Abbotsford Today » William Perry

Motorcycle Diary: Texas, There Are Rules

Editor — Tue, 07 May 2013 13:38:33 +0000

By William Perry. I found myself in The Apple Store. No, there’s not an iPad, iPhone, iPod or iMac to be seen. [Click On Image For Full Story]

Instead, there’s apple jelly, apple cider, apple syrup, apple butter, apple pie, apple cake, apple ice cream (with a hint of cinnamon; it’s delicious) and other fruity products, along with quilts, stuffed toys, lavender sachets and a rack of serious country music from the likes of Willie Nelson, Marty Robbins, Roy Rogers and Slim Whitman.

This is the serious Hill Country, where guys who wear cowboy boots usually mean it and where an apple’s goodness is measured in bites, not gigabytes.

I really enjoyed this Hill Country road trip, seeing lovely terrain and abundant animals — both wild and domestic — but I always run into things I didn’t know about. Case in point: The Apple Store.

Sure, this trip is prettier in the spring.

But in winter, there aren’t as many tourists, and you can ramble around hill and dale (careful about those dales; they can fill with water when it rains) and slow down to check out a wild turkey without getting rear-ended.

It’s a good time to take in the region’s sights and flavors — and this is indeed a flavorful part of Texas, where chicken-frying is a fine art and dessert is virtually mandatory.

A good entrance to this realm is Texas 16, heading south from Fredericksburg.

As the hills start to roll and prickly pear begins to take over the landscape, I see sheep, goats, cows and donkeys, along with mashed coyotes in the middle of the road — all the usual suspects.

I discovered downtown Kerrville with a real speakeasy vibe.

Guadalupe River

Downtown Kerrville actually has nightlife. I dropped in for a beer at Pampell’s Water Street Grill, a beautiful, high-ceilinged bar (with food, no less) in an 1895 former opera house at the corner of Water and Sidney Baker streets. Former Austinite Ron La Touf, who recently bought the place, is behind the bar, which he says came from the 1905 St. Louis World’s Fair. He adds that changing the live music from country to primarily rock and hip-hop is bringing in a good late-night crowd.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around hip-hop in Kerrville when I arrived at Billy Gene’s, on the banks of the Guadalupe River, for dinner. This is Kerrville as I know it, and I plan to indulge in my one-per-decade chicken-fried steak. It is worthy of the calorie splurge: thick and tender, crisply breaded and smothered in cream gravy. Somehow, I do save room, as they say, for dessert, because this place is known for its pies. Its nightly special: pecan cobbler. Unaware pecans could be cobbled, I order it. It’s pretty much a pecan pie — a gooey, intense, tasty one.

Past Kerrville, Texas 16 starts to curl up into tight hairpins, uphill and down, past walls of limestone. Awesome motorcycle roads!

I took in the view through a scrim of fog. Just north of Medina, I decided to take a quick side trip across RM 337 to Vanderpool, home of Lost Maples State Park, where you’ll find bigtooth maples that turn colors in the fall but, of course, don’t do that now. Still, the soaring limestone cliffs are amazing.

I headed back to Medina, where you can actually buy a bigtooth maple at the aforementioned Apple Store, part of Love Creek Orchards. I grabbed lunch (good cheeseburger and cornmeal-coated catfish) on a picnic table at The Patio, the store’s little semi-outdoors, gravel-floored spot out back, following it up with a little dish of apple ice cream. There was the friendliest little girl with her family that was taken with the baby chickens.

In Bandera now, Cowboy Capital of the World. This place revels in its ‘Texasosity’, with plenty of stores selling leather goods, western attire and western furnishings. There are plenty of cowboy-related festivals in Bandera, too.

I just missed the March 17th Wild Hog Explosion. Nobody actually explodes a wild hog (although the temptation is real; the area is overrun with wild hogs). Instead, participants run after them and catch them in the arena at Mansfield Park amid a fest featuring arts and crafts, a barbecue cookoff, a bike rally and a run. Find out more at wildhogexplosion.com.

Bandera Courthouse

I checked out the limestone Bandera Courthouse. Built in 1890, it has somehow managed not to do what most 19th-century Texas courthouses have done: burn down. Its interior was remodeled in 1966, but the exterior is still Second Renaissance Revival style with a clock tower.

Hard Cider. ’Cider Farm’ is too rural, ‘Cider Factory’ is too industrial, ‘Cidery’ works for me! The Texas alcohol industry continues to blossom.

To add to the current wealth of homegrown beer, wine and spirits in Central Texas, we can now welcome a new addition to the local imbibing scene.

Argus Cidery (originally based in Leander, but currently moving to Dripping Springs) has released its first sparkling hard apple cider made from Texas apples, the Bandera Brut.

Hard cider was one of the earliest alcoholic beverages consumed in America, yet according to the North American Cider Map Project, current cider production is largely restricted to the Northeastern and Northwestern coasts of the U.S., with only a few stragglers in the Midwest.

Sit a spell

So, why attempt make a hard cider in Texas?

When I asked this question, Argus owner and winemaker Wes Mickel responded, “we love hard cider, and that alone was the catalyst. In America as well as other countries, apples just don’t get the same treatment as a medium such as grapes. Our idea was to simply apply that same love and respect to the best apple juice we could get our hands on, and make the best cider we possibly could, with no exceptions.”

