12) John needs a coffee.
13) John needs rest after throat surgery.
14) John needs a better camphone.
15) John needs to make his DW site more noticeable.
16) John needs a smoke.
17) John needs a shave.
18) John needs to be allowed to change the focus of his hope.
19) John needs you.
20) John needs an umbrella.

Tagged by Graham Ware.

1. One book that changed your life: A lot of books have changed my life. Of course, the Bible has effected the most change, but almost every book I read changes my perspective and widens my horizon just a little bit.
2. One book that you’ve read more than once: The Power of One, Bryce Courtenay
3. One book you’d want on a desert island: The Faith of George W. Bush, Stephen Mansfield (I need some paper to clean myself and I would like some kindling).
4. One book that made you laugh: The Far Side Gallery 1, Gary Larson.
5. One book that made you cry: Shake Hands with the Devil, Romeo Dallaire.
6. One book that you wish had been written: 1,001 Answers to All of those Pesky Philosophical, Ethical, and Scientific Questions that bother John den Boer, El Shaddai.
7. One book that you wish had never been written: The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, Author Unknown.
8. One book you’re currently reading: The Polished Hoe, Austin Clarke.
9. One book you’ve been meaning to read: The One About the Electric Neon Typewriter or something like that, I think, Whathisname.
10. Now tag five people: Marcellin Mutoni, my sisters, the Barnhoorns/Snoeks, Aaron Gysbers, Daryl de Boer.

Update:


First, an explanation. Laurianne and I recently moved from our apartment above the paint store to a luxurious pad further north-east. This, at least partially, explains why I have not updated for such a long time. Our new apartment is quite nice and all our friends are invited to come (almost) anytime. For those interested our new address is: 9 Rue Galipeau Apt. 1, Gatineau QC, J8Y 4C2.
Without television or access to the internet I have been doing quite a bit of reading. I read Nurrudin Farrah's Links, Andrea Levy's Fruit of the Lemon and Never Far from Nowhere, Edward P. Jones' The Known World, M.G. Vassanji's The In-Between World of Vikram Lall, and I have begun The Polished Hoe by Austin Clarke.
Nurrudin Farrah's Links is an excellent book and I admire his poetic and deft skill with words. He has an incredible gift with language and story-telling. Links tells the story of Jeebleh, a Somali-American, who returns to his roots after twenty years to make peace with his mother's memory and his old friends. Mogadishu comes alive with startling clarity and complexity. I would recommend this books based on Farrah's gift with words alone.
Andrea Levy is a British author of Jamaican descent who writes about the Jamaican experience in England. Both books were quite good, but I would recommend Small Island before either of these two books. This is not to say they aren't good because they're quite good; they just don't seem as carefully crafted as Small Island.
Edward P. Jones' The Known World is an intricate tapestry of intersecting plotlines and rich characterization. The book is set in antebellum United States. The reader is thrust into a disconcerting situation where a slave plantation is owned by a rich black man. This sort of situation was very rare in the United States but it did happen and Jones' consistently unsettled my moral assumptions by creating sympathy for characters whom we are, archetypically, supposed to despise. The book is rich with connections between places, times, and characters.
M.G. Vassanji's The In-between World of Vikram Lall is also an excellent book. As the title suggests, the main character is one Vikram Lall, one of the most corrupt men in Kenya. Vassanji tells the story of Lall from his youth, the brutal Mau Mau attack that had such an impact on his life, to the present. Vassanji ably shows us the tightrope in between coloniser and colonised that the descendents of the Indians who worked on Kenya's railways balanced upon. Historical characters like Jomo Kenyatta come alive and the confusing and blinding ideology of ethnic nationalism is deftly portrayed.
I have also watched some good movies. The best one was probably Everything is Illuminated. Many people would hesitate before watching this movie because of the presence of Elijah Wood. I, too, hesitated, but this story of a Jew who visits Ukraine to trace his roots is a powerful, humourous and dramatic masterpiece. Well, maybe not a masterpiece but a really really good movie.
You may have read this and wondered why I have the pictures of Heineken when I didn't even mention Heineken anywhere in this entry. Well, I have now, so the pictures do belong. Gotta go, see ya later.

The Lebanese Evacuation

Some Canadians are absolutely incensed with the idea of rescuing thousands of "sometimes Canadians." These complaining Canadians, of course, take the most extreme examples of dual Lebanese/Canadian citizens who have not been in Canada for over twenty years and then proceed to whine about multiculturalism and the waste of tax dollars on rescuing these Canadians of convenience. They never mention the vacationers, six-month residents, or the strong Lebanese community here in Canada. No, for these fiscally-conscious Canadians the lives and well-being of these people is not as important as balancing the budget. As I was involuntarily listening an inane talk radio show yesterday several people pointed out that these Lebanese-Canadians should not choose to live in a violent area and then expect to get rescued.
Suddenly, according to these budget-balancers, the onus is on the victims to read the political climate of the place they are living and correctly predict a sudden outbreak of violence. Would these same people be so harsh on the Jews living in Poland in 1939? After all, some people were aware that Hitler had plans to expand his influence. The Jews should have understood this and immediately dropped all of their belongings and livelihoods and moved elsewhere.
Would these Canadians be so harsh on snow-birds if a war were to break out in Florida? I doubt it. After all, snow-birds are usually white, elderly, and fairly wealthy. Lebanese-Canadians, on the other hand, are viewed as Arabs who took advantage of Canadian generosity by buying a sure-fire insurance plan to be rescued in the event of war.
First of all, Lebanese-Canadians are a diverse mix of Muslims and Christians who can be divided further into a number of religions and ethnicities from Greek Catholic to Kurdish to Arabic-speaking Greek Orthodox to Druze. Far from the imagination of many complaining Canadians, the Lebanese are not camel-riding extremists in the middle of a desert. Lebanon is, or rather was, a beautiful, mountainous country and ideal vacation spot with breath-taking beaches on the Mediterranean Sea. Secondly, few Lebanese could have predicted that Hezbollah's ill-advised aggression would have resulted in Israel bombing Lebanese suburbs and infrastructure along with supposed Hezbollah military targets. Many Lebanese feel they are being caught between two war-mongering extremists and they want out. Those who do support Hezbollah do so out of a sense of injustice. While this is no excuse, it is natural to want to lash out and strike back. Of course, that is no way to create peace.
Many Canadians were also upset over a perceived lack of gratefulness on the part of the rescued Lebanese-Canadians. Personally I believe that Canada is doing an admirable job amidst a staggering number of logistical and organizational nightmares. Unlike many European countries and certain ubiquitous world powers, Canada does not have a presence on the Mediterranean Sea. This makes it difficult for Canada to find ships willing to risk errant shells in order to pick up refugees.
I understand that many of the Lebanese-Canadians are under quite a bit of stress. It is exceedingly difficult to maintain a calm demeanor when bombs are falling without any apparent pattern all around you. Imagine, if you will, that you have just gone through several days of bombings; perhaps a bomb even landed close to you. Now, imagine that you finally find out what the government has planned for evacuation after several days of disorganized announcements, an extremely busy phone-line, and a useless internet connection. Imagine that a country that was, perhaps, on the verge of an economic breakthrough has been bombed back twenty years. Imagine that you have an extended family who is constantly at risk and cannot come with you to Canada. Imagine that you finally get on a ship after risking your life to come to port two days in a row and imagine that this cargo-ship is uncomfortable and floats in the water anywhere from sixteen to twenty-four hours. Now, imagine that you finally get on a plane once you reach Cyprus or Turkey. When you finally get home imagine that a camera and a microphone are shoved in your face and the following statement is implied, "You must be relieved and grateful to finally be back in Canada."
My first reaction would not be to wax eloquent about how great Canada is. No, my instinct would be to point out that people are dying in my country and that I am far from relieved. Then, with anger building inside of me I would launch into a tirade about all of the incompetent things that happened on my journey. Then, maybe when I went to a hotel, my home, or the home of relatives, maybe after some sleep I would start to be relieved that I was alive. Still, I wouldn't start dancing in the streets. After all, my country is still on fire.
On this same radio show, the host pointed out the bias against Israel. He claimed that few people attacked Russia over its heavy-handed atrocities against Chechnya, but as soon as Israel defended itself, everyone was ready to point out Israel's crimes. This logic sort of reminds me of a gradeschool boy who excuses himself for punching another student in the face by arguing that another student had done the same thing earlier. The host agreed with our prime minister that "Israel has the right to defend itself." I agree that every nation has the right to defend itself. Of course, defence implies a certain amount of restraint. If someone were to punch me, I would be justified in punching him back. Now, if I not only punched back but also pulled out a knife and slashed the individual forty times I would be overreacting. I am not astute enough to divine the reasons why these attacks are occurring, but I am clever enough to know that it isn't because of two kidnapped soldiers and some violent rocket attacks. Whatever the reasons, I pray that there may be peace.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . hamburgers.

