cultural flotsam

What is it? #2

2012-01-04T17:39:00.009-05:00

Likely a kitchen utensil. Flat as a tennis racket. Total length approx. 11 inches. Rounded wires so not something you'd use to push a cooked spud through to make fries. Suggests scooping and straining, altho its flatness would make scooping difficult. The name WIRAX suggests a rack of some kind. Maybe something you'd lie over a source of heat to toast. Made in England, probably mid-20th c.

Anyone???

happy new year!

2011-12-28T09:02:00.001-05:00

Health and happiness to all!

xo
JB
Cultural Flotsam Inc.

Holiday Baking: A Study in Contrasts

2011-12-26T18:01:00.020-05:00

Aftermath: what's left of 3 tourtières and 3 batches of sucre à la crème

In an unusual move toward domesticity, I decided I'd take on some holiday baking this year. Shortbread, rum balls, traditional French-Canadian tourtière and sucre à la crème. To turn the pressure up a few notches, we decided to host a Christmas dinner for friends, so I couldn't just feed the results to myself and my squeeze (or the compost bin), real live friends and even a couple strangers would be gladly forking my efforts down their gullet, and I was determined not to kill them in the process.

Now, while I'm not a total newbie when it comes to baking (I recall a rather well-turned out Ginger-Brandy Cheesecake from the Moosewood Cookbook on New Year's Eve, 1999), I would say that the general infrequency of these trials makes them much more of an event. Expectations run high.

Holiday baking, for me, is purely about nostalgia and pride. It's about recreating the sights and smells of childhood, and checking my ability to live up to, or rather strive to imitate, weakly, my own mom's indisputable talents in the kitchen.

Unlike cooking in general, baking requires extreme precision, which is why I often fail at it. My tourtière pie crust, which I was determined to make from scratch, turned out too dry and crumbly to even hold together. Despite adding far more water than recommended (I am repeatedly baffled by these recipes that call for no more than 2 tablespoons of water... Were these written for the tropics?) it just would not co-operate. Devastation! Oh my wounded pride! After a brief cooling off period, I trudged over to my local grocery store and picked up 3 boxes of Tenderflake ready-made pie-crust, and finished the job thusly.

Seeking guidance from my old French-Canadian cookbooks, the Joy of Cooking, plus innumerable websites, one thing became clear: the more I looked for clear, concise, simple recipes, the more convoluted things seem to get. Favouring tradition over modernity, sadly, did not prove to be the magic bullet I thought it would be. Perhaps knowing that today's folk bake far less than their parents' generation did, websites generally offer much more detailed, step-by-step insructions, as if speaking to a child, or someone who'd never seen an oven before. This works for me. In the typical shorthand language of recipes in ye olde cooke book, I cannot decipher what "boil until ball forms in cold water" means when making sucre à la crème. A minute ago I was combining the ingredients, and the next, balls and cold water are expected. Say what? I shamefully admit that I ran to the oracle, Master Google, for the answer to this age-old cryptic puzzle. What has become of me? Why do I turn to a faceless, heartless Internet in search of clues into such traditional wisdom? Still, it took me three batches to finally nail that sucker. And the results, I might admit, were heaven.

Of course, when I later spoke to me dear ol' ma, recounting my day's adventure, she calmly unraveled her own culinary wisdom, as if speaking to a child, which, in this case, she was.

Santa's Village

2011-12-21T16:46:00.010-05:00

While in Moncton this past summer, we stopped in at Carson's Flea Market, where I found a bunch of odd-ball postcards from the 1960's from Santa's Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire ("Live Free or Die" indeed). Since the Christmas season (which now seems to start the week before Hallowe'en) is such an oppressive capitalistic enterprise, I am irresistibly drawn to anything that resists or subverts it.
See this post from November 2009 for more on that.

All tarted up for the tourists.

I love that expanse of bright blue sky above Santa's helicopter. How it suggests escape.
The dramatic angle of the helicopter blade as it pulls him toward freedom.
The friendly wave that belies his desperate urge to get the --- out of that itchy beard and suit 'cause it's 90 degrees already.
Fly Santa! Fly!

I guess the whole North Pole theme doesn't get you very far when planning amusement parks. Bring in the whale!

"Christmas is Santa's birthday, children."

Only now can we understand this as a foreshadowing of Global warming in the far North.

Death to the Faux Hawk

2011-09-02T20:05:00.011-04:00

As men's hair trends go, this has been the most ubiquitous out there, thus making it the most heinous. It's this decade's mullet.

After 5+ years of continual assault, the trend may be dying a slow, quiet death by now, but I still see them out there with regular frequency. On bankers, grocery store clerks, VIA Rail employees, and most boys past the age of 3. That's why I feel compelled ask you, dear offenders, to please stop. Stop deluding yourself in thinking it makes you look 'edgy'. Stop being conned into buying overpriced hair products by hair stylists who should know better than to push a dubious trend on their unsuspecting male clients. Stop thinking that just because you see it on 7 out of 10 guys on the bus it must mean it's a good thing. It ceased being a good thing the day someone copied David Beckham's version of it in 2005 . The second you see a toddler looking like you, that's your cue to shave it all off.

So please, man up and step away from the herd. It's easy. Just place your palm on top of your head, press firmly, and slide forward. Repeat as necessary.

Now if you insist on the need to express your inner rebel through your locks, why not go the whole nine yards and give'r like the real punks. Or at least the punk you think you are, somewhere underneath your Harry Rosen suit with matching purple shirt and tie. Get the egg whites in there, or Elmer's glue, or whatever else you can get your hands on that should normally never go near your hair. Get some spikes going. Real ones. Foot-long at least. Cone-shaped - not those wimpy needles that wouldn't even scare off a pigeon. C'mon! Higher! Stronger! Pointier!

A little inspiration:

I know this dude must just think "screw the masses" and all that, but doesn't he look super cute and huggable?

And if all that seems like just too much hassle to bother with, get yourself some clippers and go for a clean slate. Winter's coming. Hasn't your girlfriend been wanting to knit you a beanie for ages now?

Cultural Flotsam is 5 years old!

2011-06-05T20:09:00.000-04:00

Simple. Imperfect. Kinda awkward. Delightful (and hopefully delicious). That's what this cake looks like, and that's how I feel about this ye olde blog five years in.Got some enticing posts up my sleeve which I plan on banging out within the next short while. Stay tuned for Things That Make No Sense and a short rant about the faux-hawk.

Thanks for checking in.

xo JB

That Dutchman's Cheese

2011-05-22T13:27:00.013-04:00

One of the nice things about settling into early middle-age is that you begin to appreciate things you ignored for so long or simply didn't have time for. Like cheese.

Anyone who frequents the Halifax Seaport Farmer's Market would be well-acquainted with the neatly stacked rounds of Gouda brought in from That Dutchman's Farm, "producers of fine farmstead cheeses". I was introduced to their gouda a few years ago when a friend from Halifax brought some over to Montreal, and I drool for it since. If you manage to get your hands on one of these wheels, prepare to hallucinate.

Photo: Willem Den Hoek, master cheese maker.

Tasty links:

That Dutchman's Farm

Halifax Seaport Farmer's Market

What is it?

2011-05-11T20:21:00.000-04:00

I've had this mysterious object for several years now. I found it in my desk drawer at work shortly after starting my job, so the exact provenance is unknown, altho judging by the packaging design, it's fairly safe to assume it's an Apple product. I've held on to it all this time, Googled the product number to see if anything came up, tried to guesstimate what it function it could possibly serve, even asked the techie guys at the computer store what they thought it was, all to no avail. It looks like some sort of retrieval instrument you slide into the thin CD/DVD slot, but that doesn't concord with the type of design from that era (1997 judging by the date on the back of the envelope). Arrrg - it's driving me crazy! Maybe it's an IKEA swizzle stick called SNÖDK.

Anyone out there have a clue? Anyone...?

Sin Jan's Newfnlan!

2011-03-13T21:19:00.042-04:00

Spurred on by those other-worldly TV and print ads from the Newfoundland and Labrador tourism bureau, I recently realized my dream of visiting St. John's, thanks to landing a show at Eastern Edge Gallery.

While not installing my work at the gallery, I was able to roam the streets in search of the things that St. John's is known for: namely pubs and fish n' chips.

First order of business: The Duke of Duckworth pub. When you order the fish n' chips and they ask you "d'you want dressing n' sauce widdat?" just wipe the drool off your chin and nod hungrily. Who knew stuffing and gravy could catapult regular old fish n' chips into the stratosphere of greasy fried goodness?

The Duke of Duckworth is now most famously known as a regular setting in the CBC show Republic of Doyle, which I watched for the first time while I was there. It's OK.

Just around the corner from Hill O'Chips is Sappho's Café on Duckworth. Try their fish cakes.
Café photo courtesy of Loutron Glouton, Flickr, CC (credit where credit is due now, folks).

View of the Harbour and Signal Hill from The Rooms. I will not get into what an architectural mess that building is, but I will say that the decision to include this wonderful oasis from the rest the museum was an excellent move. The view is spectac.

Typical downtown St. John's housing with its flashy colours. Love it.
You can't quite tell from the photo, but the hills are killer. People there have thighs of steel.

For the record, it's Fred's. I bought Neil Young' latest, Le Noise, as well as a 5-record box-set of The Nashville Sound from the 1960s.

Being from the Prairies, the ocean is a foreign and frightful concept to me, altho interestingly, also strangely familiar at the same time. I was thrilled to bits to be driven out to Cape Spear, North America's eastern-most point. Thrills, chills and potential spills await!

For here or to go, or from here to eternity?

2011-02-15T18:45:00.028-05:00

Whatever happened to the logic behind the question "For here or to go?" in franchise coffee shops? Walk past any Tim Horton's (by far the nation's worst offender) and you will notice that every one of their "for here" customers is drinking from a paper cup. The option of having your coffee served in a ceramic mug seems to have fallen entirely out of favour, and plenty of irate people want to know why. A quick online search of "Tim Hortons + cups + garbage" will bring up reams of rants on the subject, including this blog. There are even reports of people offering their own reusable mugs to have filled, only to have their coffee first poured into a paper cup, then dumped into the person's mug. The paper cup 'measure' was of course immediately tossed into the trash. Time used: 3.5 seconds. This offense seems to be most commonly committed while ordering from the drive-through, in spite of specifying the use of a travel mug upon ordering. Why do these shops make it so difficult for people to make a small gesture of goodwill toward the environment? If a company's bottom line rules so hard that mere seconds wasted can adversely affect their profits, then I think more people need to wake up to the hypocrisy of their special blend of Can-con/hockey-mom/fishing-dude marketing spin, not to mention the fact that their environmental policy, as outlined on their website, doesn't seem to be trickling down to their counter staff. Why aren't they being held more accountable? A statistic quoted in a Maclean's article cited that 22% of the litter in Nova Scotia could be identified as a Tim Hortons product.

The company website does offer this PDF on their community and environmental initiatives, which outlines a commitment to the following:

5% reduction in packaging within our supply chain and manufacturing operations by 2012.
Work to achieve a solution so that our paper cup is accepted in recycling and composting systems in local municipalities.
Currently recycling (or composting) our cup at over 400 locations and working to increase these recycling options in other jurisdictions.

On a positive note, two professors at the University of Manitoba have begun research into using discarded coffee cups - currently not accepted in most recycling plants - to turn into biofuel. An article in thesheaf.com states that Tim Hortons cups, because of the components and processes used to manufacture them, work better than other cups , such as those from Starbucks.
Should this process actually work in the long run, will people start buying more take out coffee in order to "save the planet"?

Others who address this subject:
coffeehabitat.com

killthecardboardcup.com

Odds and ends in La belle province: numéro trois

2011-01-22T21:27:00.104-05:00

An out of town friend of mine once asked me to name my favourite things about Montreal. I can't quite remember what I answered exactly, but I'm sure I included at least a few things from the following list, as they've been favourites from the start. I continue to reflect on this from time to time, when I have one of those quintessentially Montreal moments, where I encounter another quirk in this beautiful, difficult, cold, hot, awesome, oppressive, wondrous place. The list just keeps growing.

In no particular order:

1. Aiguisage Tony. Elusive. Slow-moving. Deadly. This old-world blade sharpening service is a rare and exciting sight to behold, if only because you never know when it will appear. Tony gives a fair but brief warning of his arrival through the unmistakable, gentle clanging of his bell. Like children to an ice-cream truck, adult foodies, lawn and gardening enthusiasts, and just plain old knife fetishists bolt out their doors and down those notoriously windy Montreal stair cases, knives, axes, and scissors in hand, to chase Tony down before he turns the corner and out of sight. I have never caught him.

2. STM night riders. City bus drivers often turn the lights down in the front half of the bus. This is probably to cut down the reflective glare on the inside of the windshield, but the bonus secondary effect is that it has an amazing pacifying effect on passengers.
Pair that with the sweet sound of a Habs game emanating from their little transistor radios, and riding the bus (or even driving it) is pretty alright.

3. The mind-boggling cultural divide. It's quite easy to meet savvy, educated Quebecois adults who, despite having grown up with cable TV, have never heard of David Letterman, or Saturday Night Live, or Peter Mansbridge. That one can, technically speaking, spend a lifetime in Canada, neighboring with the most prolific, bombastic entertainer on earth (them Yanks), and still manage to filter out a large portion of that noise, amazes me. The cultural divide runs much deeper than one might think. They LOVE Elvis, tho.

4. Dépanneurs or "deps" as they're colloquially called. Independently-owned and operated corner stores whose best feature is the offer of cold beer on every corner. Best of all on those scorching summer evenings: large, self-serve, walk-in fridges you can just chill out in while you ponder their selection. Speaking of which...

5. Micro breweries. One of the truly delightful things about living here is never having to order big name "domestic" beers while out for a pint. The choice of locally made beers here is astounding, as is the incredible kitschy-ness of their labels.

Les québécois are as passionate about their distinctness as they are about their beer, so it comes as no surprise someone dreamed this baby up, no doubt whilst nursing a few late-night brews. L'indépendante, as the brand suggests, is a separatist's answer to drinking your way to independence.

Manifesto from their website (translation mine):

"The Independent. Its taste is that of freedom and its aroma that of the will to reclaim our destiny. Its ingredients are courage, affirmation, determination and the confidence to make Quebec a country where ideas and passions are brewed. The Indendendent is a beer that is savoured and discussed. Its profits will go toward the promotion of Quebec as a nation, and the active engagement of those who want to see Quebec take its rightful place in the world. The Independent is a beer that will never surrender."

The text on the image above reads (I did NOT make this up):

"An ambitious fundraising initiative has been launched to promote Quebec independence. A new beer, The Independent, is being brewed in various regions of Quebec and its profits will serve to promote the nation of Quebec.

Forward this information to a maximum of people, visit our website, lindependante.qc.ca, and see if this beer is sold near you. If it is not (although soon it will be everywhere) find an alternative means to get it (perhaps someone you know lives near a retailer).

If every Quebec sovereigntist buys two six-packs per year, we will soon have the financial means to launch an important campaign for the country Quebec deserves to become."

While not exactly promoting emancipation through alcoholism (only two six-packs?), if they really wanted to tear the country apart, every Independentiste might look like this.

By the way, I've tried this beer. It tastes like Coor's lite. Although I also entertain the idea that it's actually Molson Canadian with a different label. Ironically, despite Molson's being headquartered and brewed right here in Montreal, Molson Canadian, with it's "I AM CANADIAN" ad slogan and evil, pointy maple-leaf, is biera non grata in Quebec. Although not that many people seem to notice.

Longevity

2010-12-20T21:00:00.044-05:00

It's come to my attention that there's another entity on Blogger by the name of Cultural Flotsam, this one with a hyphen in the URL.
Ever the competitive gal, I am happy to point out (rub in) that I launched my blog a full 103 days before this guy. Woot!
Furthermore, he seems to have had a rather short run at it (essentially 7 posts to my, ahem, 56 and counting).

