After 27 years of separation, I am about to be reunited with my former-self. Reunion might be the wrong term, introduction may be more fitting. Back in the final days of 1976, the communists came and conquered the south. While they were setting up camp, my family quickly packed up for South-East India. With barely six months of living under my belt, Vietnam became more fairy tale than reality, a faint memory constructed by whispered stories told by my mother and father. In most cases, six months can’t be really considered a serious relationship, but this one was special. Child and place of birth holds a special bond, it means something.

It was near the end of winter, and the year 1981.

After a brief dalliance with India, we moved to Ottawa, Canada. France, Germany, Australia, and the US were all in the running, but a little known frozen patch of land was our choice. My father, my mother, my brother, my sister and my aunt. We came to Canada to start over, in the very serious sense of that term. So, we struggled, learned and lived. A funny thing happened along the way, we became Canadians, and this land became home.

Now, it’s time to go back.

In 3 days, my father, my mother, my brother, my sister and my aunt and I (along with some new additions to the caravan) are all going back. 3 days! Back to Vietnam, the place where my formal knowledge was cultivated by a handful of family stories and a collection of Hollywood movies. All preconceived notions will be challenged. Many things have changed since we have left, but this is still the land where my ancestors roamed. I will share the same air that they once breathed.

It will be the first time that I would meet my mother’s family. I will hold them for the first time, share food with them, and hear stories straight from their mouths. Make no mistake, this is a monumental moment in my life. I do not take this lightly, this is big. It will act as a pivotal time in my own history, a necessary event that will propel me towards the next stage of my life.

The staff at Jumboshrimp would like everyone out there to help us welcome our newest (and only other) team member; our newest auteur, is Steven Phaneuf. His role will involve making this blog not suck and other writing duties.

The team gives a big Steve-O a big high-five for his decision to accept our offer. Now get to work.

Jumboshrimp has always been a fan of themes. Once you give something its own theme, it seems to have more of a purpose. People can attached themselves to a theme. People can believe in a theme. A theme complements the entire production - whether it be a social event, a set of icons for your mobile or an awesome 80’s sitcom starring Gary Coleman. A theme brings it all together in a tight little package.

Take for instance, the so-so months of June, July and August. Individually, rather mundane, but when you string them together, you get Summer (at least in the northern hemisphere). And you know how most people feel about Summer. They plan their entire calendar around those 3 months, the simple whisper of Summer induces fits of juvenile seizures in schools across the country.

Now, we realized that essentially, Summer is a theme, but why-not give a theme…..um, a theme.

Well, regardless of what you think. Jumboshrimp is welcoming back The Summer of ‘_________’.

Once a theme has been determined, you are to adhere to the spirit of that theme. As always, participation is voluntary. Since the inaugural Summer - 2001 ‘The Summer of Discovery’, each following year has been saddled with its own special theme, chosen is a completely un-scientific manner. 2001 was a glorious triumph, while 2004 - ‘The Summer of Menial Labour’ was not a crowd pleaser.

Regardless of obvious flaws in thinking and structure, the goal remains the same - it’s the experience that matters.

So, we have arrived at 2008 - The Summer of Yes. What does this mean? Gone are the days of multiple options for responses. ‘Maybe’ is dead to you. ‘Depends’ is not welcome here. And ‘No’ can wait for the Winter months to show its face. Whatever you are offered, your answer will be an enthusiastic and consistent ‘Yes’! Preferably, the ‘Yes’ will precede the completion of the question.

Scenario 1:

Q: Hey, would you be interested….

A: YES!

Q: …in a BBQ this weekend?

Scenario 2:

Q: Do you want…

A: YES!

Q: this old salsa I am throwing out?

Two completely opposing scenes, but the outcomes are equally awesome.

The ‘Summer of Yes’ is not about what you get for free and it is definitely not for the faint-hearted. It’s about being totally into everything. It’s about being the first to break the inertia. It’s about leading. Why would I do this you ask? Reflect on this statement: If you think life is short, think how short Summer is.

Chew on that science for a wee bit.

And - if you are thinking, ‘Well, this could have been useful info back in April or May. I could have said ‘Yes’ to so many things!’. You just met one of the consequences of ‘The Summer of Yes’, too busy having the most awesome time to blog. It is only August, but Jumboshrimp has already experienced 4 concerts, 2 plays, 4 vernissages, 5 festivals, 14 BBQs, 2 weddings, 7 birthdays, 2 bar-mitzvahs, 1 sighting of Nick Carter, 2 cottages and a grand opening of a Lebanese deli. And these are only the few details my timid manner would allow me to divulge. Anyhoo…

Start now, start today. It has been officially, ‘The Summer of Yes’.