Michael Franti and Spearhead in Concert


I discovered Michael Franti's music approximately three years ago when I downloaded a collaborative Marley cover he did with the husky-voiced Stephen Marley. One year later, I found the album this song belonged to and promptly bought it. The album, Chocolate Supa Highway is an eclectic mix of funk, reggae, soul and hip hop. I immediately appreciated Franti's deep soulful voice and simple but effective lyricism. I bought Stay Human and Everyone Deserves Music shortly afterwards and thoroughly enjoyed both albums; although the former remains my favourite. Later, I bought Songs from the Front Porch, an acoustic album, which is also enjoyable.
On a warm Sunday night at the Ottawa Bluesfest I had the opportunity to watch Michael Franti perform alongside his band, Spearhead. I waited patiently alongside my beautiful wife and our friend for Annie DiFranco to finish her set, and then waited further for the crew to set up for Michael Franti. Finally, the band appeared: bassist Carl Young (not to be confused with Karl Jung), uber-guitarist Dave Shul (I just wanted to use "uber" somewhere in this review), drummer Manas Itiene (formerly of Nigerian reggae group "the Mandators), and some guy on keyboards.
The band began playing a throbbing reggae riff and Franti appeared on stage juggling a soccer ball. Franti, who must be at least 6"3, was surprisingly agile for a musician. Franti immediately asked if there were any French fans in the crowd and immediately cried, "Viva Italia!" Apparently, Franti had taken in a game down on Preston and was enthused by the Italy's rather lacklustre performance. Yeah, I said it --- France deserved that game and Italy was lucky to make it to the second round, nevermind the final.
Ah well, it matters little now. Franti launched into his first songs and the crowd loved every minute of it. From reggae to funk to rock to hip hop, Franti played it all. As marijuana smoke wafted through the air (yes, marijuana smoke invariably "wafts" in the same way that Dutchman are "dour" and area witnesses testify "that nothing like this ever happens in this neighbourhood") the energetic concert continued. The crowd of approximately 16,000 heard the new cuts from Franti's upcoming album "Yell Fire" which, if the live performance is any indication, is going to be a superb effort. The dreadlocked Franti danced about the stage and, like any good frontman, gave his band every opportunity to show their talents. Dave Shul is, in my amateur estimation, a stunning guitarist with masterful skill. Manas Itiene was fire on the drums and even added some decent raggamuffin vocals to the mix. I once heard a radio host dismiss bass players as unnecessary, which is probably among the dumbest things I ever heard on the radio; but if that obtuse radio host had witnessed Carl Young playing that bass, he would have immediately retired from broadcasting.
Franti's politics lie somewhere to the left of John Lennon singing Kumbaya, but one can't dismiss the passion, love, and pure uplifting power of his music. From environmentalism and world justice to peace and legalization, Franti sings what is on his heart. The world needs idealists like Franti to counter the often sociopathic excesses of so-called realists. Michael Franti and Spearhead are definitely worth seeing live and I would whole-heartedly recommend attending one of his concerts if you ever get the chance.

Thank you Laurianne, for such a great birthday gift.

Dear Boerishbwoy
Dear Boerishbwoy is a non-syndicated advice column appearing randomly every-so-often on the Boerishbwoy blogsite.

Dear Boerishbwoy,
I am an eleventh-century English peasant labouring under the benevolent protection of my feudal lord. I enjoy back-breaking labour, bone-gnawing hunger, and subsistence wages as much as the next man, but sometimes I wonder if there is something more. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that my lord will allow me to run behind his castle walls in the event of some violent action by a power-hungry neighbour seeking to further his property-line. I also understand that it is only fair for me to pay a healthy chunk of my wages back in taxes, and I know that it is only just for me to pay handsome fees to use the mill and the oven. Sometimes, however, I get this feeling of repression. My wife tells me I should just count my blessings, but after those five seconds are over I still feel the same way. What should I do? - A tad repressed in Northumberland.

Dear Repressed,
So you're hungry and you're being paid slave wages. So what? At least your pate hasn't been cleaved in two by Viking raiders. Quit whining and just do your work. I have also taken the liberty of reporting you to your feudal lord. Once he gets a monk to read my letter and your lord finds aout about your apparent literacy, you'll learn what real subjugation is.

