For many North Americans, and Canadians in particular, the sport is practically a religion. Often its players are revered as gods, its many rinks considered hallowed ground, and the battles waged between its teams treated as impacting the very balance of mankind. To people of this type of fanaticism, there exists a sacred observance far more significant than the likes of Lent or Ramadan. From mid spring sometimes into early summer, they celebrate in mass the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Continue reading
Supposedly, it began in the 1970s with a group of friends in California getting together each day, always at the same specified time and with the same established purpose: smoking pot. Today, the term 4:20 has expanded far beyond that small group, and its meaning has come to encompass much more than just a specific point in time. Among its many connotations, it is an ever widening movement.
April 20th, a calendar reflection of that same number, has come to be recognized as a day to celebrate cannabis in mass, and several cities across Canada now host sanctioned events in that regard. One of the biggest and longest annually running occurrences happens in Vancouver, British Columbia. For over a decade, people have been gathering outside the Vancouver Art Gallery to peacefully rally in support of the notorious plant. Continue reading
Rather than get married in our hometown of Kamloops, British Columbia, we had already opted to exchange our vows in another city, and in fact on an entirely separate main landmass. This meant five hours of driving and a ferry ride both ways would be necessary for any on site preparations we might make for our impending nuptials in Victoria. Therefore, we decided that all plans requiring ourselves to appear there in person were best to be handled in a single trip. So off to Vancouver Island we went for a three day adventure of wedding formation. Continue reading
This brief morbid statement, scrawled above a purple scribbled rabbit smeared with blots of red crayon, forms the written content of one of my earliest journal entries. Though the words were sparse and the spelling spotty, it was obvious that as a seven year old boy I had a hell of an imagination. Already I was discovering a thrilling way to express such wild fancies that abounded in my head.
Progressing through elementary school, I voraciously sought to read every book I could find, while at the same time honing my own budding aptitude for the written word. My spelling and grammar gradually improved, and simple sentences expanded into paragraphs and later entire pages of structured syntax. I began concocting short stories about subjects such as slave driving specters and ominous tailgaters, and with them attended a handful of local conferences for young authors. Before long I had made up my mind that what I wanted most with my life was to be a writer. Continue reading