The Sidney Crosby Snub Affair.

Okay sports fans, here we go……

I understand that things are pretty slow in the sports world now that the NBA finals and Stanley Cup playoffs are finished, but are things really so bad that the sporting press has resorted to inventing shit to write about? I mean, come on, couldn’t you write about something relevant like, oh I don’t know, the Lakers winning the NBA championship, or Phil Jackson record tenth title as a coach? Well, apparently not. It’s just as well though: it’s probably a bad idea to have everyone writing about the Lakers, and if these guys didn’t go out and print bonehead stories like this one I wouldn’t really have anything to write about at the moment. So I guess everyone wins.

Right then, now to the ‘scandal’. Apparently the red wings (that’s right, you lose capital letter privileges for this one) and the media (some of them at least) are up in a huff over the length of time it took the Penguins to line up to shake hands after game seven last Friday. henrik “pretty boy” zetterberg (NO CAPS FOR YOU!) complained that Sidney Crosby never shook his or some of his teammates’s hands after the game. I managed to see this part of the action on Friday and this sounded funny to me, so I dug up the footage on YouTube and my suspicions were confirmed. Not only did detroit line up to shake hands quicker (30 seconds), but niklas lidstrom (the detroit captain who criticized Crosby for not leading his team through the handshake) didn’t even lead detroit through the handshake himself either. What….the…..fuck. But to complicate an already ridiculous discussion even further, I should note that detroit does have a point. I mean, it took Pittsburgh a whole twelve seconds longer to come and shake hands and, where I come from, people get their knees broke for that kind of thing. Alright….maybe not. But there are neighborhoods out there where that sort of thing does happen, and I’m pretty sure that they probably don’t give a fuck about a bunch of washed up crybabies quibbling over etiquette. And, other than delusional red wings fans, I’m pretty sure that no one else really cares either.



Oh, and PS to the sporting press corps: C’mon man…..



0.6/10


John E. Ryall

'Tasteful' Smoked Oysters

There’s no way to deny that I knew full well what I was doing when I paid the cashier at Dollarama Plus my $1.13 cents. I had been roaming around the good old dollar store looking for a new strainer when I happened to come across the canned goods aisle. I’m not going to lie—the concept of discount canned goods both excites and deeply concerns me as someone who enjoys living. Yes, Chef Boyardee pasta and Puritan stew at a buck a can is a pretty darn swell thing for lazy gourmets like myself but, other than these two brands, there seems to be an obvious reason as to why these canned goods are $1. Nevertheless, I decided to browse the shelves a little and came across some smoked oysters made by a company called Tasteful. The box is light blue and slightly larger than a pack of cards, and the front is decorated with one of those great suggested serving photos. Apparently the way to eat these things is in an oyster shell and on top of tiny wedges of lemon, cucumber, parsley, tomato, and some sort of white cheese (your choice, I suppose). For some unknown reason I got a craving for oysters just then so I decided to see just what discount shell fish was actually like.

So, what was it like? Well, much to my chagrin, I didn’t have any oyster shells laying around the house so I decided to eat them hobo style (that would be out of the can with a toothpick accompanied by a few pieces of bread). Not being a connoisseur of oysters, I feel comfortable saying that these were pretty decent as far as oysters go; they were pretty tasty and, aside from some wet burps, I did not get horribly ill like I had resigned myself to at the beginning of this experiment. Of course, I’m nearly certain that this is not the sort of product that it would be wise to eat on a daily basis, but as a once in a while thing, or a cheap solution to hors d’oeuvres related problems, they’re not bad.



5.8/10 ----probably not the greatest oysters in the grand scheme of things, but still better than
oysters from the ice-filled trunk of a Cutlass Supreme.



John. E. Ryall

Review: Standing in line at "The Next Star" Audition

I don't normally make a point of paying any kind of attention to reality TV. It's fucking terrible. Especially anything involving any sort of singing/dancing. I think maybe I distrust any kind of talent that doesn't require any kind of equipment or tools outside of the human body. Singing and dancing just seems so self-indulgent. But what the fuck do I know? I'm probably just jealous.

The Next Star, which is apparently some sort of reality TV show a la American Idol for kids, held auditions here in Winnipeg on Saturday for their second season. My nephew is 10 years old. He loves the show, and wanted to try out. He's never had a singing lesson in his life. We arrived promptly at the Convention Centre at 6AM Saturday morning for what was sure to be a drawn-out affair.

You might expect me--wait, no one reads this. I would expect myself to rant and rail against this type of television; the shallowness and self-indulgence is over the top. But I don't think I'd like to pursue that route. As much as it was annoying as fuck to hear hundreds of kids cheering on command every few minutes, and especially after witnessing how contrived the whole thing was (they had all the adults do facial exercises at one point, likely to avoid having too many pale-faced and exhausted grownups on camera) the show had some redeeming qualities, and the kids seemed to enjoy it. The host seemed genuinely likable and friendly, and the kids had fun with him. The crew was pretty friendly as well, and aside from the fact that half of them--particularly the higher-ranking crew members--were wearing scarves over their T-shirts (this is a bigger trend that I just haven't noticed yet, isn't it?), which I don't particularly understand, they did their job efficiently.

There was just one particular event in the whole ordeal that fucked me up. One depressing fucking scene.

