Bob Marley is Overrated?
There are times when you come across a review of music that is so wrong that you have absolutely no choice but to disagree in the strongest terms.
Link
“When the calendar hits April 20, thoughts turn to man's other best friend: the marijuana plant. Yes, along with copious amounts of Reese's Pieces and trips to the nearest Jack in the Box drive-thru, almost everyone agrees nothing goes better with the reefer than reggae. (Personally, give us Sleep's Dopesmoker, Adult Swim on the TiVo and some chicken strips.)”
4-20, for those not in the know, has become a pothead holiday. Reportedly, this came about after some high school marijuana enthusiasts agreed to meet to smoke pot at 4:20 every day after school. Reggae is often associated with marijuana because of reggae’s association with Rastafarianism and the Rastas who smoke marijuana as a sacrament. Despite this association, there are plenty of reggae artists who do not use marijuana, and those reggae artists who do use it would argue that there is a lot more to their music than ganja.
“Invariably, when most people think about reggae, Bob Marley comes to mind.”
Invariably.
“No doubt he was one of the best ambassadors of the genre to a world that was unfamiliar with the island rhythms and relaxed lifestyle. Possessing Marley's greatest-hits compilation Legend is actually required for admission to the University of Texas.”
I think it’s important to take note that, in this particular section, you (the author) imply that you are familiar with the island rhythms and relaxed lifestyle.
“But there is an entire universe of reggae out there, and as with the sticky icky icky, there are vast and varied strains of it floating around, including many that make fuller and stronger alternatives to Marley's work.”
There is a whole universe of reggae out there, but considering the strength and fullness of Marley’s catalogue it is incredible to claim that there are many artists whose work is stronger and fuller.
“We love Marley on sunny afternoons in the backyard or chillaxing by a pool, but quite frankly, he's vastly overrated.”
Woah. Extraordinary claims must be backed up by extraordinary evidence. I’m ready.
“To people with tapestries of Bob in their dorm windows, those are fighting words.”
I don’t have a dorm or a Bob Marley tapestry but, you’re right, them’s fighting words.
“ But to fully grasp the scope of such a thing as reggae, one must branch out from Marley's warm and fuzzy cocoon. Legend has sold nearly 20 million copies worldwide, yet it's often criticized for only leaning on Brother Bob's later popular work and not his early stuff with Peter Tosh and Bunny Livingston (aka Bunny Wailer).”
The warm and fuzzy cocoon, if I’m following correctly, is Marley’s Legend album. The Legend album does indeed use a lot of Marley’s later work. I have never heard the accusation that Legend relied too much on Marley’s later work. After all, 3 out of 14 of the tracks are from when Tosh and Livingston were still part of the band (Get Up, Stand Up, I Shot the Sheriff, and Stir It Up). As for the work that the Wailers did with Lee “Scratch” Perry on production, those tracks are not owned by the Marley estate and they were not hugely popular.
Of course, Legend is a compilation album of Marley’s greatest hits so it should not be unexpected for it to contain Marley’s greatest hits, right? I mean, it's a greatest hits album.
“Tosh was an early Marley associate; in our minds he was vastly more groundbreaking than his more popular onetime Wailers bandmate. Pick up his menacing LPs Legalize It and Equal Rights for an introduction; the snarl in Tosh's voice and guitar that is infinitely more interesting than Marley's good-time croon. Tosh wasn't as commercial as Marley proved to be, but he surpassed him when it came to attitude and pain.”
I’m a big Peter Tosh fan, but he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, vastly more groundbreaking than Marley. Tosh was good, and his abrasive personality, soaring voice, and revolutionary lyrics are interesting. And, yes, Tosh had quite an attitude and underwent a lot of pain. Nevertheless, he did not possess Marley’s hoarse croon, lyrical acumen, or musical perfectionism.
“Many people fail to realize that as sunny as Marley's songs were, his homeland of Jamaica was the exact opposite. While it's a beautiful and exotic locale, the country was rife with cutthroat politics and virulent criminals, so much so that when white artists like the Rolling Stones would head to Jamaica to record in the mid-'70s, they would have to hire street toughs as security muscle and pay out protection bribes just to be able to safely walk the streets.”
Jamaica has often been quite violent, but this does not somehow mean that the positive does or did not exist in this country. Marley was painfully aware of this dichotomy. He had grown up in poverty, had witnessed the crime, and had been shot in his shoulder during an assassination attempt. Really, the Rolling Stones’ experience in Jamaica pales in comparison to this.
I believe that if you had indeed gone beyond the cocoon, which we agree is the Legend compilation, you would have known that not all Marley's songs are sunny. Still, even on the Legend album, we are treated to one of music’s greatest tributes to the dignified, yet painful, reality of poverty: No Woman No Cry. There is also a song relating the modern black experience with that of black American cavalry soldiers (Buffalo Soldier), a song advocating repatriation to Africa (Exodus), and a monumental song dedicated to the pain and uplifting of the oppressed (Redemption Song). I mean, were you even listening to the lyrics “on sunny afternoons or while chillaxing by the pool”? There are numerous other examples of less-than-sunny song throughout Marley’s catalogue: Concrete Jungle, Midnight Ravers, Slave Driver, No More Trouble, Burnin’ and Lootin’, Dem Belly Full, Rebel Music, Talkin Blues, Revolution, Johnny Was, Cry to Me, Crazy Baldhead, War, Rat Race, Guiltiness, the Heathen, Time Will Tell, So Much Trouble in the World, Zimbabwe, Top Rankin’, Babylon System, Survival, and Ambush in the Night among others.
