Update:
- Laurianne is currently working as a secretary for a Liberal MP on Parliament Hill. Althought the position is temporary, it will definitely look good on her resume.
- I can't find my hammer.
- I'm too lazy to put the proper accent on the last E in resume.
- I turned the television on the morning after the Oscars and had a very difficult time finding any news. On the CBC news channel their were analyzing actresses' hair, on CTV newsnet they were reviewing the winners, on ABC they were talking about Jack Nicholson's bald head, and on one of the many French channels we get they were, I believe, commenting on Forrest Whitaker's acceptance speech. It's nice to know that nothing of historical consequence had the gall to occur on the same night as the Oscars.
- Gall: "bile," O.E. galla (Anglian), gealla (W. Saxon), from P.Gmc. *gallon- (cf. O.N. gall, O.H.G. galla), from PIE base *ghol-/*ghel- "gold, yellow, yellowish-green" (cf. Gk. khole, see cholera; L. fel; perhaps also O.E. geolo "yellow," Gk. khloros). Informal sense of "impudence, boldness" first recorded Amer.Eng. 1882; but meaning "embittered spirit, rancor" is from c.1200.
- There is an election coming up here in Quebec, and I am lost.
- Laurianne claims to know where my hammer is. She is declining, however, to reveal its location because she says that she is not in the mood to hear hammering.
- When I log out of my e-mail account it displays the following message: "You have successfully signed out." It really gives me a sense of accomplishment.
- I don't really have any hammering to do, I just want to know where my hammer is.
- Does the news have to recycle the same old story about the healthy advantages of drinking wine every year?
- The genocidal war in Sudan is spreading to Chad. Pray.
- If anyone is extremely bored and is reviewing my old posts and is startled at the number of comments that have been deleted by the blog administrator, just relax. I'm not censoring the malcontents, I'm merely deleting spam.
- So, according to certain media outlets, they have found Jesus' ossuary in a middle class tomb in Jerusalem. Rather than listening to archaeologists who might actually have an opinion worth listening to, a number of media outlets have decided to throw their usual skepticism to the wind and declare that Jesus' bones have been found. Why? Because James Cameron said so (despite, as he says, not being a "theologist.") Interestingly enough, I recently read an article in Archaeology Magazine (yeah, I'm a nerd) which described how many groups are not publishing anything on their findings. Rather than dig one year and research and publish the next, a number of groups merely dig one year and the next and the next. This lack of proper publishing, the article claimed, is what has led to an atmosphere that is a lot more susceptible to fakes (such as the highly-touted James ossuary).
- The right cursor key does not work on my keyboard.
- I miss my grandmother's hamburger noodle bake. Mmmmm.
- Tune in next week when James Cameron joins forces with Johann Tetzel and dig up the skull of John the Baptist, age 12.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Dear sir,
Sincerely,
The Internet
We at The Internet have appreciated the work you have done to increase the traffic on what we like to call the "information superhighway." Your dedication to your blog as well as your consistently high standards are valued. There are few placed in the often dark and seedy recesses of The Internet where thoroughfarers can find such a bright, nay, brilliant, nay, blindlingly luminescent example of wit, wisdom, and talent. Your blog burns with a white hot heat of insight amidst a world wide web of pale and dim shadows.
However, lately we have noticed a lack of activity on your blog. In fact, the last update as of 25 February 2007 was almost two weeks ago. We, like your father, are also disappointed with the number of posts dedicated to music videos. As such, we have a number of suggestions to improve your blog:
1) Since you seem incapable of consistently providing a song of the week we suggest your change the title of this particular phenomenon to "song of the indeterminate amount of time."
2) More updates.
3) Seriously, even posting a picture of your fingernail would be better than nothing.
4) And more of those bulleted updates, you haven't done that in a while.
5) Oh, and drink more milk, it might help your fingernail situation.
However, lately we have noticed a lack of activity on your blog. In fact, the last update as of 25 February 2007 was almost two weeks ago. We, like your father, are also disappointed with the number of posts dedicated to music videos. As such, we have a number of suggestions to improve your blog:
1) Since you seem incapable of consistently providing a song of the week we suggest your change the title of this particular phenomenon to "song of the indeterminate amount of time."
2) More updates.
3) Seriously, even posting a picture of your fingernail would be better than nothing.
4) And more of those bulleted updates, you haven't done that in a while.
5) Oh, and drink more milk, it might help your fingernail situation.
Sincerely,
The Internet
Monday, February 12, 2007
Mes Pommes
Let me tell you right now, the old man loved his trees. He would get up at about five in the morning, eat a small breakfast of yesterday’s bread and maybe gulp down a bit of the honey brown brandy he stowed under some sheepskin in the sitting room. He would clatter around the kitchen for a while for no particular reason and then he’d grab his cap, his shiny black cane and his worn sweater. Whatever the weather, he would wear that grey sweater, paying no mind to the soil that had stained itself indelibly into the fabric. Leaning on his cane and adjusting his cap he would go out to his apples. Then he would be out in the orchard with his trees, tending, pruning and admiring those delightful apple-bearing wonders. He took a small lunch at exactly noon, for the old man could fathom the sun as if it spoke in an audible voice, and then he’d be out there with his trees until he could barely make out the dim outline of them against the dark blue of night. This went on every day except of course Saturday when he’d interrupt his regular routine to attend the morning mass. He never did confession, he once told me he’d rather tell God directly than have some “bastard priest slathering all over my sins.”
There he would be, swinging his cane about his head as he tramped through his trees and bellowed out his roaring tirades of wisdom to the Almighty. The old man seemed to think that the only way God would hear him is if he shouted. It didn’t help any when his hearing had been going for the past ten years. The people of the village called him the holy apple and many nasty things not worth mentioning; but the old man didn’t give a damn. Maybe somewhere in his proud Gallic heritage there was an inbred apathy towards what other people thought of him. This, in combination with what I now realize was the early stages of dementia, made him especially vulnerable on that day.
The old man must have been somewhere around his mid-eighties when the war started. He barely seemed to notice when France surrendered to Germany, although once I heard him mutter something about “that spawn of the devil, Marshall Pétain.” The old man stuck to his orchard, shouting to God, and chasing away and calling down curses upon the hungry neighbours enjoying his succulent fruits prematurely.
It happened on a Friday, I’m not one for precise dates but I do tend to remember the day of the week. It was Thursday when we first heard the crack of weapons and the thundering boom of shells. Oh sure, we heard gunfire before, but I had never been this loud or insistent. The old man kept to his orchard never minding the sound of automatic weapons just tending his trees as if there was nothing else in the world to do.
Come Friday, the weapons had become deafening and Germans started pouring into our village. They dug themselves in right there, not to be moved, so it seemed. The family had in mind to leave, and they did. I stayed with the old man who would not be moved from his trees, especially in a war.
We had seen a few German soldiers throughout the war, but that Friday it was the first time I had seen so many. A jeep full of young Germans pulled up in front of our house. A slender young man, he couldn’t of been over twenty, stepped out of the vehicle. His black hair was slicked to one side and he was clean-shaven. How could a man find time to comb his hair when he was fighting a war?
“Good day,” he said. I glared at him, I wanted him to go home and tell his relatives never to visit France.
“Is it?”
“The guns are quiet, aren’t they?” he demanded in a lazy ignorant version of my language.
“Yes, and our Nazi liberators have arrived,” I replied tersely.
He smiled, a superficial smile of straight white teeth, “cigarette?”
“No,” I growled, “what do you want?”
“Apples,” he grinned, “for the Nazi liberators.”
“Are you paying?” I asked naively.
The German lit up a cigarette, puffed and then turned to the men behind him, “Damn money-grubbing French,” then he leaned forward towards me and spoke in French, “I don’t have to pay, by order of the Fuhrer.”
I clenched my fists.
“Hey! Who are you?” I don’t see why he cared who the old man was but the German called to him anyway.
“That’s my grandfather,” I tried to motion for him to return to the house, but my grandfather ignored me.
The old man tramped over to us, “WHAT IS THIS IMBECILE HERE FOR, M’BOY?”
“He wants apples,” I answered.
“WELL TELL HIM HE CAN’T HAVE THE BLEEDIN’ APPLES!” he cried in his high wavering voice.
