Joke #2

A Swiss guy, looking for directions, pulls up at a bus stop where two Englishmen are waiting.

"Entschuldigung, koennen Sie Deutsch sprechen?" he says.

The two Englishmen just stare at him.

"Excusez-moi, parlez vous Francais?"

The two continue to stare.

"Parlare Italiano?" No response.

"Hablan ustedes Espanol?" Still nothing.

The Swiss guy drives off, extremely disgusted. The first Englishman turns to the second and says, "Y'know, maybe we should learn a foreign language...."

"Why?" says the other, "That bloke knew four languages, and it didn't do him any good."

The Source - James Michener

One of the most ambitious and epic novels I’ve had the pleasure of reading (three times). Just imagine the scope – the entire history of Judaism as experienced through various generations of a family. Irrespective of the usual concerns a novelist faces, Michener had to conduct an immense amount of research, sifting through thousands of years of conflict, mythology, hearsay and speculation to finally distill his novel into a readable format that is both instructive and artistic. From a writer’s point of view, it’s breathtaking.

The major events of Judaism are explored by using a fictitious city as a microcosm. It is a city that is both the victim and instigator of history, a city that suffers the consequences of and initiates changes in Judaism. King David, the Babylonian exile, the Hellenistic influence, Roman rule, the Diaspora, Christian encroachment and eventual domination, Islamic development, the Crusaders, and finally the founding of Israel as a sovereign state are all lived and experienced through the characters. As a guide to Judaism it is almost encyclopedic – as a survey of history, it is heroic.

There are several original devices that Michener employs in this novel. Some undoubtedly were used to further the plot and sustain the reader’s interest while I suspect others are a means to blend fact and fiction together for Michener’s own purpose. The short-story format, the fictitious city, the vagaries in narration and tone, the switch between modern times and the various eras, the genealogical tree that extends throughout the novel – all are tools contrived by the author to condense Judaism as a religion and expound it as a philosophy.

Michener begins the novel with an archaeological dig in 1964 Israel. For anyone familiar with their history, this is significant. It’s a few years (can’t remember exactly) before the 6-day war, a conflict where Israel pre-emptively attacks Egypt and defeats them, along with Syria and Jordan. The 6-day war dramatically changes Israel’s global profile from a bumbling, religious state to a powerful international player. In 1964 the Jews were a downtrodden, sympathetic, beleaguered people at the mercy of larger political actors. After 1967, they were warriors.

So, it’s 1964 and there’s an archaeological dig at a fictitious site thought to be the biblical city of Makor. The archeologists consist of an American, two Israelis and an Arab (the symbolism of using these types is so obvious as to be congenial). They begin to unearth artifacts from various eras, finding agricultural tools, Judeo-Christian and pagan holy relics, coins, weapons and oh, a Crusader castle. During these finds, the divergent and often introspective attitudes of the characters are revealed through dialogue and self-revelation. Topics ranging from philosophy to women’s rights are explored, both within the modern context and stemming from the roots of Judaism.

After 75 pages or so the novel switches to a short-story format. Each chapter opens with a description of a particular artifact discovered at Tel Makor, with the subsequent story centered around this artifact. The first story, for example, begins with an archaeological account of a farming tool first used in 9800 BC – the story then follows the advent of agriculture in and around Makor, leading to the construction of the first human dwellings in the Galilee and the founding of a civilized society.

In this fashion, Michener explores the evolution of Judaism from a primitive farmer’s desire to understand the mind of his God to a final set of principled laws and collected wisdom. Michener’s themes are ever-present in each episode; as he dramatically and painstakingly guides us through the evolution of monotheism, we see parallel development in the principles of community, the individual, law and authority. The Jews have been portrayed in modern times as an eternally struggling people who have finally won their own nation after unparraleled strife. Michener’s protagonists explore the roots of this perception, being first the creators of the establishment and later to be persecuted by it.

As grand as The Source is, it is not without faults. One of the concepts Jews have used to explain their persecution by the Egyptians, Babylonians, Romans, and even the Holocaust is a “punishment” for breaking their covenant with God. Michener touches upon this lightly, but curiously without any depth. Similarly, there is mention of but no examination of Moses and the exodus, the Bible progressing from a collection of wisdom and history to a codified text, the Maccabean revolt, or the evolution of various rituals and traditions. These are all central to the Jewish spirit and to not have them appear in the novel is a loss.

Regardless of this lack, The Source stands as an amazing body of work. The relationship between religion and society and its larger influence on morality and law is examined thoroughly, without restraint or prejudice. This is not an account of men and women caught in experiences larger than themselves – history is revealed as the confluence of events that are both controlled and are being controlled by people.

