"The world is more like it is now than it ever has before."
- Dwight Eisenhower.

Romain Virgo - Who Feels It Knows It

Dear Mr. Boerishbwoy,

I am writing in response to your recent letter regarding my children’s work entitled “Fuzzy Rabbit Visits the Doctor.” I do take a lot of pride in the work that I produce, so thank you for your very thorough critique. However, I would like to point out that the intended audience for this book is much younger than you. In fact, I was rather surprised by the heated tone of your criticism.

If I may, I would like to address some of the more harsh aspersions you have cast on the book. First of all, Fuzzy Rabbit is in no way representative of the young people of North America nor is the doctor representative of the “single-minded Soviet Communism that is secreting its dark influences into the impressionable minds of our youth” Fuzzy Rabbit is just a small rabbit who needs to be vaccinated, and the doctor is just that, a doctor. Moreover, the USSR collapsed in December of 1991, nearly sixteen years before my book was even written. The idea that Leonid Brezhnev, who was entirely dead at least twenty-six years before my book came into existence (and two months before I was even born), actively sought me out in order to have me act as “a propagandistic stooge for totalitarian ideals” is absolutely ridiculous.

Secondly, children’s books often utilize repetition as young children enjoy this and it’s helpful for their reading skills. It is not, as you so fervently argued, “yet another jack-booted attempt by the soul-crushing forces of socialism to hypnotize young people through the use of mind-numbing chants.” Also, I would hardly label the words “hippity-hippity hop, hippity-hippity hop” a call for “the proletariats to violently overthrow their governments with bloody and treasonous intent.”

Finally, my illustrator can vouch that the red substance on Fuzzy Rabbit’s mouth near the end of the book is, in fact, raspberry jam and not “the blood of the bourgeoisie.” Please do not write to me again.

Sincerely,

Debbie R. Burrows

Update:

~ I am playing a lot of soccer lately, both indoor and in a dome on turf. Endorphines are good. My teams are doing well.

~ Kumis!

~ Have you ever ridden on an accordion bus in the accordion part and imagined the bus suddenly splitting in two and contemplated whether you would stay with the front or the back section of the bus? You have? Really? . . . You’re weird.

~ A lot of snow, followed by a lot of rain and warm weather = hopscotch through the puddles.

~ When I was a child I would deliberately jump in puddles during recess. Now? Not so much.

~ I don’t have recess anymore, that’s the main reason.

~ The Endorphines is not the name of my soccer team, although it should be.

~ I watched “the Treasure of the Sierra Madre” recently. I highly recommend this film. If they were to do a remake, they would botch it.

~ The Coen Brothers might be able to do something cool with it, though. They could cast Denzel Washington as Dobbs, Don Cheadle as Curtin, and maybe Al Pacino as the old man. I’d watch that.

~ Dear Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
There are no tigers in Mexico.
Sincerely,
Boerishbwoy.

~ Yurt!

~ I could be a hand model, that’s how awesome my fingernails are now.

~ John = currently obsessed with Westerns.

~ Rule # 231. If you believe that all of the demonstrations in North Africa and the Middle East are the machinations of a vast Zionist conspiracy, you are not allowed to look at me as if I’m naïve when I express a differing opinion.

~ The best Western is a hotel chain.

~ When you miss someone who has passed on, it makes the memories of them that much more valuable.

~ Dear Boerishbwoy,
You’re a little late, and our movie is still more awesome than your blog.
Sincerely,
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

~ Ulan Batar!

~ Note to self: do not talk to yourself in public places, even if you think no one can hear you.

~ Here’s a tongue twister that I recently made up: How much phlegm would a phlegmatic Flemish flamingo phlegm if a phlegmatic Flemish flamingo had influenza?

~ I tried to watch an episode of “Mike and Molly” the other day. I made it three minutes in before I ground my teeth to the gumline. Also, the laugh track caused my ears to wilt.

~ I recovered, though.

~ This sitcom is so bad, I think it will fill the void left by the absence of “Two and a Half Men” - which I had a similar reaction to.

~ Dear Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
You are no longer on my favourite movies list. My blog is awesome.
Sincerely,
Boerishbwoy.
P.S. Humphrey Bogart had a gigantic head.

~ Note to man on bus that I sat beside: I did not move because of your ugly hat, I moved because you smelled like the rotting carcass of a fish in the Hamilton Harbour.

