Daylight Savings Month

Yes, this is the typical Canadian child. 

So I decided to skip June entirely. I've moved it to just after December when I'll better appreciate its pleasing temperatures. The downside is the move really screws with my new years plans. Also, my apologies for any confusingly dated correspondence you may receive from me in my new future-past.

I'm looking to the skies feverishly these days, eyes peeled for storks, as our baby will be making its Earthly debut any day now. I won't have to announce it to anyone as I anticipate that the stars will align to spell her name the evening of her birth, but I suppose an email or two won't hurt either.

There's a full pot of excitement brewing at our house over the little one and, in an effort to solidify our family even more, Vanessa and I are now happily betrothed. I chose Canada Day to propose in an attempt to mark our time here beyond the baby we've made, plus I thought fireworks would make a nice backdrop to me on bended knee. To even things out however, in case my home country becomes jealous, I'm thinking of a wedding on the day of America's independence. Again, free fireworks for our celebration.

Without benefit of a picture I can only describe Vanessa's engagement ring. It's a simple band with an elegant slope when approaching the diamond. A small family of elves rotate the duties of supporting and maintaining the diamond as well as shooing any objects that begin orbiting it, unable to avoid its gravitational pull. The universe's elected officials are in talks over voting it in as our new sun, but I'd hate for primitive worshipers to start following Vanessa around town, so I hope the mandate fails.

Also, because Canada Day is July 1st and Independence Day is the 4th, I've declared the 2nd through the 3rd from noon to noon as Dual Citizenship Day. It's not easy being this brilliant. I hope generations of Canadian-Americans appreciate what I've done for them. I assume the statue honoring me will straddle our countries' borders.

(Image by connect2canada via Flickr)

Texans in Canada, Part 6

I'm the one in the big hat.

Every major city provides radio stations as diverse as the citizens who take residence in that slice of Radioland. Often, leaving large cities means leaving large towers, and consequently leaving static or silence on the car stereo. There is no area of Texas, however, where you can't clearly hear Mexican (woh-oh) radio. For some of my time in Texas I found this to be rather annoying, especially since the Mexican musica would often drown out a station that was struggling to satisfy my ethnic ears. After listening to Canadian radio though, I long for the soothing rhythms of the accordion, sweet blasting trumpets, and mysterious lyrics that were often best left untranslated.

There is a lot of Canadian pride and they support anyone who represents them in sports, entertainment, etc. With a population this small it makes sense to get behind anyone that stands out. It's kind of like if a friend of one of your cousins knows Julia Roberts. You would tell everyone about it, probably leaving out the extra degree of the friend, because knowing Julia Roberts (through your cousin) somehow makes you much cooler to know. Where pride was lacking, however, Canada started to enforce it.

In 1971 the CRTC (Canadian Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission) introduced the MAPL system which mandated radio and TV to have a certain percentage of their programs to be Canadian content. This was brought to you by the style of parenting where, if you force your kids to participate in something they dislike for long enough, they will learn to like it and thank you in the end. Many neglected family pianos will silently disagree with these methods.

The largest Canadian recording studio.

Canadian content under the MAPL system means anything where the Music, Artist, Production or Lyrics are entirely Canadian. I think the "E" they left off MAPLE originally stood for Entertainment value to an entirely Canadian audience but there were too few cases to sustain the category. There are VERY few entertaining Canadian bands and deep down even Canadians know this. When the CRTC first demanded 25% of radio play to be dedicated to Canadian content music, stations complied by playing the songs overnight or early Sunday mornings. The "beaver hour" was what they referred to as the off peak block of time dedicated to Canadian music. Despite changes in regulations leading to peak hour play, the music is still a joke and sours any possibility of a great string of songs being played back to back on the radio. My finger hurts from changing the stations so often. I never really cared for Neil Young before but I didn't know how much I loathed him until I moved here. They play bad music that doesn't even qualify for the content regulations. I assumed George Thorogood was Canadian after hearing him get so much air time here, but he's from Delaware! Why would you play George Thorogood so much unless you had to?

