Category Archives: Ersatz History

Blue Boxing 2009


Since we seem to have survived the Christmas Season, we’re now on the downside of 2009 and it is time to put that first decade of the New Millennium in the Blue Box for recycling.  Like most, we’re not entirely sure what should go into the blue box, the black box or the composter, except that we know we want this stuff kicked to the curb asap:

Blue Box:  Any celebrity who has been photographed without underwear, by cellphone camera, paparazzi, or civilian on the street, while getting into a vehicle, out of a vehicle, or bending over to pet a small animal.  If your sole talent is being photographed because you’re famous, then you get to climb into the blue box.  And buy some underwear.

Black Box:  Financial folks who accepted TARP bailout money to pad their nests and then miraculously managed to pay back all that taxpayer funded cash. They showed that their “emergency” was nothing more than a cash grab from a departing president who wanted to give his buddies one last payday.  Unfortunately, the new guy put some hooks into TARP that limited executive compensation, which meant that they could only buy one Gulfstream, instead of four.  The rest of the financial crisis was made up by PR fartcatchers and we swallowed it.

Green Box:  The various media outlets for bringing us the Balloon Boy, Michael Jackson’s death, imaginary pundits, so-called experts and the daily parade of the lame, the halt and the scarily insane who now pass for news.  Included are the online media who bleat hourly about LiLo’s handbag or Paris’ douchebag as if it was the sole piece of important news on the entire planet that day.

Blue Box:  Any expert who beeps and moos about ‘social media’.  Twitter is for the under-medicated with ADHD who obsessively over-share but are functionally illiterate.  Linkdin was developed for failed real estate agents to reassure themselves they exist.  Facebook makes it easy to stalk your old high school crushes, or to circumvent restraining orders.  The rest, including blogging and this blog, is proof that a million monkeys with a million typewriters cannot reproduce the works of Shakespeare.

Black Box:  The RCMP for Tasering Robert Dziekanski to death and tap dancing so furiously around the facts that had we had the foresight to wire them into the electrical grid, we could have powered Vancouver Airport for a year.  Included in that Black Box is the management of eHealth Ontario who spent untold millions of tax dollars not coming up with a way to computerize health records, but somehow managing to expense nannies, green fees, rent, booze and gifts to their buddies. 

Green Box:  Bought and Paid For Politicians.  They know who they are and so do we.  If they take money from, or run their own PAC then suddenly have opinions about numerous issues, they’re on a financial intravenous from lobbyists.  There should be term limits on everything from dog catcher to Prime Minister.  You get eight years, then get the hell out and get a real job. 

Blue Box:  Granite countertops.  Enough already.  The granite countertop will be the Dusty Rose of the 10’s.  Even the homeless living in a packing crate have granite countertops, at exorbitant prices per square foot, especially for the really ugly granite that matches nothing in the known universe, except more granite from the same slab.  The same holds true for ‘staging your home’.  If I want to stage my home, I’ll get it a gig as understudy for West Side Story.  It could do a creditable job as Maria in the Saturday matinee performances.

Black Box:  Nut-Egg-Latex-free zones.  Some days the evil Dave wants to get out the catapult to toss a couple of hundredweight of peanuts, almonds, scrambled eggs, chocolate, shrimp, lobster and rubber gloves over the fence of the school, just to see which kid starts to twitch and throb.  Being allergic to bee stings or cobra venom, I understand, but what’s next?  Allergic to long division and basic grammar?  Quick, let’s ban denominators and gerunds as my precious little sprog will suffer self-esteem issues and never recover to live a helpless life encased in plastic in the seniors home, where I can watch over them until I die.  In some countries E.Coli is considered a condiment.

Green Box:  Sportsmanlike conduct.  There is no such thing anymore, so let’s just give up the pretence and get on with it.  We want blood-spattered gladiators crowing victorious over the vanquished foe at the Grade 4 Public School Badminton Tournament.  As for the Olympics, well, I’m all for nude luge as that takes real demonstrable courage, but I’d like to see a biathlon where the course is fenced in, stocked with undernourished wolves and the targets can shoot back.  The Gold Medal goes to the competitor who gets out alive.

Blue Box:  Reality programming.  Why haven’t the media monkeys come up with a 20 hour series on getting the leaves raked or coin collecting; “Competitors, this special super-immunity challenge sees you piling live Soviet-era land mines in a basket on a running cement mixer.  The winner gets this 1974 mint-condition quarter and immunity from being voted off the barge.”  Cut to dramatic shot of Julie the hairdresser from Minnetonka mopping her brow with a Dr. Pepper, the Official Softdrink of Coin Collector Death Barge.

If you have nominations for the Blue Box 2009, pass them along.

Bars in Ottawa III


Having woken up from a sound sleep at 04-Dark, I remembered an old watering hole in Ottawa.  Don’t ask why my brain went there; it just did.

The Chez Lucien in the Byward Market.  The Times Square building is on the site now, as the Chez Lucien was torn down a number of years ago. 

There is also a legit (and apparently very good) restaurant/pub called the Chez Lucien in the Market on Murray Street.  Let’s be clear, this is not the Chez Lucien I’m considering:  We’re talking about the Original on Clarence and Parent street, with a truly skeevy bar and the Salons Dianne and Colette.  Rather than sully the reputation of the current Chez Lucien, I will refer to the one I remember as the Original Chez Lucien.

The Original Chez Lucien, also known as the Lucie, like most bars in the Byward Market of that era catered to the class of drinkers known as either gifted-amateur or professional-grade.  The Original was a two storey building last painted an exciting grey in 1946.  The top floor had rooms that one could rent, presumably by the hour, as the Original Chez Lucien was Known to Police.

There were three reasons to go to the Lucie:  First, to get drunk.  Second to watch the Le Go-Go Danseurs who performed topless.  There was no food that I can remember at the Original Chez Lucien, aside from bags of potato chips.    

Back in the Day I worked as a mobile disk jockey doing weddings, parties and stags for a local company.  Each month there was at least one booking for a wedding reception at the Original Chez Lucien in the Salon Dianne or Salon Colette, which were the two reception halls for the place.  Invariably there would be a couple of hundred guests in their finest finery celebrating the wedding of a family member in a dive that hadn’t seen a mop since the beginning days of the Pearson government.