“What did he say?” the German asked, likely confused by the Meridional accent that affected my grandfather’s speech.
“The old man says you can’t have apples,”
I shrugged.
He laughed, “He does?”
He leaned forward, “ I’m requisitioning them..”
“WHAT DID THE PRETTY BOY SAY?” the old man barked, “HE SOUNDS LIKE HE HAS VOMIT IN HIS THROAT.”
The old man turned his attention toward the sky, “DEAR GOD, THE GERMANS CHOKE ON THEIR OWN LANGUAGE, WHY MUST THEY CHOKE ON OURS?”
The old man looked at me again, “WHAT DID THE FOOL SAY?”
“He says he’s taking them anyhow,” I answered.
The German gestured to the men in the jeep, and they climbed out, taking several crates with them, “Pick those trees there.”
“DOES THE PRETTY BOY NOT UNDERSTAND US?” the old man growled.
“He doesn’t care, grandfather,” I tried to grab his shoulder, to guide him away, “let’s go.”.
“GET YOUR FORNICATING PAWS OFF OF MY APPLES YOU TEUTONIC DISEASE!” the old man roared, slapping my arm away with a gnarled hand.
With obvious annoyance, the German snorted, “get the hell away, old man.”
The old man’s wrinkled face was red and he waved his cane about his head like Moses lecturing the Israelites, “DON’T LET THOSE IGNORANT BRUTES TOUCH MY TREES, YOU NAZI PLAGUE! YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY OUT ANYHOW, YOU SQUARE-HEADED PEASANTS!”
The German grasped his chin and glanced side to side impatiently as if the answer lay in the land around him, “Get this old man out of here, boy, or I’ll get him out of here myself!”
I didn’t budge, I couldn’t. The old man stumbled over to where the men were tearing the apples off the tree, “YOU’RE WRECKING MY TREES, YOU FOOLS!”
His cane cracked down onto the shoulder of a large tough looking soldier, “GET YOUR BLEEDING PAWS OFF MY TREE, YOU DONKEY-BRAINED BOCHE!”
The big German glanced at the old man in a perturbed manner but kept recklessly tearing the apples from the trees.
The cane came down across the back of another man’s helmet, “APPLES ARE SACRED YOU BLEEDING FOOLS! PIGS SHOULDN’T DRINK MERLOT, DOGS SHOULDN’T DINE ON CAVIAR, VERMIN SHOULDN’T WEAR PEARLS, AND NAZIS SHOULDN’T EAT MY APPLES!”
The German muttered his exasperation, swore and then raised his sidearm, “get out of here old man, or I’ll blow you head off!”
My grandfather stared at the German in perplexion, “YOU WOULD SHOOT AN OLD MAN?”
“In defence of the Reich,” the German answered tersely in French.
“DEFEND YOUR EMPIRE AND I WILL DEFEND MY APPLES!” the old man bellowed and gave the big German a wack between the legs that sent him cringing to the ground.
“Get out of here old man or I’ll shoot!” the black-haired German yelled.
“NOT WHILE YOUR MEN RAPE MY TREES!” the old man snarled.
“Stupid.” I saw a brutish light of murder glint in the soldier’s eyes.
I cried out a warning but the old man didn’t seem to hear. He stumped over, dirty grey sweater flying in the wind and shiny black cane raised in terrible defiance. There was a pop and the old man dropped, a red ribbon of blood staining his chest, “MY APPLES . . .”
There he would be, swinging his cane about his head as he tramped through his trees and bellowed out his roaring tirades of wisdom to the Almighty. The old man seemed to think that the only way God would hear him is if he shouted. It didn’t help any when his hearing had been going for the past ten years. The people of the village called him the holy apple and many nasty things not worth mentioning; but the old man didn’t give a damn. Maybe somewhere in his proud Gallic heritage there was an inbred apathy towards what other people thought of him. This, in combination with what I now realize was the early stages of dementia, made him especially vulnerable on that day.
The old man must have been somewhere around his mid-eighties when the war started. He barely seemed to notice when France surrendered to Germany, although once I heard him mutter something about “that spawn of the devil, Marshall Pétain.” The old man stuck to his orchard, shouting to God, and chasing away and calling down curses upon the hungry neighbours enjoying his succulent fruits prematurely.
It happened on a Friday, I’m not one for precise dates but I do tend to remember the day of the week. It was Thursday when we first heard the crack of weapons and the thundering boom of shells. Oh sure, we heard gunfire before, but I had never been this loud or insistent. The old man kept to his orchard never minding the sound of automatic weapons just tending his trees as if there was nothing else in the world to do.
Come Friday, the weapons had become deafening and Germans started pouring into our village. They dug themselves in right there, not to be moved, so it seemed. The family had in mind to leave, and they did. I stayed with the old man who would not be moved from his trees, especially in a war.
We had seen a few German soldiers throughout the war, but that Friday it was the first time I had seen so many. A jeep full of young Germans pulled up in front of our house. A slender young man, he couldn’t of been over twenty, stepped out of the vehicle. His black hair was slicked to one side and he was clean-shaven. How could a man find time to comb his hair when he was fighting a war?
“Good day,” he said. I glared at him, I wanted him to go home and tell his relatives never to visit France.
“Is it?”
“The guns are quiet, aren’t they?” he demanded in a lazy ignorant version of my language.
“Yes, and our Nazi liberators have arrived,” I replied tersely.
He smiled, a superficial smile of straight white teeth, “cigarette?”
“No,” I growled, “what do you want?”
“Apples,” he grinned, “for the Nazi liberators.”
“Are you paying?” I asked naively.
The German lit up a cigarette, puffed and then turned to the men behind him, “Damn money-grubbing French,” then he leaned forward towards me and spoke in French, “I don’t have to pay, by order of the Fuhrer.”
I clenched my fists.
“Hey! Who are you?” I don’t see why he cared who the old man was but the German called to him anyway.
“That’s my grandfather,” I tried to motion for him to return to the house, but my grandfather ignored me.
The old man tramped over to us, “WHAT IS THIS IMBECILE HERE FOR, M’BOY?”
“He wants apples,” I answered.
“WELL TELL HIM HE CAN’T HAVE THE BLEEDIN’ APPLES!” he cried in his high wavering voice.
“What did he say?” the German asked, likely confused by the Meridional accent that affected my grandfather’s speech.
“The old man says you can’t have apples,”
I shrugged.He laughed, “He does?”
He leaned forward, “ I’m requisitioning them..”
“WHAT DID THE PRETTY BOY SAY?” the old man barked, “HE SOUNDS LIKE HE HAS VOMIT IN HIS THROAT.”
The old man turned his attention toward the sky, “DEAR GOD, THE GERMANS CHOKE ON THEIR OWN LANGUAGE, WHY MUST THEY CHOKE ON OURS?”
The old man looked at me again, “WHAT DID THE FOOL SAY?”
“He says he’s taking them anyhow,” I answered.
The German gestured to the men in the jeep, and they climbed out, taking several crates with them, “Pick those trees there.”
“DOES THE PRETTY BOY NOT UNDERSTAND US?” the old man growled.
“He doesn’t care, grandfather,” I tried to grab his shoulder, to guide him away, “let’s go.”.
“GET YOUR FORNICATING PAWS OFF OF MY APPLES YOU TEUTONIC DISEASE!” the old man roared, slapping my arm away with a gnarled hand.
With obvious annoyance, the German snorted, “get the hell away, old man.”
The old man’s wrinkled face was red and he waved his cane about his head like Moses lecturing the Israelites, “DON’T LET THOSE IGNORANT BRUTES TOUCH MY TREES, YOU NAZI PLAGUE! YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY OUT ANYHOW, YOU SQUARE-HEADED PEASANTS!”
The German grasped his chin and glanced side to side impatiently as if the answer lay in the land around him, “Get this old man out of here, boy, or I’ll get him out of here myself!”
I didn’t budge, I couldn’t. The old man stumbled over to where the men were tearing the apples off the tree, “YOU’RE WRECKING MY TREES, YOU FOOLS!”
His cane cracked down onto the shoulder of a large tough looking soldier, “GET YOUR BLEEDING PAWS OFF MY TREE, YOU DONKEY-BRAINED BOCHE!”
