Diamonds....

From Sierra Leone.

do yourselves a favour. Get the track. New Kanye. Either the regular unleaded version, or the jay z remix. thank me later

Spin Sugar Spin....

Time to check the latest soundwaves emanating from the underwater lair....

Kano - Sometimes ... from the album Home Sweet Home. Nice smooth british garage (garridge)... less brash than Dizzee, more street than The Streets

K'Naan - The Dusty Foot Philosopher. Hip hop from Toronto with some world influence. Got a squeaky voice like Eminem, but he can't help that. Detroit doesn't look so tough compared to Somalia.

The Clientele - Strange Geometry. British indie pop... Since K Got Over Me is a good track to check out. Think....The Shins * Simon and Garfunkel. It shimmers in the sun, especially in these lazy days.

Public Enemy - Rebirth of a Nation. Chuck D is still bringing it hard. The voice combined with the heavy low end instrumentals hit like slugs to the chest of a kevlar vest. The new album feels sorta dated... still calling for revolutions... rising up against the powers that be. But despite the distorted guitars... it would take less than a nation of millions to hold this one back. Flava Flav will never change though.... I think if i ever made a movie about the end of the world, Flava Flav would be the only one left, and he'd just be rambling like a crazy person.

Hey yo, check one two. Yeah, thats right! Flava Flav... tellin it like it is from the beginning of time until the apocalypse. you know what i'm sayin'? You feel me? There ain't no one left but Flava flav... you know what i'm sayin? Yeah thats right! I look around, and I ain't see nothin. You feel me? Yeahhhh boyyyyyyeeeee.

My Badge of Honour

I hate getting bad news. Especially when that bad news is something totally unexpected, out of nowhere, slamming into you. Being an altruist, I hate hearing when bad things happen to anyone... being human, I hate it more when bad things happen to me. You can imagine how devastated I was today, when previously unbeknownst to me, I found out that my life was ruined.

It gets worse: apparently my life wasn't just ruined today. Apparently, I have been wasting my time, living a ruined life for the better part of the summer. The singular devastation of having a life ruined is bad enough. It however pales in comparison to the knowledge that one has been unknowingly living, breathing and cultivating an already shattered existence.

While receiving such life (or should it be former life)-altering notification is beyond-descriptionally terrible, delivering the apocalyptic message is the responsibility reserved for only the most strong and devoted among us. For this, I am forever indebted to Leah McLaren of the Globe & Mail... a journalist with such tact and composure that she was able to proclaim the bankruptcy of my existence as if it was nothing more than a trite daily event.

And so it was. My life..all 23 years of it. Ruined.

The demise of a life, 23 years in the making, deserves some build up. A eulogy... a lament for what was, what is, and all that could have been. But first, as is customary for one when dealing with a major trauma, I must avoid the process of denial, and come straight out with the truth. No sense denying what has already been set in stone. After all, with a life that is ruined, there isn't much else to live for.

So I will gather myself, and make this proclamation with my best Lou Gehrig voice. It is with all the courage and guts that I can muster, that I admit... that on July 19th, in this very blog, I suffered an event that will forever change the universe. A blackened toenail.

Because of an overexuberant goal of running, over hills and steaming pavement, for hours on end, I have forever lost the respect of my peers, and also myself. I must now hide behind the false sense of security that is the pedicure; dreading the day that lacquer goes out of fashion. I sense that I should remain indoors, and give up any shred of ambition that might cling to the bottom of the bucket that was my life... in fear of being discovered. I am ashamed; ashamed of pushing a limit, going outside the box... ashamed of doing anything this side of sitting under a lavender umbrella, sipping lattés, and drivelling on about the fashion faux-pas of those unfortunate enough to step within the scope of my cynical gaze.

However, in the hours since discovering my own demise, I have had a revelation. I have discovered, that with the ruin of a life, comes the chance of redemption. Like a phoenix talon rising from the ashes of a former existence; Lazarus in podiatrist robes... my toenail brings a sense of pride. A feeling of accomplishment. A sigh of gratitude that since I have now left the ranks of those with lives intact, I am no longer under the scrutiny of eyes that would look down upon my tarnished tarsal. I am not scarred. I am not stained. I have a badge of honour, and its name is black beauty.

Maybe my entire existence is shattered. Maybe things never will be the same again. I guess I will never know. One thing has become crystal clear.... something that Leah, with her nose held high, must have overlooked... she was misdiagnosed! Her blackened toenail couldn't have ruined her life. After all, the prerequisite for having one's life ruined is having had, in the first place, a life worth living.

...give the drummer some

I admit it. It happens every time. Whether relaxing at my desk, rolling in the car, or iPodding on the bus. Without fail, 100% of the time, like god damned clockwork.

