Handicapping the 2018 Kentucky Derby

I love trying to handicap The Derby.

It's generally an exercise in futility, but it is also an exercise in fun.

On the off-chance you are thinking of watching the race, and are looking for some talking points, this is how I see the field shaping up this year:

The Longshots:

Firenze Fire (50-1):
Let's start with an easy one. Firenze Fire has run four races this year, and has come away with one win. He finished an ordinary-looking 4th at the Wood Memorial. Do not bet on this horse.

Free Drop Billy (30-1):
Free Drop Billy had a great 2 yr old season, but hasn't been able to get anything together as a 3 yr old.  He has the kind of come from behind style that works very well in the Kentucky Derby, but with no evidence of being able win as a 3 yr old, I would stay away

Promises Fulfilled (30-1):
Promises Fulfilled showed a huge burst of opening speed at the Florida Derby, but could only hold it for ¾ of a mile. That won't cut it in this race

Flameaway (30-1):
Another speedster, Flameaway got away from a crowded field to start clean at The Bluegrass.  He tried gamely to go wire to wire, but just couldn’t close.  I think he is the best chance among the longshots for a dark-horse, wire-to-wire winner, and at 30-1 could be worth a flyer.

Lone Sailor (50-1):
Lone Sailor ran a very good race in the Louisiana Derby to come in 2nd. He has a great running style and looked tenacious in that race coming through traffic. I like this horse a lot among the longshots, but not quite as much as...

My Boy Jack (30-1):

Watch this race, and check out the BIG outside move My Boy Jack uses to come in 3rd from way back in the pack.

Then watch this clip, where he wins the Stonestreet Lexington from pretty much dead last. His late speed looks great, and could work really well on a crowded track like we are likely to see at The Derby. His odds are long because he hasn't featured against top-tier competition, but he represents a great value bet

Enticed (30-1):
Enticed gave Vino Rosso a real run for his money at the Wood Memorial, a race in which Enticed did not get to run his preferred style, getting stuck running at the front for much of the race.  He looked better at the Gotham, but just doesn’t seem to have “It” to my eye.

Bravazo (50-1):
Wants to run from the front but doesn't have enough pure speed to build a defendable lead against this field

Instilled Regard (50-1):
4th at Santa Anita in a field of 7
A blase 4th at the Risen Star
I don’t see much here

Solomini (30-1):
Together with My Boy Jack, Solomini is my other longshot gem.

Watch how hard he fights to make 3rd at the Arkansas Derby. He gets squeezed hard right out of gate and then forced 5-wide for much of the race, running a much longer effective race than the competition.  Solomini got an inside ride for most of the Rebel stakes, but got pinched out on the rail on the home stretch and settled for 2nd. Probably underbet because he doesn't have a marquee victory, but this horse can RACE, and is worth a few bucks. He is starting a ways outside at post 17, but if he can get some room to move through the field, he could definitely be a factor.

Noble Indy (30-1):
Won the Louisiana Derby, but did not look like the most impressive horse in that race to me. Does not seem to have the staying power for the Derby.

The Middle of the Pack:

Good Magic (12-1):

Good Magic won The Bluegrass in a crowded field coming from 5^th place in a very nicely run race.

I'm not sure why he's sitting at 12-1 to be honest.  I think there is good value here.

Vino Rosso (12-1):

I really like the discipline Vino Rosso showed in the Wood Memorial, not getting caught up by the blistering first 1/4 mile, and setting up a great come from behind victory, finishing really strong.  That said, Vino Rosso looked VERY BAD at the Tampa Bay Derby, so that lack of consistency is concerning. Starting from the 18 post can be hard, but is easier on a come from behind runner like Vino Rosso, so it shouldn't hurt him too much.

Hofburg (20-1):

How is Hofburg at 20-1? He finished 2nd at the Florida Derby and kept pace with the winner, Audible through the finish.  The only issue was that he sat back too deep in 2nd last before making his move and had too much ground to make up.  He has another victory, also won in come from behind style.  He's been lightly raced this year, and should be relatively fresh. I don't figure on him being a contender to win (Audible is a very similar horse, only better), but he could definitely place.

The Not-Quite Favourites:

Audible (8-1):

The Florida Derby winner, coming from behind (8^th at ½ mile) in a stretched out field with little traffic (check out Hofburg's 2nd place finish in this clip too). The style with which he ran in Florida is perfect for The Kentucky Derby, but the question is if he can do it in a much more crowded field.  If he can stay clear of traffic, he has a legitimate shot at winning

Bolt d’Oro (8-1):

Bolt d'Oro finished 2^nd to Justify at Santa Anita, which is nothing to be ashamed of, but to my eye, he faded badly in the late-going, and that does not bode well for his chances at the Derby.

The Favourites:

Justify (3-1):

I don't quite know what to make of the Santa Anita winner.  Look at how casually he runs the first half of this race:

A Grade 1 win is a Grade 1 win but he didn’t look super impressive to me. Belt d’Oro faded but was a handful for him along the final turn. Justify likes to run from the front, which is always tough to do at The Derby.  Justify seems to have an extra gear that we haven't really seen yet, so maybe he could get there?  At 3-1, I'm not sure about the value of the bet, but you have to respect his results so far, and starting from the number 7 post is just about the perfect set up for him to take this race. It feels a bit lame to recommend going with the chalk, but it's hard to argue otherwise this year...

Mendelssohn (5-1):

No UAE Derby winner has ever finished higher than 5th at The Kentucky Derby.

Then again, no UAE Derby winner has ever demolished the field like Mendelssohn did earlier this year:

Now THAT was an impressive-looking piece of racing. But then again, the field took it very easy off the start, and didn't push him early, allowing him to save strength for that ridiculous push in the last 1/4 mile.  Throw in the travel, and the different dirt we have in North America, and I'm not sure Mendelssohn is worth it at 5-1

Magnum Moon (6-1):

The Arkansas Derby winner closed strong after running from the front for much of that race.  As with Justify, there are questions around whether he can handle traffic in a big field.  He's got a good post position out at 14 to give him a bit of room out of the gate if he can't get immediately clear. Unlike Justify, I think Magnum Moon has more questions around if he has the endurance to go all the way in The Derby.  Both Solomini and My Boy Jack look like they could have maybe taken Magnum Moon in a longer race.

