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A half joking meme that was started online has us thinking. For those who don’t know, 24 Sussex Drive in Ottawa, is the Prime Minister’s Residence.  10 Downing Street, or the White House are very much the seat of power, being the residence of the head of government and set up very much as the seat of government.  24 Sussex is a residence, that once in a blue moon might host some foreign dignitary.  Usually Rideau Hall, the home of the Governor-General, conveniently across the street, is used for official receptions, like when Queen Betty the Deuce comes to town, or the Lord High Bisboth of Absurdistan makes an official visit.  Rideau Hall is set up for that kind of party, 24 Sussex is not really built for it.

The real work of the PM is done downtown in the Langevin Block, right across the street from Parliament, and is called the PMO: 24 Sussex is where the Prime Minister hangs his or her housecoat and where the offspring run rampant.  With the impending installation of our new Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, who played in the trees and rooms of 24 Sussex as a kid when his Dad, Pierre Trudeau, ran the country, there is discussion about the state of 24 Sussex.

The joint sits on 4 acres (1.6 hectares) of the most beautiful land in Ottawa, overlooking the Ottawa River. Next door is the French Embassy and across the street is Rideau Hall.  A condo developer would sell his extended family into slavery in North Korea to get his (or her) mitts on this parcel of land.  The view is incredible, but the house is a shit hole.

Originally opened in 1868, it was built for lumber baron and Member of Parliament J. M. Currier. In 1943 the Feds expropriated 24 Sussex, divesting the owner at the time, Gordon Evans, also a lumber baron and MP, of his ownership.  The Feds wanted to own as much land as possible around Rideau Hall and along the shoreline of the Ottawa River as they could.  Evans was eventually awarded $140,000, but got even by dying in the place in 1946.  24 Sussex sat dormant for a few years and since 1951, every Prime Minister since Louis St, Laurent (except Kim Campbell) has lived at 24 Sussex Drive during their mandate.  Justin Trudeau has just announced he won’t be moving into 24 Sussex when he is sworn in next week.  He’s going to put his toothbrush into Rideau Cottage on the grounds of Rideau Hall.

How much of a shit hole is 24 Sussex? The last time we were allowed to ask, there is no central air conditioning, the heat works often, the roof looks like it saw its’ best day 1995 and probably leaks, the rooms are chopped up and are decorated with all the skill of bureaucrats at the National Capitol Commission on acid.  There is probably asbestos in the walls.  The wiring may date from 1920, so when the PM turns on the bathroom lights, the doorbell rings and the RCMP radios stop working.  Want WiFi?  Take your Prime Ministerial Blackberry over to the French Embassy next door and see if you can get some bars.  There are security cameras galore and probably a safe room since Jean Chretien’s wife found an intruder in 24 Sussex at some ungodly hour in 1995.  Aline Chretien talked the guy down, while the PM, Jean Chretien, armed himself with a Innuit sculpture to brain the intruder, Andre Dallaire.

The Auditor General determined, in 2008 (that’s seven years ago, or in Government Time, before the Birth of Christ) that 24 Sussex needs about $10 million worth of work.

To which we reply thusly. Hell yeah!  No, seriously, Hell YEAH!  Take our share of the tax dollars and give our PM a residence that is appropriate to the office.

But we want to do it differently. The CBC and Home and Garden Television (HGTV) Canada have stables of very well-known renovation, restoration and decoration personalities that do very good work.  Do a deal with the CBC and HGTV and tape the whole thing.  First off, Mike Holmes (Holmes Inspection) could do a reality check on the joint, then his crew would gut it out to the door knobs.  Steve Grimes up on the roof, ripping off shingles, Sherry Holmes punching a sledge hammer through some plaster and lath in the master ensuite, while Mike Jr. and Carl Pavlovic try to fit a steel beam into the basement to keep the floors up.  Then Brian Baumler comes in to de-screw the room layouts while Frank Cozzolino re-wires the place.  Outside, Paul Lafrance and his crew of saw jockeys rebuild the decks and common spaces.  As the walls go up, Steven Sabados (of Steven and Chris on CBC) goes back into harness with a few historical mooks from the NCC to furnish and decorate the public and private spaces with taste and the right mix of modern with historically appropriate.