Of course, there were also fights, as the Original Chez Lucien seemed to have that kind of impending-violence edge to it.  For that I blame the Le Go-Go Danseurs. 

The bar proper was down the hall from the two reception salons.  There were the traditional dark arborite tables, tobacco-stained walls, wooden chairs, ash trays and smoke-shrouded customers who favoured having a back to the wall at all times.  None of the regulars sat in the middle of the bar for good reason.  Along one wall was a juke box and a six-inch tall platform the size of a table top, upholstered with a biological experiment of a carpet.  This was the stage.

Every hour one of the female servers, who were also the dancers, would go over to the bartender and demand a quarter.  She would toss the quarter in the juke box and punch up three songs.  This was the musical accompaniment for her demonstration of the Arts of Terpsichore.

Song one:  March in place fully clothed.  Song two:  March in place without one half of one’s top.  Song three:  Twitch in place, having exhausted all dance skills, without the top altogether.  And that, gentlemen, is your entertainment for this evening. 

The server would rearrange her costume, pick up her tray and continue serving the now thirsty patrons who had been deprived of beer for close to fourteen minutes.  For many of the customers, those fourteen minutes were as close to quitting cold turkey as they could stand without the onset of DT’s.

I have seen my share of naked human female breasts.  I am an avowed leg man (and make no apologies either), but even an average pair is a beauty to behold as proof that God, as a designer, does Good Work.  Damn Good Work. 

Except in the case of the Original Chez Lucien servers.  Several were tattooed in the days before tattoos resided on every second suburban soccer-Mom. One female server who danced looked like she could physically assault a moving freight train and had successfully demonstrated her railway brawling prowess more than once with a 12-2 record over her career.  Another server looked like my Aunt Lillian in a bikini top and threadbare baby doll, which may explain things that only an Adlerian counsellor can appreciate.

Nonetheless, many of the male guests of the wedding receptions would skulk out of the reception down the hall to gawk once an hour.  When the men returned to the wedding reception, there would be a significant increase the volume of discourse at the tables, usually in female voices, using language that cannot be reprinted here. 

At one wedding reception the groom, paralytically drunk, was carried chair and all to the bar by the best man and the ushers to observe the goods on display.  When the groom, chair and male half of the wedding party returned from their observations, the Matron of Honour and the Bride’s Mother took matters into their own hands. 

The police arrived within five minutes and obtained promises. There would be no more chair transportation of the Groom to areas outside the Salon Dianne.  The other promise was the more active members of the distaff side of the wedding party would stop breaking quart bottles over the heads of the Best Man and Ushers.  Satisfied with arrangements, the police left and festivities resumed, celebrating the union of Julie-Claire and Hubert in Holy Matrimony.

The Original Chez Lucien. Alas, long gone.

The Third Presidential Debate (Preview)


Tonight Senators Barack Obama and John McCain go toe to toe in a town hall meeting at Belmont University in Nashville in the second of three debates for the Big Chair in Washington.

A bit more unstructured than the previous debating club exercise with Jim Lehrer, this one promises to be more of a looser, freeform gabfest.  Tom Brokaw from NBC will don the stripes and carry the whistle.  They are even going to take questions from the audience, quelle horreur!

I’m pushing for an even more candid exchange for the third debate.  Ozzie’s Roadhouse on West Mercer in Seattle will be the venue. 

McCain and Obama will sit in chairs next to each other, at a table, without suit jackets or their entourages.  Dinner will be served:  Onion Rings and draft Bud. 

They will be required by the rules of the debate to consume at least enough beer to make it illegal for them to operate a motor vehicle in Washington State.  There might be karaoke, there might be drinking contests and there are pool tables.  Crappy tables, but pool tables nonetheless. 

Obama and McCain will have to play at least one rack of either 8-ball, or Sink or Swim.  They can play more if they want to, as long as they put a dollar in the table.  We’ll buy the first rack and the first round.

We’ll have them both wired for sound and enough cameras to cover all the angles in Ozzie’s.  Then we’ll start the discussions. 

Your moderator:  Mr. T.

MR.T:  Hey fool.  I’m Mr.T and this here’s the third presidential debate.  Don’t go touchin’ that remote.  You know who I talkin’ to.  You! 

Now sit back and listen up.  We goin’ axt some questions of these two pussies over here.  Alphabetically, we start with Senator John McCain who wants to be President.  And, Senator Barack Obama, who also wants to be President.

If you’d stayed in school you’d know you cain’t have two guys be President at the same time in America, so you gots to vote.  Now, which one to vote for is the question.  That’s why we down here at this joint to figure this out.

The boys played caps earlier and Obama lost, so’s McCain says he’s not going first.  Barry!  First question is yours:

OBAMA and McCAIN are at the pool table, both with their white dress-shirt sleeves rolled up. OBAMA has a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, while McCAIN is re-lighting a blunt cigar. Several beer glasses and a half consumed jug of draft litter the table behind the billiard table. OBAMA lines up a shot, misses, mutters to himself, then walks over to Mr.T and knocks knuckles with him.

OBAMA: Yo T. Whassup.

MR.T: That’s Mister T to you long boy. You don’t call me T until I says you call me T. You understand me?

OBAMA: Sorry Mister T. What’s up? John and I were playing 8-ball and I had a run going…

MR. T: This is up. Debate night. 8-ball can wait. I got a question to axt you.

OBAMA: OK, ask away.

MR. T: The economy stupid. That’s what’s up. Din’t your momma teach you nothing?

OBAMA: We’ll I can answer that. My momma was a hard-working woman who worked hard. Like all Americans, who work hard, they’re concerned about the economy. And I’m concerned about the economy…

In the background at the pool table, JOHN McCAIN fires a double bank shot at the 8-ball, misses wildly, sinks the cue ball and sewers out.

MCCAIN: Cocksucker!

OBAMA: Screw you McCain, I’m talking here…

MCCAIN: We’re on? Oh shit… Sorry about that. I was, er, my shot, um, and, and I sewered out.