The biggest challenge of producing cider in Texas, as explained to me, is not the quality of the apples, but rather the lack of apple producers in the state. Thankfully, the apples grown here are not any less flavourful than ones grown in other parts of the country. In fact, as with many products grown in Texas, the flavors of homegrown apples are unique to the Lone Star State.

“One of the perks to producing in Texas is simply having the opportunity to work with specific varieties that are favorable to our growing zones down here.” Mickel explained, “They are much different, variety wise, and we are able to make local cider out of apple blends that you will not find in the Hudson River Valley, West County England, or even Normandy.”

One of the main goals behind the flagship cider was to challenge people’s perceptions about how hard cider tastes. The Bandera Brut accomplishes this goal. Mickel enlisted techniques found in the production of his favorite European and domestic ciders to showcase different aspects of each style. He aimed to “encompass the raw “Farmhouse” style found in the English ciders, the effervescent qualities of the Normand Cidre Brut pushed to Champagne-like carbonation and the oaky flavor found in old colonial American ciders.”

The final product is a 9% ABV sparkling hard cider so dry and effusively bubbly that it more closely resembles a Champagne than other commercially available hard ciders (like Woodchuck, Ace or Strongbow). Oak flavors round out the cider and give it depth, while faint crisp apple and light citrus notes brighten the profile. The sweetness often found in English cider is nothing more than a brief afterthought.

The Brut is composed of a mixture of Texas Gala, Jonathan, Crispin, Early Fuji and Cameo apples, all of which are grown in the Texas Hill Country.

You can find the cider at the Whip In, Antonelli’s Cheese Shop, Twin Liquors, Chris Liquor, Fabi + Rosi and soon to be launched in Whole Foods on South Lamar. Bottles can also be purchased online at www.arguscidery.com. The cider is sold by the 750 mL bottle and by the keg.

Anyways, I admit that the first thing I wanted to do was to get out on the road and gather a really good understanding first hand of where the craft cider industry and the apple growing industry (particularly heirloom apple growing) stand right now. Meet a few growers, meet the cidermakers, have a drink, spin the yarn…I know, I know, it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.

By coincidence as I arrived I bumped Kim, a Pub owner, who later accompanied me for a drink around the corner, where she and I enthused to each other at length about the different kinds of flavors the areas respective fruits can produce, which presented a great analogy to explain if not define what I was trying to do in these parts.

Say you tried to produce a decent tasting bottle of wine with the kind of grapes you buy at the supermarket, the results would be really average at best, right?

You’d probably have to throw all sorts of stuff in there just to disguise the taste.

Or, if you were really clever, maybe use some interesting yeasts to turn it into a just about palatable drink, but whatever you did it still wouldn’t be a good bottle of wine.

On the other hand, if you had the right kind of grapes to start with you wouldn’t need to do all that, and with a little bit of time and patience you’d naturally begin creating some incredible, complex flavors. It’s exactly the same with apples.

If you use eating apples, which is what 99.9% of all hard cider in the US is currently made with, you’re going to have to throw all sorts of stuff in there, whether it’s artificial flavourings, syrup, stout yeast or whatever, in order to make it drinkable. If on the other hand you use the right kind of apples, bittersweet and bittersharp cider apples, then with nothing more than a little time and patience you will naturally start to produce some delicious, incredibly complex flavors.

Long story, slightly shorter, I prepared dinner that night for Kim, my new friend, and for the Mickels.

Nothing beats the taste of my mum’s glazed ham straight from the oven. Truly the best of Irish cooking.

Who’d a thunk it? Me, the rough-around-the-edges oaf of an Irishman, preparing food for actual people. I’ll be honest, I’ve never been much of a domestic god, more of a domestic godhopeless really! That’s not to say that I don’t like my food. I love to eat really good food — nom, nom, nom — and love nothing more than good food, good wine and good conversation. I;m a social person.

Growing up on a farm in Ireland, the same farm I inherited, we had our own fresh milk from the cows as well as our own meat in the freezer. We had eggs from our hens, fresh vegetables from the fields, fresh fish from the not-so-local fisherman (who liked my mum and would deliver it to her), as well as home-made breads and cheeses.

When we were not making cheese ourselves, we were getting it from our neighbours, so for as long as I can remember I’ve always been lucky enough to be surrounded by good food. My grandfather inherited, a dairy farm, whose family supplied milk to the area. They also had an abattoir and butcher shop to the front of the house I subsequently grew up in.

The butcher shop closed before I was born, but we still called it “The Shop”, even though it was my dad’s office at that stage. As a child I was fascinated by the big safe in the wall, and the hooks still hanging on the ceiling. Apparently, during the civil war days in Ireland, De Valera was in the house and guns were passed over the counter wrapped in brown paper and twine when the house was being watched. You see, Armagh, has always been known as ‘Bandit Country’, through which arms and people passed through from the North to South, and vice versa.

My mum Marguerite’s signature dish is her baked ham — she always used the best quality Irish ham.

Mum’s recipe evolved over time — the cider-soaking only appeared when the Cider met my father’s standards. I swear it has nothing to do with her children’s love of alcohol! Really!

I know all children love their mum’s cooking, but Mum — I know you’re reading this from Heaven — your cooking really was the best! Mum’s ham was always so moist and flavourful and at home there’s normally a race to see who can get to the crusty, caramelised, sticky, sweet and tangy glazed pieces of the ham first.

