The Filthy Soapbox

2009-07-28T06:48:00.000-07:00

Alright, i know i haven't written in months - there's so much i wanted to share, yet i told myself i wouldn't write anything else until i finished recounting my Israel trip. In the meantime, however, I wanted to share with you a blog that i recently discovered.

Beautiful photos and the content is great. This guy loves photography, bicycles, cars, shiny things, and consumption.

http://www.atimetoget.com/

Also, he used to like skateboarding - great pics and write-up about the halcyon days of 80’s youth skate culture.

http://www.atimetoget.com/2009/07/acid-drop.html

Dan kicks it in the Land of the Chosen People, Vol. III

2009-04-05T12:06:00.000-07:00

I’m writing Volume III of this series as I sit in my aunt and uncle’s yard, with Tom, their delightful pooch, sitting at my feet. Tom is 7 years old, half German Shepherd, half Palestinian, and totally awesome. I, like you, had no idea that Palestinians had their own breed of dog. Interestingly, he was rescued from a shelter. There you have it, a Palestinian given shelter and love from a Jewish Israeli family. Tom also eats all the flowers in the yard and constantly tries to escape, but that kind of kills the analogy, so maybe disregard that. My uncle often refers to the dog as “Tembell”, which is the Hebrew word for “idiot”, I.e. “where’s the idiot now?“ But he says it with affection. Also, to be fair, the dog does seem a bit dim, but he’s happy enough - mostly because he seems, like many dogs, to be skilled at licking his genitals.

By the fourth night, the cabin fever one gets on any family vacation was beginning to set in. My mom’s constant corrections to my Hebrew and reminders to dress warmly, and inquiries as to whether or not I might need some more sunblock were beginning to take their toll. Luckily, that night I was meeting up with Craig, a Canadian buddy who was based in Tel Aviv, for a much needed night of hijinks amongst the clubs and watering holes of that city. “Craig”, whose real name, for security purposes and his insistence on maintaining a “zero online footprint“, shall not grace the pages of this blog, was halfway through a 3-year posting in Tel Aviv. There are few places more inviting than Tel Aviv for a North American single guy, and Craig seemed to be enjoying himself. The evidence of this was perfectly encapsulated by noting the entire contents of his fridge, which consisted of one bottle of beer. That said a lot, I thought. At least someone was doing it right. So we had a fun night out in Tel Aviv, club hopping and meeting the locals, and after a late night and crashing on the couch, Craig dropped me back off in suburban bliss the next morning.

Coming up in volume IV, my sister’s arrival, Jerusalem, and Druze villages…

Dan kicks it in the Land of the Chosen People, Vol. II

2009-04-05T11:57:00.000-07:00

I landed in Tel Aviv, and got to my aunt and uncle’s home in Even Yehuda, a town about 30 minutes north of Tel Aviv.

Talk to anyone who has the opportunity to regularly visit Israel, and one of the first things they remark is how impressed they are with the ceaseless construction of new buildings and public works throughout the country - and how this continued campaign of building and urbanization so visibly changes the landscape of the country from year to year. It’s exciting to see, especially considering the dire state of the global economy and the violent regional conflict that continues to threaten the country’s very existence. For sure, Israel has definitely been affected by the depressed global economy, but it‘s not nearly as bad as it is in North America. For starters, the unemployment rate here is still fairly low, at least compared to the epidemic levels of job losses and housing foreclosures in North America. On the other hand, it’s not all roses over here: I can’t remember, for instance, the last time a disgruntled Mexican fired a crude rocket into the backyard of a homemaker in San Antonio, Texas.

My first full day in Israel, I headed with my folks to Tel Aviv and Jaffa, the old city that predates modern Tel Aviv by about 2500 years, if not more. Before I continue, please note that 1) I’m actually going to try to limit my mention of touristy things and information, because that stuff is kind of a given on this trip - Israel is full of important historical shit, and you should buy a book about it, rather than read this blog - actually, you should do both. 2) in the event that I do drop some facts on you about the historical things we did / visited, count on my explanations being either partially or wholly inaccurate - that’s what Wikipedia is for, or maybe a book of facts like the encyclopedia Britannica or a Farmer’s Almanac or a Bathroom Reader.

Having said all that: Jaffa is an old city located within Tel Aviv, and it was an important port in ancient times, used by the Romans, the Mexicans, and Scots, during the time of beaver trapping and the spice trade. It’s more of a town than a city, actually, because it only spans about 4-5 blocks, but the ancient architecture was pretty sweet.

We spent an afternoon walking around the place, and ended our visit with a tasty meal at a restaurant overlooking the mediterranean. After lunch, we walked around Nev Tzedek, kind of like Soho or the Plateau of Tel Aviv: it was a trendy neighborhood where hipsters and artists were slowly being run out by young families and well-to-do yuppies. Luckily, for all the coffee shops in the area, there wasn't a Starbucks in sight - so all was not lost.

Dan kicks it in the Land of the Chosen People, Vol. I

2009-04-05T11:48:00.000-07:00

Gordie enjoyed talking on his cell phone. Gordie’s full name was actually Gordie Blackberry, Toronto Businessman Hockey Superfan (or GBTBHS for short). I assigned him his nickname 5 minutes after he got to his seat, 2 rows behind mine, on our Toronto-bound plane. Social etiquette is pretty clear on rules for chatting on a cell phone while in a crowded and confined public space: you don’t do it. If you’re already on your phone when you get to such a space, you finish the conversation and hang up.

But Gordie was a champ, not a quitter. Even after all the passengers were seated and ready for take-off, Gordie went on yapping for another 10 minutes - and just to be clear, he was not phoning in the instructions for emergency quadruple bypass heart surgery. Instead, here was a quick snippet of his conversation: “Sure, Colleen, I know the ref made a lousy call, but that’s hockey, y’know? He’s got 3 more games to play and we’re gonna focus on those.” Really, guy who is obviously from Toronto, still talking on his cell phone as if the passengers unluckily strapped in next to you can’t hear your drivel, is that how you feel about your son’s most recent pee wee hockey game (I‘m assuming it‘s your son‘s game - because if it‘s your own , beer league game that you‘re talking about, and you look like you’re - what - in your late forties, then that’s pretty gay. On the other hand, if you’re talking about an NHL game you caught on TV, that’s actually pathetic.)? No one on the plane wants to hear your ceaseless gum-flapping - so turn off your phone, jackass.

I didn’t actually tell Gordie any of this, obviously, but I did secretly hope the stewardess would suddenly lose control of her beverage cart and that the runaway cart might nail Gordie in the legs, and maybe even dislocate his knee. But that did not happen, and in the end I was glad. Not even GBTBHS deserved such a fate. Instead, I thought how cool it would be if his blackberry endured a direct hit of lightinging such that the phone would melt and fuse permanently to his face. He would be a mutant superhero - or maybe just a guy who would forever regret talking so much on his cell phone.

GBTBHS was the first thing worth writing about on my flight to Israel. He was actually on my flight from Montreal / Toronto, after which I would connect to Tel Aviv. My layover in Toronto was 3.5 hours, which would normally be brutal if I hadn’t been so lucky to have scored a pass into the Air Canada VIP lounge. Nothing really cuts the boredom of waiting for a flight - or the agitation of dealing with ass-hat fellow passengers - like complementary wine, cheese, and wifi.

I know what you want to ask, so I’ll spare you the awkwardness and go ahead and answer your question preemptively: Yes, it is totally acceptable to surf for porn in an airport VIP lounge, but - and this is key - you need to have a glass of wine in your hand while you’re doing it. Seriously, beer won’t do it - it’s just not classy enough. Whiskey in a highball is just old man-creepy. But wine works. I can’t explain it but holding a glass of wine cuts through the perversity of the act of leering at internet smut like a hot knife through butter. Go ahead, try it in your own, shared dwelling - the exchange with your roommate or Significant Other should go something like this:

Roommate/Significant Other: Hey - are you looking at porn right now?

You: -glug, glug, glug- I am indeed. There are some excellent things featured on Youporn today.

R/SO: That’s disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourself. Wait - are you drinking wine?

You: It’s a Shiraz. Kendall Jackson, actually. Go grab some, I’ve opened a bottle in the kitchen

R/SO: Oh….Actually I think I will if you don‘t mind.

You: sure, go for it, and please knock next time.

And…SCENE.

Enjoying a glass of wine - and not, I will emphasize, a whole bottle (as drinking a bottle by yourself suggests a distinct lack of self control, which would dovetail nicely into the scenario of you looking at online porno in the first place) - really shows you to be a connoisseur of the finer things - a patron of the arts of your choosing, if you will. If having a glass of wine while admiring the nude bathers depicted in a Monet painting is so right, then why is enjoying a glass of pinot noir while taking in a viewing of “2 girls, 1 cup” so wrong? Exactly.

I feel like I may have digressed a bit here. I'll talk about Israel in my next post.

2008-12-10T09:00:00.001-08:00

It's official, we need to start relying less on foreign oil.

http://jalopnik.com/5105716/dubai-prince-gifts-island-to-michael-schumacher

Mexican Adventure, Part III: Scuba: not a sport, but fun nonetheless

2008-10-28T18:31:00.000-07:00

Poolside cheeseburgers and shameless gorging aside, our main activity in Cozumel was Scuba diving, which we did over two days. My first day was spent alone with an instructor, as I needed to complete two more beach-based dives for my certification. Luis, my instructor, was a young, cheerful bloke who was passionate about diving and was actually an ex-semi-pro surfer as well, so we had a lot to talk about. He was very impressed with the surfing-specific wetsuit I had brought from home, but I didn't have the heart to tell Luis that the suit was in no way an accurate indicator of my actual surfing ability.