There’s something very fundamentally cathartic about scooping 4 litres of semi-liquid fecal matter with a dustpan into a quadrupled-reinforced non-airtight medley of plastic shopping bags while wearing galoshes, undies, a wife-beater, yellow dish-washer gloves and a dust mask.

Truth be told, I had been getting a little high for my britches, and I needed to be taken down a notch or two. 2007 was a great year, not good but great. My extended family got bigger, my career was back in fighting shape, my first year of matrimony was beautiful and my BMI was back to a respectable number. The sky was clear and the sun was shining, then I found a cesspool slowly congregating around my feet, literally.

In the theatre of life, it would have play out like such:

Karma (played by a scene-stealing Gérard Depardiau) : Hellos-there, please enjoy as I place my knee in your scrotal region in a violent manner. Do not question the act, for this is your day of reckoning…Some time in the past, you have the-screwed, and now my soft-in-the-midsection friend…are the-screwed.

Me (on the ground, fighting for breath): Grunting….wheezing…

Karma (while having knee lodged into subject): This is but a moment. A moment that has previously escaped you. Embrace this moment as if it was a blood relative. Hold it to your soul, and place your nose in its bosom.

This was life’s way of clipping me at the knees as I dashed towards the end zone. In between gags, and swallowing my own vomit I had to smile. Who was this fancy pants-wearing dandy I had turned into? I’ll tell you, someone who thought he was too good to be bagging liqui-poop. Some people read tea leaves, some consult 24 hour telephone psychics. Me? I looked for answers in the partially digested nougats found encrusted in shit. Was our POW sized basement bathroom a metaphor for my psyche? What fetid waters may be coursing through the pipes of my ego? What ugliness hides under the glossy exterior? Sure, the post 55 minute shower still left me feeling dirty, and the air and food still has a hint of shit. I needed this exercise. I needed to feel sick to my stomach, yet finish the job until the last speckle of turd was collected and disposed. It was I who deserved the brunt of the bitterness. I did this to myself, so naturally this was a gift I needed to give myself.

A new tradition has been created, and it will be now known as the Hours of Merde, a time where one purges the remnants, the debris logged deep inside our souls. The crap, that long fits of coughing can not dislodge or loosen up. The loogie that hides/resides deep within the bowels of my heart and soul. Because you haven’t known truth until you have forage for food, ate it, digested it, excreted it and then subsequently scooped it up with your hands and disposed of it, again.

END SCENE.

A person can get a lot of shit done in 113 minutes, we are talking about over an hour and a half. Here’s small sampling of activities you can partake in lieu of watching Even Money:

• a few loads of laundry
• 4 rounds of eating at the Indian buffet
• read about 5 chapters of “The Satanic Verses” (or equivalent)
• a solid power nap
• walk 15 km
• fill 20 pages with obscene doodles
• spooning with your wonderful wife

I think you get my gist. Even Money is one of those Hollywood ensemble cast flicks that is more flash than substance. The only one that I recall that was able to entertain was Pulp Fiction. The cast was loaded with multiple big screen stars such as…Forest Whitaker, Kim Basinger, Kelsey Grammer, Danny Devito, Carla Gugino, Ray Liotta and Tim Roth. And they all stank. I will offer a gift of condolences to the director, and not mention him by birth name.
For those of you poor souls that are reading this AFTER seeing this movie. I will not steal any more moments from your life. Suffice it to say, almost all the actors phoned in their performances, but granted they were working some supremely mediocre writing. The dialogue was mind numbing. Who’s to blame? Me! I felt it was a dud from the get-go. No theatrical release, straight to DVD. Huge red flag for a movie with so many actors. Still, I walked it up to the counter and traded cash for it. Idiot!

I rarely react outwardly when watching movies, but near the end when Kelsey Grammer’s character was waxing some inane lesson of morality, I actually said, “Oh, shut the hell up…”. To the TV, I said this. I turned off the player before the voice-over was done and I grumbled to myself about losing 2 hours of life as I slouched to bed.

Learn from my mistake. Spread the word.

Hey there! Over here. Here. Little to the left. A little more…Hey! For a second there, I totally thought that you were ignoring us. Weird huh? Sooo…how are things?

Super.

Everyone working on their PDCs? I know you are, because I have noticed a remarkable difference when I watch the action outside our offices with my high powered telephoto lens. Keep workin’ on them, everyone is doing great.