Brian's Picks:

OK, so who do I like enough to put some units on?

1-unit Exacta Box Justify/Audible/Hofburg/Solomini (12 units total)

1-unit Trifecta Part Wheel Justify/Audible/(Hofburg-Solomini-Mendelssohn-Flameaway) (4 units total)

2-unit Win/Place/Show on My Boy Jack (6 units)

2-unit Win/Place/Show on Solomini (6 units)

2-unit Show on Flameaway (2 units)

30 units worth of excitement for the fastest two minutes in sports!

Get your fancy hats and mint juleps ready - should be a fun race

We All Have A Favourite Tragically Hip Story - This Is Mine

It was a Friday night.

The Canucks were in town.

The Hip were in town.

It was Canada-Day-in-October here in DC.

I looked at the half-dozen or so different iterations of Vancouver Canucks jerseys in my closet, and pulled out the goldenrod, Flying-V for maximum obnoxiousness.  One of the ugliest, yet most distinctive jerseys in the history of pro sports, its high visibility turned out to be a catalyst for one of my favourite nights out in DC, ever.

Meeting up with Ana & Scott before the game, I was already feeling pretty festive. The Canucks only play in DC once per season, and to have the game lining up with The Hip’s seemingly annual visit to the 9:30 Club made for a perfect double feature. 

Looking around the arena, I saw a handful of Canucks jerseys scattered around the crowd, but not many – certainly nothing like what you see at Penguins, Flyers, or (oddly) Sabres games.

The puck dropped and two minutes in, Daniel Sedin scored to give the Canucks a 1-0 lead.  Right around then is when things got nutty.

I can’t remember if it was me jumping out of my seat when the goal was scored, or something else that triggered it, but I do remember Scott tapping me on my arm and saying “Hey, that guy over there seems to know you…”

I glanced one section over to the right, and standing there, arms spread wide, wearing the same goofball grin I hadn’t seen in 8 years, was Chad, with his old sidekick Regier right there next to him. 

“BRRRIIIIIIIIAAAAANNNNN THHHAAAAAMMMMMM!!!!!”

“Chad!  Holy $#!^ What the #&@^ are you doing here?”

<at that point, someone else sitting in my section asked me to watch the cursing. Chad and I decided we would meet on the concourse at intermission>

The first period ended with the Canucks up 2-1, at which point we got the download.

Chad, and Regier had been following the Canucks around on an Eastern road trip as it’s cheaper to see the Canucks this way than it is trying to get tickets back home.  They’d seen them in Detroit and a few other cities already.  DC was the last stop on the trip.

As we stood on the concourse, getting caught up on our lives and revisiting old UBC stories, I got it in my head that I wanted to call my old roommate, Matt, just to let him know that this crazy thing had happened.

Me: “Matt! It’s Brian – I’m at the Caps game tonight.  The Canucks are in town, and you’ll never guess who I ran into one section over: Chad and Regier!”

Matt: “Wow, that’s really crazy that you just called me just now.  I’m actually at the hospital – Jo just went into labour.”

Me: <silence as brain explodes>

After stumbling through some congratulations and sharing the news with the rest of the hockey-watching crew, we noted that the intermission was coming to an end.

Wanting to lock in a way to keep the party going, Chad made the first move.

“We should hang out after the game – Do you guys have plans?”

Did we have plans?  I couldn’t believe what was just about to fall into place…

“Uh… well… you’re not going to believe this, but we’re actually going to go see The Tragically Hip right after this”

Needless to say, Chad and Regier decided they would join us.

The Canucks won the game 3-2, but by the time the game ended, its outcome was totally inconsequential to me.  This night was all about riding this incredible wave of happy coincidences as far as it would take me.

We arrived at The 9:30 Club for the show, picked up a couple of extra tickets for Chad and Regier, and staked out mine and Liz’s favourite spot along the mezzanine stairs.

A bit of context for Canadian readers – The 9:30 Club is the best live music venue in DC. It has capacity for about 1000 people. The Hip would play there frequently to an audience made up almost exclusively of Canadian expats.  The idea that, as a Canadian expat, you get access to see one of your favourite, arena-filling bands in that kind of venue is an underrated perk of living abroad.

I can’t remember what The Hip opened with (edit: it was Yer Not the Ocean – thanks internet!), but they played New Orleans next, during which I looked back to see Chad on the phone with his wife, gloating about where he was at that moment.  And why not?  This was certainly a night worth gloating about.  I’ve seen The Hip play several times since that crazy night, and every show has been great, but nothing will ever top the amazing confluence of circumstances that made this particular night possible.

As a Canadian living amidst so much of the USA’s mythologized history and ideology, the constant assimilatory pressure of US culture can sometimes threaten to overwhelm competing elements of one’s personality.  Even other Canadians get erroneously claimed by Americans simply because that’s their default view of things: I once got into a heated debate with someone who was 100% sure that Barenaked Ladies were from Boston.

But The Hip could never be mistaken for anything else but Canadian.  There are too many inside jokes, and deep-cut references that only Canadians can claim.  It has probably harmed their prospects of “Making It” in the US over the years, but we’ve never cared. That very quality, that unapologetic Canadianness has always made them a key touchstone for me, and for nearly every other Canadian living far from home, the opening strains of every Track 1 serving as a reminder of where we all came from and what we all share.

The Tragically Hip will never play The 9:30 Club again. As they embarked on their final tour across Canada, Liz and I gave serious thought to flying back to Vancouver or Toronto to take in one last show.  But after thinking long and hard about it, worried that a nosebleed seat at the top of an arena wouldn’t deliver what we were hoping for, we decided that we would prefer to make this night our last great memory of The Hip. 

He sang, 'I'll die before I quit'

And this guy's the limit

Stares into the queer of the firefight

It can't be Nashville every night

Never Tell Me The Odds - On Playing PowerBall

You know the scene.  Han Solo is about to take the Millenium Falcon into an asteroid field to shake Imperial pursuit when C3P0 chimes in:

"Sir, the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately three thousand, seven hundred and twenty to one!"

Han of course replies “Never tell me the odds!”