Dr, Boerishbwoy,
I dont think that u reely need to half grammer in school, lol. I mean!!! Y should we suffer, lol!!! lol!!!! I h8 doing all that werk!!! I can tipe @ 90wmp & so I hardly need something ass arkaic as grammer!!!! I alredy no big words like osterize and recapitulate and ass I half alredy shewn, I can string together a sentients, lol!!!!! Plz right back sewn xoxoxoxo lol lol lol lol!!!! - cRaSeE~Grl165

Dear cRaSeE,
You have clearly shown the power MSN Messenger has to teach proper sentence structure. You're absolutely right, you shouldn't, under any circumstances, not learn your grammar.

Dear Boerishbwoy,
I'm a member of a Mongol horde and I'm just writing to complain about the bad rep we receive in all of the modern history books. Okay, it's not that we didn't do all the atrocities we're accused of, it's just that we're represented as somehow more barbaric than say, the Greeks or Romans. Somehow, when the Greeks slaughter one third of a city it's a glorious victory, but when a Mongol does the same thing and even thinks of piling his victims' heads in an aesthetically pleasing pile, it's an atrocity. Plus, we never hang our criminals on crosses for hours and hours like the Romans. Just because we're short and a little coarse does not mean we're barbaric. - Angry Fourteenth Century Mongol.

Dear Angry,
The Greek Acropolis is much more aesthetically pleasing than your pile of decapitated heads. Also, you may not hang your criminals on crosses, but there is a certain degree of savagery in cutting a man's hamstrings and leaving him to die on the open steppe. Try not to herd a milling mass of civilians in front of yourself on your next attack and maybe historians will reconsider labelling your victories as atrocities.

Dear Boerishbwoy,
I frequent a messageboard where I display my vast superiority over other posters by scoffing at whatever they say. Then, when they refute everything I say with cold hard facts, I feign that I am bored with what they're saying by pretending to fall asleep. Pretty smart, huh? - Narcoleptic in Cyberspace.

Dear Narcoleptic,
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

John's Top Ten Non-Favourite Musical Phenomenons

1) G-Unit. This entire mumbling group of overrated and seriously-misguided bathroom stall-level lyricists represent, in my mind, all of the decadence and grade-school braggadacio that makes hip hop one of the most misunderstood genres of music. With the exception of Mobb Deep (why, oh why?) the entire gangsta-fied posse is the lyrical equivalent of Chad Kroeger farting. On a side note, if 50 Cent was a real gangsta he would have capped the guy who shot him.

2) The Black Eyed Peas. Okay, a slightly credible band added a singer to their group and rocketed to success. You would think, however, that they could have added a singer who did not need the aid of voice modulation technology to make her screeching sound half-way decent. You would also think that it was impossible for musicians to have less lyrical skill than Shaquille O'Neal freestyling. Well, it is possible, and the Black Eyed Pease have done it and done it with the worst, most vacuously stupid, single ever released in the history of music "My Humps."

3) Good Charlotte. Some people complained that Blink 182 preppified punk music, but Good Charlotte has done something much much worse. They have fused Blink 182 with a unique brand of suck that has left a vacuum so strong that the universe is in danger of collapsing on itself. Wearing tattoos does not make you edgy any more than riding an elevator makes you a risk-taker; especially if these tattoos as poorly-conceived as Benji's and whathisname's. Eyeshadow was controversial when David Bowie wore it, now it's just a desperate cry of a confused individual whose voice sounds like, well, mine. And I don't sing, because I really sound bad.

4) Masari. There simply must be better people to fill the obligatory Canadian Content requirements on our airwaves. His singing is the mucus-soaked phlegmatic nerve-grating auditory sensation that should be expected from someone who sings from his throat and through his nose. His name means "money" in Arabic, which is a pretty good summary of exactly why this music was made. It has absolutely no artistic merit and is merely a sadly successful attempt to part young fools from their "masari."

5) Daddy Yankee. I like reggae and I like a lot of latin music so why do I hate it so much when they're fused into reggaeton? Is it because half of the beats are snippets of recycled dancehall reggae beats from the nineties, because it is misogynist and derogatory, because the beats are exceptionally mundane, or because every single song sounds exactly the same? Certainly, and additionally, I cannot support a style of music that claims to be original but is basically just a parasitic tapeworm feeding off of the half-digested entrails of all of dancehall reggae's worst ideas.

6) Ashlee Simpson. If you can be caught lip-syncing on Saturday Night Live, survive an almost world record booing at the Orange Bowl after a performance reminiscent of the early stages of American Idol, and still be popular you must have preteen girls as your fanbase. If your fanbase is almost entirely preteen girls then it is reasonable to assume that you have an artistic credibility equivalent to the number of WMDs in Iraq.

7) Diddy, or P.Diddy, or Puff Daddy. Sean "Puffy" Combs announced a while back that he no longer wanted to be referred to as P. Diddy but just as plain ol' Diddy. "The P was getting in the way of me and my fans," he claimed. Never mind that this should have been a quotation from R. Kelly, but Diddy's remixing and relentless sampling and covering is the only thing that he should be claiming as getting in the way of him and his fans, that and his enormous capacity to suck. Oh, and his shameless exploitation of Notorious B.I.G.'s legacy is, well, shameless.

8) Red Rat. If you have never heard Red Rat sing, you have been blessed. Imagine Mickey Mouse's cousin singing in Jamaican patois and saying "oh noooo" a lot. Now imagine that Mickey Mouse's cousin has a slight potty-mouth, horrible lyrics, and a cartoonishly high-pitched voice. Now take what you imagined and discard it entirely because it is much much worse than you can possibly imagine.

9) Gwen Stefani. My resentment towards her music started while she was with No Doubt and tried to pay Bounty Killer a ridiculously low amount for his contribution to her song "Hey Baby." First of all, the only redeeming part of that song was Bounty Killer's verse, and, secondly, even that was weak. This can be forgotten, mostly because Bounty Killer is a badman and he got his money. Then, however, Gwen went solo and ripped off Fiddler on the Roof with her horrendous "If I Was a Rich Girl." Not only is this song teeth-grindingly annoying, but millionaires really shouldn't be allowed to express such sentiments. After ransacking broadway and reggae, Gwen set her sights on Japan. She claimed that she had been inspired by the fashion of the Harajuku girls and she released an album based on this shallow concept. Then she literally dressed up some Japanese and Japanese-American girls and paid them to vogue in the background at interviews and to dance all over her music videos. OK. Then she gave them names and forbade them to speak to the press. You name dogs, you name your guitar, you name your automobile - this is what shows your ownership of them. People already have names, and you only name people if you're their parents. Is Gwen the mother of these Harajuka girls? I don't think so. She may be old enough, but there are certain differences in their phenotype which make it highly unlikely.

