The origins of trance music….from the war ravaged streets of the Congo.
Blogue - Dernières entrées
I discovered Céline Dion on the Titanic soundtrack. I was thirteen and experimenting with my sexuality, but when I saw and heard Céline, I knew I wasn’t gay. I wanted to be with women. More specifically, I wanted to be with her.
I asked my mom if we could adopt an Afghan Hound, a breed I found to look like my faraway sweetheart. I remember a dog breeder telling me they had relatively low obedience intelligence, to which I politely corrected her, “You mean they retain their independence.”
When Céline’s husband and manager, René Angélil, suffered from cancer I couldn’t help but wish that he wouldn’t survive. Of
course, I wouldn’t want any hardship for my lover (as I had began to call her), but a grieving woman is an easy woman.
Fast-forward seven years. I’m on the Queen Mary cruise on my way across the Atlantic. I’m finally going to Canada.
The first thing I did when I had cleared customs was go to Nickels, the restaurant franchise created by Céline Dion. I had three orders of the Gâteau Céline, the best three-course meal I could imagine. The cake was as delicious as I’d imagine she would be.
When I had paid the bill, I was off to get a bottle of Belong, the perfume by…you guessed it. The name couldn’t have been much better. I already felt I belonged in Canada, and more importantly, Céline Dion would soon belong to me.
Off I went to Charlemagne, the birthplace of my beloved. After a bit of quizzing the locals, I found the house she had grown up in. I peered through the windows of the empty, unmarked house. There was no sign of her. Then a gust of wind took a few leaves and spun them into the air. Was it her ghost?
Surely, this Graceland of Canada, would have been disappointing, had it not been for an old lady in a parka. She told me that every year, Céline comes to hand out baskets of food to poor people. “Are you poor?” I inquired. She shook her head, as if she was offended. Then she pointed to a man across the street.
It was all I needed.
“Did you get a Céline basket?” I asked the man.
“Sure, haven’t touched it yet.”
Jackpot. He took me to his house and I bought the basket from him. Let’s just say he’ll never have to worry about money again.
Since then, I’ve been to numerous concerts, sent hundreds of fan letters, and spent thousands of dollars on merchandise. I have yet to appear on her radar, but my passion is unwavering. So if I had to talk about love, it’d be the true kind.
In 1998, American rapper Big L released a track called Ebonics. In three verses, he told us how to talk in his hood. His hood happened to be Harlem, but if you want to represent Canada, you’ve got to learn a few slang terms of your own. Below is the first verse from Big L’s Ebonics and my personal Canadian remake (until further notice, I will keep my day job).
Big L – Ebonics (first verse):
Check it, my weed smoke is my lye
A ki of coke is a pie
When I’m lifted, I’m high
With new clothes on, I’m fly
Cars is whips and sneakers is kicks
Money is chips, movies is flicks
Also, cribs is homes, jacks is pay phones
Cocaine is nose candy, cigarettes is bones
A radio is a box, a razor blade is a ox
Fat diamonds is rocks and jakes is cop
And if you got rubbed, you got stuck
You got shot, you got bucked
And if you got double-crossed, you got fucked
Your bankroll is your poke, a choke hold is a yoke
A kite is a note, a con is a okey doke
And if you got punched that mean you got snuffed
To clean is to buff, a bull scare is a strong bluff
I know you like the way I’m freakin’ it
I talk with slang and I’ma never stop speakin’ it
Canadian Remix:
Check it, a beaver is a pussy
A loonie is a dollar
a toonie is two
Puck bunny is a groupie
We say washroom, not loo
Deadmonton is Edmonton, that’s where you get chills
A car is wheels
A sofa is a chesterfield
We don’t eat burgers, we eat poutine
And we use runners, not sneakers to keep us lean
Get the coffee at Timmies
Double-double means two creams and two sugars
Old women with young boys are cougars,
Hongcouver is Vancouver
And if you eat a lot, you’re a hoover
Hydro is the power
Not what you use to take a shower
And we don’t drink soda, we drink pop
Call Toronto for T-Dot
And sweatshirts for bunnyhugs
You wanna change your grocer, if he calls you a hoser
Francos are peppers, and Anglos are square heads
And you can get your fittys at the deps
Homo milk means homogenized
A Bluenoser is from Nova Scotia, like the bank that monetized
I know you like the way I’m freakin’ it
I talk with slang and I’ma never stop speakin’ it
Hans Island is made up of two square kilometers of rock situated at 80° 49′ N and 66° 26′ W, smack-dab in the middle of Kennedy Channel, mid-way between Ellesmere Island and Greenland. It has a population of zero; not counting the occasional seagull that stops by.
Both Canada and Denmark have claimed the insignificant island, which has led to a decade long farce, involving both countries making symbolic gestures in the name of ownership.
In 1984, Kenn Harper, a noted Arctic historian, wrote an article about Canadian-based Dome Petroleum’s occupation of Hans Island for a local newspaper in Greenland. A Danish publication instantly picked up the story and soon after, Denmark’s Minister for Greenland flew to Hans Island where he raised a Danish flag and left a bottle of Denmark’s finest schnapps. Since then, both countries have taken turn in more or less idiotic chest thumping activities. As it should have, it has inspired a steady flow of satire, including a website that, amongst other things, points out the similarity between Nazi Germany invading Denmark during WWII and Canada’s current occupation of the island. On the site, it reads:
The Canadian government has not denied the allegations that they plan to use Hans Island as a storage site for nuclear waste.
While this is actually true, Hans Island Liberation Front, another website, has to lie to get their point across, claiming that two inhabitants (both named Hans), live on the island and fight passionately for its independence.