Still, I can sympathize. According to some researchers, up to 95% of blogs are abandoned within their first year of life. This New York Times article by Douglas Quenqua, titled "Blogs Falling in an Empty Forest", paints a rather dire picture (why bother when one can just Tweet?). It also reveals that most people who blog hanker for a huge following, constant feedback, and even imagine they can make money or land a book deal out of it. But I recently came across a rather enlightening site (you may have heard of by now) by Chris Guillebeau called The Art of Non-Conformity. I became aware of it via his inspiring, free how-to manual titled 279 Days to Overnight Success, (which you can download from his site), which essentially chronicles his journey from Joe-job, 9-to-5er, to ProBlogger. And one who actually makes a decent living at it, to boot.

While I am light years away from that (and have other, equally off-the-beaten-path priorities that I've invested enormous time and effort into already and am doggedly dedicated to) I love hearing from other people who are doing it, succeeding at it, and who are re-writing the codes for every day living. We should all be so lucky and inspired.

Rules / Signs - New York Special

2010-12-18T22:19:00.016-05:00

I was in New York City recently for the NY Art Book Fair, the now colossal event put together by Printed Matter. But that was just a convenient excuse to finally get my butt down there after a too long absence. (It's like, 6 hours away by car. What's my problem??)

But this isn't about that. As you can imagine, this edition of Rules/Signs is just a taste of what's out there...

BEAUTY BAR - somewhere in Chelsea:
The great thing about this type of place in this type of city is I'm still not sure if this place is a bar, or a hair salon, or a "gentlemen's club" or cosmetics store, or all three. It's possible.

DANGER:
On the way up to The High Line (which is awesome, by the way). Um, why the allusion to giant crumbling alpha-blocks of concrete, anyway?

BROOKLYN: Keep it clean!

Lions and Burgers and Rolls! Oh, my!
When plain old black just won't do.

This next trio is from The New Museum. I didn't realize every square foot of real estate in these places has been sponsored by patrons. How amazing to have a drinking fountain named after oneself. That's nuts! Had they run out of emergency exits? In the hierarchy of sponsorship, seems the drinking fountain would be kind of low on the totem pole. Still worthy of a plaque tho. Well, thank you for supporting contemporary art, Mr and Mrs Campbell!

Huh?

Ha ha. It's CANADA Gallery, silly!

Last one:

Dexter Sinister. This was actually an on-purpose destination. Unfortunately, we just caught the tail-end of their book launch (no more booze) but we picked up a publication or two.

Warfarin' Stranger

2010-12-18T13:08:00.049-05:00

I usually wear earplugs to bed. This habit began years ago not due to a snoring spouse, but because I was being driven half-crazy by the scratching, gnawing, squeaking sounds of a mouse. When it became clear that my usual arsenal of poison, traps, steel wool and even the occasional 'cat for hire' wasn't enough to keep them at bay (especially in the fall and winter), I resolved that if they were going to have their way in my kitchen at night, then gosh dern it, they would not rob me of my sleep.

Growing up on a farm, I was used to the sight of mice, although usually in the jaws of a cat. But that was long, long ago. I so wish I could deal with these little problems with the poise and matter-of-fact calm I once possessed as a nine-year old barnyard explorer.
But no. I scream. City life has turned me into a wuss.

I should stress here that although I am by now quite familiar with mus musculus, this is not an indication of an unkempt house. I practice good, solid housekeeping skills, all my dry-goods are in jars or plastic containers with tight-fitting lids, and I have plugged and re-plugged every single crack, hole, and crevice I can find. But aie, there's the rub. They know the place better than I do. Some people mistakenly believe that only drafty 100-year-old houses have mice. Wrong-o (they have ghosts). Mice can squeeze through holes the diameter of a pencil. A PENCIL!!! So don't underestimate those tiny crevices. They are a mouse's portal to Nirvana!

For those of you who share my plight but are new to the game, here are few tips I've learned over the years.

BARRIERS: Medium steel wool is best for plugging holes. Jam it in there real tight. If they try to chew through it they'll cut the insides of their delicate mouths (plus it's a killer on those fillings). Silicone and expanding insulating foam are totally useless. They chew through that like buddah.

TRAPS: I find the old fashioned snap traps the most effective. As mice have very poor vision and navigate mostly through smell (hence the poo-trails) they are wary of new obstacles in their paths and may avoid traps despite the tempting food (although they can also be finicky eaters). A very effective tip is to place a few unset traps out for a few days to let them get used to running over them, sans conséquence. Then bait and expect results. Also, wear rubber gloves in order to not leave any human scent on the trap. Place traps in groups of two or three with bait side against the wall, in areas you suspect they frequent most.

BAIT: I've tried lots of different mouse trap bait options. My current favourite is cold BACON GREASE. I've also had success with raisins and peanut butter. Despite ubiquitous representation throughout the history of popular culture, cheese is not their preferred choice. I've had a few remarkable experiences with bait disappearing without the trap being set off, which baffles me to this day. I have actually tied things like popped corn, nuts, etc. to the lever, and they somehow managed to get away unscathed.

DISPOSAL: Once the deed is done, don't just toss the whole shebang in the garbage. Lift and separate! If you can't bear the sight of the thing, cover the whole mess with a plastic bag and feel your way through it to lift the snapper and release the vile creature into the trash. Come on! Channel your inner farm-girl and be a man! No toilet disposal either. That's just stupid.

EXTERMINATORS: If all else fails (or your nerves are just to fried to deal with it anymore) it may be time to call in the pros.
Like most exterminators, Poulins Pest Control has a great sense of humour. I'm not sure they still do this, but for years this Winnipeg company had one of those roadside signs with changeable letters that usually advertise specials, etc. They had a rotating roster of so-bad-its-good pest themed puns that made the drive to or from the Norwood Bridge just a little brighter. Anyone out there in Winnipeg-land remember any of them? (Brother Don - this one's for you...) Their site is super informative. As you can read in the 'About' section, the business began, circa 1946, as a result of the death of the young Poulin boy's puppy by a pack of rats. Talk about revenge!

Word on the street has it that many of today's rodents are resistant to the once ubiquitous warfarin. This immediately conjures horrifying visions of "super-mice" (Mighty Mice?) who will one day grow the size of bears and strangle me in my sleep. But in the meantime, there are other, more potent products out there that are keeping us at least one step ahead. Products such as: Rodend! Ratak!! Ratsak! Pestroy!! Pestoff!!! (emphasis mine!)

Of course, as most people's advice dictates, I could just "get a cat!".
Sure, but then I would have a cat.

Links:

http://www.victorpest.com/store/rodent-control/mouse-traps

Wayfarin' Stranger

Happy Holidaze!

2010-12-18T12:55:00.011-05:00

I hate to think that my bloggerism is diminishing, but the truth is in the numbers: I need to post 3 more times before the bell tolls on December 31 in order to match the number of posts I had for 2009 and 2008 (a meagre 10 - but at least they were all earnest, informative and cheeky).

So, in a bit of shameless, last-minute rattrapage, I will produce over the next few hours (days if necessary) the required quota - if only to save my pride and convince myself and my 3 regular readers (more like "occasional checkers" by this point) that there are still interesting things in the world to share on this here site.

And while I'm at it, I wish you all (three of you) HAPPY HOLIDAZE!!! and BEST WISHES FOR @)!! Oops! 2011. Too bad you probably won't read this until the spring.

Love,
JB
CEO, Cultural Flotsam Enterprises, Inc.

Prairie storm clouds

2010-08-02T20:16:00.016-04:00

A severe rain/wind/hail storm passed through parts of Manitoba on July 26 and it left these beautiful clouds in its wake. Hail is quite possibly a farmer's worst nightmare during the summer months, so here's hoping the damage was minimal.

More crazy hail storm clouds here and here!

Rules / Signs: Manitoba Special

2010-08-01T10:51:00.041-04:00

This second installment of Rules / Signs is 100% Manitoba stock, freshly picked from my annual summer trip home. Winnipeg remains a gold-mine of vintage signs, bad puns, and other weird and wonderful visual signage. Ellice and Notre Dame are especially good, and I've vowed to keep documenting them while they last (many are for old businesses that are probably on the brink of closing).

Special thanks to my Winnipeg hosts, Andrew and Candida, who most generously lent me their digital camera after I forgot mine at home (*%@**#&!!).

Under the category of RULES:

OKAY! At the Playland Arcade, Winnipeg Beach.

Translation: Piss the night away in our outhouses! Winnipeg Beach.

I much prefer diving into a giant bowl of dry concrete myself.
Gertrude at Osborne, behind the old "Dutch Maid" antiques shop (best in the city).

Self-righteous weekend day-tripping cyclists beware! In Wolseley.

Aww. Value Village.

SIGNS that make you say "huh?"

Alien abduction area. Gimli, MB

Part of this car dealer's schtick is claiming "they cut the mustard".
Cam Clarke Ford dealership on Main Street around North Kildonan, Wpg.

On Sherbrook near Westminster.

...and it starts with dumpster diving!
Back lane near Langside and Westminster.

Cute / Bad:

I would like to amass a collection of bad pun signs. Hair salons are notorious for these. Winnipeg Beach.

On the opposite side of the spectrum are businesses that can't be bothered to come up with any uniquely identifying name at all. Main Street, Gimli

Entrance to the former St. Charles Hotel, on Notre Dame at Albert St.

Self-loathing ninja dragon spray-paints claws / douses feet with perfume (?).
Gertrude and Osborne.

Tasty links:

A Flickr photostream from someone else who loves WPG signs

MONSTER TRUCK SPECTACULAR !!!

2010-04-18T20:33:00.020-04:00

Last night I indulged in one of my long-standing wishes / guilty pleasures: the MONSTER TRUCK SPECTACULAR, here at Montreal's Stade Olympique . I was lucky to attend with seasoned-veteran-friends who are always able to score some excellent seats. Jacked-up on over-priced chips, hot dogs and Coors Lite, I was, as they say, ready to rumble.

This double-decker car derby was sort of the equivalent of the fat Shriners riding the tiny bicycles. Top car guy handles the steering while bottom car guy handles gas and breaks. Time for Memorable quote #1: (imagine this being screamed into a mic, Hulk Hogan style)
"AND THEY CAN'T COMMUNICATE WITH EACH OTHER! IT'S LIKE TWO HALVES OF THE SAME BRAIN SPLIT APART!!"

Much hilarity ensues especially when the radiators blow up and steam comes pouring out from under the hoods. Or, they tip over. Memorable hyperbolic quote #2:
"YOU GOT 2000 POUNDS OF METAL ON TOP OF YA! IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THAT WAY!!!"

Memorable hyperbolic quote #3 :
"YOU GOTTA LOVE A GUY WHO WOULD SACRIFICE HIS FIRE-PROOF VEST TO PUT THE FLAMES OUT ON HIS ENGINE!"

Jogger

2010-03-27T21:08:00.013-04:00

I recently took up jogging. Well, that's actually sort of false, on two counts. 'Recently' is more like 10 years ago, when I tried it out for the first time and nearly died because I didn't know what I was doing. And 'jogging' is also a bit of an exaggeration at this point. It's more like wogging. At this early stage, I'm easing into it by altering walking and jogging, eventually phasing the walking part out.

My initial will to run regularly waned rather fast that first time, but the flame never totally went out. Since then, I have had what I like to call 'my annual jog', which usually occurred sometime during the first blush of spring. I did that just to remind myself that it was still a possibility. That maybe it would one day 'take'. I was encouraged by my friend Karen who told me it took her 11 years to finally get it. I think it's kind of like quitting smoking. It won't work unless you're really ready for it. Influenced and encouraged by a few close friends to make a more concerted effort, I did, and realized my time was now.

First stop: running store. Boutique Endurance on Saint Denis in Montreal is excellent. I didn't realize, though, that as a beginner, part of the deal of getting outfitted with the proper pair of shoes involves running several paces on a track inside the store. I just thought that track was a clever design element. Wrong-o. Well, mild humiliation aside, it proves that these guys know what they're doing, as just those few pounding steps demonstrate how your foot falls, whether your knees buckle in, and just what type of support you need to correct or balance those mechanics. So after a few tryouts, I settled on the 'beauties' pictured above. The Brooks Adrenaline GTS 10, in Chambray / Midnight Fog / White. They are hideous. But they're the most dreamily comfortable shoes I've ever worn. Pillows, they are. But gawd almighty why do they all have to be such a dog's breakfast of mesh and shiny space-age flash? Thankfully, these ones were the least offensive of the bunch and the most comfortable for me. And at least I got away with a decent blue and not some obnoxious pink or mint green. It would have been rather counter-effective to wear bags over them I think.

So while it may take me another few years to really 'take' to this, I'm bolstered by the fact that I'm equipped to do it in comfort, if not in style.

Dare we say it? (Spring is here!)

2010-03-06T18:18:00.027-05:00

So far, the winter of 2009-2010 has mercifully spared us some of its harsher blows. Of course, March - the cruelest month - has just begun, so we may get our comeuppance yet. (Ever the pessimist!)

Our relatively light snowfall - February was a record breaker with only 2 cm - has meant that Montreal's (in)famous snow-clearing crews have been mostly absent from our streets and sidewalks. This is a good thing. Recent winters were quite unkind. 2009 was an annus horribilis for them, as evidenced most brutally by the no less than 3 accidental deaths that occurred - on the same day - as a result of an unfortunate meeting between large snow removal equipment and pedestrians. See these news links for more:

From CTV.ca

From CBC.ca

Otherwise, playing a crucial support role in our annual plow n' haul ritual are these wee little sidewalk clearing bulldozers:

Don't be fooled by their size. They are terrifying. As that blur of movement suggests, these things whip down narrow walks with a reckless, take-no-prisoners abandon. Many of the drivers I've seen look about 18 and jacked up on RedBull, which explains the joy-ride aspect. If you left your precious bike locked to the front fence or lamp post, consider it mangled. As a child I had an inexplicable fear of trains. Even though we lived about half a mile away from the track, the sound of a distant train whistle would have me running for cover. This is my new train. In the peace and quiet of softly falling snow at night, there is nothing more terrifying than that unmistakable rev and rumble...

It's getting closer...
It's turning the corner...
It's heading straight for you...
It's in your house!!

Anybody remember this long-forgotten B-horror movie?:

Meanwhile, here's a little taste of how people in other, less snow-seasoned areas are coping with this year's blasts:

in Baltimore, Maryland

in London

And finally, here's a nifty little site that is chock-a-block with pics and fun facts about winter in Montreal.

Land of Snow

Happy New Decade!

2010-01-02T17:57:00.014-05:00

The New Year is good a time for self-reflection, planning, purging (puking?), patting yourself on the back for jobs well done, or kicking yourself in the butt for not getting off the couch more often. Same old, same old.

But a new decade puts a bit of a time-warp on things, as we look back on the decade that was, and try to remember just what it was that we did with all that was. 1999 seems like just a short trot back in time (Y2K panic!) and like ancient history. How is that? It's true, Father Time seems to step just a little harder on the accelerator the older we get.

Well, while you contemplate the universe and your place within in, you can bone up on a little ancient history (well, 1910, anyway) on this site I randomly found. Chock-a-block with fun facts, tidbits and trivia you can bore your friends with all year long.

Santé!

Rules / Signs

2009-12-29T21:15:00.038-05:00

A few gems from recent travels. I'll hopefully keep adding to these as I go along.

Dress codes:

Syracuse NY
i.e.: This ain't no filthy blue-collar tavern you mashers! (but what about tube tops?)

Syracuse NY
i.e.: no urban males under 30?

Rules:

Winnipeg
Sure - just get all 'eco' on people to make them obey. That'll work.

Halifax
i.e.: NO FUN. (who knew drinking boxes could kill?)

Syracuse
I thought this was fantastic. Your car could just be towed to some big ol' random field somewhere in upstate NY. Then I saw a Fields Auto Towing Service tow-truck and figured they had a pound somewhere. Dang.

Lists:

Winnipeg's Bridge Drive In (I think I'll have me a rasp(whoa!)berry coalada)

Whoo! WINNIPEG!!!

Concerned Citizens:

Halifax

Queen Street, Toronto

Can someone please explain these to me?