10) Chris Brown. Usher. Eminem. Britney Spears. Backstreet Boys. tATu. Mario. N*sync. Madonna. New Kids on the Block. Chinggy. Shawn Desman. The Pussycat Dolls. Kelis. Lil' Jon. Shaggy. The Yin Yang Twins. et cetera et cetera ad nauseum.

On Multiculturalism and Self-Identity

My friend Jake Belder recently posted on nationalism and his problems with Canadian multiculturalism. I agree with him on many points. There is a danger of becoming lost if a nation becomes so tolerant that its own culture is diluted into a thin, unpalatable soup. Its hard to stand up for anything when you don't stand anywhere at all.

I disagree with him in a few other areas, however. He claims that he gets a little upset with people who live here in Canada and who hold onto the Dutch culture. Furthermore, he argues that Dutch-Canadians are holding onto a culture frozen in time and that if we truly want to reflect the motherland we should, "condone euthanasia, sell vast amounts of hard drugs, and hold an incredibly vicious prejudice against all people of Middle Eastern descent." By painting a stereotypical picture of Dutch-Canadian culture and contrasting it with a stereotypical picture of modern Dutch culture, Jake has successfully shown very little. Imagining my dear Oma selling heroin on a street corner in Port Perry was a little surreal, and I am sure she would be surprised to learn that she, like many other staunch Dutch Reformed women, is living in a mirage. The Netherlands is not the Red Light District of Amsterdam any more than Canada is a poverty-stricken reservation. Of course, I am certain that Jake had his tongue firmly in his cheek, but I am, without question, opposed to his view that me and my ilk are "preserving an illusionary culture."
I would argue that Dutch people have done quite a good job of integrating into Canadian society. At the same time, I believe that people of Dutch descent in Canada have managed to hold onto pieces of their culture that make them unique and set them apart on the beautiful tapestry of Canadian life. Some of these cultural quirks and traditions might seem a little trite, but I, for one, will never call a boiling plate of stamppot "ineptly named." Delicious is probably a better description. My Dutch heritage does not define me, but it certainly enriches my life.
I was reminded of Canada's strengths when I witnessed responses of many Americans to the display of the Mexican flag by members of the Mexican-American community. They were outraged, as if flying the Mexican flag next to the American flag was tantamount to treason. I have always loved seeing international flags being displayed in Canada and I am glad that most Canadians understand that this is normal and even inspiring. The World Cup, I believe, brings out the best in Canada. Strangers laugh along with celebrating fans in the streets and neighbours become friends as they enjoy the rich international game and share their cultures.
I have read many of Jake's complaints about the lack of a real Canadian culture, but one cannot expect a country so young to have as deep a culture as, say, Egypt or China. Nevertheless, I believe the depth of Canadian artists, writers, athletes, dancers, statesmen, musicians, and intellectuals is a testament to a remarkable developing culture. I do not think it is very helpful to search for some kind of mono-cultural norm for what it means to be Canadian. We will never be a nation of touque-wearing, beer-guzzling, maple syrup sucking, snowmobile-riding, hockey-watching donut fanatics, and thank God for that! The richest cultures are the ones that are fed by a multitude of influences. Cultural dilution is only a danger when decadence and apathy get in the way of justice and equality. When a nation turns inwards it is like a dog feasting on its own stifling regurgitation. It is better to find sustenance from the cuisine of the world.
Some of the most enthusiastic Canadians I have met would put Don Cherry to shame. They love Canada's freedom, safety, community, and tolerance --- and they go to the mosque on Friday. Don't be surprised in the next ten years as names like Muhammed, Kim, and Amuneke start gracing the backs of Canadian hockey sweaters.
I am married to a Burundian-Canadian. My children will be Canadian with Burundian and Dutch genes. I am not going to tell my children that they must cheer for the Dutch soccer team and eat peppermints in order to be considered my children, but I am certainly going to share that part of their ancestry with them. I don't expect them to be defined by this part of their culture but it certainly will enrich their lives.

1. Take the nearest book and look up page 18, line 4. What does it say?
"...encore, vagabondaient d'une mine á l'autre, mais avaient jugé profi-. . .,"
2. Reach out your arm as far as you can. What do you touch?
The end of my nose.
3. What is the latest thing you watched on TV?
A snippet of Frasier
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
6:20. Actual time? 6:31..
5. Apart from the computer, what else do you hear?
My computer sounds like a dump truck idling, but I can hear traffic, a few French-Canadians chattering outside, and Bob Dylan singing "The Times They are a Changin'."
6. When were you last outside, and what did you do?
Walked from the car to the apartment.
7. What did you look at before you started answering these questions.
I scanned the BBC news website.
8. What are you wearing?
Black pants and a dark blue short-sleeved dress shirt with vertical stripes. I like vertical stripes because they have nice a slimming effect.
9. Did you dream last night, if you did, then what was the dream about?
I did, in fact, dream last night. I had one where I was at work watching the world cup. I don't remember anything else about it.
10. When was the last time you laughed?
Refer to number 3.
11. What is on the wall in the room you sit in right now?
A Jamaican flag overlapped by a rasta flag in turn overlapped by Bob Marley's gigantic head.
12. Have you seen anything strange lately?
I have this fingernail problem that's pretty strange looking.
13. What do you think of this challenge?
It's alright.
14. What movie have you watched most recently?
I finally watched Run Lola Run. It was quite good, but very short.
15. If you became a multi-millionaire, what would you buy?
A house. Maybe some ducks.
16. Tell something about yourself that others don't know.
I see the Parliament buildings at least twice a day.
17. If you could change ONE thing in the world, without consideration to politics and feelings of guilt, what would it be?
I would change politics and the feelings of guilt associated with them.
18. Do you like dancing?
Dancing is a beautiful art form. I suffer from a genetic predisposition to dance badly.
19. George Bush?
I don't know him personally, but he is among the worst presidents in the history of the United States.
20-21.What would you name your children, boy and girl respectively?
Johnson and Blueberry.
22. Could you consider living abroad?
I could and I do.
23. What would you like God to say to you when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
I'm sure I'll be happy as long as he doesn't yell at me.
24. Four people you would like to answer these questions?
Piet, Todd, Aaron, and Marcellin.

