The Maple Leaf Rag

or, Americans Allow Canadians to Sneak One By...


So, in thrilling fashion, our good brothers to the North won one for Le Gipper last night, at the desciptively named Canada Hockey Place, where they drink beers, wave flags and occasionally even do some ice skating.

Like most civilized peoples, I hate hockey, because I've seen how their fans behave. But I do love the Olympics, and j'adore a good rivarly. And it's not really a rivalry with our little brothers and sisters to the north (at last count, after Chantal Abromowitz gave birth to little Marcel, in Saskatoon this morning, there are only 34,018,641 within Canada's borders, or roughly the number of Indian customer service agents working for Sprint. (Three top executives in Mumbai seen here)

But anyway, the Americans lost last night, which is a funny way of saying they won the Silver Medal. I was a bit embarrassed, I have to say, when during the medal ceremony, our boys looked as though they had just returned from their fathers' funerals.

The only guy with a glint of a smile was, uncoincidentally, nearly the only guy over 30 on skates.

Old guys like Tim Thomas know how to savor the moment, because they remember when digital watches were pretty cool.

Alors, it was with his spirit in mind that I soothed my wounds this morning, like most angry, disgruntled American males, by listening to Alanis Morissette.

We at BlaiserBlog are proud to honor both one-half of our ancestry * and the Canadians winning their national sport with professional players, with the following: a re-working of "Thank U" by Alanis: (for maximum effect, play the video in the background while you scroll down and  read the new lyrics. Go ahead.... I'll wait.

how bout getting off these anabolic steroids?

how bout stopping being so damn polite?

how bout them transparent camouflage Mounties?

how bout that ever elusive moose?

thank you NHL

thank you totem poles

thank you Bare-Na-Ked Ladies

thank you Freddie P.

thank you Ghostbusters

thank you, thank you, Home Ice... **

how bout Vous not blaming U.S. for everything?

how bout me enjoying a donut for once?

how bout how good it felt to finally kick your ass?

how bout winning one medal at a time?

thank you NHL

thank you beer fridge

thank you really messed-up torch thing

thank you royalty

thank you Martin Short

thank you, thank you, Home Ice...

The moment I heard Leonard Cohen

was the moment I got that you weren't so bad.

The moment he turned up on West Wing

was the moment Vous became cool.

how bout no longer being a doorstop?

how bout remembering she's not divinity?

how bout unabashedly smoking your stogies?

how bout not equating death with sharing?

thank you NHL

thank you Captain Kirk

thank you Cirque de Soleil.... ***

thank you Quebecois

thank you Jeopardy

thank you, thank you, Home Ice...!

http://www.cbc.ca/greatest/greatcanadians/


* My grand-père was born in Bic, Quebec. Photo of Parc du Bic by Sheldon Brown
** Home Ice Advantage courtesy of Doug Laird
*** Creepy Cirque image courtesy of Cyn Passanante 

Thanks for playing along at home. And just remember, even though we have Mississippi and they have Mississauga, it don't mean that Clayton Moore couldn't kick the feathers out of Jay Silverheels any jour de la semaine...

Americans Humble Uppity Canadians!

Look, some of my best friends are Canadian. I really like Canada. So much so that I chose my ancestors to be from there (I'm half French-Canadian. That would be "Le" Blaiser to vous, buddy.)

But I have to say, when Jamie Salé and David Pelletier were artistically out-skated by the Russians in 2002 at Salt Lake, and then had the gall to ask for a do-over when they didn't get the gold all for themselves, it was as if the entire country jumped the shark and landed with a resounding PLOTZ in the Artic Circle. For me.

I know, I know, I'm bringing a minority opinion here--not many people agreed with the French judge, but sometimes the truth hurts--despite the ensuing brouhaha, if you value artistry over athletic prowess--and what French judge doesn't--then the Russians get it every time. And Canada, not for nothing, but we turn to you for more polite, better-dressed versions of our American selves. If I wanted to see spoiled athletes getting preferential treatment, I needn't look any further than my alma mater, SUNY-Binghamton.

So. Regarding last night's drubbing in Olympic Hockey in Vancouver's ingenuously named Canada Hockey Place, Let's just say our Friends to the North have had this coming for quite some time. Sorry. Yes it had to be your national sport, and on home ice. Don't do it again. Unless you want to come down to Fenway and beat us at baseball.

And you gotta get through 2007 World Series MVP Mike Lowell to do that. Not much stops Senator Lowell--testicular cancer, surgically repaired thumbs, or flaky deals with Texas. Dude also graduated with a 4.0 from high school and wrote a book, which I aim to check out, post haste. How many books has Jamie Salé written that don't have the word "Pouty" in the title. I'm just sayin'.