I could be found normally hovering around the range waiting for it to be done — often I’ll rip off a piece the minute it’s out and shove it into my gob with my mum saying, “Remember Wills, little pickers wear big knickers!” If my sister Susan sees me at it she’ll just oink at me and cough “Piggy” under her breath. My father William, also known as Da, was normally next to me.

Now all this food talk is making me feel hangry — you know, when you are so hungry that the lack of food causes you to become angry, frustrated or both.

Here is my recipe – adapted from my Mum’s: Sorry you ain’t getting her’s…

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So Fashionable, Its Insulting

Editor — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 14:43:32 +0000

By William Perry, BY iPhone – Quebec. The poverty of trailer parks is now imitated by the trendiest. How disappointing is that?

It can be somewhat disconcerting to walk down the local equivalency of high street. Men stroll past wearing US-style gas station attendant shirts with round patches that say Ed, or Bubba. Or some have T-shirts that say “I Love Daytona Beach” or “Eat at Jimbo’s BBQ”. These guys all seem to have baseball caps on, too, usually advertising something like a fishing tackle shop on the front, with camouflage around the side. And the hats, more often than not, sit on top of mullets that look straight out of 1979. Let me state now: I did not have a mullet…ever.

But it’s not just the men.

Women totter by on 1980s, brightly coloured high heels, and I hear the clank of chunky, cheap plastic bracelets. It’s not unlike finding yourself as an extra for a film set on Trailer Park Boys.

Except that I’m not in Sackville, Nova Scotia walking with Nikki Payne – I’m in Montreal’s trendy “The Village.”

These fashionable types may look like they’ve come out of what they imagine a trailer park to be; but I seriously doubt most have even been to one. I have: my grandmother (mother’s side) lived in one when I was a child. And, sorry to disappoint, but she wasn’t hugely fat, nor did she wear an oversized, bright pink housedress, and she still had all her teeth. No, for her, it was more like permed hair, floral dresses and sensible shoes.

However, it’s the trashy side of the trailer park that we should apparently aspire to. Even this newspaper joined in, saying it “is the only way to dress at the moment”, but the idea has been floating around other bits of the media. For instance, the Virgin Mobile ad that begins by showing musician Wyclef Jean making an escape from a sex-mad redneck by climbing out of the window of a mobile home that appears to be in the middle of a junkyard.

And, of course, we have been watching Jerry Springer for years. And jokes about squealing like a pig have been around, well, since the film Deliverance.

OK, so this tongue-in-cheek, creeping trailerisation of clothes and adverts is only just a trend; a blip on the larger radar of fashion. But it does raise a worrying question: why are we making a joke out of others’ misery?

Montreal's The Village

A few years ago, the media were railing against “heroin chic” fashion, with its images of ultra-skinny models and the drugged-out look. In this case, we’ve taken the lifestyle of North America’s rural poor and used it to amuse our wealthy, metropolitan selves.

Most of the people wearing this kind of fashion probably aren’t giving it much thought, either. Of course, there will be the postmodern few who will claim they are making an ironic act of anti-fashion.

But for most, it’s just a look. There’s no shortage of trashy threads to buy in the high street, so why not? These dedicated hipsters would probably sport a hairshirt and walk around flogging themselves if the right type of magazine told them to. But that doesn’t make the style innocuous.

The landscape of the deep south is dotted with trailers standing alone or grouped in parks, with painfully optimistic names such as Green Meadows or Happy Valley. In these often tattered, tired rusty boxes you find people who live in the richest nation on earth, but are relegated to living in a tin box, ostracised by their poverty in the land of plenty.

Even in Canada there is a smiling contempt for the underclass. There is a whole industry based on being poor, uneducated and naff, with trailer-park spoof websites (jolenestrailerpark.com) and cookery books: try Ruby Ann’s Down Home Trailer Park Cook Book. And, of course, country music – how about Sammy Kershaw’s She’s the Queen of My Doublewide Trailer?

Funny I don’t see any movement to promote cross-dressing with Eddie Izzard.

Christina Aguilera's Trailer Park Chic

Rather than demand that the Canadian or US government try to provide a decent welfare state for its poorest people, it is easier for the middle classes to mock them simply because they have failed to attain the North American dream of a house, a couple of nice cars and well-dressed children. They are poor, and powerless; hence they are fair game for our contempt. We also inflict this mocking attitude not just on Americans but on ourselves, too. For instance, the scally craze, with its council estate chic – white trainers, gold jewelry and a shell suit – is set for a comeback.

There seems to be some sort of assumption that these unfashionable, poor people have chosen to live in a house on wheels; to drive clapped-out Camaros; to wear tacky clothes; to have out-of-date hairstyles. But here, we choose to don a costume of poverty because we can afford to, and we don’t even consider what it must be like for those who can’t.

Why is it socially acceptable to emulate the struggling poor of America, or even Canada? And why stop there? How about even more destitute people? Maybe some designer hack could emulate Zoolander’s character “Mugato”.

“Derelicte” is the name given to the fashion line, a way of life inspired by the very homeless, the vagrants, the crack whores that make this wonderful city so unique.” The fashion line consists of clothing made from everyday objects that could be found on the streets of New York. Derelicte is a parody of a real fashion line created by John Galliano in 2000.

