Alternative National Anthem 🇨🇦

Oh, Cannabis!

Our high and native land.

True patriot bud,

In all thy bongs’ command.

With glowing joints,

We see red eyes,

The true north strong with weed.

From far and wide,

Oh, Cannabis,

We have dime bags for thee.

Pot, keep our land,

Bodacious and free,

Oh, Cannabis,

We stand on guard for weed.

Oh, Cannabis,

We stand on guard for weed!

Could this be my country’s new national anthem?  Any thoughts?

Do you jog...or chino?

I will sign a lease on Thursday, so I want to talk about jogger chino cargo pants.

Yeah, I’m confused by what I just wrote, too. They are jogging pants, if you ignore the particular material used to make them. They are also chinos, whatever that really means. But they are considered a type of cargo pants, minus the extra outer pockets.

And why are they so popular? North Americans are viewed by Europeans as wearing too much “athletic clothing” (their phrase for it), and I think they have a point. I already see enough baseball caps and logos to be sick of them and wish for a very real fashion police force to step in and enforce their necessary rules.

Now, I live in Montreal, home of the les Canadiens, poutine, and an interesting fashion quirk with these trousers. I thought I had seen it all until I noticed that young guys - always guys - were wearing these pants with either too short or no socks at all. This baffled me, especially considering how long this winter has been.  But think I know why: one interesting feature of these pantaloons is the fact that they can be slimming, at least to the eye. Wearing them, it can feel as those your calves are enclosed in sausage casings. So, what must be happening is that these guys get the pants on, realize they’ve forgotten their hosiery, and decide to just get anything on that fits. Not much space is left over for thick woolen socks once you get these pants on.

And as a confession, I must confess to owning four of these buggers, rarely wearing them out of the home unless the weather does not choose to cut a cold blade of ice through me.

I will learn how to appreciate them someday...

A Noise in the Basement

As I think about househunting in Montreal, I am thinking about America.

I did get lucky with the place I saw today: newly renovated with washers for my clothes and dishes, and no stairs to tackle (driveway entrance). This is probably my new home, if I don’t forget to pester the landlord and they actually believe my rundown on my income and work.

And yet, I think about America...

As a Canadian, I am often asked about our relationship with the people to the south. Canadians still define themselves by not being American, but there are better ways at looking at our nation as we stare at the border: imagine that you are home late at night. It has been a long day; you’re tired; you just want you favourite Netflix/YouTube moments flowing on a screen in front of you as you gorge on Doritos.

And then you hear a noise in the basement...

Now, what do you do? Go the Horror Movie/Scooby-Doo route and check out
 the commotion, or stay put and see what happens next?

For me, this is the quintessential portrait of what it means to be a Canadian at this very dizzy moment in history. If the noise stops, the lights stay on, nothing leaks up through the floorboards, or attempts to climb up the stairs, you can live your life. Once any of those statements proves not to be true, then we need to act. Fortunately, Canada is not a country the U.S. takes much of an interest in (and look at what happens to countries when they take an interest in them).

So, we let the noises continue...

Oh, and that place I saw today? It was the ground floor of a home...with no basement!