The summer has been good to us at the Center for Human Zenetics™. Since merging resources with Jumboshrimp, our enrolment has tripled — sure both my parents moved out of the communal tents, but they don’t get it. Not like you guys, you guys get it. That’s the bad news. Good news for the rest of the ‘family’ in the commune, no more crazy asian screaming matches during Wheel of Fortune! On another note, people are really noticing a difference since allowing Human Zenetics into their lives. And that warms our cockles. Feel them, they’re super toasty feeling.

Before we get rolling, just to update everyone who is anxious about the upcoming “Tour de Awesome” seminars: our interns have been busy finalizing the program. They are ‘cutting the fat’ so to speak. Attendees can expect a lean, green life-affirming machine when our tour rolls into your neck of the woods. Our emissions rate will be somewhere between a U2 European concert tour and Oprah’s Travelling Bookclub. Let’s just say we keep pretty good company. Our carbon footprint will be down a very respectable value, once our pesky interns are done. Who says you have to pay salaries to get results? Really. Who said that, because I wouldn’t mind face-punching them for a wee bit for tipping off the local 420 labour union. Lol, I keed I keed.

SERIOUSLY LABOUR WATCHDOGS, OUR INTERNS ARE VERY HAPPY. THERE IS NO NEED TO HAVE A JOB SITE INSPECTION TO CHECK CONDITIONS AND EMPLOYEE WEIGHT LEVELS.

With all that ugliness out of the way. Can I get to the part where I get to share our latest offering? While we know that the path to enlightenment is a long drawn-out journey, we can’t ignore the fact that we are living in a fast and hairy world. To appease both you (valuable supporters) and our share holders, we have come up with a compromise. We have created a new section of the site. Think of this as a bite-sized treat from the official Guide to Happy™.

Say hello to Ask the Crustacean! — our resident advice arthropod. Everyone at the office goes to this guy for tips, ranging on small engine repair to dating etiquette. We thought—Shit, there has to be a way to monetize this little guy. And of course there is. But we are still holding true to our mantra of…while cheap is good, free is better. That means Ask the Crustacean! will be free. All Day. Every day. Free? Yes. Free. What about weekends? FREE. How about holidays? FREE. OK enough! I really didn’t think we were gonna spend so much time about this FREE thingy.

Moving on.

While his stature is small, his wisdom knowns no bounds. And did I mention the wit! If Bob Saget ever made it with a prawn, this dude would be their love-child. Suffice it to say that he’s kind of a big deal.

Ask the Crustacean! will be published in a semi-regular bi-weekly schedule (subject to change without notice). Here’s a preview of some sage-iosity!

Dear ’shrimp,

I am a 35 year old female executive, I consider myself intelligent and not lacking in the cushion for the pushin’ department. You know the deal…my professional success has left me deficient in the relationship department. I am sick of girl’s night. Where can a girl like me meet the right guy. Hook a sister up!

— What’s a girl gotta do?

Hey girl,

If I had a penny every time one of my lady friends laments about how they sacrificed their social life for career, I’d be able to wrap my exoskeleton in Harry Winston jewels…meaning I hear it a lot. I’m gonna tell you what I tell them. It goes something like this:

Tell me about this fantasy world that you have been living in? Where a woman (or anyone) can achieve everything her (or his) hearts desire. The career. The house. The family. The love of their life. The ability to dunk a basketball. Etc, etc. You see, life is about balances, and achieving success in any realm requires that you are dedicated towards that specific endeavour. That means you have to pick. If you want a relationship now, you are going to have to sacrifice your work. I am not saying to jump off the corporate ladder, maybe just stay at your current rung. What about those people who have everything and are happy? To that I say this: Those people are liars. They are either lying or secretly unhappy, or a combination of. The human animal is not capable on focusing on so many different things and being successful at them all. It’s your whole processing gases via nose/lungs. Way too energy sapping. Crustaceans on the hand, we breathe through gills. It helps us focus big time. We’re good at everything. Therefore, you should call me this weekend. Oh, and try that whole love yourself more dealio, I hear that helps project a more attractive image. Or at least that what my girl Tyra says.

P.S. A picture with this note would have helped your cause large.

J’shrimp

That’s just a cocktail sampling of Ask the Crustacean! If you require advice on anything (we mean anything), shoot the him an email at askthecrustacean@gmail.com. Letters will be published on this site at a completely random rate. We can not promise your confidentiality and or anonymity.