“Also, for anyone looking to see exactly what sort of world bore reggae, look no further than Perry Henzell's 1972 epic The Harder They Come. Starring another underrated reggae giant, Jimmy Cliff, it's an unflinching account of criminal life in the Jamaican capital of Kingston.
The soundtrack is a period gem and both the film and the music hold up incredibly well.”
Yes, this is a good movie for reggae fans to watch, although it’s a bit choppy at times. The soundtrack is amazing and Jimmy Cliff is definitely underrated.
In conclusion, while it is unfortunate that his popularity outshines that of his talented counterparts, Marley is not overrated. In fact, I'm still waiting for one piece of evidence, really, any evidence at all, for this extraordinary claim.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
How Do You Cook a Parrot?
If you were going to name a female parrot, Zack would probably not be your first choice. Nevertheless, probably because it is so difficult for a layman to determine the sex of an exotic bird, Zack was the name of the of the female parrot that my family cared for when I was young.
I recently had a disturbing dream involving this parrot and my father.
I should explain that, throughout Zack's time with us, Zack and my father had a troubled relationship. Each time after Zack was liberated from her cage, it was my father’s duty to gather the poor bird and rustle her back to her cage. Armed with sharp wits that had been honed through countless hours of accounting, and, of course, oven mitts, my father would stalk the parrot and drive her toward her cage. If the mitts didn’t intimidate the bird into crawling into her cage, my father would grab Zack and thrust her bodily into her cage with a flurry of fluttering green feathers. Zack feared the gloves, but would often peck at them with the ferocious rage borne of an independent and rebellious spirit.
There was at least one incident where my father was dive-bombed by Zack. And, of course, the bird was smart enough to realize whenever my father was speaking on the phone. As soon as he picked up the receiver and began talking, Zack would begin to screech loudly at her greatest antagonist.
I had not thought of Zack for a long while until I had this dream. In this dream my father was holding Zack with his oven mitts. He smiled at me and said something like, “we’re going to eat well tonight.”
With that, my father placed Zack, feathers and all, in a big pot of boiling water on the stove.
I had three thoughts at this point. First, I immediately realized that parrot would taste like chicken. Second, I wondered if Zack’s beautiful green feathers would just fall out as she boiled or if my father should have plucked them first. Finally, I wondered if my father had bothered to wring Zack’s neck first or if she was boiling alive.
The answer to my final question came rather quickly in the next sequence of my dream. From beneath the boiling foam, I saw Zack push her beak pathetically at the lid in an attempt to move it aside. Then, when the lid was finally pushed aside, she feebly lifted her head and appeared to be succumbing to her imminent death. It was not until Zack’s hooked black beak had beak had been boiled thoroughly into a chalky white colour, that I knew that the bird was dead.
Then I woke up feeling both slightly disturbed and hungry for chicken.
If you were going to name a female parrot, Zack would probably not be your first choice. Nevertheless, probably because it is so difficult for a layman to determine the sex of an exotic bird, Zack was the name of the of the female parrot that my family cared for when I was young.
I recently had a disturbing dream involving this parrot and my father.
I should explain that, throughout Zack's time with us, Zack and my father had a troubled relationship. Each time after Zack was liberated from her cage, it was my father’s duty to gather the poor bird and rustle her back to her cage. Armed with sharp wits that had been honed through countless hours of accounting, and, of course, oven mitts, my father would stalk the parrot and drive her toward her cage. If the mitts didn’t intimidate the bird into crawling into her cage, my father would grab Zack and thrust her bodily into her cage with a flurry of fluttering green feathers. Zack feared the gloves, but would often peck at them with the ferocious rage borne of an independent and rebellious spirit.
There was at least one incident where my father was dive-bombed by Zack. And, of course, the bird was smart enough to realize whenever my father was speaking on the phone. As soon as he picked up the receiver and began talking, Zack would begin to screech loudly at her greatest antagonist.
I had not thought of Zack for a long while until I had this dream. In this dream my father was holding Zack with his oven mitts. He smiled at me and said something like, “we’re going to eat well tonight.”
With that, my father placed Zack, feathers and all, in a big pot of boiling water on the stove.
I had three thoughts at this point. First, I immediately realized that parrot would taste like chicken. Second, I wondered if Zack’s beautiful green feathers would just fall out as she boiled or if my father should have plucked them first. Finally, I wondered if my father had bothered to wring Zack’s neck first or if she was boiling alive.
The answer to my final question came rather quickly in the next sequence of my dream. From beneath the boiling foam, I saw Zack push her beak pathetically at the lid in an attempt to move it aside. Then, when the lid was finally pushed aside, she feebly lifted her head and appeared to be succumbing to her imminent death. It was not until Zack’s hooked black beak had beak had been boiled thoroughly into a chalky white colour, that I knew that the bird was dead.
Then I woke up feeling both slightly disturbed and hungry for chicken.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Buttons
~ Carl Sandburg
I have been watching the war map slammed up for
advertising in front of the newspaper office.
Buttons--red and yellow buttons--blue and black buttons--
are shoved back and forth across the map.
A laughing young man, sunny with freckles,
Climbs a ladder, yells a joke to somebody in the crowd,
And then fixes a yellow button one inch west
And follows the yellow button with a black button one
inch west.
(Ten thousand men and boys twist on their bodies in
a red soak along a river edge,
Gasping of wounds, calling for water, some rattling
death in their throats.)
Who would guess what it cost to move two buttons one
inch on the war map here in front of the newspaper
office where the freckle-faced young man is laughing
to us?
~ Carl Sandburg
I have been watching the war map slammed up for
advertising in front of the newspaper office.
Buttons--red and yellow buttons--blue and black buttons--
are shoved back and forth across the map.