The Franglais: (Montreal style)

"Edited" signs like this old one below from Ave. du Parc and St. Viateur are not too hard to find in Montreal. Since bill 101 was introduced in 1977, signage laws in Montreal dictate that all business signs must be either entirely in French, or if another language is included, it must be no larger than half the size of the French. In other words, French must be visually dominant. Fair enough. But if replacing your original sign isn't an option, a little typographic doctoring can do the trick, even if it renders what's left grammatically incorrect. What was once Italian Mercerie (also known as 'haberdashery'), is now just a backwards, mashed-up repetition of the French. Fantastique.

Priceless:

Queen Street West, Toronto

Posted in the window of a vacant property on Saint-Laurent blvd. in Montreal, in clear and bold defiance of Bill 101!
Hmm... anything?

More on La Loi 101 :

CBC article Oct. 22/09

archives de Radio Canada

Your opinion is important to us.

2009-12-27T18:05:00.043-05:00

Over the past several months, CBC Radio One's Montreal morning program Daybreak has developed a rather irritating obsession with listener feedback. Comment has replaced content, as seemingly every news item or topic of discussion is framed by the constant prompt to call, email, text, or tweet one's opinion on the matter. "Matter" being the operative word here, as most of what comes in doesn't, and the result is continual interruption of the program's flow as air time is given to random, insubstantial comments on a host of moot points.

The apex of Daybreak's feedback loop came one morning when a listener wrote in to complain about the irrelevance of a certain 'news' story (something about a local couple's complicated divorce), which prompted host Nancy Wood to turn it back to the general listenership and ask: "Well, what do you think? Is this story relevant?" At that point I let out a stifled scream and switched the dial to CBC's French sister station, Radio Canada Première chaine, whose morning program, I might add, makes Daybreak sound like this. Seriously.

I can understand the impulse behind this desire to democratize news coverage - greater accessibility and involvement of the listenership in theory creates greater loyalty and better ratings. That's great, and there is, of course, room for feedback and listener input on the radio, (a stellar example being CBC radio's Cross Country Checkup on Sunday afternoons at 4pm). But proper context has to exist for it to be of actual relevance, rather than a shallow, free-for-all for the sake of "giving voice" and "being heard" about things that, in the end, are neither insightful, informative, or offer intelligent debate. A perfect example of this is cbc.ca (I hate to excessively pick on the Morthership, but she's the one I watch, read, and listen to most) where people can post responses to news items. Depending on the story, you can fairly confidently bet yer bottom dollar that these will deteriorate into a total nut-bar showcase. Racism, prejudice, and loud and proud red-necks are alive and well in this fair nation.

I can only hope Daybreak's bandwagon reflex/genuflect to the Twitterites and the cult of the iPhone is temporary, and that they'll realize that the 'average Joe' opinion is a poor substitute for intelligent, in-depth journalism. Until then, I'll be over at Radio 2.

Listen to a very good discussion about listener feedback on the Q podcast for Monday February 23, 2009

The Wheel Club

2009-12-24T20:46:00.028-05:00

I've been meaning to post about this place for a loooong time, and a recent visit (after a 6-year gap) has provided just the right impetus.

Discretely located on Cavendish blvd. just south of Sherbrooke St. West, in NDG, The Wheel is a private club which graciously opens its doors to curious, country-lovin' non-members every Monday evening for its weekly Hillbilly night. Doors at 8, Fun 'til 1. And getting there at 8 is a must if you want to snag a table. This place is packed with old timers, twenty-somethings and everyone in-between who come through these doors in search of a unique, authentic experience that helps you forget you're in a modern mega-city and it's -20 outside.

Part '70s rec-room, part Legion, with wood-paneling and checkered tablecloths galore, The Wheel Club is tucked away in the basement of an otherwise unremarkable building, and is like nothing I've ever experienced before. Created over 40 years ago by local old-time country music legend Bob Fuller, Hillbilly night gives musicians and music fans - amateur or not - a place to converge and enjoy the experience of playing music, talking and dancing together in a place that feels like their own.

The Wheel has a house band, backed by Fuller on upright bass, that will cover all manner of old-time country music - bluegrass, honky tonk, hillbilly, etc. - but with one caveat: the cut-off date is 1965. (After that, things started getting a bit glamorous*). Note the absence of a drum-kit, in true keeping with the purist's preference for a bass-driven rhythm section.

Monday night is also open mic night, and anyone with a song to sign is welcome behind the wagon wheels to give it a whirl. Many local players on Montreal's alt-country music scene cut their teeth at the Wheel. It's a safe and welcoming place to get a feel for playing in front of an audience that doesn't seem to mind if you sing a bit flat until you work the kinks out. This is no place for show-offs.

Any feelings we may have had of crashing someone else's party were quickly dispelled by the friendly atmosphere, despite being among the very few first-timers there. Even the hipsters sitting at the table next to us, to their credit and with fiddle in hand, were obviously there to play some music. I was envious of their ability to mingle through the crowd of regulars, knowing several by name, and of having a place to regularly come to that feels like a small-town home away from home. That's a rather precious thing in a sometimes alienating city.

One highlight is the snack bar, where you can buy a basket of munchies, including cheezies, chips, popcorn, and pretzels, to go with your draft beer. I remember a combination Dad's cookies/popcorn basket on my first visit in 2003. I also like the personal-sized pitchers. Perfect for the ladies.

Another bonus is the raffle. We didn't stick around late enough to take part this time (I think the draw is at 12:30), but last time, tickets were sold at about 10:30, and at the time of the draw, a couple briefcases were brought out to the front of the stage area. Inside were the prizes: your choice among dozens of mix-tapes of old-time country music from Bob Fuller's massive collection of 45s. It doesn't get much homier than that.

If getting there from my north-end neighborhood wasn't such a pain in the butt (count on at least one-hour travel time by multiple modes of transit), I'd be there way more often (they have a Sunday dart league! /sigh). Friends with cars are good, but then you have to draw straws over who stays sober. At any rate, folks in NDG have a good thing going. Here's hoping it'll stay around long after the old timers get a bit too long in the tooth to shake a leg.

For a more in-depth look at The Wheel Club, see Craig Morrison's site, Montreal's Roots Music Scene

The Wheel Club
3373 Cavendish Blvd.
Directions here.

*Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton, image from The Porter Wagoner Show, c. 1967

Bulleit Bourbon Frontier Whiskey

2009-10-03T21:32:00.014-04:00

If you find yourself traveling to the USA, make sure your next pit stop at the Duty Free shop includes the purchase of this fine Kentucky tipple. Sadly unavailable in Canada (at least not in QC. Damn you SAQ!), the bottle alone makes it worth picking up. Isn't it gorgeous? (Wild Turkey folks take note.) If you're curious to know more, I find this site more helpful than the company's actual website (www.bulleitbourbon.com).

Better than sucking on a dusty leather glove through a hangman's noose.
Yea-haw!

Happy 3rd Birthday Cultural Flotsam!

2009-06-28T17:44:00.006-04:00

Wow - three years of Cultural Flotsam and I'm still finding stuff to post about (although admittedly, my 'terrible twos' weren't as terribly active as I'd planned). Still, after that little sabbatical of sorts, I feel ready as ever to share with you some more totally useless but nonetheless intriguing (hopefully) tidbits, odds and ends, gewgaws, and other random "what the - ?" stories.

Thanks for checking in!

JB

PS - I'm not the only one who's quite fond of this b-day image:

here

Halifax by the sea

2009-06-14T14:50:00.076-04:00

Oh boy - This is going to be one of those long, long posts with lots and lots of photos. There are just so many beautiful, surprising, quirky and interesting things to see in Halifax - I just had to stop every 20 feet to take another picture. It's that "love-goggles" effect I get when I travel. Everything is interesting. Oh yeah, and this city is great for your glutes: very hilly.

I was really hankering for a little east-coast fix lately (completely seduced as I was
by those Newfoundland ads on TV and in the paper), but while that didn't seem quite in the cards this summer, I did have an opportunity to zip over to Halifax for the weekend. It was good enough to tide me over until I do make it to the Rock.

Ironically, I did manage to sample a bit of Newfoundland at the Newfoundland Grocery Store, 6061 Willow Street map here

This store's got all the charm and authenticity I could handle. All the products are uniquely Newfoundland-made and imported for nostalgic ex-pats and curious others.

Of course it felt weird contemplating buying wonderfully strange Newfie merch like canned corn on the cob, or Newfoundland Nobs and Lumps without having ever set foot over there, but I did manage to make up my mind eventually and walked out with this bag of kisses. I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit I ate the whole thing (give or take a few).

Next up - JWD Books on Barrington Street.

The only bookstore I've seen that rivals New York's famous STRAND, if not in exact volume then at least in sheer spirit (although JWD is decidedly more chaotic and hence, I think, more fun). JWD is two overflowing floors of non-stop books books books. Chock-a-block. Choking with books. So full of books it cuts a window through them to let in the light of day. But as much as I love this type of crazy shrine to the written word, my brain does tend to turn to mush from the over-stimulus.
Where do I start? Where does it end?

I was thrilled to make it to the legendary FRENCHY'S used clothing store. I'd heard about it on my first trip to Halifax in 2001, but back then the only location was across the water in Dartmouth and being January, I was less inclined to make the trek. Since then though, they've moved over to Halifax, and after a recent fire claimed their larger space, set up these modest digs right around the corner from Steve-O-Reno's drive-through cappuccino stand (see below). Frenchy's did not disappoint, and if you don't mind digging for your treasure through large bins (a system I find makes sense and is somehow less overwhelming than flipping through rack after rack), chances are you'll come up with some gold too.

Speaking of gold, this is a gem. Located at 2854 Robie Street in the parking lot of a hardware store, Steve-O-Reno's Cappuccino Drive Through is a Halifax institution that has also more recently spawned a regular ol' sit down shop on Brunswick street. But this one has more soul. More soul than all the Timmy Ho's across the land combined.

Halifax has good food. One breakfast favourite was The Good Food Emporium, on Gottingen street in the North End.

Just loads of good, basic vegetarian grub, and the best fishcakes I've ever had. So good I couldn't even stop to take a photo of my plate before wolfing it all down.

Part of the the North End's DIY scene is the Roberts Street Social Centre, an independent collective space featuring a zine library, silk-screening facilities and an artist-in-residence program.

And finally, no self-loving Halifax tourist should resist a visit to the Economy Shoe Shop, one of the more popular pubs on Argyle Street.

Handy links:

Book lovers rejoice: JWD Books
Art lovers rejoice: eyelevel gallery
Low-tech lovers rejoice: Sometimes Always at the AGNS
Coffee lovers rejoice: Java Blend
Organic Food lovers rejoice: Fid Restaurant
North End lovers rejoice: Go North Halifax

Create your own Blues name

2009-05-26T20:11:00.007-04:00

This is a fun game to play. Click on the image to enlarge.

Yours,
Boney Gumbo McGee

Cool grit! Victoria, BC

2009-04-03T23:33:00.040-04:00

Death by Bunnies and Rainbows. This is what I expected when I went to Victoria, BC, last November to install a show at Open Space Gallery. I had no idea what to expect besides squeaky-clean streets and lawns, and general British-colonial WASP-ness. Of course it was all that, but with a lot of neat surprises too - many of which I can't remember, unfortunately. I'm beginning to think it's time I start keeping some sort of travel diary as the ol' memory doesn't quite fire up like it used to.

Take for instance Fan Tan Alley, a wonderfully bizarre, barely noticeable, super narrow, winding alley packed with great shops and restaurants (deke left after the post-office box). It seems to go on forever at first, unveiling one interesting store after another, and mercifully isn't overrun with over-priced touristy gew-gaws.

One favourite: Heart's Content. Great shoes (I couldn't resist a pair of FLY London ankle boots)

Just knock on the door and place your take-out order of noodles from the back lane behind this restaurant.

This Coke machine on Pandora street just before you reach Fan Tan Alley, generously offers the cheapest cans in town from behind its otherwise forbidding cage.

A delightful juxtaposition of genres:

The completely unique and intriguing Ministry of Casual Living artist-run exhibition/residency space.

View of previous installation thanks to Flickr.com

Sands Funeral Chapel - We Love Our Hearses

One of the artists in the show (and Victoria resident) Marlaina Busch took me to the legendary Big Bad John's at the Strathcona Hotel, for a rather raucous round of pints. A bit of a rough-and-tumble place but still rather harmless if you can put up with a bit of leering. Oh, and they'll take your bra if you want to add it to their collection.

Worth the visit:

Habit Coffee and Culture, 552 Pandora Avenue
Read review here

Rebar restaurant. Canada's answer to the legendary Moosewood Restaurant and cookbook empire. 50 Bastion Square (off Langley St.)

The Bengal Lounge at the Fairmount Empress Hotel, 721 Government Street. I can't vouch for the food, but the décor is classic grand hotel ostentatiousness!

Sidewalk cafés

2009-04-03T22:09:00.013-04:00

I can really be an irascible crank when it comes to the otherwise very enjoyable things in life. I was reminded of this recently, since spring is upon us (sort of) and the city's restaurants have begun to unfurl their sidewalk cafés. My neighborhood of Little Italy is particularly rich in restaurants, but seemingly every summer, getting poorer in pedestrian space. By the time the sandwich boards, planters, chairs, tables and parasols have been set up, some don't leave more than one person's width of space between curb and table, and this is on a very busy street, meaning that when encountering oncoming pedestrian traffic, I either have to lean on an icky-gross SUV, or I've got my butt in somebody's fazzoletti. Every summer I wonder how long before I completely lose it - 'Jesus in the money-changers temple' style - and find myself on the other side of normal. The gall. THE GALL!!!
Surely there's gotta be a law...

New York City has one

On penmanship

2009-04-03T20:30:00.025-04:00

My grade 6 teacher sometimes kept me in at recess because I had terrible penmanship. She would make me practice my cursive writing until she was satisfied it measured up to all the other kids' and we could all write in perfect aesthetic harmony. However irritating that was at the time, something stuck with me, and that minor punishment in the name of legibility and propriety has probably contributed to my love of typography. (More on that some other time.)

But instead of forcing me to conform to a soul-less standard of straight-backed Ls and the perfect 35 degree slant, she should have read this book. Published in 1923, Handwriting and Character is a great example of how a person's individuality, psychology and even pathology can be analysed through a mere sample of their writing. Not so long ago, graphology was an essential practice and part of certain job interview processes. In absence of that, I've put my own scrawl (which varies from barely-legible slopfest to somewhat flourishy script) to the test and profiled it against the various samples found here. According to this book, I possess the following characteristics: Affection, Coarseness, Constructiveness, Cunning, Decision, Intelligence, Jealousy, Resourcefulness, with just a touch of Manic Depression with Excitement. Although my T cross-bars can be brutal and tyrannical, and show various degrees of anger, temper and irritation. I may one day steal an automobile in revenge.

Click on the images to enlarge.

And this last one, just for creepy kicks: (not to worry - my "I"s are nothing like this. And I know how to spell "writing")

Read all about it: Graphology

Air Canada: Sort of trying really hard to win you back.

2008-11-20T20:07:00.014-05:00

I recently flew to Vancouver from Montreal. It's an arduous haul (almost 6 hours - longer than flying to the UK. I could be having my morning pint at Heathrow by the time the Vancouver-bound plane reaches the Rockies), but with the right distractions, correctly-timed snacks, and hydrating beverages (but not too many, especially if you're stuck in that dreaded middle seat), it's bearable. What makes it thus is Air Canada's "in-flight entertainment system", i.e.: those small LCD screens tucked neatly in the back of the seat in front of you. It's a rather nice perk. When it works. Which it didn't on this particular flight, or at least, not consistently, which seemed to tick a few people off, or at least, the flight crew anticipated it would, enough to offer every single passenger a redeemable coupon for 5% off their next booked flight. Call me unselfish, but that seems like an overly generous offer for an airline that was flirting with bankruptcy protection just a few years ago. Five percent of 650$ is $32.50. Multiply that by 200 people and that's $6,500 out of pocket just because a few people couldn't watch an Adam Sandler movie. And just when I thought Air Canada had changed its slogan to "We Hate You Too".
But luckily, though, there aren't just Adam Sandler movies on offer. They actually have a "Canadian Film" category, (wouldn't want to accidentally come upon an Atom Egoyan film as we flip our way through the usual Hollywood fare, now would we?) and last June I watched Guy Maddin's My Winnipeg on my way home to Winnipeg, and loved it all the more for it. I then watched an NFB documentary about how difficult it is for Canadian film makers to get distribution in Canada. Natch.

