Frosty bike in slushy Vancouver. I am feeling like Dr. Zhivago heading to work in heavy leather and wool coat, cap with ear flaps down, muffler and mitts and the critical snow boots for wading through slush and trodding over ice.
In the 2nd intermission versus the Blue Jackets, Dave talks about seeing the Blackhawks game with Karl from Winnipeg on Grey Cup Sunday. Plus wins vs. Detroit, and drinkin’ to forget the losses to Preds and Avs .
Moreover, an invite to Dave Nonis (former Cap’n of the Maine Black Bears) to chat over a beverage at the Queen’s Cross and thoughts on the teams’ ails,.
Finally, a thrilling opportunity to come on the show! Just give me 2 free tickets to the games vs. Canes, Thrashers or Lightning ;-)) and a few other gift giving ideas for a diligent podcaster.
Canucks Outsider #44 (25:07, 23.1MB, .mp3)
Fine tunes by Silversun Pick-ups “Well Thought out Twinkles” from KEXP’s Song of the Day podcast, “Drinkin'” by the defunct Frequency db – check out Mastan Music hour podcast with Sam Densmore (and Jeremy Wilson), now of Silverhawk with John C. Densmore, and Bread the proucer with some grooves.
With six varities of tasty ganja and two Americans in tow, Uncle Weed heads up to the mountains to test each strain in weed in the Happy Vappy. They lazily review Organic Blueberry, Diesel, Mountain Kind, Cambie weed, Cherry Hash, and Jack Hare while watching Canucks hockey, discussing recent articles in Heads Magazine about travel in Japan and Ross Rebagliati’s quest for 2010, plus recent marijuana proposition failure in Colorado with the Colorado Kid and Anne Bonny the lady pirate.
> Download Choogle On! with Uncle Weed #32 (47:36, 43MB, .mp3)
Tunes of note:
Buy at iTunes Music Store
Buy at iTunes Music Store
Michael Rose Ganja Bonanza
Across cobbled rainy road i am alone in the vancouver night i draw closer one is a cardboard cutout of clint eastwood in a spaghetti western kit – poncho – flat wide brim – wide brimmed hat
Another a sculpture, weathered and supported, attached to the building in some manner. HIs get-up is classic hollywood western – stetson, chaps, boots with painted spurs. The whole sculptured man’s paint chips, rotting, revealing the manner of plaster or such he is constructed of. The creases of jeans and bend of elbow of checkered shirt, chipped and eroded as water drizzles settles in the crook and meets the fringe of the leather vest.
The 3rd stands naturally – somewhat slouched – the belly is larger, the shirt more like a sweater – the hat more expressive with a oft-colored trim setting out against the streams of light drifting through the mannequins, saddle, sawhorses, slogans and such not in the window. the middle one draws on a cigarette and exhales.
As for me, moving across a intersected choice of six options. Alternatives, and me loose , easy and baked, drift slightly south into irish heather – steadying, make way to conservatory room, far back. White painted bricks along one wall save for standard beer mirrors – Guinness, Kilkenny, Harp, Bass so on … Rest of room is irons and glass – the floor rough, raw alley cobble, old as the city – red-bricked and sloping here and there. the window behind me is cracked open but all are drafty, wooden and blue or green and all would be open in summerly times – now meditative dripping – needed cool air now. Perhaps one may enter direct from the mews – popping in to the midst of music or drafts from the courtyard behind after leaving lover or friend with a wave to disappear – I imagine the proper hat to wear. I am not sure. Long benches, wooden and freshly painted a blue which i want to call charlotte or to match a shirt i had in third grade if i can find the slide. tables are tiny with smaller stool as though expecting tiny folk.
Pipes and gas lamps confuse which is in and outside. As most times, i order a dark beer. Then a cocktail on the menu with absinthe. I ask as though aloof and tired with woolen coat, clunky leather shows, stitches fresh and hide pebbled, corduroys salvaged from a bad dream. I’ve earned a moment. The fellow with perfectly trimmed sideburns and uncommon tan brings cocktail. “Cheers!” he offers incidentally or instinctively.
Hi-ball glass w/ straw. Elvis Costello sings then Joni Mitchell, the Van Morrison. I don’t use the straw, drink from the rim, sweet, liquor pungent and smooth – I set it on the strongbow coaster. 2 couples and a table of 3 women all of all talking quickly and personally – i hear indiscretions, incidents and sentiments, apart from the miscellania.
I must be invisible again.
As for me, I choose to forge my own place in history, to determine by own ends rather than subject my precious life for the exclusive use of any man – monarch or otherwise. Without my freedom to be what, and who, I choose, I have lost all! No matter how insignificant my life’s work, at the least my life is of my own choosing and my labors, at my own volition. My action, my loves, my thoughts will determine my life’s significance, and I will not surrender to fate’s whims. I alone will live this life and this value I will not compromise.