The Envelope

They never told him why he had been selected. The crisp manila envelope arrived with rest of his mail. On it cover, the envelope bore his address and, printed neatly in the corner, a small government insignia. He had noticed it as he rifled through his mail and he immediately knew what it was. There was the usual mail: a telephone bill, a pizza flyer, a bank statement, and then there was the obtrusive envelope. He thrust the other mail aside; it wasn't important now. He let the envelope sit on the table while he hunched over it, hands folded, contemplating this momentous article of mail. There it sat, in all its brownish-gold glory, waiting for his shaking hands to brandish the letter opener and release the contents. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Why was he nervous? After all, hadn't he known what was written in that fateful package the moment he saw it? He finally decided that he was nervous because he had no idea why he had been selected. He was a gainfully employed, middle-aged, passive, healthy, law-abiding citizen. He had never broken the law, never disturbed the peace, and never ever done anything remotely controversial. In fact, he rarely spoke at all and, when he did, he chose his words with a mundane precision that ensured that he had few conversations and even fewer friends. He was a careful man and he had done all he could to ensure that his life would leave the world as undisturbed as possible. For every decision he made, he had cautiously made certain that no ripple would be felt by anyone. He muttered anxiously under his breath, and suddenly wondered if this habit were the cause of his fate. No, that didn't seem possible. But why? Why had he been chosen? It was not random. They used a method, a system, to choose recipients. He picked the envelope up in tremulous hands: it was surprisingly light for such a heavy notice. He clutched the letter opener, carefully, but unsteadily, guiding across the top of the envelope. Then, as if it were ancient parchment, he gingerly plucked the sheet from the envelope. Finally, he read the words he had already knew were written there: "YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR OUR POPULATION CONTAINMENT PROGRAM. PLEASE REPORT TO THE PREFECT." He sighed, glanced half-heartedly at the phone, wishing he had someone to call to answer his question: why had he been chosen?

The Enemy

They attack us because of our freedom. They want to kill us because of our way of life. The reason, my friends, that they hate us is our tolerance. They are all to be suspected. They are evil and want to destroy everything that is good. They are driven by nothing less than the desire to be anti-democratic. They are nailing babies to church doors. They are slaughtering puppies in the streets. They have committed crimes against humanity. They play Rolling Stones records backwards because they enjoy Satanic lyrics. We need to fear them all. They steal carrots from Mr. McGregor's garden. They don't assimilate. I knew one, and he didn't shower regularly. They occasionally spurn the use of utensils when they eat. They kill civilians. They spill gravy on the floor and refuse to clean it up. They commit atrocities. They don't finish their brussel sprouts. They're racist. They don't stand during the national anthem. They're different. They smack their lips excessively when they enjoy their food. They are all the same. I saw one shoplifting once. They need to be rounded up. They want our deaths. Some of them don't sing in tune. Demographically speaking, they are increasing at a greater rate than us. They are known jaywalkers. They leave hair in the sink. They won't become us. They are cockroaches. We need to watch them carefully. They litter. They go to church on the incorrect day. They can't be understood. They are homegrown, organic, and pesticide-free. They sometimes forget to say thank you. They have a strong dislike for things that look nice. They vote and pay their taxes, but they're sending secret messages to the enemy. They can lip-read. They purposely swerve to hit small rodents crossing the street. See how they band together when we confront them? They forget to put the cap on the toothpaste. They watch violent movies. They drink expired milk. They have library fines. All of them hate us. They put their cd's in the wrong cases. They leave peanut butter on the counter. They expectorate in public. They don't wear their seatbelts. They remove the batteries from their smoke alarm. They are known to make mistakes. There are dandelions on their lawns. The best way to control their radicalism is to follow the old adage: "Good wedges make good neighbours."

This, according to the wise and all-knowing internet, is my worldview:

You scored as Cultural Creative. Cultural Creatives are probably the newest group to enter this realm. You are a modern thinker who tends to shy away from organized religion but still feels as if there is something greater than ourselves. You are very spiritual, even if you are not religious. Life has a meaning outside of the rational. Cultural Creative 100% Postmodernist 44% Romanticist 38% Existentialist 31% Idealist 31% Fundamentalist 19% Materialist 13% Modernist 0% What is Your World View? (updated) created with QuizFarm.com

The Overwhelmingly Important E-mail

A couple of days ago I received an e-mail in my bulk folder titled "overwhelmingly important e-mail." I feel like a knave because instead of checking the contents of this e-mail, I deleted it without a second thought. I should know better, deleting an e-mail titled "overwhelmingly important" is tantamount to crossing a crosswalk when the red hand is flashing.
Lately I have been pondering what the contents of that e-mail could have been. Perhaps Yusuf had discovered some deep philosophical truth which would absolutely astonish me. A truth so profound that it would shake the foundations of Western Civilization. In other words, Yusuf may have read "The DaVinci Code" and, sleuth that he is, figured out how this historical fiction* would shatter the foundations of Western Society as we know it.
Or did Yusuf find a new code? Perhaps Yusuf had found a code cleverly hidden in the ingredients on a Cheerios box which revealed that P. Diddy did not, in fact, write all of his own lyrics. Maybe he had found a code hidden in the menu of an Indian restaurant which revealed that Siddhartha Gautama picked his nose and bit his fingernails even after reaching his supposed enlightenment. Or, quite possibly, he had learned that Van Gogh's "The Potato Eaters" was a symbolic representation of the fact that John Calvin liked to dance, drink excessively, and lie on the couch all day while contemplating his second and third baptisms.
Or, you never know, this could be the worst blog entry ever.

*historical fiction, when referring to the Da Vinci Coce, should be read as fictional history.

Classical Beatboxing

Another Place

There is a place not far from you
where the sky is the same shade of blue
where the sun rises from its eastern place
and where the moon shows the same pale face
where the grass is a similar green
and puddles provide the same dark sheen
where people awake sometime in the morning
and where gunshots are a constant warning
where corpses line every street
and fester and stink in the heat
where mothers cry for their dead
and orphans put themselves to bed
where widows cry themselves to sleep
and the bereaved are left alone to weep
where fathers bleed the soil red
on the same ground on which their sons have bled
where children gasp for some food
and peace is just an interlude
where is this place of such pain?
This horrible land of copper rain?
It is where the sky is the same shade of blue
in a place that is not far from you.

John den Boer, 2000.

Have you ever wondered what a soccer match between Japan and the Netherlands would look like in anime? Neither have I, but the result involves a lot more shouting and slow motion than I would have thought. Look out for Edgar Davids, Seedorf (?), the gigantic Jaap Stam, and Holland's saviour against the Japanese, Edwin Van der Sar.