Maybe a warzone look. Or refugee chic? Could be the thing for next spring. Some torn and tattered clothes, with shoes optional. Perhaps a rusty AK-47 as the perfect finishing touch. What next: an ironic dinner party serving up Red Cross rice?

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In Memorium: William Perry Is Dead … Long Live William Perry

Editor — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 04:33:22 +0000

By Mike Archer. William Perry is dead. Long live William Perry. I can’t imagine an Irishman truer to his soul than William Perry.

William wrote as honestly as I have ever read a man write. A former preacher; a former cop; a motorcycle enthusiast and a lover of love, beautiful women, sex, friends, food, wine, great literature, travel and living life to the dregs … William walked tall among us.

I first encountered William when he began sending me unsolicited pieces that he sent to newspapers all over BC in a simple and relentless attempt to be published.
Cutting Through The Crap

At first my old newspaper editor’s instincts governed me and I ignored him.

“If no one else is publishing him … why should I?” I thought, using impeccable old school newspaper thinking.

Then I read one of his submissions from start to finish.

William had a way of cutting to the heart of the matter and exhibiting not a care in the world about what people might think of him for his opinions that made it impossible for me to ignore him. It was also the reason his writing was unpalatable to the old newspaper media.

We had our fights, our disputes, our arguments but William had the charm of a true Irishman and, when he transgressed he almost made me feel sorry for pointing it out.

Alabama

An Irishman Through And Through

I knew the prick was playing me but, like a true Irishman, he let me win the fights he didn’t care to and lived to go on writing.

Writing was clearly his passion, Long before he knew he was dying it was clear that William didn’t give a damn about what people might think.

He cared only that the truths he had discovered be shared whether with friends, enemies or posterity … he cared little once he had written.

From a purely selfish point of view William has provided Today Media with a wonderful catalogue of travel stories, opinion pieces, essays, columns, recipes and titillating explorations of subjects not usually discussed in newspapers.

Indian Larry

An Honest Man

I have no qualms about telling William I think I’ve benefited more than he has from our relationship. But then, Irish charmer that he is, he would have predicted that.

William wrote about the porn industry, police brutality, native rights, students’ rights, life, death, dying and the one love he was lucky enough to enjoy at the end of his life – travel.

He has written some of the most eloquent, incisive and well researched pieces on America, Canada, Europe and the daily grind of traveling with a motorbike in your crotch that I’ve ever read.

Nudism, atheism, spirituality, faith, religion, politics, music, art … there isn’t a subject he shied away from.

It is fitting that among his last articles for us he wrote about wage theft and how to become a porn star.

In every story William showed a depth of love and respect for those about whom he wrote that identifies his style and the substance of what he wrote.

Simza and Tshilaba

Shared Intimacies

Through his writing we met his friends, his lovers, his family and those he met along the way. Unadorned, naked, honest and ours for the sharing.

A lesser man would have fumbled in the attempt to share his intimacies so freely but William pulled it off.

When he discovered he was dying he continued to write. He had a moment of weakness when, somewhere between Great Britain and Spain he asked me to to trash all of his articles and forget he had ever existed.

I promised to do so if he would only reconsider and realize that his writing was his testament, the record he was leaving behind for those who had no more intimate memory of his existence.

Skinny dipping while biking

Honesty

He agreed, allowed me to keep his writing alive and went on to chronicle his dying days touring Europe with friends, family and loved ones.

At the end he shared the most awful, terrifying and personal moments with columns about dying.

His family and friends are owed a great gift of gratitude from all of us for sharing this wonderful man with us and allowing us into his world which included all of you.

He loved you dearly.

Perhaps his greatest gift, beyond his humanity and his tremendous talent as a raconteur, is the gift he has given us, not of his own writing, but in that of his granddaughter, Kayle, who still writes for us, and through her writing, keeps her grandfather’s spirit alive and with us always.

Wherever you are William Perry know this … a worthy man lived among us and in facing his final trial exhibited bravery, lust and fire as only a true Irishman could.

William Perry is dead. Long live William Perry.

I will miss you.

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Travel: Motorcycle Diary – Reflect Like A Parisian

Editor — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 13:12:18 +0000

By William Perry. As we face challenges in our lives and our schedules become overcrowded with to-do lists, children’s activities, family functions, work, and the like, it’s common for our dreams get pushed to the back burner.

With Christmas in my rearview mirror, I take the time to reflect on many of the things I did, whether I failed at, came close to achieving, or actually didn’t screw up too badly, and ponder what’s necessary to make more of what I have, to live my life to its fullest, and to accomplish those things that I continually put off for another day.

While I’m not big on the whole “New Year’s Resolution” thing, the reality is that with each new year comes a new opportunity.

An opportunity to take a step forward in critical areas such as: Finances.

I can be a budget Nazi and a shopaholic, so I use a fresh start to re-evaluate my financial outlook; Career. Although I’m retired, I still look for new opportunities and endeavours; Family and Friends.

One of my big struggles, particularly in 2012 was managing my time well and all of the commitments I have.

The busier my schedule got, the more I pushed off some of the things most important to me; Dreams and Goals. Regardless of where I am in my life, the more I age, the more quickly time passes; the days get shorter and months fly by with no regard to the limited time I have remaining.