A laughing young man, sunny with freckles,
Climbs a ladder, yells a joke to somebody in the crowd,
And then fixes a yellow button one inch west
And follows the yellow button with a black button one
inch west.
(Ten thousand men and boys twist on their bodies in
a red soak along a river edge,
Gasping of wounds, calling for water, some rattling
death in their throats.)
Who would guess what it cost to move two buttons one
inch on the war map here in front of the newspaper
office where the freckle-faced young man is laughing
to us?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
A Big Ol' Twig
Imagine, if you will, a metal twig sticking out of the ground. Now, still using your imagination, either shrink yourself down to the size of an ant or enlarge the twig to the size of a ten-storey telephone pole.
What was your first thought upon gazing at this large imaginary twig? If you thought "Oh MAN! This large metal twig is super amazingly incredibly groovy and I would like nothing better than to use Canadian tax monies to make this gigantic twig into a reality" then you would fit in at the National Art Gallery of Canada. The National Art Gallery of Canada not only imagined this big ol' twig would be a good value for Canadian tax dollars, but also felt that it would bear an uncanny resemblance to the spirit of the Canadian nation.
The spirit of our nation is a branchless twig that, come to think of it, looks more like a giant hair? The spirit of our nation is built and conceptualized by an American?
"It's a limbless tree and they do exist in nature," assures Marc Mayer, the director of the National Art Gallery of Canada.
Oh phew, I was worried that this tree was based on a large wiry hair sticking out of a mole. Oh wait, those exist in nature too, don't they?
"It's a skinny tree that's going to survive. It's surrounded by other trees and it's got that little spot of sunlight, but not enough to actually have branches," Mayer argues.
Trees need leaves in order to produce the energy that allows them to grow. That little spot of sunlight is not going to do a limbless tree any good if it doesn't even have one leaf to absorb the sun's energy with. Basically, Mayer is saying that this tree is absorbing the sun through its bark and shooting thirty metres upwards. Yet, despite this remarkable vertical growth, this tree does not have enough energy to grow branches or leaves.
Art students should be forced to take basic science classes. Really, they should.
Oh, and another thing, if the tree is built on Nepean Point as proposed, it will not be surrounded by any trees whatsoever. So much for struggling for survival amidst the other trees.
It will make an excellent lightning rod, and a great distraction from the unsightly statue of Samuel de Champlain. Champlain actually looks like a seventeenth century French explorer, so no one is ever confused over what he's supposed to be. This twig will solve this problem, leaving tourists befuddled and forcing them to ask the question which is integral to all modern art: "hey, what is this supposed to be?"
". . . all the architecture around it will have the same aspirational thrust. There are lots of buildings with pointy roofs: the cathedral, our own museum, Parliament. The American Embassy even has a hint of that," says Mr. Mayer.
Wait, wait, wait. So, because there are so many pointy architectural things in one area - corners, angles, and such - this enormous twig is a good idea? I have a feeling that if these buildings all had domes and rounded edges, Mr. Mayer would be saying something like: "all of the architecture around it juxtaposes against it nicely. There are a lot of buildings with rounded roofs, so this pointy tree will really stand out amazingly."
Why don't they just stick a big metal telephone pole on Nepean Point and be done with it?
"These trees are handmade," offers Mayer.
Here I thought that Mr. Roxy Paine, the artist, was rolling them out of his metal tree factory where he employs thirty-seven Japanese robots. If this tree is handmade, it's more like an artistic version of a big metal telephone pole. Awesome.
Imagine, if you will, a metal twig sticking out of the ground. Now, still using your imagination, either shrink yourself down to the size of an ant or enlarge the twig to the size of a ten-storey telephone pole.
What was your first thought upon gazing at this large imaginary twig? If you thought "Oh MAN! This large metal twig is super amazingly incredibly groovy and I would like nothing better than to use Canadian tax monies to make this gigantic twig into a reality" then you would fit in at the National Art Gallery of Canada. The National Art Gallery of Canada not only imagined this big ol' twig would be a good value for Canadian tax dollars, but also felt that it would bear an uncanny resemblance to the spirit of the Canadian nation.
The spirit of our nation is a branchless twig that, come to think of it, looks more like a giant hair? The spirit of our nation is built and conceptualized by an American?
"It's a limbless tree and they do exist in nature," assures Marc Mayer, the director of the National Art Gallery of Canada.
Oh phew, I was worried that this tree was based on a large wiry hair sticking out of a mole. Oh wait, those exist in nature too, don't they?
"It's a skinny tree that's going to survive. It's surrounded by other trees and it's got that little spot of sunlight, but not enough to actually have branches," Mayer argues.
Trees need leaves in order to produce the energy that allows them to grow. That little spot of sunlight is not going to do a limbless tree any good if it doesn't even have one leaf to absorb the sun's energy with. Basically, Mayer is saying that this tree is absorbing the sun through its bark and shooting thirty metres upwards. Yet, despite this remarkable vertical growth, this tree does not have enough energy to grow branches or leaves.
Art students should be forced to take basic science classes. Really, they should.
Oh, and another thing, if the tree is built on Nepean Point as proposed, it will not be surrounded by any trees whatsoever. So much for struggling for survival amidst the other trees.
It will make an excellent lightning rod, and a great distraction from the unsightly statue of Samuel de Champlain. Champlain actually looks like a seventeenth century French explorer, so no one is ever confused over what he's supposed to be. This twig will solve this problem, leaving tourists befuddled and forcing them to ask the question which is integral to all modern art: "hey, what is this supposed to be?"