More Boerishbwoy FAQ's


The legion of loyal Boerishbwoy readers may remember a previous post which answered some FAQs. For the uninitiated, FAQ stands for Frequently Asked Questions, and Boerishbwoy is the greatest blog in the universe. Our mailbag has been inundated with questions about the site and the mysterious and brilliant author of this wonder of the blogosphere, John den Boer. Here, finally, are some answers:

Q - I'm so sick of love songs, so sad and slow, so why can't I turn of my radio?
You may be listening to a heavy metal station or perhaps you're just lazy. Or maybe, just maybe, you like to wallow in your own love-sick misery.

Q - Why does life suck?
Life does not, in fact, suck. If life sucked it would mean that life was a vacuum. A vacuum, as any grade seven graduate knows, is the absence of matter. Since life contains matter it is not a vacuum and, consequently, we can say that life matters.

Q - How can you possibly get away with your poor logic and terrible puns?
We at Boerishbwoy are committed to the concept of logic so far as it does not infringe on our concept of truth. We are also committed to the concept of truth so far as it does not infringe on our concept of reality. Furthermore, we are committed to the concept of reality so far as it does not infringe on our concept of our own genius. As for the puns, they are actually what the Greek philosophers would call "brilliant."

Q - How do you know that the Greek philosophers would call your puns brilliant?
We asked one.

Q - One Greek philosopher can hardly be representative of all Greek philosophers, can he?
If you want to nitpick we could say that this philosopher was more of a janitor and that his nationality was more Anglo-Irish than Greek, but what good would that do the world? Let's not be anal retentive about these sort of things.

Q - How tall is John den Boer?
Nine feet, two inches.

Q - That's not possible, I saw him and he is probably only six foot one at the most.
That's a statement, not a question and so it would seem that you do not, in fact, expect an answer. Furthermore, you don't seem sure of yourself, so maybe you should check your facts or vision or possibly a combination of both of those things.

Q - How can you claim that Boerishbwoy is the most popular blog in the universe when a simple look into its daily hits clearly reveals that it ranks somewhere below the blog of a thirteen year-old from Iowa whose favourite song is "My Humps"?
We never said that Boerishbwoy was the most popular blog in the universe.

Q- You said, and I quote, "and Boerishbwoy is the most popular blog in the universe."
N-no, uh, well, listen there are soldiers who wake up every morning in Iraq wondering if today is their last day on earth and so you should know, sir, that your question is not only disengenuous but also unpatriotic.

Q - Your answer was disengenuous, wasn't it?
You don't seem sure of yourself, do you?

Q - What colour would a smurf turn if you choked it?
White.

Q - If I write an invisible question will you write an invisible answer?
No.

Q - How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
We brought this question to the big kahuna himself, John den Boer, who stated the following: "If a woodchuck could chuck wood he would probably only be able to chuck woodchips and since woodchucks are notorious for their short attention spans a woodchuck would only be able to chuck a half a shovel-full of woodchips. Unless, of course, the woodchips were blocking the entrance to its sleeping quarters, in which case the woodchuck would either dig a new hole or chuck the approximate equivalent of a five-foot-long two by four. That is, of course, if the woodchuck we are referring to is a gopher as, in some areas, woodchuck is used to denote a woodpecker. If we are, in fact, referring to a woodpecker the amount of wood works out to a much more impressive half a yard."

Q - Stare much?
Mmmm, what?

Q - Can I be your neighbour?
No.

"All the lonely people, where do they all come from?" the old man mused from his perch on the park bench.

"Where the streets have no name," his stooped friend answered glibly from beside him.

"Lonely," he sighed, "I'm so lonely, I have nobody to call my own. I'm so lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely!"

"Well, that's alright . . . that's alright for you," the friend answered sagely.

"I'm so lonesome I could cry," the old man muttered.

"Please don't worry about a thing," his friend assured him, "'cause every little thing is gonna be alright."

"How often people change, no two remain the same, why things don't always turn out as you planned," the old man paused looking at his dry dusty shoes, "These are the things I don't understand . . ."

The friend remained silently in thought and the old man suddenly added, "Yeah, these are the things I don't understand."

The friend finally spoke up, "it's all relative. Even if we don't understand, and that's well understood," he looked at the old men earnestly, "especially when we don't understand - then it's just because. Even if we don't understand then let's all just believe."

"Been dazed and confused for so long," the old man said in bewilderment and pointing his finger at his friend, he declared, "it's not true."

"Miracles can happen, when you believe," the friend offered, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder.

"Nothin' new, nothin' new," the old man sputtered, "y'all ain't saying nothin' new."

"Does my happiness upset you?" the friend asked pointedly, "Why are you best with gloom?"

"Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry," the old man answered, "because the sky is blue . . . aaaaah."

"I see clouds of blue, clouds of white, bright blessed days, warm sacred nights and I think to myself," the friend paused for a moment, "what a wonderful world."

"How can you be sitting there, telling me that you care - that you care," the old man shook his head, "when everytime I look around the people suffer in suffering in everyway, everywhere?"

"In every life we have some trouble, but when you worry you make it double," the friend said assuringly, "don't worry, be happy."

"The whole world is wrong it seems , oh, I guess it's the chains that bind me," the old man intoned darkly, "I can't shake it loose. These chains and things."

"They say freedom, oh, freedom is just another place to hide. Now I'm coming to you with my arms open wide," the friend held out his arms to embrace the old man.

"It's getting dark, too dark to see, I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door." the old man pushed his friend away grimly.

"You've gotta walk and don't look back," the friend declared, "If it's love that you're running from there is no hiding place. Just your problems, no one else's problems you just have to face."

"Sittin' here resting my bones," the old man pondered, "and this loneliness won't leave me alone."

"Everything is everything," the friend shrugged, "what is meant to be, will be. After winter, must come spring. Change it comes eventually."

"I’ve squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles," the old man grumbled, "such are promises."

"Did you exchange a walk on part in the war, for a lead role in a cage?" the friend asked in exasperation.

"But people just don't seem to understand how someone can feel so blue . . . they call me Mr. Pitiful," the old man bit a quivering lip.

"Give me one reason to stay here and I'll turn right back around," the friend stumbled to his feet and turned to leave.

"Because maybe you're gonna be the one who saves me?" the old man offered.

"Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps."

It's a Difficult Burden to Carry . . .

