Welcome to the Patriot Game

A distant friend died recently.

Puts some perspective... But doesn't make me care about those of you who read this less.

Take care, regardless of whatever happens.

Just remember.

Oh my name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool,
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school,
From belgium and to Flanders, Germany to here,
I fought for king and country I love dear.

Twas christmas in the trenches and the frost so bitter hung,
The frozen fields of France where still no Christmas songs were sung,
Our families back in England were toasting us that day,
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.


I was lying with my mess mates on the cold and rocky ground,
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound,
Says I now listen up me boys, each soldier strained to hear,
As one young German voice sang out so clear.


"He’s singing bloody well you know", my partner says to me,
Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony,
The cannons rested silent and the gas cloud rolled no more,
As Christmas brought us respite from the war.


As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent,
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen struck up some lads from Kent,
The next thing sang was stille nach tis silent night says I,
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky.


There’s someone coming towards us now the front line sentry said,
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side,
His truce flag like a Christmas star shone on the plane so bright,
As he bravely trudged unarmed into the night.


Then one by one on either side, walked in to no mans land,
With neither gun nor bayonet, we met there hand to hand,
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well,
And in a flare lit football game we gave them hell.


We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photographs from home,
These sons and father far away from families of their own,
Tom Sanders played the squeeze box and they had a violin,
This curious and unlikely band of men.


Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more,
With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war,
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night,
Whose family have I fixed within my sights.


Twas Christmas in the trenches and the frost so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed, the songs of peace were sung,
For the walls they’d kept between us to exact the work of war,
Had been crumbled and were gone forever more.
Oh my name is Francis Tolliver, from Liverpool I dwell,
Each Christmas comes since world war I have learned it’s lesson well,
For the one who calls the shots won’t be among the dead and lame,
And on each end of the rifle we’re the same.



Never forget.

I'm crazy crazy 'bout my (on hiatus...) baby, is my baby crazy 'bout me?

It's been two days. I'm here whenever she is. I'll wait as long as I have to, but, though I'm not breaking down and crying all day or anything, it's pretty painful. Just after I decide to tell her what she was about to tell me after we saw Lucas... This happens. Well, time heals all wounds, and we made each other feel really happy before... She's made me happier than anyone else has. I hope she'll come back to seeing that. When she does... I'll be waiting.

'La Vie Comme ça'
par Swing

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça..

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça...

1. Le prix d'la gazoline augmente l'adrénaline
pus d'gros steak juste d'l'eau pis d'la farine
40 heures garanties à dégrader dans une usine
traitement d'canal à cheval
ça fait moins mal que le fédéral
y'a mon chum Guy qui a pas changé sa vie
y'é pogné dans sa chaise
mais y s'fait pas de malaise
y flotte son bateau su l'bord d'la Gatineau
y'as rien d'trop laid
pis y'a rien trop beau

d'en haut
il fait beau
il fait chaud
prendre un p'tit rhum entre chums
c'est ben l'fun..

d'en haut
il fait beau
il fait chaud
listen to me
pis écoute ques que je t'dis

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça..

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça...

2. ça m'fait saigner du nez d'payer mon loyer
j'dois encore la moitié du mois passé
ça fait peut-être dur de mur-à-mur
mais c'est comme presqu'à moé
pis ça c'est sûr
si ton chum te laisse pour sa maîtresse
c'est pas pour son coeur
c'est pour ses fesses
et quand y va revenir pour son p'tit déjeuner
la s'melle de ta bottine il va goûter

d'en haut il fait beau
il fait chaud
prendre un p'tit rhum entre chums
c'est ben l'fun..

d'en haut
il fait beau
il fait chaud
listen to me
pis écoute ques que je t'dis

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça..

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça...

(d'en haut
il fait beau
il fait chaud...)

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça..

Si la vie t'emène comme ça
y faut que tu prennes la vie comme ça
faut pas que tu te pendes au bout d'un drap
même si la vie t'amène comme ça...

Oh!
Ah ah!
Vraiment, vraiment!
Oh!