So while I spent my first two dives off of the beach on the first day of scuba, Crystal, already certified, went off on the boat with 5 other divers, where they had hit the jackpot: no sooner had their boat reached their designated dive spot and floated to a halt, that half a dozen dolphins started leaping out of the water, mere feet away from the boat. The group's dive master had begun to go through their plans for the first morning's dive, but when he spotted the dolphins - an extremely rare sighting - the dive master went bananas. He was so excited by leaping dolphins that he ditched his dive safety speech and yelled for everyone to dive in the water, lest they miss the Vegas-grade show. They dove in, and had a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Meanwhile, I was stuck on the beach, practicing breathing exercises and talking about my awesome wetsuit with Luis.

The second day's dive was none too shabby. I finally joined the rest of the divers aboard the boat, and we did see some terrific sea life: beautiful reefs, colorful fish, and one giant lobster. One fish in particular had me chuckling throughout my dive: it was scaled with a diamond pattern, and in the undersea light, the coloring of its scales had a distinctly 1970's bachelor pad, rompus room motif: subdued reds, burnt oranges and yellows, and shimmering quartz. I figured if any fish would evolve to have chest hair and drive a Corvette, it would be this one. I called it the Leisure Fish. I imagined it inviting other fish couples to it's little reef, and after some tasty krill cocktails, they would switch swimming partners at the end of their soiree. It's amazing what oxygen deprivation can do to the mind.

The diving really was good fun. When you finally learn to control your movements and maintain neutral buoyancy, it does feel like you're floating in zero gravity, and it's obviously a treat seeing the fish and other creatures in their natural habitat.

I think scuba is one of those activities that some die-hard devotees will insist is a sport, and not a mere activity. After my admittedly short stint underwater, I can now prove these people dead wrong. Any activity where an obese, 350 lb Texan can seem more graceful underwater than a healthy, physically active 175 lb. man, is not a sport. While I was struggling to maintain buoyancy and constantly adjusting my breathing and weights, the big Texan, one of the other clients in our boat and a seasoned diver, floated through the murky depths with the grace and agility of a shark. It was impressive. Back on land, of course, this husky gentleman moved with the typical, deliberate gait of a man who was trapped in his own cell of corpulence. I know it's a harsh observation, but I'm just saying I can understand why bigger people love Scuba.

Mexican Adventure, Part II

2008-10-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

The Park Royal in Cozumel fulfilled its promise to us of affordable pampering amid a mildly ethnic backdrop. The lobby, the showpiece of any resort worth its complementary pillow mint, was impressive, dominated by an enormous, Mayan-style straw canopy. That roof, probably at least 50 feet tall, was impressive. It was, clearly, a nod to the cultural past of the region. It also had me wondering how much “Mayan” was left in the local sensibility. Were human sacrifices really a thing of the past? How was justice meted out? If, for instance, the management caught me stealing the cashews from the mini-bar how would i be dealt with? would I be ritualistically filleted and offered to the Mayan sun god? I decided it best to stick to the complementary buffet.

Ah yes, the buffet: the anchor that holds together the glue for the gears of an all-inclusive resort. I realize I just mixed and mangled a bunch of metaphors there, but such a mixture of descriptors is the best way to describe the bottomless smorgasbord available to us. There was just so much food.

The beauty of the all-inclusive resort is you can eat whatever and whenever you want. It took me a few meals – or “sessions” as I liked to call them – to realize that I could bring bizarrely assembled plates of food back to my table, and the waiters would not judge me. That is a key difference between a buffet layout and a proper, sit-down establishment. Just try piling on your own, brought-from-home chipotle sauce on your "steak frites" at your local French bistro, and your snooty French waiter will shoot eye-daggers at you until you cease and desist such nonsense.

At this resort buffet, conversely, there were no such restrictions. I ended up trying to see how many different foods I could smother in guacamole, and I found the sky was the limit. Guacamole soon became a sort of all-purpose lubricant, not unlike WD-40, that could help me transition from one food type to the next. Indeed, nothing quite diffuses the acidity of a citrus salad and readies the palette for seafood pallella like a generous helping of guacamole.

But the dining bonanza did not end at the restaurant. Instead, it reached it's climax when we learned, on day 3 of our stay, that it was actually possible to order a cheeseburger, nachos, and a lime daquiri (full disclosure: 6 lime daquiris) without ever having to exit the hotel pool. In fact, I soon discovered there was no reason to leave the pool at all, as after daquiri #5, I decided that the closest urinal, located in the restroom 50 meters away from where I was floating, was simply too far, and that the chlorinated pool would do just fine, thank you. I'm not proud of this, but let's be honest: pride goes straight out the window when you order that first poolside cheeseburger. Indeed, the Park Royal had us in it's lime-flavoured, death-grip of sloth, and we were only too happy to comply.

If you'll forgive the random analogy, our all-inclusive resort experience reminded me of Kobe beef. This is the Japanese beef that is coveted for it's unrivaled tenderness and rich flavor. The secret to Kobe beef's deliciousness is in how the cows are treated: in short, they are treated exactly like guests at an all-inclusive resort: The cows are raised on a steady regimen of plentiful, delicious food, beer (yes, beer) and are encouraged to do as little exercise as possible, so as to keep their muscles soft and tender. Complementary massages are also part of the deal. Sound familiar? Let's not forget the mandatory wearing of colored bracelets within the resort, akin to being tagged like animals under observation. Still, did I mention how good that guacamole was?

Coming in Part III: Scuba Diving

Mexican Adventure, Part 1

2008-10-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

I've never been one for beach vacations. There are countless other holiday options that pose more attractive than the prospect of spending a week in the hot sun, splayed out on the sand like a beached whale, exposing my near-translucent epidermis to the sun's unkind gaze. Having said that, I believe such a holiday to be a rite of passage for the upwardly mobile North American – just as it is standard, office cubicle procedure for said North American to have photos of such a vacation festooning one's office cubicle.

So, with my main motivator being to upgrade my office décor from motivational poster purgatory to a collage of idyllic beach shots and candid photos of me and my girlfriend sipping on fruity bowls of booze, last week we embarked on a 9-day trip to Mexico, where we'd travel through the Mayan Riviera and a good chunk of the Yucatan Peninsula.

Things got off to an inauspicious start on the night of our trip. Flights to Mexico out of Montreal had become increasingly expensive in comparison to flying there from other cities in the Northeast, so we opted to fly down to Cancun from Boston. Our flight would be at 10am, a sensible hour...if you live in Boston. We threw logic to the wind, however, and decided to drive down to Boston from Montreal at 2am on Friday night/Saturday morning, after we had both logged full days of work, a brisket dinner at my grandmother's house, and farewell drinks earlier that night.

The obvious downside to this idiotic travel plan was that, despite having the equivalent of Red Bull intravenous drips attached to both our arms, my girlfriend and I were both dangerously exhausted for most of the 5 hour ride. The upside, of course, would be a cheap flight out of Boston, and repeated moose sightings throughout our drive down. The reality of this last advantage, of course, was that there weren't any actual moose spotted, but rather the delirium of our shared fatigue had manifested itself into hallucinatory wildlife sightings. Indeed, by hour 4 of the drive, we had counted 5 moose, 2 jackalopes, and, curiously, a polar bear riding a pteradactyl. Thanks, Red Bull.

After a couple of flights and layovers, we finally landed in Cancun. From there, we cabbed to Playa del Carmen, and from there we caught the ferry over to Cozumel, where we would stay at the Park Royal all-inclusive resort.

When I think of Cancun and the surrounding beach side towns, I think of drunken Americans and Canadians, making asses of themselves in impossibly large hats. I doubted I could confirm the validity of this stereotype, as it was still the low season and the boozing gringos had not yet invaded en masse. Fortune smiled upon us, however, because as we waited for the ferry in Playa del Carmen, we did spot one not-so-elusive North American boozer: easily visible through the large, open windows of the legendary Senor Frogs nightclub, our specimen was the size of a Macy's parade-float, hoisting a colorful glass not much smaller than the telescope I received for my Bar Mitzvah, standing on a chair and singing along to the Britney Spears tune that was playing in the club; a true bon-vivant, this guy. As I watched him gyrate and air-guitar his way to glory, I knew that Brad (i decided to name him Brad) and I were on divergent paths for the night; within 2 hours I would likely be fast asleep in my hotel room, and this bro would likely be vomiting into his sombrero. Vaya con Dios, Brad.

Coming soon in Part II: tales of pool abuse and Kobe beef

Non-lethal technology…OLÉ!

2008-10-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

If you’re sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office, thumbing through old copies of Popular Science, you will quickly learn 2 things: 1) If you agree to send a certified cheque (or money order) to a P.O. box in Akron, Ohio, it is apparently possible to build your own, totally safe, working jetpack for $399, and 2) for decades, governments and private defense contractors have been hot on the trails of developing various, futuristic, non-lethal weapons. These are weapons whose use would, when put in the hands of trained military and law enforcement officers, greatly reduce the number of casualties on the battlefield and on North American city streets.