While we were lined up waiting to register, the camera crew and a producer were going around getting individual shots of excited kids shouting "I'm the next star!!" and cheering into the camera. One after the other kids took their turn shouting the line at the camera and adding a "woohoo" or whatever afterwards. The producer would give kids pointers, telling them what to say and coaching them. Everything was harmless enough until a black kid got his turn.

Taking the same approach as the children before him, the boy shouted "I'm the next star" into the camera and cheered loudly. The producer, through her tremendous powers of deduction, noticed that there was something different about this kid. I'm paraphrasing here, but the conversation went something like this:

Producer: "That was great. Can you try it again for me?"

Kid: "Sure."

Producer: "Okay, but this time I want you to do something different for me. You know this trick? With your hands?" [makes two-fingered gun with both hands, cocking them inward toward her face, tilts her head slightly and leans into the kid aggressively to demonstrate]

Kid: "Yeah!"

Producer: "And instead, can you say "the next star is mine!!" [in an aggressive voice]

Kid: "Okay."

I'm not sure how obvious my description made it, but the scene played out as an outrageous example of racial stereotyping. She might as well have said, "Hey kid. You're not acting black enough. Can you please act more aggressively? Because the viewers at home have an idea of how black people should behave, and I want to reinforce those racialized perceptions." 

Fuck. Me.

I'm not surprised that this type of thing happens in television. It's predictable and sadly expected for the most part. What surprised me though--call me naive if you will--was that this woman found in necessary to coach this kid on how to be black, and by doing so reinforces negative stereotypes on a nationally televised TV show for kids, and worse yet reinforces these ideas, especially in the mind of the child himself! What a fucking outrageous message.

That's right, son; if you want to be on television, you'd better take a look in the mirror and act accordingly. Don't be yourself, be what other people expect you to be when they look at you. Got it?

Ugh.

Rating: -3 of 10, cause it's not cool to fuck with impressionable youth. Poor little bastards.

Ride - May 9/09 "Singlespeedin"

A Disclaimer: All of these pictures were taken with what can at best be called an inferior cell phone camera. Though the hazing of the sun on the lens seems to provide a nice effect. I'm going to make the effort to carry a higher quality camera in the future. For now, convenience > quality.

Update: this post is overdue, so formatting wasn't a huge concern.

First Stop: St. Vital Park.

After leaving Lord Roberts and riding south down Dunkirk towards St. Vital road, I realized that what I thought would be the third day in a row without weather conducive to an enjoyable ride had turned into a sublime fall day (in May mind you...). The docks down by the river were still flooded, but the late afternoon sun around the duck pond highlighted the activity of all the waterfowl pandering to the crowd in the hopes of receiving a few chunks of soggy bread. I do find it hard not to be distracted riding by the Canoe Club, I mean, I've hit my share of balls out of bounds on that course, and most of them were going faster than a jet powered, monkey navigated... well, pretty damn fast at that. Needless to say a flurry of impact scenarios pass through my mind every time. Hugging the fence is recommended. The chances are astronomical, but that's simply not a pain I want to experience.

Second Stop: Footbridge at the BDI.

After finishing a languid loop of the park, I rode further south into St. Vital, eventually returning north up River towards Osborne. At the foot of the St. Vital bridge I took the loop onto Kingston Row, moving West towards the BDI. I took a brief break on the bridge and watched the river for a bit. I couldn't help but be reminded of the glory days when the BDI had a small dock at the base of the bridge. You could cruise the river in your boat, grab ice cream, and continue on your way, all without having to get jammed in a parking lot filled with a herd of people lined up like ice cream was going out of style (though with the existence of the Goog Special, it kinda makes sense). It's definitely a slick way to see the city, and I would hazard to guess that particular view would change the minds of more than a few Winnipeg dissenters.

The Nuts and Bolts:

Road Quality: 7.4 - Improving, but still too much sand on the shoulders.

Ass Bruising: 8.6 - It's pretty much permanent now, but the pain goes away after the first 5-10 minutes. Hopefully a seat with less "sodomous" intentions will solve said issue in the future. For now I'm trying to treat the problem with an "Iron Shirt" mentality.

Overall Experience: 10 - This rating will be applied as a default to any ride that doesn't end in massive accident or near death at the hands of a furious drugged out asshat outside of the Sherbrook Hotel.

-Brutus Alphonz

Playoff Beards

First off, it should be noted that I am extremely prejudiced on the subject of facial hair. I happen to sport a beard that goes through varying stages of length and craziness, and so it will not surprise anyone to find out that I am a huge fan of the tradition among hockey player of growing out your beard during the playoffs. This is a serious sort of thing in some male circles where it is widely held that if you can’t grow a proper beard, then you must have a small penis or are impotent or something along those lines. Of course, I personally don’t hold such a view on the subject, but I must admit that I do harbor a certain respect for a fellow man that can grow a wicked good beard (by ‘good’ I also include those beards that are so terrible that they rule—that’s right, I’m talking about you Ovechkin…..you too Selanne). But for all the terrible facial hair, there are those players who exemplify the pinnacle of post season scruffiness, Scott Niedermayer and Chris Mason being two of the best examples of this (though Ray Borque deserves a shout out too). And if you’re not actually playing, you can still just pick a team and stop shaving. Playoff beards don’t have to be limited to hockey either; they are pretty much open game for any activity that remotely involves competition—for instance, cribbage playoffs.

