Nothing Is Impossible, Except...

I'm hoping that this video will work, though I have little or no faith in the technology or my ability to use it...it feels like work. Click on it and see what happens. Ideally you should see a video of my brother-in-law on his unicycle, going down my boardwalk to the shore.

I didn't try Erik's unicycle this weekend, but I have tried it before. I lump unicycling into a category which I call 'the near impossibles'. Of course I know it's possible, because circus clowns (and Erik) are doing it routinely.

I've encountered many obstacles in my life that seemed impossible at the time (juggling, enjoying Celine Dion CDs, liking the Mulroneys). I've managed to overcome all of these obstacles, except mining pleasure from anything to do with Celine Dion or the Mulroneys. Oh well, at least I can juggle.

This morning I'm going to try something that I haven't done for a long time....work. I'm going to try farming. Farming isn't really work if there's a tractor involved. I've never quite been able to shake off that childhood fascination with Tonka Trucks, so if this morning's adventure into agriculture has me sitting on a Kubota or John Deere, then I'm still in leisure mode. It's going to be 30 degrees outside today, so we'll see how I feel after my morning in the sun. I expect that I'll need to go on vacation afterwards.

How The Rich Suffer!

When most people think about the rising sun, they conjure up images of early mornings with a cradled coffee, pink skies turning to blazing banana yellow, or sushi (Japan is often referred to as the land of the rising sun). When Larry Ellison, CEO of Oracle Corporation, thinks about the Rising Sun, he wonders where the hell his team of nattily dressed minions will dock it.


Rising Sun is his private, globe trotting yacht. Larry's yacht is 452.5 feet long and 62 feet wide. It boasts the same amount of living space as the average sized WalMart. It has 50 000 horsepower under the hood which can propel it to a top speed of 52 kilometres per hour. It's hard to imagine the enormity of this man's bateau, so to put the yacht into some meaningful context, I'll compare it to a recent ferry on which I was a passenger.
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When traveling to and from les Iles de la Madeleine, I drove my 14 foot long, 136 horsepower car into the commodious M.V.Madeleine. I parked my car next to a hundred other cars inside the cavernous hold, as well some buses, RVs and transport trucks. My yacht for the 5 hour crossing was 400 feet long, and 60 feet wide. Too small for Larry!
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Here's an image of her....





She's not as pretty as Larry's launch, but she's home to 700 passengers. Larry's boat was built for one man, his ego, 38 crew and undoubtedly a litter of sex kittens. For all I know, Larry has been married for 35 years to a chubby woman who likes to knit, but somehow I can't imagine that yacht without a lot of deck fluff. I hope the laser thin ornaments don't blow into the ocean when the chopper lands on the basketball court which converts to a heli-pad.

I recently came across an article that shocked me. Apparently Larry's yacht was too big for his ego, or perhaps his wallet, so he sold a share to Dreamworks SKG co-founder David Geffen. In any event, there will be some under-employed and unhappy deck fluff wandering the docks of St.Tropez, at least Admiral Geffen's turn at the helm. Life sometimes just doesn't seem fair.

I hate to see the rich and beautiful languishing. Here's a quote from the Wall Street Journal's Wealth Report which nicely details the atrocities suffered by the über rich Mr.Ellison:

As Wealth Report readers might remember, Mr. Ellison has been complaining for years that the boat he built specifically to be the longest in the world — or at least to be longer than Paul Allen’s — turned out to be rather impractical. He can’t dock at most of the world’s marinas, since his boat exceeds size limits. When he pulls into shore, he has to tie up with oil tankers and container ships at industrial ports. (Not very posh.) Or he has to anchor offshore and take tenders to the dock.

Larry’s other complaint, according to friends, is the “lack of intimate spaces” on the boat. With its Zen-like, modern design, the boat feels cold and imposing both inside and out. “It’s like walking in an empty mall,” says one friend who’s been on the ship.

I'm a leisurologist, plain and simple...simple and plain. My personal yacht is 12 feet long and can carry a load of 325 pounds. I'm tipping the scales at around 185 pounds these days, thanks to the hundred mile diet. That leaves 140 pounds of legal wiggle room for a passenger. But wait...my yacht carries around four gallons of fuel, which adds about 40 pounds, so now my passenger had better weigh 100 pounds or less. I'm not sure that there's room for one Olsen twin, let alone Tori Spelling with a full complement of makeup. Maybe I need a bigger boat to be fluff worthy?