An important economic summit just took place at a resort near Ottawa this past week. At the top of the agenda, were discussions relating to the North American Free-Trade Agreement (NAFTA) and border security. The circus event had the usual suspects of freaks and geeks. Journalist across the globe swooped into this sleeping Capital for some piss and vinegar. The inter-webs is currently bubbling with chatter pertaining to this video and accusations of the use of agents provocateurs during the confrontation between protesters and riot cops. But nowhere in the traditional media has anyone mentioned another atrocity witnessed during the summit. The blogalaxy has been equally silent.

Please direct your gaze at the 3 yahoos pictured below.

We are accessible and transparent and you will know this by our open collars.

Notice anything disturbing?

Two freakin’ words. Casual. Friday. The usually respectable universe of global politics infiltrated by wrinkled cotton pants and open collared shirts. This makes me ill.

Since the mid ’80s, this war of attire has been raging in the business world. Now it has to trickled down into every institution known to man. Is nothing sacred?! Initially funded by golf shirts and Dockers® khakis special interest groups, this ‘casual’ assault had turned the corporate world on its head. Employees foregoing the time honoured traditional garb for their weekend best, if you can call it that. In outfits usually reserved for buying bbq supplies or eating 3 lbs. of honey mustard chicken wings, corporate board rooms started resembling the rom-com aisle at your local video store.

The rationale was simple and relatively innocent, workers are to adhere to a strict dress code the first four work days. Friday is a time for employees to let their hair down. This is the part where in lieu of a raise or a bonus, you get a relaxed work environment. At first glance, how can this be a bad thing? Wrinkled cotton chinos equals fun. And who doesn’t like fun?

You can tell this was a brainchild after some human resources weekend seminar. At first, this movement meant leaving your tie at home for the men, and for you ladies, maybe a pair of sneakers to go along with that smart skirt suit. Then came the ’90s, and the rules of Casual Friday became much more lenient. Now, you wouldn’t even blink if Brian from Finance came into a meeting sporting shorts and a ‘My other ride is your mom’ t-shirt. Classy. Hey, there’s Lois with her barely there tank-top and flip-flops. It must be Friday!

Like the ideals of socialism, a once promising concept has gone horribly wrong. Casual Friday has slowly crept into the rest of the week. Somewhere along the line, buttons, ironing boards and a general feeling of self-worth became the enemy. Currently (at least at my work), the attire is beyond casual. It is more like Hobo Friday (though the rest of the week ain’t too pretty either), pants of differing varieties of elastic waistbands and t-shirts are the norm. Don’t even get me started with the ever popular Canadiana Line — animal graphics set to a lovely black poly-cotton backdrop. I understand what ’suits’ communicate to the regular bystander. Strict. Unwavering. Serious. But I ask you — Is this really a bad thing? Of course casual attire makes sense in certain sectors or job sites. If your job involves heavy lifting or prolonged exposure to the elements, you’re in. If you work in an office with other adults, sorry you are going to have to spend more than 10 minutes dressing. Come on, you deserve to give yourself that extra 15 minutes of prep time. It’s for your own good, that raise or corner office you covet might be on the line.

My main point of annoyance isn’t directly towards poorly dressed office drones. While it may be an eye sore, it doesn’t keep me awake at night. I do have major issues with politicians using Casual Friday as a PR ploy. They may think it’s a great idea from their team of stylists and image makers, I am not buying it. I don’t think it’s folksy and it doesn’t make them seem like regular joes. I expect — no, I demand — that leaders of nations dress appropriately. In fact, even minor politico players should get into this whole dressing properly thingy. The image of José, Steve, and George says this to me: I follow rather than lead. I don’t care either way but my PR team thinks this is a good idea.

Special note to current and aspiring heads of states, if you are conducting talks that has global repercussions, I want to see suits, ties and good shoes. They don’t have to be Saville Row 3-piece numbers, heck you can score 5 suits at Moore’s for a sack of nickels.

While I may not petition for a ban on Casual Friday, I won’t hinder the recent backlash either. News flash: Stuffy shirts are back in kids! Some offices have outlawed Causal Friday all together. Why? They want to present a more professional corporate culture. And you’re saying a stained t-shirt with the words, ‘No Fat Chicks’ doesn’t exude professionalism. That’s a shocker. Hopefully, this memo makes its round by this coming Monday, but I am not holding my breath.

A perfect capp’ to the evening

Let’s face the facts, this fair city of ours is known by a few not-too-flattering statements. Ottawa is a nothing but a government town. Strip-mall/parking lot haven. Where trends/fun/style go to die. If cities were colour coded, Ottawa would be beige. Do I really need to go on? Some are well-deserved, while others are slowly losing their grip on the city’s already mildly bruised ego. Well you can go ahead and add culinary mecca to this notable list. No longer will motorists on the 401 lean forward on the gas pedal as they bypass our little town en route to Montréal. People even flocking here for a tasty morsel or two, what a concept!

