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.

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.

From the dry deserts of Las Vegas to mean streets of Ottawa

Everyone Tom, Dick and Mary talks about it. From one-man outfits working out of their aunt Helen’s basements to multi-national corporate giants that span continents, they all profess it. Customer service is their middle name.

Oh really?

If it’s worked into their marketing spiel, it must be true. Laugh it up Madison Ave ad weasels — you got us good. Sadly, even more commonplace than these golden carrots held tenuously over the slobbering consuming masses are the stories of either poor customer service or a complete lack there of. Of course, this is nothing new. Entities like the Consumerist would not have flourished, if this wasn’t the case. On a daily basis, there are countless posts about blue ribbon cases of poor, I mean horrendous adventures in customer service. Indifference is the ultimate sin, a disregard for relationship building can end even the best whirlwind consumer/merchant love affair. Are you listening Bell Canada? Don’t go snickering Rogers and Royalbank Visa…you are ass to me also.

While stories, posts and blogs about shitty experiences are rampant all over this thing we call the internet. This ain’t one of them. You heard right. Zappos, ready your upper back/shoulder region for full patting action.

I recently made my first purchase on zappos.com — before I begin, here’s a back story (that may or may not add any insight). At the tender age of 12, I was diagnosed as a sneaker-freak…prognosis…negative. It’s a life-long battle. My mom cried and we stopped attending public events. But with hard work I was able to finish school, find a steady job and eventually found a mate. Good things.

OK, back on course, so I heart shoes and I have attempted to buy some online without much success thus far. With the advent of the online shopping experience brought a plethora of retailers ready to take my hard-earned cash money, most of them American — no surprise there. I found out quickly that Canada is a shipping no man’s land like Puerto Rico, Hawaii and Alaska. Usually I had to pay extra duties and shipping that made the entire buying experience lose some luster. So footwear aficionado meet zappos.com, online merchant meet disposal income. Their website was well built, categorized in a orderly fashion, great user feedback for sizing/fit and don’t even get me started about their search. Let’s just say that it had me at ‘men + 9.5 + hightops’. While I breezed though its diverse catalogue, the actual buying screeched to a halt upon check-out. Damned by my Canadian address, I decided to ring them up for a taste of their self-proclaimed legendary customer service skills. They are after all, Powered by Service™, it’s true. That’s their slogan. Big red flag in my books. Service could very well be the e-commerce engine they use or the name of their catering truck. A marketing trick no doubt. And the site was loaded with customer testimonials. Another red flag. Anyone can throw empty testimonials around. Watch.

‘Jumboshrimp was fast and courteous when they fixed my septic tank. I recommend them for all your sewer related needs.’
Denise
Housewife
Albuquerque NM

Wasn’t that easy?

So I dialled them up — ready for some mass confusion and annoyance. I got Dolores within 2 rings. Two! I wish that everyone could get a dash of Dolores in the lives. I asked her if it was possible to pay with a Canadian credit card but then have the item shipped to a my sister in Connecticut (who would be visiting me in a few days with shoes in tow). Surely that would grind the entire operation to a dead-stop! ‘No problem, sugar’ was her answer. I liked her calling me sugar. Usually I didn’t, but it felt nice. Within minutes my transaction was complete, Dolores repeated every detail to assure its correctness, including free overnight shipping and a free 365 day return policy. As in no charge — zilch.

While waiting for the email confirmation to drop into my mailbox, Dolores and I chatted about the weather (snow in Ottawa vs. sunshine in Las Vegas). I told her I was there 5 years ago for business, she invited me back to see how much things have changed. It was a delightful exchange. Short and friendly. The fateful email arrived, my order has been shipped is says. Sure it has I thought. I know about the status games you online entities play. I would be ecstatic if the shoes arrived within 5 days. Finally Dolores and I had to part ways. She asked me if there is anything else I needed assistance with. I told her I loved her. Seriously. She laughed and then gave me a most genuine salutation I have ever received in my entire telephony history. One pair of crisp white hightops later, Dolores become family.

Dolores, you are a testament to the Zappos credo. A real pleasure to deal with, Zappos you hold on to this woman, youhearme? So now, when I am ever greeted with a smug indifference across a counter or a telephone I calmly state. You….are no Dolores.

The following morning , I received an email from my sister saying that a package has arrived. Mind boggling! I made the order at 9 pm EST. It arrived at 8:30 am EST the following morning. Does this make sense to anyone? Does Zappos have access to some sort of teleportation technology? This is the norm evidently, Zappos didn’t make up their testimonials. I believe. I believe. It was secure, and pain free. All the things you want in an online buying experience. If only buying mortgages and insurance, or a donut for that matter was so delightful. Make it happen people of Zappos.

