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