There have been lots of different weapons explored, and each of them, if you`ll excuse the cliché, have less in common with science than with science fiction: You've got your standard stun guns, your laser guns, your immobilizing goop, your heat rays, and, my favourite, the nausea ray. This last one is not really a ray and more so just a powerful flash bulb that, when pointed at an assailant, will temporarily blind him or her, induce vertigo, and, if all goes according to the $1-million plan, will make them immediately vomit on the spot. To be fair, such a device sounds more like the product of the ultimate prank machine than a battle-tested alternative to a taser gun or rubber-bullets (what’s next, the nuclear powered whoopee cushion?). Having said that, I guess a ‘perp’ blowing chunks is a perp who is easily subdued, and that’s what counts in these things.

I thought of the puke ray last night as I struggled to make my way through the tapas I had ordered at a local Spanish restaurant. I don't want to be sued for slander, so I won't mention the restaurant's name, suffice it to say it was called Red Room, in Spanish. Fuck it, it was Sala Rosa on St. Laurent boulevard. I was out for dinner with a friend, and I had recommended the place based on a previous, positive dining experience. We ordered 5 tapas, which included chorizo (greasy), calmari(simultaneously rubbery and soggy), rappini(so-so but not terrible), tortilla (quite good), and sardines (horrible!). The plates all came at once, which I appreciated, as it feels like you have the whole meal gauntlet laid out in front of you, and you can plan your food assault accordingly.

Things had started out well enough as I took bites from all 5 dishes. It was around the time I took a second bite out of the sardines, however, that it felt like someone had zapped me with a puke ray. It wasn’t only nausea that I felt, but a brief sense of incapacitation. I was in mid-sentence and then I just froze: as if the puke ray was hunting me and I believed it would leave me be if I remained motionless. My dining companion immediately sensed my discomfort, especially because I had stopped speaking, mid-sentence. “shit, are you gonna puke or something?” she asked. “No,” I assured her, as I took deep breaths (those familiar deep breaths tantamount to puking). Sure enough, seconds later, I was fine again. I had lost my appetite, but the compulsion to blow chunks had completely subsided. Sure, it could just have been the sardines. Indeed, they were disgusting enough to have had such an effect. But then how did I recover so quickly? It was a puke ray, my friends. Trust no one.

FS

"In Russia, zero gravity weightlessness adapt to YOU!"

2008-09-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

Unbelievable pictures of the Russian Space program. Are we ready to admit that they've pretty much spanked us in the Space Race?

http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2008/09/the_baikonur_cosmodrome.html#photo6

When you see these photos, it's not hard to understand how those wretched, commie-era bread lines were a harsh reality for tens of millions of Soviets - all the badly-needed money and resources were pissed away to the glorious cosmos!

What a bunch of a-holes.

FS

Ponies: friend or foal?

2008-09-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I was on the receiving end of some shocking information: a pony is not a baby horse. Up until this past weekend, I would have laughed at you and perhaps even accused you of witchcraft for having suggested such a thing. My friend, Jane, however, explained that, indeed, ponies never grow to be horses. I honestly had no idea.

Jane would never admit it, but she is quite the amateur zoologist, if only for a select group of species from the real and mythical animal kingdoms: ponies, unicorns, cats, kittens, puppies, and then the sub-species of cats wearing sunglasses and cats wearing funny hats. Clearly, she knew of what she spoke. Jane broke the news to me in the same way a person might sympathetically and cautiously inform an adult of limited intellectual capacity that it isn’t appropriate to pet the hair of a stranger, even if said hair looks especially soft and pettable. Obviously, at 29 years of age, being decades out of elementary school, and having visited numerous petting zoos as a child, I should have known this fact about ponies. What's more, one of my favourite songs is Johnny Cash’s “Tennessee Stud”, where one verse reads:

“Raced my horse with the Spaniard's foal;
Til I got me a skin full of silver and gold”

So “foal”, or baby horse, has been in my receptive vocabulary for some time. Yet the reality remains. I understand that it’s an important part of the human condition to be in a constant state of acquiring knowledge, but I’d rather not have the act of learning things be accompanied with the sense that perhaps I’ve been dealt a few cards short of a full deck. Tune in next week, when I discover that seahorses are not, in fact, equines with above-average swimming ability, and that dragon flies cannot, when caught and used skillfully, be used as inexpensive cigarette lighters.

FS

YEEEE-HAWW (inshallah)!

2008-04-18T13:21:00.000-07:00

An open letter to the Persian Cowboy I encountered today:

Dear Mr. Persian Cowboy man,

I was sitting at the Amir restaurant on Boulevard l'Acadie, minding my own business and enjoying the tart, mealy goodness of an expertly wrapped shish-taouk sandwich.

But then you moseyed on in and, if for only a split second, you transformed the buzzing Lebanese eatery into the OK Corral. It started from the ground up: your pointy Italian shoes, up to your spray-on black jeans, then a button-down black shirt which, ironically, was not buttoned down at all. No, sir, you had left 3 of those buttons open, so we all might dare to feast on the visual splendor of your "Mediterranean Sweater". Finally, the luxuriant tufts of your Jeri curl were, sadly, overshadowed by your enormous black stetson. How you thought this could be a good fashion choice, we will never know.

Best of all, you were trying to rock this look in the Jewish/Lebanese/Italian garment district of a French-Canadian city. Was that a rolling tumbleweed I spied behind you? No, my mistake, it was just an errant falafel ball that had fallen off someone's plate. Indeed, you were a stranger in a strange land, a man of obvious Middle-Eastern descent, dressed up like a child's interpretation of a mean cowboy, about to order food (you looked hungry, if slightly effeminate, so I bet you went for the shrimp skewers on rice) at a Falafal joint. It wasn't High Noon - it was 12:45, and you looked ridiculous, but you made my day. Ride on into the sunset, Mahmoud, ride on.

Regards,

FS

Oxford or Cambridge? Which is best for our boy??

2008-04-11T07:14:00.000-07:00

I remember my parents had a tough time deciding in which elementary school I should be enrolled. I think my mum was pushing for St. George’s, a co-educational private school with a strong arts program, while my father was a proponent of Selwyn House, an all-boys, private school that offereed a greater emphasis on traditional areas of study. I was too young to remember their deliberations on this subject, but reading this article today, I can totally feel this kid’s pain. A good parent only wants to give their offspring the best possible start in this increasingly competitive, complex world. Sure, as in the case of these two parents, there will be heated disagreements, but their motivations are the same: ensuring the prosperous and productive future of their young son.

http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/15851207/detail.html

Chrysler Cordoba: Now with soft, Corinthian leather

2008-04-08T23:03:00.001-07:00

Hot damn, I love good advertising. Done right, it can resonate like nothing else. A good ad will impale you with it's message - it will straight-up broadside you with the overwhelming urge to go for it; to step up to the more whitening toothpaste; to the cigarettes promising entree into Flavor Country; to the faster-acting topical rash cream you were [I was] considering.

This ad, circa 1977 or so, could have been one such example, but there is simply too much going on here: The stunning photography, the poetic body text, the intense font, and Ricardo "I'm Bringing Mexi-back" Montalban - and to speak nothing of the sensuous curves of "The Small Chrysler". It's sensory overload.

Make no mistake, it's all very classy, like a 70's suburban key party or jazz clarinet solo. But what is this ad selling? Is it the car? Is the ad a public service announcement, asking us to step up and use a classier, calligraphic font in our everyday correspondences? Is it an ad for an upcoming TV movie, starring septuagenarian Mex-pot, Ricardo Montalban? Is Ricardo perhaps trying to push his sports coupe-specific leisure wear? We just don't know. Best to cut to the body text of the ad to get a better understanding. Be sure to read it out loud in Ricardo's trademark, butter-pecan-smooth, Latin accent:

“This is Cordoba. The small Chrysler. An automobile in which you will enjoy not only great comfort…but great confidence. It is confidence you can see, the confidence of knowing your automobile possesses a look of great dignity. It is confidence you can feel, in thickly cushioned contour-seats available in rich crushed velour or soft Corinthian leather. It is confidence you experience when you are in control of a truly road worthy autombile. This is the confidence you will find in a most surprisingly affordable small Chrysler. Cordoba.”

Ahhh yes. I know, it's amazing - almost hypnotic. One can't help but be seduced by his sales spiel. Maybe you even start to rationalize a purchase; "Mmmm...maybe Ricardo is right? Maybe I do deserve to have the on-road confidence that comes with thickly cushioned contour-seats." And what does it say about you if you don't go for the Little Chrysler - are you conceding that you are not enough of a mack daddy to roll with Senor Montalban? That is just too depressing to fathom. A take-home question for you: If i'm not convinced enough to buy that shitbox Chrysler, but I decide I need to upgrade my wardrobe with a slew of wide-collar shirts and assorted leisure wear, has the ad still succeeded?

FS

Car racing: cool. Hot candlewax and brown shirts: not so much.

2008-04-03T16:08:00.000-07:00

Right, so if you’ve been paying attention to the wacky news, the news that bigtime fancy-pants reporters like to classify as news from “the fringe”, and that’s really the only news worth reading, then you know all about Masochistic Max Mosely.

He’s the British aristocrat whose day job is managing the governing body of international car racing. That’s F1, Rally, Touring Car and all other car racing combined. His night gig, it turns out, is pretty choice as well. He’s into the whole Nazi death-camp guard/prisoner S&M group role playing thing, and he is willing to pay handsomely for it. (see link below for more sordid info)

http://jalopnik.com/373884/f1-boss-max-mosley-caught-with-five-hookers-in-nazi-orgy-video-scandal

I don’t know where to begin with this one. Are we surprised? Of course not. The cliché rings true: old, white dudes can and do have sexual proclivities that are sick and depraved enough to make even your local pederast blush.