Since the 2 weeks that I the shoes arrived, Zappos has launched a Canadian version. It has only a quarter of the inventory and there are shipping fees. Not too impressive, but I am sure they are working on its improvements as I type. But if you pick up the phone, you still win the customer service lottery that is Zappos. Friend of the consumer near and far…

Important: I have no personal or financial affiliation to Zappos.com and or its employee-extraordinaire Dolores. I was more than ready to be utterly disappointed by this buying experience. But I have to give praise where it is due. Zappos talks and walks like a duck. Indeed.

A little march madness

How do you spell upset? B-U-F-F-A-L-O. Second only to New York City in population, the Don Swayze of the Empire State, if you will. Like a stampeding herd of sun-stroked large prairie mammals, this blue collar town ran rough shot over the hopes and dreams of a couple NCAA teams and their faithfuls. for the first two rounds of the tournament, this city had the nation’s attention. A truly American traditional, American as apple pie, capitalism and offshore outsourcing. The Road to the Final Four had a pit stop in Buffalo, New York, where four plucky Canadians were on hand to witness two heart-pounding second round matches. Feel the madness, be the madness.

On the morn of March 17, under a light dust of snow, four groggy Spartans set out to war. Did someone say 24 hour roadtrip?! Each warrior kissed their kin and left the comforts of home to embark towards the battlefield. Mind you, the battlefield was exotic downtown Buffalo, and the foursome will only act as observers and the maximum energy exertion would consist of fighting off other urinal users during halftime. But make no mistake blood will be shed and lives are at stake.

With courage in our hearts, Tim Horton’s in our guts, and passports on our persons, the party of four rolled out onto to 401 (the King’s Highway) on a collision course with Buffalo (the Queen City). As if it was written in the stars, it seems Destiny had Google-mapped this course. Time of impact, 2:30 pm. Two hours before the first tip-off, enough time to acquaint ourselves with our surroundings, find the seats we paid for, and subsequently find better available seats that we can squat and occupy. Unrelenting in our determination, we ebbed closer and closer, battling a late blast from Old Man Winter. Not even the siren call of an outlet mall en route could divert us from our path.

Once the destination was reached, the electricity in the air was palatable. Our chariot was filled with the giddy laughter not unlike that of high-school girls. Today, Mecca was the HSBC Center, home of the Buffalo Sabres. I had always considered myself a sports fans, and an even greater basketball fan. But our American counterparts put us to shame. Like everything else in the U.S. of A., they go big. Man, woman, child, nanna, all of them breathed college hoops. This love affair was a family heirloom passed between the generations. This was proven by the three generations of Pittsburgh fans cheering in front of us. Grandmother, mother and child. The entire clan was dressed in their full war attire, replete with ‘Pitt’ sweater, hats, scarves and foam fingers.

When the dust clouds settled, we finally finagled our seats (after being politely asked twice to vacate our current position by the rightful owners). Game one of the double-header involved (No.4) Maryland vs. (No.5) Butler. A close affair, the two teams were neck and neck throughout the game. The Butler Bulldogs eeked out a 62 - 59 victory over the Maryland Terrapins. A mild upset in the tournament, but a big win for such a small school. You got to love seeing the little guys come out on top. Good game, a perfect prelude for the main event. Today our bladders will be tested.

This was the second day of the 64 team tournament, and thus far only one major upset occurred. VCU ranked 11 beat Number 6 Duke. For college hoop fans, there’s 2 camps…you either love or hate Duke. We all fall into the latter category. And everyone loves an underdog. We were here to witness VCU try to extend its Cinderella story against Pittsburgh. Us, players in this modern athletic storybook tale. Rams versus Panthers. After a brief intermission, the game we drove 7 hours for was set to commence. Luckily we were in the predominant VCU section, but unfortunately Pitt took an early lead and held it for a majority of the game. The faithfuls were losing faith, so four foreigners from up north had to rally the forces. We clapped, we cheered, we hissed at the refs, one of us took a cat-nap in anticipation for the post-game drive home — we use everything in our fan arsenal. Although we can’t take all the credit, with 10 minutes left in the game, the Rams seem rejuvenated by our enthusiasm and mounted a counter attack. They fought back from a 19-point deficit, a ungodly sum of points. Their comeback culminated into a tied game! Holy. Shit. Ladies and gentlemen, we have overtime. Overtime games during March Madness, are akin to an albino baby Koala bear — rare, to be pulled close to the heart and cherished forever.