In this chronicle of the divine, nothing is so sacred as man.

M.B.A. All-Star

Yes kids, the rumours are true. After years of brutal work, unforgiving sacrifice, and sleeping my way to the top, my three-month dream has finally been realized. Concordia’s John Molson School of Business has accepted my application and have offered me a place in their Master’s of Business Management program. Next stop: years of study culminating in a coveted degree, industry-wide recognition, maybe a tattoo or even a timeshare. The horizon is bright and the future is endless (or vice versa) and I am confident of my success.

But, as a very wise Vampire Slayer once pondered:

“Where do we go from here?”

Should I study part-time or full-time? Should I specialize in something, and if yes, then what? Should I remain at the JMSB or perhaps apply to Queen’s, York or McGill university? Perhaps even overseas? What type of grants, fellowships, bursaries and scholarships am I entitled to? Should I move out? How would I pay for it? Am I capable of sustained study of such a heavy curriculum? Am I too inexperienced for this program? Is this really what I want to do with my life?

The last question is my greatest cause for concern. I am pursuing an M.B.A. not as a determining step in a carefully constructed and well-conceived life-plan, nor because of my lust for learning about foreign fiscal policies or corporate governance, and certainly not from a desire to be part of the next generation spearheading marketing initiatives and innovations to dazzle the world while we pick their pockets. Quite simply, I view this education and eventual degree as a means to an end. It will be earned to provide me with that most elusive and sought-after right: choice.

Some time ago, I was speaking to a friend of mine who had just that day quit his cushy job (coincidentally also in Marketing). He had been working there for four years and been complaining for three and a quarter about his boss, his start time, the dress code, the salary, his colleagues, the location ad nauseam. So he saved up, made arrangements to stay with a friend of his in Vancouver, and gave his two-week notice. The day he walked out of the building for the last time, however, he lamented. “I’m an idiot!” he said. “I can’t believe I left that place! I mean, I would spend half the day reading online magazines and the rest of the time flirt with the girls from H.R. Have I made a huge mistake?” Suddenly, the albatross of salary concerns, starting time etc. had flown away, leaving nothing but a simmering regret. He was missing his friends, the no-pressure environment, the free (stolen) office supplies. There is no course as straight and smooth as the one pursued in mediocrity

“Listen,” I said. “You were miserable at that place. You saw the years ahead of you and they all looked the same. This was never a career place for you and the only reason it’s become enticing is because they demanded so little of you.” I paused, and then offered some Sanjay-worldly-wisdom, the type that upon later reflection, I always wonder where the hell it came from.

“It’s not that you weren’t happy. Nobody’s happy with their job. The trouble with this job is that it’s robbed you of choice. Every man has the right to choose where they would like to be miserable.”

And this is what an M.B.A. affords me – choice. I have my mind set on building a career around my writing. In what manner, I don’t know. Journalism was an obvious option, as is Marketing. Magazine writing, copywriting, communications – I may settle for one of these or I may have an opportunity to pursue something completely unanticipated. The point is, I want to have an
array of alternatives, a plethora of possibilities, a bevy of budding breaks. This degree may not guarantee me a loft in the sky (or with a skylight), but it won’t be a hinderance either.

Of course, the ultimate dream is to be a published author. Let it be known that nothing shall ever take precedence over this, nor shall any other goal usurp the promience of authorship. I’m just hedging my bets.

And maybe one day I’ll have an answer to Buffy’s question.

Joke #1

There's this young single guy on a cruise ship, having the time of his life. On the second day of the cruise, the ship slams into an iceberg and begins to sink.

Passengers around him are screaming, flailing, and drowning but our guy manages to grab on to a piece of driftwood and, using every last ounce of strength, swims a few miles through the shark-infested sea to a remote, deserted island.

Sprawled on the shore nearly passed out from exhaustion, he turns his head and sees a woman lying near him, unconscious, barely breathing. She's also managed to wash up on shore from the sinking ship. He makes his way to her, and with some mouth-to-mouth assistance he manages to get her breathing again. She looks up at him, wide-eyed and grateful, "My God, you saved my life!"

He suddenly realizes the woman is Angelina Jolie!

Days and weeks go by. Angelina and our guy are living on the island together. They've set up a hut, there's fruit on the trees, and they're in heaven. Angelina has fallen madly in love with our man, and they're making passionate love morning, noon and night. Alas, one day she notices he's looking kind of glum. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asks, "We have a wonderful life
together, I'm in love with you. Is there something wrong? Is there anything I can do?"