An unfortunate thing about the system though is that it's a rather delicate and temperamental beast. So much so that flight attendants are obliged to add the following warning to their safety procedures spiel: "PLEASE BE PATIENT WITH THE ON-FLIGHT ENTERTAINMENT SYSTEM. DO NOT TAP THE SCREEN REPEATEDLY OR IT WILL CRASH THE SYSTEM". I swear they actually used the word "crash" on an airplane. You'd think that would get the message across. But what do people do when technology doesn't immediately respond, spoiled as they are on high-speed instant-gratification? They hit it harder. Then they pound on it. Then the person sitting in front of them turns around and pounds them.
Where are my earplugs and Gravol when I need them?

exploding brain!

2008-08-22T22:20:00.009-04:00

Dear Reader,

Please excuse my extended absence. It's been a crazy-busy summer, and will be an even nuttier fall. So much for terrible twos. I haven't forgotten about you though, and have a pile of fresh flotsam fermenting on the shelves inside my head. I will get to that mess and tease out a story or two in the near-to-mid-term-future, I promise. Eventually.

Image: (what IS it?!?) Some type of sea creature from the Natural History Museum, London. Ick!

Cultural Flotsam is 2 years old!

2008-06-12T22:55:00.014-04:00

This is the best/most hideous cake I've ever seen. I hope it tasted as good/bad as it looks. I'm sure some eager pack of toddlers took no time to face plant that one.

So now that we've been around the block a couple times, here's what's in store for Cultural Flotsam this year:

"Laughing one minute, crying the next, often for no apparent reason. That's what you can expect from your emotionally fragile 2-year-old. These seemingly bizarre mood swings are simply the result of your toddler's struggle to take control of his actions, impulses and feelings.

Your toddler wants to learn how everything works. However, he still lacks many of the skills necessary to accomplish this task without inflicting harm on himself or others. As a result, the bulk of his exploration time is spent testing limits -- yours, his and the environment's.

Although it may not seem that way often, slowly but surely, your 2-year-old is learning self-control. But don't be surprised if he saves his worst outbursts for you. Your toddler doesn't trust other people the way he trusts you, so he waits until you arrive to push the envelope."

(source: http://parenting.ivillage.com/tp/tpdevelopment/0,,devtrkr_9rpg,00.html)

Cheers to all my regular readers and to all those who have posted comments. I love you all.

JB

E=mc2

2008-06-06T18:39:00.019-04:00

The world is a darker place today. This week, as I was cycling to work, I noticed an ad on a passing transit bus for the new Mariah Carey album, the dubiously titled E=MC2. The absolute gall of this astounds me. My first thought, however, was: I wonder who would come up first on a Google search for E=mc2, Einstein or Mariah?

Guess.

I can barely grasp the complex formulations of the theory of relativity any more than I can stomach the overblown warblings of Mariah, but I can tell you what I think the E stands for in her version of the equation (think poo).

When the execs at her record label brainstormed over what to name the new album, I can imagine the conversation may have gone something like this: "Now let's see... if the Energy contained in any object is equal to the Mass times the Speed of Light squared, then naturally, the Music contained in Mariah is equal to Obscene Profits times Millions squared. Bingo!"

The optimist in me hopes that maybe somewhere in the universe some 14 year-old girl will look at that album and not think: Gee I wish I was that skinny and filthy rich, and instead think: Gee, I remember seeing that E=mc2 in a textbook somewhere. I'm going to Wiki that. And bang, a budding physicist is born.
It's not impossible.

Brush up on the real E=mc2 here

Hendrick's Gin

2008-03-30T21:39:00.015-04:00

I added Hendrick's Gin to my "Recently Discovered" list on the right, but I just feel like I have to dedicate a whole post to it seeing as it's THAT GOOD.

A friend who was recently in from Dawson City introduced me to Hendrick's Gin. He'd bought a bottle because it's (tragically) unavailable up there in the Yukon, (although I'm sure they've got a whole whack o' hooch of their own that's tragically unavailable down here, too). I was already a fan of gin (a trait I've inherited from my dear Ma), but my stock usually only featured the respectable but predictable Bombay Sapphire or Tanqueray. Fine with some tonic and lime on a hot summer's weeknight sitting on the back porch, but really, nothing to call mom about.

Hendrick's Gin was established in 1886 and is distilled and bottled in Glasgow (of all glorious places). Not the first bevvie that comes to mind when I think of Scotland, but I've now added it to the list of things to love about that place. Hendrick's stout, black bottle looks like something you'd pour into your car engine. It's got a cork-topper that screams 'moonshine', and an old fashioned label that's the perfect throwback to turn-of-the-century prohibition. Classy. Their website continues this 19th century theme, greeting you with bombastic music that instantly puts you in the mood for a tipple.

Hendrick's is best taken straight so as to better enjoy its' distinct flavour. The back label lists ingredients such as juniper, coriander and citrus peel. Plus, "the 'unexpected' infusion of cucumber and rose petals results in a most iconoclastic gin. IT IS NOT FOR EVERYONE." True, and that's why it's so special.

And if you're the type whose self-control flies out the window in the presence of alcohol, you'll be pleased to know that the relatively low amounts of congeners in clear alcoholic beverages such as gin or vodka, make for less severe hangovers. You'll still feel like you've been run over, but at least your head will be relatively pain-free. Cheers to that!

CBC: Smells like 18-35 demographic

2008-03-30T20:03:00.037-04:00

There's a bit of a rhubarb going on now about the proposed
changes (again?) to CBC Radio 2 programming coming this September. Radio 2, the classical music wing of the Mother ship, is fiercely guarded by its loyal core audience. As it should. Those who prefer Bach over Bublé have few other options when it comes to air play.
But this latest brouhaha is the same argument we've heard about making the CBC more 'accessible' to younger and/or more diverse audiences. What this means for Radio 2 is a reduction in programming hours devoted strictly to classical music (Radio 2 is currently about 85% classical). Now there will be a daily 5 hour afternoon slot, and a few weekend slots, such as Saturday Afternoon at the Opera. The rest of the airtime, namely the drive-in and drive-home shows, will be shared by an 'eclectic array' of jazz, folk, Joni Mitchell, world music, R & B, more Joni Mitchell, and probably a lot of Michael Bublé. This, apparently, is the end of civilization. Now scores of Radio 2 fans are whingeing about it, hugging their hi-fis like mother bears ready to slap the CBC management heads who keep messing things up. I don't blame them for complaining. Whenever the CBC decides to shake things up a bit (which seems to be, oh, about every 10 months or so), they move toward the same changes every time. It's frustrating. People get attached to their programs. You live with this stuff every day, then suddenly it's like someone you don't know is moving in and chucking out your favourite chair because they don't like it. In this case though, the change stings a lot more because classical music is already a marginalized and hyper-specialized form of music, only truly, fully and deeply appreciated by a slim portion of the population. Radio 2 is all they've got! I may not listen to it that much, but I like knowing it's there.
I feel their pain.

In the March 29 edition of the Globe and Mail, staff writer Jeffrey Simpson ("Mr. President, will you fight for a CBC of intelligence?" page A19) claims that these proposed changes signal yet another dumbing down of CBC content, as epitomized on the TV side by programs like The Hour (weeknights at 11pm): "The CBC has forgotten, or at least marginalized, its statutory mandate to 'inform, enlighten and entertain' by reversing the order of priorities, such that instead of appealing to intelligence, the cardinal rule for public broadcasting, it has insulted that intelligence on the television side with programs such as The Hour."

I can see how he would think this. It's hard to get past the Much Music-ness of the program. From the opening theme song (by Canada's own The New Pornographers - and they have NOTHING to do with skin mags, ma), to its seizure-inducing video graphics, to its just-a-bit-too-cool host, my boyfriend George Stombou (hang on...) Stroumboulopoulos, the show reeks of the 18-35 demographic, which Jeffrey Simpson seems to have rather little faith in. But does this mean it has no substance? Why do classical music and opera always trump all other forms when it comes to 'intelligent music'? Do all people who listen to classical music really have such narrow taste? Are they really completely intolerant of Joni Mitchell? (She paints, you know.)
But the point is, The Hour is not trying to be The National, or Ideas, or The Sunday Edition. It doesn't need to be. The Hour, however, is the CBC's 18-35 dream come true. Yes, it has stupid features that probably make more people cringe than they realize (i.e. "The Greatest Thing Ever" segment. NIX IT!), but it also has Desmond Tutu, Roméo Dallaire, Elizabeth May, Ricky Gervais, Debbie Harry, and hey - Peter Mansbridge! (They had a rollicking good time on that one. I've never seen Peter so relaxed. He even wore a black mock turtleneck for the occasion.) Plus hundreds of other interesting guests you've never heard of who are doing amazing things with their lives.
In all of my TV news-watching life, no matter how many times Peter tries to explain it to me, I can barely wrap my head around what's going on in Iraq. But 3 minutes with George and it all makes sense. Does this mean I can't understand complex warfare unless it's broken down into manageable bits of information? That after missing a few episodes of The National I've been left in the dust of ignorance? (just like what happened with Twin Peaks). Not really. But so what if The Hour is the Coles Notes of The National. Maybe people will accidentally learn something.

But TV is a whole other thing (and I have a whole lot to whinge about myself in that regard). When it comes to radio, though, I've long thought the CBC's preoccupation with that ever-elusive youth market was a misguided obsession. CBC radio is something you mature into. You grow to love it for precisely the same reasons you hated it when you were 14. Because your parents listen to it, because it reminds you of home, because it's good for you, because it goes down well with dinner, because it's familiar, intelligent, always there, and you can listen to it with your grandma.

So stop panicking. There's room for everyone on this Mother ship, even if we don't all get along.

P.S. (June 11/08) I've gone back to watch some more of The Hour in recent weeks, and I fear my tolerance for George has crashed. Aïe aïe aïe. I think his too-tight pants may be impeding the flow of blood to his head.

* * *

An informal poll with my friend Donna recently revealed who's hot and who's not on our CBC radio list of hosts. Voici la liste:

HOT:
Jian Ghomeshi (Q. We were actually split on this one but since it's my blog he gets the HOT vote. I know I am alone on this one.)
Patti Schmidt (Inside the Music. AND she plays hockey)
Eleanor Wachtel (Writers and Company. Her liquid honey voice makes my guy friends weak in the knees)
Paul Kennedy (Ideas)
Jonathan Goldstein (Wiretap. Marry me.)
Tom Allen (Music & Company)
Rex "perspicacious" Murphy (Cross Country Checkup/catchup/ketchup)
Ian Brown (Talking Books. Marry me if Jonathan is unavailable.)

NOT:
Shelagh Rogers (Sounds Like Canada. "how did you feel?" ad nauseam)
Stewart McLean (Vinyl Café. Drunk on the sound of his own voice, methinks)
Gregory Charles (In the Key of Charles. SHUT UP!)
Randy Bachman (Randy's Vinyl Tap. Drunk on the sound of his own guitar noodling. Forgive me for dissing a Canadian rock n' roll legend and fellow former 'Pegger)
Sook-Yin Lee (DNTO. "Celebrities on helium"?!? Come ON)
Brent Bambury (Go! The cool, sharp edge he'd honed on Brave New Waves was lost forever when he co-hosted CBC TV's Midday. Now he's just a butter-knife. /cry)

WHO WE MISS:
Ian Finkleman (Finkleman's 45s'irascible old crank)
Peter Gzowski (Morningside's irascible old crank. R.I.P.)

Breakfast of Champions

2008-03-24T11:14:00.005-04:00

By request, here is my Aunt Dora's oatmeal-based cereal recipe. She's a health fanatic and prepared this for my mom while taking care of her after her triple-bypass surgery. Good for the ol' ticker, lowers your cholesterol, and your intestinal tract will thank you. I've been having this for breakfast every morning for the past 2 years and I'm still not sick of it. The beauty of it is you can switch it up to vary the flavour and texture. Plus it's cheap, especially if you buy the ingredients in bulk. Get creative.

1 part rolled oats (none of that 'minute-oats' stuff)
1 part natural oat bran
1/3 part natural wheat germ (keep in fridge)
1/3 part ground flax seeds (ground flax is better as more nutrients are released)

2 T brown sugar (optional)
cinnamon & nutmeg as desired
any combination of dried fruits, seeds and nuts. I like dried cranberries, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, chopped dried apricots, sliced almonds.

Keep the whole batch in the fridge as that natural wheat germ can go bad.

Stove-top:
Place 3/4 to 1 cup in small saucepan and add desired liquid (water, milk, soy milk, apple or grape juice) - enough to cover it well as the liquids get soaked up quickly. Cook over medium-low heat 5 min or until done. Chuck in some chopped apple for more fibre. Top with more milk or juice if desired.

Microwave:
Put 3/4 - 1 cup in bowl and add desired liquid. Nuke on high for 1:30. Add additional milk if desired.

Alternatives:
Soak in juice overnight, add to yogurt and eat cold.

If you want a more gruel-like consistency, prepare 1/2 cup and add more liquid. You can also pass the oats through a coffee grinder to give you a finer texture (recommended for those with sensitive digestion).
Top with fresh seasonal fruit.

Sprinkle with psyllium husks for that extra cleanse.
Drizzle with maple syrup or honey.

You may never eat anything else for as long as you live.

Romancing the Peg

2008-03-08T23:39:00.011-05:00

"Winnipeg. Winnipeg. Winnipeg.
Snowy, sleepwalking Winnipeg.
My home for my entire life.
My entire life.
I must leave it.
I must leave it.
I must leave it now."

So begins Guy Maddin's latest release, My Winnipeg, which premiered to much acclaim at the Toronto International Film Festival in the fall of 2007. In it, Maddin captures a version of Winnipeg that is equal parts pride and bile, which seems like a common enough sentiment for locals and ex-pats alike, and is possibly the result of knowing you live in a city whose time has come and gone. All that talk today about the booming prairies fails to mention that Winnipeg's boom happened a hundred years ago, just before the General Strike of 1919. The Chicago of the North, as it was then called, Winnipeg was set to be the major railway hub for the transportation of goods across the continent, given its geographic location at the longitudinal and latitudinal centre of North America. Then the Panama Canal opened, favouring trade via waterways over railways, thereby greatly affecting the city's economic growth.

You can marvel and revel in the impact this had by visiting one of many huge furniture warehouses in the Exchange District, just off Portage and Main, where floor after floor is packed to the rafters with antique furniture, frozen in time since the 1930s, where it was stored waiting to be shipped via rail to cities around the continent. In one particular warehouse, each floor has furniture from a different decade, from the 1880's to the 1960's. Much of it shockingly cheap. An entire house can be furnished, vintage style, for beans (well, Toronto or Vancouver beans, anyway).

Here now, as promised in an earlier post ("Wicked!", August 2006) are a few more examples of why dormant states can make a place pretty interesting, if urban history turns your cultural studies crank.

Portage and Main
The city's largest and most infamous intersection. Reviled by most citizens (yet still the instant referent) due to the asinine decision to block access to pedestrians. People have been forbidden to cross Portage and Main, on any corner, for as long as I can remember (early 1970s). If you are, say, at the TD Bank corner and need to get to Lombard Place directly across Main Street, you have to go underground and pass through, in a literally roundabout way, a shopping complex called Winnipeg Square, built expressly for the purpose of tricking pedestrians into purchasing things they don't need, and would never have bought in the first place, had they been allowed to cross the street like normal human beings instead of forcibly impersonating a colony of gophers. Such a detour will lengthen your journey by at least 5 minutes. It's maddening. It's only 8 lanes of traffic! They do it in all the other big cities! Ugh. Maybe some day this decision will be reversed and people will once again be free to cross, like the big adults that they are, in all safety and comfort.
And now I have just discovered that our own humble little Portage and Main has made New York City's Project for Public Spaces website's Hall of Shame. Way to go.