I think every man owes it to himself to grow a beard at least once in his adult life, no matter how bad it is, which makes the concept of playoff beards a blessing to men everywhere. It gives anyone a perfectly legitimate excuse to grow the biggest, craziest, shittiest beard you can, all in the name of ‘the playoffs’. For some, this will probably still require a little extra courage in public (if your beard is that terrible, people will stare), but just take comfort in the fact that you very likely still look better than Sidney Crosby.


10/10


John E. Ryall

Bocce

I always thought that the reason why old people liked lawn bowling so much had to do with their decrepit physical state and genuine dislike for anything stimulating. If you’ve ever driven behind an octogenarian piloted Buick you very likely know what I mean; and, if you’ve ever driven with your grandparents in one, you definitely know what I mean. So, I just naturally thought that the popularity of lawn bowling among seniors was due to the fact that their wrestling days are well behind them. As it turns out though, I was quite wrong.

It was a warm June night, and we were drinking beers in Mr. Alfonz’s sunroom. We had just finished a planning session for a publication that we had been working on at the time, when Mr. Alfonz showed us his freshly acquired Bocce set. He was quite proud of it and said that it had been owned by the Duchess of Norfolk while she was holidaying at Assisi. Of course, he was pretty skeptical about this because he had purchased it at that weird flea market by the Osborne underpass. But, that’s what the mousey mullet woman who sold it to him said, so there you go. After a few more beers and a ‘special’ cigarette, the idea of gently rolling balls across a flat surface somehow seemed appealing and, after some discussion, we decided to give it a go. Mr. Alfonz’s lawn is not flat however; it is a bumpy, dodgy affair that has a four foot hill on one end, making any sort of conventional approach to the game both undesirable and impossible. This would prove to be a good thing, as there were many times when the palleno would end up half way up the hill making attempts to get near it almost impossible. The game began friendly enough, but it quickly got real serious: tempers flared, words and phrases not fit for children’s ears were screamed at the moon, new spliffs were sparked, and balls were flung angrily against the hill. The competition was intense and that thrill that one gets from crunching his man as he comes down with the ball is relived as you lob one in there perfectly, smashing an opponent’s ball into the nether regions beneath the bushes by the fence. Fortunately, things remained civil enough and we never had to resort to knee shots and other forms of general thuggery.

Four hours and a case of beer later, the score was Mr. Alfonz 1 Mr. Ryall 2 and Mr. Payne 3. The sun was coming up and in the dim morning light we could see our handiwork. The impossibility of rolling a ball with any hope of predictability had forced us to resort to arcing lob shots which had left Mr. Alfonz’s lawn a cratered mess. There were gouges taken out of the hill and broken beer bottles lay like landmines near the stone walkway. Yes, it had been a death match and I had come up just short. But we had found a fantastic new game that could easily be played anywhere, and in any sort of mental state, and that’s all that counts.

Note: Bocce is the same as lawn bowling in principle. The only major difference is that the balls are perfectly balanced.

9.8/10 But only the way we play it: drunk and commando style.


John E. Ryall

Review: Leonard Cohen

This is a few days late to be sure. But what can I say? My eyes have always been a bit bigger than my stomach. 

Also, I took my mom to this show! Two parts of my life that I never thought would meet--family and my taste in music. It seems that's the way with adulthood though; everything that we keep sacred in youth bleeds into the profane. It's better that way.

Leonard Cohen came to town Thursday night, on his tour of Western Canada. He was one of the few elder performers left that I felt I needed to see. Neil Young and Bob Dylan having already passed through, there are few other older acts that I really care to see. I was quite thankful to hear that Leonard was coming. I feared I missed my last opportunity to see him when he last played Toronto about a year ago (I was living in Kingston at the time).

While I had high expectations for the show, I also tempered my hopes. After all, Leonard is pushing 75, playing songs that are either almost 40 years old, or hopelessly 80s-driven. I couldn't help but fear he'd half-ass it, and who could blame him if he did? Bob Dylan sure didn't have a problem phoning his performance in.

The show more than met expectations. Leonard defied his age and silenced any doubters, playing for more than three hours, and oozing such true class and sincerity that you'd swear he'd just penned these songs backstage. I can hardly begin to describe what a pleasure it was to see the man perform. He carries himself in a way that I'm sure many of us only hope to emulate. Surely stealing a page or two from his playbook wouldn't be a bad thing for a lot of us. His band was exceptional, as was the sound that night--if just a bit on the quiet side. Certainly better than being too loud though.

Melissa Martin of the Free Press did her best to capture the evening, and at the very least understood the significance of the performance for those attending, giving the show  5 out of 5 stars. 

Over at the Sun, Darryl Sterdan had a slightly different take on the performance. Sterdan's review, which gave the show 4 out of 5, suggested that the sole complaint from the evening was the fact that Cohen's show was almost word for word exactly the same as his previous performances in New York, London, etc.

I don't mean to suggest that anything less than 5 stars would be a slight, and I don't want to come off as a completely unreasonable fan, believing that Field Commander Cohen can do no wrong, but I do take exception to the complaint raised by Mr. Sterdan.

The Sun review (titled Cohen does it again) states:

After all, most arena acts reproduce the exact same set night after night, week after week, month after month. Some bands like KISS do it decade after decade. And while Cohen is a long way from turning into Gene Simmons — now there's a horrible thought — there's no getting around the fact that he's nearing the best-before date on this set. 