It took me, like, an hour to find this. I eventually found it on someone's blog (http://thewhat.diaryland.com/060308_58.html), searching a specific line from the song. Easier to find is this:

La tribu de Dana, par Manau

Le vent souffle sur les plaines de la Bretagne armoricaine.
Je jette un dernier regard sur ma femme, mon fils et mon domaine.
Akim, le fils du forgeron, est venu me chercher;
Les druides ont décidé de mener le combat dans la vallée.
Là où tous nos ancêtres, de géants guerriers celtes,
Après de grandes batailles se sont imposés en maîtres.
C'est l'heure maintenant de défendre notre terre
contre une armée de Simériens prête à croiser le fer.
Toute la tribu s'est réunie autour des grands menhirs
pour invoquer les dieux afin qu'ils puissent nous bénir.
Après cette prière avec mes frères, sans faire état de zèle,
les chefs nous ont donné à tous des gorgées d'hydromel,
Pour le courage, pour pas qu'il y ait de faille,
Pour rester grands et fiers quand nous serons dans la bataille.
Car c'est la première fois pour moi que je pars au combat
Et j'espère être digne de la tribu de Dana.

{Refrain:}
Dans la vallée (oh oh) de Dana (la li la la).
Dans la vallée (oh oh), j'ai pu entendre les échos.
Dans la vallée (oh oh) de Dana (la li la la).
Dans la vallée (oh oh), des chants de guerre près des tombeaux.

Après quelques incantations de druides et de magie,
Toute la tribu, le glaive en main, courait vers l'ennemi.
La lutte était terrible et je ne voyais que des ombres,
Tranchant l'ennemi qui revenait toujours en surnombre.
Mes frères tombaient l'un après l'autre devant mon regard,
Sous le poids des armes que possédaient tous ces barbares,
Des lances, des haches et des épées dans le jardin d'Eden
qui écoulait du sang sur l'herbe verte de la plaine.
Comme ces jours de peine, où l'homme se traîne
À la limite du règne du mal et de la haine.
Fallait-il continuer ce combat déjà perdu ?
Mais telle était la fierté de toute la tribu.
La lutte a continué comme ça jusqu'au soleil couchant,
De férocité extrême en plus d'acharnement;
Fallait défendre la terre de nos ancêtres enterrés là,
Et pour toutes les lois de la tribu de Dana.

{au Refrain}

Au bout de la vallée on entendait le son d'une corne,
D'un chef ennemi qui rappelait toute sa horde.
Avait-il compris qu'on lutterait même en enfer
Et qu'à la tribu de Dana appartenaient ces terres ?
Les guerriers repartaient, je ne comprenais pas
Tout le chemin qu'ils avaient fait pour en arriver là,
Quand mon regard se posa tout autour de moi,
J'étais le seul debout de la tribu ; voilà pourquoi
Mes doigts se sont écartés tout en lâchant mes armes,
Et le long de mes joues se sont mises à couler des larmes.
Je n'ai jamais compris pourquoi les dieux m'ont épargné
De ce jour noir de notre histoire que j'ai contée.
Le vent souffle toujours sur la Bretagne armoricaine
Et j'ai rejoint ma femme, mon fils et mon domaine.
J'ai tout reconstruit de mes mains pour en arriver là,
Je suis devenu roi de la tribu de Dana.

{au Refrain}

From http://www.paroles.net/chansons/22882.htm.

I'm in the Toronto Sun today! The article: Although Toronto was discovered by a French guy, we have no French Quarter. Weird, n'est-ce pas?


By MIKE STROBEL

Foreign tourists land on Yonge St. expecting us all to speak French.

Bonjour, monsieur. Ou est l'igloo?

They would have better luck asking in Mandarin or Punjabi or Tagalog, though there is no word for igloo in Tagalog.

We are a tossed salad of a city. There is Little Italy, Little Mogadishu, four Chinatowns, Koreatown, Little Jamaica, Greektown. Even Malta Village.

But no French Quarter, or Little Quebec, no neighbourhood for Canada's other founding people.

This, though Toronto was discovered by a French guy, Etienne Brule, in 1615.

Used to be, francophones lived in south Cabbagetown. Cheek to jowl with the Irish. But we kicked them out to build overpasses and such.

The French fled west to Carleton and Jarvis. They left signs. L'eglise du Sacre-Coeur, still the only all French church in Toronto, and two schools. But in the 1960s they dispersed.

Mon Dieu! Where did they all go?

I find a clue in a parking lot at Spadina and Lake Shore. "Bebe a bord" says a sticker on a rear windshield.

Inside a rambling heritage house, in a field of condos, is the Centre Francophone de Toronto's southern outpost. (Others are on College St. and Fairview Mall.)

Here I find Erik Larose and Karine Barrass, of Franco-Fete. That is Hogtown's St-Jean-Baptiste Day celebration, at Harbourfront Centre tomorrow.

(The show continues into les petites hours. See franco-fete.ca.)

Larose came from Quebec City five years ago to seek HR business. Barrass met a Toronto guy in Paris and came here for love. That is her "bebe a bord."

They are part of a rising French river in the megacity.