But in today’s information-saturated, over-metricized, infographicked, post-Moneyball world, we are always told the odds.

And we are poorer for it.

Distilling all things down to algorithms and models and stats is great for a lot of things.  It’s great for science and technology and sports banter, but there’s a cost to it as well.

It kills the fun.

In an operations management class I took, there was a case study contrasting Yamaha’s piano manufacturing systems with Steinway’s.  The case study was written to highlight how Yamaha’s use of automation, and standardization allowed them to produce a consistent, high-quality piano at lower cost.  This was supposed to come across as superior to Steinway’s hand-made methods that produced very expensive pianos that all sounded different from one another.

All of that is true.  Democratising music by making high-quality pianos broadly affordable to Tiger-moms all over the world is surely a good thing.

But isn’t the thought that, somewhere out there, there is an outlier piano tuned perfectly for your playing style and your living room, kind of magical?  That’s the essence of The Human Factor in all things.  You never know when the laws of variation might give you an instance of transcendent perfection.

This is where the 3-POs kick in: Problem number one – you’re a crappy piano player.  Problem number two – you’ll never afford one.

Again, all true.  But why kill the fun?

Later today, a PowerBall jackpot worth around $1.4 Billion will be up for grabs.  And predictably, the internet is already full of smug quants reminding all of us that we won’t win, given that the odds are stacked 292 million to 1 against us.

Don’t tell us the odds.  We know the odds.  We’ve always known the odds, and when it all comes down to it, it’s not about the odds.

It’s about that magical possibility.  That “1” in 292 million to 1. 

Yes, our daydreams and grand plans for Porsches, Yachts, and a University Cafeteria bearing our name are ridiculous.  But they are also fun. 

The gleeful thought of your entire department resigning en masse after hitting it big, leaving only an odds-spouting troll and the boss behind is kind of a terrible thing, but again, pretty damn fun to think about.

That narcissitic vision of starting your own foundation and (say it with me) “making the world a better place?”  Yes, totally rote; yes, totally cliché.  But, oh, how much fun.

Yes, lotteries are, by and large, a tax on the ignorant and hopeful.  Yes, winning the lottery often winds up being less pleasant than people think.  And yes, gambling addiction is a real thing, and can have some pretty destructive consequences.

But you know what?  Screw all that.  There’s $1.4 Billion out there with our names on it, and we’re in it to win it.

Just remember:

Never tell us the odds

Bladerunner: Deckard is a Replicant - But of Whom?

Recently, I had a twitter conversation with some old friends about BladeRunner, one of my favourite films as outlined here.  Specifically, we were kicking around the theory that Deckard is a replicant of Gaff, with Gaff’s memories being implanted into Deckard’s brain in order to fool him into thinking of himself as human.

It’s an interesting theory, but one with which I disagree.  Twitter is not the best medium for outlining a path of reasoned thought, so I figured that this was deserving of some long-form discourse.  The Deckard-As-Replicant-Gaff theory does have some evidence going for it, so I’m going to begin with some rebuttals.

From Captain Canuck to President Canuck - Welcome Back, #16

Despite my love for the sport, I don’t often blog about hockey.  The sports blogosphere is already overfull of armchair-types who spend too much time watching and not enough time playing.  But today is an exception.

It has never been easy to be a Vancouver Canucks fan.  And it has been even less easy to be a Vancouver Canucks fan living outside of Vancouver, as I have been for most of my life.  Aside from being woeful at playing hockey for most of my youth, the Canucks were also prone to questionable design decisions regarding their uniforms, being on the losing end of nearly every trade they made, and having a nickname that conveniently rhymes with “suck.”  You know you have it bad, when even your high school computer science teacher would talk smack about your favourite team…

Things started to get a little easier in 1988, when the Canucks drafted Trevor Linden.  This was before the internet, blogs and twitter made everything so much more instantly researchable.  I didn’t watch him play major junior, I didn’t know anything about his play in the Memorial Cup.  Nothing.  All I knew was that the Canucks had drafted a really good prospect who could maybe help the team turn things around.

Six years later, the Canucks were in the Stanley Cup Final, and Trevor Linden had cemented his place as my favourite professional athlete ever.

It’s difficult to love and hate sports figures as a grown adult.  Each year broadens your perspective and introduces you to other things that make sports so much less important to you than they used to be.  But in 1994, at the age of 17, nothing mattered more to me than that Canucks team, and no player on that team mattered more to me than #16.

Today, Trevor Linden was named President of the Vancouver Canucks.

It’s a great PR move.  I’m far from the only Canucks fan to put Linden on a pedestal.  Trevor Linden could say that he wanted to invade Ukraine, and half the Lower Mainland would be ready to throw the first molitov cocktail.  At a time when the team is imploding, and the Vancouver fanbase, replete with bandwagon-jumpers, is waffling on their season-ticket decisions, nobody can secure that season ticket revenue better than Linden can.

But is it a great hockey move?  There is a lot of noise on Twitter and likely more than a few articles being written that will decry Linden’s lack of hockey management experience.  That’s not a fact to be argued with.  He has none.  There is no way to deny it:  This isn’t the best hockey move the team can make.

The thing is, it doesn’t have to be.

Being a Canucks fan has always required a nearly absurd amount of faith, belief, and optimism.  Noone has ever answered that better than Trevor Linden. 

And even then, we still fell one goal-post short of winning it all with him.

Nonetheless, we all remember that team, and we all remember Linden as the guy who scored two goals in Game 7 of the Cup Final while playing with broken ribs.

The Canucks, as a franchise, are a mess.  They’ve traded away two all-star caliber goalies in two years for pennies on the dollar.  They’re built around an increasingly fragile and aging core, with too little depth.  Their coach may be a certifiable lunatic with no idea as to how he should play his roster.  If Linden needs time to fix this mess, time to learn how to be an NHL executive, the fans will give him that time – he’s earned it more than anybody.

In today’s Vancouver Province, Jason Botchford suggested that Canucks fans would rather lose with Linden than win with somebody else.  That’s a ridiculous statement.  Canucks fans want to win.  And there is nobody else in the world we want to win with more than Trevor Linden.

On Being a Chinese-looking, half-South African, and Family Stories That Should Be Told More Often

The recent passing of Nelson Mandela, as well as a few events in my own family have had me thinking of my South African heritage a great deal in recent days.