Mr. Sterdan is certainly free to have his opinion on the matter, but he's neglecting to note a key difference between Leonard and most other "arena acts" and KISS especially: Leonard Cohen is a poet. His career has been built not only on his remarkable ability to with language, but on his ability to convey emotion, sentiment, authentic feeling through words especially. The man prides himself on every word that escapes his mouth--and knows well that each of these words will be scrutinized by his audience. It's not just that it's difficult to write unique between-song banter for every city; it's that there is distinct, sometimes quite profound thought that goes into both the order and the setup to each song. To mix it up arbitrarily from night to night would minimize the intended effect--a crime to a poet such as Cohen. The power of a show like this isn't in its spontaneity, it's in the performance, the act, the carefully orchestrated statement, and in this case, the statement was precise.

Beyond even preciseness, the show exhibited something else I wasn't expecting. I've always thought that Leonard wrote remarkable lyrics, and he's done so for years. The music itself, on the other hand, can be hit or miss. The first time I heard Closing Time, I laughed out loud at how terrible it was. Leonard's voice has always been pretty bad too. Anyone who's listened to Bird on a Wire can attest to that, as will Leonard himself. I've always been a fan despite all this, but it was always almost entirely because of the lyrics, the atmosphere, the image his music could create.

Thursday's show got me thinking that perhaps Leonard has finally grown into his lyrics. The songs--songs that are 30+ years old in some cases--sound better, not just musically or vocally, but in their authenticity.

These are songs that have apparently stood the test of time. But they haven't just sustained their meaning. With his sound, and with his presentation, his orchestration, Leonard has added a new level of reflection and understanding to these lyrics. They're no longer coming from a young man with a "crazy dream;" They now come from an elder statesman, who has lived something of what he expounds, and who performs not just thoughts anymore, but perhaps something resembling true, living wisdom through staged yet sincere and empathetic performances.

All this is just to say that Leonard Cohen knows a thing or two about performing, as well as a thing or two about a thing or two, you know?

Rating: 9.94 (a bit quiet! ha!) out of 10, for Lennie, of course

Mongo's Grill

Mongo’s is the sort of place you go when the munchies have set in hard. I am convinced that a place like this could make a killing off of the late night bar/stoner crowd but, for some unexplainable reason it insists upon closing at 9pm sharp. It’s a soulless prefab chain restaurant, located in a soulless big box shopping complex along route 90; the sodas are all you can drink and the stir fry is all you can eat—a win-win proposition if ever there was one. Mongo’s has a sort of bizzaro-land 1980’s vibe to it, which probably has a lot to do with the Chuck-E-Cheese meets Perkins décor and cheap, loud-coloured dishes. In fairness though, the majority of people who go there come from the surrounding cookie-cutter suburbs and, last I checked, they dig that sort of shit. This fact was confirmed for me when I last visited Mongo’s this past Sunday. We were confronted with a solid 30 minute wait, which wouldn’t normally be too bad, but this restaurant was not designed for this sort of pandemonium. About twenty five people restlessly milling about in the small entryway, suspiciously eyeing each newly seated party. A strange, tense, energy was hanging in the air and, though I’m not sure, I imagine that this same sort of energy is the kind that precedes a great white feeding frenzy—“Our wallets are fat and our bellies are empty and we have come to feed….NOW!” Fortunately, everyone was able to remain civil and a half hour later we were in gluttony heaven.

Reservations about food poisoning aside, this DIY stir fry concept is pretty kick ass. You fill up a bowl with stuff from salad bar style trays filled with veg, meat, noodles and sauces and then give it to the cook who fries it on a massive circular iron grill with huge metal poker sticks. They milk the open kitchen concept for all it’s worth (or at least as far as short order cooks are capable of taking it), but the garishness of it all just seems right. So far as I can tell, the food is edible and actually pretty tasty once you figure out the sauces and other like variables. So, in the end it comes down to whether or not you can handle throngs of suburbia’s finest and don’t mind a little kitsch; if you can, 20$ can get you a shocking amount of pretty good stir-fry.


John E. Ryall.


7.4/10

Review: Weakerthans at the Burt

I've seen the Weakerthans a fuck of a lot of times. I'm not sure how many exactly, but I remember paying a lot less than the 30+ to sit on the balcony Saturday night. Not that I'm complaining. I think they're a great band, and they've only gotten better. I might go as far as to say that the ticket price is fair and reasonable. After Saturday night, I remain convinced that these guys are one of the premier Canadian acts today. They're sound offers something for everyone and features some outstanding lyrics. Modest frontman John Samson is particularly funny, in his shy, unassuming way. They always seem to sincerely enjoy performing, and they always add something to the show, however small. Whether it's just lifting their guitars in unison, playing their classic (and Propagandhi cover [...yes, I know it was Samson's song then too, motherfucker {...I was trying to share some love. Fuck.}]) Anchorless on 5 mini Casio keyboards, or allowing a young Mexican named Ernesto to bring down the house with a fucking bad-ass guitar solo in the middle of Wellington's Wednesdays (the one song I was particularly hoping to hear. Seriously, what the fuck was the story with that solo anyway? Ernesto?) the Weakerthans have developed into consummate professional entertainers. 