~ I like the way tumblr blogs look, but it seems like most people on there just post funny pictures.

~ Genghis Khan!

~ I want to know how to play guitar. I don’t want to learn, though, that would take too long.

~ Dear Boerishbwoy,
Your head is more gigantic, your list will suck without us, and Humphrey Bogart is three times more awesome than the most awesome thing you ever posted on your blog.
Sincerely,
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre
P.S. the most awesome thing you ever posted on your blog was the phrase “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.” Everything else is just okay.

~ I have a pineapple to cut up.

~ Jebtsundamba Khutuktus!

~ Dear Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
I am crying right now. Would you cut some slack if I said that there are tigers in Mexico?
Sincerely,
Boerishbwoy
P.S. Just kidding, I just put you below any “Mike and Molly” movie that is ever made in my film ranking system.

~ Note to stranger: you're welcome for humouring you.

~ Dear Boerishbwoy,
We won. That is all.
Sincerely,
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

"Protest however you want, but do not go into the streets and squares."

~ Moammar Ghaddafi

Buster Keaton

Buster Keaton is my favourite comedian of the silent era. The man was a genius of physical comedy, performing stunts that would cause the bravest of modern-day risk assessors to succumb to paroxysms of fear. The next time Tom Cruise brags about performing some of his own stunts (i.e. climbing a wall while wearing a harness), think about Buster Keaton nonchalantly falling three stories onto the ground or impassively passing in front of a moving locomotive. Buster not only performed all of his own stunts, he would often perform the stunts of other characters in his movies.

I love Charlie Chaplin, he had a great talent for pantomime and an ability to create deeply moving films. The humanization that Chaplin brought to his films has stood the test of time. Audiences continue to be enthralled by the humorous little guy, who despite being buffeted by misfortune, would dust himself off and keep trying. Harold Lloyd’s films were more profitable than Charlie Chaplin’s and Buster Keaton’s as their spirit matched the heady optimism of the twenties. It’s easy to relate to Lloyd’s happy, bumbling character and how can you not admire his daring climb in “Safety Last” (1923)? (Especially since he performed the stunt wearing dress shoes and sporting partial prosthesis on his hand). I believe Buster Keaton was best, though. Roger Ebert put it very well:

The greatest of the silent clowns is Buster Keaton, not only because of what he did, but because of how he did it. Harold Lloyd made us laugh as much, Charlie Chaplin moved us more deeply, but no one had more courage than Buster. I define courage as Hemingway did: "Grace under pressure." In films that combined comedy with extraordinary physical risks, Buster Keaton played a brave spirit who took the universe on its own terms, and gave no quarter.

Although likely apocryphal, the story is told that Keaton got his “Buster” moniker from the great Harry Houdini. Houdini, who toured with Keaton’s vaudeville family, witnessed the six-month old slip down a flight of stairs and remarked “what a buster!” However it was obtained, the name stuck, and Keaton’s talent for taking falls grew. Young Buster toured the vaudeville circuit with his family in a popular act that saw the straight-faced child tossed all over the stage by his father, with Buster miraculously escaping injury. When Buster began in movies, he retained this incredible sense of physical comedy as well as his trademark stoic expression. Buster’s first films were with his friend, the great Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle. Buster played supporting roles to his mentor and, when Arbuckle was embroiled in scandal, he remained steadfastly loyal.

Buster’s golden period was during the twenties, where he produced his greatest work including “Sherlock Jr.” (1924), “The Navigator” (1924), “The General” (1926), “Steamboat Bill, Jr.” (1928), and “the Cameraman” (1928). The thirties, however, were difficult for Keaton, who lost much of his creative control when he left his studio to join MGM. His marriage to his first wife ended in divorce, he was forced to file for bankruptcy, his friend and mentor, Fatty Arbuckle, died of a heart attack, and Keaton spiraled into an alcoholic haze. It was a dark time for Buster, but he managed, with the help of his family, to bring his drinking under control. He married his third wife, Eleanor in 1938 and their happy marriage lasted until Keaton’s death 26 years later. Throughout this time, he continued to work in entertainment, on television, in film, and on stage.

Keaton was rediscovered by critics and audiences after a Life cover story in 1949. His popularity resurged, and he managed to make as much money in the last ten years of his life as he had during his golden period. Shortly before his death in 1966, he remarked: “I can’t feel sorry for myself. It all goes to show that if you stay on the merry-go-round long enough you’ll get another chance at the brass ring. Luckily, I stayed on."

