merry holidays

Back in Yellowknife for the week and already fattening up on coffee and Baileys and homemade lasagna and mandarin oranges and board games.

Got on the flight from Edmonton and laughed while the four dogs in the cabin were barking at each other. Yep, that's the North. And the old man in the row in front of me who stared just a tad too long and seriously at the cute Japanese girl's ass, as she patiently waited to take her seat. And the nervous flier lady who told her husband they weren't seated next to each other on the flight a little loud and the husband who responded with a chuckle "That's probably a good thing." And the way the jet was like a barroom the whole flight, with people telling stories and catching up and busting a gut, and even as the bulky cabin dipped and ducked and jitterbugged and juked in the sky the cadence doesn't change because people are so second-nature about flying.

It's nice to be back, playing hockey on the big lake and drinking beers with all the great friends down on the houseboat, telling stories about how we lost our teeth, with frost thawing into our beverages from our makeshift beards.

Merry Christmas.

Plants and Animals -- A l'oree des bois

club the club

I went to a club tonight. I think it was called 'la mouche'. It was the first club experience for this old dude in a couple years, to tell you the truth.

Now, when I was a young man, back in the Calgary university days, I used to go to clubs because it was where the girls were and where the beers were cheap sometimes and where the music was loud and you could just be a fool and whatever went.

I went tonight because that's where everyone from the Christmas party was going and after basically sneaking into the place because I wasn't dressed like a cast member from the Jersey Shore and therefore deemed acceptable for entrance, I had a confrontation with a bouncer about the toque I was wearing. He told me to take it off and put it in the sleeve of my coat, which by that point had been coat-checked behind a line of three or four people. I thought his request was retarded and I stuffed the toque into my jeans pocket. He still wouldn't let me pass, even though I had paid my $12 cover. So I asked my friend to put it in her purse and she obliged. But old doorman, who hasn't had a thought for himself in the past decade I assume, said that was unacceptable, and I needed to put the toque in my coat. And that's when I realized how pointless the stupid game I was playing was, and so I stuffed it in another friends' purse when he wasn't looking and walked in.

Really, it's that kind of mindless conformity and enforcing of trivial rules that make clubs so ridiculous and I sort of realized why I hadn't gone to 'une boite' (what Quebecois call the club) in such a long time.

Anyhow, I had a zillion rants and raves about the evening and the goofy encounters and mating rituals I witnessed tonight, but at this point, I'm dead tired (and a wee bit tipsy) and I want to go to sleep.

So here's a song I've been listening to a lot lately, instead.

did you know?

Did you know that cotton candy is known as 'barbe a papa' in Quebec?

Loosely translated, that means daddy's beard.

I've always thought cotton candy was pretty disgusting in the first place, what with its taste and texture and sugary content and association with carnies.

But now it's got an added perverseness and Freudian creepiness to it that I never thought possible. I'll never look at young French kids eating cotton candy the same way again. (Hold up a second, it's not like I was looking at young French kids eating cotton candy in the first place.)

Note: Apparently in Australia, they call cotton candy 'fairy floss.'

Oil Can's All-Stars: #4

I admit, it's been a while since I've done one of these. However, there are a few perfectly legitimate reasons to why that is.

First and most importantly, I have been incommunicado with our friend Oil Can Boyd. Last I heard, he was traveling to Copenhagen with a contingent of ballplayers to lobby world governments to do something about climate change, because he believes -- from what he's seen in computer models (and the film 2012) -- that more unpredictable weather could have adverse effects on the planet and the people inhabiting it, but most of all, that could cause more rained-out games.

Second, the Can and I did not realize how much we were biting the Sports Guy, Bill Simmons, when we started the team. Simmons has a plethora of name all-star teams like this, which include black guys who have white guy names, white guys who have black guy names and such. I've been reading Simmons on ESPN.com since my second or third of university, when I was but a young, naive procrastinator, who could sprout nary a hair on his baby smooth face and really, there is no excuse to the swagger jacking.