Thanks for reading, and please remember that just because I finally broke down and got one of those digital cable-box tuner thingys for my TV, it doesn't mean that adult males look cool on Razor Scooters.

When He's Sixty-Four

When I finally got the progeny all tucked in last night, a quick check on the Intehnets brought joyous tidings from the South--New Orleans had stunned the Pop-Jock Colts, and I'm sure Bourbon Street is flowing as I type, merely 10 hours later.

Here's my take: The Saints watched living legends Pete Townshend and Roger Daltry putting all men to shame in 12-minutes flat, and then came out 50-some-strong to answer one of rock's--and teendom's--ineffable questions: "Who the f*ck are you?" Who the f*ck are we? We're survivors. We're onside kick at the top of the Second Half. We're Special Teams, and we want our goddammed football back, bitches. Who the F*CK are YOU?

When I was hanging out in college radio land, there was this guy named Holmsie (and not for nothing, isn't there always a Holmsie?), who went on and on about The Who. Tied up in Tears for Fears as I was, I didn't get it, and I never understood the sheer power of The Who until adulthood. Like the Fab Four, two of them have rocked on to the next life, and after last night's Super Bowl Halftime Show, I'm thinking of accepting Pete Townshend as my personal Lord and Saviour.

Cagey in Matrix-styled mirrored shades and topped with a cheeky porkpie hat, the lead guitarist for the greatest rock band ever was a walking wink; ever the sly one, Pete Townshend has consistently been up to no good, his whole life. The cat can play. He can still sing. He's 64.

No one can top him. Let's just run down the list.

Sir Elton's candle has flickered into Pop-Musical Theatre Irrelevance, Age 62

Aerosmith's Steven Tyler is back in rehab, and once he dries out needs to get back to the business of presiding as Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, Age 61

Pauvre Guillame Joel... you will always be the man, but for now, see Tyler. Age 60

Sir Paul. I'm so sorry, Sir Paul. You are THE living legend. A pharoah amongst songwriters. Your music is scripture. But you fell from grace quite a bit when you released a pro-war song for f*ck's sake. And then the one-legged lady hopped away from you. Honestly, what are we to make of that? Age, 67

Mick. OK, in fairness, this guy is a close second, but he doesn't play guitar. At least not like Pete. Age, 66.

Keith Richards. Title of Greatest Living Rocker only open to the living.

Robert Matthew Van Winkle. Thank you for tipping your Wal*Mart of Pensacola Valet Parking Attendents! Age, 42.

Pete Townshend oughta get the key to New Orleans. I may be the only one who knows, and I'm giving him full personal credit for motivating last night's dreamy deliverance. It was every bit as good as Prince singing Purple Rain *in* the rain. Hypnotic lights. Ejaculatory fireworks. Transcendent rock, nearly every lick a line of poetry. God Bless the British Invasion.

Bonedry Sledding Hills and the Goondock Saints...

The rarest moment in early parenthood, perhaps, is when one is up in the morning while the progeny sleeps.

He was up quite late two nights ago, and it finally has caught up to him, and so, with jazz tinkling on the boom box and coffee brewing in the pot, I have a moment to sit at the table, wrapped in fleece, grey light filtering in from the slatted blinds. Sunday morning. And the weather has &#*ed us.

I am very happy for the kids to the south, for they have received the blizzard of a lifetime. I remember such a snowdrop--in '77, when my dad stuck a be-snowsuited me into a drift that came up to my waist, and they had to plow our 1000-foot driveway with a bulldozer. Today, the children of the southern mid-Atlantic can romp as never before in their young lives, and here's to that, but for most of Essex County, NJ, it's absolute bollocks--a mere dusting; the sleighs would only tear the crap out of the hill. Ah well.

At least there's The Goonies.

Released in '84, it was two years too late for me, but it must have been a generation-defining flick for kids born, say, '71--'74. In it, Samwise Gamgee, at age 13, leads a pack of hormonally hammered dorks who are on the brink of a neighborhood-destroying regime change, resplendent with hopeful hunk big brother Josh Brolin and improbable 80s genius Corey Feldman--sporting a Purple Rain T-shirt and brushing his feathered coif--effortlessly dishing out his best work; I write this without a stitch of irony. Throw in Jeff Cohen as a chubby hero; the iconic Jonathan Ke Quan as a pint-sized nonspecific Asian 007; Joe Pantoliano, who had to have been balding at 15 and who makes even sarcasm itself wince; and an operatic Robert Davi (Oh -- That guy!), one of the most sympathetic bad guys in the history of screwball tween comedies, and you get timeless cinematic bliss--one that the progeny loved last night, one that made up for the lack of a blizzard some 25 years after its birth. Oh yeah, and there's a pinhead. With suspenders and a Superman T-shirt. Just like Jesus in Godspell.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the racialist overtones in The Goonies (graduate students at the University of Silly Studies, take note, for herein lies more than one doctoral thesis). Ke Quan's accent is impossibly "Asian," which is meant to be funny; but wouldn't most kids be speaking unaccented Engrish by that time? And there's a recurring gag of a Hispanic cleaning lady who has the singular cinematic misfortune of auditioning for this turkey relying upon Feldman's character for translation. Ha, ha ha -- Look! She can't speak the language! At the end of the movie, I almost wanted her to keep the jewels and let the gringos' mostly lilly white world meet the wrecking ball.