As I look back, I will also look way back, thinking of happy times. Really happy times. Paris holds many of those memories for me. It’s were my wife and I spent many moments experiencing true joy and thankfully each other.

If you’re lucky enough to be in Paris to usher in the New Year, the city of light offers plenty of ways to say Bonne Annee!. In my experience, Paris is one of the most colourful and exciting places to celebrate New Year’s Eve, whether your preferred style is clubbing the night away, top-notch dining, or a simple glass of champagne shared with a small group of friends or loved ones.

I’ve decided to stay a little longer than a few days. To accomplish this, I’m taking advantage of the slow real estate market and find a luxury apartment to rent furnished. Through a realtor friend, I’ve found the perfect location, with all the city’s world-famous landmarks at my doorstep. I can stroll along the River Seine, walk to museums, boutiques, and many popular attractions. What a pleasure to stroll home to an apartment after a fun excursion, rather than standing in crowded métros.

The neighbourhood couldn’t be better. It’s wonderful to experience life at a slower pace in Paris, savouring each moment from deciding where to buy your morning baguette to enjoying long walks along tree-lined, ancient streets. I’m in the realm of the extremely rich: the borders of the 8th and 16th arrondissements just off the Champs Elysées.

Bypassing the many couture shops on and around Avenue Montaigne – from Gucci to Pucci and countless others. Like any Irish lad with a sweet tooth, I am set to easily access rue Pierre Charron, and the Maison du Chocolat. This is a purveyor of eye wateringly expensive chocs: each (delicate) mouthful must cost a euro or so. For a mere €100-250 I can buy a hatbox of champagne and chocolates, walk them back to the apartment, and enjoy them. Next, to make my stay even better, I seek out the classic staples: books and music. Fnac used to be a surefire winner here: obviously much of modern French music is best left well alone, but I was tempted by an Edith Piaf boxed CD set. Unfortunately, the sad truth is Fnac has changed. The store on Boulevard St Germain tempted me in but was entirely electronic and uninviting. I diverted to the Forum des Halles branch to find phones and screens dominating again, poor old books relegated to a basement with the ceiling in disrepair, the shopping equivalent of the funereal Catacombs de Paris.

A slogan on the outside said something to the effect that the look may change but it’s the same old Fnac inside; about as convincing as seeing an old faithful mutt replaced by a digital cyber pet. One display retained the spirit of Paris of old: a series of editions by L’Esprit Frappeur, small paperbacks costing around €3 with titles such as “De la prison à la révolte” and “Bavures: order public, désordre privé”, examining such varied themes as LSD and police brutality. Anyway, to this Irsihman who is used to three for two paperbacks at Waterstones, the general €22 for a paperback seemed like a hefty sum, especially when it’s in French. But I reckon a challenge is worth the extra.

I tend to wander outside of the cheerless shopping centre and off up Rue des Halles, where my spirits are always lifted by the sight of Julien Aurouze’s business at no 8, flourishing since 1872.

No present suggestions here, but the window is worth a look.

Under the sign Destruction des Animaux Nuisibles, this pest control and rat catching expert has lovingly arranged the stuffed corpses of rodents, some in their death throes, others on their hind feet in a macabre waltz. Astonishing.

Paris is a place I can walk aimlessly, and not feel guilty at all, through the 2nd arrondissment.

An American friend of mine recently reminded me that when we first met, a good two decades ago, I was not always very up on Paris. He remembers me clearly informing him before his first visit to the city that ‘it’s always raining and the streets smell of dog shit’. I am now deeply ashamed of such a banal statement. What was I thinking? Perhaps part of my youthful indignation arose from not wanting to appear a tourist in a city swarming with visitors. Or maybe I was grumpy after too many attempts to impress haughty Parisians with my A-level French. Whatever, I didn’t have particularly fond memories of the capital. Maybe it is because I was not experiencing it with my wife.

Until, that is, I went back last month. This time I stayed not on the Left Bank of the Seine but in the 20th arrondissement, east of the Marais and Bastille. The 20th is variously described as racially mixed, poor, rebellious, authentic and out of the way. With its cheaper rents and neighbourhood feel, it certainly attracts a cosmopolitan crowd of affluent young bourgeois-bohèmes known simply as ‘bobos’. The area is what guide books refer to as ‘up and coming’, which can be read either as challenging or exciting. It might even be comparable to New York’s Lower East Side 10 years ago: edgy but going upmarket, fast.

Another friend, Anaïs, who has lent me some art supplies to work on a few projects I started, embraces quirkiness – be it tiny rooms without a view in New York or music playing underwater at the pool in the Delano in Miami. Here in her native Paris, she’s gone graffiti mad. She also rides a motorcycle. For the last three nights we have gone around inspecting and touching up some of her work. I truly like my friend, not just because she rides, he is obviously très cool.

Paris is overwhelming to most. To me, it is certainly brilliant value…for reflection. To be continued….

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Column: Best Music of 2012

Editor — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 18:04:47 +0000

By William Perry. Many do this every year: Critics and other music geeks provide us with their top lists, and we music mortals take this thing so seriously.

Now, I can here some of you saying, “what the hacker does he know about music”. And you will likely read my list and say, ” Where’s Usher, Nicki, Carly Rae, Kanye…the Biebs?!?”

Well its my list. Deal with it!

