While I was roaming in and out of the small shops in San Francisco’s historical Haight-Ashbury district I came across a little surf shop. Having some time to kill and nowhere in particular to be I decided to pop in and look around.

After checking out their wares I was about to leave when I spotted a few small shelves with books and DVDs dedicated to the sport and culture of surfing.

I perused these for a while when I stumbled upon a book that caught my eye. “Saltwater Buddha” by Jaimal Yogis.

Spoiler alert: in the course of explaining what makes this book such a good read I may intentionally give away some of the plot details, amusing stories, and inspired insights. If you’d rather wait to make your own judgements than I suggest you stop reading now (but come back in a day or two when I have something else up).

This book is easily described as the story of a boy becoming a man despite a difficult relationship with his father. But it’s also an introduction to the Zen Buddhist philosophy. And the underlying current that moves the story along is the pursuit of the perfect wave.

Finding the joy in surfing, even when the waves are small.

What’s harder to explain is the pull that the ocean has on the author and on many of the rest of us. The author suggests that because we evolved from single-celled organisms floating in water and ourselves being two-thirds water we are “hardwired to connect to the sea.” No matter the reason, there is an indisputable draw to the ocean and the waves that reach our shores.

The heart of Jaimal’s story isn’t anything new. A boy trying to find his identity as he grows into manhood without what he feels is an adequate male role-model. It’s also the story of someone trying to find their spiritual and emotional center; trying to find peace with their inner turmoil.

What separates Jaimal is the lengths that he went to to explore his various whims and half thought out inclinations.

While living in suburban California at the age of 16 he decides to run away to Hawaii. He buys a used surf board, rents a room with a bunch of Australian surf bums, and sets out on a daily quest to become master of the waves.

For those of you who have surfed you know that in the beginning it can be an incredibly humbling experience. If you don’t really know what you’re doing then the paddle out past the break can be almost impossible. Jaimal was humbled, but he stuck with it and started to figure things out.

Before too long, his father manages to track him down and comes to Hawaii. Jamail agrees to return home  and in exchange he’s allowed to spend his senior year abroad. He decides to go to France.

While in France he visits Plum Village, a Zen Buddhist monastery. He’s hooked and decides to become a monk. His mother convinces him to at least finish his last two months of high school and return to California.

After graduating he joins a monastery in Berkeley, California. For almost a year he lives the life of a Buddhist monk. He wakes up everyday at 3:30 am, meditates for hours on end, practices tai chi and kung fu, tries to learn Mandarin, and recites prayers endlessly.

Eventually, the abbot of the monastery suggests that he spend some time at college to see if this is really the life he has in mind. So Jaimal leaves the monastery and although he knew he wasn’t cut out for the monastic life he also struggled outside of the protective walls of the monastery. So he went to Hawaii.

Jaimal spends 6 months working at an eco resort and surfing. He ends up finding an unlikely guru that helps him inadvertently combine the lessons of Buddhism and surfing.

From here on out, you’re on your own.  If I went further there’d be no reason to read the book and it’s an phenomenal book, so, off you go. You won’t be disappointed.

Oh, and if it sounds like I just quit mid-post it’s because I did.  For once I ran out of ways to describe what I was thinking and, quite frankly, I believe that it’s best if you follow this path on your own.

Happy surfing.

~Kbshea

On this day in 1867 the British North American Act was signed into power creating the Dominion of Canada being made up of 4 provinces; Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and the province of Canada split into Ontario and Quebec.

The Act defined much of the Government of Canada, setting up its federal structure including the House of Commons, the Senate, the judicial system, and the taxation system.

And no one died.

Granted, it would take the Statute of Westminster in 1931 and finally the Canada Act of 1982 to cast off the final vestments of British authority. But we’ve never really been in a hurry anyways.

Let’s get drunk and blow sh!t up.

So, how do Canadians celebrate Canada Day you might ask? Pretty much the same way Americans pass the 4th of July. We get drunk and set off fireworks. Probably not nearly as many as Americans, but enough.

There are also the civic demonstrations such as the horse show put on by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, a concert and speeches on Capitol Hill, and parades across the country.

Your friendly neighbour to the north.

Canada and the US have a shared history and a shared culture. We have many of the same products and services. The US-Canada border, besides being the longest undefended border in the world, is also the site of largest trading partners in the world. That’s right, more goods pass back and forth across the 49th parallel than between any other two countries in the world.

Although there are many similarities, there is much that separates our two great nations. We like cheese and gravy on our french fries. We’ve embraced the metric system (along with the rest of the world). We know where Canada is on a map (we also know where the US is).