The tide comes mostly from Quebec, but also elsewhere in Ontario, and places like Belgium, Morocco and Haiti.

Sooner or later, they will have their own neighbourhood once more. Maybe the old haunt.

"I'm mystified why there isn't one already," says Barrass. "There is so much to gain."

If they could pull together, a connoisseur would go nuts in that village: 75 French cuisine restaurants dot T.O.

Voulez-vous manger avec moi, ce soir?

For now, some have gathered under Franco-Fete's culinary banner. See francolicious.com.

You have not had poutine 'til you have poutine au fois gras.

Every mall has French fashion shops and parfumiers.

So, who are all those salespeople with the French accents? How many are there? Where do they hide?

Why are baguettes always flying off bakers' shelves?

Well, there is a gazillion francophiles, people who crave burgundy and anything Provence, but whose command of French does not extend much past "escargot."

The real thing is harder to pin down.

A 2001 City of Toronto report says French was the sole language used at home by 5,500 people. C'est tout? But it did not include multilingual homes.

Other studies show 49,000 in the city to 127,000 in the GTA, depending how you define francophone.

I heard one estimate of half a million in the GTA, though I suspect that includes anyone who can sing Alouetta.

At any rate, all agree the French connection grows stronger.

Any separatists?

"Why would separatists come to live in Toronto?" says Larose, who is the festival's prez.

D'accord.

"The separatism thing is done, except for older baby boomers who still live in the 1970s. People talk about it more in Ontario than in Quebec."

Tres bien.

A private radio station, CHOQ-FM, launched last year. There's a local newspaper, L'Express.

As we stroll along Queen's Quay, a cyclist sees our francophone flags, which, incidentally, I found in Chinatown.

Scott Bedard, 19, is mostly Irish, but a poster boy for French immersion. The three parlez for a few minutes.

"This is an anglo dominated town," says Bedard, from Hogg's Hollow. "There's no part of town where you can go to speak French."

True, but King St. W. in front of bars like Zazou was beaucoups crazy after France won a World Cup game last year.

Franco-Fete, which starts at 1:30 p.m. tomorrow, likely will be packed, too, with francophones and francophiles.

Better get there early for parking.

Or le parking, as the French say.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy.

This is great. I think I'll go find a restaurant, and then read for a few hours.

Ahhh.

I'm in a New York state of mind.

I could also do with some goddamned springtime.

Christ, I got a scare just now.

So, on a whim, I decided to see whether Boogaart had posted our marks for the midterm on the website. He's such a technologically-inclined guy, I figured he would have. So I log onto Virtual Campus and make my way to the "My Grades" portion of the site. And then, I see:

49.50.

I froze for a moment. I thought, there's no way! This can't be. He couldn't possibly have failed me for that exam.

Then I look again and realize: It's out of 60!

So, I actually got an 82.5. But Christ, if it didn't scare me for a second.

Note to self: Can register at 11 AM on the 3rd.

Scott this afternoon - 1 relationship + 1 scotch + 1 low playlist = Scott tonight.

Sad.

September seems a lifetime ago.

So does October... November... December seems more real. It all just seems so long ago. So much has happenned- Convention, Exams, Christmas, New Year's, starting to work on the Hill, the SFUO election, Midterms, Fencing, seeing friends, making friends, losing friends... Everything's gone so quickly.

This month is totally different than how I thought it would be three, four months ago.

I wonder what April, May and June will be like.

Song of the Spring:
Boys of Summer, by the Ataris. In my defense, I'll provide some much-needed qualification for this one. I don't like all of the Ataris' songs omnibus. A few- Way Away, In This Diary, etc.- hold memories for me. And Boys of Summer is just a really good cover, and if you disagree, go to hell. It got a lot of play last spring in the Cave, since Mike and I both liked it. That brings up another song- the CSI theme song. I think Mike watched every episode ever made of that show while we were there, and I grew to like it too. That song was constantly playing, though. Anyway, it loses out to Boys of Summer. The true runner-up would have to be Sweetness by Jimmy Eat World. Actually, it comes close enough to be on par. So that's Boys of Summer and Sweetness for spring.

Song of the early summer:
Tobacco Island by Flogging Molly. I was on a really heavy FM kick this summer (truth be told, it hasn't ENTIRELY abated yet), and I discovered that song in the dark recesses of my hard drive. It quickly had a place in every playlist I made. It didn't help that I was dating Liz at the time, and Flogging Molly reminded me of her at that point.