We high-fived and hug complete strangers, but the warm-fuzzies didn’t last long. Quickly into the overtime, Pittsburgh regained the lead, and the kids of VCU ran out of steam. Panthers 84 – Rams 79, make it a final. There were tears abound, from players, band members and fans alike. I am man enough to admit that my lower lip did a quiver or two. Those scrappy kids from Virginia Commonwealth did themselves proud and in the process gained four big kids from Canada as lifelong fans. You will always have a special place in our hearts.

Battle-weary, hungry and little heart-broken, we started our trip home. Total travel time was 14 hours for 6 heart pounding hours of vitality. Say what you will about our American cousins, but they sure know how to throw a party. In regards of a billion dollar industry in the guise of amateur athletics, no one does it better. No one.

A cover by any other design

Sometimes you are rewarded when mammalian instincts are ignored and you forge ahead and you just do it (please note: 100% not affiliated with the hugely successful 1990’s campaign slogan of an athletic shoe monolith based in Beaverton, Oregon). Because really, everyone makes a big do-up about our instincts, but on a case by case basis, our instincts are usually shite. What does your instincts tell you? Listen to your instincts. My instincts told me to inhale a bag of roasted pistachios last night and now I have first degree diarrhea. Let’s just say that I am not in a happy place.

Regardless, this is about Douglas Coupland’s Jpod, and not my battles with IBS. So, I ignored my initial repulsion to this book and bought it. Paid cash money for it, not borrowed, not loitered in some big box chain store and stealth-read it over the course of a few days. I thoroughly enjoyed two other Coupland offerings, Generation X and All Families are Psychotic, but I hesitated when I saw this in various window displays. It was purely on a superficial level, I very much un-liked the cover. As a former advertising and new media designer and current unpaid freelance critic of culture, it just smelled a tad ‘played out’. For the last few years, I have an immediate ‘puke-in-my-mouth’ reaction whenever I see the use of letters in front of words to display youthiness and or extreminosity — ‘i’ this or ‘e’ that. It blatantly screams, I was thought up by a group of 40 year olds in some corporate marketing brainstorming circle jerk. This is by no means a slur against 40 year old marketing professionals and or circle jerks, it is simply my personal disgust of their union and subsequent byproducts.

Published in 2006, this is the latest bastard offspring from German-born, Canadian-raised, corn-fed, free-ranged author Douglas Coupland. Coupland is also an accomplished sculptor, artist, designer, ironist, media critic, playwright, screenwriter and all around fun guy. Buddy wears a lot of hats, and they all seem to be slanted. Jpod seems to be the byproduct of Coupland’s diverse range of knowledge and talents. It reads more like a typographic art concept, rather than a conventional work of fiction. Which fits the bill nicely for the slice of life he is documenting.

Set in modern Vancouver, BC, we quickly learned that ‘Jpod’ is the nickname for a group of employees within a major video game publisher grouped together due to a HR anomaly. This explanation seemed to do wonders for my gag reflex, and I was able to hold down my lunch for the remainder of the book. From this point we are witness to the random and peculiar details of one Jpodder in particular: Jarlewski, Ethan. Through the banal, trivial, sadisitc sometimes criminal activities of his peers, we see his personal and professional lives slowly merge into one big ironic tofurkey. There are subplots galore, we have grows-ops, parental infidelity, human trafficking, recreational narcotics, web culture, eating disorders, sexual dysfunction, rural Chinese industrial complexes and more — all held together poetically by the golden rainbow that is capitalism. Coupland captures the ethos of Ethan’s post tech-bubble existence to perfection. The dream of internet riches has dried up. The coolness of working in a seemingly creative industry has been replaced with bureaucracy, monotony, internal strife, low morale and a posture that would be envied by French bell-tower dwellers.

Within the text, there are numerous literary versions of adware, pastebombs and spam. It compliments the overall ambiance. Gimmicky? Sure, but also fits well with the subject matter and the target audience. We are living in the ‘Cut and Paste’ era. There are numerous cultural references and inside jokes for those who are indoctrinated in the language of google and social networks (God, I hate that term) and their ilk…But for the rest you real world peoples, the characters could seem empty, materialistic, vacuous and amoral. Which they are. The fact that I could relate with their gross behaviour was more revolting that the acts themselves. Giggling to myself as the characters went through one preposterous life event after another.