I always enjoy the reaction I get when I tell people that my mother was born in South Africa.  Reactions range from:

Outright denial - "No way!"

Trying to go with the flow - "Oh... really?  That's interesting..." <smoke seeps from skull>

Immediate bonding - "My family's from Nigeria! We're practically family!" <hugs>

Immediate joking - "Well of course - you totally look South African! /sarcasm"

That last one is particularly fun, because for most of the 20th Century, if you were from South Africa, how you looked mattered a LOT.

Cute & Creepy Asian Kids Love Panera

Lunch during a rough day at work is going to go one of two ways:

Option 1: The most unhealthy, comforting food your can find, consumed in huge quantities with the goal of putting you in a pain-killing, carbohydrate-driven coma for the rest of the day

or

Option 2: Something fast and reasonably healthy to keep you kicking @$$ and busting heads for another four hours

Recently, I was having a bit of an Option 2 day, so I cruised down the road to Panera, getting there at 11:45 to make sure I beat the lunch rush, only to find...

That I was in the middle of the lunch rush.

Strike A Pose - There's Nothing To It

Aydana had just finished ringing up my thousand Rubles or so of souvenir purchases.  Armed with a friendly smile, fluent English, and a just-aggressive-enough brand of salesmanship, she had managed to up-sell me on a bunch of tchotchkes I didn’t need.  But then, I figured that if you’re going to get up-sold, it might as well be done at the hands of a pretty, young Kyrgyz girl, right?

As we wrapped up our transaction, I asked if it would be OK if I took a photo.  Ayadana replied that it would be no problem, and backed up, out of the shot.

The field of view, a generic souvenir store, half-full with stragglers from an Asian bus tour, was decidedly uninspiring.  I turned back to Aydana.

“How about a photo with you in it?”

A raised eyebrow.  A split second of feigned shyness.  And suddenly, the situation took a turn.

Glasses off.  Hair smoothed, and gathered, tossed over a single shoulder.  A partial turn towards the camera.  Arms crossed.  Just a hint of a half smile.

Smiling myself now, I took the photo.

Lowering my camera, I nodded my thanks and moved to leave, but my new Kyrgyz friend wasn’t about to let me get away without some quality control.  Cutting me off, she peered over my arm to get a look at the photo.

Rejected.

Taking me by the arm, she took me further into the store, setting up in front of a wall of amber jewelry.  Feeling better about her backdrop, Aydana struck the exact same (apparently well-practiced) pose.

Take two.

Another QC check, this time a pass.

Girls in Russia do love to take a pretty picture.

Things Russians Like

Alright.  So, I've been in Russia a little over a week now, which obviously makes me qualified to blog about the place as if I'm an expert.  Over the past seven or so days, I've noticed that there are number of things that seem to be inordinately popular here, compared to other countries.  Proceeding with the disclosure that these are all ridiculous generalisations, and an apology in advance to any Russian readers who I am probably about to offend, I present to you nonetheless...

10 Things That (I think) Russians Really Like:

Aeroflot – Red-Orange Outfits, Strange Film Choices and Affirmative Action

As we were planning this vacation, I received the prospect of flying to Russia on Aeroflot with a 90:10 blend of excitement and nervousness.  On the one hand, I was pretty pumped to check out a new airline I’d never flown before, and having been an air show geek as a kid, I remember Aeroflot as a cold war equivalent of Air Canada.  Only I remember thinking that Aeroflot’s stewardesses, while highly skilled and coached to work as a highly coordinated unit, just didn’t have the same intangibles that our Canadian stewardesses had <translation note: that’s a Canadian hockey joke for you non-Canadian readers…>.

But on the other hand, Aeroflot doesn’t exactly get the same kind of positive press that, say, Singapore Airlines, or Emirates does.  There was another itinerary on SAS that wasn’t very different in terms of scheduling or price, and seeing as how I love all things Scandinavian, I was tempted to go with the Swedes.  In the end however, Aeroflot got the nod, so away we went.

Airports, People-watching, and Adventure

I love airports.  And it's a good thing too, since I've probably spent more time in them than most.  I'm not talking about specific things, like how I love the international arrivals area of YVR, or the food at La Carreta in MIA, or the impossibly posh duty-free shopping at Heathrow T5.  I'm talking about loving airports in general - in the abstract.

I have always found that the people-watching in airports is exceptional.  As soon as you set foot in the terminal, you are surrounded by farewells and reunions that run the entire gamut of the human emotional spectrum.  Soldiers returning from a tour of duty.  A toddler visiting their grandparents for the first time. A long-distance romance leaving again after too short of a long weekend.  So many glimpses of so many stories in just a few short steps, from the entrance to the check-in desk.

And the security line - the source of so much angst, so many missed flights, and so much unintentional comedy.  Watching people struggle with the concept that their beltbuckle is made of metal, or that a 6oz bottle of contact lens solution is, in fact, larger than 3oz, is surprisingly entertaining as long as you're not running late because you forgot about how long the shuttle from the parking garage takes to get to the terminal.  And the absurdity of seeing a burly TSA screener pat down a 10 year old because he left a foil-wrapped piece of gum in their pocket serves as a discordant reminder of the security-in-exchange-for-freedom transaction that we made a dozen years ago.

But it's past security that I probably love the most.  Every passenger on the concourse is beginning or ending a trip that carries with it the potential for adventure.  Young twentysomethings returning from their first trip to Europe, memories of the people they've met and will never see again swimming in their heads even as they start to plot out their next voyage.  Immigrant families, travelling home to reconnect with family and old friends, wondering if their old neighbours' son, the same age as their daughter, is still single.   Even the jaded, weary, salaryman sitting alone at the airport bar, killing time before his 27th trip to Kansas in the past 27 weeks by nursing a Jack & Diet Coke wonders if this might be the day that a young-but-not-too-young divorcee sits next to him on his flight.  In every face, every Hudson's News purchase, every black rollerbag, there is a story about to be written.

