Yet another reason to live north of the border

Some of dear readers in the good old U.S. of A. are probably grateful that their bank deposits are insured. In Canada, we have no such fear.

Not Canada.

And have we mentioned Quebec's paternity benefits program?

Don't mess with Canada

U.S. Democratic presidential hopefuls Clinton and Obama have been sparring about NAFTA lately as they each try to gain ground in Ohio. Both parties have suggested the possibility of "renegotiating NAFTA" to a greater or lesser extent. Sometimes US elected officials, like all USians, I suppose, seem to forget that the rest of the world has ears. And newspapers. And oil.

Wouldn't you know it? The US's largest supplier of oil isn't Saudi Arabia--it's Canada. Care to guess what kind of import taxes we levy in Canadian oil? That's right: zero. Care to guess why? That's right: NAFTA. If the US starts messing with NAFTA, don't be surprised if Canada starts talking about China's virtues as a trading partner.

Oh, and incidentally, every time you fill up your tank, you contribute to the scourging of Canada. Calgary may get richer for a while off this stuff, but the sheer scale of the environmental catastrophe unfolding in Alberta's oil patch beggars the imagination.

Each truck: 3369.99 hp, 380 ton capacity, 47' x 30' x 21': roughly the size of 1-bedroom apartment.

Maple syrup nation

Being somewhat more travel-prone than your average bloggers, we TruffleWarreners absolutely love maps.

Old maps of Montréal.


Taoist maps of the human body.


Silly maps of the internet.

Give us an adjective, we've got a map to match. Try us. We dare you. And if you think we aren't ready for you, just chew on this: we've even got a maple syrup map. Well, actually it's a food traditions map, but, well... just look for yourself:

The maple syrup nation self-evidently has a manifest destiny to engulf the continent.

In all honesty, I had never really thought of maple syrup as the basis of a food culture. H assures me that it is--but then, H argues with some earnest that maple syrup qualifies as its own food group. Moi, je suis sceptique. After all, the same authority from which we're deriving the very concept of the maple syrup nation also indicates the existence of a clambake nation and a pinyon nut nation. So count me skeptical... but tickled.

Even Canada is becoming wary

It's not often that the New York Times publishes an article which defends (however grudgingly) Canada when it disparages the US. Usually, even the most cosmopolitan Americans chalk up Canadian grousing to Canada's supposed inferiority complex. Sometimes it's enough to make you think that maybe the chip is on the southern shoulder.

Evidently, the various policies of Our Glorious Leader (and I'm assuming you know the ones I mean) have now been in effect long enough that the tissue of international agreements which forms the legal foundation of our fast-globalizing society is beginning to fray at the edges. And I'm not talking about maybe-more-important but definitely-more-fuzzy issues of perception and trust. I mean real, current legal decisions are being taken which are changing the rules by which the game of global political-economy is being played. And there's a definite trend to these decisions--a trend which suggests that American children can look forward to a tougher future than the one we've enjoyed. Welcome to life as a rogue nation.

I'll admit that Canada has its quirks, but somehow the air just seems fresher up here. Weirder, sometimes. But fresher. (And on second thought, maybe not that weird after all...)

One of these men is an eccentric yokel; the other is petting a moose.

John, Wayne, and the Cape

There's probably a good quote somewhere on the value of friends who throw fabulous parties, but I'm not familiar with it. And don't give me that reproachful look, either. I know how to use a search engine. Google let me down on this one: number one spot for a search for "quote friends fabulous parties" didn't even land me on the right planet. And it's not like the rest of the list was much good either.

In any case... H and I are lucky in our friends, and we have one pair of friends in particular, JD and JB, who possess the enviable superpower of throwing hugely overambitious, vastly entertaining, sublimely convivial, and wild-but-not-fratboy-wild parties. I don't care whether or not wikipedia's "official" list recognizes the ability to envision, orchestrate, and inspire an epic party as a superpower; I submit that it is.

Superpower: able to strike any camera colorblind at will.

Certainly, I don't know anyone else capable of the same level of mad planning. So when, several weeks ago, JD and JB invited us to their Cape Cod-based, week-long, once-every-five-years birthday party in honor of John Wayne, we didn't think twice. To be honest, we didn't even think once. OK, to be completely honest, we didn't think at all--we just just said, "Hell, yeah!"

On our way down the Cape, we stopped off in Boston to visit friends RM and NH.

Did you bring us goodies from Montréal? Feed us teh goodies!

As all Bostonians known, there's nothing like a late summer stroll through Boston Common to get you in the mood for a party. I mean with all the dancing girls (and boy), we were beginning to wonder if maybe the party hadn't already started without us.