The big German glanced at the old man in a perturbed manner but kept recklessly tearing the apples from the trees.
The cane came down across the back of another man’s helmet, “APPLES ARE SACRED YOU BLEEDING FOOLS! PIGS SHOULDN’T DRINK MERLOT, DOGS SHOULDN’T DINE ON CAVIAR, VERMIN SHOULDN’T WEAR PEARLS, AND NAZIS SHOULDN’T EAT MY APPLES!”
The German muttered his exasperation, swore and then raised his sidearm, “get out of here old man, or I’ll blow you head off!”
My grandfather stared at the German in perplexion, “YOU WOULD SHOOT AN OLD MAN?”
“In defence of the Reich,” the German answered tersely in French.
“DEFEND YOUR EMPIRE AND I WILL DEFEND MY APPLES!” the old man bellowed and gave the big German a wack between the legs that sent him cringing to the ground.
“Get out of here old man or I’ll shoot!” the black-haired German yelled.
“NOT WHILE YOUR MEN RAPE MY TREES!” the old man snarled.
“Stupid.” I saw a brutish light of murder glint in the soldier’s eyes.
I cried out a warning but the old man didn’t seem to hear. He stumped over, dirty grey sweater flying in the wind and shiny black cane raised in terrible defiance. There was a pop and the old man dropped, a red ribbon of blood staining his chest, “MY APPLES . . .”
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Song of the Week: Sorry Again - Tomi Swick
I recently purchased Tomi Swick's album "Stalled out in the Doorway." His music is mellow, melodic, lilting and beautiful. Not only is the music good, but Tomi is from Hamilton, which increases his hip-factor by at least ten. You may have heard his songs on the radio as they are getting some good rotation. If not (and if so, for that matter), here's a sample:
I recently purchased Tomi Swick's album "Stalled out in the Doorway." His music is mellow, melodic, lilting and beautiful. Not only is the music good, but Tomi is from Hamilton, which increases his hip-factor by at least ten. You may have heard his songs on the radio as they are getting some good rotation. If not (and if so, for that matter), here's a sample:
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Old Poem:
Old Man
An old man in a cardigan on the corner of the street
between the dull concrete walls with a wooden plank for his seat
rests his gnarled fingers on worn book lying on his lap
his bright brown eyes searching anxiously from underneath his cap
for a friendly smile in the crowd of dismal grey faces
rushing by on their way to their dismal grey places
“I have many stories to share,” he whispers to the cold faces above,
“stories from my youth until now, stories of happiness and love,”
he pauses, “I was a fisherman once, a lived by the sea
with my young wife and children, in a poor community.
My brothers and I — we owned a sleek wooden boat
Oh! She’d rather fly through the sea than bother to float
We would row the craft out into the deep emerald ocean
and fling our nets over the waters with one soaring motion
then we would sing and tell stories to enrich the short day
or sometimes we’d be silent and listen to the ocean spray,”
His eyes focus on the dusty service of the old album
and his ancient fingers tap ardently in a rhythmic drum,
“there would be enough fish for our families — for them to eat
and with the leftovers we could buy whatever we might need.
Oh — and my young family, what fine stories I have to share,”
the old man opens the book and points, “see that? We once lived there.
This small yellow shack, beside the blue one, under that palm tree,
see, that’s my wife, those are my sons, and my daughters on my knee
my sons and I would play cricket on the beach until sundown
and some days I’d go to the market with my daughter, in town
I’d buy her a bracelet, some milk chocolate, or a book
and we’d bring home some rice and chicken for my wife to cook.”
The old man carefully closes the album and folds his hands
smiling and lifting his eyes to catch a passerby’s glance.
But their faces are stone and their faces are the same,
so they don’t even bother to ask him his name.
Old Man
An old man in a cardigan on the corner of the street
between the dull concrete walls with a wooden plank for his seat
rests his gnarled fingers on worn book lying on his lap
his bright brown eyes searching anxiously from underneath his cap
for a friendly smile in the crowd of dismal grey faces
rushing by on their way to their dismal grey places
“I have many stories to share,” he whispers to the cold faces above,
“stories from my youth until now, stories of happiness and love,”
he pauses, “I was a fisherman once, a lived by the sea
with my young wife and children, in a poor community.
My brothers and I — we owned a sleek wooden boat
Oh! She’d rather fly through the sea than bother to float
We would row the craft out into the deep emerald ocean
and fling our nets over the waters with one soaring motion
then we would sing and tell stories to enrich the short day
or sometimes we’d be silent and listen to the ocean spray,”
His eyes focus on the dusty service of the old album
and his ancient fingers tap ardently in a rhythmic drum,
“there would be enough fish for our families — for them to eat
and with the leftovers we could buy whatever we might need.
Oh — and my young family, what fine stories I have to share,”
the old man opens the book and points, “see that? We once lived there.
This small yellow shack, beside the blue one, under that palm tree,
see, that’s my wife, those are my sons, and my daughters on my knee
my sons and I would play cricket on the beach until sundown
and some days I’d go to the market with my daughter, in town
I’d buy her a bracelet, some milk chocolate, or a book
and we’d bring home some rice and chicken for my wife to cook.”
The old man carefully closes the album and folds his hands
smiling and lifting his eyes to catch a passerby’s glance.
But their faces are stone and their faces are the same,
so they don’t even bother to ask him his name.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The Visitors
On Sunday night my indomitable relatives visited from the middle reaches of the empty wasteland between the land of milk and honey and the Pacific Ocean (also known as Saskatchewan). Clint "where's my Stetson?" Langelaar and Karen "Stertorous-Breather" Langelaar came up to Ottawa with little baby Owen "Awesomeness" Langelaar. On Sunday night at 11:30pm the family arrived at the Ottawa train station . . .
*interruption*
"What are you blogging about? How Owen would only smile at me in the morning? What's up with that?" Laurianne queries with rapid-fire delivery. She laughs as she walks away.
*interruption recedes into another area of the apartment*
Anyhow, we talked for a while and then went to bed. Monday morning I drove Laurianne to work and came back to cook my patient guests some breakfast. Being the generous folk that they are, they decided to treat me to breakfast instead. Either that, or the thought of an omelette cooked by John was too distasteful to fathom. I took them to Chez Cora which is, unequivically, the best breakfast restaraunt chain in the universe. Maybe not, but it certainly is worthy of a superlative. After this, we headed back to the apartment where we watched Everything is Illuminated while Karen succumbed to her sleep and Owen took a nap. After Karen had rested, she decided it was time to rest, so Clint and I headed out to the Canadian Museum of War. I should mention that Ottawa was receiving its first real snowfall at this time. This, of course, gave Ottawa's museums an excuse to save money by closing. From the Museum of War, which was closed, we headed downtown where I parked under the World Exchange Plaza. Disheartened, we comforted ourselves with junk food from McDonald's. From there, we hiked over to the Bank of Canada to go to the currency museum (Clint collects rare currency). This museum was also closed.
Having come from a storm system that along with frigid temperatures of -35 had deposited snowdrifts of nine feet, Clint had some choice words about the use of his tax dollars. (We only had about ten centimetres of snow that day). From there, we headed over to Starbucks (?) and sucked back some coffee while we discussed politics, history, and Stephen Harper's hair. We then went to pick up Laurianne from work and took her back to the apartment. Laurianne cooked a very good meal, although she shocked Karen with her copious use of salt. We had a pleasant evening of conversation and then it was off to bed, because we needed to drive them to the airport early the next morning.
We had a great time and it was wonderful to see Karen and Clint after so long and to see little Owen for the first time. He was a bit cantankerous by the time he got to us. This was only natural after having been subjected to enough camera flashes during his time in Port Perry to make a young Hollywood starlet jealous. Nevertheless, the combined awesomeness of Laurianne and I was still enough to coax many smiles from the little guy. I hope Karen and Clint can come again while the museums are open.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I've been tagged by my friend Daryl de Boer (no relation, note the lack of a proper "n" after the word "de".) I must reveal five things about myself that no one knows. Now, I'm not a particularly mysterious person so my feeling is that these five things are going to be mind-numbingly mundane. But, hey, someone needs to help the insomniacs.