My TOP 10 SONGS of 2012

10. DIIV
“Doused”
Oshin

09. Santigold
“Disparate Youth”
Master of My Make-Believe

08. Chairlift
“I Belong In Your Arms”
Something

07. Jessie Ware – “Wildest Moments”
Devotion

Jessie Ware, former side-woman and go-to girl sings with sheer passion.

This is absolutely heavenly.

06. Alabama Shakes
“Hold On”
Boys & Girls

05. Chromatics
“Back From The Grave”
KILL FOR LOVE

04. Bat For Lashes
“Laura”
The Haunted Man

03. Spiritualized
“Hey Jane”
Sweet Heart Sweet Light

02. El-P – “$4Vic / FTL (Me and You)”
Cancer 4 Cure

I’m not a fan of rap, but, El-P raps like he is in a Cormac McCarthy novel. It is as terrifying as it is breathtaking. Really.

01. Fiona Apple – “Every Single Night”
The Idler Wheel…

How I Spent My Summer Vacation- listening to Apple’s vocals, what else.

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Motorcycle Diary: No One Does Christmas Like The Germans

Editor — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 02:56:45 +0000

UPDATED 29/12/12 – COMMENTS RECEIVED – By William Perry. With Ryanair flying to Luebeck daily from £36 one way, who could resist. Not me, especially to do a little late Christmas shopping. [Click On Image For Full Story]

Many a traveller has lazily described the pretty port town of Luebeck on Germany’s Baltic coast as the Venice of the north. While it may not have Venice’s romantic waterways, Luebeck has something else coursing through its cobbled streets: Christmas spirit. And every year from December 1 the Yule tide is high. Really high.

Weinachtsmarkt

The Luebeck Weinachtsmarkt has been running for well over 364 years, and these days is spread over at least five different locations throughout the city centre. Especially famous is the bazaar in the Heiligen-Geist-Hospital or Holy Spirit Hospital, at the edge of Koberg square in the centre of town.

This fair is at the top end of the market, and features a range of craft stalls, selling glassware, wood carvings, puppets, pottery, bobbled knitwear and jewellery. The prices at this particular fair are the same or cheaper than you’d find anywhere in Canada, but everything is high quality and the setting in the old hospital is delightful: infinitely preferable to the world of pain that is Granville Street – or any other high street – at this time of year.

Despite wanting to keep things low-key this Christmas, I got a bit carried away and bought an exquisite little kreizel, or spinning top, carved from a single piece of wood and shaped like a teardrop, and a pair of pulse warmers which are kind of like leg-warmers for arms and make me feel like an extra from Fame, which can only be a good thing. Man…I wish I could dance.

Heiligen-Geist-Hospital

The Heiligen-Geist-Hospital market runs for 10 days, from the Friday before the first Advent Sunday. It attracts tourists from across Germany and as far away as Scandinavia, and Northern Ireland, so you may find yourself queueing to get in. If so, just grab a glass of hot mulled wine, or gluehwein, from the vendor nearby: it keeps you warm and gives you a nice sugar and spice buzz. And don’t worry about it being too early for a drink; on my way down to the catacombs to look at more stalls inside the hospital, I saw several huddles of older ladies hooking enthusiastically into glasses of wine and beer – and it was about eleven in the morning.

Boozing is a big part of Christmas market culture in Luebeck. At the street market in the square in front of the Rathaus, or town hall, at least half the space was taken up by food stalls selling gluehwein (with or without schnapps), jagertee (tea with rum) and beer. Oh, and tea, coffee and hot chocolate for those (not me) seeking sobriety. But strangely, I couldn’t spot anyone who was: families, couples, and lone shoppers stood around sipping, blowing steam, chatting, and checking out the scene.

Schiffergesellschaft

The goods on offer in the Rathaus market were a little more my style and a lot more my price range. There was a delicious smell of pine needles, sausages, spices and roasted nuts in the air; the stalls were gorgeous to look at and there was so much variety: everything from ornaments made of straw and silver paper to flowers (roses, gerboras and lilies) and fir wreaths, more home wares, dried fruits, herbs and spices, teas, fruits and vegetables, clothing, baskets… the range was huge. And the prices were great. I stocked up on fruit teas, a huge bunch of cinnamon sticks like a small pile of kindling tied with raffia, a big bag of lavender flowers, essential oils and gluehwein mix for about £15. Later on I bought a pair of slippers for less than a fiver. By this time I was feeling pretty happy; the retail therapy was working a treat and I had’t spent much money at all. It was beginning to feel like Christmas.

During the night of Palm Sunday in 1942 incendiary bombs were dropped on the medieval inner precinct of Luebeck, destroying nearly 1,000 houses and five of the city’s seven famous church towers. Although a fifth of the town was in ruins, although mistakes were made during the reconstruction process and although it was not until the 1970s that Luebeck’s citizens recognised the beauty of their Old Town, Unesco decided in 1987 to include it in its list of World Heritage sites. There is still an abundant array of rare monuments dating from various epochs, and if you can be bothered between bouts of frenzied shopping, there is plenty of beautiful Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque and neo-Classical architecture to take a peek at.

Luebeck

Also of cultural interest is Buddenbrookhaus (in German), the former home of Thomas Mann, who won the Nobel prize for literature for his novel Buddenbrooks in 1928, and his brother Heinrich Mann who, among other things, wrote the screenplay for The Blue Angel starring Marlene Dietrich. The house, at Mengstrasse 4, was lovingly described in Thomas’s novel and is now a museum.