Now, how long could this go on? The Auditor General guesstimates that it would take a year.  Sounds about right, but with the delays that television production causes, call it a year and a half.  That could easily be six hour-long shows, with a near-100% Canadian content in products, services and personalities.  You could even wedge in some historical background and teaching moments.  Would it be a good reno?  Considering the A-G figures it would cost $10 million to do it on the government dime, which is about twice what it would cost if it was private money, we’d get value for the money.  The worst that could happen is the NCC will talk to “This Old House” and convince Kevin and The Boys to come up to Canada for a year.  Which would be horrible from a national pride point of view, but fascinating to see Tom Silva fighting with a real poutine over at Ti-Gus’ in Gatineau.

Is this just messed up enough to work? You know, it might be.

It has been a while, hasn’t it?  Yes, yes, I know, but sometimes life intrudes.  Let’s play catch-up.

Harper Shit-Canned:  Our Federal election, which our former PM, The Right Honourable Stephen (Call me the Right Honourable Stephen Harper) Harper managed to devolve into a fear-mongering contest of mean-spirited backroom media manipulation and party faithful bludgeoning, was fired by the electorate on Monday.  The Liberals, under Justin Trudeau swept the table with a majority of Canadians in a record turn-out, repudiating the mean-spirited, micro-managing and message massaging of the Harper and his back-room goons.

Fortunately Harper bought a piece of land  in Alberta and will soon retire there to slowly drown in his bitter tears of defeat.  Harper was responsible for the gutting of the Progressive Conservative Party and the very conscious rooting out of Progressive Conservatives anywhere in the ranks.  You might be allowed to stick around if you immediately erected a shrine to Preston Manning on your desk and said very unpleasant things about immigrants, minorities and how poorly treated the top 1% of the population have been oppressed.

Another Trudeau:  Justin’s got some big promises to live up to.  Yes, he’s young, inclusive and has some new ideas, but he is also inheriting an economy that has been gutted, sun-dried and parceled off to Harper’s biggest contributors.  Change will come in the bureaucracy, but only if Trudeau summarily dismisses the top 10% of deputy ministers and senior bureaucrats who only know how to bow towards the Langevin Block as the source of all wisdom and words that can be used.

A word to Justin?  Your ministers will want to change things and quickly, but ADM’s and DM’s are the stumbling block.  They’ll tie any real change up in knots for the next four years by studying the hair off it.  Clean drinking water for First Nations reserves?  There is no need to study it for more than a week.  But your ministerial bureaucrats will examine the H2 and O under a microscope for years if you let them.  Don’t let them.  Give them simple orders and a deadline and a reminder that at a certain level, Deputy Ministers are employed at the discretion of the Crown, which can be revoked on the recommendation of the Minister.  That takes about one phone call, so get those bureaucrats in line now, or you won’t be able to do jack.  They respond well to threats and do truly deserve a good boxing about the ears for their behavior.

Obama:  He’s a lame-duck now and frankly the US has devolved into a freak show of racists, gun-nuts and the economically marginalized.  The whipped topping is fake, the cake is stale and the filling has more chemicals than a Sarnia Saturday Night.  Entire states have disintegrated into pockets of third-word poverty but with a social media presence to make it look respectable.  California is out of water, but the Kardashians can still keep their lawns beautiful.

The US has become a nation of peep-hole masturbators who can never be rich or successful, but sure do want to watch it happen to others.  A telling survey is that of children in early elementary school grades, when asked what they want to be when the grow up answer “A Celebrity”.  Not a fireman, or a doctor, or a teacher, but the most useless percentage of society possible who should be loaded onto the B-Ark and sent to a distant planet.

Why, because the entire media setup in the US is designed to glorify the stupid but pretty and to make sure you’re scared shitless, twice a night, with the 6 pm news and the 11 pm news.  Donald Trump as a serious candidate for the Republican Party leadership is the QED.  The other supporting documentation is that the vast majority of US readers will have no clue what QED means, why we used it in this context, or even where to possibly find information to lead them to the answer.  The few that will find it, will then post that we’re being elitist and liberal, two of the dirtiest words in the American lexicon of sane and reasoned discourse.  By the way, will the last person to leave Detroit please turn off the lights after you tag the walls of City Hall with your gang affiliation or some other pithy comment.

