I wish to address an inquietude that has been vehemently placed upon my powers of observation as of late.
I drive a 1985 two-toned brown, 4 door Toyota Camry (relatively rust free). Now I am not naïve as to the negative and down right aristocratic criticism and disdain that the Audi drivers and the Mercedes owners of Calgary may feel for my little car, and dare I say even for me. I feel that my car mechanically pigeon holes me into an unfair stereotype of poverty and overall self- nullification on my part. With the weight of this knowledge upon me, I still face the bottlenecked, construction strewn streets of Calgary day after day, with as much pride and dignity as my character allows me. Having said this, I wish to address the so-called “Bourgeoisie” or “Elites” of the Calgarian population.
Now, upon returning to our great nation from a year and half absence, I was exultant upon the discovery of above average and down right “good” radio stations gracing the Calgary airwaves; the most recent, and by far the best in my personal opinion, being 90.3 Fuel. I have found myself on more than one occasion, caught up in the euphoria of the great music of our history. I hear the first guitar riffs of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, or ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and I am alight. Sometimes, should I feel compelled to do so, I even shout out a felicitous cry of collaboration with the DJ’s and their good choices. I ready myself…the music gives way for the words…
And there I am, alone, singing in my car. Not just singing...jammin’. From the dashboard drums to the air guitar, it’s no ordinary drive home. But I stop, perhaps disconcerted by the motionless, soundless scene which surrounds me left to right. No one else is jamming. No one else is jamming, guys. They’re just staring straight ahead, praying that their eyes will not be veered even a fraction of a degree and cause them to make any sort of eye-contact with any other human being. Mouths closed, eyes fixed. On what, you ask? NOTHING! ON NOTHING! Why do we pretend that we are bound by propriety, and could never bring ourselves to the “self-degradation” of rocking out alone (which is a point that shall be argued shortly) to our favorite songs? Do you think that Led Zepplin (may it rest in peace) meant for its songs to fall upon cold, lifeless ears that dismiss it as background? If you want to sit and think pensively, than do it. But don’t mock the Gods of rock by demeaning their creations to mere filler.
Look Jack Uptighty McTighterson, you can’t fool me… I know that all you wanna do is lose it when you hear ‘Billy Jean’ come on the radio. You curse the conventional vehicle and its restraints to the dancer inside you. So go on! Don’t be frightened. Let it start with lip syncing, then you can add in the “whoa”s, and then my young chiquito, it will grow into a incomparable pastime that will fill your world with joy and possibility. With time and practice, you’re looking at a lucrative karaoke career.
So I will not stop rocking out to my favorite tunes on the radio. Send your stares; send your disapproval and mockery! I will not be moved! One day you too will catch yourself in a wicked head rhythm trying to hit those notes that only Freddy can. And someday, maybe we can overcome this vice that divides us, be joined in music as a community…as a family. And I promise you on that day that you break out of that futile shell, you’ll look over to the car beside you, and there I’ll be, smiling, with a single tear running down my cheek.

"Rowling: 'Dumbledore Is Gay' At a public appearance at Carnegie Hall in New York, author J.K. Rowling announced that Dumbledore, the headmaster character in her popular Harry Potter series, is homosexual. What do you think? "

Larry Hahn,
Water Delivery Man
"Wow. I hadn't heard that. I've been really busy lately not caring about the sexual preferences of fictional people."

For those of you wondering, yes I did rip this off of the Onion and I in no way claim it to be my own. But I reflect the sentiment. Come on people!

Can you smell that? Ahhhh. That is the smell of pure, unadulterated, throbbing anticipation in the air.
As I went out to my car this morning, I was disheartened to see the touch of frost on my windshield and hood. This scene, to the far off oranges and yellows of neighboring trees, called my mind to reflection…
Whatever city you may find yourself in, all across North America, we are all joined in the common aspect of one thing. Assemblages of children, from one to 93, are awaiting the most sacred of all the pagan holidays…all hallows’ eve. From ghosts to pirates, princesses to pirate wenches; the hunt for the perfect costume is never an easy one. But children north of the 49th parallel find themselves under a shroud of a much greater angst. Unlike the cushy Halloweens of the ‘mild winter’ to ‘no winter’ states, we here in the Great White North face the pale-faced, ruthless shrew, that is Mother Nature. Any seasoned trick or treater from Canada knows well the risks that you take in the choice of any costume, transforming them into a veritable gambler.
Almanacs, elderly, rheumatic bones, meteorologists…they offer no real confirmation. The kind with which you could, with confidence, invest your allowance of months gone by; countless sacrifices of fun, movies, digital pets and jelly beans; into a costume sure to win you higher social status and infuse you with the energy and the buoyancy to go longer than you have any year before.
October 1st, most of us wake up and hardly take notice of anything other than having to write 10 instead of 9, or the increase of orange in our daily lives. But just down the hall, as your sons and daughters wake, they hesitate to open their eyes, and their bodies lie stiff, as a blatant cenotaph of the inner struggle between faith and memory. Their eyes open, slowly. Light begins to register in their minds. If the light is a yellow, warming light – faith wins the battle and belief is permitted to build its defenses that day, under scrupulous caution and reserve. But, if the light is gray, being filtered through overcast and holding no warmth whatsoever – a painful release enters into the child’s body as memory wins the battle and the strain and panic take seed. And so goes everyday in October. Until you get into the final countdown.
I tell you now, all the hours I spent analyzing, contemplating and pontificating my theories and arguments, meant nothing once we hit the 20th of October. Mother Nature’s curve ball, as I like to call it. No matter what patterns have been formed in the weeks prior, sun, rain, snow, Chinooks, blizzards, locusts - what have you…it all amounts to nothing in those last ten days. Patterns and theories are thrown to the wind and the true mind games begin. Everyday, the pressure mounts until that fateful day when the decisions are made, props are bought and acquired and masterpieces are organized. We give into the struggle for omnipotent control over sun and earth, and submit ourselves to the greater power which confounds and dethrones us.
Little girls, praying, that they won’t have to wear snow suits underneath their beautiful yards of pink tooling and satin. That their wands may be graced by a soft hand adorned with the glittering of silver plastic rings and rhinestones; instead of a scratchy wool mitten unromantically connected through the inside of a huge, figure altering winter jacket to the other hand holding onto an old pillowcase. Armies of ostensibly anaphylactic princesses; and atop their frowning faces, a tiara, balanced upon a touque. It isn’t a pretty picture, but it is just how it is. We have all been through it, and I make the argument that we have a better grasp on the harsh realities of life because of it.
The day is coming my friends. We are only a few days away. So take it easy on those kids. If by a turn of wicked fate, the weather turns and we have a white Halloween - don’t buy crap candy, and don’t be stingy either. Give those little troopers a champion’s reward for braving a Canadian Halloween.