Celebrating Canada Day in style

But today is not about our differences. It’s about me. On this day I like to sit back with a Caesar, listen to a Tragically Hip album, and watch highlights from the Summit Series (the greatest contest between two hockey teams ever). After Paul Henderson scores the most memorable goal in Canadian history I like to put on the latest fashions from Canada and hit up the bars with my brothers. It’s messy, but I like it.

~Kbshea, eh.

It must have been the late night Indian food. I don’t normally wake up at 8:30 am on a Saturday (I’m more of 10:30-11 o’clock kind of guy). But this morning was different.

Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid and real and shocking that it didn’t just snap you out of sleep, but snapped you all the way to the shower?

The Dream.

As with all dreams, this one has faded since I first woke up and some of the details have turned to mist. But, a lot of it is still there, especially the end. And as with a lot of dreams, this probably won’t make much sense to anyone else.

The dream was actually quite long. My family was visiting the Missus and I here in California, except for some reason we were in the mountains near a small town called Vesuvius (Italy?).

It had been raining a fair amount limiting our ability to site-see. Finally, the rain stopped and we decided to make our way into town to check things out.

After some touring around we somehow added two new people to our group; a friend of mine from college and his significant other. We’ll call them John and Sally for lack of more imagination at this time in the morning.

I should probably mention that John has an uncanny resemblance to Tiger Woods and Sally has a similar complection.

It was at this point that it was getting towards sunset, which was a problem. I was informed that sunset meant the beginning of the third day of some random and rarely observed Jewish holiday that forbids Jews to be seen in public with people of other skin colours.

My family and I are not Jewish but the Missus is and in the almost ten years that we’ve been together I have become increasingly sensitive to Jewish customs and the issue of anti-semitism.

Now, not being strict observers of the Jewish law we weren’t too concerned with this archaic and incredibly racist (and completely made up by my unconcious brain) tradition. But, it appeared that the town we were in was very aware of this law and so we decided that it would be best if we avoided confrontation and headed home.

I led the way home with my brothers and John right behind me. The Missus and Sally were walking arm-in-arm the way that best friends often do.

But then we ran into a problem. As we were walking through town (imagine a town with narrow streets and open squares with cafés, basically, imagine Venice without the water) we were interrupted by two city workers (possibly garbage men or street cleaners). They informed us that this seemingly archaic Jewish law was actually a California State Law and punishable by jail time.

I proceeded to dispute this fact with the young man. How could the state possibly endorse and enforce racism? It was too much for me to handle. At one point the young man got upset (I may have called him a name, it happens) and he tried to run me over with his little golf cart-type vehicle.

I asked to speak with his manager (surely he would be more civil and agreeable). The conversation basically continued in the same way. The small square we were in started to become more crowded with people but the whole time the Missus and Sally stood side by side and John and my brothers stood together.

Sometime mid-sentence it felt like I was kicked in the side. When I looked behind me there was a very large, bearded policeman with a taser forcing me to the ground and telling me that everyone was under arrest.

I couldn’t breath and I couldn’t find the Missus. From my knees with the large policeman holding me down I managed to catch glimpses of policemen in riot gear and waves of bodies crashing against each other.

I didn’t care about going to jail (I still couldn’t believe that this was a real law). But when I lost track of the Missus and saw the riot break out right where she had been standing with my family and friends, I panicked.

That’s when I woke up. There was no going back to sleep from that. So I got up and tried to wash it away in the shower. No luck. The panick, fear, and inability to do anything are only now slowly fading.

Making sense of it all.

I don’t normally attribute much meaning to my dreams other than maybe I shouldn’t each spicy food late at night. But this one is pretty easy for me to see.

First off, we’re going to be heading up to Calgary to visit my brothers and enjoy the Stampede in two weeks, which I’m very excited about.

Next, I just finished a book call “The Year of Living Biblically” by A.J. Jacobs in which he tries to spend a year living the bible literally. During the course of the year he discovers numerous strange and absurd laws in the bible. Hence the crazy three day Jewish holiday.

And finally, the conflict with the guys on the street about a crazy state law probably has something to do with something I saw yesterday.

While walking home with the Missus after work we came across a few people with a little table set up on a street corner. Their banner read, “Obama’s Nazi Health Plan.”

Yes, it actually said that. And they had a lot of pamphlets and literature on top of their little table to go along with it. A quick Google search brought me to this page. It may not be the same group as the one I saw on the street, but the message is the same.

An aside: a little more research shows that the man behind this publication is Lyndon H. LaRouche Jr. Basically, the dude appears to be incredibly intelligent, but is very extreme and probably no longer completely there. Imagine an older, smarter, wealthier version of Mel Gibson in “The Conspiracy Theory.”