We keep on keepin’ on.

Credit – Unofficial: Banksy https://www.facebook.com/banksy/photos/a.1471310386425716.1073741828.1471162443107177/1603110169912403/?type=1&fref=nf

We’re going to enter the Duck Dynasty debacle with both feet, at least one in our collective mouth.

We’re also going to simplify here to bring the argument down to the core by using an analogy, so you’ll have to stay with it a bit.

I don’t like cauliflower.  I don’t like the taste.  I don’t like the texture.  I’ve tried it several dozen ways, over a period of many years and I don’t like it.  You may agree with me. Or you may not. 

Some people might send me fourteen of their favorite recopies for cauliflower gratin, sautéed, boiled, with cheese sauce, or lardons of pig cheeks and garlic over a bed of quinoa and steamed kale.  (Note to the reader; don’t bother)

Others, of a differing view might simply say “Dave don’t like cauliflower and if he ever comes here for dinner, we won’t serve him any”  (Note to the reader; I’m probably not coming to dinner at your place)

A third group, with a little too much time on their hands, would protest that I’m not being supportive of the cauliflower industry.  Not only that, but I’m not in favor of a fair wage for Mexican field workers, or long-distance truckers, or restrictions on Genetically Modified Organisms, or Organic Fair-Market Produce because I don’t like cauliflower.  For that matter, I’m anti-California as that’s where the majority of cauliflower consumed in North America is grown. (Note to the reader:  California sucks, I’ll wear that one.)

A fourth group would picket or email bomb WordPress because they’re carrying this blog on their platform and are responsible for me stating, “I don’t like cauliflower” 

They’ll demand WordPress should immediately suspend RoadDave because I’m not supporting fair wages for Mexican field workers, long-distance trucking, restrictions on GMO’s, and Organic Fair-Market Produce and am probably in league with Satan/Liberals/Islamic Fundamentalist to the point that I was likely the 22nd hijacker on 9/11. (Note to the reader; If this is your worldview, then you need your meds adjusted)

The nub of it all is this:  I’m entitled to my opinion and to express it.  I don’t like cauliflower.  I am also entitled to NOT buy cauliflower.  You can’t make me, guilt me, or coerce me into plunking down my hard-earned cash for cauliflower, even if it’s locally produced, organically grown and wrapped lovingly in sustainable packaging on the supple thighs of nubile, readily consenting farm maidens.  (Note to the reader:  Maybe the farm maidens…nope.)

Your obligation is to accept that I don’t like cauliflower.  My obligation is to listen to your pitch with some degree of politeness and then tell you that you have not changed my opinion.  We agree to disagree.

Phil Robertson doesn’t like homosexuals?  So what?  He’s entitled to his opinion.  Nobody is being forced to watch Duck Dynasty or buy their merch.  There are no camo vans trolling the streets with teams of bearded followers forcing you to watch the show. 

Express your displeasure with your wallet, or the finger on your remote. 

Express your acceptance with your wallet or your finger on the remote.

I’m expressing my opinion.  I’m not buying cauliflower.  

We’re catching up with the panoply of events current.

Kim Jong-un is the the hottest of hottiest, at least according to North Korea, having been given the title Sexiest Man Alive by no less an august source as The Onion.  Needless to say the national press in North Korea has agreed, pointing to the exceptional taste exhibited by the decadent Western Capitalist media hordes. 

Naturally, the Korean Central News Agency has also found and reconfirmed the lair of the mythical unicorn  ridden by King Tongmyong before 668 AD.  Not 200 metres from the lair was a rock, carved with the words “Unicorn Lair” and an arrow.  And we make such a fuss about investigative journalism.

KC Chiefs linebacker Jovan Belcher lost the thread last week, murdered his spouse, then went to the stadium and killed himself in front of the coach.  A heart-wrenching tragedy to be sure, but so many of the mawkish tributes are conveniently leaving out that initial act of ‘shot his wife…’.  They are also leaving out Belcher’s string of concussions and substance issues that seem to be inconvenient around such a nice guy.

