Pot Head On Quitting Pot

When I was in high school, marijuana was all the rage.

I remember turning green one day in grade eleven, missing the bulk of afternoon classes after sharing a cigarette laced with 'feathered' hashish over the lunch break. I became quite nauseous and dizzy soon after our 'toke sesh' wrapped-up.

My little puke fest was somewhat curious given that this particular "smoke-pit special" (our high school had a pro-smoking courtyard) wasn't exactly my first dose of astronaut tobacco, and nobody else in our lunchtime bad-boy circle seemed to be suffering any ill effects afterward. Looking back, it must've just been something I ate that day.

Since those carefree times (and over a dozen or so pounds of plant matter later) my recent decision to abstain from pot altogether is not based on anything other than a personal desire to become reacquainted with a brain devoid of Mary Jane.

I'm neither an advocate nor a proponent of marijuana use.  I'm quite libertarian in approaching the subject, and obviously it would  be entirely hypocritical of me to ever chastise anyone for partaking in the rite of the devil weed.

For the longest time, I nearly convinced myself that my artistic side actually needed herbal jazz cigarettes to ignite the creative process. I knew it wasn't really true - I merely enjoyed the euphoric effects of pot, and was more than willing to conjure up all sorts of justifications for my continued use of it.

If you're someone who happens to be of the mindset where you somehow believe you cannot live without a perpetual supply of dried-out stuff in ziplock baggies, I would encourage you to challenge yourself to try dropping the habit altogether. Tell yourself: it'll just be for one single week.

Judging from my own experience, there's at least a modicum of truth to the claims that stopping routine pot use does not result in any significant physical withdrawl symptoms. Unlike severe alcohol dependency, you're not likely to find yourself hyperventilating through gritted teeth as you collect a bunch of jigsaw puzzle pieces strewn across the kitchen floor.

I suppose if you're someone who is depending upon THC for non-recreational purposes, it's another matter altogether - a matter in which I personally have only a limited understanding of.

On that note:

Judging Iron Foot Place

The curvilinear art of Canadian painter Alex Janvier is perhaps ranked among the most distinguished art in the world of modern Canadian art, and modern art abroad for that matter. I should confess however, that I'm one of those people who wouldn't know art if it were hidden in a pile of shiny steel balls on the side of the highway! Still, I'm sure I could spot a Janvier from an arena's length  away with my unaided eye.

In all seriousness, I grew up seeing one phase of Mr. Janvier's career unfurl in a flurry of sweeping lines and patterns that challenge the eye and capture the imagination. More than a few prints of his originals hang in the Cold Lake regional hospital - the same hospital where I was circumcised after converting to Judaism in my late teens.*

Can't recall the title, but this is one of my favorite Janvier paintings. 

His latest commissioned piece, "Iron Foot Place" is soon to be entombed in a section of Edmonton's new hockey-game arena known as The Winter Hard On.


Upon the revealing, Twitter's #yeg echo chamber was experiencing a leap frog like procession of excitement and praise for the $0.70 million dollar masterpiece. Soon after the announcement of its official selection for the rapidly integrating Rogers Place breezeway, the salivating Edmonton press were quickly competing to see who could type 'aboriginal' the fastest.

Though no art critic am I, I do know enough to know that one cannot fully appreciate any original painting or sculpture from merely looking at a digital picture of it.

My thing has always been music, but, sadly, Jimmy quit and Jodi got married. We sure did a great deal of tripping-out over plans to take Edmonton by storm with our unique brand of psychadelic rock music back in the day. We were loud and stoned anyway.

I'll be honest. I prefer the avant garde when it comes to paintings. While Alex's style never really spoke to my particular senses, I applaud his successful career all the same, and I am pleased to see that he's not showing any signs of slowing down. He's really old!

If anyone from Edmonton is reading this, here's an idea to jot down on one of those City Lab postcards your mayor is stashing around town: 

1) Prop up a whitewashed 30' X 30' board against a wall somewhere - maybe Rexall Place.

2) Enlist a group of minor hockey players with hockey sticks to line up thirty feet away.

3) Position a few high speed video cameras to record the action from different angles.

4) Have a volunteer ready to dunk 300 or so tennis balls in pails of different coloured paint, and toss   them into the line of fire one by one.

5) Allow time for paint to dry while editing the video footage of the event.

6) Call the resultant abstract piece "Slapshot City", and have all the kids sign their names to it.

7) Display "The Making Of Slapshot City" near the finished piece on a big flat panel display.

8) Don't forget who came up with the idea! You heard it here first!

Hey... you're welcome, Edmonton!



     
*I'm kidding of course. I'm still a Christian Gentile despite undergoing the surgical removal of my toque in my late teens.  
  