Seriously, I didn't realize how bad we were biting, but since reading his epic The Book of Basketball, which contains at least 10 other quasi all-star teams, I figured no harm no foul and there would be no detriment in continuing our list of the goofiest names in professional sports.

For those new to the site, we've already named three members to this squad, in various elaborate and expensive and magnanimous unveilings.

The members are:

1. Tree Rollins

2. Cool Papa Bell

3. Boof Bonser.

So for those keeping track at home, that's two baseball players and a basketballer. Well, today we're about to add a hockey player to this list...

Without further ado, the fourth member of Oil Can's All-Star, brought to you by the Jung & Walker hot sauce company, is...

Brett Festerling!!!

Yes, yes. Brett Festerling. Now I know what you're thinking (because I can read your mind!!!) who the hell is Brett Festerling?

I was thinking the same thing, really, when I watched the Canucks fall to the last-place Ducks last night. Well, Brett Festerling is a 23-year-old defenseman for the Anaheim Ducks, who was born in Quesnel, B.C. He hasn't scored a goal yet in his 40-game NHL career.

He's a shut down d-man, who was formerly captain of the Vancouver Giants, who lost a chance to represent the WHL in the Memorial Cup in 2006-07, after losing the Medicine Hat Tigers in seven games.

I couldn't find much else of interest on Festerling, other than he's apparently dating a girl from B.C., who some anonymous poster on talk-sports.net said he partied with at Wakefest a couple years ago and who, he thinks, was a "really nice girl."

But that's beside the point. What I find really interesting about this guy is his last name.

Festerling! Are you kidding me? How does this name originate? Was there a caveman way back when who had gangrene or something and his friends and neighbours, when humans were sufficiently intelligent to dole out names, voted that said Mr. Putrefying Caveman should be labelled Festerling?

I don't know, but I love it.

Just break down the meaning of the name.

To fester means to rot or to putrefy. The suffix -ling denotes a person who is concerned with something.

So basically, Brett is concerned with rotting.

What is it like when someone in his family has a baby?

"Awwww, look at that adorable little Festerling..."

"He's definitely got his father's mandible."

Sounds like the name that should be given to the spawn of the giant extra-terrestrials in Alien, or the name of the furry balls that spew out from angry Gremlins.

Fucking Festerling, man.

Brilliant.

slingin hiccups

Good afternoon that looks a lot like evening, friends.

How you been keeping during these darkest of December days?

Not very well? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.

What's that? It's worse? You're lacking energy? Well shoot, I'm sure it will come back to you.

Sorry, I didn't catch that. You what? You haven't been outdoors in weeks and haven't bathed in longer and you are surrounded by bottles full of your own urine because your indoor plumbing has completely frozen up?

Yikes, don't know how to help with that.

But... I may have a way to heat up your days a bit.

Fret no longer my friends, for there is a cure to what ails you and an elixir that will spice up your life and scorch away the palette of blandness that drags down your days.

That's right, folks! Jung, the man you followed through South East Asia, has bottled up all his considerable knowledge and experience and it can be yours. Jung, aka TobasKO, and his equally seasoned cohort, have come up with a Caribbean Mango Pepper Sauce that will literally knock your socks off.

(Note: I can no longer wear socks while using this hot sauce. They've blown holes through every last pair.)

While this blog has never been used to sling anything other than lingo, this is a product I vouch for. I've been using this stuff with everything: steaks, chicken, popsicles, cereal, coffee and sometimes as toothpaste. While I'm sure Jung & Walker would not recommend using it as a plaque fighter (nor does my dentist) they sure as hell know how to brew some sauce.

But don't take my word for it, take Jung's:

Made with only the finest Jamaican scotch bonnet peppers, mango and pineapple! This recipe was almost two years in the making when we finally felt it was good enough to share with everyone.