As I write this, a young muslim girl has just sat down across from me in the Saudi Airlines boarding lounge where I have camped out to kill some time during my flight delay.  Co-ordinated blue-grey track suit, hoodie pulled up to conceal her hair, punctuated with an expensive looking handbag and designer sandals.  Her carry-on luggage is an American Flag backpack, from which a very new-looking neck pillow dangles at the ready.  We trade some friendly smalltalk as she awkwardly looks for a spot to plug her cellphone charger into. It takes me a second to realise that she has a double-charger, and she plugs in both an iPhone and BlackBerry to it. The back of her iPhone case has a stylised portrait of Marilyn Monroe on it, but the iPhone goes neglected as she taps message after message into the BlackBerry.  What's her story?  Where's she from?  Where's she going?  Does pulling up a hoodie really satisfy the modesty requirements in the Koran?  So many questions, the answers to which are almost certainly mundane.  Judging from her native-sounding English, she's probably American.  Probably off to visit family.  And she probably doesn't care about whether her hoodie is strictly compliant (kosher? halal? what word am I supposed to use here?) or not.  But that's OK.  For me, just the potential for ridiculous adventure is enough for me.  For instance, she could be the heiress to an enormous petro-fortune, travelling home to meet with the executors of her father's estate, where she will need to head-off a powerplay by her younger half-brother who intends to use her American residency and secular lifestyle against her.  Yeah, I think I'm going to go with something like that.

As for myself, I'm on my way to Russia.  Basically just tagging along with Liz on one of her work trips.  But you know, we are flying into Sheremetyevo Airport, which just happens to be the same airport that Edward Snowden is hiding in...

Let the adventure begin

Today's Pin-Up Is Tomorrow's Murder She Wrote

There is a movie called "The Court Jester."  It's a period drama/musical set in medieval England.  The plot involves a usurper king, the infant rightful heir being cared for by plucky rebels, and a princess who wants to marry for love instead of for political gain.  Just like Game of Thrones, only without the incest!

Anyway, this movie came on TV the other day, and I wound up watching it for a little while.  I was struck by the actress who plays the princess, and thought to myself:

"Wow - she's pretty cute!  I wonder who that is...?"

This of course, is exactly what IMDB was invented for, so off to the intertubes I went for an answer that totally blew my mind.

56 Up - New Meaning To The Term "Old Friends"

Back in 2006, Liz and I discovered the "Up" series of documentaries.  For those of you who may not have heard of them, it started as a film called "7 Up" wherein a British documentary team recorded little vignettes in the lives of 14 British children in 1964.  Every 7 years, this same crew has revisited these children (now adults), checking in with them at the ages of 14, 21, 28, 35, etc...

These films are absolutely captivating.  We introduced them to several of our friends, and we watched them together, right up until "49 Up" which was released in 2006.  Seeing a group of strangers literally grow up before your eyes is a surreal experience, and in a bizarre way, you wind up invested in their lives in much the same way as you would an actual friend.

And that investment is a double-edged sword.  The series presents a pretty unvarnished look at how the lives of the participants progress.  Certainly, some of the kids, particularly those from upper-class families, have a reasonably smooth go of things.  They go to good schools, get good jobs, build perfect-looking families, you know, the whole Game of Life winning package.  But for others, it goes a lot less smoothly.  You see the impacts of divorce, mental illness, failed ambitions, and the general malaise of post-Thatcher Britain.  By and large, there is little social mobility among the group, with the UK's class system seeming to hold everyone firmly in place (with one awesome exception - you should watch the films for the details on that one).

But once you begin, you have to keep watching them.  And at some point, it may occur to you that these intermittent check-ins with these people, each one seven years apart, aren't that different from some of the real-life interactions that you have with your own friends.  Facebook has made the work of keeping in touch with long-distance friends a heck of a lot easier, but think about how long you go between face-to-face visits with friends who have moved away (or who you have moved away from).  Weeks and months easily give way to years, and the "Up" documentaries' format, with 20-odd minute vignettes serving to provide an update on 7 years of elapsed lifetime, aren't that different from how many modern relationships are managed:  A few beers on a weekend afternoon when you happen to be in town.  Lunch or coffee when work happens to take you to the same conference.  Maybe even an entire weekend at someone's destination wedding.  Small slices of time, made all the more precious by the gaps that separate them.

So, you can imagine our excitement when the release of "56 Up" happily coincided with a wedding that was going to bring much of our old viewing crew back together for a weekend in DC.  Once we saw how the timing aligned, it was a given that we would be setting aside a few hours to watch this latest installment at the E St. Theatre downtown.

However, that excitement gave way to a bit of nervousness as we got to the theatre.  After all, 56 is an age at which it wouldn't be entirely inconceivable for someone to have died - and based upon the past few films there were definitely a few candidates for us to be worried about.  And you do worry.  Not about the wealthy ones - Their vignettes are pleasant, and happy, and without drama.  It's the less-well-off cohort you worry about.  The ones who seem like they might be living paycheck to paycheck, or maybe on the dole.  The ones who have had past struggles laid bare in previous films.  They're the ones you worry about.

Fortunately, all those worries were unfounded.  Everyone is still alive and kicking, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that everyone in the film seemed to have achieve a near-equivalent level of happiness (or at least contentedness) by the age of 56, no matter what their circumstances.  It was really uplifting to see so many different and divergent paths to happiness represented in the film, and by extension, the series, and I left the theatre in a really positive frame of mind.

Today, I turned 37.  And while it's definitely an intimidatingly large number for me on some level, I'm happy to see that there are at least a few more decades of upward trajectory waiting for me out there somewhere.

Pass the tequila - let's get this party started.

Adventures in Charcuterie Episode III - When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Preserved Lemons

I'm pretty sure it was Liz who first introduced me to Moroccan food.  I can't remember exactly when or where, but I'm pretty certain it was somewhere in Vancouver, sometime in the late '90s.  It was a real gamechanger for me, food-wise.

Up until that time, I had eaten pretty much every variety of Asian, and most varieties of European cuisines, but aside from a handful of South African dishes that my mom would make, I had never tried any sort of African cuisine before.  Moroccan food, with it's aromatic spice blends, slow-cooked tagines, and novel-looking starches was a gateway to a whole new, and delicious, world for me.

So naturally, I eventually wanted to try cooking it myself, discovering in the process, that Moroccan food can be a real pain in the @$$ to make.