We talked a lot before the show about what they might play Saturday, entertaining the possibility that they would offer a larger cross-section of older songs for the local crowd. As I'd expected, and to my disappointment, they didn't. Playing four staples from Left and Leaving, and just two from the under-represented Fallow (both mentioned earlier), the band stuck to material from their latest two albums. I came home quite pleased despite this fact, but intent on giving Fallow a thorough listening to make up for its unfortunate shunning.

To my surprise, listening to Fallow was like hearing it with new ears. Gone--well, maybe not gone, but fading--was the album that I'd listened to so many years ago, with its pronounced but tasteful punk rock influence, its witty lyrics, its pensive charm. Instead, I heard an album crafted by rookies struggling to define themselves. The desire for folk is present, but the shoes don't fit yet. The songs' punk rock roots bleed through too heavily. The song-writing doesn't come near the caliber that it's at now. Samson's singing is pretty lousy, though not without its charm, and his lyrics still lack a great deal of maturity that he demonstrates in his later work. An example, you say? Fuck off! Just read the lyrics from Fallow and compare them to Reconstruction Site. I'm not writing a goddamn poetry essay.

So all this nonsense got me thinking: (and maybe it's kind of obvious, but I think it bears discussing) the process of beginning a new project does not come naturally. Whether making an early effort to blend folk rock with punk rock, or whether starting some crappy blog that no one reads, the beginning will be rough. You can't be witty and clever and creative and thoughtful and unique without hacking through the growing pains. Samson and the Weakerthans certainly grew into their own. Despite the fact that Fallow is one of my favorites, I understand why they don't play much from it these days: it kinda sucks. 

If Brutus and John and I all manage to stick with this horrendous endeavour for any real length of time, we'll look back on these early posts with disgust, distain, and inevitable embarrassment. Fuck, I'm already embarrassed. We're hacks! But fuck it. If we're ever going to get better at this type of thing, we're going to have to plug through this, hopefully learning a thing or two along the way. It's hard to avoid cliches until you've gotten them out of your system (see the first two sentences of the third paragraph...ugh), you know? I mean, cliches exist for a reason: they're popular. They're common. They're kind of reliable. They're easy to slip into. But sooner or later, with enough content, enough effort, maybe we'll figure it out and put out something half-decent. Or not. Either way, whether writing or rambling on at the Toad, it's a great excuse for a beer or ten.

Rating: 8.5 out of 10--for Ernesto? From Mexico?

4:20

Well, it’s 4:20 again. Actually, I didn’t even realize it until I was walking home from The Bay and noticed the distinct aroma of weed in the air. Not thinking anything of it, I turned onto Memorial Boulevard and then it hit me: oh yeah, today’s 4:20! I should probably qualify that last statement by noting that I needed the help of the gaggle of people gathered at the legislative grounds, and the small army of hot dog vendors scattered around the area. Anyway, I put two and two together and decided to take a walk through the crowd of happy stoners and get myself a hotdog. It was a good hotdog, and I enjoyed it, but as I was walking and doing some people watching, I got to thinking about this wonderful, though completely stupid holiday.

4:20 has always been a special sort of day for me, which probably comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me. For years, it was a ritual of sorts to get together with a dank quarter and some good friends and smoke ourselves stupid until we passed out. Of course, there were usually many ‘adventures’ throughout the night: trips to 7-11/Macs, trips to other people’s houses to smoke more, maybe a game of ‘let’s get lost’ (a game where you drive to a neighborhood and see if you can get yourself lost. But this is whole separate post….), trips to Taco Bell, and maybe a beer run, but the general point of the day was always clearly in focus for the first half hour. Though the one thing I never did was go to the legislative building. I never understood it. I think there’s some sort of political ‘legalize it’ thrust to it, but I was always skeptical about that. After all, to the average dope smoker, there is a sort of bent appeal to the idea of getting out of your head right in front of the police and not getting arrested for it. Throw in the fact that you’re doing it on the doorstep of the provincial government, and you have yourself a nice little “fuck the Man” statement. This is all well and good, but as a political statement, it’s pretty pointless. Is the point to show how well behaved weed smokers are? A show of numbers? I don’t know. But as a social event, it’s a hell of a thing. For some reason that I’ll never fully understand, pot brings people together in a way like few other things can. There were all sorts of different kinds of people lounging around and smoking bowls, and being generally into the whole thing. It was nice to see.

4:20 as a holiday though, is pretty dumb when you really get to thinking about it. It’s a day to celebrate something that most of the people there already celebrated on a daily basis. I guess it’s nice to have a day to get wrecked, but why couldn’t you just pick Saturday? All it takes is a little bit of schedule co-ordination and, voila, 4:20 anytime! While you can’t go to the legislative grounds and get baked with a thousand other people, you can go to a park and just get stoned with your friends. Not a bad trade off. This is a realization that I came to when I was in Amsterdam on 4:20 a few years ago. I was all excited, but I was pretty much the only one. There was nothing different on 4:20 as there had been on 4:17. That didn’t stop me from paying my proper observance in my own ‘proper’ sort of way, but ever since then I haven’t really cared as much. I still make a point of smoking a nice spliff, but the day just isn’t the same grand thing it used to be. I think my general lifestyle might have something to do with this, although maybe it just means I’m getting old.

8.9/10

John E. Ryall.