Dear Readers,

I have taken the time to translate the great poem, "My Humps", by the Black Eyed Peas from its slang form into pretentious paraphrasing.

For those unfamiliar with the original words of this epic, you can find them here: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/blackeyedpeas/myhumps.html

This classic work opens with a male putting forth a question to his female companion. The Peas' use of repetition, chauvinism, and simplistic plot development was peerless. "My Humps" stands along other monumental works like Fergie's "Fergalicious", Gwen Stefanie's "Hollaback Girl", Kelis' "Milkshake", and everything that Ke$ha has ever done. Without further ado, here is the Black Eyed Peas' Legendary Work, "My Humps."

Male:
Excuse me, ma’am, but I notice that your figure has rather sleek and generous bulges. May I inquire as to what you intend to do with this voluptuous shape?

Female:
To answer you, good sir, I intend to behave in such a manner as to induce a state of inebriation through the round contours of my body, a metaphorical intoxication brought about by my feminine form. I think it bears repeating – round contours, round contours, round contours, round contours, round contours (Please do regard my curvaceous figure).

Many men are driven to irrational acts by me. This is a regular occurrence.
These men conduct themselves most generously, frequently buying me expensive jewelry and name-brand apparel. It is true that the generosity of these men has allowed me to dress myself both fashionably and extravagantly.

Although I have not requested it, men commonly refer to my hind parts most affectionately. They buy the finest denim trousers for me despite my protests. Because of their insistence, I am left with little choice but to accept these gifts.

I must offer my most hearty and staunch protests at this point to any suggestion that I am somehow stealing from these men. After all, I continue to see these men on a romantic basis and manifest my amorous appreciation, my amorous appreciation, my amorous appreciation, my amorous appreciation (appreciation).
I am, good sir, aware that you yourself have an amorous appreciation toward my rounded proportions.
My rounded proportions, my rounded proportions, my rounded proportions (appreciation),
My rounded proportions, with all due respect, have complete control over your person.

Male:
Oh dear me, this woman has me investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . You are investing all of your money and time on my personage.

Male:
Yes, this is correct, she does indeed have me investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . all of your money and time on my personage.

Male:
Yes, correct. I realize I may have asked this earlier, but for the sake of clarity, what exactly do you intend to do with your most robust and ample curves? I am particularly curious about the robust and ample curves of your bottom.

Female:
Good sir, my answer remains the same: I intend to induce you into a state of inebriation through my curves, a condition that would be comparable to being intoxicated by curvaceousness.

Male:
Again, for the sake of clarity, what precisely are your intentions regarding the excess fat, particularly the excess fat contained within the confines of your denim trousers?

Female:
I aspire to induce you to emit a loud piercing sound, a sort of piercing cry inspired by my curvesome figure, if you will. This will all occur because of my curvesome figure, my curvesome figure, my curvesome figure

Male:
Pardon me?

Female:
My curvesome figure, my curvesome figure, my curvesome figure, my most rounded characteristically feminine attributes (please do witness their proportions).

Male:
This may be a bit of non-sequitor, Ma'am, but I had the experience of encountering a young woman at a nightclub specializing in dancing.
She related to me that she would be agreeable to commencing a relationship of a romantic capacity in which pet names would be exchanged. Furthermore, she explained that she was not searching for financial gain, but a sharing of temporal experiences with one another. I responded agreeably by alluding to our differing allocations of melanin through the use of a crude metaphor involving homogenized dairy and chocolate cereal.

Female:
Interesting story, sir. Many people have gone on record as saying that I am very seductive. Many young men desire intimacy with me, so that they are constantly in my vicinity. For example, when I am dancing, these young men consistently dance in my proximity in an attempt to grope my rounded rump and leer at me.

However, I would be remiss if I did not warn that, while I am more than willing to be ogled, I draw the line at groping. In fact, if you were to attempt to frisk me, I would create the sort of spectacle you would not desire. No, you would not desire this spectacle. Therefore, I ask that you do not pull upon my hand. After all, you are not romantically involved with me, and I am only attempting to move rhythmically to this music and manoeuvre my curvaceous posterior. My curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, My curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior, my curvaceous posterior.