1) Some might have guessed this (guessing and knowing are two different things), but I enjoy singing at high volumes when I am alone in the car. I also speak to other drivers as if they can hear me.
2) I don't have agoraphobia, but I do often feel slightly annoyed and uncomfortable when I am in a large crowd.
3) I'm usually an optimist unless I'm in traffic, contemplating the depth of human depravity, or waiting for Laurianne. In those cases I am a pessimist, a cynic, and an annoyed skeptic, respectively.
4) Some may have suspected this (suspecting and knowing are two different things), but I have never been to the Winona Peach Festival.
5) You may be astonished to learn this, but I once killed a kitten in front of a group of aghast kindergartners because it looked at me the wrong way. Now, you may be saying to yourself at this point that those kindergartners would undoubtedly remember such a heinous crime, and by remembering they would, of course, know. If you indeed said this then you would be wrong because no one knows this fact about me because it isn't true.
Whom do I tag?
Whoever wants to be "it." Think about it, because if no one volunteers to be "it" it's a bit like me going in after recess without having tagged anyone. Meaning, of course, that I lost the game.
1) Some might have guessed this (guessing and knowing are two different things), but I enjoy singing at high volumes when I am alone in the car. I also speak to other drivers as if they can hear me.
2) I don't have agoraphobia, but I do often feel slightly annoyed and uncomfortable when I am in a large crowd.
3) I'm usually an optimist unless I'm in traffic, contemplating the depth of human depravity, or waiting for Laurianne. In those cases I am a pessimist, a cynic, and an annoyed skeptic, respectively.
4) Some may have suspected this (suspecting and knowing are two different things), but I have never been to the Winona Peach Festival.
5) You may be astonished to learn this, but I once killed a kitten in front of a group of aghast kindergartners because it looked at me the wrong way. Now, you may be saying to yourself at this point that those kindergartners would undoubtedly remember such a heinous crime, and by remembering they would, of course, know. If you indeed said this then you would be wrong because no one knows this fact about me because it isn't true.
Whom do I tag?
Whoever wants to be "it." Think about it, because if no one volunteers to be "it" it's a bit like me going in after recess without having tagged anyone. Meaning, of course, that I lost the game.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Matthew de Zoete at Irene's Pub 01/06/07
This past Saturday, along with my wife and Phil "the Vulture" Proper, I headed to Irene's Pub to hear Matthew de Zoete play. I had read about his appearance in the newspaper and was eager to hear my old friend's music. Although a year ahead of me, de Zoete and I had attended the same high school and often talked. I had not seen or heard much from him since he left high school, and was completely oblivious to the fact that he had been married (although I vaguely recall my father possibly saying something about it when I wasn't paying attention.) Laurianne, my wife, laughed when I told her that the de Zoete family had moved into our old house back in '94 (?).
"What? Are you Dutch people that insular that you only buy houses from eachother?"
I think Matthew's career itself does enough to show how utterly un-Mennonite the Dutch can be.
Anyhow, we were not disappointed with the concert. Matt performed the first set before Ottawa musicians Shannon Rose and Lisa Poushinsky. Matthew played his guitar without the usual accompaniment of his bassist and drummer. I love music, and although I don't always understand it's inner workings, I consider his guitar playing skills to be excellent. His songs are mellow without being dry or superficial, his music is rich and vibrant, and his lyrics are thoughtful and poetic. A few of my favourite songs were Rest Deep, Letters Sent by Mail, and Who Am I to Say? Matt's banter was humourous and the audience was receptive, even after he made a comment that could have been interpreted as slightly derisive towards the French. Of course, Matt loves the French and he clarified that quite well to the audience (he even left me a message in French on the album I purchased.) I still have some of Matt's older music and I have attended a few of his concerts in the past and it is great to see how much both his musicianship and his lyrical prowess have matured.
We were able to converse with Matt for a while after his set, and it was truly enjoyable to catch up with him. We wish him the best of luck in his career, and hope to see him in concert again soon.
"What? Are you Dutch people that insular that you only buy houses from eachother?"
I think Matthew's career itself does enough to show how utterly un-Mennonite the Dutch can be.
Anyhow, we were not disappointed with the concert. Matt performed the first set before Ottawa musicians Shannon Rose and Lisa Poushinsky. Matthew played his guitar without the usual accompaniment of his bassist and drummer. I love music, and although I don't always understand it's inner workings, I consider his guitar playing skills to be excellent. His songs are mellow without being dry or superficial, his music is rich and vibrant, and his lyrics are thoughtful and poetic. A few of my favourite songs were Rest Deep, Letters Sent by Mail, and Who Am I to Say? Matt's banter was humourous and the audience was receptive, even after he made a comment that could have been interpreted as slightly derisive towards the French. Of course, Matt loves the French and he clarified that quite well to the audience (he even left me a message in French on the album I purchased.) I still have some of Matt's older music and I have attended a few of his concerts in the past and it is great to see how much both his musicianship and his lyrical prowess have matured.
We were able to converse with Matt for a while after his set, and it was truly enjoyable to catch up with him. We wish him the best of luck in his career, and hope to see him in concert again soon.
Check him and his album Across the Sea out:
Matthew de Zoete
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Song of the Week: These Eyes - Guess Who
"This is Guess Who"
"Who?"
"Guess Who"
"Who?"
"No really, it's Guess Who"
*laughter*
(this is an actual approximation of supposed multiple conversations between my mother and father back when they had these things called "records" which were these big black shiny vinyl things that played songs with this little needle thingy. My father still remembers other things from ancient history like when the Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup and he had to make his own papyrus before going to school)
My dad has informed me that he doesn't particularly care for the songs of the week. That is, they don't interest him. I said I'd make one dedicated to him and here it is:
"This is Guess Who"
"Who?"
"Guess Who"
"Who?"
"No really, it's Guess Who"
*laughter*
(this is an actual approximation of supposed multiple conversations between my mother and father back when they had these things called "records" which were these big black shiny vinyl things that played songs with this little needle thingy. My father still remembers other things from ancient history like when the Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup and he had to make his own papyrus before going to school)
My dad has informed me that he doesn't particularly care for the songs of the week. That is, they don't interest him. I said I'd make one dedicated to him and here it is:
Monday, December 18, 2006
Song of the Week: Johnny B. Goode - Peter Tosh
Peter Tosh was a member of the Wailers along with Bob Marley and Bunny Wailer until he left after Chris Blackwell refused to give him a solo album in 1974. The bad-tempered Tosh, always one for wordplay, dubbed Chris Blackwell Chris Whiteworst. He also referred to the Jamaican government as the crime ministers who shit in the house of represent a thieves (he didn't vote so he wasn't calling himself a thief). Tosh was far more revolutionary in his lyrics than Marley. While Marley is remembered for his song "One Love," Tosh angrily refused to consider peace until there was justice. Tosh was notorious for his short fuse and it had only gotten worse after a tragic car accident in which his girlfriend died and he fractured his skull. He bitterly complained that he could not reach the levels of success that Marley did because Marley was half-white and more marketable. Tosh once threatened violence and wrath against Marley because he found out he was seeing a white woman. When Marley entered the room, Tosh greeted him amiably as if nothing was amiss. When Marley heard of the incident he laughed and said, "Peter? fussin? You don't seh!" Although it is conceivable that Tosh was wary of fighting the dread-locked superstar people called "Tuff Gong" for his toughness and surprising strength, it is also possible that Marley's cool was just the thing for Tosh's fire. Peter Tosh continued to live in Marley's shadow after Marley died in 1981. He did earn a reggae grammy and enjoy great success in South Africa. He was outspoken about his beliefs and often received the blunt end of Jamaican justice. In fact, in 1978 he was beaten senseless and left for dead in a prison cell for singing a song that violated Jamaica's anti-profanity laws. On September 11, 1987 Tosh was shot dead in his home in what the police called a robbery. No goods were taken, however, and only one of the three men responsible was arrested. Tosh was probably cantankerous right down to the end.
Johnny B. Goode is a cover of the famous Chuck Berry classic with a few minor changes. Tosh didn't like to do covers but was persuaded to do so and relunctantly agreed. I'm glad he did.
