Archive for the ‘Goofy’ Category

Changing the name from the White House to the Red House: All in Favor…?

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

You know I’m serious about that idea when I consciously choose to use the American spelling of favor. It’s favour in Canada.

Anyway, here it is, Ladies and Gentlemen:


Being so far in debt (very Red)—some 11 trillion paper dollars—and now offering legislated socialism (very Red) for the desperate yet rich (via the tax-payer), we propose (me and the friends in my head) that the White House be forced to change its name to the Red House.

The proposed idea will be enacted and held until the following five demands are fulfilled:

1) Some sort of economic plan that involves intelligence on behalf of citizens, the environment and reality is put forward.

2) Until the noose (sometimes self-imposed) is removed from the tax-payers’ neck (Red with Fury and Strangulation).

3) Ideas of monetary reform and the absurdity of the never-ending printing of paper money becomes part of everyday consciousness.

4) Informative and honest information outside the usual box is offered as something that is always done—even in a small booklet. A little red book, maybe.

5) Christopher Hitchens gives up scotch. Okay, okay, Christopher Hitchens considers giving up scotch.



All in favour say “Red!”

Also, I like this comment from William Greider:

Formal economists will scoff, but poets often see realities the bean counters fail to recognize.

I think that’s a great idea. Imagine a poet, say Leonard Cohen—okay, he’s Canadian. But imagine if a poet had to come up with the plan.


With handouts from lap-dog Ben Bernanke*
All the bankers keep living swanky
Citizens petition and start a mailout
An ad campaign to stop the bailout
The people cry: “Stop this deformation!
We demand monetary reformation!”
What that means I’ve not a clue
But something tells me that it’s true
Instead of the lying Fed or Obama
Why not a poet or the Dalai Lama?
In trying to fix the lies and strife
Instead of ‘Growth’ choose ‘Quality of Life!’
‘Cause what they’re selling is pure bunk
And without a change our credit’s sunk
And I know this poem is pure crap
But dammit, friends, we need a better map!
To try and figure where we’re goin’
Maybe we should call Leonard Cohen
He knows at least as much as Ben
Plus with a decent grasp of zen
He couldn’t possibly make things worse
Plus he’d do it all in verse
And if the answer he doesn’t know it?
He’ll recommend a smarter poet
Or Jeffrey Armstrong, that mystic bard
He’ll scribe those liars long and hard
Their addiction to growth and fossil fuels
In debt to economic schools
Sisters, brothers, we must think wider
As such, I’m down with William Greider
When a trillion dollars has no meaning
It’s from these liars we all need weaning
And doing so, perhaps we’ll see
A deeper truth to set us free

THE END (of something)

*Ben Bernanke is the unelected Chairman of the Federal Reserve, replacing the unelected Alan Greenspan. After decades of knowing everything, Greenspan summed up the collapse: “We’re not smart enough as people. We just cannot see events that far in advance.”

Heck, my dad knew it was coming, with the banks, fractional reserve banking, the printing of unbacked money and inconceivable debt etc etc.

Keep dreaming. As Einstein said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” I guess that depends on what is imagined. Because somebody is imagining right now that this bailout, proposed by the people who caused the problem, might actually help.

That is actually the definition of insane.

Oh, speaking of William Greider, for those who want to be active, in conversation with Bill Moyers, he mentions a little protest on April 11th. I’m not sure what they stand for exactly, but they think not much of the current parties.

And only a moron wouldn’t agree with that, at least in part, the Messiah-ship endowed upon Barak Obama notwithstanding.

Lots of love to you,


CORNY, MAN: Swimming Against the Current (Ideology)

Friday, February 20th, 2009

Michael Phelps, of course, has been dropped by Kellogg’s for smoking dope. Fair enough. A clause is a clause, I guess.

Now first off, the fact that Phelps could have drank 28 beers and passed out in his own vomit and kept the sponsorship is mildly instructive.

