Something for the Weekend

For those hepsters out there who like to start the weekend early, let's kick things off with a video dance party.

As the Teen Tycoon of Rock, I now present - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsvKJ65-TlM

I Missed Robbie Burns Day. Again.

Try as I might, every year I forget about Robbie Burns Day until I see the annual obligatory article about it in the newspaper. That day. And so I make a mad dash to Valu-Mart to get the ingredients to make haggis. And as usual, they're are all out of sheep-bladders and cow-brains - thanks to all those Robbie Burns fanatics who had the foresight to do their sheep-guts shopping earlier in the week. Oh sure, turnips (the traditional sidedish for haggis,) they got. But good luck browsing in the intestines department.

So instead, I console myself by drinking some good ol' Scotch whiskey - as is also part of Robbie Burns Day tradition. I usually down a few shots of Glenlivet, but this time round I picked up some of the new trendy Scotch malts courtesy of the Willie Wallace Distillery. They all have cute names to them - 'Naked Gael' and 'Friskey Ewe' being just a couple.

After I've knocked back a few of them, I always end up doing an impromptu jig. Yes, I realize a jig is more of an Irish thing, but after a few belts of Johnny Walker Plaid, I don't really care. Once I'm in the mood to get jiggy, I don't give a shit about all that country-of-origin kind of crap. Besides, you've been to one place in the British Isles, you've been to them all.

Truth be told, the emphasis on all things Scottish is one of the least things I like about Robbie Burns Day. If I ever get the chance, I might take a nibble on a dare, but who the hell would actually eat this haggis stuff? A mixture of cattle brain, porridge and suet - all boiled up and then baked in a sheep's bladder. Eaten without a spoon. Me, I'm more into the regional cuisine of the Tuscany part of Italy. Just give me a pepperoni pizza and I'm happy.

Actually, I don't really know much about this Robbie Burns character. But any excuse to take the day off work, drink whiskey and eat the innard organs of farm animals is okay with me. Apparently he was one of those writer guys. Of the 'poet' variety. And judging by the looks of him, a real fancy-pants type. But according to legend he did okay with the chicks. One of his most famous pomes was "My Love is Like a Red Red Rose." Now, for years, I always thought that this was a country-and-western song but I guess it has its origins in verse. Man, I bet ol' Rob had to beat them off with a stick whenever he'd get up in the local pub and start reciting that one.

I guess he wrote a few others too, some of his most famous being "There Was a Young Lad from Dundee" and it's sequel, "There Was a Young Lass from Glasgoe."

Anyway, this year, after missing out on a real traditional Robbie Burns blast, I asked myself - just what the heck am I, as a proud Canadian, doing paying tribute to the national poet of another country? If I'm going to be eating strange foods and getting loaded in the name of poetry, shouldn't it at least be in celebration of a Canadian poet? What's wrong with paying tribute to our national poet? Our poet of the common man?

So this year, the day after Robbie Burns day, I began a new tradition by observing my own Jack Kerouac Day. To celebrate a man who was named at birth by his Quebecois parents - Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac.

When you get right down to it, I'm a bit leery about celebrating the birthday of some Scottish fancy-talking poetry guy wearing a kilt. Sorry, but I just can't get behind some guy in a skirt. That's another thing about Kerouac - the only way you'd ever get ol' Jack in a skirt would be on those couple of occassions when he thought it might help him get a ride easier while he was hitch-hiking cross country.

After paying tribute to Jack by toasting his memory with his favorite beverage - 'Bud' staight out of the can, I start reciting poetry - "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix."

Yeah, I know that it's really by that Ginsberg guy - but he was Jack's friend. I love Jack's books like On the Road and Dharma Bums et all, but as for his poetry, I'm just not too big on Mexico City Blues. Too much of that "boneyards of the soul" and "do i dare to eat a peach" stuff. Besides, Ginsberg's Howl is the only poem I know by heart.