The real cherry on all this is they have the annual Juno Awards to honor Canadian musicians. With so few qualified applicants, is there even a voting process? In the classroom of music worldwide, receiving a Juno award is like getting a participation grade. Are you Canadian? Yes. Did you sing something this year? Yes. Okay, here's your Juno.

Television production here is an amateur hour clown show. They create their own commercials for U.S. nationally televised shows, i think as a way to satisfy content requirements. Their idea of advertising a show is putting random clips together and laying a song over the whole thing. At the end of the ad I know the title of the show and that people are in it. Thanks. Switching from the U.S to Canadian feed is anything but seamless. We miss parts of shows because a local commercial runs over time. The first three minutes of Seinfeld is actually the intro to the Simpsons. I saw color bars on screen the other day. I haven't seen a color bar on TV since 1993 when stations stopped signing off for the night.

Texans in Canada, Part 5

Oh the shame. Image by MPD01605 via Flickr

I'm going to confidently lay out a scenario for you that has not nor will ever occur in human history:

A family piles into their car with rumbling tummies. They all buckle in, the engine starts, and the wife and two kids look to Dad, itching for the question they can't wait to answer. The father turns his head slightly and asks, "What does everyone feel like for dinner?" Then, with unbridled enthusiasm, his wife and children collectively scream, "Canadian!"

Canadian food is not a type of cuisine. There are quirky food items that may exclusively be Canadian, but having ketchup flavored potato chips doesn't establish an ethnic flavoring you teach in culinary college.

There are alternate universe foods here, where names are confusing and flavors even more so. The "Smarties" we all know and love are actually their "M&Ms," and they are NOT a suitable replacement. Pickles have an off taste that I can't properly describe due to my gag reflex hindering my speaking ability. Somehow the beloved Colonel's secret recipe has been tainted. I suppose one or more of the 11 herbs and spices are not available naturally here or through import agreements, though I can't imagine trade relationships being established for any other reasons. What the hell is NAFTA for if not to protect KFC's integrity across North America?

Finding good Mexican food here is a continued search for us, sampling whitened down Mexican dishes (or pale comparisons) at various restaurants offering their versions of tacos and burritos. Our trek is organized, crossing off failed attempts at venues in widening concentric circles using our house as ground cero. Our last effort took us about 30 kilometers out, where cheeseburgers were also on the menu, their salsa was sub par, and they made no attempt at proper queso. I cried in my weak margarita. The problem really is that Mexicans are running for the wrong border. If Canadian officials were to taste real Mexican food, I'm sure they would offer citizenship to all immigrants bearing home made tamales.

The one saving grace Canada has in establishing themselves in the competitive cookhouse lies in a dish called poutine. It's simple and sounds like nothing special, but a first taste reveals an elegant delight to my taste buds and a welcome greeting from my arteries. It is fries, brown gravy, and cheese curds, and it is brilliant. It's so brilliant and so unhealthy that I don't understand why Americans aren't already offering an oversized and overcheesed version in fast food chains nationwide. Canadians aren't shying away from offering crazy variations of poutine though. They've got lobster poutine, filet mignon poutine, and apparently a Mexican poutine, covered in carne asada, guacamole, sour cream, cheese, and pico de gallo. Maybe I won't find quality enchiladas here in Canada, but I can take comfort in knowing this Mexican poutine awaits me. I'm gassing up my new car right now and making a preemptive appointment with my cardiologist.

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• Poutine going mainstream south of the border (thestar.com)

Texans in Canada, Part 4

We finally got our own car and, surprise, the steering wheel is even on the correct side. It's a German vehicle made in Mexico that is now owned by American citizens living in Canada so we're dealing with some identity issues, but so far it's working out just fine. It's got fairly low kilometerage for a decade old vehicle and the rust is insignificant. Neither of us are keen on silver but cars here are all the same color for half the year so it's not that big of a deal. The sellers also threw in some winter tires which I assume bare claws when the terrain becomes too unruly, as demonstrated in the video below.