When we asked about the John Wayne birthday party, we were subjected to several Turkish tests for drunkenness, which made everyone feel awkward.

After indulging in an appropriate amount of strolling and loitering downtown, we were finally able to tear ourselves away from Beantown and make our way down to the Cape. In true party superhero fashion, our hosts had landed a spectacular setting for our festivities.

The inlet's still water holds the sky as a bowl holds water.

And what seaside setting would be complete without an Escher-esque dock with a dismaying habit of swaying when you walk on it? Our hosts thought of everything.

Look, ma! No hands!

But of course, this seaside isn't just any seaside. It's Cape Cod. Which naturally means that there's plenty of minigolf nearby. H even won a free game by getting a hole-in-one on the 18th hole. No horsepucky.

J watches in horror as H clinches the win with style.

Still, as with so many grownup affairs--and certainly all affairs in which we're closely involved--it was the the food which crowned the event. Some of JB's sailing friends, who hail from Maine, hauled down an army barrack's worth of fresh oysters, fresh Maine lobsters, and fresh steamer clams for our delectation. And let tell me you, that's an impressive spread of fresh.

The raw oyster: an entire ocean distilled to a single, slippery sip.


Ever see James Cameron's Aliens? Yeah. Serious creature carnage.


Traditional Zen koan: Is bowl full or empty? (Answer: Depend on size of nearby sailor's appetite.)

Probably you've been wondering why it's called the "John Wayne Party." Well, John and Wayne are two of the attendees (yes, two different people), whose birthdays fall close enough together that it constitutes an excuse to throw a single mondo party as opposed to two wee parties. Too, the "real" John Wayne (he was born Marion Robert Morrison, didn't you know?) was born 100 years ago this year. And seeing as his birthday's in May... well that's close enough to count as yet one more reason to throw a mondo party. Not--as you might imagine--that we need much of an excuse. But it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Oh, and one very important lesson we learned during the party, which we delightedly pass on to you, our dear readers:

Everything--and we do mean everything--is a hat.

Happy trails! (Yes, yes. We're perfectly aware that John Wayne never said that. Close enough.)

Birds is the Word

With H up in Trois-Pistoles for five whole weeks, I decided to I needed to find ways to keep busy. Oh sure, for the first few days--weeks, even--it was all about unpacking. But then what? So when my mom invited me to come to St. Louis for a week-long visit, I leaped at the chance.

Needless to say, I didn't get up to anything good. Or at least, not too good. For example, I postponed my return to Montréal for one day so that I could take advantage of an extremely cool invitation. My cousins (and good friends) SR and AS had finagled access to one of the snazzy new luxury suites at the recently rebuilt Busch Stadium for a St. Louis Cardinals game. And they invited me! Me! Can you believe it? (Can you imagine what a dork I must have been in middle school?)

Well, that evening was the only evening I thought to take out my camera, so that's whats I gots fer yuns. Before the game, I got to hang out with one of my favorite little people, RVS. (Apologies for the time-date stamps...)

The droolmaster demonstrates an advanced technique.

Then I got to hang out with some of my favorite big people.

I ask you: What could be better than this?

The mini-fridges come stocked with (gasp!) Anheuser-Busch products. They serve a little buffet of sports food (nachos, wings, burgers, etc.). All in all, the accommodations were strikingly generous. My cousins, it seems, have read Machiavelli:

Rulers either spend their own wealth and that of their subjects, or that of other peoples. Those who spend their own and their subjects’ wealth should be abstemious; those who spend the wealth of others should seize every opportunity to be generous. (Ch. 16)

Mmm... other people's money.

Those who know me well know that baseball used to be my life. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I was equally likely to answer "Ozzie Smith" or "Willie McGee." When people told me I could be whatever I wanted, I believed them: I was determined to grow up to be a base-stealing, switch-hitting, golden-gloved black man. It didn't work out that way, but it was a good dream while it lasted.

I've since soured on the sport--actually, on all professional sports and most college ones as well--because of the money. Money spoils everything, even when there are no profits, and baseball is no exception. But going to the park on a muggy summer's evening, watching grown men at least pretend to play with sticks and balls in the dirt... not all of the magic is gone. No, indeed. Not all.

The Redbirds at play.