Deadliest Warrior

So, as I was sprawled out on the couch, recovering from last night, I happened to come across what might be my new favorite television show. It’s on Spike TV and it’s called ‘Deadliest Warrior.’ This is the sort of show that appeals to the inner child in all of us, pitting different sorts of historical warriors in a quasi-scientific death battle. If you’ve ever thought Gladiators, Ninjas, Samurai, or Vikings were cool, then this show is for you.

The Premise is pretty simple. Each episode pits one sort of warrior against another to see who would win in a theoretical fight. In order to figure this out, these two scientist type guys record data from tests to see which warrior’s weapons kill better. The two 'scientists' don’t actually use the weapons though; they always bring in 'expersts' who actually know what they’re doing, which makes it even more sweet. So anyway, they hack the shit out of dummies made of ballistics gel, and then enter the data into this computer program, which then simulates 1000 fights between the two warriors, and whoever wins more fights is apparently the Most Deadliest Warrior in the World. It’s kind of like Mythbusters but with battle axes and ninja swords. To top it all off, they always end the show by showing what such a battle might look like. It’s bad acting, but it’s bad acting in all its gory splendor. For example, today I watched an Apache warrior whup a gladiator, continue to stab him about seven more times after he was clearly dead, and then lick the blood off his knife; in the next episode, the Samurai managed to defeat the Viking by stabbing him in the neck with his kitana (to the hilt), resulting in a super-soaker style geyser of blood.

As I said, this show totally appeals to me on a nostalgic level. When I was a kid, I always wondered if an army of ninjas would beat an army of robots. Of course, we’ll likely never know the answer to that question (or will we….?), but ‘Deadliest Warrior’ offers the same sort of absurd appeal. So watch it for the gore or the science (smashing a human skull with a club is science right?), either way, it’s worth a watch.

Rating: 8.0/10.

John E. Ryall

Fucked Up at the Albert

Ugh. I'm hungover as hell after last night's show. We saw Fucked Up. Apparently they're kind of a big deal. Fucked Up, I mean. They're a hardcore band out of Toronto. They played the Albert, opening for the way-too-old-and-irrelevant-to-be-playing-anymore-but-i-shouldn't-talk-because-i-went-to-see-Agent-Orange-last-month-who-are-equally-too-old-and-irrelevant-and-thought-they-were-awesome U.K. Subs. We also caught another opening band, the Brixton Robbers, who were also pretty good in a we-sound-a-lot-like-the-Flatliners kind of way (I promise I'll stop doing that). Fucked up blends hardcore punk with some different and very melodic sounds. They definitely disrupt what you might expect from a typical hardcore punk band.

In true Barstool Review fashion, several beverages were consumed before the show to lubricate the experience, so the extendo-long weekend (government gig means holiday Monday too! Fuck yeah!) kicked itself off to a good start.

Anyway, the show was good, but it got me thinking a bit this morning--between trips to the can, I mean. Last night's beverage of choice is exiting my body through any orifice it can find. It's nice to see a band--even as unfortunately named as this one--that can still make punk rock interesting. These days it seems like the only good thing we can dig out of the slagging punk rock scene are bands that either play a certain sound really well, living up to some strange sense of manufactured scene authenticity, or bands with a gimmick, a la Gogol Bordello or Gaslight Anthem. Look at us! Our music drips with nostaglia for a fifties rebel image that died out 30 years before we were born! 

Sure, there's been the punk-folk-country fusion that's been going on, with all these front men from successful bands in the 90s doing acoustic solo records. And yeah, I like it. In my old age, sometimes I like to hear something that isn't loud and louder, fast and faster. But seriously, I doubt the trend has much more to offer than it already has. How long can all these urban punk rockers imitate lonesome country singers before we call them out on it? Sure, I've always thought there were a ton of similarities between country and punk rock. And some of these guys pull it off better than others--generally the ones who try to create their own brand of urban folk. Others try hard to achieve an authentic country sound, with mixed results. One way or another, punk rock continues its negotiation with notions of true authenticity, both embracing it, romanticizing it, and rejecting it, all at once. And yet, rejecting stereotypes is one of the pillars of punk mentality. If that's still the case, it kind of makes this search for authenticity seem a bit misguided, no?

That's all just to say that Fucked Up was pretty good. I'm no music aficionado. I just know what I like, and I know good punk rock when I hear it, and it's great to see a band that's clearly trying to create their own sound/image. While they might not make it high on my playlist (I'm all about re/discovering 90s hip hop these days) they get mad props for keepin' it real. Yo.

Rating: 4 out of 10 for this hangover. It started out strong, but I fought it back with a greasy breakfast and it hasn't mustered much since.

Review: trough at the Toad

It pains me to say anything negative about the Toad in the Hole.  I've been a fan of the pub for years. Even through the extensive changes it has undergone, the renovation of the basement (I miss the dank pit that it was), the expansion of the upstairs, the new arcades and giant flat screen TV (Ok, I admit I love the TV), and even with sudden surge of overdressed suburbanite douchebags that descend upon the village every Friday and Saturday night and pack into the cherished Osborne Village jewel because they can't get into the Hifi nightclub, I have stood by my watering hole. But suddenly, things have gone too far.