Facebook Fun With The Diesel Bun

A few days ago I discovered a Facebook page with an oilfield theme that allows you to submit anonymous posts via a proxy website. Being that I've never exactly worked "in the patch", I thought it'd be fun to see if I couldn't concoct a "confession" that was convincing enough to garner some feedback.


My first submission:

http://www.facebook.com/oilfieldconfessions

Forty-nine responses (not including sub-replies) greeted the fictional dilemma of my own design the following day. Here's the first one up:

http://www.facebook.com/oilfieldconfessions

Salient points duly noted! 

The Newfoundland gestapo is in full effect you fucking poors!

Now, I dare not fault my fellow man for submitting to whatever authoritarian dictates happen to stand between himself and his fulfillment of any financial obligations or goals he might have, but this particular Canadian Citizen would have to have a family to feed before even considering the act of urinating in a cup for a shot at earning a steady paycheck. 

In my opinion, such an act of submission is really no different than if you were to ask me to kneel before a boardroom of foreign chairmen just to be granted the privilege of begging them for a scrap of their fancifully exorbitant epicurean brunch platter spread out on some gleaming ebony table worth more than all the nutmeg in Grenada.  

Essentially, if my handshake and assurances aren't good enough to satisfy the imperial overlords of Canachin, then Chinada Inc. isn't good enough for me. 

The motives behind responsible corporate entities subjecting applicants to mandatory drug screening prior to contractually engaging them with inherently dangerous working commissions is entirely understandable for obvious reasons. Still, it only causes me to question what sorts of unsavory archetypes I might find myself thrown into the mix with in the field. It's my understanding, after all, that there exists both technical and administrative methods to foil the whole damn bloody "pre-employment" pissing process anyway.    

While my phony job offer spiel was impulsively written on a whim, my sentiment was partly genuine. And though it was inadvertent, I do feel a tad ashamed about eliciting heartfelt advice from the unsuspecting and the kindest respondents to the post. As for all the arrogant clever boots.... GOTCHA chump!  

My next anonymous submission was somewhat more creative - although I cannot take credit for inventing the idea of the "diesel bun" itself. In fact, it was a friend of mine who insisted it's a real phenomenon around drilling rigs, but I remain skeptical. He invoked a convincing indigenous-people's accent as he related it to me so many years ago and boy did I laugh! 

I could tell that several of the respondents to my little pretext were wise to its fabricated nature...

https://www.facebook.com/oilfieldconfessions

... and here, someone was right-quick to confront my fictional female swamper - with both guns blazing!

Yowza! Such a charmer! Showed me who's boss! 

From now on, whenever I fool someone, I'm going to abruptly shout, "Diesel Bun!" 

My internet access may be out of commission for an indeterminate period of time. Any contributions will expedite the restoration of my connectivity.  

Thanks for reading. 

Why Was A 9th Century Viking Woman buried with a ring that says 'for Allah' on it?

Yuri's Chamber

Yuri's Chamber

The shadow of her hair does trick
before a candle's flick'ring.
Smooth those rounding walls do spire
the mortar moist 'tween white stone brick.

Follow me she whispers quick;
It's time that you knew Ivan!
For though you slumber in your nid,
Do I not see behind those lids
That narrow with each question?

Counter clockwise down the steps,
Swifter, swifter, swifter.
Counter clockwise 'till the room
Where truth gives way to fiction!

Count the spines of volumes here,
And when you wake remember-
To never tell, this place near
Hell; but one to know the number
True, and keep in mind who's
After you!

Clockwise shall we now ascend as
Specters spiral 'twixt the shimmer
Of the graven spines that lead us
To the volumes- deep within the
Womb of saints' and tyrants'
Tales of blood O
Tales of toil well hidden!

Find me here but once again,
And I shall lead you once again:
Counter clockwise down these steps,
A league beneath the metochion.

White stone brick that binds with
Mortar seized and softened for its
Purpose with the sweat and tears of
Masons grand and graven all to house
The tomes of Yuri's chamber.
 
-I. IX

Luong Phong's Trunk

I will not eat green bile from snake,
I will not eat what Luong Phong make!

I would not eat no wart from toad, 
I would not eat it on the road!
Nor will I eat it fried or stewed,
Nor if it's served-up diced and gooed!

I do not eat dog, bug, nor skunk,
I do not eat from Luong Phong's trunk.

I do not think rice wine is nice,
I do not like my cheese with lice.

No rat no cat no monkey or fox,
Lest upon my house there falls a pox!

Some bug's wing is not my thing,
Please to my table do NOT bring,
Your serpent's platter filled with creep,
Fermented goop in some flung heap!

Blow your blowfish up your yin,
Your kitchen stinks like a bin of sin!

I do not eat for some taboo,

I don't eat crap, and nor should you!

Tape Head Insert Socket

Why complicate things? Simple solutions for people on the go.