MR.T: Shut up old man! You get your turn next. Barry, you keep goin’ but I be warnin’ you, you best be startin to talk like you got a clue.

OBAMA: The economy is important to every working American…not just the boardroom table but the kitchen table…

Mr.T: Shut up fool! You ain’t tellin us nothin’. It’s your shot, go take your nappy head back over to the table and you come back when I call. Old Man! Get yo’ass over here. Mr.T and America want to hear from you!

MCCAN: Hello Mister T. It is a pleasure to meet you

MCCAIN holds his hand out in a conventional white man handshake. MR.T looks at MCCAIN’s hand like he’s holding out a steaming horse turd. MCCAIN withdraws his hand uncomfortably and sits next to MR.T, while cradling his cue across his lap.

In the background, OBAMA is searching for the cue ball, then sets it on the foul line after taking a long pull from his glass of draft.

MR.T: The economy McCain. What about the economy?

MCCAIN: There’s a lot of interest in the economy and my role in the assistance of the financial industry means I show the leadership needed to…

MR.T: You answerin’ the question or ain’t you?

OBAMA comes over the to interview area, pulls the cue chalk out of MCCAIN’s shirt pocket and walks back to the table. MCCAIN seems slightly distracted.

MCCAIN: Well, I’m a maverick, who isn’t afraid of Washington…

MR.T: You ain’t got a Mohawk. You don’t wear twenty pounds of gold. Y’all shut up about bein’ a maverick Old White Man. Mr.T was a maverick when you was flyin’ crop dusters.

MCCAIN: And I flew over Vietnam…

MR.T: An got your sorry ass shot down. You ain’t no pilot of my plane of the economy. Get the hell outta my face an’ get back to your game, fool!

MCCAIN slinks off back to the pool table. He takes a long pull of his draft and reloads his glass from the jug. OBAMA signals to a server for another jug.

MR.T: Now we got questions from the folks here at Ozzie’s Roadhouse. They wrote them down and we put them envelopes. And we got Julie here to pick the questions at random. She don’t know what they are and Mr.T don’t know what they are. ‘Course them dough-heads don’t know neither.

JULIE, one of the servers at Ozzie’s picks an envelope out of the pile, while balancing two draft pitchers on her tray. JULIE crosses back to OBAMA and MCCAIN with the beer. Both OBAMA and MCCAIN pull out some cash and pay. MCCAIN pulls out a few more bills and hands them to OBAMA, who stuffs them in his shirt pocket. Apparently MCCAIN lost that round at the pool table. OBAMA feeds another dollar into the table and the balls crash out.

OBAMA: You break this time John… I’ll rack

MCCAIN: You’re on…

MR.T: Shut up back there fools! Mr.T is workin’ here. We got Julie to pick us out a random question.

MR.T rips the envelope open and pulls out a slip of paper. He reads the question to himself.

MR.T: Now this is my kind of question. Short and sweet, like little Julie there… Fools! Get over here! Mr.T and America want to know.

OBAMA and MCCAIN cross to the interview area and sit next to MR.T MCAIN and OBAMA have brought their beer glasses and their cues. MCCAIN has his reading glasses propped up on his forehead.

MR.T: This is one of the questions in the envelopes. From regular folks right here. You two clowns ready?

OBAMA: Sure

MCCAIN: Go ahead

MR.T: One word answers only or you both be in trouble with Mr.T. Barry be first. Here’s the question: Iraq?

OBAMA: Out.

MR.T: McCain, same question: Iraq?

MCCAIN: Fucked.

MR.T: Old Man wins that one. McCain you choose another envelope.

MCCAIN holds his hand out. OBAMA grudgingly takes a bill out of his top pocket and hands it to MCCAIN who puts it in his own shirt pocket. MCCAIN picks another envelope.

MR.T: Next question. Old Man goes first. One word answer again. Hockey-Mom or Pit-Bull?

MCCAIN: Pit-Bull.

MR.T: One word answer Barry. Hockey Mom or Pit Bull?

OBAMA: GILF.

MR.T: What the hell is that?

OBAMA leans into MR.T and whispers something.

MR.T: You ARE a dirty dog. Barry wins that round. Pick one!

MCCAIN take a bill out of his shirt pocket and slaps it into OBAMA’s hand with a grimace. OBAMA selects another envelope which MR.T rips open and reads.

MCCAIN: (whispered) That was my answer Goddamit.

OBAMA: (whispered) Yeah, but I said it…

MR.T: This here’s a challenge from Eugene over at the bar. Which one of you ladies can chug one faster? Julie! Top’em up!

JULIE comes over with a jug and tops up OBAMA and MCCAIN’s glasses. Both put down the cues, roll up their sleeves a bit more and get ready with their hands flat on the table on either side of their glasses.

OBAMA: Ready John?

MCCAIN: You’re goin’ down school boy…

MR.T: Ready, set. Go!

MCCAIN and OBAMA grab their respective beer glasses and start chugging. MCCAIN’s glass empties in a blink of an eye, as if poured down a drain, then MCCAIN grabs MR.T’s glass and pounds it down too. OBAMA gags, then spits out his beer, spraying foam everywhere.

MR.T: Holy shit Old Man, how the hell you do that?

MCCAIN: Officer’s Mess at Pensacola….Champion in ‘63 and ‘64. Still hold the Pac Fleet record for the most in one minute. My name’s carved in the bar at Polly’s Palace on Ha Ba Trang Road in Bangkok too. (MCCAIN belches deeply)

OBAMA takes a bill out of his top pocket and slaps it into MCCAIN’s hand. They knock knuckles and swap thumbs up. They may be competitors, but they can appreciate each others’ efforts. OBAMA tries to dry his shirt a bit.

MR.T: Damm that was good Old Man. You choose now.

MCCAIN selects one of the last envelopes. MR.T opens it up and reads it. Twice.

MR.T: Last question and it’s a two parter, so you two fools had best pay attention. America wants to know. Old Man McCain goes first. Two parter.

Betty or Wilma and does the Carpet match the Drapes?

MCCAIN stops dead in his tracks and stares at MR.T

MR.T: We waitin’ McCain…

MCCAIN: Wilma….and…and…No.

