The Canadian relationship with winter and snow is a lot like marriage; some love it, and look forward to their time together. Others tolerate winter, but spend a lot of time apart during cold patches. Still others grumble, but it’s a loving martyrdom that takes the good (skiing) right along with the bad (shoveling.)
Most of us take our clever bodies for granted, assuming that all our bits and pieces will do as they are told. The wonders of how all of our actions and bodily functions come together are something we don’t really think about.
Until something goes wrong.
A few years ago I was walking down Coxwell Avenue, below Gerrard, and saw an amazing house. Snuggled between two very ordinary residences, 157 Coxwell was a jewel shining amidst trash, an exotic bird in four story flight. I stopped dead in my tracks to contemplate how this beauty came about in a city more known for uniformity than individuality.
excerpted from the forthcoming book Bullsography: The Bullseye Records Story 1985-2010
The battle continues to rage over what stays and what goes in the purging of my suburban bungalow. And if you think you’re sick of hearing about it, try living it. It’s mindboggling. It’s the longest and most brutal ride ever.
My dad was a Korean vet. He met my mum through her brother, with whom he served in the famous Van Doos (the Royal 22nd Regiment.) He was from Alberta, and she from Quebec. It’s unlikely they would have ever met if it hadn’t been for the war. They married a few weeks after attending my Uncle Leo’s wedding, and I was born nine months later.
In the early morning aftermath of two tragic military assassinations in Quebec and Ottawa, Ontario this week America tuned in and saw a different kind of Canada.
Bullseye Records of Canada