Lyrics:
Deep down in Jamaica close to Mandeville
Back up in the woods on top of a hill
There stood an old hut made of earth and wood
Where lived a country boy named Johnny B Goode
He never learned to read and a write so well
But he could play his guitar like ringing a bell yell
CHORUS
I say go (go johnny) Johnny be good tonight, yea
I said go (go johnny) johnny be good
He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack
Sitting in a tree in the railroad track
Old engineer in the train sitting in the shade
Strummin' with the rhythm that them drivers made
People passing by would stop and say
Oh my oh my how what the boy can play
CHORUS
Mama said son you gotta be a man
You gotta be the leader of a reggae band
People coming in from miles around
To hear you play until the sun goes down
Boy someday your name will be in the lights
Saying Johnny B Goode tonight
Peter Tosh was a member of the Wailers along with Bob Marley and Bunny Wailer until he left after Chris Blackwell refused to give him a solo album in 1974. The bad-tempered Tosh, always one for wordplay, dubbed Chris Blackwell Chris Whiteworst. He also referred to the Jamaican government as the crime ministers who shit in the house of represent a thieves (he didn't vote so he wasn't calling himself a thief). Tosh was far more revolutionary in his lyrics than Marley. While Marley is remembered for his song "One Love," Tosh angrily refused to consider peace until there was justice. Tosh was notorious for his short fuse and it had only gotten worse after a tragic car accident in which his girlfriend died and he fractured his skull. He bitterly complained that he could not reach the levels of success that Marley did because Marley was half-white and more marketable. Tosh once threatened violence and wrath against Marley because he found out he was seeing a white woman. When Marley entered the room, Tosh greeted him amiably as if nothing was amiss. When Marley heard of the incident he laughed and said, "Peter? fussin? You don't seh!" Although it is conceivable that Tosh was wary of fighting the dread-locked superstar people called "Tuff Gong" for his toughness and surprising strength, it is also possible that Marley's cool was just the thing for Tosh's fire. Peter Tosh continued to live in Marley's shadow after Marley died in 1981. He did earn a reggae grammy and enjoy great success in South Africa. He was outspoken about his beliefs and often received the blunt end of Jamaican justice. In fact, in 1978 he was beaten senseless and left for dead in a prison cell for singing a song that violated Jamaica's anti-profanity laws. On September 11, 1987 Tosh was shot dead in his home in what the police called a robbery. No goods were taken, however, and only one of the three men responsible was arrested. Tosh was probably cantankerous right down to the end.
Johnny B. Goode is a cover of the famous Chuck Berry classic with a few minor changes. Tosh didn't like to do covers but was persuaded to do so and relunctantly agreed. I'm glad he did.
Lyrics:
Deep down in Jamaica close to Mandeville
Back up in the woods on top of a hill
There stood an old hut made of earth and wood
Where lived a country boy named Johnny B Goode
He never learned to read and a write so well
But he could play his guitar like ringing a bell yell
CHORUS
I say go (go johnny) Johnny be good tonight, yea
I said go (go johnny) johnny be good
He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack
Sitting in a tree in the railroad track
Old engineer in the train sitting in the shade
Strummin' with the rhythm that them drivers made
People passing by would stop and say
Oh my oh my how what the boy can play
CHORUS
Mama said son you gotta be a man
You gotta be the leader of a reggae band
People coming in from miles around
To hear you play until the sun goes down
Boy someday your name will be in the lights
Saying Johnny B Goode tonight
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Olives
Usually, however, he would sit at a prominent place on the patio of Hôtel Méditerranéen and ponder existence aloud, over a pint of Heineken. He never brought his Greek books there, as the owner of the hotel was Greek and might begin questioning him about the books' contents. Sometimes he philosophized in French, sometimes in Kirundi, sometimes in his limited Arabic, and sometimes in broken English. His philosophy consisted of simple metaphors and homilies, and the occasional insight gained from a book read long ago.
His face radiated a youthful innocence and naivite that belied his old age. His hair was peppered with grey, and deep laugh wrinkles splayed from the corners of his eyes. These brown eyes danced with life and vigour, even when he furrowed his brow in attempt to brood darkly. His skin was light brown and his face revealed some of his Arabic ancestry. His black mother had been a beautiful city woman of loose morals, notorious for her trysts with various mazungus and rich foreigners. She had actually fallen in love with an Arabic businessman who hadn't reciprocated. Still, the Arab had sponsored his illegitimate child through a decent education in Paris.
Baybars al-Hamid Ntwari was his name, although very few people knew or remembered this. Most of his fellow villagers affectionately called him the old bighead. Many people would come to him for amusement and a few earnest country folk genuinely valued his advice.
"Monsieur, my neighbour plays loud music, what can I do to make it stop?" asked one middle-aged villager.
"Mmmm," he responded, and then nodded his head as he sat deep in thought, "A neighbour is like an empty vase and the things you say to them should be the flowers which make this vase functional."
"What of the loud music?"
"Music is like an emotion which cannot be defined."
"But what should I do to stop this loud music?"
"Eat with him, food is a healing balm."
"And he will stop his music?"
"Ask not if the music will stop, but if you are willing to sacrifice flowers and healing balm for the volume of that which cannot be defined."
"Aaaah, I see."
One day, a dark day like no other, a glowering youth sat down in front of him, his fists on the table and his tense body leaning forward in an intimidating posture. Baybars had heard rumours of troubles around town, but, as usual, he had ignored them. He had heard many rumours during his time, and only a few had come to fruition. Even then, he had survived without trouble: "Why are you here old man?"
"Why is anyone here?"
The youth's glower became fiercer, "Why are you, an Arab, here, in Africa?"
"The earth remains impartial about the labels we give it, though we stain it red with our blood, it remains unmoved."
"The soil of Africa is black like its people."
"If the colour of the soil determined the distribution of peoples various skin tones, then Europe would have a chalky white soil," Baybars spoke softly, in the sing-song voice he used for his philosophizing, "this soil is red and brown and yet I see no red men."
"I want to extinguish all of the foreigners."
The old man, usually jovial, became serious, "May I tell you a story?"
"A story?" the youth asked incredulously, "a story?"
"Yes, a story."
"You try my patience, old bighead," the youth glared malevolently at the old man.
"Long ago in ancient Greece," he began, for whenever he told a parable it was set in an often anachronistic ancient Greece, "there was a farmer who was renowned for his olives."
"I hate olives and mazungus except for Karl Marx," the youth observed coldly.
"When you get past the bitter flesh, the core of Marx is an inedible pit," sang Baybars softly.
"What?"
"I shall continue," Baybars put up his hand calmly, in a quieting motion. The youth remained strangely silent, although he shook his head and sniffed derisively, "This farmer was known across the land for the quality of his olives and the thick honey-brown olive oil he created. Men travelled from the furthest reaches of the country to buy his wondrous olives and his olive oil. Year after year, his olive crop was without equal and each year he prospered. The man was exceedingly proud of his olives because he had been born a gypsy and suffered much persecution as a young man. He was angry with all of the people who had treated him unjustly. He was particularly angry with the Jews, however, as two men who happened to be Jews had been particularly unkind to him. A Jewish baker had beaten him when he had made amorous advances towards his daughter, and, after he had bought his land, a Jewish moneylender had charged him exhorbitant interest ra
tes that kept him in debt for many years. Yes, the man was proud of where he came from and proud of where he felt he was going. One year, however, his olives inexplicably became bitter, dry and almost inedible while his olive oil became a sickly pale yellow. He was confused, having no idea how his olives had failed to grow as well as usual. He had tended them with as much care as usual and yet they could not even fetch a tenth of their former price. Angry and frustrated, he mulled over his dilemma until he came up with the solution."
"You're trying my patience, what was the solution?"
"The Jews. The Jews had given him the evil eye and caused his olive crop to fail."
"What is the evil eye?" the youth growled.
"An envious eye that casts a curse upon the one who is looked at."
"I have no time for your story," the youth's eyes smouldered with impatient anger.
"Very well," Baybars responded.
"Don't you realize you're on trial, old man?" the youth stuck a long finger in the old man's face.
"What crime have I committed?" Baybars asked quietly.
"You have stolen land, raped our women, murdered our countrymen, and oppressed our people."
"I am happy that I at least have a trial. You are my judge?"
"Yes."