The Bay
Like in many Canadian cities, The Bay's flagship store is the Grande Dame of the downtown. And like any grande dame, the bloom is off the rose, and that's partly why I love it so. It pretty much hasn't changed a bit for the last couple decades, so going back is a wicked trip down memory lane. First stop, The Paddlwheel Restaurant. I remember coming here with my mom after my monthly visits to the orthodontist. Nothing soothes the throbbing pain of forcible dental re-alignment like a cool bowl of cubed Jell-O. They've spruced the place up a bit, in that kind of misguided, half-conscious way old businesses do when they feel they have to keep up with the times. Take the sign, for instance. It was probably made in China 'cause it's got nothing to do with the character of the place. Sigh. The dining room is brighter than I remember, but they've mercifully left the paddlewheel a-churnin' (although the water is long gone).

I treated myself to the roast beef dinner, complete with Yorkshire puddin', horseradish, over-cooked vegetable medley, mashed potatoes, gravy, tea and good old Jell-O, and took my seat amongst the afternoon crowd having their afternoon glucose/fructose snack, and taking a break from returning or exchanging the Christmas presents they didn't like.

Speaking of fading beauties, the bathrooms on the 5th floor are rife with pathos. Fake pink flowers nicely offsetting the grey and beige colour scheme, rows of half-lit vanities, a well-worn door handle... It's pretty clean, but it's also pretty sad.

I love how they readily admit their elevators are slower than frozen molasses. Those seniors haven't got all day you know, especially on Bay Days.

Sal's
Winnipeg's first Salisbury House Restaurant opened on Fort Street in 1931. It's trademark red roof (legendarily painted with leftover barn paint) made them easy to spot, and soon Sal's could be seen sprouting all over the city. Sal's is famous for its 'Nip' burger, and to my delight, they even offer a kielbassa and perogy platter. Fans of the Guess Who will know that Burton Cummings wrote many songs while sitting at his local Sal's (worthy of another one of those 'Heritage Minute' commercials). When they redesigned the Provencher bridge (complete with that bizarro 'what is it?' giant spire) spanning between downtown and St. Boniface, Winnipeg's French quarter, the idea came about that a restaurant should be built at the half-way point on the pedestrian walkway. The choice to make it a Sal's, and not a classier, French-themed crêperie or four-star resto, put many of St. B's elite in a snit, given the general perception of Sal's as a bit of a low-brow diner. It is. But on opening weekend, people lined up for hours to get in, and business has been brisk since.

Rae & Jerry's
Oh boy - here it is - my all-time favourite lounge in the whole world, with its flashing neon arrow, calling me, beckoning. ENTER.

Yes, it's that red. And the lighting is low, so unfortunately, my pictures are blurry (this was before the martini, too). But suffice to say, the place is bathed in red and black. The lounge is pure '70s glam, with floor to ceiling black velvet curtains, red carpet, red vinyl chairs, a roaring fireplace, and mirrored ceiling. The drinks are cheap as borscht, ya. The Vodka Martini with a twist is $6.50. And, the place is completely void of obnoxious hipsters. Unreal!

Mitchell Fabrics
For the crafty sewing crowd, a visit to Mitchell Fabrics is a must. As I am rather fond of unusual (some might say horribly kitsch) prints, I scored myself a meter and a half of classic 'dogs playing poker' which I will soon turn into a skirt. I'm happy to see they've hired themselves a good web designer. Their on-line face is pretty slick, but first time visitors to the actual store may be surprised (or pleased) that it's a rather dusty, old-school kinda joint. Heavy users include the province's Hutterite community. Oh, and you may notice it's in the so-called 'bad' part of town. Free parking at the rear. Multiple public transit options. Walking distance from the Exchange (if you like to walk).

Hotel Fort Garry
Part of the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway nation-wide hotel empire, the Fort Garry is a triple threat. In addition to being a beauty to behold on its own, it also houses the Palm Room (also known as the Palm Lounge or Oval Room, but not the Oval Palm), and the adjacent Royal Crown Revolving Restaurant and Lounge. On Sunday mornings, the hotel hosts the most orgiastic buffet I have ever seen. For $35, you can ingest all the crêpes, fruit, omelets, pig, salmon, toast and lobster you can eat. You can even pass your entire plate under the endless stream of the three-tiered chocolate fountain. It's obscene. I've only been to it once, the morning after my brother's wedding, but I'd go again. If your motto is I ain't leavin' til I'm heavin', this is the brunch for you, my friend.

The Palm Room
Well the martinis are definitely not $6.50, but the décor will make you feel like a million bucks. And for the love of God, please, dress up a little. There's nothing worse than having your 1920s fantasy come alive rudely killed by a dude in yellow Crocs and a baseball cap. Have a little class!

The Royal Crown Revolving Restaurant and Lounge
The Hotel Fort Garry may be synonymous with upper-class elegance, but its neighbour Royal Crown is for the bargain lover. If the fringy valance and chintz doesn't distract you from the view, and your stomach can handle the combination of booze, rich food, and the not-at-all-subtle turning motion, then add this to your list. The amenities are a little worse for wear, but so would you be if you'd been spinning on your axis for 25 years. I'd like to point out the questionable women's restroom sign below. Very odd. Highlights include the $4.50 vodka martini. Combined with the view and the added bonus spinning effect, it's a cheap drunk's ideal night out.

More on the Fort Garry Hotel here

Leslie Hall: Large and In Charge

2008-03-02T21:24:00.019-05:00

If you haven't seen or heard of Iowa artist and satirical rapper Leslie Hall, consider this your official introduction. Currently touring North America with her band Leslie and the Ly's, they stopped in for a show on February 8 at Montreal's funkiest fire-trap, ZooBizarre.
I first came across Leslie Hall through her photo series of self-portraits wearing hundreds of gem sweaters she's rescued from the thrift stores and landfills of mid-west America and beyond (now safely housed in her touring Gem Sweater Museum RV). In these she transforms herself into the perfect '80s outcast with her oversized glasses, bouffant hair-do and gold spandex pants. Amazingly, she manages to convey dignity and poignancy while working with all the 'wrong' elements. The full effect of this series is best experienced on her MySpace page where the images cycle through in rapid-fire succession. Check that out here.

On the music side of things, Leslie and the Ly's are the perfect satirists - both paying homage to and taking the piss out of a musical genre with a notoriously narrow view of male/female relations, fashion and lyrical content. This chick is hilarious. Her music should be compulsory listening for every teenage girl (and boy) in the land as a perfect antidote to that Spice Girls pre-fab, anti-flab, 'girl power' (retch!) vapid rhetoric which always sets my blood to an instant boil. This woman is the antithesis of all that. She is Large and in Charge! She's the new corn-fed feminist icon for the 21st century!

Discography:

V-Day: A True Story

2008-02-11T20:24:00.001-05:00

A few years ago, in an unexpectedly bold move, my (ex) boyfriend Michael sprung a Valentine surprise on me: Pack your bags hon, we're going to spend the night in a posh hotel! Woo-hoo!!! He'd scored one of those all-inclusive packages geared to the Valentine's Day crowd, and as horrifically cheezy as we knew it would be, we also felt a certain thrill at this little adventure. We left my place around 10, tipsy and stuffed to the tonsils from our dinner of maple syrup and miso-marinated salmon, strawberry and spinach salad, loads of red wine, and chocolate-raspberry torte. It happened to be one of the coldest nights of the winter, so we decided to screw the old bus pass and call ourselves a cab. Start livin' large now, why don'tcha!

Our cab pulled up to the stately looking Hôtel St-Paul, a new boutique hotel in Old Montreal, which, in an earlier post-colonial incarnation, had probably been a bank, or a palace of some sort. Struggling out of the cab and up the stairs, a doorman ushered us into the vast, high ceiling lobby that smacked of Nordic über-cool chic and Wallpaper* Magazine. Fur and leather everywhere. Marble. Granite. Wood. Around a massive fireplace fit for a pig-roast, scads of beautiful people languidly reclined in their stylish ensembles, providing a harsh contrast to our Winnipeg-winter parkas, book-ended by Sorels and a toque. We clearly didn't fit the profile, and were loving every minute of it.
Upon checking in, the concierge, managing not to smirk, handed me a white rose (wrapped in cellophane with baby's breath, natch) and informed us that the porter would be up shortly to deliver our exotic fruit platter, complimentary champagne, and to RUN OUR BATH. Michael and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. So this is what it’s like to be Really, Stinking, Rich, and helplessly dependant.

After some initial exploring of our suite, opening every cabinet door, light switch, faucet, knob, curtain and blind in a manner suggesting we'd just come off the boat into the New World, we admired the splendid view and reassured ourselves that we were still in Montreal and had not been transported into some sort of V-Day Twilight Zone. Testing the bed’s bounciness, we giggled at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. And by the way, where the heck was that bath-boy? We didn't have all night. As the minutes wore on, a slight queasiness began to grow in my stomach. At first I attributed it to the bed-bouncing and the general giddy anxiousness that accompanies any frivolous, completely out of character adventure. But these were no happy butterflies. These were dizzy, drunk, nauseated butterflies. My mind raced. Food poisoning! But Michael was fine. Fit as a fiddle, in fact. Good Lord, why now?

Finally, after an hour of waiting (and calling the front desk to inquire on the whereabouts of our bloody fruit platter), Bath-boy finally showed up. Michael was on the phone with the front desk again, this time asking if they had any Gravol (no), so I was left to answer the door. I would not want this poor guy's job. Imagine the humiliation of having to interrupt the romantic proceedings of dozens of randy couples, on this, the most over-hyped night of the year after New Year's Eve. This party-killer's tap-tap-tap at the door was eerily similar to a mother's tap-tap-tap on the bedroom door of her 11 year-old son, bringing his pre-teen self-explorations to a cruel, screeching halt.

Avoiding eye-contact at all times, he made quick business with the task at hand, hurrying past us to deposit the exotic fruit platter, champagne bucket, and scented candles on the table. I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to gauge where my stomach juices were at. Then, as if on cue, I entered the dry heaves as soon as he pulled out a bag of rose petals and began strewing them about the room. Before I knew it, the room looked like the worst romantic fantasy imaginable come alive, and I was in it. Finishing off the petals, Bath-boy quickly whisked by muttering "I'll just run your bath now."
That an awkward, pimple-faced teenage bellhop should be responsible for setting the scene for a romantic soak in the suds is the most surreal and un-erotic scenario ever. But there he was, kneeling over the tub-for-two, lighting more candles and strewing yet more of those blasted rose petals.
Palms sweating, bile rising, I stumbled to the bathroom and stopped in the doorway, blurting over the sound of rushing water: "Uh, sorry. I GOTTA GET IN HERE NOW!!!" I will never forget the look of shock on his face as he took in my greenish pallor, frozen with the look of those whose plans take an unexpected turn for the worse. He b-lined for the front door, leaving the water running full blast and a trail of rose petals in his wake.
Fiercely clutching the toilet bowl, I yakked like there was no tomorrow, thinking all the while "I can't believe this is happening!!! Tonight of all nights!!! I am CURSED!!!" Meanwhile, Michael was still on the phone trying to locate the nearest all-night drugstore. My only grace was the sound of rushing water thundering up a storm of bubbles in the tub, enough to mask the ungodly sound of me revisiting that night's dinner. After a few rounds, things settled down enough for me to get up, rinse myself off and eventually emerge to take on the night (and the exotic fruit platter).

Recipes!
Maple and miso-glazed Salmon
Sioux-Lookout Strawberry Spinach salad
chocolate raspberry torte

Thoughts on Christmas

2007-12-15T15:33:00.007-05:00

A very special thank you to Donna for these heartwarming images.

GOONS!

2007-11-28T19:19:00.001-05:00

The Sadies were in town on November 25 to promote their new album, New Seasons, and as expected, they set the house on fire (see previous post August 2006).
However, I was crushed (literally) to notice that the almighty power of the Sadies has reached the drunken frat crowd here in Montreal. It looked like a goon invasion was threatening to ruin the evening toward the end, as a small group of eedjiots actually started to form a MOSH PIT. Before you could say "what the f-?" we were being plowed left, right and centre by a few really, really happy fans who, evidently more accustomed to frosh party etiquette, took it upon themselves to liven things up a bit for the rest of us. At one point, one guy chucked a water bottle right about head-height onto the stage. That got him a personal chat with Sean the bassist who, bless him, tried to put the kybosh on that gesture of enthusiasm. Meanwhile, some other moron started smashing beer bottles, clanking them together like those asinine inflatable baguettes you see at sports events. Hey you putz - can you hear me? DOES NOT TRANSLATE. It was all a mess, but to the Sadies' credit, they took it all in stride without skipping a beat. All part of the crazy rock n' roll lifestyle, I guess. But before this puts you off ever experiencing the gobsmacking musical virtuosity of The Sadies live in concert, let it be known that in general, their shows attract salt-of-the-earth people of level mind and pure beef heart, not yer standard Nickelback pissed-out-of-their-tree-before-10pm types. Aye, but I suppose music doesn't judge the listener.

In the October 22/07 CBC Radio 3 podcast, guest host Tariq Hussain, sitting in for my dream boyfriend Grant Lawrence, describes encountering the same type of unexpected moronic crowd behaviour in Vancouver at a Weakerthans show! Those sensitive poets of lyrically dense intelligent Prairie indie rock! It's just not right! By virtue of these bouts of misplaced recklessness, these concert crashers may as well be stage-diving at a Rita MacNeil Christmas concert! Sober up or get lost ya mashers!

Artist-run culture in Canada

2007-11-03T13:35:00.001-04:00

Canada boasts more than 100 non-profit, artist-run galleries across the country. Since their beginnings in the 1970s, many have evolved into established institutions that function as the corner-stone of their city's contemporary art scene. At the core of these centres is a common mandate to provide an alternative forum for the dissemination of contemporary art, outside of commercial constraints and interests, while recognizing the contribution of artists through the payment of artist fees.

A full description of our artist-run centre system can be found here on The New Gallery (Calgary) website.

Follow this link for a list of many Artist-run centres in Canada

Also included are links to some of the best contemporary art periodicals in Canada.

Canadian Art
Border Crossings
Mix Magazine
C Magazine
Prefix Photo
Blackflash
Fuse
ESSE arts et opinions
Espace Sculpture

Photo credit: articule artist-run centre, Montreal, Quebec
artwork: Therese Mastroiacovo

Les Fleurs du Mal Issue 3 launch party

2007-09-09T22:01:00.001-04:00

Les Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Issue Three Launch Party

Wednesday, September 19, 8 PM
articule
262 Fairmount Ouest, Metro Laurier

Les Fleurs du Mal magazine invites you to celebrate the launch of its latest issue: “Interactive Art.” This event will feature DJ and VJ entertainment, tasty snacks and bar, a silent-auction fundraiser featuring works donated by Montreal artists — and, of course, free (always!) advance copies of the magazine. Pencil it in!

About Les Fleurs du Mal Magazine

Les Fleurs du Mal is Montreal’s newest art magazine for emerging and professional artists. We focus on emerging art and artists primarily in the Montreal area, as well as on news, topics and issues in contemporary art. Les Fleurs du Mal is published on an occasional basis, and is produced entirely by volunteer labour. We accept submissions in French and English. The magazine’s upcoming issue will be published at a circulation of 3,000 copies and distributed free of charge at artist-run centres and galleries, cafes, restaurants, clubs, cinemas, theatres, university campuses and other selected locations throughout central Montreal, as well as certain locations across Canada and abroad.

View on Canadian Art

2007-08-28T21:40:00.000-04:00

What these gams have to do with Canadian Art is beyooond me, except that they must belong to View on Canadian Art author Andrea Carson, whose blog carries an interesting array of views and reviews on what's happening art-wise across the land, as well as following shows by Canadian artists abroad. Despite this male-bait bio pic (why, oh why?), her credentials remain impressive, as do her shoes. You could puncture a football with those.
It's a good site to bookmark if you like keeping up with the endless treadmill of art events worldwide. Carson does all the (leg)work and provides her recommendations, along with links to relevant articles, interviews and websites.