Ellison sold David Geffen a stake in his yacht...so why shouldn't I buy a piece of the action? Larry's yacht cost around $200 million to build. Perhaps I could buy an inch of his yacht. I just did the math and 1 inch would cost me $36 791 U.S.. My foot is about 12 inches long, so to even stand on my share of the Rising Sun, I'd have to fork over $441 501.

Rich men and fragile egos are a dangerous combination.

Many men, three rungs below Larry, are trying to climb the boarding ladder to see the rising sun. Fools, all of them.

Who in their right mind needs a 400 foot yacht? The largest yacht in the world, owned exclusively by a woman, is the 321 foot Carinthia VII. Now that's far more reasonable, don't you think? It's also much prettier than Larry's floating WalMart, so there! As is often the case, it takes a woman, or a leisurologist/house-husband, to bring the madness of mankind to light. Mourning light.

Nuns, Mud Wrestling and Elvis

Although I used to half jokingly refer to myself as the Village Idiot, I am capable of the occasional deep thought. We're not talking diamond mine deep, more along the lines of a Rothesay Avenue pot-hole, which can be quite abyssal. Every year the city of Saint John loses a few motorists on Rothesay Avenue, they just seem to be gobbled up by hungry PacMan shaped depressions that, on the surface, don't appear all that menacing.

In August 2007 a bus full of 'religious' pilgrims were lost while heading east on Rothesay Avenue toward the Three Mile Tavern. They entered a pot-hole and were never to be seen again. The Telegraph Journal referred to it as an 'act of god'. To me it reeked of a smiting. Sadly, the pilgrims never did get to take part in the "Rockin' Rooster Bikini Mud Wrestling" competition. They met their match in another muddy hole.

God is good.

I had a deep thought recently involving a nun and some sculpture. My pal Freeman, the Dalai Lama of photography, lent me a National Film Board DVD called 'Marie Hélène Allain en Dialogue avec la Pierre'. I thought that she was talking to some guy called Peter, until my son pointed out that 'pierre' turns to stone in French.

I don't make a habit of nun contemplation (even the thought of them scares me), and I don't usually give a chiseler's damn about sculpture, but this DVD changed everything. Apart from being beautifully filmed and edited, the film left me feeling that I understood the nature of sculpture. Of course I'll never understand nuns, let alone want to become one, but Sister Marie changed my mindset. I now look at sculpture differently, no longer as a pigeon might. I'm inspired to try my hand at sculpture.

As a busy leisurologist, you have to understand that I don't have a lot of free time. I can't just find a pierre and start carving. I haven't got the proper tools either. I decided to take an existing piece of sculpture and turn it into what I call an 'installation'. I had to take into consideration the work of art, the context, and the environment.

For seventeen years I've been the proud owner of an Elvis bust. My friend Chris gave it to me as a housewarming gift. Thoughtful guy...he gives all of his friends a charming piece of Elvis art when they buy their first home. I've never had my Elvis bust appraised, but I'm considering an appearance on the Canadian Antiques Roadshow. I think of this sculpture as my retirement fund.

Our priceless bust of Elvis had been used in Christmas installations in the past.

O come all ye faithful, let us adore the king of kings.

Most recently the king has been used to passively ward off evil spirits, and neighbours. So far he's done an excellent job on defence. I've decided, inspired by Sister Marie's brilliant work, to use Elvis as part of an outdoor installation (pictured above). I call my exhibit 'Noosehead Beer', an obvious play on words. There is a much deeper meaning to this installation, but I'm not going to divulge my Jack Handeyian deep thoughts. Art should be subjectively interpreted.

What does this sculpture installation say to you other than 'Ken Appleby, watch out', the leisurologist wants the Village Idiot crown back.