He says, "Actually, Angie, there is. Would you mind, um, putting on my shirt?"

"Uh, sure," she says, "if this will help." He takes off his shirt and she puts it on.

"Now would you put on my pants?" he asks.

"Sure, honey, if it's really going to make you feel better," she says.

"Um, OK, would you put on my hat now, and draw a little mustache on your face?" he asks.

"Whatever you want, honey," she says, and does.

Then he says, "Now, would you start walking around the edge of the island?"

She starts walking around the perimeter of the island. He sets off in the other direction. They meet up halfway around the island a few minutes later. He rushes up to her, grabs her by the
shoulders, and says,

"Dude! You'll never believe who I'm banging!"

If I Sweated Ice Cream, Would You Lick My Face?

My blogger in crime Tina and I hit the town tonight, with her sister Linda and her friend Vanessa in tow. The plan was for Foxy to come to my place, eat, watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S, (of course), laugh ourselves silly and then head off with our groupies (Linda and Vanessa) to watch some fireworks at the Old Port. Now, I can only imagine that the fireworks were in honour of Bastille Day, celebrated here with some antiquated notion of a French Connection. Works for me - no better way to pay hommage to the mother country than with pretty lights and loud noises. Anyway, Tina got here late (of course) with barely enough time for me to force feed her pickles and crackers. She was wearing this gorgeous green dress that suited her perfectly, showing off her tan and svelte physique wonderfully. Satiated in both appetities, we picked up Vanessa and Linda and went off to see these fireworks.

Foxy is a born performer (of course) and took very easily to a car game of mine. You listen to a song very loudly, something you know the words and melody to. You sing along, in time with the song, and someone then turns off the volume. You continue singing for 30 seconds or so and when the volume comes back on, we see if you're still in time. Sounds riveting here, I know, but it's much more fun live.

Anyway, we got to the Old Port and saw the fireworks had already started. Oohs and Aaahs permeated the crowd for about five minutes, which is Sanjay's maximum firework tolerance before ennui sets in. After that, we got some ice cream (of course), saw various performers and the girls got some free hugs by a very enterprising (and not at all creepy) man. The Chinese acrobats did a two-man dragon (wonder what's Chinese for "rim job"?) and there were fire dancers, 2 men and a woman with a pretty mouth.

The highlight of the evening was Foxy and Linda getting their henna tattoos. Linda got a star on her wrist, which though she is dissatisfied, I find it very cute. Ok fine, it's slightly crooked. So what?? It's a bloody henna tattoo!! It's not like she's bought a lame puppy or a condo with a brick wall view or X-ray specs that only work at night - it's a star that'll wash off in a week. Be happy with it, revel in it, enjoy the moment, offer it to the real stars as proof of your bond with the heavens. Why worry about something you can't avoid or change?

Foxy got a Superman tattoo (guess who puts the "S" in Tina?) on her back, the beauty of which I cannot praise enough. The lines are the paragon of elegance, the design the essence of sophistication, the emblem the epitome of grace.

Oh, and the tattoo is pretty good too (of course).

England: A World Cup Retrospective

"If it wasn't for the English, we'd be Krauts"


Well, if it wasn't for certain ill-performing Englishmen and one mad Swede, we'd have made it at least to the semi-finals. What's that line in that poem? The world shall end not in a bang, but in a whimper? Sounds like a candidate to replace "Rule Britania". Here's my list of the key players in the spectacle that was England.

Wayne Rooney: Good man, a bit hot-tempered, but it's that passion and ferocity that make him such a great player. He's quick when necessary, skillful with his feet, and he intimidates the hell out of opposing players thanks to the wonderful English PR machine. Also, he's a huge boost to the England squad, and players perform noticeably better when Rooney's on the pitch. Yes, I saw him step on that Portuguese guy's balls too. It was an accident people!! How many of you can deliberately step on something as small as human testicles by taking 3 steps backwards? He got the Red Card for pushing Ronaldo, but let's take a few things into consideration.

1 - Ronaldo and Rooney are teammates, and have gotten along fairly well previously
2 - Ronaldo is a known diver, faker, cry-baby and male-diva
3 - Ronaldo got involved between Rooney and the official, having no right or business to do so
4 - No English Footballer would ever take a dive. Ever.

Not only do their coaches abhor it, the fans would never allow them to. Decide for yourself - watch a replay of the incident here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylMqeyMgsxs&search=roo%20vs%20ron

Clearly, clearly, Ronaldo is just being an asshole. Ok, yes, Rooney shouldn't have pushed him but anyone who claims Rooney is the bigger agressor is as blind as an Argentian ref.