I went to the Schiffergesellschaft, (seaman’s guild) restaurant; a beautiful room that has housed meetings of the guild for 600 years, and continues to do so today. To be a member of the guild you need to have been born in Luebeck; Prince Charles’s application was rejected on those grounds. The dining area is filled with models of ships hanging from the ceiling and other relics and frescoes decorate the walls. The food is typically German, lots of meat and potatoes. It helps to have German relatives born in Luebeck.

Of course, Luebeck is also famous for its marzipan, something as a child that was always in my stocking at Christmas, and if you can brave the heaving crowds, you should head for Niederegger, the confectioner and cafe, which sells all manner of marzipan products. There are mounds of the stuff, but my favourites are the moulded fruit – the kitsch factor is high, and so is the comedy. You can even venture upstairs, where there is a bizarre Madame Tussaud’s-style exhibition of life-sized marzipan figures and yet another model ship, all made of almond nougat. If you are feeling inspired, it is possible to have lessons in modelling and make your very own marzipan potato. How Irish is that!

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Columns: The World Did Not End … Now What?

Editor — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 19:03:41 +0000

By William Perry. With any luck, the world hasn’t ended for you either – as some believe the Mayans predicted for today – and aliens haven’t emerged from space ships inside a French mountain to beam locals to safety. Tom Cruise must be disappointed. Scientists have done their best over the past week to reassure us that the end was far from nigh, but last night, countless small numbers of survivalists and doomsday cultists prepared to take their final stands in forests and on mountain tops around the world.

The latest outpouring of apocalyptic angst mixed with fatalism and dark humour has been fuelled by internet rumours of interplanetary catastrophe and atavistic concerns that a milestone in the 5,000-year-old Mayan Long Count calendar meant 21 December 2012 would be the earth’s last.
Ok Mayans, where’s our apology?

But in some parts of the world the desire to believe the worst was proving unstoppable. In China the authorities arrested 1,000 members of an end-of-the-world cult called Almighty God which was predicting a global checkout later today. The crackdown came after weeks in which members had clashed with police across seven provinces following calls to rise up against the Communist Party.

In Russia, where a 24-hour party was being held in a Cold War-era nuclear bunker for Muscovites willing to spend $1,000 on a ticket, President Putin reassured the public that they had at least 4.5 billion years left before the sun ran out of fuel and destroyed the solar system. And even this was not a source of concern. “Why be afraid if it’s inevitable,” he told reporters. That’a boy.

At Bugarach in southern France, where it was rumoured that aliens would land on the “sacred mountain” to save humans from the conflagration, the local mayor urged people to stay away. But while doomsdayists heeded his pleas, the village found itself overrun by 250 journalists who had been despatched from across the world to cover the “story” at first hand. In Argentina the authorities closed off a section of the Sierras Chicas mountain range in Cordoba fearing mass suicide attempts there following a Facebook posting. I don’t see the icon for that status update.

Doomsday believers had been making their way to the Turkish village of Sirince, after claims that it would be the only place to be spared. Meanwhile, Dutchman Pieter Frank van der Meer made headlines around the world after converting a former lifeboat into an “ark” for 50 friends and relatives. Yesterday he was bracing himself for the flood. “The planets are aligned that day. That is unique. On that day, energy will be released and the sun will activate. A large solar flare can cause a tsunami or a second deluge,” he told newspapers.

But although the website Slooh.com said it would be live-streaming feeds from its telescopes in the Cayman Islands and Arizona just in case, Nasa scientists said there was no need for alarm. The agency was inundated with calls as the doomsday rumour took grip and the final day approached.

It has produced a four-minute video entitled Why The World Didn’t End Yesterday which has been viewed five million times.
And of course, elsewhere in the United States survival stores reported a surge in the sale of gas masks, duct tape and ready-to-eat-meals. Now what am I going to do with all that toilet paper! Well, at least it was on sale.

In London the end of the world offered the opportunity to party with a series of events, including a show at the Hammersmith Apollo by comedian Robin Ince and cosmologist Professor Brian Cox. All 3,600 tickets have already sold out. Druids said they expected larger crowds than normal at the annual winter solstice event at Stonehenge.

Mexico, home to important Mayan relics, welcomed new-agers who were gathering to proclaim not the end but a “new dawn”. Experts have pointed out that the Mayas measured time in 394-year periods known as baktuns. And while the 13th baktun concludes today, archaeologists have uncovered glyphs that refer to dates far into the future.

Now what? The best thing is to stay at home, at work, in school, and at some point do a relaxation and exercise. The world will go on, ending for each of us at some point, but not this day. Today we live.

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Columns: Buying Local

Editor — Thu, 15 Nov 2012 16:05:22 +0000

By William Perry. This past weekend marks the official start of the holiday shopping season, and in recent years, the horror stories about Black Friday rampages have been increasingly bookended by a fervent call urging Canadian consumers to buy local.

The folks behind the buy local movement would like you to know that the money you spend at locally owned businesses is ultimately better for communities than the money you spend at big-box stores or online retailers. The question, though, is how much better?