B (minus)...In This Place

New Brunswick's government, captained by none other than former gym teacher Shawn Graham, paid $229 000 to a marketing firm to reinvigorate New Brunswick's ancient provincial slogan. We used to be 'the picture province', now we're telling others, and perhaps ourselves, to put our cameras away and just 'be...in this place'. Our new slogan was delivered to the people of New Bumslick in February 2008, and the debate over it's appropriateness has been raging for eighteen months.

Do I have an opinion with regard to our slogan? Yes, but it's given from the uncomfortable position assumed by a fence sitter....with a prickly picket up my stump, and a pleasant view of both sides. I don't have a great big giant problem with the new slogan, really, although you could apply it to any place in the world equally effective. There is nothing about New Brunswick that makes it any more a place to be than, let's say, Quebec, British Columbia or Necker Island.

There is nothing about New Brunswick that makes it any more photogenic than Newfoundland, Alberta, or Nova Scotia....so really, what makes us the picture province? Simply put, every province is the picture province, even Manitoba. You could happily 'be' anywhere in Canada. The point is moot, at least when comparing the two slogans. What matters is what you do with the slogan, where it's targeted, how it's delivered.

I have no idea where the government of New Brunswick directs its tourism marketing, so I'm unqualified to discuss its effectiveness. I am, however, more than qualified to discuss our province's lacklustre performance in helping small businesses become visible. We are, in a word, pathetic.

I was recently in Prince Edward Island, a picturesque province if there ever was one. It would appear that tourism and agriculture are the mainstays of the island economy, and from what I saw, it looks like they're good at what they do. Take tourism, for example. I'm a snoop at heart so I did a lot of eavesdropping in Anne's Land. I heard a lot of service industry people doing a great job of making visitors feel welcome. The folks working the desk at the Stanley Bridge Resort were experts...asking their guests where they came from, and then generating meaningful conversation beyond their opening pleasantries.

In some ways it made me sad, because the people of PEI made me want to be be in their place more than my own. We have a business in Cambridge-Narrows who, a few years ago, contracted a local businessman to do some trucking for them. They never paid the hardworking, honest individual for the work that he did, yet their doors are still open for business and they expect me to walk through them. I won't. You can't get away with behaviour like that, not in this place.

Another thing that I noticed in PEI was that there were plenty of neatly organized signs, clearly the work of a government who understands tourism. The signs, white letters on a blue background, legibly announced that I was in the vicinity of a small business. One of those signs let me find the Cheese Lady of Winsloe, where I purchased an unhealthy amount of Gouda. The cheese lady's aged Gouda was incredible, and my only regret is that I didn't buy the entire round, and not just a wedge. I will return there some day, and the signs will help me find her 'out of the way' cheesery.

Now, had I been driving along a New Brunswick country road, chances are that I would never have found the cheese lady on that side road because the New Brunswick government doesn't do anything for it's small businesses in terms of roadside signs. There are laws in New Brunswick that make it very difficult for small business to get noticed. You'd think that the government would try to help small business in this regard, but they don't. Instead, our government spends all of it's time and effort on a big glossy brochure and tv, print and radio ads. Their thinking must be 'get them here', they'll figure out what to do on their own.

If you drive along coastal route 1 in Maine, you'll see tasteful government issue signs that direct you down side roads to the East Addison Lobster Company or the Blue Hill Gallery. These signs are also helpful in that they give the distance to the business, so you know what your investment of time might be. Clever. Thoughtful. Helpful. These signs make for happy campers, like me.

I'm astounded that the New Brunswick government does nothing in this manner. Many small business owners put out shitty little signs that are ugly and often lost in the grass. These signs are technically against the law, though no one enforces the law, or so it would seem.

I'd like to see our province make a real effort to help small businesses to become visible. Until then, our slogan will forever be 'New Brunswick...The Drive Through Province'. There are countless reasons to 'be...in this place', it's just that no one is telling our story the way that it needs to be told. It's too bad that Shawn Graham was a gym teacher in his former life, because if he was a Professor of Marketing, then he might understand the importance of signs. Our Minister of Tourism was a self-employed carpenter before getting into politics. Surely he has the knowledge power to make a few signs!

All we need to do is cut down some of the 785 000 000 trees that Irving has planted since the 1950s, mill them, paint and label them, then re-plant them on our roadsides. Only then will we give the tourists a reason to stay...in this place.