Why, you ask?  Because procurement of all the different spices and condiments can be a serious impediment.  Some of them, such as mace and saffron, are not so much hard to come by as they are annoyingly expensive.  But others, such as, say, ras el hanout, are pretty much impossible to find, leaving you to instead procure 20 separate individual spices in order to blend your own.

Which brings us to preserved lemons.  Preserved lemons, so key to so many amazing Moroccan dishes, is both difficult to find, and annoyingly expensive when found.  Fortunately, it is incredibly easy to make your own.

Here's the mise en place:

A clean jar, with a lid
Enough lemons to be able to fill the jar with lemon halves (and maybe a few extra if you like)
Kosher salt (lots)

Ready to preserve some lemons?  Here we go:

1. First, you'll need to rinse/scrub the lemons.  Mold is the only thing that has the potential to screw with this process, so a bit of a surface cleaning of the lemons is useful.
2. Trim the ends off of the lemons and then cut them in half
3. Pour about an inch or so of salt into the jar
4. Jam as many lemon halves into the jar as you can
   
5. Pour more salt into the jar until it is completely full
   
6. Optional: If you have a few extra lemons squeeze their juice into the jar
   
7. Seal up the jar and put it someplace dark for three weeks

It should look something like this

Three weeks later, you will have beautiful preserved lemons.

Let your adventures in Moroccan cuisine begin!

...

What's that you say?  You don't know any Moroccan food recipes?  OK, I'll post a couple up in the near future, but in the meantime:

Using Your Preserved Lemons

• Pull one half lemon out of the brine
• Scrape out the flesh from the middle and discard it (it is technically still edible, but tends to be overpoweringly salty)
• Slice the rind into thin strips
• Use the strips to garnish your favourite salad

Well I love that dirty water - Thoughts on the Boston Marathon

In some of my rare moments of introspection, I think of the concept of "Home," and whether I am someone who has one Home, many Homes, or no Home.  Usually, these thought exercises end with me deciding that I am lucky enough to have several places that I can call home.  New England is one of those places.

As a foreigner living in New England, the first thing you learn is that New England is a really parochial place. The second thing you learn is that most of the people there don't know what parochial means, but that's beside the point.  The takeaway here is that New England has a lot of its own traditions and its own culture.  Patriots Day, and The Boston Marathon are big parts of that.

Most of New England doesn't actually get Patriots Day as a holiday.  Massachusetts observes it, as does Maine, but living in New Hampshire, it was not a holiday for me or my colleagues.  But every year, a cadre of my coworkers would schedule Patriots Day off, and head down to Boston to hang out, enjoy the emergent spring weather, drink crappy American beers, and give out water and Gatorade to a bunch of complete strangers.

I have to confess: I didn't really get it at first.  In fact, it took me years to figure it out.  But in time, I found the answer: It's a chip.  Boston as a city, and New England as a region, have always carried a big chip on their shoulder.  Home of Great Patriots, Cradle of The Revolution, Athens of The New World, but overtaken and overshadowed by New York, and then Chicago, and then Los Angeles... Boston is a city whose primacy, in nearly every way, belongs to the past.

But on Patriots Day, Boston gets to be The Hub once again.  Once every year, on a holiday given to almost noone else in the country, Boston gets to steal the spotlight.  The Marathon.  A Red Sox game.  A Bruins or Celtics game.  It's a dawn to dusk tailgate, early in the New England spring, replete with alcohol, chicken parms, and contests of physical prowess...  So close to a pagan fertility festival, the only thing missing is a maypole.  It is, quite literally, the happiest day on the Boston calendar.

Which is what makes today's events all the more galling.  The contrast between what everyone who has ever lived in New England expects from this day and what actually transpired is a gulf of such immensity that the human brain can barely process it.

It just. Makes. No. Sense.

On 9/11, I had only lived in the US for a little over a year.  I didn't know anybody in New York.  I hadn't even been to New York.  I felt the same overwhelming sadness as everyone else did, but I was spared the personal connection that impacted so many of those around me.  

Today was different.  Today was personal.  Today saw me going through a list of everyone I know who lives in New England, and trying to assess the odds of their being in the vicinity of the explosions.  Fortunately, most of those I know in New England either don't get the day off, or are too out of shape to even want to watch a marathon.  And those who were in the vicinity had thankfully left the area before the blasts.  But that in no way detracts from the shock and anger that I've been carrying around since 3pm today.  I saw links to photos pop up on twitter soon after the blasts.  Then that six-second Vine clip that we've all now seen replayed a thousand times.  Then the escalating casualty numbers, which, if they remain where they are (3 deaths at last count), will somehow seem mercifully low, despite being at least 3 too high.  It all adds up to an affront to all civil societies.  

A marathon is the softest of targets.  It is impossible to secure a 26.2 mile course through public streets.  Impossible to screen 500000 spectators.  Impossible to cover every possible escape route.  It is, in many ways, an exercise in trust.  Trust that evaporated today in two plumes of smoke, a hundred yards apart.

Betrayal of trust is hard on the psyche.  The trauma of betrayal often involves a lot of anger, a lot of confusion, and a lot of questioning of one's reality frame.  In the wake of that kind of trauma, many will turn to prayer.  Others will console themselves with something a little more secular, like the Mr. Rogers quote that makes the rounds whenever this kind of thing occurs.  Those looking for something more tangible will find solace in the arms of a loved one.

But don't forget about the anger.  There is nothing wrong with being angry, and a lot to be angry about.  I will readily acknowledge that if I could get my hands on whomever did this, I would make Abu Ghraib look like a tea party.  That anger is natural.  Feeling it is a reminder of our humanity.

And don't forget about the confusion.  There is nothing wrong with being confused, and a lot to be confused about.  I stopped counting the number of times I've wondered why someone would do this.  Asking 'why' and not being able to answer, explains why you aren't the kind of person who would ever do this. That confusion in natural.  Feeling it is a reminder of our humanity.