Who are these people? These sick, twisted people. How can they live like this? And there’s the rub. You don’t have to try very hard to relate to any of the multitude of apparent clinical psychosis displayed. They are you and me kiddo, in all our glory. Searching for answers while subverting experiences via material and capital gain, which is essentially an exercise in futility. Hi there, I’m your soul. We should talk sometimes…

All this to say, that it was fantastically delicious read. A real page turner, but on the same token I can see someone else regarding it as trivial, sociopathic and superfluous. Satire, irony, wit and self-deprecation are Coupland’s finishing moves in the battle octagon that is Jpod. Extra style points for writing himself in as a capitalistic self-serving porker. It defines a particular existence in a particular point of time with distinction. But, let’s not lose our grip, and deem it the quintessential weather vane for our current history. It rings true for those who are living in this particular whacked out world. But it is only one slice out of the multi-grain loaf that is modern civilization.

Poignant social commentary about a generation on the brink of complete self-dillusion? Meh. An analogy on the human disenchantment with the promises of Democracy and Capitalism? Prolly. His best work? Dunno. A great read? Mos def.

Captain Planet, the beloved brainchild of environmentalist and one-time pinko sympathzier Ted Turner is getting old. Captain Planet that is, not Ted Turner — thanks to Swiss science and his hidden reserve of gold bullion, the Tedster is livelier than ever. Truth be told, The Captain’s green mullet is greying, sure it looks distinguished and sexy in the Sean Connery geriatric kind-of-way in Entrapment, but dude is out. Since 1990, the Captain along with 70’s funk super group Earth, Wind, Fire, Water and Heart have been infotaining the world’s youth on environmental and social issues. And making a tidy profit from the merchandising and spin-off products to boot. BANK!

He has served us well, and has earned his right to throw up his size 12’s knee highs, rest his muscular shoulders on an English-leathered wingback and take it real easy-like. We thank you, the world thanks you, your work is done but there is much left undone. Enter stage right, new guy. Hit the tape deck, and somebody turn up the Hammer. The hour has come; the torch must be passed; the famous skin-tight unitard will now grace a new corn-fed body. Oscar race, shm-Oscar race. The fake contest du jour is the crowning of Captain Planet 2007. Planeteers, we got your back like for serious.

Like any other respectable corporately-funded UN-observed democratic nomination process, there are only two candidates vying for this sweet, sweet job. And since the state of the entire globe is at hand, it only makes sense the candidate shall be fabulously unilingual - meaning English speakers ONLY need apply, and if you don’t like the rules, you can take your freedom-hating ass back to France.

A cross section of potential candidates have been thrown into a Dell laptop (confiscated from Albanian bookies) containing the same software that has correctly deduced the outcome for the last 15 Ohio State ‘Little Miss Buckeye’ Toddler Beauty Pageants (with an accuracy rate of over 65%, no less). After two hours of tabulations, one patch for Explorer and three system reboots, two shiny rhetoric-encrusted mounds of turd floated to the top. Without further adieu, we present to you — your new Captain Planet 2007 — please hold your lobbying until the end.

Mr. Personality
*Artist Interpretation

In the blue corner, the Right Honourable Stephen Joseph Harper, Leader of the new Conservative Party of Canada, and the nation’s 22^nd Prime Minister. He has been leading a lean, mean governing machine since January 2006. A founding father of the Reform party and wunderkind of the Canadian Alliance Party. While driving the Alliance party bus, he orchestrated a deal of Gretzsky-esque proportions with then leader of the Progressive Conservative Party to merge assets, created a new ultra-secret (twice as secret as super-secret) handshake and rebranded themselves as the Conservative Party of Canada. The right-wing base breathed a collective sign of relief, and Canadian politics was restored to its former glory. ‘Unite the Right’ was their chant, and in one slow, drawn out lacklustre election, Mr. Personality became Canada’s first elected animatronic Prime Minister. Stephen Joseph was a man on a mission, flipping unions and allegiance for his political gain, the man is ‘change’ personified. He is the change in ‘Climate Change’. Sure, he dismissed the notion of ‘Global Warming’ and poo-pooed the Kyoto Protocol as the leader of the Opposition and then proceeded to sledgehammer existing and successful national campaigns once he was in power. It is that easy nay-sayers, you want an answer? He doesn’t even see a problem. He is single-minded in his determination. If he can fain interest in the province of Quebec to gain his office, you bet your tree-hugging, hemp-covered behind he can easily fake being green to keep it. While he keeps his ideas and policies vague and closely guarded, make no mistake…it will be a ‘Made in Canada‘ solution. Now that’s a fine tagline, eat it Madison Avenue! Government Accountability and Transparency — check! Ensuring Canadians safety at home and abroad (whatever the hell that means) — double check! Environmental problems, bring it on ladies. The pride from the west side, the part man-part robot, Stephen Joseph Haaaaarppppppeerrrrr.