All jokes aside, the Hans Island controversy is a joke.
What’s the best way to win Miss Universe? Have an open immigration policy.
The last time Canada scooped the honour was in 2005, when Natalie Glebova, a gorgeous brunette born in Russia, won the beauty contest and wished for world peace.
Elena Semikina, a Moldovan-born stunner was crowned Miss Canada in 2010. The year before it was Mariana Valente, a Brazilian-born bombshell. Of the top five in Miss Canada 2010, only one was born in Canada. Aleksandra Malkin was born in Israel, Neda Derakhshanfar in Iran, and Zahra Al-Aubiydy in Iraq. Only Ashley Callingbull was born in Canada.
Looking over the list of past winners, I momentarily fancied that even I had a chance of winning, based solely on the fact that I wasn’t born Canada. Who would care if I my chromosomal makeup were a little off?
One step up the beauty ladder, in the world of fashion and supermodels, we find more multicultural girls in the Canadian category. Daria Werbowy was born in Poland, but holds both Canadian and Ukrainian passports, Linda Evangalista was born to Italian-Canadian parents, and Coco Rocha is of Irish, Russian, and Welsh descent.
In my native country, Denmark, we have a very strict immigration policy, which means that according to my own calculations (full disclosure: I never graduated high school), Denmark will soon reach levels of inbreeding that would make an African tribe jealous. In particular, I’m thinking of the Vadoma people, many of whom suffer from a genetic condition called ectrodactyly (a split foot malformation, lending them the wonderful nickname the Ostrich People). That’s one of the reasons I left Copenhagen. I simply couldn’t see myself participating in that.
While some tourists visit Denmark because we were the first to legalize pornography, it could hardly be considered sex tourism. That’s something entirely left for sleazy Danes to carry out in Venezuela, Ukraine, and Thailand. Canadians, being a lazy group of individuals, have found another solution: letting underage boys and willing women come to them.
Dog shows are all about being purebred, but the human equivalent seems to be all about the opposite. And indeed, recent research has shown that mixed people are considered the most beautiful. So yeah, multiculturalism makes you beautiful, and not only on the inside.
My fascination with Peter North started the day I figured out how to bypass the family filter. I was twelve years old and had just learned to ejaculate. As a child, I had no father, but when I saw my first Peter North cum shot, I knew I had found a replacement. He was everything I wanted to be. His cock was ten times bigger than mine. His load easily twenty times bigger.
As he jerked off, I cheered him on. “Go, go, go,” I would yell in excitement. I knew from experience how hard it could be to orgasm. I rooted for him like I imagined he would have rooted for me had he been around to see me play soccer. Peter North was everything a father should be. He was a role model. “Who’s your daddy?” he asked in one of his films. It felt like he spoke to me.
Perhaps it was the constant cum on screen, which reminded me that, had the (porn) stars aligned themselves differently, I could have been one of the sperm cells squirting out of his nine inch baby maker. I imagined myself flying out of the urinary tract, and landing in the throat of a cum hungry slave, i.e. what would become my mother (at the time, I thought you could get pregnant through the mouth). Reality was altogether different. Mom was shy, taught autistic children, and was allergic to milk. And once, just as I was about to show the world what Peter North had taught me, she entered my room with tea and biscuits.
Peter North has directed more than 70 movies and acted in more than 1500, most notably the brilliantly titled North Pole and Anal Addicts. Known for his strict semen-producing diet, he has been called The Milk Man, The One-Man Bukkake Machine, Sir Cumalot, and Old Faithful, which is really no wonder if you’ve seen one of his money shots in slow motion. They can really reach epic proportions and remind me a lot of the video artist Bill Viola’s slow motion works inspired by Renaissance paintings. Only better. The creativity in these sequences is amazing. In one film, Mr. North shoots into a chick’s nostril and the sperm comes dripping out the other. In another he cums on a windshield, and the girl in the driver seat turns on the wipers, smearing the jizz all over the glass. In my personal favorite, he blows his load into a desk fan which sprays it all over the girls in the room.
Born Alden Brown, Mr. North was discovered while modeling athletic wear in Los Angeles. I’m guessing his porn name is a reference to his upbringing in Halifax, the first clue that Peter North is full of love for his native country. The second clue is that he has his own professional hockey team, the Peter North Stars. While porn might not be the most Canadian of things, hockey is.
At first, the leap from porn to hockey might seem odd, but give it a little time to simmer, and you’ll discover it makes a lot of sense. Other celebrities branch out into food and fashion, but I’m not sure I’d eat at a Peter North restaurant (I’d always wonder where the dressing came from) or wear Peter North clothes (I’d be too aware of the irony). Hockey on the other hand is the perfect crossover solution. Just imagine the next series of videos he could produce: My Puck Bunny is a Fuck Bunny, Peter North’s Icing, or Back-end Cum Shot.
If you are interested in Peter North’s hockey team, you can follow them on Twitter (http://twitter.com/PeterNorthStars) or visit their website (http://www.peternorthstars.3rdprecinctfellowship.com/index.htm). Please notice their jerseys, a stroke of pure genius. 
A music video of the song “The Harder They Come” featuring Jimmy Cliff
Konono N°1’s “Congotronics” album introduced the world to the strange and spectacular electro-traditional mixtures which are being concocted in the suburbs of Kinshasa, Congo. World music, electronica and avant-rock aficionados have all been equally amazed by this otherworldly music, which has driven the international press to come up with some surprising comparisons (from Can and Krautrock to Jimi Hendrix, Lee Perry and proto-techno!…).