But most of all, don't forget about the questioning.  There is nothing wrong with asking difficult questions, and there is a lot to ask about.  As the days go by, proposals will no doubt be made in an effort to make our world safer.  These proposals will all be well-intentioned.  Some of them (ideally most of them), will even be effective.  But they all need to be questioned.  And we all need to ask ourselves what kind of society we want to live in.  The American mythos makes prodigious use of words like liberty, and freedom, but it is an uncomfortable truth that America is a less free place today than it was on September 10th, 2001.  Are we ok with that?  So far, it seems that we are.  But how far should the pursuit of security go?  How do we decide what is a civil liberty and what is a national interest?  Where is the boundary between 'I want to feel safe?' and 'I don't want to feel scared?'

Asking these questions is natural.  Making sure they get answered preserves our humanity.

Requiem for The Iron

In my family, Monopoly has never just been a game.

For us, it's a contact sport.

Not-so-Great Expectations - Thoughts on NYE

I like to go out.

If you know me (and if you're reading this, chances are that you know me pretty well), you will know that I go out pretty frequently.  Maybe a little too frequently for a man of my age, but that's another post entirely.  For our purposes here, it is important to establish that I do, in fact, go out, with friends, to bars, have drinks, and have a good time.

I just don't like to go out on New Year's Eve.

New Year's Eve kinda sucks.  And it does so on a number of different levels.

Level 1: Inexplicable Societal Pressure

I have no idea how this happened (any social anthropologists in the house?), but for some reason society dictates that you are supposed to go out and tear it up at the end of the calendar year.  However, this can't just be a run-of-the-mill, bomb drink and tequila-fueled drinking binge.  No, New Year's Eve (NYE) absolutely must achieve a level of fabulosity at least 2 notches above a normal night out.  This means that throughout the night, instead of having schlubby, drunk strangers spilling Miller Lite all over your T-shirt and jeans, you will instead have well-dressed strangers spilling Moet&Chandon all over the same suit and shoes that you need to wear to your next job interview.  At the stroke of midnight, you are also required to find someone with whom to share a toast of champagne, and a storybook kiss in order to properly ring in the hopes and optimism of a fresh 365.

I just don't get this.  I've never gotten this.  Even now, at a point in time where I have actually acquired a bit of a taste for fancy cocktails, own more than one suit, and am married to a lovely girl who I am 99.9999% sure will kiss me at midnight (risk of early pass-out notwithstanding), I still resent the idea that if I am not checking off every box on this unspoken checklist that I am not having a proper NYE.

Level 2: The Amateur Night Effect

NYE ranks right up there with Mardi Gras and St. Patrick's Day as the worst days of the year for rookie, or out-of-form boozehounds who can't pace themselves properly.  Hey, we've all been there, and I am perfectly willing to indulge, and even assist, one or two such lost souls on any other given evening.  But the sheer number of these poor, overwhelmed, thin-livered, shot-drainers on NYE introduces a powder keg element to the evening that can only end either in blood or vomit (and very often, both).

It's all the more tragic, because so many of these erstwhile NYE partiers approach the night with the expectation that it will be one of their big highlights of 2012, and instead simply winds up as yet another blackout story - this time with a more expensive purse to puke in.

Level 3: The Price Gouging

There is nothing worse than going to one of your regular spots on NYE - your favourite neighbourhood bistro, or your go-to sushi joint - and seeing that they have replaced their regular menu with an uninspired prix-fixe offering featuring a generic, chicken-based thing that the kitchen can crank out quickly, steaks that will invariably be overdone and served cold, and a trite, albeit proven, dessert that will do just enough to make you think you had an OK meal... until you get the check.

And then you will nod your head and think to yourself, "oh yeah, it's New Year's Eve... #@^%&!"

I understand this.  Supply and demand.  Because of the amateur night effect (see above), demand for tables is higher, supply is constant, ergo, prices go up.

Just because I understand it, doesn't mean I don't hate it.

Level 4: The Power of Self-Deception

Show of hands: How many of you go through this same process every year, remark on how much you dislike NYE, and yet, 364 days later, are somehow able to talk yourself into doing it all over again?

Come on, let's see them...

Be honest now...

...

Yeah... thought as much.

Gluten Free Livin' - Waffles Edition

9am on a weekend morning.  Early enough to be slightly conscious. Too early to be upright.

A poke in the ribs.

"Will you make waffles for breakfast?"

Well... ok.

Here's the mise-en-place:

1 Cup - Gluten-free flours (this particular example used 1/2 c. Buckwheat and 1/2 c. Millet flours)
3/4 Cup - Milk
1/2 Tsp - Baking Powder
1/4 Cup - Canola Oil
3 Eggs

The observant among you will note that this is very similar to the pancake batter described in a previous post.  It's not an accident - Waffles are basically just squared-off, crispier, toastier pancakes with dents in them for holding syrup.

Regarding the flours, feel free to experiment with different combinations.  I have had success with varying proportions of buckwheat, millet, rice and teff flours so far.  I'm not sure that I would recommend using only one flour, unless you're a really big fan of that flour's particular idiosyncracies.  I, for instance, am a big fan of buckwheat and can happily chow down on a 100% buckwheat waffle.  Others, however, may not share that sentiment.  Based upon feedback from Liz, I think that my best results for gluten free waffles have always come from batches that used at least two different flours.

Here's the drill, very similar to the pancake routine:

Step 1: Get Crackin'
Separate your eggs, and start pre-heating your waffle iron.  Liz and I have a sweet All-Clad Waffle Iron that we got as a wedding present that produces great results at a heat setting of 4 out of 7.

Step 2: Deal with the yolks
Yolks go into a bowl with the flour, milk and baking powder.  Mix them thoroughly.  Once they are well combined, stir in the canola oil.

Step 3: Whip It
Whip the whites until stiff peaks form.

Step 4: Combine
Fold the whites into the batter.  Don't try to get everything 100% uniform, you'll just wind up breaking down the air bubbles you're trying to introduce into the mixture.  Just get the egg whites incorporated to the point where there aren't big white chunks of foam floating around, and then stop.  Optionally, if you wanted to add berries, or chocolate chips, or other garnishments, this is where to do it.

Step 5: Prep your waffle iron
Having the canola oil in your batter greatly reduces the chances of sticking.  Our waffle iron works great without any oiling, but if your particular model does best with a spray of Pam or olive oil, by all means, do so.