It’s much like the mandatory neighbour interview of someone who goes nuts and murders fourteen student nurses;  ‘He was just a great guy, kept to himself and wouldn’t hurt a fly, until we saw  the body parts coming out of the tree chipper and he was wearing a blue cocktail frock.  It was a bit of a surprise to the wife and me when we saw the SWAT show up with the Coroner.’

Prince William and his spousal unit, Kate have finally admitted that she’s pregnant, having been hospitalized with industrial strength morning sickness besmirching her perfect wardrobe  and demeanor. 

The headline, of course, is very wrong.  It  should be the more newsworthy:  “Happily married, heterosexual, white couple are having a child they deliberately want to have, likely through conventional means.” 

We’re looking to get some wagering action that the name will not be Beep, Bing or Nobby Windsor.  The current line is 6-1 that the offspring will be a ginger, at least according to the bookies in the UK who will accept wagers on anything.

The NHL strike is still going on.  That means the jock-sniffer component of society is starting to drool in withdrawal.  They might have to break down and actually talk to wife sometime between now and June 2013.  Sucks to be them, don’t it?

We understand the concept of Remembrance today, the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.  We are taught from a young age that we should take two minutes, once a year, to reflect on their sacrifice and their gift to the rest of us.  This is good of course, we should do this, it is important and our obligation as citizens.

Except it isn’t quite that simple.  As the veterans of various conflicts age and pass away, we lose the connections to the actual people involved.  True, the veterans of Korea, Viet Nam, peacekeeping missions everywhere and Afghanistan are still mostly with us and are as deserving of our thanks and respect as any veteran of WW2, but there aren’t as many of them, the lens of history often distorting how we perceive their battles and conflicts.

One veteran we’re familiar with wasn’t a front-line warrior, didn’t bomb the Ruhr from a Lancaster, or survive years of detention in a Stalag, fighting heroic battles.  He signed up in September 1941 with the Royal Canadian Air Force, learned how to fly, then learned how to instruct flying.  Serving only in Canada he was one of the thousands who taught others to do their duty, watching them graduate, then embark for Europe, to continue the fight from above. 

He rarely talked of his service, only occasionally reflecting that he never got to serve overseas, but understood his role of flight instructor, developing others to bring the fight forward.  His service was one of support, a cog in the great machine, more valuable at home, teaching others.  His contribution was as valuable as any and we still recall his quietude on November 11th every year.  What he was thinking of, we will never know for certain, as he never talked about it, keeping his feelings inside.  That was the way it was done in his generation. 

On one occasion we saw that reserve slip ever so slightly.  We were at the Canadian Air and Space Museum, at the display of the Lockheed Hudson.  You could see the memories flash behind his eyes, the long hours of training, the faces of the students, the drone of the engines and the continual static mush of the radios.  He looked the aircraft over, appreciatively, with a knowing familiarity, pointing out a few of the features of the aircraft had that he liked, or used every day, as one would appreciate the picture of an old friend, stories linking from small details, brought up from memory of how the Hudson was a bugger to trim and how the structure around the pilot’s seat would always catch the students around the kneecap the first time they climbed into the seat.

Known to the RCAF as J-50540 he left the RCAF as a Pilot Officer in 1945, transferring to the Reserve Special Section, then back to civvy street and the rest of his life.

Reading his Record of Service is but a tiny sketch of his involvement in the War.  A small part, a valuable part and a very personal part of one person who served.  He is who we think of at the hour, our personal connection. 

If you don’t have a personal connection, you can always borrow ours, with respect and thanks for his quiet contribution.

His name was Russell Scott.  He was my father-in law.

The past several dozen hours and the next several dozen hours see the planet go wobbly for a bit.  An earthquake hit on the Left Coast of Canada, near Haida Gwaii, tripping off the tsunami warnings out as far as Hawaii.  No serious damage, but still one heck of a shake. 