Last night, after some standard bantering over 3-4 pints, my bladder was at the tipping point. Breaking the seal was an inevitable reality, so I climbed from my slouch and made my way to the lesser known washrooms by the kitchens. The Toad has long had an unwritten policy where washrooms may be labeled as separate for men and women, but in reality they are unisex (--shouldn't that mean just one of the sexes? I never understood that). Men and women use each other's commodes freely. But on this particular evening, there was a sign on the door. In bold, underlined lettering, the sign read WOMEN'S WASHROOM ONLY. I was a bit shocked, but not overly surprised until I notice the same sign on what used to be the men's washroom next to it. Both women's washrooms? WTF?

Suddenly I became aware of suspicious eyes upon me. I looked over to where a young woman was clearly eyeing me up to see if I was a sexual predator, or just a pervert trying to get a peak at the newly-christened women's washroom cabal. 

"You can't pee here" she says to me sharply.

"Uhh, I can't?" tipsy and desperate to pee, my mind still hadn't caught up to the situation.

"You have to use the men's washroom--at the back of the bar."

"What?"

"The men's washroom is there now. You can't pee here anymore."

"How did women suddenly get a monopoly on these washrooms?" I asked.

"We have smaller bladders" she snapped back.

"But we drink more!" I protested.

"No you don't." Not wanting to get into a pissing contest (zing!), and concerned more with relieving myself, I figured I was better off going to see what the hell she was talking about.

I made my way over to where the other bathrooms were. Following a sign directing right to the back of the pub, I discovered a new men's washroom. What I found on the other side of the door deeply troubled me.

A fucking trough!! A goddamn, demeaning-as-fuck trough to pee in! Are these things not fucking outlawed yet?! Can we not find a more humane way to allow men to pee at a pub? I mean, it's not like Bomber stadium, where 30,000 fucking people have to share the washrooms, and even there it's fucking disgusting.

As if the trough itself wasn't bad enough, the discrepancy between the now women-exclusive, single stall washrooms and the male equivalent of a back alley is seriously demeaning. I may be a sloppy drunken pig on most saturday nights, but give me some fucking credit. And having to be told to pee in a trough by some small-bladdered psuedo-feminist only made the experience that much more detestable.

I've heard a rumour that the new facilities are temporary while they renovate their other washrooms. I certainly hope that's the case. While the Toad still sits at the top of my list of places to drink away my youth, this new development has left a sour taste in my mouth. It may take a standoff a la Rosa Parks to change the minds of the oppressors. We won't be demeaned like this! We want to pee at the front of the bus, er, bar like everyone else. We refuse to be treated as second-class citizens. 

Ugh. I hope I don't have to start going to the Academy.

Rating: 2 out of 10--for the small bladder argument.

Winnipeg

It's almost April, goddamnit, and there's still two feet of snow on the ground. The streets are cratered with car devouring potholes, and the buses stop running at one in the morning. In short, this city is third class on a good day. I know that there are a lot of people who really like Winnipeg (for why, I will never know), but let's consider for a moment the respective positives and negatives of life smack dab in the middle of North America.

Positives:

1) It's cheap here. Yeah, it's true that a person can afford to live quite well on $30, 000 (or in my case much less) in this town.

2) We're pretty much safe from tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, and terrorist attacks (what terrorist in his right mind would make a statement by attacking Winnipeg?).

3) Arts. Surprisingly, on a per capita basis we seem to have many writers, film makers, and artists who are quite active in the local scene.

4) For all my bitching about weather, autumn is very beautiful here.

5) Our museum has a giant ground sloth and a friggin' gallion in it.

6) We appreciate Louis Riel, or at least those in the know do.

7) Market Square (and the exchange district in general) is almost as nice a place as you will find anywhere.

8) The Fringe Festival. It gets pretty pricey if you want to see a lot of shows ($8-10 per show), but it's a good way to see what's going on in the world of theatre.

9) I can mooch off my family here.


Negatives:

1) Okay, it's cheap here, but then, so are the residents. People in this town are so unbelievably cheap that corporations use Winnipeg as a test market. They say that if people here will buy something, then people anywhere will buy it. This also explains why we no longer have an NHL team. The immensely miserly character of this town is the root of everything wrong with it.

2) Yeah, we're safe from hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis and terrorists, but when the ice caps melt, we're gonna be at the bottom of a massive inland sea.

3) No one outside of the arts scene gives a fuck about the arts scene. There's a reason that Cinematheque only has 70 seats, and that our art gallery licks my balls. It's because no one goes, and therefore, there's no money to acquire paintings that people actually want to see (for the record, I go to the WAG at least once a year). And yes, we have a lot of writers, but except for a few notable exceptions (Miriam Toews, Carol Shields, David Bergen), no one knows who the hell they are. This has to do with the fact that there are virtually no publishing companies here (Turnstone press being the shining exception). Why is this? Because no one cares about art exccept for those involved in the arts, and that is not nearly enough people. Sidenote: no one really reads books either. They seem to prefer Big Brother and CSI.

4) The weather. Autumn is nice, but that's only a two month window. Otherwise (except maybe for May and June) we either have unbearable heat, or unbearable cold, not to mention the mosquitoes.

5) Our museum has a giant sloth and a gallion. That is all there is to recommend it.

6) Suburban isolationism. Everyone lives in the suburbs and shops at big-box stores. No one goes downtown unless they absolutely have to. Although we have been trying to renew the urban core of Winnipeg, I think it is doomed to failure because the masses of suburbia can't be bothered to go downtown because they can't find parking, and they are too important to take the bus.

