The Soundtrack of SILVER BROWN

True Patriot Love

A hip hop artist from Nova Scotia once used a leitmotif taken directly from our national anthem as a sample in one of his jams. Nobody got their knickers in a knot over it. Because this is Canada.



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This collage I spent all of Father’s Day creating is highly unlikely to provoke homicidal rage in any of my country(wo)men, especially since I made a deliberate point of omitting all politicians.

The Green Grass of SILVER BROWN

Her Majesty Is In The House

I typically don’t smoke during the dead of winter. Smoking etiquette of the current day and age mandates going outside prior to lighting up. Or simply opening a window, if it’s not a public place and one can get away with it. I’m reluctant to do such a thing during that time of year when it’s forty below outside and the high winds sting at least as painfully as spider’s venom. It is then when I switch to edibles. Her Majesty spends that time in her winter palace (i.e. in storage), wrapped in her royal bubblewrap for the annual three-month recess of her official duties.


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This is Her Majesty’s first official royal portrait.

Don’t get me wrong, edibles are great. There’s just no ceremony and ritual in their use. Digestion is one of the most mundane biological functions there is. That piece of wacky granola I would typically have on a January morning for my wake n’ bake is merely part of a complete breakfast. But no winter ever lasts forever (remember that, kids) and nothing says “spring has sprung” to me quite like that moment I bring Her Majesty out of storage to spark her up for the first time in three months. The wake n’ bake instantly becomes an occasion again. An occasion I almost forgot it was. One that sees songs of migratory birds returning from down south easily mistaken for chattering monkeys once I completely forget what continent I’m on.


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This is a picture of Her Majesty taken at a friend’s house last summer. She’ll go on another one of her royal tours once the world is no longer in the throes of pestilence and death.

 


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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