But in Spielberg's world, the adults merely prop up the dorkitude for a lusty audience. A dusty pirate treasure map is discovered in the attic, and single-speed bike-powered, Cyndi Lauper-backed hijinks ensue. The Goonies are like Our Gang, and Sean Astin an earnest late 20-Century Spanky. Even at age 13, you can tell he knows all along he'll triumph at the end. 'Cause when your final destination is Mordor and your final goal saving all of Middle Earth, busting up a real estate deal in Northern Oregon is but a sweet flyswat of storytelling.

When In Doubt, Land On The NJ Turnpike

Bless me Monday, for I have sinned. It's been seven days since I last kicked your ass, lest you kicked mine.

The air is cold, yet my sky is blue. Today is an excellent day to pay those outstanding fines, write your Grandma even though you're sending belated wishes, speak to the Judge, call your respective agents and negotiate a better tomorrow.

But let's stick to the present tense, even as time stretches around us, Einstein's rubber band, the dimensional rodeo bull that the Swiss make such elegant attempts to lasso to one's wrist.

Today I'm blessed to edit a posthumous manuscript, take a breath for those who can't. Drink coffee. Reconsider the sardine. Bathe in the programming of NPR, my daily glockenspiel of feel-good Lefty Love.

It's February One, and we liberate the Lachrymose Lagomorphs.

A traffic reporter achieved meta-Nirvana today by becoming one with his work, landing on the New Jersey Turnpike like a single-engine Sully, low on oil and high on chutzpah.

Appropos of nothing, here's a leg up on the very latest Smart Phone Aps, as we inevitably barrel ahead toward a future in which Andy Warhol predicted we would all have our own Tricorders:

(Here is where, if I were any good with art, there'd be some funny drawings. Portfolios now welcomed for in-house illustrator...)

The Fire-Extinguisher Ap Remember to sweep your Smart Device back and forth, aimed toward the base of the flames.

The Taser Ap Making the New York City subway ride so much more civilized...

The Toilet Paper Ap Forget leaves in the woods. You ain't been a real man til you've wiped your arse with an iPhone. Bundled with free Purell Ap

The Diner Equilibrium Ap Alters the molecular structure of your smart phone to take on the physical properties of that familiar simple machine, the inclined plane. Then simply slip under the foot of a wobbly table. Usage triggers a 15-minute loop of  "Chim Chim Cher-ee."

The Gentleman's Argument Ap End pointless pissing contests with friends and enemies with this handy little gem. Upon execution, a telecoping arm shoots out of your Smart Device's USB port, with an inflatable white leather glove on the end. On the pinky of the glove is a photosensitive fiber-optic camera that scans in front of the user, and directs the glove to identify the nearest male human and slap its face three times (you cad, you beast, you unearthly slob!)

The Fake Orgasm Ap In today's multitasking society, every little bit helps! If it's already fake.... why not let your Smart Device do the moaning for you, freeing up your actual voice to order pizza, program your voice-activated TIVO, or simply rest, in preparation for tomorrow's daily keening.

Thanks for reading, and just remember that if God had intended you to actually use your iPhone to fake orgasms, he would have given Jaime and Steve bionic nether parts.

And You Thought You Had It Bad...

Given the profound devastation in Haiti coupled with the profound reflection of the recent Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, here in the USA, BlaiserBlog has been on a thoughtful hiatus.

Like Abe Vigoda, however, Zany Optimism ctm is not dead. Please give money to your favorite aid-relief organization. I patronized Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) earlier this week, not only due to their sterling reputation, but also because they use accent marks, which always make me feel exotic and hipper.

Thanks for reading, and always remember that it shouldn't take stacks of dead, poor people in the streets for us to be reminded that 1) we should be thankful for what we have, and 2) Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh are uncivil embarassments of the first order, and awful, awful human beings.

