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You know, one thing we all take for granted in Canada is the ole, life-sustaining double-Hydrogen-single-Oxygen cocktail. Our massive, snowbound country has 60% of the world’s fresh water, although our determined efforts are certainly straining the definition of “fresh” these days. I can almost guarantee that anyone who pours a glass of water straight from the tap, and gulps it down on a hot, sunny day (yes, we have those in Canada) never thinks twice about it. Nor do we really consider the wealth of fresh water circling the drain while we brush our teeth or scrape our whiskers off. And have you ever plugged the tub and seen just how much water you use during a long relaxing shower? (I tend to do this quite often given my affinity for long, lustrous locks, and my adversity to cleaning out the drain). Yes, I think it’s safe to say that all of us take water for granted.
In fact, in my beautiful little town in New Brunswick (which I like to say, puts the “ain’t” in “quaint”) the signboard on the highway for years stated: “Welcome to St. George, Home of the Best Drinking Water in Canada.” Now, after decades, that sign has since been changed, partially, I think, for the sake of new tourism priorities, but also because I think the claim was fairly dubious to begin with. Regardless, since there is no such thing as “irregardless,” the water was very tasty. In fact, to my knowledge, it [...]
I’m so vicariously excited!
Given my somewhat reclusive sojourn in the third-world, I haven’t really been in touch with my more extended family. On a whim, I checked in on some Canadian Olympic coverage and realized with a start that my little cousin Graeme Gorham is competing as a ski-jumper. This is Canada’s first ski-jumping team in over a decade, and they’re some of the youngest guys competing at the Olympics. From the looks of things, Graeme didn’t qualify in his first competition, but there’s still the bigger hill left, and really just being there must be quite the experience. Plus, he’s only 18, and should be into his prime by 2010 when the Olympics hit Vancouver. Fly High Dude.
Here’s a site with his stats and photo etc, although I’m a little embarrassed that he’s given Tim McGraw as his favourite music, although I suppose it could be worse. But seriously, have you ever seen a whiter kid? Hard to believe we’re related.
Of course, this only serves to remind me as my own failure to qualify for the Canadian Olympic Team. Of course, I never tried, but I always wanted to. The Athlete’s village just sounds like a blast. I guess I’d better hurry up and learn curling… or [...]
Well, sadly, and surprisingly, there was no white Christmas in Karachi for me this year. I waited up until midnight, gazing wistfully from the balcony, hoping for that light dusting of snow that makes Christmas so much sweeter. But alas, it was not to be. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt outside at midnight should have tipped me off, but as I mentioned, I was full of wist, and, as it happens, a bottle or two of wine. In fact, at that point in time, I would have been well and truly satisfied with a light dusting of ashes on the Karachi streets. I was half-tempted to go to the vacant lot next door and light a pile of garbage on fire, but the prospect of catching the flakes on my tongue seemed less than appetizing, and even in my inebriated state, I knew it would lose a little in translation. But then, with a flash of insight, I walked down to the kitchen, smashed up some ice and tossed it around like confetti, singing, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” in my best Bing Crosby voice (which is surprisingly similar to my own voice). It was nice for a few moments, but sadly, my “Christmas in the kitchen” idea was short lived, as I almost immediately slipped on the now saturated floor and hit my head on the counter. That more or less destroyed the effect, but at least I [...]
I looked down at the moose lying on the side of the highway. Despite being dead, the animal had definitely seen better days. In fact, it was a God-awful mess. By the looks of the strips of fibre-glass lying around, I guessed that the animal had been hit by an 18 wheeler. There’s not much that can slow down a moose, but a long-haul truck is definitely one of them.
I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing to [...]
For anyone in the Pakistan area that might be interested, I will be on the radio today at 4:00.
A friend of mine has a show on FM 89.0 and featured me in the second hour as “The Second Most Popular White Guy in Pakistan….” Damn that pesky George!
Anyway, it was a fun interview and features five songs of my choosing. Even if it’s not true, I’m taking full credit for introducing Pakistan to The Tragically Hip.
So check it out if you get the chance.
Plus, if I do say so myself, I’ve got a [...]
I love this story. Maybe because, in a strange way, I can relate.
A friend of mine, let’s call him James, had been interested in a girl for quite some time. The problem was that they had been friends for years, and he didn’t know if she felt the same way, or if it was all in his head. I think we’ve all been there before, when you feel like your sensors are on the fritz and you just can’t interpret the signals properly. Finally, they decided to get together and watch a movie at her place. Now, this was good news for James, because they had never spent time alone together (I think “alone together” is a funny phrase) and the best part was that it had been her idea. For once, they wouldn’t be surrounded by all their friends, and he could try to gauge the situation.