In order to properly purchase the car I needed the appropriate paperwork filed and an Ontarian license. I was raised to avoid the DMV at all costs if I wanted to retain a sane and disease free existence, but eventually we all have to face the demons of government sanctioned facilities. It's really a test of courage. In Canada however, I keep forgetting, everyone is friendly and helpful, including government workers.

I theorize that if I were to stab a Canadian stranger they would apologize to me for whatever they had done to set me off. I picture Eric Idle from European Vacation.

Despite the DMV woman's suspiciously cheery and generous nature, Texas' digital disobliging demeanor prevented me from getting an equivalent level license. I was only able to obtain what is referred to as a G2. This allows me to remove the training wheels from the car but I am required a copilot at all times and I have to submit a flight plan to the tower before departure.

This hiccup aside, I can still drive and was able to insure the car through State Farm, the very same car insurance group I had in the U.S. This is confusing as there are no states here. There are farms though, and I can only assume they are mostly wind farms. There is an extreme abundance of wind in Canada and it magically blows from all directions at all times, likely some Mendelian hybrid.

Texans in Canada, Part 3

Golf. Also for white old fatties. Image via Wikipedia

The sports you play and, for the rest of us, the sports you watch, define your character as much as anything else. For awhile now I've acknowledged that the world outside of the U.S. is mostly obsessed with football. The other football, which Americans call soccer. We call it soccer because in America we like to make fun of foreigners and display our own ignorance in the least moves possible. Giving a different name to the only sport that has the perfect literal descriptive name and is beloved by Latin Americans everywhere is the two for one deal of the century.

What I never realized is when those other countries obsess with one sport, they offer so little in the other ones. Canada's obsession is of course hockey, and as a result most provinces fail to maintain a decent baseball or football team of their own. I'm not sure they've discovered basketball yet.

American television and everyday life is inundated with a variety of sports, so there is always a game on of some kind. (Sports Bar is easily agreed upon as the best combination of words in the English language.) In Texas however, we understand the single sport obsession and it is football that we worship. Other sports are just something for the kids to do until they're old enough to play football, or maybe between football practice, or when you're not throwing the football around. Basically if you're playing baseball or basketball it's because you didn't make the football team or you're trying to stay in shape for the next football game.

...Football.

Canada does have the CFL which is followed by all of dozens of fans. The Canadian Football League apparently is a little different from the one I know, adding ten extra yards to the field and retracting one down. I think they might also use a live chicken as the football during the second half but no one has made it that far through a game yet, so it's not a widely known fact.

There is also something called curling here, where you throw smooth stones across the ice and use brooms to sweep away ice gremlins that try to keep the stone out of the target area. I guess it's kind of like shuffleboard but I just can't imagine this sport being invented while sober. They throw rocks at the ice on which they're standing. I smell alcohol and failure, two very old friends. I will likely be joining a league as soon as possible.

Finally, I've yet to see it with my own eyes, but they've gone and screwed up bowling. Bowling! The ball is much smaller and there are only five pins. I'm not sure but I think this is some passive aggressive attempt by Canada to insult America. I think we've gone to war with countries for less. Pretty clever though Canada. If you want to offend balding overweight American men, the bulk of our governing class, go after the only sport in which they can excel.

Texans in Canada, Part 2

The Medusa stare of the black squirrel. Canadian parks are littered with extremely realistic human statues.
Image via Wikipedia

Much of the appeal in moving to another country was the idea of making a fresh start. We'd get a new home, a new car, new jobs, and most importantly new credit. Essentially our lives would begin anew. What I didn't realize was that starting over would be less like a clean slate and more like reverting to a state of infancy.

I don't know where I am most times. I can't tell you what street I last came from, but I'm mostly certain it ends in Crescent and/or starts with Rue. Remembering my own address and phone number is like disassembling complex algorithms in my head. I feel like that special kid at school in the 50s who showed up to class with his vital information pinned to his vest, like dog tags. Someone asks me my name and I look down at the little scrap of paper on my chest to make sure it's right.