MR.T: Homes? Betty or Wilma and does the Carpet match the Drapes.

OBAMA gnaws at his bottom lip, knowing this is the turning point of his campaign. He pauses as if to start speaking, then changes his mind.

OBAMA: My answer. My answer is Betty and Yes. The Carpet matches the Drapes.

MR.T: Julie, come over here and read the answer.

JULIE crosses to MR.T, who is remaining stone-faced. Everyone knows the entire campaign hangs on this one answer. JULIE looks at the answer and asks MR.T

JULIE: Really? Wow. I couldn’t tell.

MR.T: You gotta know these things to be President. Tell’em…

JULIE: The correct answer is Betty and Yes! The Carpet matches the Drapes!

MR.T: Gentlemen. It’s a TIE!

Balloons fall from the ceiling of Ozzie’s Roadhouse as MCCAIN and OBAMA both leap in the air, pumping their fists and hugging each other. Beer is sprayed and poured over both candidates by the other patrons in the bar. Julie is dodging the spray, while MR.T moves down stage to wrap up.

MR.T: That’s the Presidential debate from Ozzie’s Roadhouse. Dead heat tie. Pick either one. This be Mr.T You vote! Vote Early! Vote Often! Peace. Out.

First Draft – The Bankfather


I never know how these things wind up in my inbox.  Perhaps the Hollywood writer types have been drinking too many caffeinated beverages again….

 

INTERIOR DAY: DON POLLOI’s ornate office on a sunny Thursday afternoon. Drapes are closed but some shafts of light peek in. DON POLLOI is in a suit, savouring a large cigar. Several muscular men in dark suits ring the walls, their hands clasped in front of themselves. Two chairs are across from the Don’s desk. The Consigliere enters.

CONSIGLIERE: These are the two I told you about Don Polloi, the ones with the fakackta money thing. They’re with Georgie’s crew out of DC…

DON POLLOI: I talk with them for a moment, but just a moment. I don’t spend time with cafones like that so much

The Consigliere nods towards the double doors of the office. Two of the meatier bodyguards put a hand in their suits, open the doors and beckon the guests in. HANK THE SNACK and BENNY THE GEECH enter, heads bowed low, eyes darting from side to side and approach the two leather chairs in front of DON POLLOI’s desk.

DON POLLOI: Sit down, sit down. My friend here tells me you are associated with my good friend Georgie in DC. His father and I go back a long time…

HANK THE SNACK: Yes, we know Papa well. He speaks with respect and reverence of his relationship with you Don Polloi.

BENNY THE GEECH: He is a man of importance Don Polloi and a man of great dignity, as you are Don Polloi.

DON POLLOI: So why are you visiting me on this fine fall day when I could be busy with my many affairs of This Thing of Ours.

HANK THE SNACK: It’s about the money Don Polloi. We got a thing here. It’s a good thing…

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s a really good thing Don Polloi… it’s really good…

DON POLLOI: Everything is about money with you two. Everything. Or pussy, Money or mona is that all you two know from?

HANK THE SNACK: This one’s not about pussy this time. We need some backing for a money thing.

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s a money thing, like he said.

DON POLLOI: So explain this money thing.

BENNY THE GEECH: You know from banks that do investments Don Polloi? Well, they got themselves in shit up to their armpits

HANK THE SNACK: Like wearing a shirt and everything up to their armpits in shit

BENNY THE GEECH: Like he says. So’s they need a place to hide some of the shit, so they can go out in public again.

DON POLLOI: So’s a bank gotz shit. I care from shit how?

HANK THE SNACK: It’s like this. The banks need us to buy their shit and clean’em up so’s they can go to Dalluca’s and look like respectable men again. They wanna sell us this shit and if we buy it, they can be respectable again. Loans, like you know?

DON POLLOI: Loans I understand. Back in the day we’d loan some mook Twenty bucks on Monday and by Friday the vig would have him in for Forty. He’d pay Forty to get Twenty and that’s a good business.

BENNY THE GEECH: But this is not like Forty for Twenty, Don Polloi. This is bigger…

DON POLLOI: So why do you come to me with your ‘bigger’. You work for Georgie’s crew right?

HANK THE SNACK: Yes we do Don Polloi…

DON POLLOI: And you come to me before you go to your own capo?

HANK THE SNACK: It’s a little difficult Don Polloi

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s that injury of his Don…it’s that thing what he has.

DON POLLOI: Ahh. Papa Georgie told me of his thing. With the brain right?

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s a thing we don’t talk about you know? He gets, like you know?

DON POLLOI: Like with the towel head right? Stunata…

HANK THE SNACK: It’s, ahh, you know, from delicate like we don’t talk about it.

DON POLLOI: I understand. So does your capo know you have come to me?

BENNY THE GEECH: Papa does. He was the one who said we should talk with you about our thing, with the utmost respect, as it is in your territory, you know, with the Comissionone.

DON POLLOI takes a long drag on the cigar and sips from a crystal balloon glass of amber liquid

DON POLLOI: So if Papa Georgie says you should come to me with this thing, then it is the thing that we should talk about.

HANK THE SNACK: So it’s like we need to buy from these banks this stuff they don’t want no more, the strunza loans from barabi. They sell them to us and we sell em back later.

BENNY THE GEECH: But we sell the strunza back to the cafones with brains like a shekoo

DON POLLOI: So this I can understand now. You need some help up front and you get some back on the end. For this you come to me for help?

HANK THE SNACK: It’s a big number Don Polloi.

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s a really big number Don Polloi…

DON POLLOI: Stu cazzo you two fools. From big numbers I can do. How big?

HANK THE SNACK: 700 Billion, give or take

DON POLLOI: Madrone de mia! 700 Billion? You’re stunata! Both of you. Let me think now.

BENNY THE GEECH: For this we make by twice on the back end

DON POLLOI: What do you mean we by twice we make it up?

HANK THE SNACK: We sell it back to them next year. They said they’d buy it back

DON POLLOI: They said they’d buy it back for twice? And you believe them baboo?

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s like he said Don Polloi. They gave their word as men of honor and bankers.

