The Zen of SILVER BROWN

Quarantine and Quill

While we’re all twiddling our thumbs waiting to see the new world rising from the shambles of the old, I meditate this morning on the men and women in uniform who put their own sanity on the line every day to deal directly with all things insane. It should be pointed out that many of them keep journals. Writing things down feeds a human head the appropriate war medicine so it can poop out the bullshit and properly digest what’s truly important. Verily, it is fibre for the mind. Forgoing a regular voiding of this bullshit is the leading cause of a condition unofficially known as mental constipation, with symptoms that include frequent compulsions to run around like a chicken with its head cut off. Suffice it to say, there is no room for headless chickens in the armed forces. Generals and admirals don’t always publish their memoirs, but they will oft write those memoirs regardless, because they have to.


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The Zen of SILVER BROWN

The Tao of Bill/The Te of Ted

People tend to forget all about that shit nowadays, most only dimly aware that The Matrix was not Keanu Reeves’ first movie. But to the best of my knowledge, being excellent to each other hasn’t been criminalized yet. Party on, dudes!


 

The Zen of SILVER BROWN

A Yuletide Banff After Dark

A fount of literary inspiration is nestled somewhere deep in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. A little place they call Banff. The name is Scottish in origin, according to what I just read on the official website. An appellation borne by both Canada’s oldest national park and the main town within said park. In the vernacular of this great land of beavers and poutine, most talk of Banff centers around the park. Yet contrary to what some people (mostly east of Winnipeg) believe, a town called Banff exists. I present this morning to the fine folks of Planet Earth an exhibit of original photographic evidence of its existence.

Everybody knows there is no Walt Disney World in Canada. But there’s Banff, and that’s close enough. It’s a town where the streets are all named after woodland critters. Where you can buy a shot of vodka from a street vendor like you’d buy a hot dog in a different city where provincial liquor laws aren’t nearly as lax. If that sort of thing turns your crank. During the height of ski season, half the population suddenly becomes Australian…


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…and the street vendors construct their booths out of ice. Because they can.

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Yes, buffalo and caribou with a Japanese translation. Welcome to Alberta.

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In Alberta, Christmas is in January. So I can get away with posting this.

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Even the local Toxic Ronnie’s is lah-di-dah.

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…and who doesn’t?

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