Near Wawa, Ontario, rains and storms have washed the Trans Canada away in several places.  The problem is that the only road across this part of Northern Ontario is the Trans Canada and the washouts aren’t little four-foot fixes.  One part of a whole car dealership and a half a motel washed away.  This is not a front-end loader full of gravel fix to the only road that runs left-to right across this part of the country.

Now Hurricane Sandy is set to roll into New York City tomorrow: Mayor Mike is closing the joint down as of 7 pm.  Weather-meat assure us that after Sandy hits it will roll up into Ontario, flood Toronto, make Niagara Falls run backwards and drown everyone from Ottawa to Montreal.  Or not.

What we’re seeing is October.  Damp, rainy, cold, grey October.  This is why rum was invented.  

We’ve received a few requests to explain the differences between Canadian Thanksgiving and American Thanksgiving for our American readers.  A few years ago Mason Baveux, our guest writer, did a piece on the comparisons between the two, so I asked him to do a rewrite.  After staring at me like I had a spare head growing out of my chest, he finally clued in;  “You mean like do’er over but explain her better?”  This is what he sent back;

Thanks lad fer givin me another shot at the blog writing. I’m getting the hang of ‘er and I don’t have to get my drink on like last time from watching the US politics. Plus, I’m startin to get a handle on this HyperTex Tampax Protocol stuff, ‘cept it sounds a little too feminine for me. Just the same. Thanksgiving.

OK, now us Canadians are havin our turkey today, the 8th of October.  You Yanks are getting stuffed November 22nd, what is also the anniversary of JFK gettin’ cured of his migraines.  You’d think we’d line these two holidays up a bit better, but there’s a reason why we don’t. Lemme explain it out for you.

The whole shebangs been going on since before there was a North America. Thanksgiving’s a harvest festival, meaning the locals got the crops in and then sat down to put the feedbag on before the snow flied.

In Europe, or the UK more like, she started raining for two friggin months, with a day or two of snow. She was too wet to plow or do much more than sit around the fire and say “Fook, she’s rainin; again. Yep, she’s rainin’ and we got fog too. Fook this, crack open ye olde flagon of ale and let’s get lit up!” Which is how they passed the winters in Bill Shakespeare’s time. The same’s true at Lahr in Germany, when the base was open there, which it isn’t anymore.

My Indian buddy, Peter Three-Skidoos told me about how the First Nationals used to celebrate the same thing over here, before the Europeans came over. Same idea of party it up before the snow flies. And Peter isn’t an Indian Indian, like from Calcutta with the curry. He’s 100 percent Ojibway First National: Like he says, his family met my family when we came over about 400 years ago, so he should know, right?

I did some looking up about it on that Wiki-tiki-tavi-pedia thing. Seems the first thanksgiving by white folks was done in 1548, in Newfie, fer Christ sake. The explorer Martin Frobisher, who was looking for the Northwest Passage, finally got back to his base camp on the Rock. Marty Frobisher and the rest of the lads cracked the rum open and had a go to celebrate Not Dying. Good a reason as any.

The Americans got into it late, as usual. We’re not counting some Spaniels, or Spanyards who did it up September 8th, 1565 near St. Augustine Florida. There were 600 of them, so’s I suspect there was a hell of a party. I think they had it near the Arby’s in St. Augustine. I’ve been there you know.

The American folks who claim the first one up, were what were called the Berkeley Hundred, in Dec 4 1619 near Jamestown Virginia. They weren’t into the turkey then, they were just glad to not be dead from sailing across the ocean. It was more a prayer service than anything.

The first Americans who did something like the kids story Thanksgiving were the Pilgrims at Plymouth Mass. Before the car, there was the town Plymouth and they did it in 1621. Seems that a First National called Squanto and his tribe, the Wampanomags taught the Pilgrims how to catch turkeys and eels and how to use the foods that grew there in Plymouth. That would be pumpkins and cranberries and squash and sweet potatoes. And turkey.

If Squanto and the Wampo tribe lads hadn’t been there to help the Pilgrims get their heads out of their arses, the Pilgrims would have all starved to death that winter and we wouldn’t have Plymouth cars. They’d be called Worcesters or Massachusettses. Worchester Belvedere? That’s no damn good.