But the big hypocrisy is this: the fact that, because they offer money, Kellogg’s can actually hint that their breakfast cereals—corn flakes and frosted flakes!—might do anything other than promote virtually empty calories and type II diabetes is the real crime. And I know Michael Phelps eats a ton of junk food, but still…

Here are the ingredients:


Okay, so there are a few vitamins, and evidently it’s kosher (on the Kellogg’s website), which I think means the cow didn’t bleed all over itself at the moment of slaughter. Great, it just suffered for the months prior to the slaughter.

See, this shite food is yet another corn product. And high fructose corn syrup is just the worst for type II diabetes and general ill-health.

This corn craze is crazy. Corn fed to cows pathologically ravages their stomach lining. There was a time when cows were actually grass fed. And corn is subsidized intensely in the so-called free market world, meaning cows are communist. Heck, Phelps’ bong was probably made out of some corn product. And Phelps, given his diet, is probably three-quarters corn.

Corn flakes. Frosted flakes. Marijuana? If anything, marijuana is a gateway drug that leads to junk food. That’s why I don’t smoke—it might lead to Cheezies. Why isn’t really crappy food illegal?

And it’s not as though elsewhere, outside of arresting 20 million people for marijuana, we humans stress excessive love and/or nutrition for our fellow citizen: in hockey you can punch somebody in the face repeatedly, with a bare fist and get only a five minute penalty; you can take steroids up the yin-yang in baseball (okay, that’s supposedly illegal, now); you can take enough hits to the head in football to be a bumbling mess in your forties, but you can’t, well, you know…

But man that guy can swim. Imagine if he ate well and wasn’t constantly stoned. He’d probably be a basketball player.

Take care of your beautiful, beautiful body,

Pete xoxo


Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009

I actually wrote a decent sized essay recently, in an effort to not be a total and useless knob while trying to explain the mysteries of Quantum Theory to my perfectly lovely, recently turned 16-year-old, niece.

Heck, Quantum Theory is a mystery—a counter-intuitive, science-tested meditation that forces an honest person to question so much of how we believe the material world actually works—and in that sense, who and what we are. And who am I kidding? I’m trying to explain it to her to explain it to me, and you know how that goes.

I must say it can’t be easy being an honest scientist these days, either. The relentless drive, through scientific experiment, to support the idea of a purely mechanistic universe has led to not only a vision of a world more mysterious than we’d imagined, but perhaps more mysterious than we can imagine, to quote an old physicist.

The piece is called QUANTUM THEORY AND SIXTEEN TRIPS AROUND THE SUN, in which we talk about Aristotle, Einstein, consciousness, asymmetrical balls, the Pope’s undergarments, Newton, entanglement, breakfast burritos, vegetarian-eating Frenchmen, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and a few things about the Theory itself—like how only the observation of the theory makes it, or anything else, real, according to a bunch of nerdy physicists who were yogi renunciates in a past life.

It’s all here—and more darn fun than lawn darts!

Anyway, it’s for my niece, but I thought you might like it. I’ll probably change bits over the next few days. I always do. Any extrapolations, ideas or corrections are always exciting.

Hope all else is shining and good. Lots of love to you,


I Went To A Fight The Other Night, And A Hockey Game Broke Out: Patrick Roy, his son, Human Nature, ‘Pulling a Gandhi’ and the Military Industrial Complex

Wednesday, March 26th, 2008

That ol’ gag.

I tried to write this blog but it just got out of control. This is what came out. I have no idea if it’s clear, but it’s 2:20 am…

“It’s just a job. Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.”
—Muhammad Ali

I’m not sure where directing a documentary on boxing places me in terms of glorifying sports violence, but I thought I’d make a comment about fighting in hockey anyway.

This comes after the recent brawl in a junior hockey game, that may not even have reached the rest of the world as news—which is good. Goaltending legend Patrick Roy’s son Jonathan skated across the ice and pounded the opposition goalie. The opposition goalie had ‘turtled’—which means he was unwilling to fight.

Frankly, I commend the choice to not fight, and I think the derogatory use of the term ‘to turtle’ should be replaced with, say, ‘he pulled a Gandhi’ or ‘he did the Martin Luther King.’

It should also be noted that when I played junior hockey, I was no fighter and barely a scorer, which surely accounts for a career of staggering brevity and anonymity. I also disliked showering with a bunch of men, but that has nothing to do with this article.