Song of the late summer:
Believe it or not, Dragostea din tei by O-Zone. "Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma, nu ma iei, Nu ma, nu ma iei, nu ma, nu ma, nu ma iei..." It was playing at the Days of Comanesti festival, and it was a running joke with the Romanian girls for the rest of the trip. That picture of me, it was my Facebook and MSN display picture for a while, of me with a sausage in one hand and a beer in the other? That's from the Days of Comanesti festival. What a great time. Anyway, it was the song of the end of the summer.

Song of the fall:
Counting Down the Hours by Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Renee got me on them, and that's been a consistent play of mine ever since. It reminded me of her back then- now it does too, I suppose, but it's not something I associate anywhere near entirely with her, like Paperweight by Schuyler Fisk. Is it chance that Counting Down the Hours doesn't remind me anywhere near as much of her? Or is it because it got waaaaaay more play, and I experienced more while listening to it? Huh. The modern day "chicken or the egg".

Song of the winter:
Hmm. That's tough. I haven't a clue. Maybe the West Wing theme song. Ah, okay. That would be Screaming at the Wailing Wall by Flogging Molly. It's another one I never really listened to before, but found hiding in my "All Music" section. I still listen to all the songs that came before it, just not as much. In any case, signing off.

So, I'm finally writing for the Fulcrum! I couldn't before, I had a class during the weekly staff meeting, but the time has finally arrived. I was going around after the meeting, talking to some of the editors, and wound up with the Opinion editor. She told me that since she'd only just taken over the section, she didn't really have a list of topics yet- she was just looking for people to write about things they knew really well. I said I was involved politically, but Canadian politics- I'm not writing about them right now. Aside from that, there is one thing I know well and have been writing about recently, though- Northern Irish politics. The crisis there would make a good international affairs piece, apparently, and she wanted to get something a little deeper in the section, since there had been so few articles with any sort of gravitas for the past few months. So, I'm taking it. It'll be a 500-word opinion piece, describing the history and implications of the Northern Irish situation. Since it's an opinion piece, I get to send my message. If you read my political posts (and I really don't blame you if you don't, riddled as they are with acronyms and allusions to things I don't talk about in any depth here), you'll know what that message will be, but if you don't, well, wait for the article. I'll refine my point some before I send it out. Based on what happens this Saturday, there are two potential articles to write. We'll see.

I'm nervous, but in a really good way. I can't wait. Definitely a little nervous though.

Her breath began to speak
As she stood right in front of me
The colour of her eyes
Were the colour of insanity
Crushed beneath her wave
Like a ship, I could not reach her shore
We're all just dancers on the Devil's Dance Floor

Well swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, a little more next to me
Swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor

Pressed against her face
I could feel her insecurity
Her mother'd been a drunk
And her father was obscurity
But nothin' ever came
From a life that was a simple one
So pull yourself together girl
And we'll have a little fun

Well she took me by the hand
I could see she was a fiery one
Her legs ran all the way
Up to heaven and past Avalon
Tell me somethin' girl, what it is you have in store
She said come with me now
On the Devil's Dance Floor

Well swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, a little more next to me
Swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor

Well swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, a little more next to me
Swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor

The apple now is sweet
Oh much sweeter than it ought to be
Another little bite
I don't think there is much hope for me
The sweat beneath her brow
Travels all the way
An' headin' south
This bleedin' heart's cryin'
Cause there's no way out

Well swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, a little more next to me
Swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor

Well swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, a little more next to me
Swing a little more, little more o'er the merry-o
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor
Swing a little more, on the Devil's Dance Floor

Saddam Hussein was executed just after dawn today, December 30th 2006, in Baghdad, Iraq. He was hung by the neck until dead.

The trial has been called illegitimate due to political interference from the Iraqi administration.







Tonight is a bleak night for the rule of law.

Saddam Hussein will be executed within the hour.

Don't do it. The trial was unfair. The Iraqi administration actively influenced events. Don't hang him.

This is going to bring international condemnation, make a martyr of him, and cause massive civil unrest. Don't do this.

This is not a fair or just or equitable result. This is not Nuremberg. This is not legal.

Do not do this.

Killing a foreign head of state you've overthrown is a very serious crime, Mr. President, a very serious crime.

Don't do it.

Hahahahahahahaha... Oh, the stuff that I'll never end up saying.

But, I'm done!!! It feels great. At last :D

Now- Three hours until home!







And no ball nor chain nor prison shall keep, we're the rebels of the sacred heart.

http://www.cbc.ca/canada/story/2006/12/20/harper-dion-quebecois.html

"Of the four front-runners in the Liberal leadership race, only Gerard Kennedy voted against the motion, which passed 266-16."

Um... Am I missing something here?

New France is done!

I'm so happy right now.