My rounded globules of fatty tissue (fatty tissue)
My rounded globules of fatty tissue (fatty tissue)
My rounded globules of fatty tissue (fatty tissue)
Both the rounded globules of fatty tissue at the anterior and posterior.

My amorous appreciation has resulted in . . .

Male (interrupting):
Yes, it has resulted in me lavishing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . lavishing all of your finances and time on me.

Male:
Correct, she has induced me to lavishing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . lavishing all of your finances and time on me.

Male:
Once again, ma’am, I realize we may have covered this ground earlier, but I must ask what your intentions concerning your curved protrusions, particularly the curved protrusions that are so prominent in you hind parts?

Female:
It bears repeating that I aim to intoxicate you with my hind quarters, induce you into a metaphorical condition of drunkenness brought about by my rear end.

Male:
Yes, but what do you intend to do with the generous proportions of your bottom that are currently confined to your denim pantaloons?

Female:
I am going to force a high-pitched shout from you using only my buttocks.

Male:
What was it again that you were going to do with your curved protrusions, particularly the curved protrusions of your posterior segment?

Female:
My aim, good sir, is to inebriate you with my posterior segment, make you inebriated with appreciation for my posterior segment.

Male:
And what is it you will do with your mammary glands, the mammary glands that are currently furnishing your shirt?

Female:
I intend to create tasks for you, sir.

Male:
She has made it so that I am investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . You are investing all of your money and time on my personage.

Male:
Yes, this is correct, she does indeed have me investing . . .

Female (interrupting):
. . . all of your money and time on my personage.

~ Fin.

Almond Slices

- J. den Boer

In Hartman’s grocery store in the baking aisle
Checking for sliced almonds proves quite the trial
I finally locate bags of cashews and pistachios
but I only see regular almonds, with the skinless ones below
I hover for some time, scanning the shelf with utmost care,
When fortunately for me, a worker happens there
“Excuse me sir, I hate to be a pest
but I have a recipe for which sliced almonds are best,
kindly tell me where I can find this prize.”
He scans the shelf with sharp youthful eyes,
“I see them not,” he points to an empty part of the rack
“Hold on please sir, I’ll check for these almonds in the back.”
I thank him as I gaze forlornly at the shelf
Pondering the time it would take to slice the almonds myself.
A gentleman slowly ambles through my section
Searching the shelves for some unknown confection.
His eyes stare intently past where I stand,
I move and look to where his eyes have scanned.
“Are you seeking sliced almonds?” I point to the empty spot,
“he should be back soon to let us know if they have them or not.”
He thanks me with a smile and a nod of appreciation,
And I grin to myself at this coincidental situation.
For what are the chances that both of our prey
Happens to be sliced almonds at this time of this day?
The worker returns shortly carrying nothing with him
He shrugs his shoulders, “the warehouse is full to the brim,
And I could not locate the sliced almonds anywhere.”
I smile warmly, “Thanks for trying, I appreciate your care.”
I grab a bag of skinless almonds from their perch,
And say, not wishing to leave my fellow almond seeker in the lurch,
“I can grind these up, no, it won’t be as pretty to view.
The chunky almonds are not the same, but it will have to do.”
I tried my best to get those almond slices, no jest.
Some would have given up, but I did my best.
So I am honest when I say that I did not mean to provoke
with the chunks rather than slices of almonds in the boeter koek.

“It is an honour to meet you, sir. Read your screenplay and, I must say, I loved it.”

“Thank you, I’m happy to hear that.”

“Now, you might not be familiar with the way the movie industry works, but I have a few suggestions for the screenplay that will make it, shall we say . . . a little more marketable.”

“Alright.”

“The, uh, protagonist, what’s his name?”

“Victor.”

“Yeah, interesting character - needs a friend - can you write black humour?”

“You mean dark humour? There is some of that in there.”

“No, I mean black humour, like Eddie Murphy-type humour. We need a wild and crazy black friend for Victor.”

“What?”

“A black friend, you know, to appeal to the urban audience. Can you write black humour?”

“Victor wouldn’t be the type to have a wild and crazy friend, though. Plus, I wrote him as a slight racist.”

“Yeah, maybe nix the racism.”

“But he’s supposed to be unlikable.”

“Yeah, about that, maybe you could give him better manners, make him interact with people more positively?”

“But the point of the screenplay is how this ugly character finds redemption through Lisette.”