And just like Robbie Burns Day, I have an unusual dish that is bound to make Jack Kerouac Day a popular annual event up here. Instead of sheep bowels, we will eat something equally exotic. How's this? We pay tribute to Kerouac's French-Canadian roots by topping our french fries with a liberal dousing of a little something called poo-tine. True, it's not as bizarre as putting mayonaise on fries like those crazy Danes do on Hans Christian Anderson Day, but it sure beats the hell out of sheep guts.

You know, the more I think of it, Jack Kerouac Day has national paid-holiday written all over it. It's something even Quebec can get behind.

Sonny Demands Government to Get Peter Jaffe to Shut His Fuckin' Mouth

Well, he's at it again.

Less than a month after making the headlines with his call for an end to fist-fights in hockey, Thames Valley School Board trustee Peter Jaffe is back in the news as head of a coalition of fellow naive do-gooders and media sluts who held a press conference in Queen Park and insisted that (and I quote from the lead sentence of yesterday's London Free Press,) "Politicians must help parents control the violence their kids watch, hear and download, " warns a London anti-violence activist," referring to Jaffe.

Ah, the problem of media violence. Again. This is getting really tiresome.

These people want age-restictions put on CDs; they want laws restricting any programming aimed at an adult audience from being broadcast before 9 p.m. and they want new hate-crime laws to include women and children "which in turn will curb objectifying programs and web-sites."

And yet they are calling on politicians - the most morally-bankrupt sleazy life-form out there to help parents do their jobs. When I have problems in the parenting department, the very last people I would ask for help from would be a politician.

Not that parents couldn't use some help. Some people don't know how to be parents. They are the types who shouldn't even have kids. But it takes very little effort to keep an eye on little Junior and monitor what he's watching. It isn't hard. And as a parent, it is your job to do so. You don't need any help from the government. If you don't like the show your kids are watching, then turn off the TV. You find them on a web-site you don't approve of, then unplug the computer. You hear the F-word in a CD they just bought and it bothers you, then take it away and give it back to them when they are 18 and have the legal right to cuss and swear.

But as an adult and a parent, you don't throw your hands up in the air and ask the government to step in as Big Daddy and do your parenting for you by putting yet more restrictions on your life.

Let's look at just what these pie-eyed dreamers are recommending - "Federal broadcasting laws should keep all 'material intended for adult audiences' off TV and radio before 9 p.m.' " ... We're not talking about 'adult' dirty movies here, we're talking about anything aimed at an adult mind. This means nothing but 'Dora the Explora' all day long till the kiddies' 9 o'clock bedtime.

And then there's this one - "Protection for women and girls should be written into federal hate-crime legislation." Well, on the surface that sounds fine. But this is their reason for it - "which could then curb objectifying programs and web-sites." Which means no more Fashion Television, no more Falcon Beach, no more Desperate Housewives, the total end of MTV and the entire music video industry, Ed the Sock and Leno & Letterman, all those late-night movies on Showtime and CITY-TV and infomercials for Girls Gone Wild videos. To say nothing of 95 per-cent of all web-sites.

Clearly, these people have no connection with reality. These recommendations are going no place. Other than as fodder for open-line radio shows for a day and to raise the public profiles of those who get their picture in the paper (always important the next time an election comes around,) they serve no purpose.

Ditto with school board trustee Jaffe's most recent 'success.' This guy is dangerous. He actually convinced his fellow trustees on the Thames Valley School Board to pass a motion "to warn pupils and parents of potential on-ice violence and officially ask the Ontario Hockey League to outlaw fights."

These people were actually elected and paid to come up with that. What it has to do with running an effecient school system is another question.

But you know, maybe Jaffe does have a point. Maybe the media is a bit to blame in all this. But only for giving him free press and broadcast coverage everytime he opens his big mouth.

January is Casserole Month!

Okay, so I realize that most people don't visit SonnyDrysdalePresents in search of recipes. But it's either that or read my thoughts on President Bush's courageous plan to send 20,000 more troops to Iraq. But like I was telling Dianne Haskett the other day, a blog is no place to discuss politics.

So let's swap recipes instead. If you are anything like me, over the holidays you spent a fortune on spiral-cut hams, turkeys, cornish-game hens, pheasant-under-glass, baloney soup, M&M Oriental Party-Paks - and now the freezer is bare.