Lest We Forget


Canadians are incensed, absolutely incensed that Parliament is petulently refusing to fly the flag at half-mast. Some see this as an effort to ignore or numb the shock of the recent deaths of four Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan. They seem to feel that if the average Canadian is walking past Parliament and the flag is at half-mast they will suddenly come to a realization of the terrible cost of war, fall on their knees and repent of their war-mongering ways. If the flag remains up, the average Canadian will walk past Parliament, assume everything is well with the world and start whistling "God Save the Queen." Canadians from across the country are assuming that Stephen Harper (or Gordon O'Connor, whom Harper judiciously delegated responsibility over the flag flap to) wants Canadians to be completely oblivious to these deaths. Of course, in order for a Canadian to be unaware of these deaths he would have to be an illiterate television-hating hermit. As much as we might romanticize illiterate hermits in our minds, we probably do not care too much about their opinion on the vertical characteristics of the Peace Tower flag anyways.
I understand the need to remember our soldiers. I think it is important to dwell on the lives that are sacrificed in defence of clear or even vague notions of justice. I, however, do not believe that Parliament should lower the flag every time a soldier is killed. Is this a contradiction, that I respect and remember Canada's soldiers and I do not think the flags of Parliament should be lowered for them? No. I agree with many veterans who feel that special gestures towards the few somehow diminishes the sacrifice of the many. I do not think that the death of a soldier today is any more heroic than it was sixty years ago. In fact, I feel that deaths of soldiers should not be merely seen as heroic but as heroic and soberingly tragic. The day for remembering the sacrifice of soldiers is November 11.
Imagine if William Lyon Mackenzie King had lowered the flag each time a soldier was killed during World War II. The flag would be at perpetual half-mast and the national psyche would be in a constant state of mourning. Of course, a certain amount of glumness is understandable during war, but it is also important to imbue the people with a sense of hope. I am not adovcating propaganda or disguising the number of fallen, but I do believe that flying the flag proudly at full mast is a direct national defiance against the often tyrannical and, yes, even evil powers you are fighting. War is a horrible time of sadness but we must grit our teeth and fight on.
Some might argue that the tragic sacrifice of the soldiers is much more important than the death of a tragically obscure Canadian politician. Why do we lower the flag for the one-term M.P. from Kicking-Horse Pass and not Pte. Johnny Canuck killed by a roadside bomb in Kandahar? Surely the sacrifice of the soldier is much more dramatic and heroic than the boring death of a dry politician, right? Maybe, but I am inclined to side with tradition. I think it is important to remember the lives of staid politicians who dedicated their lives to the political life of the country. Politicians do not have a day where everyone remembers their deaths and this is probably a good thing, as many cynical Canadians would probably make it into a party.
November 11 is the time to remember the fallen soldiers and the victims of war. I believe that the government made the right decision by respecting the legacy of past Canadian war-dead and not trumpeting the deaths of recent ones.

How many CD's do you own?
Approximately 150 including my wife's, and then about thirty burnt cd's.

What's the latest CD that you bought?
Kardinal Offishall's latest (a mild disappointment)

What's the latest piece of music that you have listened to?
Ain't Too Proud to Beg - Ben Harper diggin' on the Temptations.

Name five CD's that have made a lasting impression on you:
1) Bob Marley - Survival
2) Buju Banton - Til Shiloh
3) U2 - Joshua Tree
4) The Roots - Do You Want More!!??!!??
5) Ben Harper - Diamonds on the Inside

The Monument

Twisted Metal
bent double
distorted
contorted
glinting dully in its fra
ctu-
red,
battered and shattered
state of decrepit portions and
cont-
-ortions.
Sharp angles
rise in disconc
ertin
g
patterns of violence.

Silence

wafts uneasily from a
bent and spent
metallic jungle of
steel beams and
iron dreams.
Silver and rust
are covered in dust
as crumpled pillars embrace
in impossible directions of
affection
and warped pipes
and strangulated rods,
perforated beams
and mutilated bars
are riddled with
ugly dents and disturbing
scars
and bent
in innumerable ways
in an endless maze
of horrific agony
and confusion
of abrasions
fractures
and sha
tter
ing
contusions.

No, this noble monument
will not be described any more
for this, my friend,
this is the glory of war.

John den Boer, 2002.

Update:

- Todd and Kimberley came to my house a while back. They just wanted you to know that.

- I went to watch V for Vendetta with Phil, but they wouldn't accept my cheerios movie pass because it was a Friday.

- There is no hidden message in this blog entry.



- Groen Van Prinsterer should watch V for Vendetta.

- My infamous fingernail is still in its last throes. Now the thumbnail is succumbing to something for some reason. It must be a fungus. I feel leprous.

- C-plus Orange Burst really doesn't deliver on its promise. It tasted exactly like regular c-plus. I received absolutely no so-called "burst."

- Do you know what's ironic? A faith healer with glasses, that's what.

- I would like to add The Specials cover of Toots and the Maytals' "Pressure Drop" to my list of favourite covers if that's alright.

- I don't need to ask because this is my blog and if you don't like it you can read someone else's.

- Please stay.

- I was taught a word by one of my students. "Scrofulous" which is an adjective desribing something with scrofula (a type of tuberculosis where the neck swells up) or describing someone or something that is morally degenerate.

- In Taiwan it is the ninety-fifth year of the Republic of China.

- I have decided to correct the time on my blog.

- We miss you and love you, Linda.

- Benny Hinn is scrofulous, and he doesn't have tuberculosis.

- I have been married for almost nine months.

- Bob Marley.

- I had to mention him somehow.

- Why don't you trust me? I told you there was no hidden message and you looked anyhow. What's wrong with you?

- I hate unexpected problems with no immediately apparent solution.

- Big gulps, huh? Well, see ya later.

CSI Miami Template

- Shot of beachfront hotels from above.
- Show people doing something of slight moral reprehensibility which might just lead to a murder but actually causes them to stumble upon a corpse.
- Show CSI members examining the body, have them find something exotic or out of place.
- Show Horatio arriving and then allow a CSI member to explain something about the body.
- Zoom in on Horatio's face, allow him to put on his sunglasses and do a cute little reversal of whatever they said. For example, if the CSI member says, "she has a rock in her hand" then Horatio can say, in his halting way, "and now. death. has her. in its. hand." Or, if the distraught friend of the deceased says something like, "we were just having fun" Horatio can put on his sunglasses and say, "well, death. decided. to. have . . . her."
- After this little witticism, play whichever Who song they play at the beginning of CSI Miami and roll the opening credits.
- Begin side plot involving some kind of slightly confusing murder case.
- Allow copious shots of the inexplicable Hummers that these government workers drive.
- Ensure that there is an extended laboratory scene replete with techno music which actually makes lab work seem cool.
- Include many opportunities for Horatio to put on and take off his sunglasses while saying things very haltingly.
- Reveal some personal drama that one of the staff members is going through and show their angst.
- Try to show a shot of the beach or at least get a scene with an alligator in the show.
- There are no fat people, people over thirty-two, or ugly children at the beach in Miami, make sure these undesirables don't appear on camera.
- Whoever committed the murder acts like a real snarky jerk to the CSI staff.
- Maybe include something of CSI Miami's meta-narrative about the psychopath who has an axe to grind with Horatio and the girl he's protecting, although it is not strictly necessary.
- Only one of these rules may be broken per episode.