DON POLLOI: (To himself) U pesci fet d’a testa. What kind of idiot do you two think I am for to get involved with bankers? Minche e cuaddu ti coddidi e seghidi i dentisi!

HANK THE SNACK: But Don Polloi….

DON POLLOI: You offend me with your dealing with bankers and their word and then you ask me for 700 Billion to buy their strunza and maybe make it back twice over next year? What kind of baboo do you take me for. Chiddu arrusti u so pesci nte ciammi di l’incediu! Get out of my fucking office. Sta migna!

Two beefy bodyguards step forward, hands in their suit pockets, right behind BENNY THE GEECH and HANK THE SNACK. BENNY and HANK now recognize they are in deep trouble.

BENNY THE GEECH: But Don Polloi, it’s not our idea. We were just coming to talk with you

DON POLLOI: Whaddaya mean it’s not your idea. What kind of strons give you this idea?

HANK THE SNACK: It’s complicated….

BENNY THE GEECH: Really complicated….

DON POLLOI: What some stuppaghiara from Philly? You two are all money and pussy and no brains… Tony?

The meatiest of the bodyguards puts and arm around the neck of HANK THE SNACK in a headlock and drags HANK’s arm out and stretches it across DON POLLOI’s desk. HANK tries to fight back but knows that he can’t out-muscle Tony.

DON POLLOI: You tell me right now, who the fuck came up with this shit?

DON POLLOI pulls a very large cleaver out of his desk drawer and pulls it back as if to chop off HANK THE SNACK’s hand.

HANK THE SNACK: Don Polloi, I beg of you, on the eyes of my children. I have been sworn to silence by a thing.

BENNY THE GEECH is now entangled in the arms of the second bodyguard who has BENNY’s arms pinned behind his back.

BENNY THE GEECH: It’s true. It’s a silence thing for swearing.

DON POLLOI raises the cleaver higher

BENNY THE GEECH: OK, Ok Don Polloi. I’ll tell…I’ll tell. It’s (sobbing) Don Cheney from Wyoming. He’s the brains behind our capo who told us about this thing. Then Don Cheney swore us to silence, as we would burn as the paper would burn. Oh God….

DON POLLOI drops the cleaver on the desk in disgust then flops in his chair. DON POLLOI looks off out the window muttering for a second.

DON POLLOI: Don Cheney…the minchia. Fuck. Goddam meco from out west. Bruno!

The CONSIGLIERE hustles up to the side of DON POLLOI. They exchange a few whispers as HANK and BENNY exchange terrified glances. TONY has not let HANK move his arm from the desk yet.

Suddenly DON POLLOI snatches up the cleaver and chops the hand off of HANK THE SNACK who screams ferociously and bleeds all over the desk. TONY loosens his grip on HANK’s arm just enough to let HANK pull the bleeding stump towards his chest, then TONY snaps HANK’s neck and lets the body drop to the floor.

BENNY THE GEECH: Jesus Madre di Mio Don Polloi, don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!

DON POLLOI pulls the cleaver out of the desk top and tests the blood smeared blade.

DON POLLOI: I will not kill you Benny. He will.

DON POLLOI nods to the other bodyguard, as a piano wire garrotte goes around BENNY THE GEECH’s neck. He is strangled.

DON POLLOI: Consigliere. We need to send a message to Don Cheney. This hand should suffice. If he’s going to try this shit, we go to the mattresses. If he wants a war, we give him a war. Putana!

DON POLLOI pushes the severed hand of HANK towards the CONSIGLIERE with the cleaver then tosses the cleaver to the desk top with a sigh. DON POLLOI crosses to the window and looks out on the day.

DON POLLOI: These fuckers never learn.

Things Ottawa


This is a bit of a reminiscence of memories of my hometown Ottawa that have somehow seeped up from the brain, in no particular order, for no particular reason.

The number 61 Elmvale Acres bus.  It was the 61 Bayshore until it got the other end of city, when it became the 61 Elmvale.  It took almost two hours for the bus to do the whole loop through the downtown core, east to Elmvale Shopping Centre, back around Urbandale Acres, through Elmvale again, to downtown, then out to the wilds of the West End:  Westgate Shopping Centre, Carlingwood and eventually a loop of Bayshore Drive, before there was a Bayshore Shopping Centre.  You could see almost the whole city for 50 cents.

Tiny Tom Donuts in the Pure Food building at the Ex.  Every year mystery people would bring a convoluted machine that would poop out tiny donuts by the hundreds at the Central Canada Exhibition.  They would be hot, greasy and lightly sprinkled with white sugar and if you paid extra, cinnamon and sugar.  There were also Shopsy Hot Dogs, Pizza, and Back Bacon on a Bun.  Why it was called the Pure Food building, I’ll never know, as the only thing that was ‘Pure" in there was the grease.

Hobbyland.  Downtown for a thousand years.  As all the small buildings downtown were bought up, then razed to make way for huge office buildings, Hobbyland survived.  If you needed Testor’s Candy Apple Red and some new brushes for your Eldon slot car, Hobbyland had it in stock. 

The Capitol Theatre was a monster classic cinema and theatre originally built in 1920 with Thomas W. Lamb as the architect.  The Capitol was an old-fashioned movie palace that sat 2530 patrons in luxury.  The stage hosted everyone from Nelson Eddy to Jimi Hendrix over its’ fifty-year life. 

As a school safety patroller, I got to watch double-bill movies at The Capitol on Saturday mornings.  Up past the dome, there was a slot car track with a huge 8-lane custom track, where you could race against other folks.  You could only get to the slot cars by walking up what seemed like forty-four flights of stairs from an obscure entrance off the side street.  I used to have a half a brick, rescued from the Capitol when it was demolished in 1970.

There were other cinemas/theatres in Ottawa.  The Regent, The Elgin, The Elmdale and The Rialto come to mind.  The Rialto, also known as the RatHole was a very old cinema that became a grindhouse in later years.  Triple-bill Laff Riots with Jerry Lewis, The Stooges and Laurel and Hardy, alternated with soft-core porn, "Emmanuelle, Queen of Sados" and violent exploitation horror films like "Die Die My Darling Die" and "Ilsa, She-wolf of the SS".  The floors at the Rialto were always sticky.