". . . all the architecture around it will have the same aspirational thrust. There are lots of buildings with pointy roofs: the cathedral, our own museum, Parliament. The American Embassy even has a hint of that," says Mr. Mayer.
Wait, wait, wait. So, because there are so many pointy architectural things in one area - corners, angles, and such - this enormous twig is a good idea? I have a feeling that if these buildings all had domes and rounded edges, Mr. Mayer would be saying something like: "all of the architecture around it juxtaposes against it nicely. There are a lot of buildings with rounded roofs, so this pointy tree will really stand out amazingly."
Why don't they just stick a big metal telephone pole on Nepean Point and be done with it?
"These trees are handmade," offers Mayer.
Here I thought that Mr. Roxy Paine, the artist, was rolling them out of his metal tree factory where he employs thirty-seven Japanese robots. If this tree is handmade, it's more like an artistic version of a big metal telephone pole. Awesome.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Senators Fans
I’m not a big hockey fan. I only watch hockey a little during the playoffs or if the Canadian national team is playing. If I had to choose a team I would choose the Toronto Maple Leafs just because they’ve been my father’s team for the past few hundred years.
That being said, I am a better hockey fan than the average Ottawa Senator’s fan. Don’t get me wrong, there are some great Sens fans out there, at least one of whom reads this blog. Nevertheless, there seems to be a large amount of Ottawa fans who just don’t know how to watch their team lose graciously.
Of course, Habs fans don’t know how to watch their team win or lose without rioting, but that’s a different story.
Senators fans boo their own players when they’re not performing to their exacting standards. They boo their own team while they're playing. I don’t care if your player has just accidentally scored on his own net, you either cheer for your team or boo the other team. If you can't do either of these two things then maybe it's best if you keep quiet. After all, Senators fans don’t usually have a problem with keeping quiet.
When the Senators were eliminated by the Penguins this year, I read a letter to the editor in the Ottawa Citizen that, without a hint of irony, suggested that Senators players be paid according to their performances. The next day I looked for a letter that would berate this fan for such a classless idea. Instead, I found a letter fully endorsing it. Seriously, do you want players to stay or not?
I suppose I’m just accustomed to watching my father bow graciously to Toronto’s inevitable eliminations from the playoffs. Sens fans might just have higher standards.
I’m not a big hockey fan. I only watch hockey a little during the playoffs or if the Canadian national team is playing. If I had to choose a team I would choose the Toronto Maple Leafs just because they’ve been my father’s team for the past few hundred years.
That being said, I am a better hockey fan than the average Ottawa Senator’s fan. Don’t get me wrong, there are some great Sens fans out there, at least one of whom reads this blog. Nevertheless, there seems to be a large amount of Ottawa fans who just don’t know how to watch their team lose graciously.
Of course, Habs fans don’t know how to watch their team win or lose without rioting, but that’s a different story.
Senators fans boo their own players when they’re not performing to their exacting standards. They boo their own team while they're playing. I don’t care if your player has just accidentally scored on his own net, you either cheer for your team or boo the other team. If you can't do either of these two things then maybe it's best if you keep quiet. After all, Senators fans don’t usually have a problem with keeping quiet.
When the Senators were eliminated by the Penguins this year, I read a letter to the editor in the Ottawa Citizen that, without a hint of irony, suggested that Senators players be paid according to their performances. The next day I looked for a letter that would berate this fan for such a classless idea. Instead, I found a letter fully endorsing it. Seriously, do you want players to stay or not?
I suppose I’m just accustomed to watching my father bow graciously to Toronto’s inevitable eliminations from the playoffs. Sens fans might just have higher standards.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
-JoooOooohn.
"What?"
-Blog me.
"Not now, I have a headache."
-Pleeeeaaase.
"I give you a little attention, and this is what I get."
-You’re on a rooooll.
"I’m not in the mood."
-Blog me, you fool.
"That's not actually how the line . . . nevermind"
-I know. C'mon bloooog.
"I'm busy."
-Oh, come off it, next you’re going to be telling me that you’re washing your hair.
"What?"
-Your excuses are too feminine.
"So my blog is not only a whiny attention seeker, but it’s also sexist?"
-I’m not sexist, I love women.
"Right."
-Soooo?
"I’m not going to blog."
-Why nooot?
"I’m – I’m washing my hair."
-You’re prematurely balding.
"So? The hair I do have needs washing too."
-Lame.
"So you’re also bigoted toward the physically disabled?"
-Dumb.
"And the mute."
-Retarded.
"And the mentally handicapped."
-Whatever, don’t blog then.
"I won’t."
-Fine.
. . . .
. . . .
-Aw, c’mon pleeaaaaase?
"Fine, but you might end up feeling gypped."
-Racist.
"What?"
-Blog me.
"Not now, I have a headache."
-Pleeeeaaase.
"I give you a little attention, and this is what I get."
-You’re on a rooooll.
"I’m not in the mood."
-Blog me, you fool.
"That's not actually how the line . . . nevermind"
-I know. C'mon bloooog.
"I'm busy."
-Oh, come off it, next you’re going to be telling me that you’re washing your hair.
"What?"
-Your excuses are too feminine.
"So my blog is not only a whiny attention seeker, but it’s also sexist?"
-I’m not sexist, I love women.
"Right."
-Soooo?
"I’m not going to blog."
-Why nooot?
"I’m – I’m washing my hair."
-You’re prematurely balding.
"So? The hair I do have needs washing too."
-Lame.
"So you’re also bigoted toward the physically disabled?"
-Dumb.
"And the mute."
-Retarded.
"And the mentally handicapped."
-Whatever, don’t blog then.
"I won’t."
-Fine.
. . . .
. . . .