Hoo-ray for Hollywood

2007-08-26T11:21:00.000-04:00

A lot of ink and airtime has been spent over the recent relocation to Beverly Hills of Britain's celebrity royals, Posh and Becks. Sweetening the deal (at least theoretically) was Posh's tv show, Victoria Beckham: Coming to America, a shameless publicity vehicle chronicling their move into the aptly dubbed Beckingham Palace. The show was swiftly reduced from a 6-part reality series to a still-too-long one hour special, and predictably panned by US media as "an orgy of self-indulgence". Well, duh.
Underwhelming media response aside, it's hard to imagine Posh taking a lesson in humility and self-restraint even after the glamorous belly flop of an entrance she's engineered. What do you expect when you have to share tabloid tattle with the likes of those other blonde Hollywood rakes? At least they earn their front pages the old-fashioned American way: behind the wheel in a haze of booze and drugs!

On the upside, I hear David Beckham is finally getting around to calling the darn game 'soccer'.

La Biennale de Montréal - à la Baerwaldt

2007-08-26T10:54:00.000-04:00

It's been months now since the Montreal Biennale of Contemporary Art ended on July 8, and as summer too, draws to a close, so do many people's memories of the event. Thankfully, some are still reflecting on it. Montrealers Don Goodes and Ed Janzen, both former Winnipeggers, as is the biennale's curator Wayne Baerwaldt, have expressed their views in print and on the web. Goodes offers a three-part interview with Baerwaldt featured on both YouTube and vernissage.tv (linked below). Janzen, for his part, has written a response to the Goodes/Baerwaldt interview, and published it in the independent Concordia Fine Arts journal, Les Fleurs du Mal, out this September. An un-abridged version of his text appears below.

With an exhibition like the biennale, in a city like Montreal, it's easy to let ones' expectations of this grand event rise to lofty heights. We want it to be spectacular. We need it to be. However, previous incarnations proved rather underwhelming (2004 especially comes to mind) . Lack of cohesion, clear vision, funds, whatever, it seemed like the biennale - as far as galvanizing art events go - had nowhere to go but up. Enter Wayne Baerwaldt.

For those who have followed his career since his Plug-In Gallery days in Winnipeg during the 1980s and '90s, Baerwaldt quickly developed a reputation as a visionary curator who challenged audiences with his brand of contemporary art programming, and who, arguably more than any other curator before or since, put Plug In on the map, and helped give Winnipeg a reputation as a city where wierd and wonderful creative things were happening during those cold, interminable winters. Later successes, such as his turn at curating the Canadian pavillion for the Venice Biennale, with an award-winning installation by Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller, further established Baerwaldt as a Canadian curatorial force. A few years later, and after a brief but nonetheless controversial stint at Toronto's Power Plant, Baerwaldt has now settled in at the Alberta College of Art and Design's Illingworth Kerr Art Gallery.
Understanding his knack for discovering new talent, and also his incredible ability with 'spin' (I've often described him as someone who could convince you the contents of your ashtray made the most interesting piece of conceptual art you'd ever imagined), it looked like this biennale might present a some nice surprises. And while my impressions of the biennale as a whole were mainly positive (save for some questionable installation tactics in some questionable venues), one of my biggest surprises was revealed in the interview with Baerwaldt conducted by Don Goodes. Ed Janzen shares my surprise at this revealing interview, and articulates it well. To know more about it, see the interview on vernissage.tv, then read on:

Interview by Don Goodes on vernissage.tv

Toward a Canadian Biennale
Wayne Baerwaldt and the Politics of Faith

by Ed Janzen

Listening to Biennale de Montréal curator Wayne Baerwaldt speak about his curatorial vision for the exhibitions and performances of more than fifty artists in ten different venues is a harrowing pleasure. Harrowing, because his vision is indistinct and sometimes contradictory. A pleasure, because he seems comfortable with his vision being incomplete — maybe even wrong. An inversion of the image of the curator-as-control-freak, Baerwaldt appears utterly comfortable with being uncomfortable.
Montreal artist and art commentator Don Goodes interviewed Baerwaldt and posted the edited videos of their conversation on YouTube and vernissage.tv (search for “Baerwaldt”). The remarkable results comprise the quotations that appear in this article.
“I was interested in coming here to think about the context of a Canadian Biennale — in Montreal, in Quebec,” Baerwaldt explains, “as part of Canada, but in a very unique cultural milieu that’s been established here over the last 400 years.
“We don’t have our own [Canadian] biennale, at this point. The Biennale de Montréal has played that role to a certain extent, but a very limited extent. It’s been about Montreal … about its connections to Europe. It’s been about a certain political dynamic. And so, it wasn’t really operating in a way I thought a Canadian biennale might.”
“One of the themes, in a very loose way,” he continues, “was dealing with borders and … there are many ways of approaching that, from physical to geographical borders to political borders and those that are absolutely imaginary … transgressing borders, acknowledging borders … most of the artists could conceivably fit in … whether they want to or not.”
Whether they want to or not? Wait a sec…
But there’s more: “[An exhibition concept] can be on a very publicly accessible level. But beyond that, you can really throw caution to the wind … work very intuitively, and hopefully surprise yourself, both through failures and successes. And I’m interested in that sort of fine line between failure and success.”
Exploring this success/failure tension, Baerwaldt discusses how some artists’ works were positioned so that the sound from a particular video could bleed into another space, creating a new environment and producing an unpredictable recontextualization of another artist’s work. (Maybe this is what he means by “whether they want to or not.”) “Somehow, although we think that … sound bleeding from one artist’s work to another can be detrimental, it’s suddenly working on a different level,” says Baerwaldt. “Or I think it is, anyway. Enhancing or impacting upon another artist’s work in some sort of way that works, stimulates the imagination…. Maybe that’s the producer in me thinking … ‘This is the way it should be.’ So, it could be absolutely delusional.”
The success/failure tension was perhaps amplified by the fact that the Biennale only received $500,000 in funding — unlike similar events in other countries, which, Baerwaldt observes, operate “with budgets from $3 million to $300 million.” Five hundred grand “doesn’t go very far,” he observes.
“Everything from the didactic panels, which are incomplete or sometimes non-existent, to the lighting of one piece or another … to some degree it’s about practical limitations, not having staff … or time to finish.”
It sounds like he’s complaining — but get this: “On another level it’s probably seeing fifty per cent of the artists change the titles of works that are created right up to the last minute. And I think that’s legitimate, of course, that’s their every right to do so, and it’s now up to us to respond by changing the didactic panels within a reasonable amount of time and correcting lighting, if possible….”
At this point, many curators would lose their minds. After all, isn’t it the curator’s role to envision and advance a well-defined, theorized concept? Is it really so difficult to print off decent labels, even at the last minute? Shouldn’t the audience — a paying audience at the main venue — expect as much? As chief artistic officer, the curator, even in the most iconoclastic exhibition, remains responsible to the artists and the audience. Ideally, much is demanded of all parties.
Baerwaldt seems to agree: “Producers usually like to know what they’re getting in the end.” But he quickly turns around and upends the traditional relationships: “I’d like to think that some percentage of the presentations here would even confound the producer, and ask for a leap of faith. And I think I, as a rule, put myself in that position wherever possible.”
He’s talking about a big leap of faith. It wouldn’t be difficult to conclude that Baerwaldt’s biennale simply suffered from overreach, that he and his associates failed to bring off a professional-level event owing at least in part (with some justification, granted) to the lack of money. Moreover, Baerwaldt positions himself on the line between success and failure — but, since he appears rather comfortable with failure, even failure becomes success. What does it mean to make a leap of faith when you can’t lose?
What will confound many — has — is that Baerwaldt may be right. Anyone who has followed his career through the years will recognize that he has always worked this way. And, while controversy has dogged him, for all kinds of reasons — programming his friends, frivolous expenditures, exploiting shock value — so has success, and not just his own. While curator at Winnipeg’s Plug In artist-run centre (now Plug In ICA), Baerwaldt “discovered” young artist Marcel Dzama and brought him to the L.A. International show, launching his career. Baerwaldt may promote a handful of “art stars” — sometimes his friends — yet few disagree that the artists, like Dzama, deserve their success. Moreover, many have done far less with far greater resources than Baerwaldt to promote national and international recognition of a relatively small art scene like Winnipeg’s.
Similarly, many remember when Baerwaldt brought the “World Tea Party” event to Plug In back in 1999. Does anyone recall what the week-long event was actually about? Maybe not — but not because it was unmemorable. Quite the opposite, everyone who went remembers it as a magic moment. This is what could be called the “Baerwaldt touch.” It’s not producing gold from base metals; the gold is already there. But he makes people believe in the gold. There’s the leap of faith — and it’s not a bad quality in a curator.
So, was the “Canadian biennale” a golden success — or a racket?
It’s a Canadian predicament. In older industrialized countries, with much longer histories as nations/empires and with internationally recognized roles in the master narrative of art history, big-ticket art events can exude a sort of cultural bravado, a sleek, programmed vision of a nation’s artistic ethos. This would be difficult to achieve in Canada, more or less a massive, colonial resource-extraction project built upon the dispossession of the country’s First Nations. Further, the English colonial project’s primacy was contingent upon the conquest of the French colonial project. That is, Canada is a result of colonization, not a “first cause” (certainly a “secondary cause,” though). And it is a follower, not a source, of art trends.
If Baerwaldt’s “Canadian biennale” seems like a bit of a racket, well, so is Canada, an aggregate of nations interwoven with colonial relationships and animosities in which unity — don’t even mention uniformity — is an unlikely, maybe silly, goal. Perhaps it’s appropriate that Baerwaldt’s vision of a biennale “about borders” is so vague. There are no certainties, here.
Despite Canada’s troubled “national” landscape and despite the government’s (perhaps especially the current government’s) disinterest in prioritizing support for art, Baerwaldt feels that the experiment, the leap of faith, is worthwhile — and that the government and the private sector must necessarily step up to bat with funding. “There should be some sort of celebration, I think, [that] comes close to … a cultural flashpoint for the making of a contemporary art history here,” he says.
“I’m hoping that we come to a point with this biennale where it suggests, ‘Okay, we’ve done that — what wasn’t covered?’ Or, ‘Where else is this going?’ So, either a biennale is an extension to the next step — or the doorway being opened to a biennale that’s absolutely contradictory in terms to the current one.”
Perhaps Baerwaldt’s vision of a Canadian biennale represents an attitude that might work for the country as a whole. If we could be a little more comfortable with being uncomfortable — a little more failure-friendly, and for a reasonably long time — who can say what productive, experimental spaces might open up?
And then again, “it could be absolutely delusional.”

Ed Janzen is a founding publisher and editor of Montreal’s Les Fleurs du Mal magazine. An earlier, condensed version of this article is published in that magazine’s September, 2007 issue.

Official Biennale de Montréal website

Happy Birthday Cultural Flotsam!

2007-06-03T20:33:00.001-04:00

Has it been a year already? Feels like five. I actually can hardly believe I'm still posting (albeit sporadically of late). I'll try to remedy that this year, as Cultural Flotsam ventures forth into its terrible twos. Ramming speed!

Thank you to my regular readers (well, my brother Don, anyway).
B-day cards and prezzies welcome.

Cheers!

Cultural Flotsam

Odds and ends in La belle province: Part deux!

2007-06-03T13:05:00.000-04:00

SIGNS
I've finally gotten around to documenting some of the interesting signage in my neighborhood of Piccola Italia and adjacent Villeray and Rosemont, which I'd been meaning to do for about, oh, five years. This is by no means a complete archive, as 9 times out of 10, I don't have my camera with me when I see something interesting, but it's a start. There are countless people out there documenting signage in and around their 'hoods, and even some sites dedicated to collecting a comprehensive visual archive of their local sign heritage (see for example the excellent Logo Cities site, and my links section for more). These examples have more to do with the quirky ones from eras gone by that I fear are about to get torn down in the name of progress. I've already missed a few too many (the incredible Vegas-style exterminator at the corner of Christophe-Colomb and Rosemont comes to mind. Sigh...)

La Petite Bouffe (above) is a little 'casse-croute' which mainly caters to the local workforce. On the menu are standard greasy-spoon fare, including breakfast and lunch options. They recently replaced the handpainted sign that hangs perpendicularly to the building with this rather unfortunate flowered one. The previous sign, painted in an equally tentative but charming manner, had small steaming cups of coffee and the word RESTAURANT on a diagonal. None of this pansy country charm crap. Oh well. At least they still have the big arse swallowing the stool. Classic.

I caught these beautiful peeling CO-OP BAKERY and CAKE SHOP letters just in time, as they are now completely covered by brown corrugated sheet metal. Why that aesthetic crime was dreamt up and called progress is a mystery to me.

This is what happens when you wait too long to document something: nature takes over. For years I've been cycling by this mysterious homage to FAYE DUNAWAY, only to now find it partially obstructed by a young tree. I briefly considered hacking away at it so I could get the full view, but then thought that would be a bit barbaric. What has Faye done lately anyway?

If I could give awards for the most hilarious greasy-spoon restaurant name, these two would certainly win. Right across the street from each other are Beaubien Nouveau Système (fear not finding a loose bolt in your poutine, our machines are new!) and Hot Dog Élégant (no doubt boiled to perfection by dashing line cooks).

I remember reading "Ali Baba et les 40 voleurs" as a kid.
I don't remember anything about mufflers.

BEER and WINE HOTLINE!!! With FREE DELIVERY!!!
WHAT A CITY!!!

I've been wanting to have a glass of draft here for ages but despite the convivial sign, this is definitely a 'regulars only' joint. This shot was taken at 10 am on a Sunday, and let me tell you, the faithful were already worshipping at the taps. Praise the Lord and pass the sauce!

I dare someone to go in there and ask for "The Manhattan".

Banff's Treasure Chest - the Merman awaits!

2007-05-21T15:59:00.000-04:00

If you've been to the town of Banff lately, you can probably attest to its increasing mall-like atmosphere. While there seem to be measures in place to control the influx of chain stores and restaurants, many still manage to muscle their way through, ensuring nature-loving tourists will never be too far away from their Triple 2/3 Decaf Grande Non-Fat 2 Splenda Latte.

Just off the branded and beaten path of Banff Avenue is what has to be one of the town's most interesting attractions: The Indian Trading Post.

Amid the rather overwhelming selection of native arts and crafts (more moccasins, dreamcatchers and turquoise/sterling silver jewellery than I've ever seen anywhere. And hey, I thought those 'native' dolls were politically incorrect! I'm so confused) is a stunning collection of taxidermy, big and small, furry and feathered. Most interesting is the halved specimens - goats, bears, cougars - all sliced in half lengthwise, right down the middle, and mounted flat against the wall in a variety of action poses. My rationale for this, being in a national park, is that perhaps these were salvaged from road kill. What you see is the side of the animal that didn't meet your man's bumper. Just a guess.

It also begs the question, did famous British artist Damien Hirst ever make an impressionable trip to the old trading post in his pre-Goldsmiths College days?

But BY FAR the most enthralling specimen to be found is the rather modestly (even carelessly) displayed MERMAN in a glass case at the very back of the shop.

This "curious creature of unknown origin", as it's called in the back of this postcard, available at the shop, lives a quiet, almost neglected existence here. You are just as likely not to see it, as you rifle through the stacks of moose-emblazoned sweaters hung all around. Poor creature. Tom Babin of the Calgary Herald, however, has done his homework. Read more about the merman here

Avril Lavigne = April Wine

2007-03-24T15:06:00.000-04:00

Think about it.

(answer below)

Avril = April
Lavigne = the vine = grapes = Wine

Ok, a bit of a stretch but Can Con humour is always super corny.

April Wine official website!

Cashing in on cultural cool

2007-02-20T12:01:00.000-05:00

Toronto, in the urban-anthropological sense, is said to be in its adolescence. In some ways, it does evoke a certain self-consciousness that belies its desire to be a self-assured, grown-up metropolis. And like any adolescent, the city has been undergoing a rather dramatic growth spurt of late, accompanied by the necessary growing pains. Private and government investment in the city's cultural capital - such as the construction of new and dramatic add-ons by super-star architects to sites such as the ROM, the AGO, and OCAD - has also trickled down to its latest diamond in the rough, the west-end neighbourhood of Parkdale.