The Prophet

The man who called himself Moses
led his people past the promised land
and the prophet cried, "come,
eat manna from my hand!"
and he offered them dirt
although they needed bread
and he made them believe
that they were well-fed
Moses put up his arms and said
"I am. Come follow me,"
and the people followed
to the dark-shadowed valley
When people were sick
Moses left them on the path
"the righteous are never ill
it's a sign of God's wrath."
Moses sought more people
for his exclusive clan
and so he gathered the young
for they trusted this man
Moses raised up his staff
and struck the rock with rage
and cried out in a loud voice
"I am. I free you from your cage!"
Moses was pleased with the people
for they truly sought the Lord
and Moses gathered his tithe
and placed it with his hoard
He split father against son
and mother against daughter
and he declared, "You are
the clay, I am the potter."
Then Korah, Dathan, and Abiram
raised their voices and rebelled
and Moses, righteous Moses
had those men expelled
Anger stirred against him
for his ways were unjust
but Moses did not fear
his heart had turned to dust
The man who called himself Moses
sits upon a corroded throne
but he is in the path
of a rolling stone.

John's Favourite Covers

I've Got Dreams to Remember - Toots and the Maytals covering Otis Redding's classic.
Respect - Aretha Franklin steals Otis Redding's song and no one remembers who sang it first.
No Woman No Cry - The Fugees cover Bob Marley and then they do a version with Stephen Marley that is simply awesome.
Killing Me Softly - Lauryn Hill covers Roberta Flack.
Imagine - A Perfect Circle covers John Lennon's anthem for the obtusely idealistic and the result is kind of cool.
Wonderwall - Ryan Adams does a superb cover of the Oasis hit.
Proud Mary - Ike and Tina Turner redoing CCR.
Bridge Over Troubled Water - Aretha Franklin covers Simon and Garfunkel.
Wish You Were Here - Wyclef covers Pink Floyd.
High Tide or Low Tide - Jack Johnson and Ben Harper cover Bob Marley.
Strawberry Fields Forever - Ben Harper coversthe Beatles.
Police and Thieves - The Clash covers the Junior Murvin/Lee Perry classic.
Light My Fire - Aretha's sister, Erma, redoes the Doors.
Subterranean Homesick Blues - Sizzla Kalonji covers Bob Dylan.
Amazing Grace - Not really a cover, right? Wrong, because the Blind Boys of Alabama sing it to the tune of "House of the Rising Sun."
Hotel California - The Gypsy Kings cover the Eagles.
One Love/ People Get Ready - Bob Marley remakes Curtis Mayfield.
Ain't Too Proud to Beg - Ben Harper covers the Temptations.
Fortunate Son - Wyclef Jean dares to cover CCR.
Untold Stories - Sinead O'Connor, yes Sinead, covers Buju Banton and does a surprisingly good job.
Lonely People - Talib Kweli remixes the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby and it's nice. The album version is not nearly as good.
Hurt - Johnny Cash covers NIN and turns a song about drugs and self-destruction into a tribute to his wife without changing the words.
99 Red Balloons - Goldfinger outdoes Nena.
Bad Fish/ Boss DJ - Jack Johnson reinterprets Sublime.
Mama Africa - Buju Banton covers Peter Tosh.
Mrs. Robinson - Okay, they're corny, but the Lemonheads do a neat cover of Simon and Garfunkel.
I Shot the Sheriff - Eric Clapton covers Bob Marley.
Gin and Juice - This is more of a joke because I don't like either version, but a honky version of Snoop Dogg's Gin and Juice by the Gourds is funny to me.

How many books do you own?
Enough . . . but not really.

What book is your latest purchase?
*Sigh* I love books but I have not purchased one in about half a year and even then, it was a gift for my wife. "The Upside Down World of Vikram Lal" was the title, I believe. The last book that I purchased was "Papillon" which was alright, but its exaggerated, self-centred and grandiose storytelling reminded me of "A Million Little Pieces" by that notable truth-stretcher, James Frey.

What book have you most recently read?
In its entirety: Buzzing Flies, an eight page book about an annoying fly.
Right now I'm reading: A book of African History in French (struggling)
The Drama of Scripture
Mere Christianity

Name five great books with impact on you:

1) King Leopold's Ghost
2) The Lord of the Rings Trilogy
3) Les Miserables
4) Creation Regained
5) Six War Years

Who do you challenge to answer these same questions?
Suzanne, Rachel, and Christina den Boer. Karen and Clint Langelaar, Jono or Janice Barnhoorn, Becky and Rod Snoek and any other relatives out there.

Oh, and the Garth Street crew and Piet Harsevoort (nefarious cackle)

Hummingbird

Hummingbird don't fly away - B.B. King.

Mr. Samson was a stern old man. He was not crotchety, but he was not cheerful either. Mr. Samson was stern. He considered life to be far too serious to waste smiles on trivial matters and, as far as he was concerned, most things in life were trivial. This was the reason he was upset today and when stern old men are upset they are, by definition, crabby. He had wasted what he felt was an indulgent smile on a hummingbird of all things. Hummingbirds, he muttered to himself, are nervous little pissants and the little buggers are far too colourful to be considered anything but asinine.
He strode along the sidewalk, sternly observing the beautiful summer weather with a clinical air. The apple blossoms are fluttering to the ground, no doubt encouraged by the warm southerly breeze, he noted grimly. He stopped briefly to listen to the warbling notes of a mourning dove, merely out of scientific curiousity. Science, he reassured himself, is a serious matter.
Mr. Samson gave a polite but serious nod to a friendly, albeit overly-happy, passerby and continued on his way. Three small children, giggling and whooping, ran without any seeming purpose in a series of circles in the long grass of a large front lawn. Mr. Samson shook his head with what he thought was stern disapproval but actually appeared to be more wistful than condemnatory.
Children these days, he told himself, need more purpose and direction. They needed the sort of purpose and direction he himself had. He never went anywhere without a reason. Mr. Samson picked up his pace as he strode purposefully to . . . where? Mr. Samson faltered, what had been his purpose? He frowned deeply, unable to find the answer as his steps slowed. Why had he gone outside? He stopped completely as the answer dawned on him.
The hummingbird.