Not an actual photo of Team Basketcases

Let it be known that in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and seven, on the eleventh day of the fourth month, during the nineteenth hour, the tranquil city of Ottawa, Canada grabbed the world of athletics by its nutsack and exclaimed — I own you bitch. No truer words have ever been spoken. With a clutch and a half-twist, sport followers sat up and took notice.

Regardless of event or activity, this city produces winners — no, dare I say CHAMPIONS.

I present to the members of the jury, Exhibit ‘A’:

Team ‘Basketcases’ of the Alcatel Basketball League. Go ahead and enjoy the hilarious wordplay in the team name. I’ll wait. All season long, this fun-loving gang of jump shooters played with conviction and moxie. They weren’t paid, they didn’t have matching uniforms and except for the janitorial staff and few loiterers…they didn’t even have fans. What they lacked in shoe endorsements and fan adoration, they made up in passion. They played each and every game for the world, they played for the young, the old, the infirmed. They played for every goddam man, woman, child. Don’t worry, they had enough heart for everyone.

The season reached an apex with the championship finals against the ‘X-men’. Team Basketcases had been decimated with injuries and lost of 2 key team members for the entire play-offs. It didn’t look good for our guys. Only 5 players were on hand for the final game, against 11 on the side of the X-men. If betting was allowed in the Alcatel League, the Vegas line on Basketcases would have been downright sad. It would have be a fool’s bet. From tip-off to the final buzzer. The teams were neck and neck. The X-men’s game plan was simple, run these guys to the ground. Surely, Team Basketcases didn’t have the physical stamina to maintain their play the entire 60 minutes. Or did they? At the half way mark, trailing by 4 points, the lads of Basketcases willed their way back into the game. With sheer grit, they transformed the deficit into a 10 point lead. Someone call the Vatican, a miracle took place in Ottawa last night. Like two heavyweights exchanging kidney shots, the teams battled. Enduring fatigue, bruises and multiple pulled groins, Team Basketcases held on for 4 point victory. A triumphant score of 36 – 32. An ugly eye-gouging, neck-elbowing affair. Every fouling situation in the modern rule book came into play. For a team that averaged 65+ points a game during the season, this was not an exhibition in offencive prowess. Offence may wins fanfare, but defense wins championships. Call it a shout-out to those hallowed Detroit Pistons ‘Bad Boys’ days. Can I get a Bill Laimbeer up in this mother? Words like poetic, and fluidity and beauty will never be used to described this victory. But for the rest of the summer, bragging rights belong to Team Basketcases. Prolly the greatest basketball squad in the Greater Ottawa-Gatineau area (to grace the Alcatel Basketball League). Champions of the League!

If this wasn’t enough to seal the case, I continue by presenting to you Exhibit ‘B‘:

The Ottawa Senators laid the smack down on Sidney Crosby and the Pittsburgh Penguins. The Sens won game 1 of the first round by a 6 - 3 count. Surely on the road to their inaugural Stanley Cup victory. Conversely, a true show of offencive dominance.

And finally, to round out my air-tight argument, may I direct the court’s attention to Exhibit ‘C’:

The Ottawa Lynx (Baltimore Oriole AAA affiliate), fresh from fending off an off-season hostile take-over bid by evil Nolan Ryan. They had to start the season under a cloud of rumours and hearsay. Even with the constant threat of being boxed up and moved out of town looming, the team pulled up their socks, and doubled the Buffalo Bisons 13 – 7 in an early season match-up. Can you say owned?

In conclusion, I have presented to thee the 3-headed sporting behemoth that is Ottawa, Canada. A rabid, prolific winning machine. Let it be known on Wednesday, April 11, 2007 that this city be forever known as the City of Champions.

I rest my case. Game. Set. Match.

The following is the second instalment in a series of podcasts called ‘Conversations’. The list of the invited will span a diverse selection, which may include artists, musicians, politicians, activists, entrepreneurs and maybe even my father.

Episode Two is a conversation I had with Melanie Yugo and Jason Pelletier, the duo behind ‘Spins and Needles‘. A local Ottawa social event that combines a night of fun crafting projects set to a funky beat. I learn about their goals, experiences and current campaign for global domination.

NOTE: Unfortunately, we chose to sit right next HVAC unit. Duh. Apologies for the the poor audio quality.

For more information on their upcoming events, or DJ Jason Pelletier’s music and weekly sessions, visit the following :

www.spinsandneedles.com

www.myspace.com/jasonskilz

www.technoetc.net

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.