-Aw, c’mon pleeaaaaase?
"Fine, but you might end up feeling gypped."
-Racist.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Mr. Bronstein Goes to Canada
Amherst, Nova Scotia. Perhaps you've heard of it?
Lev Bronstein had.
In 1917, it seems that good Mr. Bronstein, better known as Leon Trotsky, had been heading from New York to Russia by way of Halifax. In Halifax he had the misfortune of arousing the suspicion of the local constabulary. He refused, by virtue of his virtuousness, to answer any questions concerning himself beyond his name. He was much taken aback by the questions regarding his political motivations, as he knew the entire thing was "so clearly a discrimination against the Russian revolutionaries." While the other Russians complained bitterly to the British authorities, Mr. Trotsky saw no need to complain "to Beelzebub about Satan."
Mr. Trotsky, with five other Russians, was later arrested and taken to shore. During the arrest, Mr. Trotsky proudly noted that his son had struck one of the British officers in what he called "his first lesson in British democracy." While his family was left in Halifax, Mr. Trotsky was taken to a camp for German prisoners in Amherst, Nova Scotia. It was there that he underwent what he described as far worse treatment than he had undergone even at the hands of the agents of the Czar. In Russia, he declared, he had been strip searched in privacy while in Canada he was stripped in front of a dozen men. The whole thing was a sham, he declared, for the capitalists who had arranged the whole thing "knew well enough that we were irreproachable Russian revolutionaries returning to our country, liberated by the revolution."
While Leon Trotsky assigned devious and unjust intentions to the British, they were, in fact, motivated out of their alliance with Russia. They feared that introducing more Russian revolutionaries to a Russia that had already fallen from the hands of the Nicholas II and was in the hands of the Provisional Government would destabilize Russia even further. Not only that, but if the self-declared revolutionaries were to gain power they would, according to everything they had said and written, withdraw Russia from the Great War.
Was Trotsky "irr
eproachable"? Beyond his violent oratory and the 1905 revolution, at this point in his career he likely was. However, in 1918, when the Bolsheviks were in power, Trotsky strongly advocated the use of the measure he was so keen to condemn when it was used against him. Only, the Bolsheviks were not using internment camps, they were using extra-judicial concentration camps. All of the leaders of opposition parties were placed in these camps along with priests, White Guards, and anyone else who might oppose the Bolshevik government. While the gravest injustice against Trotsky was his strip-search in front of a dozen men, these camps resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands.
While Trotsky wrote that the police who held him imprisoned in Amherst were "criminal police types" he was among the strongest proponents of the Cheka, the Bolshevik's security arm. The Cheka were an undiscliplined military force who were above the law and who executed hundreds of thousands of prisoners without trials.
Trotsky, along with the other revolutionaries, felt that the peasant forces that opposed them were motivated by their ignorance of the revolution. Trotsky insisted that the "iron broom" was necessary "to clean" Ukraine and "sweep away the bandit hordes." Rather than being ignorant, these localized opposition forces were motivated by their enforced conscription and the constant and unfair requisitioning of goods. Lenin and Trotsky had supported the requisition of grain from peasants they dubbed "kulaks", or rich peasants, and were incensed at any resistance. They had the Cheka take even more food and seed from the peasants, and millions of peasants starved when their crops failed later on.
The Red Army had a high rate of desertion, which was eventually combated in a measure that Trotsky supported, by summary executions and the imprisonment of the families of deserters. Leon Trotsky was later forced out of government by Joseph Stalin, and was assassinated on Stalin's orders in Mexico in 1940.
Trotsky was imprisoned in Amherst for less than a month. It would have been better for the world, perhaps, if he had remained there for the rest of his life.
Amherst, Nova Scotia. Perhaps you've heard of it?
Lev Bronstein had.
In 1917, it seems that good Mr. Bronstein, better known as Leon Trotsky, had been heading from New York to Russia by way of Halifax. In Halifax he had the misfortune of arousing the suspicion of the local constabulary. He refused, by virtue of his virtuousness, to answer any questions concerning himself beyond his name. He was much taken aback by the questions regarding his political motivations, as he knew the entire thing was "so clearly a discrimination against the Russian revolutionaries." While the other Russians complained bitterly to the British authorities, Mr. Trotsky saw no need to complain "to Beelzebub about Satan."
Mr. Trotsky, with five other Russians, was later arrested and taken to shore. During the arrest, Mr. Trotsky proudly noted that his son had struck one of the British officers in what he called "his first lesson in British democracy." While his family was left in Halifax, Mr. Trotsky was taken to a camp for German prisoners in Amherst, Nova Scotia. It was there that he underwent what he described as far worse treatment than he had undergone even at the hands of the agents of the Czar. In Russia, he declared, he had been strip searched in privacy while in Canada he was stripped in front of a dozen men. The whole thing was a sham, he declared, for the capitalists who had arranged the whole thing "knew well enough that we were irreproachable Russian revolutionaries returning to our country, liberated by the revolution."
While Leon Trotsky assigned devious and unjust intentions to the British, they were, in fact, motivated out of their alliance with Russia. They feared that introducing more Russian revolutionaries to a Russia that had already fallen from the hands of the Nicholas II and was in the hands of the Provisional Government would destabilize Russia even further. Not only that, but if the self-declared revolutionaries were to gain power they would, according to everything they had said and written, withdraw Russia from the Great War.