There is no way you can compare Obama’s attempt to reform the broken American health care system with Hitler’s attempt to completely exterminate the Jewish race along with political and religious dissidents, homosexuals, Gypsies, ethnic Poles, Soviet citizens, Soviet prisoner’s of war, people with disabilities, and basically anyone who didn’t conform to the Aryan proto-type.

The most conservative estimates place the total number of people systematically murdered at around 11 million.

Sometimes the ignorance and downright stupidity of some people goes beyond my ability to comprehend and apparently gives me bad dreams that then continue on into my sunny Saturday mornings.

Even if you disagree with Obama’s policies how could you possibly make the cosmic leap democratic reformer to genocidal, fascist dictator with aspirations of global domination?!?

This is way too much to deal with on a Saturday morning. Time for cartoons.

~Kbshea

The Hip and 1,000 expat Canadians in San Francisco

A week and a half ago I had my mind blown and I have Gordon Downie and the rest of The Tragically Hip to thank for that.

For those of you who reside south of the 49th parallel, The Tragically Hip (or just the Hip for short) are arguably the biggest band in Canada over the last 20 years.

“I’ve never heard of them,” you’ll probably say.

And that’s because unless you’ve spent more than a week long vacation in the Great White North or you have a Canadian relative who occasionally visits, you’ve had no reason to hear of them.

The next thing you might say is, “Are they bigger than Rush?” Yes.

“Even bigger than Bryan Adams?” No contest.

Gord standing on the edge

“The Guess Who?” The Guess Who broke up in 1975, thus, falling outside of the previous 20 year period that I set.

“Surely not bigger than Celine Dion?” I know that Celine Dion has had tremendous success throughout the world. But I’m not talking about the world, I’m talking about Canada.

And in Canada, The Tragically Hip rein supreme. In Canada, they sellout 30,000 seat stadiums. So imagine my surprised delight when I found out they were going to be performing down here for about 1,000 people.

They might as well have played in my living room.

I love going to live concerts. There’s more emotion involved in the music. There’s more of a connection. Maybe it’s because you can see the body language of the band while they’re performing. Or maybe it’s because they aren’t playing in a studio and repeating the same lines over and over again until monotony sets in.

Me and The Hip

With the Hip that difference is even more pronounced. The lead singer, Gordon Downie, is an emotional and charismatic performer. It’s hard not to get wrapped up in his show.

When he’s not going off on 4 minute long rants about working in the killer whale tank at an aquarium, he’s criss-crossing the stage acting out his own version of the evolution of man. On top of that, he sweats profusely.

During the 3 hour show he completely soaked through 2 shirts and probably lost 10 pounds in water weight.

He also gave a lucky fan a mic that he had smashed during the culminating scene of his brief skit depicting an ape who discovers a a mic on the ground and has trouble figuring out how to attached it the cord. In his frustration he throws the mic down on the ground. That’s commitment to a cause.

Not only was the show entertaining, but it was also long. They got on just after 9pm and with the exception of a 15-20 minute break, they played until about midnight. Definitely worth $35.

Struttin' is an artform

The one thought that stuck with me for almost the entirety of the show (besides why really tall people seem to always stand in front of me) was that going to a Hip concert was a lot like real maple syrup. You live without either for most of the time, but when you have it again you wonder why it isn’t a part of your life everyday.

The best part of the show was that they played a lot of songs that the Missus knows. Being American, she hadn’t had the constant saturation of Hip music growing up like I did.

But she did date and eventually marry a Canadian and even lived north of the border for almost 4 years. In all that time she’s developed a healthy familiarity with the Hip.

It was so nice to be able to share something from my homeland with my wife and for her to actually be able to enjoy it as much as I was.

A new shirt, a new random rant

All-in-all it was one of those all-consuming shows that leaves you wanting more. Out on the street corner after the show looking for the next thing that could possibly keep the good times rolling. But nothing was going to match that incredible afterglow. Kinda like the sugar rush from real maple syrup.

By the way, the photos were taken on my cell phone, hence the crappy resolution. My next phone will be purchased entirely on how good the camera is.

~Kbshea

James Joyce

I know it’s technically past midnight and therefore, no longer June 16. But I don’t care, it didn’t all of a sudden become ‘tomorrow’ just because it turned midnight.

So happy Bloomsday!

If you’re unfamiliar with Bloomsday I’ll fill you in. Bloomsday is a holiday celebrated in Dublin and other parts of Ireland. It commemorates the day that James Joyce’s homeric novel, Ulysses, takes place (June 16, 1904).

On that day, Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus go about their daily rituals throughout the streets and shops of Dublin. There’s a ton of allusion, sub-plots, parallel story lines, and emotional exploration.  I won’t go into it much further simply because I’ve been stuck on about page 408 for the past 6 months.

But nevertheless, I hope you all had a truly Bloomian day!

~Kbshea