What’s interesting about Patrick’s son’s behaviour—though hardly shocking or even surprising, given hockey—is that it’s not vilified because it was violent, it’s vilified because it was outside the acceptable code for fighting on the ice.

Given that fighting of any nature is allowed in hockey, that’s a bit of a curious comment—but it’s true. But the only fighting that is ‘acceptable’ in hockey—indeed encouraged, celebrated and even honoured—is the fight between two voluntary participants.

No head-butting. No biting. No kicking. And no fighting someone who refuses to fight. Hey, it’s not a free-for-all! This isn’t Iran, you know, it’s smack in the middle of modern civilization!


The only fighting that’s allowed in hockey is straight ahead bare-knuckle punches to the face, by two willing participants for as long and as hard as they can keeping going without the linesmen having a safe way to break it up. If children are watching, so be it. If they’re cheering (from an economics point of view), all the better.

Suspensions, however, happen to those who commit infractions outside of this code—like Jonathan Roy, in this relatively insignificant outbreak. Whether what happened was excessively dangerous or caused injury is ultimately, but not completely, beside the point.


This is instructive, and also disconcerting, because pro hockey players who actually fight for a living, generally within the ‘code’, are incredibly tough, aggressive, powerful and dangerous athletes: they can weigh 240-odd pounds, be adept in martial arts and pumped to the max on steroids—at least during their summer training regime. And the toughest junior players aren’t far behind.

Hell is bound to break loose during the season.


I would not be at all surprised if one day somebody is killed in a hockey game, not by actions outside of the ‘code’ where a loose canon pounds away on a turtling goalie, although something brutal could happen there, but by a clean punch or combination of punches in a fight that is considered acceptable.

Many hockey players more than willing to fight, with a maximum penalty of five minutes for their actions, have had their careers finished from being walloped.

Adam Deadmarsh, for example, was concussed by one punch, and never really fully recovered, putting an end to a promising career. A brutal punch and then falling face-first onto the ice, unconscious, also convinced Nick Kypreos to pack it in.

It’s not pretty, it has nothing to due with the stick or the puck, and it’s after the whistle—but people defend its place in the sport.


With regards to what happened in Quebec the other night, my point is simple and two-fold.

One, who cares? It’s only hockey and the importance of sport is ridiculously overblown. I don’t even think anyone was hurt, and we live in a world where sanctioned mass killing goes on day and night.

Not to mention we have endless video war games, a war culture, ultimate fighting as entertainment, films of deep violence without redemption winning Academy Awards, and factory-farm food fed to our children and ourselves nearly 24-7. One can only pray there is a lot of love at home.


Two, as long as bare-fisted, unlimited pummeling is an encouraged part of the game of hockey, greater mayhem has to occasionally spill over—including bench-clearing brawls, rude words and even the occasional fashion faux-pas. This is science as much as morality, if not more.

Anyone who can’t accept this truism just doesn’t understand the law of association, the law of thermodynamics, the law of the jungle or the law of being an idiot—heck, just ask any parent. If the zeitgeist created is full of violence, violence will erupt.

To be overly affected by its daily news flashes is to be hopelessly vulnerable. The appalling acts going on all over the globe have very little to do with a scrappy night in a Quebec ice rink. As it says in the Baghavad Gita, “Armed with yoga, stand and fight.”

In other words, understand, in varying degrees, these unfoldings are part of the world. From there, breathe deeply and act according to your nature, as best you can. If love can be increased, or hate decreased, how beautiful is that?

And if one of your goals in life is to have fighting in hockey banned, good luck to you.


But the effects of association, of energy, are evident everywhere, and are perhaps even more important to try and understand. Indeed, this is the stuff of life. Take the weapons industry, for example. If trillions of dollars are spent on their production, there is a force behind such ventures—even an energetic force. By design, it seems to me, they will eventually be used.

Is weapons being used the problem, or is weapons being built the problem—or is maximizing profits in any way possible—fighting, drugs, weapons—the problem? And what are the unseen emotional effects of the weapons industry being a major part of, say, the American economy?