"When did I do these things?" Baybars asked, looking at the young man intently.
"Your people, your father have done these things."
"You knew my father?" Baybars smiled in a patronizing manner.
The youth's eyes flashed with anger as he reached behind himself and thrust a machete dangerously close to Baybars' face. Baybars reflexively turned his head away and put his hands above his head, "Don't talk down to me, old man!" the youth nicked Baybars' face neatly with the machete, a tiny red fleck of blood appeared.
Baybars recomposed himself with astounding speed, "Did you know my father?"
"No, but I know what he did," the youth hunkered menacingly over the table where Baybars sat.
"You know he invested in coffee?"
"From stolen land, thereby condoning the colonial system!"
"Land is like the wind, who can own it?" the red fleck of blood had formed into a tiny rivulet, which Baybars wiped away with his hand.
"If the mazungu, Tutsi cockroaches, and Arab fools could sell the wind, they would. Your father propped up the colonial system through his investment and you profited from it!" the youth spat.
"The rat criticizes the mouse for eating garbage."
"Say what you mean, old bighead!" the youth knocked Baybars' Heineken from the table, and it clattered across the stone patio before the neck snapped as it hit the yellow concrete wall.
"And your father, Hameza, is he not a foreman and does he not take wages from the coffee plantation?"
The youth leaned forward, his slick face inches from Baybars, "My father uses the corrupt system to his benefit whereas your father was part of the problem."
"The vulture does not seek out its brethren before it feasts on a carcass."
"In plain terms, old bighead!"
"And your father," Baybars said calmly, "he distributed his wages equally to the rightful owners of this land?"
"He was the rightful owner!" the youth reared backwards and swatted his machete through the air aggressively.
'Of all the land?"
"Of all of our land."
"So, the Tutsi, the mazungu and my father stole your father's land?"
"Yes."
Your father owns all of Burundi's land?"
"All Hutus own Burundi, we were here first."
"This is a law?"
"This is the truth."
"And how am I guilty?"
"You are guilty of benefiting from the profits of stolen land."
"My father's coffee investments mean my own guilt?" Baybars queried.
"Yes."
"So, I must repay the profits?"
"That," the youth snarled, "would be just the beginning."
"My father lost money in that investment, does this mean that you pay me?"
"Fool!" The youth cuffed Baybars across the top of his head. The movement was quick and violent but only connected weakly with the old man's pate.
Baybars rubbed his head gingerly, more for the benefit of the youth than for himself, "what of the accusation of rape?"
"Your father raped a Hutu woman and you are the bastard product," the youth eyed Baybars contemtuously, "I know your story."
"The songbird does not sing the song of the jackal," sang Baybars softly.
"Enough with your proverbs, old bighead!"
"Tell me something, young man," Baybars said in an even tone, "do rape victims customarily allow their rapists to name their child?"
The youth looked unsure of himself for a moment and then quickly collected himself as if remembering something he had been told, "Any pairing of an outsider with a Hutu is the equivalent of a rape!"
"What of your grandmother?"
"What of her?"
"She is Tutsi."
"You lie!" the youth, furious, swung his machete down into the table, where the metal cleaved into the wood and vibrated for several seconds. There was obviously something to Baybar's claim.
"What of the accusation of murder?" Baybars queried.
"You have supported a government that has endorsed genocide against the Hutu people!"
"Whom did I support?"
"Micombero and all of the Tutsi pigs!" the youth spat.
"In which election did I vote for Micombero?" Baybars asked.
"There was no election! He stole power like all cockroaches do."
"Then how did I support him?"
"You are a part of the system of foreigners that oppresses the Hutu majority!"
"Ah, the fourth charge," Baybars noted, "I oppressed my mother and her people. Why would I oppress my own mother?"
"Some Hutu are part of the problem. Your mother was part of the problem."
"Yes, a few extremists create problems for everyone."
If the youth comprehended Baybar's barb, it wasn't apparent on his face, "I have no more time for words with you. You are beneath me."
"What is your verdict, young judge?" Baybars asked respectfully.
"You are guilty!"
"And what of my sentence?"
"Death!" the youth roared.
"May I have one final request?"
"What is it?" the youth snapped.
"May I finish my story?"
The youth hesitated, the nervous anticipation of the kill was apparent in the way his chest heaved with short breaths, "Fine."
"The farmer believed that his olive crop had failed because of the evil eye the Jews had given him. He felt that if he did not stop the source of this evil eye, his body would shrivel away to nothingness."
"That's stupid."
"That is what he believed. Now that he had located the source of his failure, he pondered how he would repair it. He finally came to a rather crude solution: he incited a mob which burned down the homes of the Jewish families in their village. This satisfied his anger and he retired to his home as bitter, shrivelled, and dry as his olives."
"This is it?" the youth scoffed, "I don't get it."
He looked into the youth's bloodshot eyes, and what he saw was emptiness, "You are the man."
Baybars closed his eyes as he felt the metal bite into his skin repeatedly. He looked up at the sun shining through the branches of a Eucalyptus tree and he smiled despite the pain as he felt the life drain from his body.
His face radiated a youthful innocence and naivite that belied his old age. His hair was peppered with grey, and deep laugh wrinkles splayed from the corners of his eyes. These brown eyes danced with life and vigour, even when he furrowed his brow in attempt to brood darkly. His skin was light brown and his face revealed some of his Arabic ancestry. His black mother had been a beautiful city woman of loose morals, notorious for her trysts with various mazungus and rich foreigners. She had actually fallen in love with an Arabic businessman who hadn't reciprocated. Still, the Arab had sponsored his illegitimate child through a decent education in Paris.
Baybars al-Hamid Ntwari was his name, although very few people knew or remembered this. Most of his fellow villagers affectionately called him the old bighead. Many people would come to him for amusement and a few earnest country folk genuinely valued his advice.
"Monsieur, my neighbour plays loud music, what can I do to make it stop?" asked one middle-aged villager.
"Mmmm," he responded, and then nodded his head as he sat deep in thought, "A neighbour is like an empty vase and the things you say to them should be the flowers which make this vase functional."
"What of the loud music?"
"Music is like an emotion which cannot be defined."
"But what should I do to stop this loud music?"
"Eat with him, food is a healing balm."
"And he will stop his music?"
"Ask not if the music will stop, but if you are willing to sacrifice flowers and healing balm for the volume of that which cannot be defined."
"Aaaah, I see."
One day, a dark day like no other, a glowering youth sat down in front of him, his fists on the table and his tense body leaning forward in an intimidating posture. Baybars had heard rumours of troubles around town, but, as usual, he had ignored them. He had heard many rumours during his time, and only a few had come to fruition. Even then, he had survived without trouble: "Why are you here old man?"
"Why is anyone here?"
The youth's glower became fiercer, "Why are you, an Arab, here, in Africa?"
"The earth remains impartial about the labels we give it, though we stain it red with our blood, it remains unmoved."
"The soil of Africa is black like its people."
"If the colour of the soil determined the distribution of peoples various skin tones, then Europe would have a chalky white soil," Baybars spoke softly, in the sing-song voice he used for his philosophizing, "this soil is red and brown and yet I see no red men."
"I want to extinguish all of the foreigners."
The old man, usually jovial, became serious, "May I tell you a story?"
"A story?" the youth asked incredulously, "a story?"
"Yes, a story."
"You try my patience, old bighead," the youth glared malevolently at the old man.
"Long ago in ancient Greece," he began, for whenever he told a parable it was set in an often anachronistic ancient Greece, "there was a farmer who was renowned for his olives."
"I hate olives and mazungus except for Karl Marx," the youth observed coldly.
"When you get past the bitter flesh, the core of Marx is an inedible pit," sang Baybars softly.
"What?"