I know every suspect spouts out endlessly of their innocence whenever they are accused of a crime, but it wasn’t my fault! Not directly anyways, let it be know that I subscribe to neither the spiritual or the literal interpretation of the law. I got a very good defence, Johnnie Cochrane-like even, may God rest his soul.

We are creatures of habit, and I am no different. Between 9:30 - 10:30 am, I need to clear my bowels. There, it’s out there. I’m not shy about it. It’s pretty much the only thing you can count on, I’m quite proud of this routine. It says, I exercise proper bodily functions. I care for my intestinal health. Rarely, am I cranky due to constipation. It’s true.

Today, that pride, that routine was shattered by an evil-doer. As always, accompanied by my trusty wad of newspaper, I went about my business. Upon arrival I noticed a yellowish shine within the bowl, and visual confirmation of turd was made. This sadly, was not a shocker, evidently I work with circus animals masquerading as bureaucrats. If I had a penny for every time I had to pre-flush the bowl before I begin my process, I can build my own personal lavatory right in my cubicle. Not the most pleasant of events to experience this early in the morning, but I have resolved it to the fact this was due to the Public Service’s low hiring standards. In a perfect world, the interview process could include the following scenario:

“Well, everything looks great, you have the experience and your references are stellar. I think you are perfect for this role. Let me just take a quick look at the personal hygiene questionnaire you filled out when you applied for this position. Okay, uh-huh…yep…yeah this looks great…Oh fuck, wait. You answered that you never flush the toilet after a shit. Ummm..yeah that’s nasty. I’m sorry but, we can not offer you the position of VP of Marketing. GET OUT! GET OUTTA HERE YOU ANIMAL!!”

Alas, our world is far from perfect and atrocities like these are common place in the public sector. So like any other day, when I see turd in bowl. I don’t cry or lament how the world has done me wrong. I just use my left foot to flush the offensive matter. But today, the water moved in a irregular way, it started rising, taking turd and whatever else with it. As soon as it neared the rim of the bowl, I bolted. Cowardly? maybe but I panicked. Sue me. I glanced quickly back and the floor was flooded. Damn it! But, here is the kicker. When I entered, there was this ass-captain quickly drying his hands and he shot me an odd look. Only later did I deduced that it was a look of guilt mingled with shame. He reaked of it. He was the culprit. But get this, as I made my mad dash to higher ground, I almost knocked down another guy as he was coming in. I know for a fact that he blamed me for this fiasco. Me! the victim. Double crap. How’s that for injustice. Did he recognize me? Will he? Am I subject to whispered gossip of, “Oh man, there’s that guy I told you guys about. The guy that flooded the bathroom with his turds.” But you know what? I know the truth. And his judging eyes won’t change that.

Finally the second instalment of the critically ignored, rarely viewed graphic narrative that has gripped the comedic heartbeat of Latin America. Join us today, as we follow the mundane happenings of Señor Barry y Señor Bowler. Two zany gángsteres corporativos just trying to do work.

Please note: Currently only available in gringo-speak.

It has been 36 minutes since a gauntlet was thrown, and a challenge was accepted. Those with a supernatural fear of fish-borne intestinal maladies watched with anticipated glee. What idiotic gall, what disregard for basic health they cried. Surely man, you must be mad in the head. Back down, back down now, they pleaded. A price will be paid by this defiant gastronomical act of gumption.

A meal has turned into sport. Noon hour bravado that the lunchroom regulars hasn’t seen since last week meatloaf surprise. A lunchtime respite from a typical boorish finale of the public servant work week.

Ring. The. Bell.

These two combatants has squared off multiple times before. Both has shaken off the remnants of previous victories and losses. As soon as the sun dawned at 6:27 in the AM, today became and remained a new day. Playing the part of MAN, is a charming 31 year old male immigrant. Tuna fish salad sandwich will once again don the sash of FISH. (Odd Note: ‘Tuna fish’ is quite redundant as a description and or category. They are currently no known occurrences of Tuna beef, or Tuna chicken. May be region specific term.)

Here’s the back story for both sides, which may or may not influence the outcome.

Man: As noted above, 31 year old gentleman of known origin. Subject garnered years of superlative ingestion and digestion of a cornucopia of international foodstuffs. Coinciding with eating prowess is a periodically debilitating irritation of the lower bowels. Also referred to an acute upset tummy or ache of the ass (due in large part to refugee-like devotion to saving money and complete disdain of food wastage).