Having said that, and Death camp re-enactments notwithstanding, I need to say that I hope I can be half the super-freak as this assbag when I’m in my 70’s. There, I said it.

It’s not looking good for me, though. Even at the young age of 28, I’ve been TiVo’ing Animal Planet and calling it a night on a fairly regular basis. To be fair, this week has been Shark Week, and it’s hard not to get jazzed by the footage of sharks doing their thing; the great whites, the hammerheads, the tiger sharks, the what-have-yous. What can I say? LCD and High Definition technology have turned this former super-freak (absolutely no exaggeration) into a certifiable home body.

Moseley’s publicized shenanigans have indeed sounded alarm bells for this young buck. Simply put: I need to jack up my entertainment standards - perhaps not to the depraved, Hitler-fawning extremes to which that Pommie perv has resorted, but something beyond recorded cable TV, no? Anyway, I’ll let you know if I find something cooler than Shark Week.

FS

Excuse me! Yes, sir, over here, across the street! I just happened to notice that your car looks like a complete shitbox - may I take a picture?

2008-03-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

That is basically what happened last Monday evening while traveling on foot with m’lady through Manhattan¹s Upper West Side.

As we were rounding the corner of 5th avenue and 78th, I spied the unmistakeable silhouette of one of the rarest and, indeed, greatest car designs of the last century: it was a light-blue, early 1970¹s Citroen DS station wagon; a car so rare in America that if you were ever to admit to seeing one on the streets of NewYork, they would have slapped you in a straight-jacket and shipped you off to Bellevue. Thankfully, I had proof, as I had a camera, and I intended to use it.

The DS was parked on the sidewalk and the owner, joined by his small family, was actually loading the wagon up for some sort of ³voyage², most likely to ³ze countryside². As you see in the photo, the owner, straight out of Central Casting for “Guy who looks really French” was even wearing a beret, so a photo-op was clearly in order. So here I saw an opportunity: after 3 days of intensive tourism, being bombarded by the same NYC touristy dreck that everyone else experiences (look how tall that building is! Things are expensive here! That crazy person just spat and yelled at my shoes!), here was an opportunity to wow a native New Yorker, albeit a French transplant, on my terms. That is to say; with cars and French. That¹s what I know. Well, I know cars, anyway, and my French is more than passable, certainly so far as any Noo Yawker is concerned - French passport, black beret and espadrilles be damned.

With the Citroen in plain view, I tugged on my girlfriend¹s arm and b-lined towards car, much like a child who eyeballs and bolts towards the sole remaining box of Sugar-Bomb-Seizure-O¹s at the supermarket. I was like a wildlife photographer capturing his most elusive subject; the spotted gazelle, or maybe the silverback gorilla with a pink faux-hawk. Aaanyway, seeing the owner loading things into the back of the car, I make my way over and I initiate a friendly conversation in French, complementing him on his car and asking him if I can take a picture of it. He politely obliges. The car is gorgeous, and is in great condition. True, she has various minor dents and scratches, and the driver¹s side has been smashed in (perhaps the victim of an angry Parisian protester, or an errant, airborne baguette? C¹est la vie!) but she is still a beaut.

After I take a few photos with my lady posing as prop model, I decide to impress Johnny Beret with a) my passable French, and b) my knowledge and appreciation of his classic jalopy. One piece of information that is crucial to this anecdote: The Citroen DS was often referred to as ³the goddess², apparently because it was such a beautiful, feminine, yet powerful design. Also, my passable-French vocabulary told me that “goddess” in French was pronounced ³goddasse².

So I complement him on his car and then mention how I know the car is called ³la goddasse². And I am dead wrong. The car is indeed called “the goddess” in French, but ³goddess² in French is pronounced ³deesse². Worse, ³Godasse² in French actually means “dirty, filthy, possibly shit-stained old shoe”. So after thanking him for the photo op, I proceeded to enlighten him with what I really think of his car: "thanks for the photo op – you know, I’m aware that citroen enthusiasts call this the car "the shit-stained old shoe.", n’est-ce pas? Jonny Beret is not amused, and after my girlfriend, whose French is clearly way better than mine, explains my gaffe to me, we leave the scene immediately. I’m going to be a diplomat one day.

House Arrest

2007-07-04T07:16:00.000-07:00

It's been another long lull between entries and, as always, I'm sorry. I've been too busy to write. No, that's not right: I have been too *lazy* to write. But I have had a lot on my plate. Busy with the job, busy moving, busy corralling contractors to work on my apartment, weekends out of town, and I just bought an iguana, so, you know...ok I did not buy an iguana, but everything else is true.

So some of you are probably wondering: Dan, while you are waiting for your apartment to be renovated, what's it like to live at your dad's house? You know, two swinging, Westmount bachelors, tearing up the town? Here's a little taste:

Last night I came home from work at 7pm and took a nap. My dad got in at 9pm, woke me up, and asked me, as he always does, when I was planning on moving out all the "goddamn furniture" that my sister and I were storing in his house. This cross-examination occurs every time I visit, and now that I am a temporary resident, I wonder if this will happen every night? Only time will tell. Just some background: my father lives alone in a cozy, tiny, 7-bedroom house. It's just him and the cat, a black and white beast who rules the basement with an iron paw. So there is, understandably, very little storage space. Most of our furniture is being stored in a small, corner room on the 2nd floor, a room visited by my father with even less frequency than the room which houses a treadmill, bought and used by his second wife. My dad does not "do" treadmills.

Anyhow, after he agreed, as he always does, that the furniture could stay a little while longer, we sat in the kitchen and counted all the spare change I had accumulated in my apartment over the past 2 years. I think my dad enjoys counting money, and this is partially due, I believe, to the attempted kidnapping of his nephew some 40 years ago. His older cousin's German housekeeper had attempted to kidnap their only child. It ended quickly and peacefully, thanks to the help of the RCMP, but there was a demand for ransom money, and my Dad, I guess a good math student at the time, was entrusted with counting the money. I guess even if you aren't good at math, you know not to screw up counting the ransom money, so I guess that his skill is forever heightened due to the urgency of that one episode, where you could not afford to screw up. I wonder if my math struggles in high school would have been mitigated by a family kidnapping? Would my possible acing of trigonometry and algebra been worth the possible sustained psychological trauma? Follow-up question: if it was my stepmother being kidnapped, would I have cared enough to count accurately? I just don't know.

Anyhow, 4 years ago my Dad bought one of those change counter gizmos where the change goes round and round and is counted and sorted by denomination. He loves this machine, but rarely gets to use it. This machine is communism: In theory, it is supposed to take all the money you have and divvy it up in a central "system"...but it is a seriously flawed mechanism and you learn that, in the end, it works better as a theory than as a real-life solution. Counting by hand was faster, which we did. I was in bed by 10pm. I am not sure what tonight's activity will be, but i have a feeling it might involve alphabetizing my father's tapes of Law & Order. Please don't pinch me - I do not want this dream to end.

This Week in Culture: Revisionist History

2007-05-30T06:27:00.000-07:00

Undoubtedly the hottest subject in the realm of revisionist history is the age-old debate between Creationists and Evolutionists. To even categorize Creationism as revisionist history - to suggest that it is nothing but bible-fuelled, pseudo-scientific BS is to slap the religious zealots who believe in that nonsense right in the face. Of course, sometimes the only way to get through to an idiot is to slap him in the face - repeatedly - until he or she starts to pay attention.

Creationists have been in the news a lot recently. A few months back, George W. Bush publicly endorsed Intelligent Design, the Creationist assertion that we and all living things were put on this earth by a divine power. Bush agreed that it was an important subject to be taught in American schools, alongside subjects like Math and English. Par for the course, I say. Bush is, of course, the same man who was rumoured to have waved "hello" to Stevie Wonder, who is completely blind, during Bush's inaugural ball 8 years ago. But those were the good old days, when presidential gaffes were limited to waving at blind people, and not, you know, starting wars.

But the biggest recent Creationist news is that they have built their own "museum". Consider it a Smithsonian for the Ned Flanders set, but minus the sense of intellectual objectivity and secularity. If you go to the museum's web page, www.creationmuseum.org, you can learn all you need to know about the museum and it's educational value. Incidentally, I'm pretty sure that you could get a more thoughtful approach to the origins of our species and our planet from, say, romping around the urine-soaked nerf ball room at the Play Pen of your local McDonald's - but that's just my opinion.

All of that said, one bad apple should not spoil the whole bunch, as my grandmother might say: not all revisionist historians are [created] equal. Sometimes they get it right - so very, very right:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozXh_seILaY

Next week, I'll be funnier. I promise.

FS

Alcohol Abuse

2007-05-22T13:10:00.000-07:00

She survived an errant, screen-cracking blow from a falling ski boot, a botched battery-replacement surgery that would make even the most unskilled back-alley Mexican surgeon wince, and, perhaps worst of all, my constant stares of envy at shinier, newer ipods. But after some 28 months of dutiful playing, sharing, and shuffling, it was the booze that finally did in my 1st generation ipod mini. But the Green Machine went out in style, taking an unplanned bath in 12 year old Canadian Club rye whiskey. There are, surely, worse ways to go.