Small-business proponents have a long list of the economic benefits of buying local, which they especially like to break out during the holiday season. Typically, these lists show you how much of your dollar stays in the community when you shop local versus when you shop at some corporate-owned chain and, by extension, how much economic impact local shopping has on the economy of an individual town or city.

Take BC for instance. A fair assessment, of course, would addresses the broadest interpretation of the data. The buy local movement, while including “web designers and accountants,” is much more vocal around the holiday shopping season, and it is fairly doubtful that retailers are paying an average of $12 an hour, or that many are offering full-time positions at any pay rate. With that in mind, it is not clear how much better off the community really is if more workers aren’t paid a living wage.

The anti-Walmart, anti-Starbucks, anti-McDonald’s crowd may push for “fair wages” from the chains, but they’re silent when it comes to the push for similar initiatives aimed at local small businesses. This is a seemingly strange disconnect in logic until you remember that the buy local movement is not the same creature as the living-wage initiative. At its heart, the buy local movement is merely about putting profits in the hands of a different set of people, people who just happen to be our neighbours and who are more likely to directly or indirectly put money back in our hands. While the relative proximity of these business owners to their employees means that there is a lot of “taking care of our employees” rhetoric in the air, it is important to note that you can hear the same talk from just about any national chain store when they’re questioned about their low wages and their paltry or non-existent benefit options.

Creating jobs and keeping money in the local economy is certainly a lofty goal, but merely exchanging one set of people for whom the bottom line is important for another is hardly the answer. If local business owners want the support of the community they serve, they need to do a better job of showing the community exactly why they deserve that support.

While the simple math about the economic benefits of shopping local are difficult to argue against, especially in light of the seeming correlation between the rise of big-box stores and the overall decline in Canada’s middle-class shop owners in the last four decades, it is important to remember that local business owners are not the only variable in the equation. Sadly, it is a testament to the continued invisibility of the Canadian working class that the focus here is only on the number of jobs created by buying local, and not the quality of those jobs.

If it is true that a rising tide lifts all boats, then we have to ask local business owners if they are more interested in raising the tide or if they merely want to put more boats in the water.

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Columns: Reason For Hope

Editor — Sat, 10 Nov 2012 03:19:52 +0000

By William Perry. “Walls separate neighbours, and conflict and division seem standards. This appears true in politics where the gap between left and right has become wider and deeper. There is hope, within these challenging times, particularly among the young.

Editor’s note: this story was originally published in the London Free Press

Young people can transform a difficult situation with their generosity and positive approach to the future. They are less cynical and mostly idealistic, and still able to look at solutions with simplicity. Don’t believe me – talk to any young person or rather listen to them when they speak of their hopes and dreams for the future, of their confidence that one day we could all live together in a just and peaceful way.

My personal experience growing up in Northern Ireland, tragically has contributed to me being cynical. The streets outside bore all the hallmarks of the violent conflict. Buildings had been bombed and hospitals were struggling for resources. People queued for even the most basic things like food and clean water. Even so, the young people maintained enthusiasm and pride for their families and friends. They believed in a future full of hope. They knew that poverty, set backs and difficulties could not rob them of their dignity and their dreams.

They also knew the wealth that comes from a strong family bond and a community that cares. It reminded me of the importance of building strong families and communities that care here at home.

It struck me that this generation of young people may have more in common across the world than any generation before. It occurred to me that despite the many divisions in the world, the world now has the chance to become more united than ever before. In the current economic climate, it is all too easy to be pessimistic and to focus on the negative.

My children and grandchildren are my good reasons to hope. If we invest in strong bonds of family and friendship, if we build up communities that care, we will always have good reasons to hope. If we can turn the current global recession into global growth in a culture of care, then we will be in a better place than we were before the current economic crisis began. If we can turn the credit crunch into an expansion of love and concern for others, then we will move closer to a more united, fair and sustainable world.

Christmas is just weeks away. Every minute of every day we can make different choices. We can recapitalize our families, our local community and our society with concern for one another and with compassion. It is an investment which each one of us can make. It is an investment which comes with a guaranteed return. Sure a good GIS can accomplish something, but will never be as rewarding. I pray that this Christmas will bring all, a renewed hope for the future and the peace which comes from knowing that good, bad and indifferent, we do have each other.”

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Letters: Policing Costs – Province Needs to Step In

Editor — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 14:01:05 +0000

Dear Editor. It’s time to rethink how police conduct their daily duties with an eye toward cutting costs. Police budgets have increased dramatically over the past three years, eating up about a quarter of area municipal budgets, but for some it can amount to almost 50 per cent.

Are there ways, not to reinvent policing, but is there a better way to define core policing to mitigate some of those costs? Yes there are.

The civilization of police work has been going on for 40 years. Much of what police do is legislated, and can be scaled down. The province needs to step in to find ways to control policing costs, particularly with those independent departments like Victoria, Vancouver and Abbotsford whose costs are running away with local budgets by labour contracts that require them to be the highest paid police departments in the province.

The whole issue is about how do we sustain policing so that it’s affordable to the municipal sector.

Police agencies in other countries, such as in Wales and the U.S., are being reduced and officers are taking pay cuts.

One tooted plan is for area municipalities sharing one police force to manage costs doesn’t add up. While some municipalities might be tempted to scale back service levels to keep costs down, its residents would surely oppose the move, particularly when the promoters of the plan are the only municipalities that can’t control its policing.”

William Perry