Donald Duck Bread was baked by Morrison-Lamonthe bakery and was delivered to the house by the Bread Man, who trolled the suburbs in a green truck.  Donald Duck Bread was especially fascinating as it was baked as a round loaf, almost exactly the right diameter to fit a slice of bologna. 

Borden’s Dairy served the South end of the city with their milk trucks, while the West end was the purview of Clark’s Dairy and their weird purple trucks.  If you wanted bread or milk you put a little cardboard card in the front window and the various sales people would miraculously stop and deliver to the back door of the house.

The 85 Bank and Grove bus.  For the longest time the 85 Bank and Grove was an ancient gas-powered short wheelbase bus.  Unlike the 61 Elmvale Acres, which was a mammoth GM diesel, then an ultra modern GM Fishbowl, the 85 was always a small, smelly wobbly bus.  At the corner of Bank Street and Grove Street, the 85 would turn around and head back to the ‘burbs.   To get downtown you would have to transfer to a 1A St. Patrick.  The turnabout was a vestige of the streetcar turnabout when the streetcar tracks were torn up in 1954.

Shopper’s City West and East.  Either Shopper’s City demarcated the end of Civilization as We Knew It.  Frieman’s department store always had one half of the Shopper’s City, while Dominion supermarket had the other half.  Tower’s Department store was also in the Shopper’s City East, sort of an early super-discount department store that carried the genetic material for a downscale Target. 

At one time Steinberg’s Grocery was a big chain in Ottawa.  Based in Montreal, it competed with the local IGA and Dominion, but it was also a linguistic and cultural divide.  Anglos shopped at IGA or Dominion, while the Francophones almost always shopped at Steinberg’s.  Any supermarket with an entire aisle dedicated to pink popcorn and Jos Louis snack cakes was tagged as "French".

The Miss Westgate Restaurant, the Carousel Restaurant, The Green Valley and Peter’s Pantry.  A grilled cheese and bacon sandwich?  Banquette seating around an imitation merry go round?  A restaurant on the edge of the Experimental Farm where the average age of the patrons and staff was 843 years old?  Excellent pizza and Zombies that would drop a stone statue on its ass?  Check, Check, Check, Check.  Done.

The Sandpits.  Out near the airport was a huge sandpit where we used to go and slide down the side of the pit.  Bring a cardboard box as an ersatz summer toboggan.  Now expensive housing.

Brewer Park was a response to the Rideau River being essentially a sewer in the 60’s and 70’s.  It was carved out of swamp and sand like a big oblong bowl next to the river.  Conceptually the water in Brewer Park was ‘filtered’ so you could swim there in the summer when the usual Rideau River swimming parks were closed from the pollution in the river.  Brewer Park merely took the big lumps out and pumped the water into the swimming area.

The Heron Road Bridge Collapse.  On August 10, 1966, one span of the Heron Road bridge collapsed while under construction, killing nine and injuring fifty-seven more.  We took the car down to the site to see what happened and I still remember it to this day.

Autorama 68…69…70…71..72…73.. was the winter car show.  Mostly show cars, hot rods and the occasional legit race car interspersed with the various car dealerships flogging that years’ model.  Watching the Valvoline race movies of the previous year races was always a highlight.  Invariably someone would light up a race car inside the Civic Centre and scare the snot out of everyone, while enveloping the arena in choking clouds of semi-burned Sunoco 260.

Fuller’s Restaurant.  A chain restaurant now long gone, but Fuller’s was always open.  The Red Barn was also a chain burger joint that had the "Big Barney".  You can still see the buildings on Bank Street, north of Heron Road:  They were across the street from each other and still are.  Both places had a ‘special sauce’ on their signature burgers, attempting to emulate the guk on a Big Mac.  There were too many stories about what was actually in the ‘special sauce’ to actually consume it, so we would order ‘no sauce’, if only to keep from being exposed to the supposed contents.  Royal Burger in Eastview had a special sauce as well and we avoided it as studiously.

The Ottawa Coal Gas Company and Myer’s Motors.  The Ottawa Coal Gas Company was located on what is now Algonquin College, but was known as Grant Vocational School.  You could see the coal gasification storage tank for the longest time.  As to what toxic sludge lives there, it is covered by Algonquin College and the Transitway.  Myer’s Motors used to be on Catherine Street, where the Bus Station now resides.  You could always tell when the paint booth was in operation, as the paint fumes were vented directly outdoors. 

The Union Station.  What is now the Federal Conference Centre used to be the train station.  We took the CN train to Montreal for Expo67, from Union Station, as the new station out in Alta Vista wasn’t done yet.  Yes, the Queen Elizabeth Parkway used to be train tracks.  Where the Westin Hotel is was the Grand Hotel, a working-man’s hotel.  Next to it was a Canada Post sorting building where the mail would come in by train, then be sorted for delivery.

"Temporary" Buildings.  There used to be hundreds of them across the city, erected back in WWII, to house the machinery of government during wartime.  Where the city hall is, used to be a big one.  Same at Dow’s Lake, a huge one fronted Carling Avenue for the longest time.  The Temporary Buildings were deathtraps when they were put up; cold in winter, hot in summer with asbestos-wrapped pipes.  They never improved over their forty-odd years of existence.

Ice Racing on Dow’s Lake.  In the depths of winter, as part of the Winter Carnival, someone would plow a road course race track on the ice.  Then they would race cars and motorcycles on it. Of the cars, you would see original Mini Coopers and Fiats blasting around corners, with studded tires.  Invariably some loon would bring a hulking stock car to compete with the Minis.  Blindingly fast in a straight line, but couldn’t turn worth a damn, while the little rally cars ricocheted off the snowbanks.  Racing motorcycles with hundreds of sheet metal screws in the tires as ice spikes was an invitation to disaster.  We froze to death on the ice, but we loved it.

Brewer’s Retail and the Liquor Store.  In the day at the Liquor Store you could not see the display of any bottles of liquor or wine.  There was a list of products on offer around the walls; you filled in a paper slip with the product number and handed it to a government functionary.  He went through a door to the warehouse and got your bottle, then brought it to the cash register.  After you paid, he bagged it up in a plain kraft paper bag and you left. 