I had bought the bottle at the duty free shop at Trudeau airport, crammed it, sans-plastic bag, into my carry-on bag, next to my iPod, and boarded a plane bound for London, England. The Green Machine and bottle of rye survived the 7 hour flight (including a viewing of the in-flight movie, "Eragon", a film about a dragon who was, ostensibly, one letter of the alphabet less lame than his colleagues, hence ‘E’ragon. This film was, incidentally tied with the straight-to-video Tae Bo Salsa-splosion as the biggest piece of shit someone could safely cram into a DVD player), the dash through Heathrow, the jarring ride to Paddington station and, finally, a spirited, rush-hour cab ride to the front door of my sister’s flat in Primrose Hill. As I exited the cab and arrived at the front door, bags in hand, I let go of my bundle in a tired heap, momentarily forgetting I had crammed some fragile things in my carry-on. As the bag hit the ground, I heard the tell-tale breaking of glass, and saw a dark puddle forming below the bag. She was bleeding brown. I knew by the sound and the smell that the gift to my sister’s Canadian booze-loving flatmates (bless their taste) was ruined, as was my beloved Green Machine, her innards drenched and, in all likelihood, three sheets to the wind.

I like to think that the spirit of Green Machine lives on, where she might be shuffling around the cosmos, assembling a playlist so eclectic, and so large, that she may very well overcome the 4 gigabytes of internal memory reigning her in, and rise again, phoenix-like, to be a much more powerful iPod. Like maybe a 6 gigabyte iPod mini, in pink this time, with earphones that are ever so slightly less shitty. Godspeed Green Machine, Godspeed.

"Goddamn, that DJ made my day!"

2007-05-16T05:36:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday I woke up to a random selection from my iTunes playlist: “Stool Pigeon” by 70’s funk maestro, Kid Creole. As I eased out of bed and Harlem Shuffled it all the way to the bathroom, I thought to myself: “great, great lyricist, that Kid Creole.” One thing I really enjoy about old school funk and hip-hop music is the storytelling nature of the lyrics. It’s so overtly cheesy, and so clearly from a bygone era of urban slang, that you can’t help but love it. They’re like cautionary tales gift-wrapped in impossibly funkilicious beats and slap-bass grooves, topped up with a bright red ribbon of bombastic horns and sax.

It makes me wonder if the parables of the Bible were presented to the masses (pardon the pun) in the same way - and I guess they are if you belong to a Southern Baptist congregation - how much more impressionable would we be to the word of God? It also makes me wonder how rad it would have been if the choir at my synagogue, which my dad insists is the greatest singing collective to ever walk the planet, were conducted by Curtis Mayfield (“Good Yontif, My Brothas! Look at all Y’all mensches lookin so beautiful this mornin!”). I’d probably go to synagogue more than the 3 times a year I do now. I ask you, can a proliferation of funk in the world’s houses of worship lead to a renewed sense of collective piety? In the meantime, below you will find my 5 all-time favourite soulful, funkified nursery rhymes:

Stool Pigeon – Kid Creole

I Can’t Write Left-handed – Bill Withers

Papa Was a Rollin Stone – The Temptations

Supafly – Curtis Mayfield

Peter Piper – Run DMC

These are not terribly obscure selections, as I’m no connoisseur with stacks and stacks of random wax, but they’ll get you through the day. Don’t thank me - thank the funk.

FS

To buy: Food dehydrator, Obama bumper sticker, Nazi slot car

2007-05-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

Guys, I’m not happy with how lackluster my blogging has been over the past few months. With every passing week, I seem to get farther and farther away from the core mission of this endeavor: for me to write a lot, and for you all to have life made a little sweeter by feasting on this word degustation. I'm going to try a bit harder next week. As for this week...

I’m looking forward to purchasing a lot of products that are “As Seen On TV”. Living in a shared apartment, I’ve been too embarrassed to mail-order the items that I see on info-mercials for fear of ridicule by my roommates. But come July, when I’m moved into my new digs, I plan to acquire a Magic Bullet, a Ronco Food Dehydrator, and some pleated pants. This last item, ironically, has not actually been seen on TV for 10 years or so, but looking at my wardrobe the other day, I noticed I had a serious dearth in the pleated slacks department. I’ll tell you, it’s just like my grandmother likes to say, “If it’s not one thing, Daniel, It’s something else!”

I’m thinking of selling my Acura sedan and buying a used Porsche Boxster for the 7 months of convertible-friendly weather montreal affords us. This probably won’t happen for another year. Going through with this would be incredibly self-indulgent, selfish, and unbelievably satisfying. I love cars, love to drive, have always lusted after a Porsche, and used Boxsters are surprisingly affordable, costing less than an entry-level BMW, which is the de-facto ride (or “whip”, as the kids like to say) of yuppies and trustafarians. I am neither a yuppie or a trustafarian – or perhaps I’m both - but I do know that you can’t take it all with you when you die, so why not? Downsides to Porsche ownership? well, if you’re under-30 and driving a Porsche, even a lowly Boxster, there still aren’t any modifications available for the car to mitigate your looking like a first-class prick. Also, insurance is very expensive. Pros? It goes, turns, and stops like a Porsche. Nothing else compares. I spend about 1 hour of my day in my car. I may as well have fun with it. For the other 4-5 months of the year, I’d look into buying an older Subaru wagon. If I have cash left over, I’ll spring for a couple of NPR and “Obama in ‘08” bumper stickers to further offset the Boxster’s lack of social acceptance. Like Einstein once said, “Image is Everything.” He also went on to say, “Obey your thirst.” If you ask me, that guy was way ahead of his time.

"That's One, Small Step for Dan..."

2007-05-02T08:56:00.000-07:00

One of the great benefits of a federally funded, trillion-dollar initiative like the U.S. space program has been the continuous trickling down of technologies, first developed for spaceflight, into lowly consumer goods. Teflon frying pans, microwave ovens, and lightweight, carbon fiber bicycles are all beneficiaries of the NASA parts bin. And, if i'm not mistaken, so is this: Possibly the easiest way to meet women in a NYC bar, "The T-qualizer". In case you're afraid your eyes are deceiving you, I am wearing a t-shirt with a built in, LED GRAPHIC EQUALIZER. It lights up in sync with whatever sound is being played nearby. Geeky? You bet, but the ladies never knew what hit 'em...More on New York in minute...

FS

Today’s winning venison recipe: take one large deer, one AK-47…

2007-04-17T07:30:00.000-07:00

While I was being inundated over the past 24 hours with news of the Virginia Tech shootings, I found some comic relief in a really funny website that is definitely worth checking out: WWW.NRA.ORG.

I was impressed by the level of sophistication of the social and political satire on this website. I am pretty sure it was created by the same guys behind The Onion and the Daily Show.

I especially like the bits about the sanctity of the 2nd amendment, and how important it is to allow people to own semi- and fully-automatic firearms, so that those people can hunt things, even if the availability of said guns costs thousands of innocent lives every year. Really funny stuff, but thank God it was just a joke. I mean could you even imagine if that organization was the most powerful lobby group in the United States? Scary!

FS

This Week in Culture: Cool Britannia / Hot Judaica

2007-04-02T09:13:00.000-07:00

Happy Passover. Speaking of the Chosen People, I choose her:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LD5sahXoj0U

Let's review: a London-born, jazz-singing, jewish nymph with a smooth-yet-gravelly voice, a comical contempt for rehab, and penchants for inspired drinking and pin-up girl tattoos. And she's Jewish, did I mention that? I'll concede that she looks pretty skinny in the video, but that's nothing that can't be alleviated by carbo-loading on an all-matzoh diet. Passover is totally rad sometimes.

FS

This Week in Culture: Western Canadiana

2007-03-27T10:32:00.000-07:00

5 days ago I experienced a quintessentially Western Canadian moment. A buddy and I were driving up from Calgary to Banff, windows down, facing the breathtaking backdrop of the Canadian Rocky Mountains, listening to the Calgary Flames game on CBC radio, stoned off our gourds on good, BC-grade weed. I thought to myself, as the spring air rushed through my thinning hair, "This! This is what it means to be Canadian!" I felt like some kind of Canada-specific Voltron robot, with the arms of Bryan Adams, the chest of Don Cherry, the legs of Marshall Macluhan, the head of William Lyon Mackenzie, and wielding a sword made out of the fiery piss'n'vinegar that runs through the blood of our own, aggro, Quebecois separatists. Like I said, it was good weed.

We drove past Banff and were on our way to ski the much-hyped Kicking Horse Mountain. This was a new ski resort that aimed to be Canada's answer to Jackson Hole - certainly some lofty shoes to fill. In the end, very gnarly [brah!] terrain and fantastic snow made for epic skiing and great, great times. There were a surprising number of German tourists on the mountain, as Europe had been in the midst of a miserable snow drought this season, and Klaus, Uli, and Liesl clearly needed their fix. It's funny how, regardless of the season, German tourists always stand out with their choice of attire. In the summer time, they prefer short shorts, wildly patterned oxford shirts, and black socks with white shoes (or white shoes with black socks - apparently the master race does not mind mixing colours where footwear is concerned), and in the winter they don one-piece ski suits with color schemes that would make even the stylists from the set of Miami Vice blush.