Iles de la Madeleine...Parting Shots

Les Cochon Chiens Anglais

I'm turning Quebecois, I think I'm turning Quebecois, I really think so.

It might appear that I'm typing gibberish, but it you were alive during the month of March 1980, then you may have heard the one hot wonder band, The Vapors, singing their only song that 'made it'. The song was called 'Turning Japanese', and I have no idea why they wrote it or what it was about, but it sure was a catchy little piece of writing.

The Vapors vaporized rather quickly, burning up after fourteen of their fifteen minutes of fame had expired. They've easily used up their one minute of remaining fame being a staple in specials about one hit wonder bands. I may have heard them on Casey Kasem's American Top 40 while driving through the radio blighted mid-West.

I've never felt like I'm turning Japanese but yesterday I felt like I was turning Quebecois. I was sitting in the sixth greatest boulangerie (café) in the province of Quebec as ranked by a croissant hound who writes for Le Devoir. I was soaking up the butter infused air directly through my pores. My ears enjoyed the sounds of untold conversations bouncing off the inner walls of this quaint little bakery/café. Everyone spoke French, and I was loving it.

Through the generous windows that faced the sweeping hues of the brilliantly blue Baie de Plaisance, I could see a bike gang enter the parking lot. My greatest fears were realized when they entered the art adorned café and took over the place. They were dressed in fearful biking attire...you know what I mean: cheek hugging spandex shorts, Skittle coloured jerseys, and duck-billed helmets rising a full storey above their sweaty heads. To make matters worse, they spoke English and they spoke it loudly. My croissant went limp.

Collectively they had wrestled the mood into a submission hold. I wanted to shoo them out, like one might do to a big and meaty house fly, but my little voice kept saying 'soyez patience, Jean Ian, soyez patience'. I desperately wanted to return to the joie de vivre in which I had been sautéing prior to their arrival. I couldn't wait for the English (speaking) pig dogs to depart.

Clearly, I was turning Quebecois. I really think so. The funny thing is that I speak gawdawful French, but I try. I understand little or nothing that is spoken to me, often just nodding and saying 'oui'. Here's a typical conversation that I might have in Iles de la Madeleine, translated into English for my pig-dog readers:

Moi: "I would like a croissant, please."

Them: "Would you like almond or plain?"

Moi: "Yes."

Them: "Okay...would you like a beverage with that?"

Moi: "Do you have any butter?"

Them: "Would you like butter on your croissant?"

Moi: "No, just water."

Them: "Would you like some poop on your croissant?"

Moi: "Very much so."

Them: "One lump or two?"

Moi: "Beaucoup, beaucoup, beaucoup."

Yesterday I saw on the boulangerie menu that they had some pain aux noix (pain in the nuts, I believe) with cretons. I didn't know what cretons was, but I ordered it anyway. I found out afterwards that I had just eaten pig's ass with rendered fat, onions and spices. Mmmmm. It actually tasted okay, but I'm sure that I would have hurled had I known what I was eating. Life could get dangerous if I spend more time here.

Next culinary stop....fromage du tête.

I'm leaving the islands this morning, back to the land where I know what part of the pig that I'm eating. Please tell me that back bacon is not something a pig sits on. If it's true, at least deliver the news gently, preferably in French.

Iles de la Madeleine

For some people, sleeping in is one of life's guilty pleasures. They could never be leisurologists because a true leisurologist sleeps with one eye open and one foot out the door. This morning I arose at 5:08 a.m and was leaving the motel by 5:18 a.m. The morning was a brackish grey but I was determined to get out there and greet what little sunrise I might find.

The light was spectacularly unspecial but the landscape more than made up for it. The sandstone buttresses at Dune du Sud were pleasing to the senses, touch as much as sight, though not as warmly lit as I might have hoped. Alas, I worked with what I was given, which was still plenty. The soft sandstone housed signatures of past visitors. I left a few footprints in the night-washed sand, and took nothing more than images. The image above was my favourite. Florence of Levis, Quebec, clearly shared my passion for this place.

Florence will slip from the walls as wind, water and erosion take her to the sea. Signature or not, I suspect she'll always be here in one form or another, as will I.