Was Trotsky "irr
eproachable"? Beyond his violent oratory and the 1905 revolution, at this point in his career he likely was. However, in 1918, when the Bolsheviks were in power, Trotsky strongly advocated the use of the measure he was so keen to condemn when it was used against him. Only, the Bolsheviks were not using internment camps, they were using extra-judicial concentration camps. All of the leaders of opposition parties were placed in these camps along with priests, White Guards, and anyone else who might oppose the Bolshevik government. While the gravest injustice against Trotsky was his strip-search in front of a dozen men, these camps resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands.While Trotsky wrote that the police who held him imprisoned in Amherst were "criminal police types" he was among the strongest proponents of the Cheka, the Bolshevik's security arm. The Cheka were an undiscliplined military force who were above the law and who executed hundreds of thousands of prisoners without trials.
Trotsky, along with the other revolutionaries, felt that the peasant forces that opposed them were motivated by their ignorance of the revolution. Trotsky insisted that the "iron broom" was necessary "to clean" Ukraine and "sweep away the bandit hordes." Rather than being ignorant, these localized opposition forces were motivated by their enforced conscription and the constant and unfair requisitioning of goods. Lenin and Trotsky had supported the requisition of grain from peasants they dubbed "kulaks", or rich peasants, and were incensed at any resistance. They had the Cheka take even more food and seed from the peasants, and millions of peasants starved when their crops failed later on.
The Red Army had a high rate of desertion, which was eventually combated in a measure that Trotsky supported, by summary executions and the imprisonment of the families of deserters. Leon Trotsky was later forced out of government by Joseph Stalin, and was assassinated on Stalin's orders in Mexico in 1940.
Trotsky was imprisoned in Amherst for less than a month. It would have been better for the world, perhaps, if he had remained there for the rest of his life.
Friday, May 07, 2010
The Check-up
From his seat on the metal folding chair, the man peered at the various posters on the walls with a dull interest borne out of boredom. He drummed his long fingernails on the counter beside him, removing a pocketwatch from his greatcoat and glancing impatiently at the time. He was tall, with pale skin, red lips, slick greying hair, and a certain imperious demeanor that made his rigid posture all the more incongruous to the brightly coloured posters that lined the walls of the sterile waiting room.
“Hello sir,” a plump balding doctor burst into the room.
Nonplussed by the abrupt entrance, the man smiled coldly, “greetings.” His voice was deep, with a strange tone.
The doctor peered at his clipboard, “Mr . . . Smith is it? I’m Dr. Feldman. Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Mr. Smith steeped his long white fingers in front of his chest.
“That’s quite a retro-jacket, must be very heavy – you don’t find it a little warm?” Dr. Feldman perched casually against a tall stool, one foot resting on its rung.
“On the contrary, Dr. Feldman, I find it quite cold,” Mr. Smith tapped his steeped fingers against each other slowly.
“I see,” Dr. Feldman wrote something on the clipboard in front of him, “and is this why you’re here?”
“Perhaps, Dr. Feldman, it would help if I gave you the name you will recognize me by,” Mr. Smith intoned.
“Oh, do I know you from somewhere?” Dr. Feldman beamed warmly.
“I am Voivode Dracula,” Mr. Smith said, his blue eyes flashing.
“That’s a very unique name,” Dr. Feldman’s smile remained unchanged as he scratched his forehead, “but it doesn’t ring any bells with me.”
“I’m a Székely count from the Carpathian Mountains,” Voivode said haughtily, “Count Dracula.”
“Count Dracula, hmm,” Dr. Feldman shook his head, “shucks, I’m sure I’d remember a Count. Whereabouts are these Carpasian Mountains?”
“The Carpathian Mountains,” the count pronounced imperiously, “are in Transylvania.”
“Transylvania?” Dr. Feldman let out a low whistle, “that’s near Bolivia, isn’t it?
“Not even a little bit,” growled the count darkly, “it’s in Romania.”
“And that’s . . .” Dr. Feldman furrowed his brows in thought.
“In Eastern Europe!” the count snapped.
“Ah yes, Eastern Europe,” Dr. Feldman nodded happily, “So why have you come, Mr. Smith?”
“It’s Count Dracula.”
“Ah, yes, why have you come, Count Dracula?” Dr. Feldman leaned forward from his perch.
“You should know,” the count rose arrogantly from his seat, “your great great grandfather is responsible for nearly destroying me.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure how this is possible,” Dr. Feldman grinned, “now are you here for a check-up, Mr. Dracula?”
“I am a count!” Dracula’s eyes flashed a distinct shade of red.
“Say, do you have a history of anaemia?” Dr. Feldman was consulting the clipboard in front of him, “it doesn’t say anything about that here.”
“Wh-what?” Dracula frowned in confusion.
“Well, it’s just that your skin is unusually pale and, despite being a little upset, it remains very pale. You also mentioned feeling cold earlier. Do you feel weak at all, any trouble with concentration, shortness of breath?”
“No, I’m very strong,” Dracula insisted.
“Mr. Dracula,” Dr. Feldman stood, resting his hand on the count’s shoulder, “there is no shame in admitting that you might have a problem.”
“I’m a count!” Dracula roared.
“I do apologize, Count Dracula, but you should really calm down. It’s no good to excite a potentially weak heart,” Dr. Feldman tucked his clipboard under his arm, grasping the count’s arm as he felt for his pulse.
The count glowered, tearing his arm from the doctor’s grasp, “I have no health problem. My heart is very strong.”
“Sir, there must be a reason that you came then,” Dr. Feldman folded his arms over his clipboard.
“I told you, your great great grandfather nearly destroyed me.”
“Sir, I find it hard to believe that you could have known my great great grandfather.”
“As I recovered from my wounds over these long years, long have I meditated on the name of your great grandfather, Abraham Van Helsing. And here you are, his last male descendent,” the count seemed to fill more and more of the room with each word he spoke.