By the end of the weekend, it was time to return to Calgary and fly out. A word on that city: it is hopelessly dull. Whereas Montreal is the rogue, bon-vivant foreign cousin who travels the world, has an eternity's worth of stories to tell sure as he has a bastard child in every port, and is always in need of a dollar (if you can spare it), Calgary is the well-to-do relative who never really left home, but saved and invested his money wisely. Money is one of the top three things people like to discuss in Calgary, after the Flames and who else might be moving to Fort MacMurray (where the oil is). They talk about skyrocketing housing prices with the frequency that we discuss the weather. It's a bit deppressing. Also, all Calgarians are physically huge. And i mean ALL Calgarians. Full disclosure: I missed out on a lunchtime feast of Alberta prime rib because, hours earlier, a 9-year-old girl accosted me and forced me give her all of my lunch money. I think I'm going to sign up for some boxing classes.

FS

5 weeks ago in culture: The Charms of Rustic New England.

2007-02-20T17:36:00.000-08:00

Let's just pretend that I didn't just ditch this blog for 6 weeks, ok?

Reason # 43 why Montreal is a great place in which to live: Within 2 hours of driving south of the city, you are whisked away from a bustling, metropolitan clusterfuck, a place where metrosexuals rule the roost, where under-sized, bottled beers called “Boris” are consumed by the case, and men and women alike insist on wearing flared jeans (a note to the gents: these do not make you look taller, they make you look more feminine), you find yourself in a world of dairy farms, homegrown beef jerky, rickety chairlifts, and rustic charm.

In other words, I took a thursday off work and headed down to Mad River Glenn, Vermont. I had been meaning to ski this mountain for years, but life kept getting in the way. Finally the day came, and it was glorious. After an industry-debilitating snow drought in the early season, Vermont ski areas were finally getting their due, and MRG got hers in the form of nearly 4 feet of snow in as many days.

A large part of Mad River's charm is the rustic, laid back feel of the mountain. There are no trams or high-speed, quad chairlifts to speak of. Rather, the locals' pride and joy is Mad River's beyond-antiquated, sloth-like, singe-seat chairlift. Everything about the chairlift seems wholly nonsensical, at least upon first inspection. The line for the lift is ridiculously long and snakes around endlessly, and then when the chair arrives to swoop you up, it looks less like the streamlined benches that proliferate most modern ski resorts, and more like a motorized replica of the desk chair you were sentenced to using in grade school. Honestly, I was less afraid of falling out of the chair than I was of being called to the blackboard to do long devision. Blast you, remainder 2, blast you.

But once you've locked the miniscule, tubular "safety harness" (ha!) into place and you start moving, things change. You are immediately launched into your own world of serene introspection. Within 2 minutes of the first trip up, I actually found myself singing aloud the first 4 versus of "Ring of Fire". And by the end of my last trip up, I had resolved to become a better Jew. It's amazing what kind of impact prolonged solitude and 40 km/h winds can have on the human spirit.

FS

This week in culture: Americana Profundo - a.k.a. Superbowl Sunday

2007-02-05T03:12:00.000-08:00

When I hear someone utter the word "Super" and then, mere nanoseconds later, I hear that same person utter the word "bowl", I know that that person is probably talking about football. Call it a sixth sense, call it a sneaking suspicion - I can just tell that football is the topic at hand. And it makes me both sad and excited. Because it isn't always easy being a Superbowl fan in these parts. Imagine being the solitary fan of a sport, holding the torch high, when no one else gives a damn. Honestly, is it fair and just that archery, curling, bowling, short-form rhythmic gymnastics, and even hockey can enjoy their fandom to no end, but then football gets no recognition? So it's tough and it's unfair, but I continue to support the Superbowl anyway, in spite of it all. I believe in the sport of football and the sanctity and righteousness of the Superbowl tradition, and I will stand in the face of collective neglect so that I may bring awareness to the game. Now I know how Rosa Parks felt.

So I think my favourite part of this year's Superbowl had to be when Magneto, prime adversary of the X-Men, broke out of his metal-free, high-tech prison cell by drawing and weaponizing the iron from the blood of his prison guard. It was gory, but I give his escape top marks for creativity - way to go Magneto!

In other words, I could not be bothered to watch the actual Superbowl and I instead settled in for a viewing of X-MEN 2, featured on the Fox network. Truthfully, I find televised football to be immensely dull, and the Superbowl is, truly, the worst of the worst. Thankfully, the Fox network was providing an engaging respite from the multi-channel sports orgy (sporgy?) in the form of "X2".

But the movie ended and I wasn't finished nerding out. So stirred was I by Magneto's performance, I decided to Google him after the movie and glean what I could from the various Magneto biographies that were littering the internet, courtesy of the legions of pale, friendless virgins who thought the world should know more about Magneto. So I Googled, and, lo and behold, what did I find? The guy is a Heeb! And i'm not talking about synagogue-thrice-a-year-and-indulge-in-the-odd-dreidel-spin-to-keep-up-appearances kind of Jewish. I mean the guy was apparently a Holocaust survivor who saw his father murdered on their way to Auschwitz. How heavy is that?? What ever happened to the good old days of superhero back stories, when a billionaire industrialist could just accidentally walk into a gamma radiation-spewing cannon and be transformed into a leotard-sporting beacon of strength and justice?

But I don't judge. And while I am, in actuality, enormously proud that such a badass character is representing the Judaica Massiv, i can't say that i'm surprised that Magneto is mishpacha. It all comes down to the dorky helmet he wears. You will notice that Magneto is the only mutant who wears a helmet in the movie, and the reason is pretty clear, at least from my perspective: sure, he says he wears it to prevent his nemesis, Professer Xavier, leader of the X-men, from using his psychic abilities to manipulate Magneto's mind. But it's pretty clear that Magneto's overbearing Jewish mother is the real culprit here, as she probably thinks helmets are safer, and as such he's probably not allowed to leave the house without wearing the thing. The poor bastard.

FS

LA-LA continued

2007-01-30T10:23:00.000-08:00

So the rest of LA was great. Mike and Cam were working during the week, so, to entertain myself, I had developed a delightful, 3-day routine were I’d wake up, attempt to surf , have a breakfast burrito by the pier, and then cruise around in the Hairdresser Special, sightseeing and avoiding the tranny hookers who were inexplicably drawn to my ride. I drove through the fancy neighborhoods and ooed and aaahhed at the mansions. And if there wasn’t a Range Rover parked in virtually every driveway, then I’m an anti-semitic black trapeze artist with post-partum depression. Range Rovers are baaadass machines, but the fact that they’re everywhere you look in Southern California, the cradle of American liberalism and alleged environmental consciousness, is a joke. New rule: the people of Los Angeles are no longer allowed to patronize the rest of their nation, reminding them of their responsibility to the environment, until every SUV in suburban SoCal is incinerated. Reduce, Re-use, Recycle, Re-you-people-live-in-giant-glass-houses.

I spent one whole afternoon at the Getty Center. The best part of my visit was the fact that it enabled me to call my mum that evening and tell her, when she asked me what I had done in LA, that I had gone to a museum – as opposed to conceding that I was trying to do body shots off of wannabe-starlet cocktail waitresses. Because moms don’t like to hear that.

In all seriousness, the Getty Center, named after oil magnate and philanthropist J. Paul Getty, was terrifically impressive. It’s built up on a hill in Brentwood, overlooking mountains, seascape, and suburbia. There are only 2 visible floors, but hidden below is a 7-story underground parking facility: the ultimate expression of deference to the automobile and just about right for LA. The whole thing cost $300 million to build, which was only a tenth of the foundation's endowment. Note to self: become an oil tycoon.

I took the 1-hour tour that explained the various parts of the facility. We learned why the architects chose certain shapes and materials for the facility’s construction, and it was all very impressive. In my tour group was a middle-aged woman who was clutching a chihuahua. The dog / rodent was behaving nicely, but I could not stop staring at the 4-legged doorstop, and I wondered if the woman was, in fact, violating museum policy by having her pooch, diminutive though it was, on the premises. I wanted to make a citizen’s arrest, or at least a big stink, but it was then that I realized that I should go back to paying attention to the tour guide, as he had been saying some interesting things and I had missed about 2 minutes of explanation about the purpose behind the western portico or something. Thanks for distracting me, stupid chihuahua.

The art that was housed inside the building was really a secondary attraction to the building itself, save for a room that housed about twenty French impressionist masterpieces, which, by my guess, had a combined value of about $100 million. Coincidentally, that is exactly the amount of cash I blew on my last night in LA., but more on that below.

The boys had showed me a great time in their fair city, and the last night was a joyously drunken lurch towards the finish line. We started off at a great Japanese bar / restaurant, imbibing much sake, went on to another great bar, and then ended up at a fancy-pants nightclub, where Cam’s buddy got us in through the back door. The place was good fun, and added to it was the kinetic charge of industry people trying to impress and size up one another. We spotted a few celebs, including Jeremy Piven, who walked in alone, looking like an unshaven vagrant. Of course, he then proceeded to get mauled by a gang of 6 women, and we didn’t see him for the rest of the night. Gosh, I hope he was ok.

All of it was great to observe, but I suspect that you’d get tired of it pretty easily as a local. I had to admit I was feeling the effects of the 6-day bender, and was ready to catch a plane home…although not before we paid a late-night visit to The Body Shop. This was, by my hosts' estimation, Hollywood's premiere strip-club. We entered and sat right at the stage. It was then that I remembered my opinion of strip clubs – they are crap. Pretty as the girls may be, how do you detach yourself from the fact that they only want your money? How does that turn anyone on? Make no mistake - i've dated the odd golddigger, but that's different. At least you can take them out to dinner and pretend to have titilating conversations about the latest InTouch magazine article or how sweet and sour sauce could be simultaneously sweet AND sour. And besides, nothing says "I am aroused, but paying handsomely for it by the hour" like a woman in clear-heeled shoes.