Oh, what to do?

The answer, my friends, is casseroles!

The nice thing about a casserole is that it's like a stew - you open the fridge door and throw any leftovers and limp vegetables into a dish. The only difference being that you burn the shit out it in the oven for an hour rather than boiling it into mush on top of the stove.

Visually, the result is that instead of looking like a nice meal you are about to sit down to, a casserole should look like one you've just thrown up. One of my favorite critiques for a casserole I had just taken the lid off of was, "That looks like cat-sick." But taste-wise, it's mmm-mmm-good. Trust me on this.

As anyone knows who has ever taken a gourmet cooking class or studied the kitchen arts, the magic ingredient in a casserole is Campbells Cream of Mushroom Soup. It's the ubiquotous staple of almost any kind of food prep. Almost as important as garlic salt. You can use it to hold everything together as in a casserole. You can dump a can of it on top of a roast beef in a crock pot. You can use it instead of yogurt for a quick snack. Use it as a dip rather than salsa and sour cream or put a dollop on your corn-flakes in the morning. Here at the Drysdale household, we even use it as a substitute for whip-cream on special occassions like wedding anniversaries, Valentines Day or once a week right after 'Desperate Housewives.'

Today's recipe is called Avalon Casserole. No one knows why it is called this. I'm assuming that it was first made in the port town of Avalon on Catalina Island "26 miles across the sea" from Los Angeles as the song goes. Either that or it was invented by Frankie Avalon.

A more accurate name for it would be hamburger/potato casserole. It's basically shepherd's pie in a casserole dish.

So here goes - you fry up some ground beef and drain off the fat. Boil a few pototoes and slice them. Chop up an onion, shred some cheddar cheese and open a can of Campbells Cream of Mushroom Soup. And it must be Campbells.

Then you layer it all together - meat first, then potatoes, onion, cheese and repeat for another layer - then spread the mushroom soup over the top and add about a cup of milk. Top with grated cheese. Then for the coup de grace - and this is optional - you grab a big fistful of pototo chips, crush them in your hand and wipe the crumbs into the dish and the grease off on your pants.

Bake at 350 for a mere half an hour and it's time to eat. Maybe have some green beans on the side.

Serve with white wine. I recommend a chilled Pinot Grigio - altho anything wet will do.

I, George

In 1965, I was in Grade six at Prince Charles Elementary in Windsor, Ontario. On the last Friday of every month we put away the books and for the final hour had a meeting of the Red Cross Club.

There would be a treasurer's report, a collection of dimes for 'dues,' and Miss Heimer would read a press release about all the good work "we" were doing in the Third World. After that, it was Talent Showcase and then snacks - Rice Krispie squares made by Miss Heimer.

Usually there wasn't a talent show slotted on the agenda because the only one who had any was a pudgy accordion-player named Clark Johnson - and he was more interested in getting to those snacks.

But in 1965, Beatlemania was a vibrant force with kids in North America. The Fab Four had invaded our hearts only a year earlier courtesy of Ed Sullivan. On the after-school cartoon shows, hosts like Poopdeck Paul and Captain Jolly set aside air-time for any quartet of kids willing to come on and lip-synch to one of the Beatles' early singles.

Geez, anyone could do that. Even me and me mates. But we thought we'd do it one better and do our own singing and guitar work as well. And we would debut our act at the next Red Cross Club meeting before moving onto the bright studio lights of CKLW.

At the time, every home had a ukulele somewhere in the rec-room so finding guitars wasn't a problem. Nor was the fact that neither Darryl ('John') Sabo, Rene ('Paul') Labreque, or I 'George' could play them. Clark Johnson was the only kid in class whose family owned a set of bongos, so he became our Ringo.

We practiced every day after school for two weeks. Even though I was 'George', I was elected lead singer by virtue of the fact that I was the only one who knew all the words to She Loves You - all 12 of them.

In addition to being 'Paul,' Rene was also our Brian Epstein. He oversaw the arrangements for the "Yeah, yeah, yeahs." He showed us how to comb our hair forward into bangs. He instructed us on how to dress. We would all wear black turtlenecks to the gig - except Clark who didn't own one and had to resort to a white dickie under a black cardigan.