Henri Lafleur, Russia 1812
November 27, 1812
Near Berezin Bridge, Russia
My sweet Genevieve,
It has been a journey of horrific proportions since I last was able to chance a letter.
The cold is equaled only by the depravity of desperate humans in its numbing pain. And yesterday, my friend Maurice joined the untold thousands of dead – scattered, abandoned aside the muddy cart path, deep-rutted in the frozen earth. Littered with wreckage – dead horses, men frozen solid, eyes gaping, boots taken. Many stumble barefoot roasting frostbitten toes by their final fire. Pillages of war dumped – no weight or relic worthy of any carrying. Golden candle sticks, Persian rugs – objects of decadence, objects of art, holy relics – deserted now.
One must survive by wits and cunning and in that, my dear Maurice helped me along so much. He appeared one morning (though there is little difference between day & night – just walking and not-walking), with a sturdy walking cane for me! He was the one who coaxed me each dreadful day as we trudge into uncertain horizons. Oh the peace he feels now, free of this madness!
As I sit looking down from the hilltop, watching as thousands fall dead – by bullet, by Cossack sword, or pushed into the icy river with the mob pushing across. For me, there is little chance of me making my way across the bridge, not alone, not without help from my friend.
Surely when the officers have crossed, the bridge will be destroyed like so many broken dreams – leaving the Russians and French separated as we began. I will not rush to death, rather for me, I will have the courage to determine my own fate to stride purposefully and resolutely, free of heart, clean of conscience, ruling only my sovereign self.
For you – for the days we missed together & the years in which we‘ll never part – I will find a way to survive. For the thousands of dead faces I have seen, and for Maurice, I renounce this war but pledge that I will not let this tragic madness defeat me.
My dear Genevieve, look for me in the spring, my return will be later than hoped.
With love, freedom and conviction, Henri
Oct. 20, 1812
I write with haste (tucked under a rug for a tarp) so I can send this note straight by messenger to you in Paris. We, since yesterday, have been ordered into retreat and as such are retracing (I assume) our route and trust only to hope that we survive. When it became clear we would not stay over winter in Moscow, the looting, pillaging & other monstrosities in the name of spoils erupted as these scavengers made away with every shiny trifle they could seize from anyone weaker – no matter their standing. I loathe the disgusting manner of how we humans can treat each other when exposed to the harsh certainty that death has eluded you so far and your chances may be up soon.
I will spare you details but will assure you of my preparedness I have made. I managed to cobble together the best pair of boots I could manage. I made two pairs giving one set to Maurice who obtained scraps of luxurious fur which I carefully sewed inside. The soles are double thickness and, in mine I placed some felt to prop and protect my limping leg somewhat. The outside leather is sealed with candle wax, I scuffed the leather to hide the quality lest some drunkard attempt to steal them – though it would require great force for me to surrender my boots – without which would mean certain peril in these treacherous conditions. I also have a warm coat (the heaviest I could find) and a supply of candles and dry tinder.
Now my sweet, please do not concern yourself unduly, but in seeing the savagery of death around me for so many months & knowing the inhospitable lands ahead, I must tell you two things and request one of you, in event I am unable to return.
To you, please know that no one has ever been loved more by anyone than I love you. You are fantastically adored & amazingly admired. You stir the very nature of my soul & fulfill me as a man and as a person. If I do not return to sit with you on the veranda drinking wine in the afternoon, please allow yourself to find someone else to spend glorious days with. Please do not settle! Any suitor must be worthy and aware of your refinements, intelligent and vigorous spirit.
For me, please bind these letters and store them somewhere safe in hopes that one day my discourse may help another generation avoid such madness.
Forever yours, Henri
Oct. 11, 1812
Moscow, Russian France
Again I write to you in haste after too long a month. The situation found here in Moscow has worsened greatly and we continue to live as a captives rather than conquerors. I have scant reason to hope, but if only to hang onto my senses and precious sanity which as abandoned so many here. The ‘Grand Armie’ looting, destroying, pillaging – decimated and surrendered to their basest, barest traits. Greed and fear rule this city of ashes, destroyed as a desperate hope for some, but fueled by the debauchery of ours. More than shaming themselves, they risk the common ability for survival as these winds & clouds grow in strength each day.
The Russians’ Alexander continues to ignore N.’s letters of surrender, etc. How can he be blamed in mistrusting N.’s advances since the public scorn he felt after since Tilsit and now the surrender of Moscow? Meanwhile, N. issues decrees to mitigate the suffering of the stragglers left here who aren’t already shot or starved. Promises of kindness & benefit to any that come out of hiding & bring their vegetables or butter to market. What! Would anyone bring their labors to benefit a usurper of their lands? To them, he is no liberator or revolutionary. To them, he is not a brilliant general & able to fair administrator – he is a tyrant to them & to others, many of which serve in his army.