Anyhow, we were in there for 45 minutes, and I’m pretty sure I did a good job of convincing the half-dozen strippers who kept propositioning me for lapdances that I was a closeted homosexual. But we finally bailed, got home, and passed out. I woke up 2 hours later, ditched the Hairdresser Special, boarded the plane and closed my eyes until we touched down in La Belle Province. Maybe it was all just a dream??

FS

This week in culture: The Getty Museum (sandwiched between much mirth and hilarity in the City Of Angels)

2007-01-17T11:25:00.000-08:00

So this is Part Two of Dan’s Early Winter Getaway. The day before New Year’s Eve, I flew into LAX from Denver. After a week of epic riding, heavy eating, and minimal revelry, I was ready to cut loose. I can't explain why, but as soon as I saw Mike’s familiar old blue Cherokee cruise to a stop at the pick-up point of LAX, I knew this would be a good week. I was in LA to visit two college friends; Mike, an advertising copywriter living in Hermosa Beach, and Cameron, a film and tv producer living in Venice. I hadn’t seen either of them in quite a while, and I was looking forward to catching up with the boys and doing what liberal arts college graduates do best; drink ourselves into oblivion.

We dropped my bags off at Mike’s pad in Hermosa, a laid-back, beachside community 15 minutes south of LA, and immediately headed to Blue 32, a local lounge, to rejoice in a pool of willing blondes and plentiful booze. It was an epic first night. Special thanks to Leo, Mike’s nextdoor neighbor and a bartender at the establishment, for the endless supply of “180 bombs”, a seriously potent concoction that tasted like a mixture of gin and pure cat urine, but the drinks had the desired effect, as I had forgotten my middle name by the third sip.

The next day was spent, of course, nursing a spectacular hangover which I thought, if only fleetingly, could be cured by a 9am surf session, as encouraged by my gracious hosts. I could not have been more wrong. It is amazing how little your muscles will cooperate with you when you have nothing but blended whiskey surging through your body. I may as well have been trying to surf on a prison-issue foam mattress, because nothing was going to happen that morning – let alone feats of acrobatic fancy in the Pacific Ocean. Having said that, I could get used to living 3 minutes by foot from the beach, especially, as I write this, when the local temperature in Montreal is hovering around an ass-chapping -20 Celsius. But I digress.

So after spending the day recovering, we readied ourselves for The Big Event: The Model Mansion New Year’s Eve bash, and it was about as decadent a soiree as one could have hoped for. This was an invite-only party set at a gorgeous manse in the Hollywood hills. Getting there was a serious headache, as you had to wait in various lines to validate your invitation and wait for buses to whisk you to the secret location. But it was absolutely worth it. The place was crawling with unbelievably gorgeous women or, as Cameron, the great womanizer (surely, why else does one become a Hollywood producer?), would insist on calling them, “Turkeys ripe for the stuffing”. Sorry, his expression, not mine. In any event, the night was brilliant, and I’ll leave it at that. Celebrity sightings? Ian Ziering from 90210. Obviously, this sighting requires no further comment.

The next morning I decided to play Johnny Tourist and pick up my rental car, because in LA you must drive. Everywhere. Need a jug of milk from the local store? See you in a couple of hours. The place gives new meaning to the concept of urban sprawl. So I hitched a ride to the airport car rental agency and picked up my ride, a car that seemed like it was marketed directly at hairdressers. That’s right, I rented a 2006 Ford Mustang convertible - but sans the manly v-8 engine and saddled with an automatic tranmission. They may as well have installed a climate-controlled jar in the glove box in which to store your balls…but whatever, I wanted a convertible and that’s what I got. I guess I can be thankful that it came in black and not the dreaded Seafoam or Canary Yellow these things are usually painted. Also, there are few nicer drives than cruising up and down the Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. And yes, I had Bon Jovi's "Dead Or Alive" blasting on the radio during said drive - hey, sorry for partying.

(more to follow tomorrow)

This week in culture: fuck it, I’m not even trying for a segue – I saw OJ simpson on vacation…

2007-01-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

Mmm, this was a longer delay in updating el blog than I had anticipated, and so to my growing fanbase, I say only this: “Sorry for partying”. Yeah, new expression I picked up over the holidays from my brothers in LA. Used in the right context, it is fantastic verbiage. It basically means: “I am sorry for having disappointed you with my actions, but you should know that mine was not aberrant behaviour; it is simply how I roll, and my attitude has manifested itself into this here episode where our paths have crossed, moreover I would encourage you to try to shape your life and attitude around my personality, as others agree it is magnetic and, frankly, attractive as all get-up.” So again, sorry for partying. Use it when you get into a fender bender and you are at fault. Use it when you accidentally spill a bit of beer on the shoulder of a lassie at a bar. Hell, use it when you go with your instincts and break into an air-guitar solo whilst sitting in your family’s pew during holiday services at synagogue. It’s just how you roll. Sorry for partying.

But Happy New Year, folks. I’ve had about 3 weeks off this thing, and a lot has happened. I took some great vacation time and reconnected with long-distance family and friends. I spent the first week skiing with family in Vail, Colo----wait a second, before I continue down this prosaic road, know this: I saw O.J. Simpson. I’m going to skip a paragraph to underline the gravity and veracity of this event. See you in a couple of lines…

Holy fucking shit did I ever see O.J. He was big and wearing all black (turtleneck and slacks, no balaclava). He’s a large fellow with hands like meat hooks. And he killed people, did you know that? We were at a restaurant, waiting to be seated, when Orinthal James lurched towards the exit, from which I was only 2 meters. I always envisioned he would be terribly shy and unobtrusive in public, trying to maintain a low profile. Not so much. He was loud and boisterous, bellowing something out to one of his friends that sounded like, “I know you’re trying to pretend you can’t hear me, but I know you heard what I just said!”. What the fuck? Ask yourself: when was the last time you faced a cold-blooded murderer? It is creepy beyond belief.

So that was at a ski resort in Colorado. I was out there for six days, 2 of which had me skiing deep powder, which, after intimate lady-time moments, is my favourite thing to do. I like it because it feels like surfing, but easier, it always reminds me of my happiest ski days in Whistler, B.C., and it's a great ego booster because, despite my not possessing the greatest athletic instincts, I'm really good at it. The rest of ski vacation was spent with my Dad and sis, eating fancy meals, early bedtimes, and full ski days. All in all, it was about as enjoyable as detox can get. Highlights were: the powder, the great food, and successfully tolerating my father's second wife (they divorced in 2003) who was, as luck would have it, staying in the same resort town with friends of hers. She and I had never gotten along, and I dreaded meeting up with her for the inevitable "courtesy dinner", replete with delicious venison steak and feigned civility. I was on vacation, after all, and felt that this was an unnecessary exercise. But the good news was that I had a great time, as she didn't speak much at dinner, or the subsequent day she joined us to ski. She had also aged terribly, despite New York's finest plastic surgeons, had a funny haircut, and she had taken to wearing bright designer ski wear that had her looking less like her self-proclaimed "ski bunny" (at 59, this term is wholly inappropriate) and more like a semi-professional rodeo clown. So all was well that ended well.

FS

“D”-day! “D”-Day!! (Culture on hiatus)

2006-12-18T09:10:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I spent the whole weekend drunk and hungover, often simultaneously. Not proud of it, and it was far from any cultural redemption my city was serving up over the weekend. Actually, to be fair, one could call the bar at the W hotel a museum of sorts: A wax museum (you know, of fake people)? a museum of JAPpery?? a museum of doucbebaggery??? all of the above, perhaps? Hard to say, really. Truthfully, it wasn’t half bad. I’m not a regular there, and it was a fun departure from the so-called hipster hangouts I tend to populate. 2 for 1 mooseheads were replaced by 1-for-3 martinis. Fashionably dingy t-shirts were replaced by popped collars all around. The Strokes were replaced by 4-on-the-floor dance beats (you know, awesome eurotrash club anthems with lyrics like “I feel the love in the beat tonight!”, or “I love to hear the beat in the night!”, or perhaps “Beat the shit out of me with your love tonight!”) Most notably, hipster Betties were replaced by incredibly well-groomed Barbie dolls. Both very hot, I must admit.

Earlier that night my boy Christopher celebrated his 28th birthday in high Greek style (“SUCCESS!”) at Mythos, a place where both succulent lamb and desperate cougars were in high supply. Admittedly, the cougars were only visible as we passed through the bar on the way up to the restaurant – but their Chanel # 5 and heavy, tart-like make-up made their presence felt throughout the establishment.

But on to the big news of the week: D-day! As in Door Day! As in: I’m finally getting a muthafuckin’ door up in my lair. Ladies, take a number indeed. My door, or lack of one thereof, has been a subject of both folly and contention amongst my friends and family. To them, it is a constant reminder that I am lazy - to a fault. I’ve lived in my shared apartment for 1.5 years - doorless years. How was I able to do it? Curtains and shamelessness, my friends. Shamelessness when I was changing, shamelessness playing lousy guitar, and shamelessness when I was entertaining some lady-company. I wonder what life will be like with a door? Will I read more, because the previously inescapable din of the living room TV will now be inaudible? Will I take less pride in the appearance of my room, because I will now have a door to hide my messiness? Follow-up question: is it even possible for my room to be any messier than it is already? With my newfound privacy, will I be more inclined to "rough up the suspect"? Follow-up question: Is it physiologically possible to "rough up the suspect" more than I already do? Forgive this juvenile digression...I will catch you guys on the other side…OF MY DOOR!