Going around town I'm unsure where to stop for my needs. Luckily Canadians recognize when to keep things simple, like with naming stores that carry vital household necessities. If you need beer, you go to The Beer Store. If you need shoes, go to the Shoe Company. Need stuff for the kids, there's the Children's Place.

At Canadian Tire you can purchase far more than expected, except groceries, but they introduce a new issue by circulating their own currency like some independent monetary authority. Just when I thought I understood the Loonie versus the Toonie I'm handed some alternate Monopoly money by the Canadian Tire cashier that claims to be a nickel's worth of tire. Only in Canada can I carry around a two dollar coin and a five cent bill.

Amongst other confusions sloshing around in my newborn mind, I can't tell you what the temperature is because I'm slow to convert to celsius. I can't express how far it is to anywhere because nothing is measured in miles. Driving at 100 is really not that fast anymore but it feels like I should be a feature news story, on the run with 60 cop cars behind me. Maybe I have a hostage but the helicopter reporter is unsure as of now.

Hopefully I'll be fast to mature and these problems will fade, perhaps only to be replaced with new ones. Canadian acne? Some barriers will be harder to break through than others, like this terrible habit I have of spelling things correctly. Imagine being raised by an unethical scientist and on your 13th birthday you're told that not only do you have a twin, and you were each raised in separate identical homes only a block apart but one of you was taught everything to be opposite of what it truly was, like black is white and Fords are really good cars. Now the experiment is over but you have to relearn the world. (I am the falsely educated one in this scenario.) This is how hard it will be for me to "correct" my spelling, especially while I find that vowels playing musical chairs is still so humorous, ...humourous? My favorite sign about town so far is "Centrepointe Theatre." Tee hee.

I'm sure I'll become accustomed to most of the Canadian quirkiness, but I don't forsee any level of comfort being made with one bizarre fact: The squirrels here are black. Not just dark, but BLACK. I've never heard of such a thing and I'm concerned with how at ease everyone is with the situation. Supposedly they're harmless but I don't trust them and at this point will assume they are the devil's work. Of course, if any black squirrels are reading this I was just kidding. We're cool right?

Texans in Canada, Part 1

Folks, both locally and across the border, have asked me if it feels like I'm in a foreign country. For the most part, no. Canada is a lot like America... except cleaner, greener, more friendly, and proud without being full of itself.

There are slight differences that I find interesting and will likely make up the bulk of my Texans in Canada series. Much of it may go unnoticed to some, but for me it's like living in an episode of Sliders. The question that will need answering during my extended visit to this foreign land is will I ever make it "home" or will I end up just settling here in this alternate reality.

A visit to our new local grocer brought up the subject of language. Do Canadians sound funny? Do you have to learn French? The answers are yes and no respectively. Canadian speak is a bit off kilter but after living in the boiling pot of America, where cultural and ethnic consistency is a bit muddled, the Canadian tongue comes across as just another accent to which my ear quickly adapts.

Only in Quebec is there a concentration of French speaking citizens and they are as shunned and ridiculed by other Canadians as commonly as Americans shun and ridicule "true" Frenchies. Due to their influence however, country-wide Canadian signs, ads, websites and grocery items all display both English and French wording. It's like never graduating from French I in high school and being forced to review flash cards for the rest of your life. In fact, if you failed the class and had nightmares of having to repeat it over and over again, daily Canadian life would be a realization of this living hell. The chips aisle at Metro, (the Canadian Kroger I guess), would be a particularly diverse and torturous circle of bilingual mockery on your descent into Dante's snow covered inferno. I took Spanish.

I'm realizing that language may have to spill over into one or two more blog posts (we have to cover the obsession these people have with the letter "u" and their selective dyslexia of the "e"), so I'll end this on the subject of the grocery store. One major difference at the grocery store is found in the concept of bagged milk. Yes, milk here can come in a bag. I suppose milk essentially comes from bags, some more fun than others, so perhaps this is not totally unnatural. At first glance however, it is comically unnerving.