“Van Helsing?” Dr. Feldman remained unaware of the optical illusion unfolding in front of him, “Van Helsing, hmmm, I’m quite sure I don’t have any ancestors by that name.”
“But you’re Dr. Feldman, your mother’s maiden name is Van Helsing,” the count arched an eyebrow with aristocratic certainty.
“No no no,” Dr. Feldman laughed merrily, “you’ve made quite a common mistake actually.”
The count’s eyebrow began to lower.
“I’m Dr. Feldman, with an F,” Dr. Feldman gestured good-naturedly toward the door, “Dr. Veldman has his own practice across the hall.”
The count nodded dumbly, then turned, bowing slightly, “I see, I apologize for my mistake, Dr. Feldman. Good day.” He exited, closing the door firmly behind himself.
Dr. Feldman shook his head, removing a long wooden stake from the inside of his white coat as he strode toward the door.
“Vampires. So gullible.”
From his seat on the metal folding chair, the man peered at the various posters on the walls with a dull interest borne out of boredom. He drummed his long fingernails on the counter beside him, removing a pocketwatch from his greatcoat and glancing impatiently at the time. He was tall, with pale skin, red lips, slick greying hair, and a certain imperious demeanor that made his rigid posture all the more incongruous to the brightly coloured posters that lined the walls of the sterile waiting room.
“Hello sir,” a plump balding doctor burst into the room.
Nonplussed by the abrupt entrance, the man smiled coldly, “greetings.” His voice was deep, with a strange tone.
The doctor peered at his clipboard, “Mr . . . Smith is it? I’m Dr. Feldman. Why don’t you take off your jacket?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Mr. Smith steeped his long white fingers in front of his chest.
“That’s quite a retro-jacket, must be very heavy – you don’t find it a little warm?” Dr. Feldman perched casually against a tall stool, one foot resting on its rung.
“On the contrary, Dr. Feldman, I find it quite cold,” Mr. Smith tapped his steeped fingers against each other slowly.
“I see,” Dr. Feldman wrote something on the clipboard in front of him, “and is this why you’re here?”
“Perhaps, Dr. Feldman, it would help if I gave you the name you will recognize me by,” Mr. Smith intoned.
“Oh, do I know you from somewhere?” Dr. Feldman beamed warmly.
“I am Voivode Dracula,” Mr. Smith said, his blue eyes flashing.
“That’s a very unique name,” Dr. Feldman’s smile remained unchanged as he scratched his forehead, “but it doesn’t ring any bells with me.”
“I’m a Székely count from the Carpathian Mountains,” Voivode said haughtily, “Count Dracula.”
“Count Dracula, hmm,” Dr. Feldman shook his head, “shucks, I’m sure I’d remember a Count. Whereabouts are these Carpasian Mountains?”
“The Carpathian Mountains,” the count pronounced imperiously, “are in Transylvania.”
“Transylvania?” Dr. Feldman let out a low whistle, “that’s near Bolivia, isn’t it?
“Not even a little bit,” growled the count darkly, “it’s in Romania.”
“And that’s . . .” Dr. Feldman furrowed his brows in thought.
“In Eastern Europe!” the count snapped.
“Ah yes, Eastern Europe,” Dr. Feldman nodded happily, “So why have you come, Mr. Smith?”
“It’s Count Dracula.”
“Ah, yes, why have you come, Count Dracula?” Dr. Feldman leaned forward from his perch.
“You should know,” the count rose arrogantly from his seat, “your great great grandfather is responsible for nearly destroying me.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure how this is possible,” Dr. Feldman grinned, “now are you here for a check-up, Mr. Dracula?”
“I am a count!” Dracula’s eyes flashed a distinct shade of red.
“Say, do you have a history of anaemia?” Dr. Feldman was consulting the clipboard in front of him, “it doesn’t say anything about that here.”
“Wh-what?” Dracula frowned in confusion.
“Well, it’s just that your skin is unusually pale and, despite being a little upset, it remains very pale. You also mentioned feeling cold earlier. Do you feel weak at all, any trouble with concentration, shortness of breath?”
“No, I’m very strong,” Dracula insisted.
“Mr. Dracula,” Dr. Feldman stood, resting his hand on the count’s shoulder, “there is no shame in admitting that you might have a problem.”
“I’m a count!” Dracula roared.
“I do apologize, Count Dracula, but you should really calm down. It’s no good to excite a potentially weak heart,” Dr. Feldman tucked his clipboard under his arm, grasping the count’s arm as he felt for his pulse.
The count glowered, tearing his arm from the doctor’s grasp, “I have no health problem. My heart is very strong.”
“Sir, there must be a reason that you came then,” Dr. Feldman folded his arms over his clipboard.
“I told you, your great great grandfather nearly destroyed me.”
“Sir, I find it hard to believe that you could have known my great great grandfather.”
“As I recovered from my wounds over these long years, long have I meditated on the name of your great grandfather, Abraham Van Helsing. And here you are, his last male descendent,” the count seemed to fill more and more of the room with each word he spoke.
“Van Helsing?” Dr. Feldman remained unaware of the optical illusion unfolding in front of him, “Van Helsing, hmmm, I’m quite sure I don’t have any ancestors by that name.”
“But you’re Dr. Feldman, your mother’s maiden name is Van Helsing,” the count arched an eyebrow with aristocratic certainty.
“No no no,” Dr. Feldman laughed merrily, “you’ve made quite a common mistake actually.”
The count’s eyebrow began to lower.
“I’m Dr. Feldman, with an F,” Dr. Feldman gestured good-naturedly toward the door, “Dr. Veldman has his own practice across the hall.”