Walker Texas Ranger
*Artist Interpretation

And in the red corner, a darling of the international stage for the last 7 odd years. Born into a life of squalor and hardship, a self-made man in business and politics. There was nothing life gave this southern gentleman, he took it…then proceeded to either snorted it and or shot it back with a vodka chaser. We give you the 43^rd President of the United States of America, George Walker Bush. Say it with me — TWO TERMS — democracy works people. While his current opponent may have flip-flopped, GW is steadfast in his autistic-like focus on his beliefs. Beliefs that may go against grade school science and common sense, but they’re resolute and unwavering. Catastrophic climatic episodes due to changing oceanic currents? Save your college-speak lefty wienies. While some may have naively taken every word fed by the world’s science elite at face value. This Texas Ranger from the Lone Star state formed his own panel of experts (read unemployed lab guys from Big Tobacco) to investigate into matters. And even when their conclusions deviated from his knowledge, he formed another panel to refute his previous panel. The man doesn’t know the word quit. But he does know the word legacy. Democracy and Freedom in the Middle East? Two words. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. Human tragedy of Hurricane Katrina, you are welcome New Orleans. And now he has his eyes on a bigger fish to sauté and deep fry. Saving the world, that doesn’t look too bad on the old resumé. He is a man with a plan, check that he has four. You say the environment needs a friend in the Capitol building, well Gee-Dub and his investment portfolio has been teabagging Mother Nature for decades. She couldn’t ask for a better bedfellow, we give you. George. Walker. Bush.

There can be only one winner in this contest, but no matter who bears this incredibly important burden, we are the real winners in the end. Are you paying attention lefty conspiracy theorists? Your whining call for help has been answered. You see the glinting at the end of the tunnel, it’s the the beam of hope bouncing off the new Captain Planet’s codpiece. Think long, think hard. This is the best it gets. Now, using your mobile device, call now or text your vote. Be patient as our lines will be busy, please stay on the line to maintain your level of priority sequence. Your call is important to us…and the next available agent will respond to your problem. Standard international rate apply.

A face made for radio

Some people think Ottawa’s radio scene is pretty weak school. As an assessment, that would be pretty bang-on. The landscape in the nation’s capital is replete with ‘commercial’ national behemoths belting out a repetitive medley of ‘hits’, also known as the pay-for-play system. Meaning a handful of records companies pays a fee for their latest and greatest focus-tested musical frankensteins to gain some exposure. They throw in the odd oldie from the 80’s or 90’s to give the illusion that the ‘DJ’ is still involved with the music selection. They are a couple of self-proclaimed ‘genre-busting’ stations, but if you happen to listen to one for an entire day, you would quickly realize that the fix was in. Modern disc jockeys are no more than glorified talking heads, with little to no power in the decision making process. Who’s at fault? The industry has drastically changed in the last 3 decades. The bottom line has seeped its way into the creative process, and the end product is plastic and bland.

Sandwiched between inane talk/sport radio on the AM dial, and commercial slop on the FM side are a few gems that have kept on chugging along the pulse of the city. Carleton University’s CKCU 93.1 FM has been a trailblazer since 1975, when it became the nation’s first on-campus radio station. Ottawa University’s CHUO 89.1 FM first got clearance from CRTC in 1984. CKDJ 107.9 FM officially joined the party as Algonquin College’s on-campus station in 2003. These 3 community radio stations provide a voice for the diverse group of individuals that make this city shine. Economics does play a role within the community radio scene, they heavily rely on the financial donations and volunteers. Their detractors would cite the lack of unprofessionalism of some of the productions (see photo above), but as a vehicle to drive community involvement. There is no better option. Some shows have been on the airwaves for 25+ years, building a loyal audience along the way.

On any given day, you can find unique programming catering to a very eclectic audio palette. No where on commercial radio will you find reggae, alt indie rock, vietnamese news, hip hop, deep house, french folk and a salsa show within its daily line-up. And that’s just on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. I have only given a small snippet of the what is out there on the Ottawa airwaves. Forget about simple bilingual programming, try polylingual!

Give the dial a workout, and give these stations a listen, there’s a program out there waiting for your ears. You are not chained to your radios either, all of these stations are streamed online. These stations are a true reflection of our community, you might hear yourself in the mirror.