I clap

Not just once. Its twice. Every time.

clap clap

It happens at 3:19. But not just any 3:19. This happens regardless of time zone. More like a twilight zone. I don't know why I do it. It just happens.

clap clap

I know the inspiration, but I bring it on myself. People clap for all sorts of reasons: nervous twitches, congratulatory expressions, battles with inner demons. The source of my habit is not my head. Its my ears.
Its the damn Arcade Fire

clap clap

Try it for yourself. Get out your copy of The Arcade Fire's brilliant disc Funeral. Our destination is track 9. Please keep your hands and arms inside the cabin at all times, you're gonna need them. Wait for it. It only happens once.

And then it hits you. 3:19.
clap clap

Such a peculiar affliction. And for anyone who has a favourite song, it takes a different form. My genus of disease is not limited to the clap, I'm also a sucker for the cymbal hit. Not just any cymbal hit, its gotta be processed and climactic. The big one, the transitional cymbal hit; the breakdown. The Prodigy, Fat of the Land is huge on these ones... the snare at 2:09 of Diesel Power does it every time. While we're at it, I might as well be completely honest. I can listen to Panjabi MC - Jogi like a calm individual; straight faced, without even a head bobbing or toe tapping. But when that "c'monnn" sample drops, I just lose it. Can't help it. On a long run, it can feel like I'm in a trance, bulletproof, nothing affecting me... every step just like the last. But even though I'm surrounded by traffic, as soon as the moment approaches, its like a hiccup in a brainwave... the trance is broken.... I hit the cymbal, I mix the sample, I nail the claps.

clap clap

This wouldn't happen to a normal person. If I chose a random person on the street, and told them to bust a move, hit a snare or scratch a record, no doubt they'd blush, turn and run. Normal people feel it, but under the strict eye of normalcy, its gotta be suppressed. Luckily, we can escape. Headphones and car stereos provide a strange sense of security. Its as if because you can't hear them, they can't see you. This is the ultimate music rockumentary; a reality tv style, making the band'esque, america's most awesome home video edition. Just in case the drummer forgets, the back up musicians lose their place, or the DJ falls asleep at the wheel, you're there. I think thats why we do it... just in case. Its such a critical part of the song. Maybe I can't play a guitar solo that wakes the dead, hammer out a drum solo that would put any Harley to shame, or write a lyric that can make your girlfriend cry, but I can sure hit my imaginary cymbal at the perfect moment, every damn time.

clap clap

If I had to start a band, I think I'd do it without music. I would just look for the worst cases. These are also known as the best cases. On guitar, I'd choose a friend that I grew up with. When everyone else was wearing Nikes, this kid was wearing cowboy boots. He had the first walkman I'd ever seen, and he could rip like Hendrix. Of course, no one can really rip like Hendrix. But my band isn't based on real... my band is based on the sickness. This was the earliest case of the sickness I'd ever seen... but still one of the best. This wasn't just air guitar, this was the entire stage show. Jumping off the curb to nail the bottom of a mean riff... hopping that would put Eddie Van Halen to shame... falling to his knees after an exhausting solo...all on the way home from school. If only we'd had our imaginary band at the time, he could have smashed the translucent drums with his mythical axe as we left the non-existant stage.

On vocals, It would be a tough call. I'd probably lean to the girl I saw running today. She was holding an iPod, but it was doubling as a microphone. She wasn't singing as much as she was contorting her face to match the emotion of the song. I guess the song was particularly twisted, because she looked like a ventriloquist trying to read backwards... her case was severe. It wasn't even the vocals that did it... it was the way that her running was affected. She wasn't hitting cymbals, or scratching records... but she was actually stopping and starting based on the song. Run, sing, pause for effect... repeat. This band might be weird, but we're gonna be big.

On drums, I'd get the guy at the gym for sure. The guy on the treadmill who never misses a beat. Not only does he hit the right drum every time, but he's more animated than a Pixar flick. Sometimes he hurts the drums, most of the time the drums hurt him. He cringes on the toms, but winces on the snares, and downright scowls on the crash cymbal. I suppose anyone can feel the music, but my drummer takes it up a notch. He gives shout outs to the crowd after a expert flurry of beats, and raises his sticks in glory when his anthem is complete. No word of a lie. Dude is a star, a Ringo Starr...

Yeah, this band would be different. We'd be sick... in every sense of the word.

We wouldn't make albums, we'd collect them. We wouldn't write songs, we'd act them out. We wouldn't own instruments, we'd borrow the sounds. We wouldn't make videos, we'd just do our thing.

I wouldn't miss the cymbal, I'd hit it every time.

clap clap

out

Whats bigger than big? Dinosaurs.

There is something big going on. Bigger than big. And nobody knows it.

But thats what we do here at the ninja base... we break the big stories. And we write rhymes... but we still don't have the street cred to get our videos on BET, so you've never heard them.

I touched on this in an earlier post, but now its time for the exposé. New information has come to light that will put that information to shame... so without further adieu.

Dinosaurs. Yeah, you heard me. Dinosaurs.

Uhhh... what about dinosaurs?? you ask.

Dinosaurs are here. Living here.

Uhhh... sure they are

If you would quit interrupting me, I will explain. The evidence is all here in front of us, but no one has been crazy enough to put it all together... until now.