“Yeah, Lisette, great character, can her friend, Dolores, be a little more quirky? I was thinking of maybe an Ellen Degeneres type . . . except really fat. Fat people are funny. Maybe we can have Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”

“Um.”

“Better yet, a black Ellen Degeneres in a fat suit?”

“ . . .”

“Alright, we’ll leave that on the table maybe.”

“I don’t think so.”

“On the table.”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll put it down as a possibility then.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Also, sorry for interrupting, but not a whole lot is happening in this screenplay. Maybe we could introduce a side-plot to liven things up a bit.”

“What do you have in mind? I think the minimalist tone of this screenplay is key.”

“Aliens.”

“Well, yes, Dolores has immigration issues, but it’s not really stressed in the screenplay.”

“No, no, I mean aliens invading from outer space. We could have Victor and Lisette working out their issues while running away from the invading aliens.”

“No aliens.”

“You’re right, that’s ridiculous.”

“Thank you.”

“It will fit in a lot more to the underlying theme of life and death if we have zombies.”

“There’s no underlying theme of life and death in the screenplay.”

“You can add that, though, right? No sweat. It’ll be a sort of post-apocolyptic art film, the critics will eat that up.”

“No zombies.”

“Zombies are in right now.”

“No zombies.”

“Vampires it is then. We’ll milk this Twilight thing for all it’s worth.”

“Vampires? No. This isn’t science fiction or horror, it’s a drama.”

“Well, vampires are more of a romance thing now and, of course, Victor and Lisette have quite the connection. Victor can be the ugly vampire character who is redeemed by the charm of Lisette. Sound good?”

“No, that’s horrible.”

“You’re right, you’re right, too close to the Twilight thing. Lisette can be the vampire and Victor finds redemption through her.”

“No vampires.”

“Genetic weapons that wreak havoc on the population?”

“No. Out of the question.”

“Alright, alright. I get it, you want something more realistic.”

“Yes, thank you for recognizing that.”

“We’ll go the Day After Tomorrow or 2012 route and have a massive global disaster.”

“That’s not realistic.”

“We’ll tone it down, of course.”

“No.”

“Alright, alright . . . but what if Dolores isn’t a fat black lesbian?”

“She’s not.”

“What I mean is, what if she’s a psychopathic killer?”

“No, that wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah, we need her humour.”

“She isn’t . . .”

“Unless, unless she’s a fat black lesbian psychopathic killer!”

*sigh*

There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.

~ Leonard Cohen

His dirty hands were tanned and dotted with small scars, veins bulging and crisscrossing their backs. His fingers were thick and creased with wrinkles and marked with callouses. They gripped the handle of a sturdy spade as he churned the soil from the hole. The land around him was a monastery, dark and empty, and the strange meditative silence that enveloped him was somehow appropriate. The only sounds were the blade of his spade scuttling through the earth and the rhythm of his heavy breaths.

“Why do you dig in this rolling wasteland?” I asked him, my voice rasping through the calm like a rusted dagger.

He glanced up, his shovel never ceasing its motion.

“I search,” he grunted. He stopped, only for a moment, to wipe the sweat from his ancient dirt-streaked face. He returned to his work, his seemingly aimless hole widening. The silence, only broken his exertions, returned.

I observed his digging, hoping to divine his purpose. He would dig intently in one place and then suddenly abandon the area and begin to dig somewhere else. His hole was a snake-like maze of trenches of varying depths.

Bemused, I broke the quiet again, “What do you search for?”

“I search,” he repeated, the words coming out as a curse.

“Did you lose something?” I queried.

His knotted arms continued their interminable motion, as soil flew into a section of the hole he had previously dug so intently in. “Yes,” he spat, “I know it’s here.”

“You lost it here?” I ask, “what is it that you lost?”

One hand continued to grip the spade and redistribute the dirt, as the other hand gestured with gangly nonchalance toward a distant hill. “Over there, outside the city wall.”

I gazed at the far off green hill, “why do you search here if you lost it over there?”

He laughed grimly, “it no longer suits my purpose, I need another.”

“And you know the other one is here? What does it look like?”

His shovel ceased, and he turned to me, his eyes betraying a hardened sorrow, “I don’t know.”

The shovel scraped against the soil once again as he returned desparately to his labour.

Rule # 342

If you are carrying a small child in some kind of tote bag in front of your chest in a blizzard during rush hour, you are not allowed to jay walk.