Parkdale's main drag, Queen Street West, has long been home to many of the city's greatest visual artists and musicians who favoured the area for its cheap rents and plentiful studio spaces. It's also held a reputation as a rather rough part of town which, until recent years, no well-heeled urbanite in search of a good cocktail hour would have considered as a desirable playground, never mind a place to crawl home.
Spearheaded by the renovation of the Drake Hotel, Parkdale's hip factor has spread further west, into what for years was considered a no-go zone. Within this neighborhood of used appliance stores, diners, rep video stores, and mom and pop grocers, commercial galleries, clothing boutiques and modern furniture shops have sprouted. And along with this type of commercial revitalization comes an interest in housing. Condo development in the area has reached its apex with the (wait for it) Bohemian Embassy, a luxury condo spread which unabashedly cashes in on Parkdale's reputation as a nesting place for artists, musicians and "free-spirited" creative types. This point is enforced, with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, by the BE's website and their gobsmackingly horrid poster campaign featuring a model wearing a 'bohemian-pastische' of fishnet, chunky jewellery, floppy hat and braids, and pancake makeup. Oh, and she's clutching a rose. I don't think they could have come up with something more inane if they tried. The great irony in all of this is that the area the BE compound will occupy includes a five-storey turn of the century building which has been used for artists' live-work studios for decades. These artists will be turfed and their building demolished to make way for two condo towers - at 8 and 19 storeys tall - that will not only dwarf the surrounding area's existing buildings, but will be a visual blight on the landscape.
Plenty of people are upset over this, and justifiably so. A site called bohemianembarassment, by Toronto artist Michael Toke, was offline when I tried to google it. According to Globe & Mail columnist Leah McLaren, BE developers have threatened Toke with legal action. And this from a group that claims to be successfully integrating into the community.

It has been said that artists are the stormtroopers of gentrification, and a recent newsletter by the Art Gallery of York Univeristy's Director Philip Monk, illustrates this phenemenon very well. He proposes that any commercial development that displaces or radically upsets existing artist's
way of life be subject to a tax that would be redirected towards cultural development in the neighborhood. The idea would probably never fly, but the point is clear. That the inimitable 'cachet' so sought after by commercial developers to attract buyers is the very thing that is suffocated when development occurs. Inevitably, the same people suffer, and they should be compensated for it.

Conspicuously absent in the BE website's grating descriptions of the neighbourhood (and its far-too-liberal use of the words 'hip' and 'trendy' - they're working really hard to convince you that you won't be a total loser for moving there), is any mention of the very present Centre for Addiction & Mental Health, just a short jog down Queen from the BE. In my recent travels up and down Queen west, I regularly encountered a variety of CAMH residents wandering up and down the street. On a few occasions I witnessed a man simply standing on the sidewalk hollering into the air above him with all his might. Given our proximity to the CAMH, it was safe to assume he was a resident out for a stroll and perhaps low on meds. Or maybe, as I like to think, he too, was appalled at the blind greed that has infected his neighbourhood, and just needed to express his disgust in a way many of us probably wish we could.

One joint that's been doing it right is the Gladstone Hotel, a few blocks west of the Drake. It has managed to integrate the hotel's existing ecclectic citizenry (hard core aging bar flies and alterno-scenesters) while revitalizing and preserving this cornerstone hotel's beauty and heritage. While this may seem like trying to host a party with several vastly different types of people on the guest list, hoping they'll all mingle happily over a warm Labatt 50 and a pint of Smithwick's, for the most part, the experiment seems to be working. Take for instance their artist-designed rooms, where visual artists were invited to develop theme rooms for the hotel's suites. Among the themes are Teen Queen, by Cecilia Berkovic, replete with Hollywood hunk posters plastered on the walls and bubble-gum pink overload. Or Faux Naturelle, by Allyson Mitchell which according to their website "feels like a woodsy retreat where lesbian separatist commune meets Storybook Gardens." For those who prefer to wake up to a little less kitsch, more creatively subdued suites are also available. They've even integrated artist studios into the hotel, available for long or short-term rent. Imagine that. And the bar where the bar flies used to hang out? Largely untouched by the renovations. They've even kept the weekly karaoke nights.

I don't live in Toronto, but I try to visit as often as I can. There are great things about it that I envy, and that my Montreal home simply fails to capture (like artificial ice on outdoor hockey rinks! Yeah!). And while Montreal (or Winnipeg, or any other culturally-rich city for that matter) is no stranger this sort of over-zealous, short-sighted commercial development, one can only hope that more alternative groups will strike while the iron is hot with their own truly creative, home-grown brand of civic investment, to create neighbourhoods that are interesting and enjoyable to live in, not because they try so hard to be (and for the wrong reasons), but because the incentive is about community, not cool.

Links:
Local weekly rag The Parkdale Liberty weighs in
AGYU Philip Monk's newsletter
Witness for yourself the horror that is The Bohemian Embassy
The Globe and Mail - Leah McLaren's take on the sitch
And the kvetching goes on! a rant and images of the BE by Kevin Steele on flickr
The 2 cool 4 u Drake Hotel
A fine example of responsible community development The Gladstone Hotel

Put the Ch-rist! back into Christmas

2006-11-19T15:34:00.001-05:00

As a way to personally resist the tyranny of Christmas merch that floods our entire field of vision each holiday season, I collect Christmas ornaments that inspire more horror than happy. These are usually at least 30 years old, from a time when irony and cynicism were not equated with cool, (or maybe they were - what the heck do I know, I was six). Each of these items posesses a kind of heavy pathos - earned either through neglect or through poor manufacturing standards - that I find particularly appealing. Some may find that attitude alarmingly cynical, but I approach it in a different way. I look at it as resurrecting these long-forgotten items, giving them a place of honour on my freshly dusted mantle (and I hardly ever dust), seeing the inadvertent (and therefore priceless) humour in the faceless, nameless glut of our capitalist-driven world, which, nostalgia or not, is the wheel that drives this whole mad, mad Christmas machine. Current mass-produced seasonal ornaments have not yet earned this badge of (dis)honour. Any dollar store today offers row upon row of equally tasteless crap (not yet kitsch as kitsch implies nostalgia, which these are too young to bear. It's all in the timing, friends. Nostalgia is a privilege, not a right!).

The problem with modern-day ornamentation is that, unlike decades past, we are far too well-versed in the practices of a throwaway economy that tells us new is better, and yesterday's trinket is tomorrow's trash. We all know where they're headed in a couple years' time when their recent-dated-ness proves to be no match for the latest twinkling accessory: the mid-July yard sale, where they will languish all weekend on the 50 cent table before their shameful demotion to the FREE box that's left by the curb when you've packed 'er in. And there they remain because they are totally, utterly charmless. This is why I prefer to mine the aisles of junk shops where the real survivors can be found. These aren't the Grinch-in-a-Santa-suit bobbles from some Hollywood movie, but rather the decades-old trinkets, the used and abused, the sad, worn and forlorn, the dirty and the denigrated, relegated to the dusty bottom of a cardboard box amidst the loose glitter and tinsel.
Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses longing to be free... I'll give them a spot on my Christmas tree.

Fluff

2006-10-23T20:41:00.000-04:00

My local grocery store in Little Italy (say Little Italy three times fast) has uncharacteristically stocked its shelves with this very un-Italian item: fluff.

I don't remember this from when I was a kid in the early '70s (we were a Koogle household), but some of my friends do. They tell tales of looking on with a mix of horror and envy as their friends strutted their fluffer-nutter sandwiches: a layer of fluff over a layer of peanut butter between two slices of white bread, as illustrated on the back of every jar of fluff - undoubtedly as a way to introduce some sort of "nutritional" element to this otherwise sugary marshmallow muck. How any parent can willfully serve this to their child is beyond me but I suppose sometimes you just gotta relent. I imagine fluff to be the upper-white-trash equivalent of the sugar sandwich.

The attraction is obvious. I haven't even opened it (and I never will) but I was instantly seduced. It's a fine example of effective advertising design. Everything about it evokes happiness. The baby blue and white topped by that jaunty red cap. The jolly retro font (which is extra marshmallowy in its French translation: guimauve). It's just simple goodness and smiles all around, one lovin' spoonful after another. Scoop yourself a puffy little cloud, a pillow, a snowball, a cotton ball. It's all soft and cozy and harmless until your teeth rot out. Kids are probably buying this as a snack on its own (at $2.19 it's cheaper than a pop and bag of chips). And if they manage to get their sticky hands on one of those big bubble-tea straws they can just suck themselves into sugar oblivion (it's a gateway to crack!).

check out the official fluff website here

Emote this!

2006-10-14T18:03:00.000-04:00

The lexicon of emoticons - that visual shorthand for human emotions - is a trend in emailing and instant messaging which I can't %#!**%#@* wait to see bite the dust.

Alright - I admit - I am not totally pure of intent here. I must confess to having, on occasion, typed one in at the end of a sentence when I suspected my tone may be misinterpreted. But I have always immediately deleted it. I prefer to believe my friends and correspondents are quick enough to detect subtle humour or sarcasm to not require the aid of a visual prompt.

The problem with this is that sooner or later, someone gets into a bit of a literal quagmire over the questionable tone of their emails. Was that some kind of back-handed insult? Was he making a pass at me? What exactly does she mean by "shut up!"?
Oh, we've all gotten so paranoid!!! See what political-correctness has done?!

It's understandable in many ways how the more thin-skinned among us may want to punctuate our sentences with the occasional winky-wink or smiley face, or even a >: - ( when we really mean business. That way, there's no room for confusion and misunderstanding. Only straight ahead infantilization.

The worst - I mean THE ABSOLUTE WORST - are those yellow smiley faces you see in ads on the web, which have become increasingly elaborate and moronic. In the world of on-line dating they are the compositional crutch of choice - and this, in a forum where beyond your looks, the bait to beat is charm, intellect, and wit (ie: originality). Usually the more obviously illiterate a person is - and there are a depressing number of those - the heavier the use of emoticons, to the point where each sentence is punctuated with a different one. Like they know they don't have the means to express themselves in simple English (or any other language for that matter) so emoticons are a sort of stunted visual Cyranno. Often the choice of emoticon has nothing to do whatsoever with what's just been said. An appreciation for Quentin Tarantino films, for example, could easily be paired with a dancing hot pepper.

I don't instant message. I think I've done it twice in my life and that was 3 years ago before children were doing it. I am way behind in the technological times here so luckily, I am imune to the 'need' to instant message. I don't have a cell phone either. I'm sure one day this stubborn luddite stance will all come crashing down on me as I sit in an upside down car in a ditch wishing I had a cell phone to call CAA and 911, but for now, well, no car, no cell. My, this is all very dark! It's about opening the channels of communication, silly! Don't you know suicide rates have dropped in Finland since they pioneered the use of cell phones in that country?
Now there's something to call home about.

Going Postal

2006-10-11T20:32:00.000-04:00

Let me start this off by saying I love mail. I love sending mail, I love getting mail. I've written an inumerable amount of letters. Long ones. Funny ones. Lovey-dovey ones. Care packages. Fan mail. Letters of complaint and protest. I collect vintage post-cards. I've been to post-card trading shows. I can even say, with no word of a lie, that some of my best friends (two of them in fact) are Posties. There are worse jobs.

My beef is not with these intrepid carriers, but with the Mothership itself and the inane amount of Postal-related doodads and gewgaws it manufactures and tries in vain to sell. I'm talking about the junky trinkets that crowd the display shelves of every postal outlet in the land (display shelves that are installed expressly for this questionable merchandise). I suspect they keep generating all this stuff just to distract people to keep their minds off the fact that they've been waiting in line for 20 minutes.

Here's a list of what my local Canada Post outlet has in stock:

-commemorative pen & pencil sets
-collectible coins and dollar bills encased in a clear resin
-commemorative stamps
-greeting cards (Hallmark)
-plush toys (Postie cats and dogs)
-tiny plastic mailboxes, replicas of old and new
-toy mail delivery trucks, old and new
-commemorative Canadiana plates
-stickers
-decorative envelopes
-Pop N' Play Simpsons, Disney, bouquet, etc. pop-up cards
-playing cards
-snow globes (to remind us of the Postman's Creed)
-Harry Potter and E.T. coin set
-junior stamp collecting starter kit (do you really want your kid to get beat up?)
-postcards of Niagara Falls (in Montreal)
-Tickelopes
-watches (to remind you how late the mail is again)
-packing materials (Label it! Pad it! Box it! Shove it!)
-commemorative golf frame (??)
-stamp albums
-Christmas tree ornaments
-decorative gift bags and boxes

Who buys this stuff? More disturbingly, who thought it was a good idea to pour resin over perfectly good money and sell it for three times the value of the money itself? Oh, right, they're uncirculated. Sorry.
Maybe all those Olde Tyme postal delivery trucks and mailboxes are just a way of tugging at our heartstrings, hardened as they've been by the cold and fast world of email, cell phones and chat rooms. What that little plastic mail truck and that stuffed moose with the mail bag and jaunty cap are telling you, as you sweat profusely under your parka, is that they still believe in the power of a hand-written letter or thank-you note. And that e-cards are just another way of saying I was too late or too cheap to spend 51 cents on a stamp (52 cents effective January 15, 2007).

Socials: A Prairie Tradition

2006-09-24T17:01:00.000-04:00

The Prairie phenomenon known as the Social has a long-standing tradition. Originating ages ago in the small Ukranian towns that populate Saskatchewan and Manitoba, they were a way for families to come together to celebrate and fundraise for an upcoming wedding by holding a dance in a rented hall or community centre.

The benchmarks for a good social are simple:

1. A heavily stocked bar. Include only domestic beer, and of course, the Champagne of the Prairies: Rye and Coke.
2. A DJ -usually playing a wildly irregular range of tunes in a vain attempt to satisfy the multi-generational crowd (post Pixies polka, anyone?). It's the aural equivalent of someone grinding the gears and popping the clutch every three minutes.
There's a strict method to follow for playing the music. Three fast, three slow, three polkas. Sometimes if people are really getting into the fast songs (which back in the 80's meant Trooper or April Wine in heavy rotation, with a dash of Duran Duran or Eurythmics just to jar things up) then the count may be increased to six. Never would you have more than three slows, however, because then people would just start making out or getting slapped. Either way, someone would end up crying.
3. Each table must be graced by a generous basket of Old Dutch chips. Preferably plain. Rippled if you want flash. Old Dutch chips are manufactured in Winnipeg, and are sadly unavailable in Quebec. The Salt n' Vinegar will make you weep.
4. The decorations: usually an assortment of dollar-store or hand crafted items of the matrimonial sort - those fold-out paper bells are popular, as are crêpe paper streamers (in the colours of the bridal party, natch), some balloon clusters for fill, and, just in case you've forgotten why you're there in the first place, the fêted couple's names are usually spelled out on the wall with puffy tissue-paper flowers. Hearts everywhere. It's all very optimistic.
5. The midnight snack: a kaleidescope of deli meats, kielbasa, cheddar cheeses (yellow, white and marble, some cubed, some sliced), dill and sweet pickles, loads of sliced rye bread (notice the rye theme?), and nary a vegetable in sight, unless it's a garnish. Not that anyone would touch it anyway. The beauty of this bonanza is that (at least in my home town) it's unveiled at around midnight, when they flick on half the lights and people file hungrily to the back counter to sample the offerings. Almost as frightening as all that meat is the sight of all those sweat-drenched guys and makeup-smeared gals who, just moments ago, busting a move on the dance floor under the influence of all those R & Cs, looked kinda hot. Now, under the unforgiving glare of fluorescent light, you think to yourself, I may just skip that slow dance. Prairie folk sure know how to kill a party.