FS

PS: happy holidays y’all.

Culture-fest continues: Music!!

2006-12-12T11:39:00.000-08:00

Specifically, Salsa and Merengue music. Specifically, the kind that played at our company Chrismtas party while we were dining on veal, chicken or fish (I chose the veal. It was delicious.) But you can go ahead and put down dance music playing while I’m trying to eat my goddamn meal as one of my all-time pet peeves. Slot it right before motorists who fail to signal and right after people who whistle in public. Actually, sorry, public whistling is still the worst. But blasting dance music while i eat is pretty awful. I mean, you have two choices: you either pretend that the dance music is not playing and you try to enjoy your meal with a nice sprinkling of shouted conversation amongst your fellow table-mates. Or, you try to chew and swallow in sync with the rhythm of the music, which is absolute jack-ass behaviour. It's a lose/ lose situation, no question.

Company Christmas parties are great. You have all the clichés that people love to laugh at: the formulaic thank-you speeches from the upper management, who would, clearly, rather be repeatedly beaning themselves in the testicles (sorry, I just saw Casino Royale and that scene where 007 gets repeatedly rocked in the nuts is still fresh in my mind) than be at the party. And then you have your drunken co-workers: Drunken co-workers dancing impossibly, drunken co-workers coming on to you, drunken co-workers spilling booze everywhere, and drunken co-workers telling you how much they "love you, man."

But on to the after party! It was at a bar called Rouge, which is, apparently, the French word for “Cock Festival”. Bonus pet peeve: going to a bar where there are way more dudes than ladies. And not just men, but “Dudes” in particular. You know, guys who dress the same, wear a shitload of cologne, and all Rock Out the same way to “Livin’ On a Prayer”. This is all obvious, I know, and the obvious retort is “hey buddy, why are you sweating the dudes so much in the first place? Why don’t you focus your attention on the lovely ladies of the establishment?” And my answer is this: I was too self-conscious on account of the gi-normous cold sore that had recently opened for business on my upper lip. But we move on, right? Not so much, actually, because it’s been over a week and my cold sore has not yet cleared up. I hate winter.

Viva la cultura!!

This week in Culture: Bacteria & Literary Notoriety

2006-11-27T14:53:00.000-08:00

Week 46 of the year 2006 was, as they liked to say in the 1930’s, a Duezie. First on the menu was bacteria culture, a.k.a. plain yoghurt. I normally hate yoghurt – I even hate saying it, as the word sounds like the gag reflex you’d make after eating too much of it. But it was a necessary evil in my recovery from a nasty bit of food poisoning I got on Wednesday night.

I had been felled by some bad Thai food and I payed for it with violent nausea, embarrassment (an occupied bathroom meant I had to puke in our backyard, to the amusement of the jubilantly vocal, onlooking Mexican spectators staying at an adjacent hotel), and a few lost pounds of body mass. Adding insult to injury, the big joke amongst my roommates was that I had been bested by only 6 dumplings, as I was not “man enough” to eat the full-size “family order” of 10 dumplings. All I can say is, ego be damned, praise baby Jesus I did not eat 10 of those things.

The silver, er, lining to my stomach issues was that I gave myself the day off for recovery on Thursday, spending some much-needed time at the apartment, stretching my shit out with alternating stints on Green Boy, White Lightning, and the Blue Bomber – our 3 couches in the living room.

Up-chuckery aside, the real cultural event of the week was the official Montreal launch of our boy Ryan Arnold’s published collection of short stories, titled “The Coward Files”. Ryan is my friend, the stories are funny, and his reading was hella solid, so we’re all proud of him, if a bit embarrassed by his continuing BO problem. Way to go, Arnie.

FS

Culture Fest continues. This week: hobbies!

2006-11-19T14:19:00.000-08:00

Hobbies are a funny thing. For me, the word conjures up an image of a jolly retiree, dressed in train conductor's regalia, fussing over his painstakingly accurate model trains in his basement for hours on end, mumbling things like "well, the 8:30 train coming in from Newburg Station is running a little slow this morning. It looks like we'll have to shovel some more coal in her furnace." But everyone has a hobby, and whether it is playing with model trains, BASE jumping, or collecting supermarket circulars delivered on February 29th of any year, these hobbies can tell you a lot about a person.

I recently discovered my girlfriend's hobby over the weekend, and it was indeed enlightening: she seems to enjoy accompanying me to a house party and making out with a random guy in the bathroom at the end of the night, while I cluelessly wait by the front door, clutching her coat in my hand. This is funny to me, because my preferred hobby is to do the word jumble in the Saturday paper. Like I said, people do have different hobbies. Perhaps she and I have fewer things in common than I had previously thought.

Ladies, please kindly take a number, as this gentleman caller is single once again...

Viva la cultura!

Culture: It's not just Boy George's exclusive club.

2006-11-14T13:19:00.000-08:00

So this blog has been up for 6 months as of today. And up until today, nothing had been written. This is shocking, I know. People who know me know that I like to get things done, and fast. Book an orthodontist appointment to fix my teeth (my Grandma says that they're crooked and they render me less attractive to marriageable Jewish ladies)? Check. Obtain a municipal parking sticker for my car? Check. Finally organize the photos of the Amazingly Decadent Dysfunctional Family African Safari Trip of 2001? Mark it X. Install a door for my bedroom? Done and done.

Yet despite my proven record of doing things, and fast, my blog has been experiencing some - and if you'll indulge me here, I am going to reference my favourite romantic comedy of 2006 - "Failure to Launch".

In fact, there have been exactly negative one entries since the launch date of this blog. You see, I actually wrote an entry which I thought was witty, urbane - Feder-licious even...but months later I began to doubt the funny and so I removed it altogether. Hence we have the minus-1.

But that is all about to change, because I'm back and I'm gunning for zero (entries). I have realized that if I commit to writing something on a weekly basis, then the blog will start to churn, and It’s really just that daunting, initial entry that has me sputtering at the starting line.

But what will I write about? What is my area of expertise? I am not traveling, my job is not exciting, and I rarely commit acts of noteworthy heroism – so what, really, can I write about? My answer is as follows: Culture. My city offers a rich tapestry of culture, and in this, my 27th year, I plan to write about it. Every week I’m going to do something interesting - or horribly dull – it won’t matter.

But you will hear about it. Perhaps I will go to a museum, or a botanical garden, or a discount pet shop. Perhaps I will watch acne-stricken virgins joust and nun-chaku in public, for the honour of a similarly acne-stricken maiden. I will report to you what I think bears reporting. And if I reneg on my promise of cultural reportage on any given weekend, and end up doing nothing? you’ll hear about my day anyway. Although I can tell you ahead of time that that day will probably involve me watching my roommate, Jake, watch 10 hours of televised football.

But I don’t mean to anticipate failure at such an early juncture, so without further ado, my first reportage:

Over the weekend I finally dragged my ass to the Canadian Centre for Architecture. For those who don't know, it is a relatively new museum in downtown Montreal, devoted to the study and celebration of all things architectural. It was the brainchild and baby (brainbaby? babychild?) of Seagram heiress Phyllis Lambert, who has, amongst other things, a funny-sounding first name.

The building itself is impressive, inasmuch as it was incredibly costly to build and yet looks surprisingly ordinary. I don’t understand where architects – especially those purporting to build a “Centre For Architecture”, go wrong in designing such an ordinary structure as the CCA, at a cost of millions of dollars, while other, beautiful creations, such as Montreal’s Orange Julip or the AMC Forum (just look at that white permanent scaffolding. It’s like going to see a movie inside the Millenium Falcon!) were achieved at a much lower cost. Truly baffling.

But on to the culture, as that is what you pay me for.

So the two exhibits on hand were boring. The first one was about some French environmetnalists who had studied the modern ecosystem. The question they asked us is: how do trees survive in the modern urban landscape? How do gum wrappers, soiled newspapers, old banana peels, and passing cars affect the natural elements of our landscape: i.e. trees, plants, flowers, etc. The answer? I don't care. Never have, never will. I think the real question they aim to ask, like all middle-aged French dudes, is "will this exhibit gain me the notoriety needed for a guest seat on one of those inane variety shoes on TV5? I always wanted to sing a Parisian love ballad in front of an audience and this would be my only chance, so to that end, I'd like your honest appraisal of the exhibit." Struggling musicians are hard to take sometimes.

The second temporary exhibit was a presentation about Simmons Hall, a dorm on the MIT campus that serves as a kind of anthro / socio / architectural study of it’s inhabitants.

If my understanding is correct, for their tuition fee of $30 000, MIT architecture students got to live in this funky building, replete with modular, mobius-style furniture, and were lab rats for studies that looked to explain why, for instance, the dorm's international student from Paraguay chose to occupy the western-most room in the building, while the uber-nerd from Chalotte, N.C. chose the room nearest the fire escape. The study set out to prove if there was any sort of pattern in their living habits.

Well even to my untrained, amateur eyes, I could deduce that yes, there was a pattern: regardless of the choice of accommodation made by a student, or what kind of furniture configuration they chose (bed on desk? or maybe desk next to bed and table by window? Potted plant opposite bed?) the results of this stupendously boring study were not worth the $10 admission fee charged by the museum. Sorry Alex, sister who attended MIT, your smartypants school is stupid. In addition, while I have no evidence to prove as much, i'm pretty sure their basketball team is below-average.

Viva La Cultura!!

FS