New Years Resolutions 2011:

~ Read more. This will in entail going to the library more. Sidenote: Terryberry Library has got to be the coolest name for a library ever.

~ Blog regularly.

~ Keep in contact with the family more.

~ Keep a tidier home. This will involve folding laundry.

~ Watch the King's Speech and True Grit. This will be a tough one to keep, but I'll do my best.

~ Discover new music.

~ Maybe I'll run? I don't know. There is no resolve behind this resolution.

~ Eat more vegetables, except for cucumbers. Sidenote: Pickles are fine.

~ Eat less pizza. Sidenote: vegetarian pizzas are only half a pizza.

~ Become proficient enough at FIFA to defeat my two brother-in-laws with ease. Or at least win against them fifty per cent of the time.

~ Smile more.

~ Stop balding.

~ Go to church.

~ Write something here so that I have an even number of resolutions.

At one of the central bus stations in Ottawa I had a strange yet profound experience. As strangers bustled past me, I became acutely aware of the fleeting nature of life and the imperminance of the scene around me. I've had this feeling before, but this time it was incredibly strong. Every person walking past me seemed to belong to a moment that would soon be lost. I stood, gazing over the edge of the exceedingly vast chasm of all the preceding time before this moment, and the moment was overwhelmed and swallowed - insignificant yet so precious.

I felt as if I were an observer from the future - as if I knew that all the people around me would soon be gone. I was fascinated by the faces moving past, I could almost see them in the sepia tones of a crinkled nineteenth century photograph. It was as though everyone was just a fleck of foam on a wave in the ocean, just here for a moment and gone in an instant. All of the hurrying seemed meaningless, all of the people seemed beautiful. The feeling was indescribable . . . but I thought I'd try anyways.

Arcade Fire - No Cars Go

The Horrid Little Article Called "The horrid little game called soccer"

David Warren is an entertaining Ottawa Citizen columnist. Sadly, this entertainment doesn't come from well-constructed columns, but from an incredible ability to be consistently wrong while maintaining a flare for absurd arguments. Warren recently decided to grace the world with his opinion on the game of soccer, entitling a recent column "The horrid little game called soccer." Now, the article was somewhat tongue in cheek (I hope), but it nevertheless contains Mr. Warren’s actual opinion of the great game.

The column opens with Warren readily admitting that he knows nothing about soccer. Does this slow him down in the least? Absolutely not. He opines that journalists should not be slowed down by ignorance. He fails to mention, however, that a journalist of any quality who was admittedly ignorant on a topic would engage in some research, perhaps talk to some experts. Does Warren do any such thing? Absolutely not. Instead, he readily admits hating soccer despite his admitted ignorance. Here is a list of his reasons:

1) At the age of seven poor little Mr. Warren was tackled in a game of soccer. He was humiliated because people were watching and goes on to say, misplaced comma and all: "Like any red-blooded Canadian, I cannot remember having played, since, except under compulsion."

2) In what sounds as if it had been a high school gym class, Mr. Warren scored three points. He found scoring to be a simple task of aiming at a "ridiculously large" net.

3) Subsequent to scoring his third goal Mr. Warren was mobbed by his teammates. Once again, he was injured and claims to have limped for weeks afterwards.

4) Soccer is not a sport for free men (?) and growing enthusiasm for it in the United States is "symptomatic of Eurosclerotic socialism." He further argues that "soon Canada may find herself alone in defending the values of western civilization."

5) Poor Mr. Warren was subject to soccer on the television whenever he tried to get a beer at a bar in Canadian cities.

6) Mr. Warren is dismayed at the traffic delays that were caused by celebrating fans.

7) Mr. Warren was further dismayed by "the triumphalist displays of 'multicultural' chauvinism" in said traffic delays.

8) Mr. Warren has a Swedish acquaintance who was of the opinion that ice hockey is superior to soccer because a scoreless draw in ice hockey is more exciting than a scoreless draw in soccer. A scoreless draw in soccer is boring and "quite possibly fixed."

9) A German octopus correctly predicted the results of eight World Cup matches, so why should anyone watch?

10) The final match was ugly and would have ended in shoot-outs if the referee had not given a red card and ensured Spanish victory. We should just watch the referees, argues Warren.

I’ll deal with each of Mr. Warren’s contentions one by one.