7) The buses stop running at 1:30. This is too damn early. How's a guy supposed to get home when he's loaded and too cheap to take a cab?

8) Bums. Nuff said.

9) The Forks. Great idea to have a tourist site at the Forks, but it closes way too early, and there's no night life except for an overpriced faux-pub.

10) No shwarma stands. That's right, I want shaved meat in a pita on every damn street corner. On a related note, it wouldn't hurt to have more street vendors in general.

11) A follow up to #6: downtown is dead and beyond retrieval. I think a red-light district would remedy this. See #13 for why this will never, ever, happen.

12) Tourism. Seriously, people come here on purpose? I doubt it unless they have family here, or are coming up from the states because they can buy beer when they're 18.

13) Puritanism. The average Winnipeger is a puritan at heart. Morally, fiscally, culturally, politically, etc. I point to the popularity of the Winnipeg Scum, er, Sun as proof of this.

14) Folklorama/Jazz festival: One is a celebration of ethnic stereotyping, the other is just false advertising. When I go to jazz festival, I go because I want to see jazz, not unutterably bad whiteman funk. Come to think of it, the jazz musicians I have seen strike me more as elevator music than jazz in the Miles Davis tradition. Both are expensive and both are only worth it as an excuse to get drunk.

15) Getting an Ikea store is hailed as a major cultural event. Fuck me......

Okay, so I could probably go on, but you get the idea. I guess in the final analysis, I blame Winnipeg's suckiness on Winnipegers, especially you oh all powerfull suburban-dewlling-suv-driving middle class. You killed this town, and you seem quite content with that. Now go back to your Winnipeg Sun and complain about your taxes. I need drink......

John E. Ryall

Rating: 4.5/10.

American Apparel

I'm always behind trends by at least a couple years. It's something that I've gotten used to at this point in my life, and something I think I should even take pride in. Being late to a trend gives me a chance to form an opinion on it. To gather facts and make a decision. Yesterday, I found myself on what you might call a fact finding mission.

After they gutted one of my favorite clubs in Osborne Village and turned it into an American Apparel, I was fucking pissed. It meant one less venue for good punk rock, and one more victory for some goddamn corporate enterprise. And man, I am soooooo all about hating on corporations. Fucking profit-driven, earth-destroying, outsourcing, sweatshop-building child molester, cop killer motherfuckers. Shit, I won't wear anything unless it's made by a some upstart solitary indigenous person, preferably based out of a cave in New Mexico. D.I.Y., bitches! So like any good anti-establishment guerilla, I avoided the store. Cursed it when I walked by. Bemoaned it's arrival over half a dozen beers at the Toad.

To cut to the chase, I'm older and lamer now, and I like cheap, plain, nice cloths. This place obviously isn't going anywhere. I've read some good things about it, so fuck it. Loyalties to the old Collective aside, I need some goddamn T-shirts. I wandered in to have a look.

PORNO!! Everywhere is porno. Pictures of oddly seductive women selling spandex. Young men also looking all too seductive selling cardigans and long-sleeve Ts. And I know you know what I'm talking about. Everyone has seen the ads (check out the mustache). But beyond the ads, which were downright embarrassing to be looking at in public rather than on the privacy of my computer screen, the layout of the store itself was quite strange. No, I'm not talking about all the unisex clothes or the fact that there is no distinction between men's and women's sections. That's been a long time coming (though I love the idea that homophobic assholes will continually wince and look quickly away despite their more pressing inclinations to follow the latest trend). I'm talking about the way the store is divided into halves, where one have is full of the plain clothes I can get along with, and the other half was full of hardcore throwback 80s wear. I'm talking zebra print spandex with the baggy sweater to go over top. And through the aisles, the hippest of hip 17-21 year olds were perusing, checking price tags, admiring the fashion that I spent most of the 90s flaming with great distain.

What surprised me about the whole event--what made me downright uncomfortable--was not the fashion itself. I've long since come to accept that there was some great stuff going on in the 80s, and while the fashion isn't my thing, I'm fine with the fact that lots of people are going to dig it. Nor was it necessarily the porno ads. It seems fashion is always pulling stunts like this, and it's nice to see human-looking models, even if they're clearly overheated and desperate to seduce me. What bothered me was how this moment in time, this pushing of boundaries in advertising, this full out retro 80s fashion, and this apparently environmentally conscious, gay positive, gender-blurring message, progressive as it is, seems lost on the fashionistas patrolling the aisles.

A good message is a good message, and I'm glad to see stores doing things the way American Apparel is, but it bothers me that all of the concepts that this store plays with seem to be ignored by the people who shop there and even the people who work there. It's the fashion that's attractive, not necessarily the message. It's clear that even without the message, these clothes would sell.

I sat on my experience there for a while, not sure what to make of it. A little bar room philosophizing has me thinking that I've just gotten older, crankier, and more judgmental of people younger than me. Ignorant young fucks. But I think what bothers me most about it is how it works to counteract some negative effects, yet markets itself with other, potentially negative effects.

Anyway, fuck it. I'll buy my shirts there, and check out some pornographic imagery while I'm there. Could do worse, right?

Fuck. 

EDIT: Bah. I forgot to add a rating. 5.0 of 10 for the couch outside the changing room. Too low to the ground and too lumpy. Otherwise, very satisfying.