By the Friday of the big show, we were all pumped - until disaster hit. Clark's dad made him get a haircut the night before. Our Ringo was now sporting a brush-cut. As well, Rene had insisted that the black-out drapes used when we watched nature or hygiene films be drawn and that we be lit only by the blackboard lights. But Miss Heimer wouldn't go for it. On top of that, Clark had forgotten the drums so he had to run home and get them at recess which meant no last run-through.

Well, you can imagine what that does to a bloke right before showtime. But Rene calmed us all down with a last-minute bit of inspiration. "While you're up there," he instructed. "Pick out your favorite girl in class and sing directly to her, looking right into her eyes." This, mind you, from a 10-year-old. Today, he works in advertising.

And then it was two minutes and 12 seconds of pure fame and glory. We rocked. And how could we not? Four prepubescent male voices, three untuned ukuleles and a set of bongos played with drumsticks.

But afterwards, as Rene, Darryl and I stood around the punch-bowl (alone,) we watched Clark at the snack table - a Rice Krispie square in each hand and a bird on each arm.

That was my last experience in a rock band. But I still think of those days every time I hear the Beatles. And I will definitely be reliving it when I go see Rain: the Beatles Experience at the John Labatt Centre on January 31st. The Las Vegas-based Rain is acknowledged as being the best of the Beatles tribute acts - even if they never have headlined a meeting of the Red Cross Club before.

Dianne Haskett Does the Unthinkable!

No, she hasn't converted to Satanism.

She's merely leaving town after not winning the recent by-election in London North-Centre - contrary to her statements made during her losing speech.

Geez - ya coulda knocked me over with a feather with this news. Quel surprise! Who'da thunk it? Well, I did, for one. Check out my rant from Oct. 21 entitled, 'This Time It's Personal,' in which I predicted she'd be leaving if she lost. I don't mean to sound like I'm bragging because anyone with a brain could see it coming. .... Sssh - you hear that? It's the sound of a whole town not giving a shit.

So after a couple of months of soul-searching she's heading back home to Washington D.C. She won't stick around to fight again in the soon-to-be-called spring election and give it another shot. Her reason for thinking that she can't win? Londoners have shown her with our votes that we don't like the fact that she spent the last six years living in Washington and we think her return was nothing but blatant political opportunism.

The real reason she's leaving however, is that this is the first time she's ever had the humbling experience of LOSING an election. So the big baby is taking her baseball and going home. Because how humiliating that would be if it happened twice. Well, whatta sucky-babe. Whatever happened to getting back on that horse?

I don't buy this business about how Londoners couldn't accept her time in the States. Shit, the front-runner for leader of the federal Liberals going into their leadership convention was a guy who spent decades in the U.S. ... And he almost won too, if not for the Liberal tradition of shooting themselves in the foot.

No, in true Haskett fashion, she blames someone else for her own misfortunes. This time it's the narrow-minded views of Londoners. For all the soul-searching she claims to have done as to why she lost the election, you would have thought that maybe God would have given her a clear sign of the real reason. Or at least He might have grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted it in her ear. Because she obviously doesn't get it.

Dianne, you lost the election because you ran such a pathetic campaign. You didn't say much other than predictable Conservative party pap. You made only minimal appearances. You door-to-door campaign was conducted by right-wing evangelist pinheads. In short, YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!!!

At least Meegan Walker can blame her dismal last-place performance on her big mouth. But Haskett didn't say anything. Shit, she could have ran her empire campaign from her Washington home and no one would have known the difference. There's a reason she was called 'The Invisible Candidate.'

So a word of advice, Dianne. Next time you hear of a "sure thing" election in this town, don't hurry back. No, we aren't nuts about political opportunists who would rather live in a trendy high-priced Washington neighbourhood than in this hick town. But one thing we do expect from a leader is that they don't quit the first time they lose. No one respects a quitter. Especially one who blames her mistakes on everyone else but herself. And especially when a second kick at the can is mere months away. And with a lot of hard work might even be win-able.

Heck, I'm voting for Harper. So are all my friends.