So they’re watching a flic in her basement – things are going well – when suddenly James feels his stomach cramp. Not good. With a sickening feeling (that I know all too well), he realizes that if he doesn’t go straight to the bathroom, there will be terrible repercussions. Now, any guy will tell you that using the bathroom at a girl’s house is a delicate matter. There’s a definite comfort level that must be reached before it can even be considered. And at this point, on their first real date, and with his insides gone super-nova, the [...]
One summer, I was home from University and my brother and I decided to play Soccer in a summer men’s league. Technically, it was called the International Men’s League, which makes it sound like we played Slovakia every third week, but all it meant was that we played one team from the State of Maine. Now, I’ve seen a lot of soccer in my day, but I have never seen a rougher, rowdier, or more violent league than this one. Basically, you’ve got a lot of guys who used to play, but are now pushing into their thirties and don’t have the wind that they used to. What they still have however, is their pride and competetive natures. So, when they get frustrated, they tend to lash out and try to compensate for their slower footwork by, you know, body-checking a guy. But I guess I shouldn’t talk, since I got the nickname “Tank” for (accidentally) knocking a guy unconscious. What can I say, there’s not much I can do about momentum… it’s physics… I’m a big guy… I have to admit though, it was kind of satisfying that he was out cold and in the fetal position before he hit the ground.
Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother where [...]
Well, here’s a new one. A recipe request on the blog. Somewhere down in comment-land, thanks to the nugatory non-sequiturs of the grammatically challenged SD, the topic of my world famous beer-butt chicken arose. And by world famous, I mean to say that my friends and family quite enjoy it. But come to think of it, if I make it here in Pakistan, and it is well received, won’t I then be able to say that it’s enjoyed the world over?
I should stipulate that you could type “Beer Can Chicken” into Google and find half a hundred versions of this recipe, but you might as well get my take on it right here. In any case, it’s a fun and easy recipe, and I’ve got jack all else to write about today, so why not?
What you Need:
- One Medium-sized Chicken
- A bunch of spices I don’t feel like listing
- Four Cans of your favourite beer
- Some Olive oil
- A Barbecue
- An aluminum plate
Well, that was helpful.
First, find yourself a chicken. I find the supermarket to be the best place, but if your feeling adventurous, you could try to find one in the wild. The Eastern Canadian Feral Chicken, for example, is a delicacy that is not soon forgotten, but I recommend wearing protective gloves. Anyway, get a nice, medium sized roasting chicken, and make sure it’s not frozen. I’m always amazed at people who throw frozen meat on the grill, then again, I’m also amazed at people [...]
I’ve been coming across a few questions lately as to the origins of the “Artsaypunk.” And by that, I guess I mean, that every once and a while, someone says, “What the hell is an Artsaypunk anyway?”
Well, I’ve never been the kind of guy that held down a nickname. They just never seem to stick. People have tried to make it work, but for some reason, I am just simply “Dave.” I am referred to in a number of different ways, by a number of different people, but I wouldn’t class them as actual nicknames. For example, I would currently list the following lexicon of Dave references: David, Dave, Daud, Daud Yusef Garriwalla, Sheikh Bin Daud, Ford, Fordy, Big-Dave-Ford, the Davistani, Desi-David.
For a long time, my mother was adamant that I remain a pure “David.” She would insist that she had named me David, not Dave, and she did it for a reason. In fact, she’s given up on it in recent years, but for a long time, if you called my house and asked for “Dave” my mother would say, “No, no Dave’s here, but you can speak to David if you like.”
In residence, during my undergrad, our house gives a nickname to every single new resident. By the time I got mine, they were fresh out of ideas and I was left with “Schmooze’s Bitch.” The idea was that I had to carry a bar of soap with me during frosh week, and anytime [...]
I have to take a moment here and acknowledge one of the great storytellers of our time that you’ve never heard of: Big-Dave Lewis. Now, I like to spin a yarn here and there as you know, but Big-Dave has years of experience on me. He’s my friends Josh and Jay’s father, and since the time that we’ve been old enough to drink (or maybe even “almost” old enough) we’ve gotten together around the kitchen table (site of many a Maritime party) drank beer mixed with tomato juice, and told stories. Whether it was Big-Dave’s use and abuse of dynamite when he worked for the phone company, or the girl of dubious repute in his hometown that they all called “Old Yeller,” or even the “Winter of ‘39″ when the Bay of Fundy froze solid (which of course was many years before he was born), Big-Dave’s stories have never failed to entertain me no matter how many times I’ve heard them.
Big-Dave recently retired after thirty some years of service as a school teacher, and we should all raise a glass in honour of that feat. Unfortunately, in my recent battles to check my hotmail account, I missed the invitation to write something to be read at his retirement party. It’s not quite the same, but I thought I’d pay this little tribute here on the blog. So Big Dave, whenever I get back to God’s country, have those beers chilled and the tomato juice ready (since you and [...]
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We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
-T.S. Eliot
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