While we cannot compete with other metropolitan centres such as Montréal, Toronto or Vancouver for their flare in fashion, entertainment, business and all-around haute chic — where was I going with this — right, there is a little gem of a restaurant that has catapulted Ottawa’s rep as an excellent choice to stuff your gullet, and wash that palette.

Beckta, is housed in…well in a house, a lovely multi-story abode which exudes warmth and charm. While the exterior of the resto says Victorian, its interior is decidedly Mediterranean. A muted palette of colours and finishes offers an overall tranquil setting for some good ‘ol fashion eatin’. Taking its name from its owner, Stephen Beckta, who had cut his teeth in the industry both here and abroad gave this fledgling eatery instant recognition.

Since opening its doors in 2003, Beckta immediately became the place to dine in the city. Enjoyed by luminaries, dignitaries and regular Ottawans just like us. While it had been on our radar, we had not made a trip as yet. Sure we heard the chatter on the street, and we saw the Food Network show documenting their opening, but we still had not made our way down there. But all that changed last week. On that fateful evening, we arrived for our 7:30 pm reservations, ready for a night of slow eating.

From the moment we took our seats, time seemed to ebb forward at a slower pace. Tristan, our main server constantly assured us to take our time and that the night was young and we are in no need to rush any decision/action. Instructions that we took to heart, total dining time…3+ hours. It was a lovely evening of wine, food and conversation. I hear this slow-eating practice is still going strong in regions found outside of North America. How novel!

Since this was our maiden voyage, and we didn’t bring our thinking caps, we placed our lives in Beckta’s capable hands. With a glint in your eye, and a flutter in our chest, we went with the 5 course Tasting Menu along with its wine pairing. Meaning, that the chef Michael Moffat will prepare five selections from the current menu, each course accompanied by a wine selected by Stephen Beckta.

Tell me that doesn’t sound like fun.

This is the dining equivalent to speed dating. The portions are smaller, so you are not committed to the traditional entrée sizes. Perfect for new friends exploring each other. If you liked something, great, and if it didn’t tickle your fancy, also great. But very much unlike speed dating, at the tail end of the evening we were left satisfied and yearning for another encounter. While the pricing may intimidate some, it is well worth the investment.

With each passing course, we savoured each bite, and every sip. Allowing the ingredients to react and interact, setting off synapses in our taste buds. There was a party in our mouths and everyone was invited. During the eating segments of our evening, our conversation of geopolitics and self-discovery was reduced into single prolonged sounds of ‘mmm…ooh…goooood…

The ingredients were fresh, the presentation was impeccable and the marriage of certain dishes with its wine was bold. We only had one course that I thought was pedestrian, but I’m being petty. With each passing course, our expectations were getting loftier and loftier. The Seared Digby Scallops would be the part in the party where someone was changing the vinyl. A little hiccup, but not that big of a deal.

One can not write about Beckta without saluting their utmost dedication to service. Everyone we encountered throughout our ‘stay’ was friendly, knowledgeable and professional. And it is this ardent commitment to customer service that is Beckta’s brightest star. Sure, you can have a world class menu and wine cellar, but it is the human element that creates a joyous ambience. The employees seem to be passionate about their work. You can sense the pride in their manner and decorum. That you cannot fake. Stephen Beckta is rightly recognized for his skills as a sommelier and restauranteur, but he is also adept as a people manager. He has seemed to surround himself with a staff that reflects his passion and pride. And that is the real success of this little restaurant with a big heart.

Bravo Beckta. We should see each other again, soon.

With the advent of Facebook, Twitter, Jaiku and their ilk, any Joe’smo can have their whereabouts tracked on the inter-webs. The ‘do-no-evil’ scientists at Google just added another weapon to the stalker arsenal. Say hello to Street View. The masses were screaming for this function since Google Map came out of the oven. I am sure we will now scream to have it removed in the near future.

Hello? Ever heard of this little nagging pain in Freedom’s tummy called the ‘War on Terror’?

It is as cool as it is scary. Do yourself a favour, and poke around, click and drag to your heart’s content. Is was unveiled yesterday at the O’Reilly Where 2.0 Conference. Forgive them for the unfortunate conference name. Only a few cities have been added thus far, but undoubtedly the entire world will be mapped by noon Friday. I highly recommend viewing the Vegas skyline.

I am counting down the weeks where I can watching myself pee on Google Map, that would be epic.