Friend opens gallery in SF Bay Area

If you're into Brazilian art--and you know who you are out there--you might be interested to know that a very good friend of mine, GK, has just announced the official opening of his new art gallery, Atelier do Brasil, situated in Forest Knolls, California (due west of San Rafael). Visits are by appointment only--check the website for contact details. Writes GK about the gallery:

Since returning from Brazil last summer, where my life was changed by my encounter with Brazilian art and culture, I have been working to create a venue to share the beauty of Bahian culture with Americans. Now, thank God, we have officially begun. We are starting out by presenting the work of two remarkable Brasilian artists- Chico Liberato and Gabriel Arcanjo- and myself. It is my hope that this work touches your heart.

These images are courtesy of Atelier do Brasil LLC. Unauthorized reproduction is strictly prohibited.

If you're feeling unlucky that you don't live in the Bay Area (and you should), there is a consolation prize. GK has graced the gallery with a blog as well, which of course anyone, anywhere can enjoy. So enjoy!

C-S-what?

J has asked me on several occasions to post about my experience studying here in Stockholm, but I haven't found much blog-worthy in my studies. However, today at the end of my class, two students stood up and asked the class to complete a survey for their course on Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR). I wondered if they had heard of Survey Monkey, but having been in their shoes in the past, I diligently put down my head and answered the somewhat inane questions.

I was interrupted from checking off the little boxes by a fellow exchange student who is studying at a prestigious American MBA program: "What's CSR policy?" I paused for a second, wondering if he was looking for an example or if he didn't know what CSR was, so I responded, "Corporate Social Responsibility policy." He accepted the answer and turned back to his survey.

I chose the MBA program at McGill because I believed the program embraced the perspectives of students, like myself, who have interests which lie outside the mainstream of business thought and practice. Three semesters into a North American MBA program, though, one begins to wonder whether anything matters except accounting, finance, or one's facility with PowerPoint, and so I finished the McGill portion of my studies last December uncertain as to McGill's commitment to CSR. But this bald question, "What is CSR policy?" affirmed my initial intuition about McGill. Depending on the circumstances, I find myself arguing both for and against corporate activities executed under the banner of social responsibility, but one way or another, at least I know and my fellow McGillians know what CSR is and where to go for further support.

Is there a hands-down winner in North American B-schools?

Naughty and nice in paradise

En route to Stockholm, I stopped off at the Queen Mary in Long Beach, California to attend the 21 January wedding of DP, one of my college roommates. Nothing like a little oceanside SoCal in January. A bit chilly in Montreal, but balmy like anything in Long Beach. Very civilized.

A number of people have pointed out to me that Long Beach seems a bit out of the way if one is headed from Montréal to Stockholm.

Big red arrows and snide remarks are always welcome chez moi.

I'm a firm believer that one ought to attend weddings if at all possible. These days it often seems as though there's a certain tendency toward the serial rather than the faithful when it comes to matrimony, but weddings remain singular occasions. Absent the excuse of a bona fide hospital visit or act of God, you really ought to attend--especially to honor anyone you actually refer to as a "good friend."

As expected, the wedding was wonderful in that way that weddings are.

I always cry at weddings. For once, I'm being completely serious.

The bride was radiant, the groom entirely contented, and the Santas authentically bearded. (Wait for double-take... wait for it.) Yes, you read right. Santas. Beared ones. Two doors down we had a meeting of...

Amalgamated? You mean there used to be more than one of these clubs?

The Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas--AORBS to those in the know--in sunny Southern California, gettin' their groove on. Believe it, Grasshopper. There's way more than just one Santa, and they evidently like to get together and let it all hang out.

All beards verified as real. No horsepucky.

I don't know about you, but I've always wondered how Santa knows about the whole naughty and nice thing. Not so much how he knows what you've been doing, but how he knows the difference between good behavior and bad behavior. Turns out the Santa Man gets his street cred on naughty from occasionally crossing over to the dark side.

Man, that's an awesome Santa costume you've--hey, wait a second. Are you smoking?!? What kind of a Santa outfit are you people running here, anyways? And where's Rudolph?

In spite--or perhaps because--of the fact that it was in all ways utterly surreal, the Santa convention provided several hours of entertainment for me and my friend MM.

Not having a beard proved only a minor obstacle to Mrs. Claus becoming a member.

L.A. definitely "keeps it real." Oh, yeah. Even M, one of the realest people I know, could hardly contain herself.

You know you've left Kansas when they ask you for ID and you show them your beard.

Oh, and you probably didn't know--in fact, I'm willing to bet $100 that you didn't know--that Santas sing the blues just like, um, everyone else. What do real bearded Santas not do?

Too bad there's no such thing as "singing the reds..."

Real bearded Santas don't make their own outfits, for one. (Though I suspect they do grow their own beards.) If you're interested in getting into the club, you simply must visit the only site "for the Professional..."

I keep telling people that if you look long enough, you can find anything on the internet. Anything.