"I shall continue," Baybars put up his hand calmly, in a quieting motion. The youth remained strangely silent, although he shook his head and sniffed derisively, "This farmer was known across the land for the quality of his olives and the thick honey-brown olive oil he created. Men travelled from the furthest reaches of the country to buy his wondrous olives and his olive oil. Year after year, his olive crop was without equal and each year he prospered. The man was exceedingly proud of his olives because he had been born a gypsy and suffered much persecution as a young man. He was angry with all of the people who had treated him unjustly. He was particularly angry with the Jews, however, as two men who happened to be Jews had been particularly unkind to him. A Jewish baker had beaten him when he had made amorous advances towards his daughter, and, after he had bought his land, a Jewish moneylender had charged him exhorbitant interest ra
tes that kept him in debt for many years. Yes, the man was proud of where he came from and proud of where he felt he was going. One year, however, his olives inexplicably became bitter, dry and almost inedible while his olive oil became a sickly pale yellow. He was confused, having no idea how his olives had failed to grow as well as usual. He had tended them with as much care as usual and yet they could not even fetch a tenth of their former price. Angry and frustrated, he mulled over his dilemma until he came up with the solution.""You're trying my patience, what was the solution?"
"The Jews. The Jews had given him the evil eye and caused his olive crop to fail."
"What is the evil eye?" the youth growled.
"An envious eye that casts a curse upon the one who is looked at."
"I have no time for your story," the youth's eyes smouldered with impatient anger.
"Very well," Baybars responded.
"Don't you realize you're on trial, old man?" the youth stuck a long finger in the old man's face.
"What crime have I committed?" Baybars asked quietly.
"You have stolen land, raped our women, murdered our countrymen, and oppressed our people."
"I am happy that I at least have a trial. You are my judge?"
"Yes."
"When did I do these things?" Baybars asked, looking at the young man intently.
"Your people, your father have done these things."
"You knew my father?" Baybars smiled in a patronizing manner.
The youth's eyes flashed with anger as he reached behind himself and thrust a machete dangerously close to Baybars' face. Baybars reflexively turned his head away and put his hands above his head, "Don't talk down to me, old man!" the youth nicked Baybars' face neatly with the machete, a tiny red fleck of blood appeared.
Baybars recomposed himself with astounding speed, "Did you know my father?"
"No, but I know what he did," the youth hunkered menacingly over the table where Baybars sat.
"You know he invested in coffee?"
"From stolen land, thereby condoning the colonial system!"
"Land is like the wind, who can own it?" the red fleck of blood had formed into a tiny rivulet, which Baybars wiped away with his hand.
"If the mazungu, Tutsi cockroaches, and Arab fools could sell the wind, they would. Your father propped up the colonial system through his investment and you profited from it!" the youth spat.
"The rat criticizes the mouse for eating garbage."
"Say what you mean, old bighead!" the youth knocked Baybars' Heineken from the table, and it clattered across the stone patio before the neck snapped as it hit the yellow concrete wall.
"And your father, Hameza, is he not a foreman and does he not take wages from the coffee plantation?"
The youth leaned forward, his slick face inches from Baybars, "My father uses the corrupt system to his benefit whereas your father was part of the problem."
"The vulture does not seek out its brethren before it feasts on a carcass."
"In plain terms, old bighead!"
"And your father," Baybars said calmly, "he distributed his wages equally to the rightful owners of this land?"
"He was the rightful owner!" the youth reared backwards and swatted his machete through the air aggressively.
'Of all the land?"
"Of all of our land."
"So, the Tutsi, the mazungu and my father stole your father's land?"
"Yes."
Your father owns all of Burundi's land?"
"All Hutus own Burundi, we were here first."
"This is a law?"
"This is the truth."
"And how am I guilty?"
"You are guilty of benefiting from the profits of stolen land."
"My father's coffee investments mean my own guilt?" Baybars queried.
"Yes."
"So, I must repay the profits?"
"That," the youth snarled, "would be just the beginning."
"My father lost money in that investment, does this mean that you pay me?"
"Fool!" The youth cuffed Baybars across the top of his head. The movement was quick and violent but only connected weakly with the old man's pate.
Baybars rubbed his head gingerly, more for the benefit of the youth than for himself, "what of the accusation of rape?"
"Your father raped a Hutu woman and you are the bastard product," the youth eyed Baybars contemtuously, "I know your story."
"The songbird does not sing the song of the jackal," sang Baybars softly.
"Enough with your proverbs, old bighead!"
"Tell me something, young man," Baybars said in an even tone, "do rape victims customarily allow their rapists to name their child?"
The youth looked unsure of himself for a moment and then quickly collected himself as if remembering something he had been told, "Any pairing of an outsider with a Hutu is the equivalent of a rape!"
"What of your grandmother?"
"What of her?"
"She is Tutsi."
"You lie!" the youth, furious, swung his machete down into the table, where the metal cleaved into the wood and vibrated for several seconds. There was obviously something to Baybar's claim.
"What of the accusation of murder?" Baybars queried.
"You have supported a government that has endorsed genocide against the Hutu people!"
"Whom did I support?"
"Micombero and all of the Tutsi pigs!" the youth spat.
"In which election did I vote for Micombero?" Baybars asked.
"There was no election! He stole power like all cockroaches do."
"Then how did I support him?"
"You are a part of the system of foreigners that oppresses the Hutu majority!"
"Ah, the fourth charge," Baybars noted, "I oppressed my mother and her people. Why would I oppress my own mother?"
"Some Hutu are part of the problem. Your mother was part of the problem."
"Yes, a few extremists create problems for everyone."
If the youth comprehended Baybar's barb, it wasn't apparent on his face, "I have no more time for words with you. You are beneath me."
"What is your verdict, young judge?" Baybars asked respectfully.
"You are guilty!"
"And what of my sentence?"
"Death!" the youth roared.
"May I have one final request?"
"What is it?" the youth snapped.
"May I finish my story?"
The youth hesitated, the nervous anticipation of the kill was apparent in the way his chest heaved with short breaths, "Fine."
"The farmer believed that his olive crop had failed because of the evil eye the Jews had given him. He felt that if he did not stop the source of this evil eye, his body would shrivel away to nothingness."
"That's stupid."
"That is what he believed. Now that he had located the source of his failure, he pondered how he would repair it. He finally came to a rather crude solution: he incited a mob which burned down the homes of the Jewish families in their village. This satisfied his anger and he retired to his home as bitter, shrivelled, and dry as his olives."
"This is it?" the youth scoffed, "I don't get it."
He looked into the youth's bloodshot eyes, and what he saw was emptiness, "You are the man."
Baybars closed his eyes as he felt the metal bite into his skin repeatedly. He looked up at the sun shining through the branches of a Eucalyptus tree and he smiled despite the pain as he felt the life drain from his body.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Song of the Week: Ndakuvara - Oliver Mtukudzi
Zimbabwean artists Oliver Mtukudzi, also known affectionately as Tuku, has a powerful soulful voice which brims with emotion. Most of his songs focus on the struggle of the average person, although fans sometimes claim that his music has veiled criticisms of the government. Unlike his more politically active compatriot, Thomas Mapfumo, Mtukudzi has chosen to remain publically silent on political issues. This song too, if one took it as a stretched metaphor, could possibly be a criticism of Mugabe . . . or just a song about an ox. Whatever the case is, I absolutely love this song and, for me, it packs a powerful emotional punch. Disappointment with the choices of a loved one is a universal theme, I guess.
Zimbabwean artists Oliver Mtukudzi, also known affectionately as Tuku, has a powerful soulful voice which brims with emotion. Most of his songs focus on the struggle of the average person, although fans sometimes claim that his music has veiled criticisms of the government. Unlike his more politically active compatriot, Thomas Mapfumo, Mtukudzi has chosen to remain publically silent on political issues. This song too, if one took it as a stretched metaphor, could possibly be a criticism of Mugabe . . . or just a song about an ox. Whatever the case is, I absolutely love this song and, for me, it packs a powerful emotional punch. Disappointment with the choices of a loved one is a universal theme, I guess.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Song of the Week: Taylor by Jack Johnson
From Jack Johnson's second album, On and On, it's "Taylor." I had no idea, the first few times I listened to this song that it was about a young prostitute. I think this is because Johnson avoids the modern tendency towards blatant sexualization. The inclusion of Ben Stiller is funny, but probably leads a lot of people away from the actual message of the song.
lyrics:
They say Taylor was a good girl
never one to be late,
complain, express ideas in her brain
Working on the night shift
passing out the tickets
you're gonna have to pay her
if you want to park here.
Well, mommy's little dancer has
quite a little secret:
working on the streets now
never gonna keep it.