For the longest time where Thanksgiving showed up on the Canadian and the American calendar moved around a bit. Up here we kept it in October, as that’s more or less when the last of the corn comes in. Down south, the seasons longer, so the US Thanksgiving sometimes would run later the more south you went.

For a while, both of us kept to the British tradition in October, but when the Yanks had their Revolution in 1776 they wanted to get rid of all the British leftovers, so they looked for a later date. It wasn’t until Honest Abe and Civil War that you Yanks settled on November and that’s where she sits now.

As for what we do up here, we do the same thing. We cook a big goddam turkey and more vegetables than the third floor ward at the Penatanguishine Home for the Insane. There’s bread stuffing, cranberries, both jellied and whole, mashed spuds, sweet potatoes, brussel sprouts, boiled carrots, green beans and enough gravy to float a skiff. You eat until your pants don’t fit, then loosen the belt and have seconds or thirds.

When you can’t see no more, you push back and take a break. In our house we used to have gravy bread for the last course. If you’ve never had gravy bread, I’ll give you the recipe. You take a slice of white bread, put it on the plate. Then you pour turkey gravy on it until is just starts to think about floating. Then you eat it. An old family recipe that.

Then there’s the pie. Pumpkin pie, apple pie, mincemeat pie and sometimes lemon pie. You get whipped cream on the pumpkin, but not on the lemon pie as that’s just wrong. And Apple Pie without Cheese is like a Kiss without a Squeeze.

For drinks, well, you’ve got the traditional basics: Rum and Coke. Rum and Ginger. Rum and Diet Coke for those who are watching their weight. After you’re done, sometimes there’s Rum and Coffee, but lately it’s been Bailey’s and Coffee, or Rum and tea for them what drinks tea. The usual measure is three fingers of Rum or Bailey’s and top the mug up with coffee.

By this time you’re half in the bag and can’t feel your legs anymore. Some of the family go out hunting, if its close to deer season. Well, more proper, they go jacklighting off the ATV’s or the snow machines, if we’ve had a early snow.

Sometimes they get a deer, but more often than not they just shoot the hell out of the highway signs. I’ve never seen them bring back the highway signs, but the deer always come back across the ATV if they’ve had some luck.

By now most of us have had a snooze and its about time for cards. Cribbage is the game of choice. Now there’s a choice of rum or beer. I’ll stick to the beer about then, as I can’t count cribbage if I’m full of rum. On the rum, it’s 15-2, 15-4 and then I get confused and it goes to hell from there. On the Red Cap, it’s fine. I can peg and count at the same time. There’s always an argument or two.

Around midnight, we give it up and go home.

I kinda like the old ways some days. Just a day for saying “Hey, we’re not dead today! Thanks!” The rest is good, but not always necessary, so’s your could say I’m from the Marty Frobisher school of Thanksgiving.  We’re not dead today!

Thank you Mason, as always, curiously insightful.  A Happy Canadian Thanksgiving to you all.

If you have ever watched or listened to almost any form of motorsports in the past few decades you’ve probably heard a voice from Brooklyn describing the action.  Odds are it was the Dean of American Motorsports writers, Chis Economaki.  Economaki passed away Friday at the age of 92. 

To be generous he had a face made for radio and a voice that could curdle milk, but had covered every form of motorsports since the age of 13 for various newspapers and magazines, as well as radio and television. 

During the 60’s when NASCAR was a regional personality quirk in the US South, it was Economaki that ABC tapped to cover the races for Wide World of Sports.  The few races that Wide World of Sports broadcast on several weeks’ delay, edited for length and barely covered with more than three cameras usually saw Chris Economaki in the pits.  He covered the Indy 500, Formula 1, Le Mans and even demolition derby races for Wide World of Sports, becoming very much the voice of all motorsports on television.

The television coverage he did to reach the masses, but his real passion was as an ink-stained wretch.  He wrote for, then edited, then owned National Speed Sport News until 2011.

It didn’t matter if it was stock cars, modifieds, midgets, sprints, big cars, drag racing, sports cars, Can-Am, Indy cars, F1, F2, or four guys running junkers around the hay bales, Economaki covered it and loved it.  You can’t ask for a better career than that.