To prove it's not just us England fans who hate Ronaldo, visit this site devoted exclusively to telling the world of Ronaldo's iniquities
http://www.ihateronaldo.com/


Frank Lampard: 31 goal attempts. 0 goals. Frankie, you can make all the grimaces you like. You can wring your hair, stomp the ground, blame the field and the German lawn-mowers. You can even say it's the fault of Posh and the other WAGs (wives and girlfriends) but at one point, your fans aren't just going to buy it anymore. Be a man, stand up and say, "Mea Culpa". You're an Englishman, take your lumps.



Steven Gerrard: My personal favourite player for many years now, best player on the squad and certain to be the next Captain of England. Great player, great motivator, great attitude, great talent. Probably the best mid-fielder in the world (now that Zidane has retired and if we don't count Ronaldinho), this man can do anything. Doesn't seek the limelight, doesn't go pissing money away and sleeping with the soccer hoes -- he just plays like he's a 10 yr old kid on the street. Has been playing with Liverpool (my team) for years and is their star player, even when Michael Owen was there. Watch him and enjoy.


David Beckham: I really don't know what it's like to be a superstar whom a an entire country depends, focuses and demands so much from. The pressure must be phemenmenal, and Beckham himself must have felt very lonely and isolated as the figurative representative of a Footballing nation's dream. That being said, I don't know what it's like to make almost €100 million a year either, and then sleep with Posh Spice. One tends to lose much of one's sympathy when considering that fact.

The thing is, Becks didn't do too poorly. He was directly involved completely integral in 3 or 4 of England's goals. Ok, so he got tired. Ok, so he gave the media some shit excuses. Ok, he practically vomited on the field. He's David Beckham, not God. If you want the divine, forget sports and watch the rap stars thank Jesus at the Grammys. The reason why Becks is under so much heat (besides Posh), is that he really blew it in previous World and Euro cups. He missed two penalties in Portugal. He didn't inspire in South Korea. He got sent off in France. Plus, a lot of people are upset because he's set sail from Manchester and hangs his boots in Madrid these days. He's got a lot to prove and more to overcome. He's supposed to be a leader, a talisman, a superstar. In reality, he's just a guy. He's got cool hair and a wicked bend, but superstar? Remember, "lookin' pretty good, feelin' pretty good...but what's that weird smell?".

Peter Crouch: A lanky bean pole that, if born in any other country, would be either playing basketball, doing fetish porn, or working in construction. I've been laughing at Crouch for a full year now, as he plays for my league team (Liverpool) and he is simply too embarrassingly bad to take seriously. He can't hold the ball for more than 5 seconds, he doesn't get open, he doesn't create chances, and for someone who can smell the stratosphere, he's terrible in the air. Sometimes, I wonder if the Argentines or the French didn't bribe Erikson to include him on the squad...

Overall, England wasn't so much dispointing as boring. Their defense was either phenomenal or panicky. Their midfield was either fluid or disorganized. And their forwards might as well have been non-existant. Of all the England goals, only one was scored by a forward. And it was the Beckham cross that made it happen. England needs to tighten their defense, show their midfield how to play as a cohesive unit, and scout some new forwards ASAP. Someone who can play off Rooney's speed and strength. A cockney Thierry Henry would do quite nicely. But things are looking well. England's new manager will probably stick to the tried and tested 4-4-2 formation. We got a new captain. And Rooney's foot should be hopping mad to get into play.

In fact, the only downside is that the WAGs have to stay home...

Virgin Post

I met a traveller from an antique land who said:

"whenever a person creates a blog, somewhere in the world an Editor cries."

Since I haven't much love for editors anyway, I call this blog my public service to all writers.

Aside from that small act of altruism however, this will be a purely selfish and self-serving site devoted to things that interest me interlaced with my own particular commentary. The Internet is the great equalizer which tends to translate anybody's opinions into publishable material, potentially available for the world to read. It's a crime against prose to allow this trend to go unchecked, so I've decided to either enter the ranks of the inspired poseurs or as a standard-bearer of the the written world here in cyberland . Whichever title I wear depends the outcome of my endemic fight against apathy and inertia.

I have big ideas - periodic quotes and jokes I come across will be posted here. Photos and pictures, important news, cool websites, ideas (or schemes, if you will) and your basic trash-talk will all be here. Expect some messy layouts at first, gently and subtly evolving into rough features and finally into a sporadic genius.

Oh, the joy of publishing editorials without the untalented hand of an Editor!