 (I'd have Chief Justice Roberts, for example, over for dinner any day of the week, because I respect his mind, and the conversation would be stimulating. But those other two jerk-weeds aren't making it past my front door.)

I'm so sorry, Uncle Barbara.....

Or, why Barbara Ehrenreich and Dick Cheney ought to go out to lunch together. In France.

After dropping off the progeny at school this bright, cold, Brave New Morn, I walked to the village center to do some marketing. My cleaning supplies needed replenishing, I had money to deposit in the bank, and there was bakery danish with my name engraved on its top, in sweet, lacy white icing.

It occured to me, on the bracing walk back home, that Mondays in January ought to represent the ne plus ultra of fresh starts and renewals. I don't want to take a Polyannish position that ALL things are, in fact, possible (cue monkies to fly out of my nether orafice), but that MANY things, or at base, SOME things are surely possible, and that's a lot for many people. I'm not talking about most Americans, if you will. Rather those of us on the planet who are truly challenged--folks who may worry what kind of roof will be over their heads tonight, where their next meal is coming from, why their soccer team was blown away on the way to the stadium. And especially not anyone still driving a Hummer. Unless they're driving it in North Florida, which I encourage as much as possible to globally raise the temperatures there in time for my visit there in two weeks...

So. I was upbeat--to be sure. That's what I do: Zany OptimismCTM, and welcome to it. After cheerfully scrubbing dishes and tidying up, I turned on the radio and heard the surprising news that one of the most war-torn areas on Earth was down with that, too: Seems a lot more people in Afghanistan think that things can and will get better. Afghanistan.  You'll remember it as the land of you-can't-win-here and If-it's-a-new-decade-you-must-be-the-next-major-power-to-invade-us....

But the next story on the radio was that Barbara Ehreneich wants me to feel bad. Or rather, that the power of positive thinking is, essentially, a dumb thing for Americans to do. Well. Full Disclosure: I have not read her book yet, but for now, I'm calling Bullshit, based on her interview on the BBC this morning and her irresponsible position on Optimism:

On a personal level, it leads to self-blame and a morbid preoccupation with stamping out “negative” thoughts. On a national level, it’s brought us an era of irrational optimism resulting in disaster..

Now, look. I realize this quote is somewhat out of context. Moreover,  I think I have a handle on what she's really railing against: delusion; megachurches; a breakdown in reason and logic. That's all well and good, but in the damaging sound-bite interview I heard this morning, the message was overwhelmingly "Don't be so damn positive." Bullshit.

Greed and stupidity certainly contributed to the various late 20th-Century economic bubbles--i.e. many folks took no responsibility for their own mortgages and allowed less-than-savory--ok scummy--real estate brokers and bankers to mesmerize them with the promise of short-term financial alchemy. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's moving more product than I this fall? Don't blame it on my smiley-face, however. Or my neighbors'. Blame it on the disintegration of American education, perhaps, but not on a sunny disposition, a precious commodity in the general moral morass of Planet Earth these days.

Barbara, I'm sorry you got breast cancer,* and I'm sorry you didn't like the pink-ribbon festooned support network you found on the Internet. (And who wants you to embrace your cancer as a gift? That's just dumb.) You've lost the whole point of life-changing events. It's a changed perspective that one embraces, not the burden of disease. It's an ability to maintain perspective that allows us to find the clichéed silver lining, and re-discover the beauty, say, of a freshy cut perrywinkle-blue iris.**

Barring suicide, we don't choose the manner of our deaths. This is thin ice for me, and my cancer friends can surely chip in, but perhaps part of what's going on for long-time chronic and fatal disease-sufferers is that they simply have much longer to contemplate their own demise, or see it only through the filter of sickness. I don't know, but what I do know is that this media campaign rubs me the wrong way.  Again again again, I have homework to do, but you know what? My instinct tells me there are equal parts self-promotion and bitterness in this book. That's why Barbara and Dick ought to have lunch together. In France.

I'll wager that for every bummer story you throw at me, I'll come back with a positive one. There's parity in this human life. Which side do you choose to be on? Is it a value to society to teach our children that the class is half-full? For we all die. This is perhaps the root tragedy. There are wonderful things in life and we don't get to carry on indefinitely. Sucks to be us, yeah, I know. I'm with you on the inanity of bringing motivational speakers in to pep up the academic community,  but don't you make me feel bad on this beautiful Monday morning.

Thank you, the management here at Blaiserblog.com

* Contrary to pessimistic readings, this is sincere. I do not minimize anyone's health issues. That would be mean.

** $4.99 at Trader Joe's. You should check it out. But stay away from their ecologically-correct cedarwod & sage multi-spray... it smells like a half-pack of cigarettes left overnight in a can of Old Milwaukee...