If you like hot sauce, then you’ve got to try a bottle of our Caribbean Mango Pepper Sauce, the first creation from the guys at Jung and Walker.

We hope you enjoy it as much as we do!!!

Jung & Walker

With Christmas coming up, and everyone from Halifax to Victoria feeling the chill of Old Man Winter, what better way to break the ice than with a bottle of Caribbean Mango Pepper Sauce from your favourite globe-trotter.

Visit www.sweatinghiccups.com to place your order.

i am a victim of discrimination -- and i want some money

During my time at the Yellowknifer, I wrote enough stories about the Human Rights Commission -- adjudication hearings, rulings, the complaints process, etc. -- to get a decent enough handle on what counts as discrimination, these days.

Now I've already described one experience I've had in Montreal that made me want to call up my local Human Rights Commission to see what kind of case I had, when I was aghast while searching for an apartment to see landlords and leaseholders were looking for all sorts of specific people to rent out a room to. Requests ranged from students to vegans to people who do dishes and people able to pay the rent.

What nerve!

Ultimately, I decided against the complaint, as I found an indiscriminate place, with roommates willing to overlook all those outrageous characteristics. (And I've still provided rent, which proves how good a guy I am and how sick it is that anyone could ever discriminate against me.)

But recent events have led me to once again consider filing a human rights complaint against certain people, whom I seem to encounter every day and whom I believe act discriminately toward me on each occasion.

It happens without exception outside the Berri-UQAM metro station in Centre-Ville, whether it's early in the morning before the sun is up, or late in the day, when the metro is minutes from closing up shop.

Whenever I walk into the entrance lobby on St. Catherine and Rue Berri, one of the many drug pushers walks up to me and asks me if I need anything.

Seems harmless, you're thinking? How is that discrimination? Well, I'll tell you. The riff-raff never asks the person in front of me. They will walk right past the old lady with a cane or small child with a backpack like they aren't even there and they'll ask me if I'm good. I am obviously appalled. If I had a monocle, I'd take it out of my eye in disgust and ash my cigarette (being held, of course, in one of those foot-long holders) and say "My word."

When I get inside the lobby, just to be sure I've been singled out, I'll look back outside, and sure enough they'll leave a blind person with a seeing-eye dog be.

It's fucking discrimination, man!

I'm being profiled. It's terrible. It's affecting my livelihood and my reputation.

Because of this persistent prejudice, I look around self-consciously as I approach the station every day and am traumatized by what people must think of me when they see these dudes speak with me. I lay in anguish every night, picturing my next interaction with these dealers, who line up outside the metro station like a red-rover line that I have to smash through to get home, and fear that those around must be labeling me a drug fiend when I share two words with these sordid folk. I have no chance at a political career anymore. Pretty girls just shake their heads in disgust when they walk by. Parents grab their kids by their hands and pull them closer and tell them not to wind up like that guy, looking at me with shame.

I take this shame home with me.

Why do they come to me? Is it my unshaven face? Is it my shoes in disrepair? Is it the broken zippers or rip in the jeans?

In any case, I'm feeling a diminished sense of self-esteem and self-worth, as I am being judged to be in need of what these guys are selling. I don't see them asking the successful suits or the well-to-do students, who also pour into the building en masse, all the time. It's just me, it seems.

My quality of life is being adversely affected.

And you know what? I want some loss of dignity money, dang-nabbit! I think I deserve it.

I think next time one of these dudes asks me if I need something, I'll say "Yes, I do. I need to file a human rights complaint against you and collect some of that government scrilla."

Because we all know if there is anything that restores dignity, it's a stuffed wallet.

justin townes earle -- south georgia sugar babe

Found a video of a song from Justin Townes Earle's opening set at the Dan Auerbach show I was lucky enough to see in November.

Thought I'd pass it along for the heck of it.

Dude does look like a cross between Ed Helms (Andy from the Office) and Steve-O, doesn't he?