The count nodded dumbly, then turned, bowing slightly, “I see, I apologize for my mistake, Dr. Feldman. Good day.” He exited, closing the door firmly behind himself.
Dr. Feldman shook his head, removing a long wooden stake from the inside of his white coat as he strode toward the door.
“Vampires. So gullible.”
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
We're All Heart
Recently, the following comment was left on Boerishbwoy:
“here’s a comment: why don’t you write with your heart, not your brain!”
We were genuinely puzzled by the comment. First of all, we are all heart. Our postings are brimming with emotions and passions and motivated entirely out of a fiery romanticism. We are proud to say that our words are entirely irrational, rash, reactionary, and drawn straight from our guts.
Secondly, we abhor all brain functions. We detest the weak conventions that these other writers use as crutches – things like logic, reason, order, comprehensibility, and mathematics.
No really, we don’t like mathematics at all.
We never ever use our brain for our postings – except to help us with our grammar. If we didn’t make this one concession, we might end up making a horrible grammatical mistake. For example, we might put an exclamation mark at the end of question, we might insert a needless comma, or we may even neglect to properly capitalize the first letter of a sentence. Imagine, we might even make all three of these mistakes in the same sentence!
We wondered, with our hearts, what could have motivated such a comment. The post it was responding to may have offended a number of people: a young guy who wears skinny jeans past his butt, Bryce Courtenay, anyone involved in the creative process for the film version of The Power of One, a Pepsi enthusiast, Sean Penn, or Hugo Chavez. (Maybe it was a Venezuelan Communist screenwriter who was related to Bryce Courtenay, drank Pepsi enthusiastically, wore his skinny jeans low, and was a member of Sean Penn’s fan club).
We’re going to go with Sean Penn himself, because that means a famous actor visited this blog and commented. Most of all, it's what our hearts tell us. This blog has now been validated. We would like to thank Mr. Penn for visiting and leaving a comment.
Recently, the following comment was left on Boerishbwoy:
“here’s a comment: why don’t you write with your heart, not your brain!”
We were genuinely puzzled by the comment. First of all, we are all heart. Our postings are brimming with emotions and passions and motivated entirely out of a fiery romanticism. We are proud to say that our words are entirely irrational, rash, reactionary, and drawn straight from our guts.
Secondly, we abhor all brain functions. We detest the weak conventions that these other writers use as crutches – things like logic, reason, order, comprehensibility, and mathematics.
No really, we don’t like mathematics at all.
We never ever use our brain for our postings – except to help us with our grammar. If we didn’t make this one concession, we might end up making a horrible grammatical mistake. For example, we might put an exclamation mark at the end of question, we might insert a needless comma, or we may even neglect to properly capitalize the first letter of a sentence. Imagine, we might even make all three of these mistakes in the same sentence!
We wondered, with our hearts, what could have motivated such a comment. The post it was responding to may have offended a number of people: a young guy who wears skinny jeans past his butt, Bryce Courtenay, anyone involved in the creative process for the film version of The Power of One, a Pepsi enthusiast, Sean Penn, or Hugo Chavez. (Maybe it was a Venezuelan Communist screenwriter who was related to Bryce Courtenay, drank Pepsi enthusiastically, wore his skinny jeans low, and was a member of Sean Penn’s fan club).
We’re going to go with Sean Penn himself, because that means a famous actor visited this blog and commented. Most of all, it's what our hearts tell us. This blog has now been validated. We would like to thank Mr. Penn for visiting and leaving a comment.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Miniver Cheevy
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would send him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing:
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would send him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing:
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Renaming Wellington Street
Ottawa's Wellington Street runs west from the Rideau Canal past the National War Memorial, Parliament, the Supreme Court, the Bank of Canada, and the National Archives before finally ending rather anticlimactically at the Ottawa River Parkway. Well, it doesn't really end there, because it is reborn, much to the great befuddlement of tourists, as Wellington Street West. I'll leave that for now, though.
Recently, Randall Denley of the Ottawa Citizen suggested that it would be a great idea to change Wellington Street's name to Sir John A. Macdonald Street. So far, one more Citizen writer has given his support for this idea while two others have, I think, given some fine reasons why this is a poor idea.
Those in support of the name change cite Wellington's supreme lack of any Canadian experience, his utter British-ness, as reasons behind the necessity of this name change. After all, they argue, shouldn't such an important Canadian street be named after a figure from Canadian history? Who better for this than Canada's first Prime Minister, the heavy-drinking Scot who served Parliament for eighteen years? We're grown up now, we don't need to name our streets after daddy's heroes.
Terrible idea, the detractors counter. Sir John A. Macdonald himself was staunchly British and so were the men who named this street. Why should we re-shape our history to suit our immediate needs? Why cut Canada from its British roots, from the men and women who shaped Canada and firmly believed in the British Empire? We have grown up, but we did not have a revolution. There is no need to cut ourselves off from our roots, from our history.
I can see the perspective of those who support the name change. After all, Wellington has had more than enough things named after him, from the capital of New Zealand to beef wrapped in pastry. There are at least three towns in Canada named after the Duke, and he even has his own boot. How many Canadians even know who Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington, is?
Nevertheless, I believe it is irresponsible to try to cut Canada from its roots. Canada still has the British form of government, the queen is our head of state, and it was not all that long ago that an influential segment of the Canadian population proudly declared themselves United Empire Loyalists. Like it or not, the 1st Duke of Wellington was a hero to many of the men and women who built this country. If they saw fit to name one of Ottawa's most important streets after the Duke, why should we change it?
If we rename Wellington Street, we would not be remembering Sir John A. Macdonald so much as forgetting the time he lived in.
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