Step 6: Make Waffles - Part I
Load the batter into your waffle iron.  Generally speaking, you should only need to fill the iron halfway or so - otherwise you are courting the risk of overflow upon closing the top.  Not the end of the world if it happens, just an annoying mess...

Step 7: Make Waffles - Part II
Pay close attention to the steam blasting out of the sides of your waffle iron.  When the steam output has decreased to a few thin, wispy strands, then your waffles are done.

If your waffle iron does not emit any steam, then go plug it in and start this step again.

Step 8: Eat Waffles

I am a bit of a waffle minimalist.  I don't like much besides maple syrup (and perhaps a piece of fried chicken) to touch my waffles.

Generally, my Canadian patriotism is going to have me leaning towards using syrup produced north of the 49th parallel.  But today, I'm going to name-check a great little Pennsylvania based maple syrup maker.

Langdon Wood makes a barrel-aged maple syrup that is aged in a used, rye whisky barrel to add an interesting little twist on the usual maple syrup experience.  It's incredibly delicious, and I highly recommend it!

If you prefer to trick out your waffles a little further, these waffles will hold up very well to whatever creams, fruits and compotes you may want to subject them to, so by all means, go crazy with it.  They're your waffles after all...

Tasting Notes:

Texture and mouth feel are always challenges with gluten free recipes.  As with the pancake recipe, the beaten egg whites really help with the texture, and keep the waffles from being too heavy.  The canola oil also helps the waffles toast up nice and crispy on the outside, and prevent the interior from getting too dry and crumbly.  I know you might be tempted to try to make a low-fat waffle by omitting the oil, but I really wouldn't recommend it...

Dear Republicans: The solution to your current problems is simple - It's Me

My old friend Brian Yang, while breaking down the results of this past week's election noted that:

The republicans as they are now, with American demographics as they are now, 

will never be elected into power again. They need a even more ethnic presidential 

candidate than Obama. I suggest the Asian Gilbert Godfrey himself, Brian Tham.

Up until this moment, I never would have thought of myself as casting my lot with the GOP, but the analysis makes perfect sense - In an environment where the GOP needs to appeal to diversity, who else is more diverse than me?

Check it:

- My mother was born in South Africa
- My father was born in India
- Previous generations of my family spent time in Mauritius and in China

And to cap it all off, I was born in Canada North America: Just the way republicans like it!  I mean, let's face it - I'm so multi-ethnic, I make Barack Obama look like Barry Manilow.

True, there is not a lot of Hispanic blood in there, but the party isn't going to want to be perceived as disingenuously pandering to the Hispanic masses.  An Asian-looking candidate is just brown enough to work here.  Besides, the demographics in Nevada and Virginia could definitely swing on the Asian vote in 2016 if current immigration patterns hold.

Having proven that I meet the diversity criteria, the next question is obviously whether or not I have the kind of platform that America will find electable.  Don't worry, I've got that covered too.  Here I present to you my platform for the Republican Party in 2016:

Tenet 1: No Mean Legislation

As President, I will pledge to veto all legislation that can be distilled down to just being mean.  For example: Gay marriage bans?  Fundamentally mean - Veto'd.  Restrictions on where Muslim communities can build mosques?  Fundamentally mean - Veto'd.  Americans are, by and large, nice people, and will understand, and support this position.

Tenet 2: No Government in the Boudoir

As a wise Canadian North American once put it: There is no place for Government in the bedrooms of the people.  That's right - My administration will be pro-choice and pro-whatever-your-consensual-kink is all the way.  True small-government conservatives will back this 100%.

Yeah, that guy...

Tenet 3: Trust Smart People on the Economy

The budget needs balancing, yes.  How should this be done?  Not by asking self-interested groups who are paid out from it, or who are elected on it.  That way lies only the status quo.  Fortunately, there is this thing called Math that is very useful for solving problems that involve numbers.  There are also very smart people out there who know how to use Math, and they are the ones who will be put to work on balancing the proverbial checkbook.  Will taxes go up?  Yup.  Will spending go down?  You betcha.  Can I give you details?  Of course not - I'm trying to be a politician here.

Tenet 4: Continue and Expand the Drone War

One thing that the US produces at a rate that no other country can match is Red Bull-fueled, high-twitch HALO players who would make awesome drone pilots.  In fact, as President, I would pursue the development by DARPA of humanoid drones that would be able to translate the video game front-end into actual frontline combat.  Having an army of FPS drones piloted by battalions of 14-year old boys high on caffeine at my disposal will have Iran and N Korea reversing their positions on their nuke programs faster than Mitt Romney at a -- oh, too soon?

The Cenrepiece of My Foreign Policy - No, really...

Tenet 5: Immigration is Useful

As a Canadian immigrant North American citizen who is remarkably well informed about how the US immigration system works, I can tell you that immigration reform is needed to simplify the immigration process.  You see, people don't come to the US illegally because they are criminals who are trying to evade the law.  People come to the US illegally because they can't figure out the damn forms!  Under my leadership, the GOP will be the party that makes immigration easier, not harder, and the brown-skinned masses will flock to our banner.


So there you have it Republican America - You have a problem; I am the solution.

I am the candidate you need, with the platform America wants!  Search your feelings.  You know it to be true.

See you at the Primaries

Watching The Wire: Part IV - On Spoilers (or lack thereof)

When coming to a show like The Wire so much later than everyone else, it's interesting to see what people tell you to look forward to.  I've had many conversations along the lines of:

"Oh, you're finally watching The Wire?!? How far have you gotten?"

"Just finished Season 1."

"OMG - Season (3/4/5) is the best.  That's the season where - oh, but I don't want to spoil it for you.  You totally need to let me know when you get there so we can talk about it..."

Oddly, nobody (seriously, nobody) ever mentions Season 2 as being worth spoiling.  It's like the red-headed stepchild of Wire seasons.

And so, devoid of both spoilers and heightened expectations, I was able to begin Season 2 blissfully ignorant of whatever it entails.

And what the early part of Season 2 seems to entail is a playground style pissing contest between Major Valchek and Frank Sobotka.  I was not expecting that.  I also find it incredibly entertaining that the driving force behind this season's major case is going to be a petty, personal dispute over a stained glass window in a church.

It seems totally contrived, and yet, looking at the recent political stories coming out of DC these days, it is at the same time, totally realistic...