Brewer’s Retail was a little more relaxed, in that they had display space for one bottle of each product on offer.  The cashier would shout your order into a microphone as you paid for it, then moved over to the conveyor belt as your order magically appeared.  "Peewee Fifty" meant a six-pack of Labatt’s 50, their premium beer at the time.  "Long Red Cap" was a twelve of Carling Red Cap. "Ex" was a 24-case of Molson Export, the implied size was always 24 beers.  Only the underage or women bought Peewee or Long sizes.

Pascal’s.  It wasn’t a department store, or hardware store, or a furniture store, but under one roof in the west end on Merivale Road, Pascal’s had one of everything known to Man.  If you needed 3/8" keyway bar stock, a sofa and restaurant grade salt shakers in a box of 12, then you went to Pascal’s.  From lumber to lingerie, Pascal’s had it.  You could buy a lathe and a dining room at the same time.

The Rough Riders.  At one time Ottawa had a Canadian Football League team with players like Russ Jackson, Whit Tucker and Gerry Organ.  The South side of Lansdowne was where we sat.  Coffee with Palm Breeze rum was the beverage of choice, rain, snow or shine, for young and old.  Only the crazed sat in the end zones.  If you couldn’t be at the game, you listened to Ernie Calcutt call it on CFRA with Dave Schreiber.  If you didn’t listen, or attend, you were a subhuman destined to a life of eternal burning Hell.  Or an Hamilton Ti-Cats fan.

That’ll do for the time being.  Let’s see what kind of link action we get out of this one.  You can always post your own peculiar Things Ottawa too. 

Most Viewed Story


I rarely get surprised by many things.  If you told me that both Presidential candidates in the US were involved in the same club in Maryland that caters those who like rough sex with penguins, I’d shrug my shoulders. 

If you showed me real, unedited video tape of President Jo Jo The Idiot Boy and Shotgun Dick Cheney deciding to go to war in Iraq just for oil, I’d be unimpressed.  For that matter if you showed me Stephen Harper’s cardiogram as proof he has a heart, I’d yawn.

It isn’t that I’m jaded, but if you study enough history, long enough, you realize that it has all be done before and like idiots, we humans keep repeating ourselves.

However, of all the writing done on the blog and in the original incarnation of RoadDave The Website, stretching back to March 10, 2002, there has been one story that has had more references than any other. 

It isn’t the keen observation of the Iraq War, or the rapier-like political commentary.  It wasn’t the fake UN Chat Room posting, or the tour of the White House State Easter Egg Display.

No, gentle reader, it was Bars In Ottawa Pt I, specifically the part about Gerry Barber, the King of Bouncers.  There have been more hits from searches about bars and bands in Ottawa, as well as the legend that is Gerry Barber, than any other story on the blog.  Barely a week goes by that Bars in Ottawa Pt.I doesn’t generate a few hits.

Which leads me to a kind of stream of consciousness about Things Ottawa that have somehow surfaced over the months that I’ve written down as they bubbled up.  I’ll post it in a week or so.

Road Map Unfolding?


The Israeli Parliament has approved, barely, the US Road Map for Peace in the Middle East.  The deal is supposed to keep the Israelis and Palestinians from each others’ throats long enough to let things settle out.  Just like the Camp David Accord or any of the other hundred of Memoranda of Agreements, Accords, Treaties, Truces, Peace Initiatives and general meetings over the past 50-some years.

The background on all this goes back to before Year 1.  I’m going to try to explain this as best as it can be explained because it is truly complicated.  Stay with us now, it gets messy, but we’ll keep it short.

Jerusalem is the center of the Jewish and Christian religions, as this was the place where Jesus and the Lads did their thing.  Egypt and Moses, Loaves, Fishes, all the Old Testament doings.  And Mohammed was in there too, along with his brothers Stan and Ollie.  In the Day, there was no Israel, just villages and towns with a whole bunch of religions living together and lots of sand, rocks and gravel. 

Bring up the Grecian Empire, the Roman Empire and the Ottoman Empire.  Throw in a Crusade or two, where Christians in England, France and Germany thought the Muslims were desecrating the “Holy Land” and could only be stopped by slaughtering as many people as possible.  The Muslims thought the Crusaders were desecrating their Holy Land and figured that killing as many Crusaders as possible was turnabout and therefore, fair play.

Eventually we get to WWII.  Jews were treated poorly before WWII in most countries of the known world, with ships full of Jewish refugees being turned away from many countries, including the US and Britain.   Much Guilt ensues after the Allies find out what Auschwitz and Belsen were built for. 

The League of Nations and Lester Pearson come up with the idea of a Jewish Homeland on a chunk of real estate that was known as Palestine at the time.  England was the defacto territory holder, not actually running the place, as there were too many religions, holy places, fights, sand, rocks and gravel to really get into it.  In 1947 The League of Nations does a key toss and says “Here ya go, a Jewish Homeland!  Enjoy”

The League of Nations overlooked a little point when they handed over the pink slip.  There were a few million Muslims, Bedouins, Christians and others already living on that map reference.  Most of the people there operated on a simple principle:  If I am on the land, farming, or herding, or whatever, it is MY land.  This had been the custom for thousands of years.

The soon-to-be Israelis came ashore fighting, tossing out as many non-Jews as they could, then building houses, kibbutzim, cities, farms, villages and towns on the confiscated lands. 

The now-Israelis brought technology to the area in a major way, irrigating the Negev desert into farm land along with a deep sense of entitlement.  Israelis also seem to have a deeply held sense of paranoia having had to fight to come ashore then fight every last inch until they reached the artificial borders of Israel.  Two thousand years of being without a homeland, followed by Global Genocide tends to do that to a people.

Those who were already on the land were also justifiably deeply pissed that some group of suit-wearing old guys from far away gave their land out from under them, without so much as a thanks for stopping by.  This explains the Palestinian attitude.