Fish: Week old dolphin-safe Tuna salad sandwich, made with a generous dollop of generic mayonnaise, chopped green onions, julienned carrots, a sprinkling of secret homemade concoction of spices finally sealed by two toasted multi grain slices of whole wheat. Noted to be delicious when first made and tasted. Stored in a container in a fridge with the exact temperature setting of ‘cold’.

No medical professionals were in attendance.

The confrontation started out without much fanfare. But a small crowd began to form and yells of support hurled toward both combatants. Man’s initial exuberance was slightly speedbumped by a grainy memory of a weekend marathon dumping session, loosely attributed to Man vs. Fish XII - Sushi Slaughters Man. With a metaphoric brush of the shoulders, the battle raged from this point. Emotionless, calculating as always, Fish sits and waits. Waiting for the fight to brought to its doorstep.

Fish baits man. Man bites. And bites again, and again.

A collective gasp followed by anxious silence. Dry, dead silence. All eyes on Man, searching for signs of the beast. Watery eyes, profuse sweating, uncontrolled bleeding from various orifices. The front line soldiers for the army of Diarrhea were held at bay. For those who came to the spectacle envisioning a display of bodily spasms and convulsions were sent home disappointed. As soon as it began, so it was done. Ten minutes has lapsed since the final morsel was masticated and swallowed, and still no signs of pain and Man maintains up right posture. There were no mad scrambles for nearest available lavatory or any potential excrement containing devices.

Today, Man triumphs over Fish, and his bacterial cohorts. This outcome sends a shock wave of fear for all inhabitants of cold storage. Your days are numbered. Toady, Man looked into a the beady eyes of the somewhat questionable edible, and with a quick sniff, boldly stated, “I will eat you today. I will risk a weekend of projectile vomiting to avoid wasting food.”

For another day, all is right in the world.

D: Dude, what are you doing here? Your illustration talents are wasted in this joint.

G: Hey, man this gig pays the bills. Pays it real well.

D: I know, I know. But I can feel my creative soul being slowly smothered by the ass of monotony.

G: Haha. It’s funny cause it’s true. Ha…ha…he…whimper.

D: We should do something like a online zine or something.

G: For sure. Let’s do this.

D: Guy, let’s meet after work and get this mother off the ground.

6 months later. 6 agonizing months later.

D: Ok, dude. Let’s finally get going on this web comic idea. We need to channel our creative ninja skillus before they dry up and fall off. You in still?

G: Yeah man.

D: Nice. I sketched out some rough scripts for a few strips. Pick one and do your magic.

G: Haha, these are not bad just ‘Leave it with me…‘

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.

Discovery is not a child-centric activity, but it’s sure feels like it. Well, at least for this little buckeroo.

At the exact moment when my mind registers a ‘discovery’ I experience an auto-somatic episode for a brief period. I can not quantify the length of time, but I revert to the young boy that had often sought out and enjoyed lifting up random rocks, discarded debris or moldy newspapers to simply find what lies underneath. This happens to me. EVERY. TIME.

I have this existential replay of me lifting up the symbolic rock. Kind of like the Quality Assurance station along the assembly line of memories, emotions and experiences that is my psyche. ‘It’s confirmed! We have a new discovery! Commence euphoric brain activity! Stat. Activate ear-to-ear smiling mechanism. Go. Go. Go.‘

Currently, that activity of discovery often involves scavenging through various decrepit pockets of the inter-webs. While trolling the National Public Radio website in search of some reprieve from ‘Wednesday, Day 3 of 5 for employee 30725, occupier of cornerish-window cubicle 225, 5^TH floor, building C, National Office campus. The factory was pushed into motion by a little nugget by the name of Intelligence Squared US, a podcast of oxford-style debates, complete with action grip moderator! The debaters are harvested from the upper echelons of academia and other relevant fields of knowledge. Three for the motion, three against. Throw in a hot-button issue and debate! My introduction into this program was the proposition of ‘Is America Too Damn Religious?‘. And this one was a hum-dinger. The series is produced by the WNYC, New York Public Radio. All debates are taped in front of a live audience in New York City, who are polled pre and post debate. Its root is from the British production that began in 2002. I eagerly await a Canadian version to be rolled out by the CBC.

Debate is an essential apparatus of education and critical thinking. No matter what your stance is, it is always beneficial to view a topic from as many vantage point as possible. For or against, these debaters present their case in an objective and eloquent manner.

And that’s hot.