It’s the law of association—it’s the allowable parameters within a system. It’s seeing where a question begins, and the question that is allowed to be asked.

Corporations exploit humans and the environment because in this curious world they’re sanctioned and applauded and rewarded for doing so. Discouragement is trivial.

So it goes, in a microcosmic way, for fighting in hockey.


Being surprised or appalled at what happened in that junior game is like being surprised when Mike Tyson’s nature and profession spilled over into his love life. Tragic? Yes. Surprising? Not so much. Okay, the ear was a bit of a shocker. Okay, the second bite.

Again, way outside the code of allowed violence.


Take prisons. Is anyone surprised one goes in to those hard, cold, brutal places for a small crime and comes out a hardened criminal? If I had my way, prisons would be (for starters, a lot less full), the meals would be vegetarian, the walls would be a soft colour, and there would be no televisions.

Wait a second, that’s my house.


Maybe fighting in hockey should be banned, or restrained, or penalized for seven minutes, or maybe it shouldn’t. Either way, is it incomparable to the sickness of sanctioning, endorsing and funding the blowing up of women and children in foreign countries—and obtaining massive wealth for doing so?

What questions aren’t asked in our silly outrage over something like a bench-clearing brawl at a hockey game between boys?

Here’s what I know: if governments and corporations, in some revelatory tandem, stop inflicting their Military Industrial Complexes onto innocent people in other parts of the world, because it’s wrong to do so, I guarantee that fighting in hockey will slowly cease to be.

Indeed, the sport will probably become a sort of figure skating with a stick and a puck. I wouldn’t even be surprised if those one piece sky blue jump suits (with the curious bulge in the middle) cross-over too—maybe even with sequins.

But before we get too honest or too gentle, we should ask ourselves: is that really what we want? Fairly-treated people in light blue jump suits all over the world, eating nutritious salads and unafraid to ‘turtle’? Not ony that, who knows if the Chinese or the Russians will play along.

Maybe I’ve just got to minimize anger and cruelty in my own life—in how I eat, talk, work and play. No, that can’t be the problem!

I love you—garl darn it I love you!

Pete xo


Friday, March 21st, 2008

NOTE: I wrote this essay the other day. If you find musings of a spiritual nature interesting, you might find this is up your alley—if God wills it.



I have a subscription to a magazine called Parabola: Tradition, Myth and the Search for Meaning. It is a lovely, peaceful, often inspiring magazine with a largely Eastern sensibility—and in general shows how expanded interpretations of the Christian, Jewish and Islamic traditions can feel comfortable in that space.

In the Spring 2008 issue, I read an article called The Deepest Silence, by John Roger Barrie. The piece was sweet, and finished with a phrase that I often hear in contemplative or New Age circles.

Here’s the paragraph:

“The successful inner voyager treks to the precipice, and then, having encountered the Unknowable, brazenly discards maps and compass and boldly treads onward. The yearning heart echoes the cry that seized the Psalmist: “Be still and know that I am God.” The knowing mystic, seized with a searing nondual vision, confidently answers back, “Be silent and know that you, too, are God.”

I’ve never understood the point of saying ‘I am God.’ In fact I’ve always found the phrase sort of pointless. But perhaps I just wasn’t ready….


Lots of love to you on your journey,

Pete xo


Thursday, February 7th, 2008

My dear friends, if you’ve had a difficult day, and you’re tired of my high-falutin’ transcendental jabbering, I think this wonderful song might be just the cure. Ladies and Gentlemen, the inimitable John Prine with Iris DeMent.

Tell me it didn’t make you smile, I dare ya….

Okay, okay, I can’t compete with John Prine, but what the heck, one of my songs—I can’t leave my self out, it’s my blog, for the love of ego! For proof that hearts have been broken all the way back to Homo erectus, of all people: press here for Mr Neanderthal and the Ghosts of Love.

Okay, and one more with a twist and a chant towards enlightenment and desperation, a cross between transcendental love and trans-incidental love. Ladies and Gentlemen, a Shark Attack for your listening pleasure,

Lots of love to you. Seriously, tons and tons of love.