Almost everyone I know who's still living in a small town met their significant other at a social. That is, after all, what they're for. Socializing. And when you live in the country, there ain't that much socializing to be had. The handy thing about them is that they act as a kind of giant gene pool Mixmaster, as people from other small towns flock to one another's socials to check out the goods. You can imagine the anticipation. Anything looks good when it's unfamiliar (and when you're pretty sure you aren't related). Chances are the couple whose social you're attending met at a social the year before. So a social begat that couple, who are now having a social which will begat more couples, who in turn will begat more socials, and so on, and so on, for generations on end. It's all very Biblical.
It's been at least a dozen years since I've been to a proper social. People tell me they've changed a lot, and are now closer to mini-capitalist ventures than an excuse to see family and (get blasted with your) friends. It now costs about $15 to get in (I remember paying $5 in 1988). As a consequence, the raffle prizes have also grown exponentially. Raffles used to be 50/50, that is, you got 50% of the pot, or say, about 50 bucks cash. Now people are winning weekend resort getaway packages and slick patio furniture sets. It's completely out of control.

I heard there are so many Winnipeg ex-pats living in Toronto that someone started throwing Winnipeg Socials. And people actually came. If anyone out there knows of these, you must let me know. I'm due for a love-in.

Patron Saints

2006-09-15T19:07:00.000-04:00

Catholics have an inexhaustible list of resources to cure whatever ails you: Patron Saints. The actual rate of canonization has slowed somewhat over the years, but really, I think they've pretty much got everything covered so there mustn't be too many job openings, at least as far as patronage is concerned.
Luckily for us, the divinity is not above the World Wide Web, which means you too can check in at www.catholic-forum.com to see who to call on the next time you find yourself suffering from gastro-intestinal problems or are running late for the bus.

Here's a list of highlights:
Patron Saint of...
-girls from rural areas: Ste. Germaine Cousin
-fear of mice: Ste. Gertrude of Nivelles
-happy death: St. Joseph
-doubt: St. Joseph (double duty)
-art: Ste. Catherine de Bologna
-art dealers: John the Apostle
-against arm pain: St. Amalburga
-craftsmen who work with a wheel: Ste. Catherine of Alexandria
-falsely accused people: there are several, my pick is Ste. Elizabeth of Hungary
-against oversleeping: St. Vitus
-pastry chefs: St. Philip the Apostle
-against the devil (what a responsibility!): St. Dionysius the Aeropagite
-pigs: St. Anthony the Abbot
-lunatics: St. Job
-scrupulous people: St. Alphonsus Maria de Liguori
-seekers of lost articles: Ste. Anne

Many on the site's list reflect concerns and occupations of days gone by, such as shepherds and parents of large families. But they are keeping up with the times. Someone special has been assigned to answer each of your modern-day prayers related to computers, social workers, television writers and chemical manufacturers. My only question is, who in this day and age is saintly enough to get the job of Patron Saint against reality tv?

MFA : short for...

2006-08-25T23:52:00.000-04:00

I was doing some research on music and aggression a while back, which naturally led me to heavy metal. I am, I would say, more than peripherally aquainted with this genre, having spent my high school years caught in the thick of a banger maelstrom (or should I say Maëlström) in my tiny home town in southern Manitoba. Whatever I absorbed and have retained since then was done entirely through osmosis, as I have never in my life pressed play and cranked it up to 11 when a Judas Priest tape was on deck. All the really cool kids were bangers. Their standard uniform of dress was the raglan-sleeved metal band shirt (Mondays = Iron Maiden, Tuesdays = AC/DC, Wednesdays = Mötley Crüe, etc. reserving that most special of days, Fridays, for the Mother of all metal bands: METALLICA), paired with super tight black jeans (this is before stretch denim, so rips beneath the arse were de rigeur), high top runners, and lessen there be a slight chill in the air, the LUMBERJACK SHIRT. Preferably in black and red. Astrologically-speaking, black is associated with the planet Saturn, a male planet, typified by dominant behaviour. Everything in the universe is connected.

My Internet research led me to the Metallica Fan Association, (of course, now that I'm trying to track down the source to provide y'all witha handy link I come up with nothing. Why don't I write these things down when I find them? Apologies to the author). Anyway, this logo (above) appeared on their site. MFA are three letters that I've been branded with, because in my world, they stand for Master of Fine Arts, which I am. Yes, you may call me Master. Or Mistress if you prefer. The point is, my original thought was to screen print a bunch of t-shirts and sell them to MFA students who are in the thick of this utopian "it's all about memememememe!!!!" bubble. I never did get around to it, but now that's what this bloody blog is for!

Back to the heavy metal. There is something strangely appealing about it, I must admit. Something that puts you in touch with your inner neanderthal, reaches into your inner core and makes your jaw go slack and your tongue stick out and your eyes bug out and your limbs play air drums or air guitar, whichever you fancy. I'm partial to drums myself.

In "Sound of the Beast: The Complete Headbanging History of Heavy Metal", Ian Christe writes: "As ordained by Black Sabbath, heavy metal was a complex maelstrom (there's that word again) of neurosis and desire." That's what I was looking for - that mix of emotional and psychological unease that is the basis for much creative activity.

For a brief primer on the basics of metaldom, here's an article in The Manitoban that could save you from looking too square the next time you inadvertently find yourself strolling into an outdoor metal fest. Good luck.

The Sadies : HOT HOT HOT

2006-08-20T16:18:00.002-04:00

Phew!
Toronto-based quartet The Sadies played the Main Hall in Montreal on August 18. The sweat was flying as the tallest band in Canada blistered through a marathon set of songs from their previous four albums. Seeing The Sadies play their special brand of high energy country/surf/rock live before your eyes and ears is an experience worth repeating again and again (as I've done). I think I lost about 15% of my hearing as a result of standing at the front, but a couple days later the old eardrums seem to have fully recovered. One highlight was a surprise appearance by Greg Keelor who was in town to do a show with Blue Rodeo. He joined them up on stage to do a few numbers for the already-drunk-on-love-gone-berserk crowd. Mr. Keelor, along with over 20 other guests, including Neko Case, The Good Brothers, Jon Spencer, Jim Cuddy and many others appear on The Sadies' latest release, The Sadies In Concert, Volume One. Good times indeed.

The Sadies are (left to right in photo): Travis Good (guitar, fiddle, vocals), Sean Dean (upright bass), Mike Belitsky (drums, vocals), Dallas Good (guitar, vocals, keyboard)
Photo credit: Amanda Schenk (Dallas' woman)

thesadies.net
myspace.com/thesadies

Curios, collectibles and other crap

2006-08-20T14:42:00.000-04:00

A few of my favourite things to collect are old 'home economics' type manuals, such as recipe books, etiquette and hygiene books and how-to encyclopedias from the 1940s - '70s.

Spot the ham: 20 points
From The General Foods Kitchen's Cookbook, 1959

Now that my student days are over, I've grown to hate potlucks. Next time I'm invited to one, this is what I'm bringing: Liver-sausage Pineapple. You've been warned.
From Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book, 1953

Since knitting has made such a huge comeback (or is that over already? I can't keep up), I thought I'd show the world just how creative it can get. This is from a book called Royal Knits, by Nicolette McGuire. Don't ya just love that British wit?
Thanks to Tod and Joanne for this little gem.

I live for this stuff. I think it should be compulsory reading for every adolescent in the land, even if it's hilariously outdated by now. LEARN SOME MANNERS KIDS! Read on... (click on the images to enlarge)

Pay close attention to Chapter 22: NECKING. This will be on the test.

While we're on the subject, you girls out there may want to get your hands on these volumes. Their tables of contents list many informative topics such as: The Form Divine - The Ideal Breast, Racial Differences; Making the Most of Your Figure - The Psychological Approach, Dangers of Breast Massage, Mechanical Aids; The Art of the Corsetière - Subterfuges and 'Gay Deceivers', Special Support for Special Occasions.
Sorry - no sneak peek at the pictures inside. This is a family friendly blog.
Thanks to Shari. (How could she ever part with them?)
From 1948 and 1944 respectively.

I found this at Fanny's Fabrics in the basement of The Bay in downtown Winnipeg. They had a post-Christmas sale and this item looked quite forlorn in the discount bin. Deceiving as it is, it's actually a uh, candy cane ornament for the Christmas tree. It has a little slit at the top through which you can stuff some pot-pourri to make your fake pine tree smell like cinnamon and roses or something. Looks to me something else could be stuffed in there...

Wicked!!!

2006-08-10T20:36:00.000-04:00

Winnipeg is strange. My sentiments for it have changed since leaving 10 years ago. There was a time when I could never imagine moving back there for fear of being smothered by its smallness, over-familiarity, and isolation. Now each time I go I try to experience the city as a tourist would, but one who is familiar enough with it to know where the real gems are.
Winnipeg is one of those plucky cities that has grit and history and enough strange-but-true facts that make its citizens proud, no matter how preposterous they seem. The 'Peg's got CBC "Heritage Minutes" galore (Winnie the Pooh, anyone?). But many of its citizens possess another strange sense of pride - like being dedicated to the pathos of living there.
I was there visiting my family and friends recently and had been warned by another ex-pat that the province is in the throes of another of it's "take-pride" campaigns: Manitoba - Spirited Energy! as evidenced by this massive banner right smack dab in the middle of the city's most famous intersection, Portage and Main, which is, of course, completely cut off to pedestrians.

In 1994 or thereabouts, Winnipeg attempted another civic pride campaign titled "Winnipeg: 100 Reasons to Love it!" which featured a checklist of unique features our city can boast about such as "the beaches", or "the women". Some people would sport this list on various merch like t-shirts. I remember the list was printed askew so as to suggest, oh, I dunno, a certain cool edginess or something. This current "re-branding" of Manitoba was launched in an effort to change the pervasive attitude of cynicism and negativity that many citizens feel about their home province (who, me?), as evidenced so acutely by local bands such as The Weakerthans, and by this image below that a friend sent along.

So to redeem this situation, here is my shortlist of things to love about Winnipeg:

Located in the Exchange District, the Royal Albert Arms Hotel is home of The Albert, a legendary watering hole where the early evening shift-change from drunken old men to indie and punk rockers still occurs every night. I have fond memories of this place from when I used to frequent it in the early '90s, on their infamous Thursday Draft Nights - I reckon the draft is probably not 69 cents a glass anymore, but just as watered-down. The Albert is where I saw The New Duncan Imperials, Duotang (pre-boom and bust), where I had my first kiss with my first love (classy!), and where, for a brief but intense period, I inaugurated The Star Wars Pinball Club. Good clean fun.

Next stop: Albert Street Burgers, home of the Fat Al. A tiny, homemade fast-food joint like no other, it's unique characteristic is the arrangement it has with the Fleet Framing shop across the street, which has the front of its store set up with modest tables, chairs, napkin dispensers a mustard and ketchup bottles. Just keep your greasy paws off the mat board.

(image: Colin Kent) urbanphoto.net

There's a cluster of three Nutty Club buildings just off the Exchange District which house among other things, artist studios. I doubt they still make candy there but I'm glad they haven't painted over the signage.

This was encouraging. The Forks Market (a big touristy area at the junction of the Red and Assiniboine rivers) developed a skate park which actually seems to attract real skateboarders. What's most impressive is the inclusion of not only the usual bowl-type facility, but a reconstructed plaza-type area complete with stairs, railings and concrete benches. Just like downtown! Now maybe those pesky kids will quit terrorizing frightened business people with their board-flipping antics! Get your own stainless steel handrail!

Any self-respecting burger lover visiting Winnipeg must make a pilgrimmage to VJ's on Main street near Broadway. Get the Double Special. There'll amost surely be a lineup, but it's worth the wait. Honourable mention goes to the Dairy Whip on Marion who make a super dooper chili burger n' fries. I'll try to get a pic the next time I go. They've got a great vintage neon sign with a big pink springing arrow.

Some more great spots to visit:

Rae and Jerry's Steakhouse (they have a great 'Columbo' style lounge in black and red which hasn't changed since the late 1950s)
http://www.raeandjerrys.com/index.php

Bridge Drive In (BDI). Great ice-cream. Walk off those calories by taking a stroll over the bridge onto Kingston Row.

Still much more to come. Winnipeg truly is one great city. Too bad the people behind those feel-good re-branding schemes don't know where to look.

http://www.exchangedistrict.org/

Odds and ends in La belle province

2006-07-16T22:30:00.000-04:00

These are a few of my favourite things - dans la belle province

Le Bismark - eat it and weep.
Consists of a foot long hot dog wiener nestled in a custom-made white spongey sliced-bread-type bun, topped with a golden cascade of thick, slightly undercooked french fries. Your choice of toppings (I recommend lots of onions, with a side order of poutine for your dairy content, and a large Coke, no ice.) Window shattering belches guaranteed. Available at finer street-meat stands in the lovely town of Shawinigan, QC. Hand model and Bismark/poutine combo ingestor (she did it!): Joanne Hui

"Attention à nos enfants. C'est peut-être...le vôtre"

This comforting sign can be found all over small town Quebec. The caption loosely translates to: "Watch out for our children. This one could be yours." It features a once care-free androgynous child, fresh from an encounter with a speeding car. Bloody gruesome!

Notice how the child's left shoe is missing, and the sock has been slightly yanked from his/her foot. That explains all those single shoes I keep finding on the street. I've always wondered, how can someone just lose one shoe and not notice?

Restothèque - Somewhere off highway 138

Boogie on down to the salad bar! I made my friend Tod slow the car down and hold up traffic so I could get this slightly blurry shot of this great sign. Unfortunately, we'd already eaten, otherwise I would have enjoyed a bit of BeeGees avec mon 'amburger all dress, pas d'oignons. That stretch of highway between Québec City and Montréal (the longer scenic route, not the 2 lane speedway highway 40) is one of my farourite drives in the province. You see loads of the real-deal 'villages d'antan', small towns that still have many 100-year old houses right on the main drag.

Restrooms at Bar laitier Le Grizzly! Granby, Québec

I love the clash of artisanal woodworking, outhouse aesthetics, anthropomorphism, and 1950's B-movie poster inspired font.
Summer 2004

London calling

2006-07-14T09:42:00.000-04:00

I was in London a couple months ago for a quickie holiday (England, not Ontario. It's amazing how many people ask "Ontario?". As if!) I spent a lot more time in pubs than in galleries, but that was due to my impeccable timing as a lot of galleries were between shows. I did see a fantastic exhibit at the Whitechapel Art Gallery called Inner Worlds Outside (http://www.whitechapel.org/) It had loads of Henry Darger drawings which were great to see in person.

This photo was taken at The Golden Heart, a little gem of a pub on Commercial Street, near Spittalfields market. It's apparently a YBA local - or used to be before they became tabloid regulars. Bet you that's Tracey Emin under that giant puppy head.

I also got to indulge in one of my favourite grotesque delicacies: HAGGIS. Thank you Emily and Christian for preparing such a fine meal of neeps and tatties to go along with that steamy ball of goodness. Mmmmm!

This was a shocker. Had some amazing Indian food at Sweet n' Spicey on Brick Lane (beware the hawkers who try to lure you into their far inferior eateries! This is the only place to go!) Lo and behold, emblazoned on the plate we'd just practically licked clean was the St. Hubert logo! (St. Hubert is the Quebec equivalent of Swiss Chalet, but better - that is to say, lots of family-friendly chicken-fries-n'slaw combo dishes. Your sort of typical Sunday dinner outing with the family when you just want good basic grub for a good price and there are no outside guests to really impress kind of restaurant.)

For more of my views of London, see my long-neglected flickr page

Welcome to Cultural Flotsam!

2006-07-01T15:45:00.000-04:00

Cultural Flotsam is a scrapbook, a junk drawer, a collection of miscellaneous stuff that's been floating around my head, desk, studio or hard drive, looking for shores to wash up on; hence, this site. Some of it is concerned with art, music, books, and popular culture. Most of it is just me blathering on about whatnot. Vive Internet!

My apologies to Miriam and Mel from Studio XX who taught me Dreamweaver and CSS last year. I tried. Really, I did. But in the end, my attempts to launch my very own site made from scratch were in vain. So although this may lack the true web-geek cred I was hoping to gain, it's a lot faster and très facile!

Hats off to friends who've inspired me recently through their presence on the web: Emily, Neil, Matthew, Paul, Julie and many others. Check them out in my links section.

À bientôt...

What the heck is flotsam?