Save for famine or plague, there is no greater evil than occupation by an enemy, no matter how well mannered, jovial, cordial or able the enemy is. To spread a revolution or reform must be accomplished as a friend & with openness, sincerity and not at the sacrifice of so many lives. So many thousands of lives around me, reduced to animals smashing greedily into each cellar, reducing grandeur into rubble. The discipline is gone – Napoleon does not command these hoarders. They are controlled only by their overwhelming desires for self-preservation regardless of means.
I however my love am determined to survive. I am cautiously preparing for the inevitable cold as I await a chance to simply live in peace again – but I fear there is no escape if not soon.
Sept. 30, 1812
Moscow, French Russia
As you probably know, we are ensconced in Moscow, or what is left of it. The city of domes sits in a sooty wet pile of ash and destruction. I am still stunned at the results of the campaign and can only dream of seeing you again.
I pass the days avoiding disturbances and fending for my health and safety along with Maurice who continues to surprise me with his quick mind even more than his capable skills. People of all kinds are attracted to him and he seems to possess a natural ability towards leadership and decision making. He listens and makes choices that seem to please everyone without ever compromising his own judgement or ethics. He appears rough and his first comments upon meeting are usually terse and offhand – even insulting – yet somehow he draws people in. They want to know him. For me, he is a fortune. He gives me much needed grounding and a touchstone for the realities of this ordeal. He indulges my conversation – despite my lofty ideals or the idealistic chatter – and challenges my thinking with his point of view, the voice of the ‘common man.’ For one to think he can understand a social quandary in solitary state is foolish assumption. M’s conversation helps me understand a contrary viewpoint – and to better collect my own reasoning so to express myself clearly.
But the most remarkable feature about Maurice is his refusal to take advantage of his skills & erstwhile power or influence, or at least in my presence. In this campaign I have seen so many drunk on power – earned or assumed – and wallowing in self-importance. The privileges of ranks and class, while abolished by the civil code, seem to live on in this military realm like some glue holding the masses together. The men gravitate towards the natural leaders – not the assigned ones – the brave lead, the appointed give orders and pontificate as to who distinguished himself the most, or best. But I do wonder if any are immune from the majestic influence of power to corrupt as I see even the most earnest submit to the easy treachery of opportunity. Is any man so uncommon that they can resist the temptation to manipulate? To wield their sword of power so often that at last they expose their great weakness? To go to the well one more time only to come up dry at the moment of greatest need? At what point does every man surrender himself into decadence? Succumb to injustice – turning pettiness into grounds for war? At what point does one move from liberator to tyrant?
I hesitate to say what I see happening here as such admittance will steal my last hopes.
Sept 11, 1812
Near Fily, outside of Moscow
Oh my sweet Genevieve,
This dangerous wager with lives and spoils continues and the revulsion in me festers. After the hideous cruelty at Borodino, the army has reached a fever pitch as momentum pulls us to Moscow like a stormy outgoing tide – the deeper we move into Russia, the farther away I am from return to you. Oh why did we not stop in Smolensk of at the Neiman and call upon the strongest from each side to fight to decide the victor! Of course this folly of being strongest and ‘most right’ fills the armies (both I assume) or else their would be no reason to fight. It goes beyond the love of motherland, a love of victory, to a desire of belonging to something strong as though belonging to something ‘right’ as a vindication of one’s existence and ability. The reward for them is not the institutions that bring order, culture & equality to a land, but rather the thirst for the revelry that follows a battle.
The dead are quickly forgotten, and understandably so, as is respect and decency in the thick & moist aftermath of battle – they (the fallen) are forgotten in the pillage, the rape, the murder & these spoils of our war which entice the most hitherto most-principled man – officer or soldier. Yet no thought is given to the humans their actions affect. The shock and rage that will burrow in each witness – each victim – as these allegedly civilized men loose themselves in pandemonium.
These decent French men – who at home may walk a mile to help a friend or bounce the most delicate baby on a knee while laughing – loose all thought of kindness, mercy, or respect for life. The villagers’ lives or livelihoods are sacrificed simply because they were brave enough to abandon their homes to fire, or even stay and defend their small tract against a foreign country. For me, if I loose my kindness towards others, I shall be dead myself.
Though I sit here cold and alone, I am free. I can look at another person in the eyes and know, despite my army’s power over them, I do not feel a conqueror and I will not harm them for they have done nothing to me. I am embarrassed of my nation, gluttonous on victory as we approach Moscow – the domes of cathedrals gleaming like a secret. What joy is being an uninvited guest, forcing a way in after killing thousands? I for my own self reject this violence if for no reason other than empathy for the thousands who flee even now into the night – the children & the old, lame, sick, insane. Even the sanest and most brutal of enemy soldiers does not deserve my wrath but my help ~ which I am rather helpless to give. I did give my coat to a wounded young man I found in the woods. He was shaking violently, his muddy clothing torn from explosion – I covered him with my wool coat before running to get a doctor or a litter. When I returned, my coat was stolen (as were his boots), and I was derided for my efforts by the staff as the boy was Russian.