In a highly simplified and massively condensed version, the essential Middle East Conflict can be reduced to:  “We were here first!  Yeah but we’re here now and WE were here first! Were not!  Were too!  It’s our homeland!  No it’s not! Is too!  UN says it’s OUR homeland!  Is not!  Is too!..”

This conflict can go on, as it does in the playground, forever.  Until Mom or Dad step in and tell both the kids to shut up, they’ll keep beating each other over the head. 

As the final judge here, both the Israelis and the Palestinians have a right to be there.  The Palestinians don’t have the right to blow themselves up in shopping areas and the Israelis don’t have the right to run tanks over Palestinians houses just for shits and giggles.

The US Road Map for Peace is designed to get these two whiny, spoiled little brats to share.  Unfortunately the Road Map doesn’t have the one extra feature that all parents have in this situation.  Take the toys away and don’t let either kid play with them.  Conversely, a good whack across the backside for both kids would probably do them a world of good too, but in a geopolitical sense, this just doesn’t work.

Will the Road Map work?  I hope it will, but we’ve got too many centuries of bad behaviour and a bunch of monomaniacal personalities on both sides who can’t forget, won’t forgive and refuse to change the subject.

Sens Fold


Ottawa has been in the grips of “Sens Fever” meaning the Ottawa Senators National Hockey League team.  Finally, tonight, the New Jersey Satanists beat them 3-2.  The Senators can now go to the golf course and the city can return to what passes for normal.  Thank heavens.

So What Now?


“I chased the car all the way down the street and I caught it.  I’ve got no thumbs, so I can’t steer.  I haven’t got feet that reach the pedals.  My tail gets in the way, I can’t click off the parking brake, or turn the keys.  There’s nothing to eat in here.  It smells like human asses in the front seats and a dog bum in the back seat.  I can’t open the hood, I can’t tune the radio, I can’t get in the trunk and when I try to adjust the mirror, all I see is the headliner.  Shit, I can’t even open the goddam sunroof.  What the hell was I thinking?”

Which sums up, from a dog’s perspective, what happens when you chase a car and then catch it.  It is exactly where the US and UK are now regarding Iraq. 

The looting and general anarchy is to be expected for another day or two.  So are the suicide bombers.  The US troops had best learn from the Brits and Israelis on how to run a checkpoint.  The Brits learned in Northern Ireland and the Israelis since Day 1 that checkpoints are now targets, as they offer soldiers staying in one place, not moving around, as great chances to do some damage politically and physically.

Looting is just the population’s way of saying “bite me” to the old regime by stealing all their stuff.  The issue is the return to control.  Cities work because of city workers picking up the garbage, keeping the generators running, the water pumping, firemen putting out fires, hospitals patching up the injured, supermarkets selling bread, dry cleaners cleaning, auto repair places, all the little shops and services that make an infrastructure and an economy.  Until the population feels safe enough to return to work, there will be no work and no working city or economy. 

This was driven home in Somalia when the entire state imploded.  Anyone having any prosperity at all was considered an enemy and would be persecuted by those who had nothing but an empty belly and a gun.  Black markets in food, water, medicine and other basics grew overnight, the coin being salvage materials. 

Mogadishu was essentially stripped of all copper plumbing piping as you could sell the copper for a few coins to buy bread.  All the telephone and electrical cables were pulled up or off the poles, for the metal, for black market food or medicine. 

Therefore, even if you could restore public services, there was no way to get the services, like water, sewer, electrical or phone, to anyone, because the delivery mechanism was missing.  Therefore, as an employee of these organizations, there is no work, no pay and no job.  In order to feed the family, I must now steal stuff to sell to the black market.  It is a big circle.

Post-WWII, the Marshall Plan in Germany put just about everyone to work, rebuilding the economy, clearing the rubble, patching the roads, putting in sewers, hanging the electrical grid and so on.  The same thing was done in postwar Japan.  People were paid, at first by the Allies, then by contractors, to do the work.  It jumpstarts the economy and patches up the infrastructure that has to be there to make the country function. 

We’re not talking political infrastructure either:  Politics are not needed.  A working village, city, town or suburb is.  You should be able to turn a tap and get water or plug in a lamp and get light.  Someone on the block, or a short walk away, should be making bread, or selling vegetables. 

Today, those Iraqi soldiers marching home from the north, should be offered food, water, shelter and some money, in exchange for some manual labour clearing bombed buildings, or filling in trenches.  Think simple, like the Depression, the AlCan Highway, or the Tennessee Valley Authority.  Simple work, some pay, some food.

Offer a weeks’ work.  Some of them might even stay longer, but you get three benefits.  One, you get the holes in the street filled in, or the electrical grid back up.  Two, you make it hard for rebel groups to pop up, promising food for your family in exchange for a suicide bomb run.  Three, you can go through those workers, issuing new IDs, checking for war criminals while finding the individuals who are willing to work to rebuild the country. 

There’s no politics in this.  I would argue that politics should be purposely ignored for the next month or so.  Fix the cities, towns and villages first.  Then start worrying about who is left or right, or effective, or influential, or represents some ‘important’ group.

Screw that noise until you can get the lights back on. 

Gulf War Betty or Wilma


Since I am pig and make no apologies about it…here is the Gulf War Correspondent Betty or Wilma List from Google.com

Christine Amanpour:  Not even with Ari Fleischer’s

Lisa Rose Williams(?):  OK, but she’s got no hogans

Suzanne Malveaux:  Anyone with a last name of “Bad Veal” is deserving.  The 1942 hairstyle is a great touch, as long as she’s in garters.

Lisa Laflamme:  Only in desperation if you get hand cramps.

Paula Zahn:  Until my ears bleed and you smell burning rubber

Rym Brahimi:  Stack it with Lisa Rose Williams and I say ‘yeah..baby’

Victoria Clarke:  Only over the hood of a HUMMVEE wearing camouflage chaps

Candy Crowley:  Sure, why not?  Probably bounces like Silly Putty in a tile wall bathroom. 

Kelly Wallace:  Could be a fun weekend but needs tequila.

Mrs. S. Hussein:  Shock and Awe result when you find out she’s a guy.

As for those who are so utterly appalled by this posting, check today’s date please.