1) Perhaps more detail is needed as to why, at the age of seven, it would be so humiliating to get tackled. Is Mr. Warren so sensitive that having the ball taken from him was so completely embarrassing that he would not willingly attempt the sport again? More importantly, however, is the strange contention that any red-blooded Canadian would cease playing soccer after being tackled. Perhaps Mr. Warren was arguing that red-blooded Canadians don’t play soccer? If so, he should know this is false, we happen to have many people who play soccer (even after being tackled) and we have our own national team. And yes, they all have blood that happens to be red.

2) The argument here seems to be that soccer is very easy to score in. So easy, in fact, that a less than athletic looking windbag can score without trouble. With all due respect to Mr. Warren’s hat trick from his high school days, scoring against a team with a respectable defence and goalkeeper is quite difficult. Hence, soccer often has low-scoring matches.

3) This isn’t really an argument against soccer, I guess. It’s more of an argument against over-enthusiastic celebrations and the delicate men who can’t handle them.

4) If soccer is not a sport of free men, what is it a sport of? Is it the sport of the oppressed men? Are free women allowed to play soccer? Can oppressed people play the sports of free men? What about oppressed women? What are the sports of free men? What’s happening here? What possible linkage is there between socialism and soccer, never mind the “Euroclerotic” variety of socialism? Like it or not, Mr. Warren, soccer is the most popular sport in the world, not just Europe. Canada is part of this world and soccer is just as popular here as in the United States, if not more. Forget defending the values of Western civilization, which, incidentally, soccer is a byproduct of, and start thinking about a global world where everyone can appreciate a beautiful game.

5) True, that’s a very legitimate complaint. It’s so uncomfortable when I’m trying to enjoy a beer and a sport I don’t understand is playing on the television.

6) I think it’s more dismaying in Ottawa when everyone is trying to get to and from the Scotia Bank place way out in Kanata. Any traffic delays caused by flag-waving fanatics speeding up and down the road pale in comparison to that.

7) So members of Canada’s cultural mosaic celebrating the victory of the nation of their cultural background is the equivalent of ‘multicultural’ chauvinism. Does this mean that when, say, Leafs fans celebrate a win this an example of ‘municipal’ chauvinism? Are Leafs fans somehow disrespecting the fans of other Canadian teams by their fervent celebrations? I’m sorry that the fact that many Canadians have origins in other lands offends Mr. Warren so greatly, I think this diversity is one of the things that makes this country great.

8) Shoot, I don’t have any Swedish acquaintances to counter Mr. Warren’s. I think, if I had one, he or she would say that soccer and ice hockey are completely different sports and should be appreciated for their own qualities. He would also say that a scoreless draw is not necessarily boring and, at World Cup level, definitely not fixed. The joy of watching soccer is not just the scoring, it’s the passing, the movement, the back and forth, the close goals, and the amazing skill these players have with a simple ball.

9) As far as sports go, octopuses should only be brutally thrown onto rinks by Red Wings fans. I nominate Paul for this duty.

10) The match was ugly. The Dutch certainly were asking for a red card, not that particular red card, but a red card nonetheless. The card didn’t guarantee Spanish victory as teams sometimes come back with a goal after losing a player. The refereeing of the final left something to be desired, and the game would have been (a little) better if the referee had been better. Although that particular game was far from the best example of the beauty of soccer, soccer remains a beautiful sport.

Almost

Things I Don’t Understand . . .

- People crying when celebrities die.

- Those weird sandals that are half boot and half sandal.

- The dream I had last night where I had a huge goiter on my face.

- Why people bother yelling from their balconies for drunk people to shut up. These drunks think they’re talking at a conversational level until you tell them to shut up. Basically you’re actively encouraging a louder volume of the yelling that they didn’t realize they were even doing.

- Fergie fans. The fact that they exist.

- Vampires that twinkle and the girls who love them.

- Vuvuzela enthusiasts.

- Crotchety bloggers that complain about everything, even when their team makes it into the final.

- Advanced physics.

- How expensive pop corn is at the movies.

- Paying to advertise a clothing company on your chest.

- How in some places pop is called coke so that if you say that you want coke they ask you what kind of coke. Sprite is coke, make sense?

- Why cookie monster had to stop eating cookies. How can he even be called cookie monster anymore?

Facing It
Yusuf Komunyakaa

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.