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.
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.
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 11:29 AM
11 Comments:
Geez, can't even come up with a rhyme for 'Nantucket,' eh?
My all-time favourite is:
There once was a handsome Haitian
The luckiest dog in creation.
He worked for the rubber trust
Teaching the upper crust
The science of safe copulation.
Badda-boomp.
HP, it's great isn't it? Adds a little jump to the ol' site. People eat this shit right up. Nothing like a pissing match to draw them out of the woodwork.
Geez, maybe the whole thing was planned ...
At this rate, we'll break 300,000 hits per month. 180,000 to 240,000 hits per month was the old norm.
You should have laid off that racist shit and you could have participated in the soap opera.
Thanks H.P. -- I always like Mercer.
Maybe Butch will post it over to Alt.London. A bit of balance would be nice. A bit of well-thought out balance would be even nicer. A bit of thoughtful thinking by someone with a sense of humor should fit right in there. Some of the majority of left-wing pinheads might even read it just because Mercer is a Canadian icon.
HP, you should kiss and make up with Painet Cirques, then we could all climb into the ring together -- a No-Holds-Barred Cage Match.
Sonny could be the referee.
The Battle of Beauties and The Beast.
But be forewarned, I hear that Painet's a hard-core NDPer and could turn on you in the blink of an eye and rip your cauliflower ears off.
CREATIVE CITY UPDATE:
Alt-London's Hits Skyrocket 40 per cent! Expert says that it's likely due to the Nasty Wrastlin' Match between Butch (The Beast) McLarty and Painet (SuperFly) Cirques!
"People are natural-born ambulance chasers. They're naturally attracted to carnage. In-fighting on blogs has created a new hybrid of modern-day voyeurism. Same as YouTube. Most people lap it up like it's Irish Cream. In some ways it's better than WWF Wrestling. If I was McLarty, I'd be milking this one for all it's worth. When you hit paydirt, you don't shut down the mine. That's when you bring in the monster heavy equipment and go like there's no tomorrow!" -- Professor Marjorie Swackhammer, BA, MA, PhD, special assistant to Richard Florida
WILL THERE BE A ROUND TWO?
If there is, we'll need to airlift in bandages from the Regional HQ of the Red Cross!
Hey, will you two quit hanging around in the basement?
There's a DANCE PARTY upstairs right above you. Get on up.
Sonny, I'm a natural tunneller. Besides, my computer is so old I can't play videos.
That's why I didn't know that there was a video posted on alt that started up and restarted automatically with really instrusive sound.
People e-mailed me to complain. I heard and saw nutting. Nutting.
This afternoon I deleted it. Another Hitler move, no doubt. Butch, the nasty control freak!
That's what I like about you, Honey Pot, you're always WRONG.
If you were a hockey player, you'd try and score on your own goalie.
If you were a basketball player, you'd shot at your own basket. Naturally, you'd miss.
If you were a bomber, you'd bomb your own troops.
If you were a soldier, you'd accidentally shoot at your colleagues in the next trench over.
Simply stated, you're ONE GIANT FUCK-UP.
1. For example, I'm not alt poster "TheWSFC". His alt-london priofile lists his name as Jeff Timbrell. I've met Jeff on one occasion.
2. I have no idea how to alter the counter on alt-london. The figures that I look at are not the number of views listed on the stories (that you can see), but the counter in the software package provided by the Web host in the site's back end -- the Control Panel. For the past two days, the hits on alt-london skyrocketed by approx. 40 per cent.
3. The number of people who viewed Jeff's story is legitimate.
4. So is the number of people who viewed my posted story about the dust-up with Painet Cirque and alt's story and comment policy.
P.S. I realize that this is a waste of time responding to you because you have repeatedly demonstrated that your ongoing ignorance and negativity is infinite and insatiable.
Carry on.
Tuesday alt's hits went up by 40 per cent, Wednesday, they went up by 100 per cent to nearly 12,000.
HP, your response is typical of an Internet troll and you know what they say about Internet trolls.
"Don't feed the trolls. Ignore them."
Consider yourself ignored.
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