It's quite an imposition
And now she's only wishin'
That she would have listened to the words they said, poor Taylor.
Well she just wanders around
unaffected by the winter winds, yeah
and she'll pretend that,
well, she's somewhere else
so far and clear, about 2,000 miles from here.
Peter Patrick pitter patters on the window
but Sunny's silhouette won't let him in
and poor old Pete's got nothin 'cause he's been fallin',
but somehow Sunny knows just where he's been.
He thinks that singin' on a Sunday's gunna save his soul,
now that Saturday's gone
Well sometimes he thinks that he's on his way
but I can see that his brake lights are on
And he just wanders around unaffected by
the winter winds, yeah
and he'll pretend that,
well, he's somewhere else
so far and clear
about 2,000 miles from here.
Such a tough enchilada
filled up with nada
givin' what she got to give to get a dollar bill
she used to be a limber chick
time's a been tickin'
now she's finger lickin to the man
with the money in his pockets
flyin in his rocket
only stoppin by on his way to a better world
if Taylor finds a better world
Taylor's gunna run away
From Jack Johnson's second album, On and On, it's "Taylor." I had no idea, the first few times I listened to this song that it was about a young prostitute. I think this is because Johnson avoids the modern tendency towards blatant sexualization. The inclusion of Ben Stiller is funny, but probably leads a lot of people away from the actual message of the song.
lyrics:
They say Taylor was a good girl
never one to be late,
complain, express ideas in her brain
Working on the night shift
passing out the tickets
you're gonna have to pay her
if you want to park here.
Well, mommy's little dancer has
quite a little secret:
working on the streets now
never gonna keep it.
It's quite an imposition
And now she's only wishin'
That she would have listened to the words they said, poor Taylor.
Well she just wanders around
unaffected by the winter winds, yeah
and she'll pretend that,
well, she's somewhere else
so far and clear, about 2,000 miles from here.
Peter Patrick pitter patters on the window
but Sunny's silhouette won't let him in
and poor old Pete's got nothin 'cause he's been fallin',
but somehow Sunny knows just where he's been.
He thinks that singin' on a Sunday's gunna save his soul,
now that Saturday's gone
Well sometimes he thinks that he's on his way
but I can see that his brake lights are on
And he just wanders around unaffected by
the winter winds, yeah
and he'll pretend that,
well, he's somewhere else
so far and clear
about 2,000 miles from here.
Such a tough enchilada
filled up with nada
givin' what she got to give to get a dollar bill
she used to be a limber chick
time's a been tickin'
now she's finger lickin to the man
with the money in his pockets
flyin in his rocket
only stoppin by on his way to a better world
if Taylor finds a better world
Taylor's gunna run away
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Cold Comfort
A wet blanket
clings with clammy fingers
cold and creeping
on naked skin,
kicking only causes
these wet claws to cleave closer
Call out, but the cold cover
collects your cries
in its callous clutch
Curl up, but the carpet's
condensation clamps uncomfortably
close, crawling slowly across the skin
Arctic cool scratches your insides
like collapsing crisp ice crumbling into
glacial cracks, cravenly piercing past skin
and flesh into your collapsing core.
A wet blanket
clings with clammy fingers
cold and creeping
on naked skin,
kicking only causes
these wet claws to cleave closer
Call out, but the cold cover
collects your cries
in its callous clutch
Curl up, but the carpet's
condensation clamps uncomfortably
close, crawling slowly across the skin
Arctic cool scratches your insides
like collapsing crisp ice crumbling into
glacial cracks, cravenly piercing past skin
and flesh into your collapsing core.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Music Challenge (via Pete via Jake)
1. Put your music player on shuffle.
2. Press forward for each question.
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn't make sense.
NO CHEATING!
How are you feeling today?
Screaming
How do your friends see you?
Living In Love
Will you get married?
Wish You Were Here
What is your best friend's theme song?
Lion of Judah
What is the story of your life?
Oppression/ Get Up Stand Up
What was high school like?
Junior Gong the Dreadful
How can you get ahead in life?
Creep
What is the best thing about your friends?
One More Cup of Coffee
What is tonight going to be like?
Pressure Drop
What is in store for the remainder of this weekend?
All Shall Be Well
1. Put your music player on shuffle.
2. Press forward for each question.
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn't make sense.
NO CHEATING!
How are you feeling today?
Screaming
How do your friends see you?
Living In Love
Will you get married?
Wish You Were Here
What is your best friend's theme song?
Lion of Judah
What is the story of your life?
Oppression/ Get Up Stand Up
What was high school like?
Junior Gong the Dreadful
How can you get ahead in life?
Creep
What is the best thing about your friends?
One More Cup of Coffee
What is tonight going to be like?
Pressure Drop
What is in store for the remainder of this weekend?
All Shall Be Well
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Song of the Week: Redemption Song - Performed by Ziggy Marley and the Chieftains
I really enjoy this version of the classic Bob Marley tune performed by his oldest son and the Irish group, the Chieftains. I think that the Irish can relate to this song more than most Europeans.
Lyrics:
Old pirates, yes, they rob I;
sold I to the merchant ships,
minutes after they took I
from the bottomless pit.
But my hand was made strong
by the hand of the Almighty
we forward in this generation,
triumphantly.
Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom?
'cause all I ever had:
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
none but ourselves can free our minds.
have no fear for atomic energy,
'cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
while we stand aside and look? ooh!
Some say its just a part of it:
We've got to fulfill the book.
Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom?
'cause all I ever have:
redemption songs;
redemption songs;
redemption songs.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
none but ourselves can free our minds.
Wo! have no fear for atomic energy,
'cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
while we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say its just a part of it:
We've got to fulfill the book.
Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom?
'cause all I ever had:
redemption songs -
All I ever had:
redemption songs:
These songs of freedom,
songs of freedom.
I really enjoy this version of the classic Bob Marley tune performed by his oldest son and the Irish group, the Chieftains. I think that the Irish can relate to this song more than most Europeans.
Lyrics:
Old pirates, yes, they rob I;
sold I to the merchant ships,
minutes after they took I
from the bottomless pit.
But my hand was made strong
by the hand of the Almighty
we forward in this generation,
triumphantly.
Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom?
'cause all I ever had:
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
none but ourselves can free our minds.
have no fear for atomic energy,
'cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
while we stand aside and look? ooh!
Some say its just a part of it:
We've got to fulfill the book.
Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom?
'cause all I ever have:
redemption songs;
redemption songs;
redemption songs.
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
none but ourselves can free our minds.
Wo! have no fear for atomic energy,
'cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
while we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say its just a part of it:
We've got to fulfill the book.
Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom?
'cause all I ever had:
redemption songs -
All I ever had:
redemption songs:
These songs of freedom,
songs of freedom.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Phil asked me yesterday how it felt to be part of another nation. I think this is a good question. I live in Québec and I love Québec, but I'm not Québecois. Does this nation encompass the geographical area known as Québec or does it only refer to those who are both geographically and culturally Québecois?
Well, at least I'm in a nation that is part of a united Canada. Of course, I don't think my entire nation agrees with me.
Well, at least I'm in a nation that is part of a united Canada. Of course, I don't think my entire nation agrees with me.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
A Few of the Interesting Spammer Names I Have Received Mail from Recently:
Napoleon S. Pathologies
Otwell Delbert
Counstentinous
Mindy Slaughter
Hamish Kong
Victoria Rant
Mammon G. Trailblazer
Bakeries F. Gary
Dutch V. Fluctuation
Xerographic V. Amortizing
Conciliator C. Timely
Aldermen G. Pledge
Glades S. Kayaking
Lesson R. Paraded
Cootie A. Tia
Hermosillo S. Tummy
Towheaded E. Homewards
Encyclopedias M. Seismologist
Napoleon S. Pathologies
Otwell Delbert
Counstentinous
Mindy Slaughter
Hamish Kong
Victoria Rant
Mammon G. Trailblazer
Bakeries F. Gary
Dutch V. Fluctuation
Xerographic V. Amortizing
Conciliator C. Timely
Aldermen G. Pledge
Glades S. Kayaking
Lesson R. Paraded
Cootie A. Tia
Hermosillo S. Tummy
Towheaded E. Homewards
Encyclopedias M. Seismologist
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