In my earlier post, I reported that the only explanation for Kingston's recent road repair fetish was a search for dinosaur bones. Even then, I was too jaded by reality to realize what was really going on. Its not dinosaur bones, its real live dinosaurs. Want proof? Keep reading.

#1 - the lengthy road closures: Why would a city shut down so many major roads during such a beautiful season for tourists. Surely the benefits of whatever this work is must outweigh the massive loss of revenue that will be incurred due to disgruntled tourists. Dinosaurs are the only possible scenario here. Kingstonians have lived with potholes disguised as fishponds for years... they don't move away... I'm tellin' you... its dinosaurs. More on road closures later....

#2 - the heat and humidity: This summer has been insane. Its hot. Its humid. What else is hot and humid? A rainforest. Who lives in rainforests? Dinosaurs. Don't you remember Jurassic Park? That was in a rain forest, and there were tons of dinosaurs.

#3 - the stench of Beverley St: This one has been bugging me for awhile. The city dug up King St in order to fix the sewers... and yet, in the subsequent weeks since said sewers were fixed, the area has smelled terrible. In fact, the area has smelled suspiciously like dinosaurs.

#4 - the massive underground storage facility on the water front: This one is obvious. If you find a dinosaur, you need somewhere to put it. They're big, so they need lots of water...they also need to be underground, or else people would see them.

#5 - the closure of Lake Ontario Park and fireworks cancellation: This is an obvious indication of a plan for a future dinosaur themed park; a sort of Jurassic Park North. The site of lake ontario park would make an excellent dinosaur habitat. Lots of trees. Surrounded by fences. Close to water. Surprisingly close to a golf course and retirement housing though... this is indicative of the intention to feed the elderly to the dinosaurs.

#6 - the closure of division street: Division Street is one of the main roads out of the city. My main theory on this one is as follows: its a damage control mechanism. If people were to find these dinosaurs, or even hear about them on a blog for example, they might want to flee town. And we can't have this. There are already no tourists, because of the massive dinosaur excavation expenditure. There is also a chance that this division street area is a site for the theme park, but because of the lack of elderly people in the area, it is not the first choice. A third theory, although very remote, is that this closure is to prevent the dinosaurs from making their way into Rideau Heights, where many of the city's most influential and respectable citizens live and work. (yeah, i told you it was remote).

Finally, the most obvious sign. I'm suprised no one has figured this one out.

#7 - the lack of dinosaur killing equipment in the area - check it out for yourself. Head on down to Canadian Tire or 7-11. Do you see any giant guns with tranquilizer darts? Didn't think so. Usually, stores stock incredible supplies of weapons suitable for taking down giant creatures such as dinosaurs. Now? Suddenly no sign of anything. Dinosaur repellant? No. Dinosaur nets? No. I went down to the corner store and asked for a dinosaur helmet, and they looked at me like I was insane. Also noted, the lack of Turok, Sam Neill, or any other famous dinosaur hunters.

Thats not enough for you? How about this one?
#8 - eye witness reports: Fine, you don't believe me? Well, what about these people who have seen and photographed the exact behemoths of which I blog.

Those are kids drawings...

PRECISELY Would a child ever lie? Especially about something as dangerous as dinosaurs? Didn't think so.

I consider this case closed. The evidence is overwhelming. Still don't believe me? Thats ok. You'll just have to wait til next spring, for the grand opening of Springer Dinosaur Park, featuring Springersaurus.... then you can crawl back and admit that I was right all along.

Or, as faithful correspondent and veteran dinosaur killer Michelle has written in her advice column, "The Newly Discovered Dinosaur".... (about 2/3 down the page)

" So you can defend yourself, I will kill a dinosaur with spikes and give you a spike to fight."

Sounds good to me.

Sounds

Seems as though the base has turned into a secret ninja novel lately... more words flying around here than samurai swords or throwing stars. Keep this one simple. Maybe it will stimulate creativity for the next one:

Recently spun sounds:

Clor - Clor
Sigur Ros - Takk...
Matthew Good - Oh Be Joyful (iTunes exclusive single)
The Go! Team - Thunder, Lightning Strike

Letters to the NinjaBase: love in a time of science

Every now and then we receive mail here at the ninjabase... Its not often though, because Canada Post doesn't have divers skilled enough to get as deep as we are here, in our secret underwater lair. For that purpose, the mail is delivered by Ben Gibbard of the Postal Service (and you thought the name was a coincidence).

Ok, we don't get mail at all, and if we did, Gibbard is too busy finishing up the new Deathcab for Cutie album to deliver it. But if we did get mail, and if he did deliver it, I'd make sure that he'd write a catchy theme song for the blog posts when we open the mail. So for now, you're going to have to make up a tune and sing along.

Checking the mail at the ninjabase, checking the mail at the ninjabase, checking the mail at the ninjabase - lets see whats in the mail

Good. I liked the tune. I'll have to remember that one.. maybe record it as a MIDI and have it drone on and on when you load the page. I always loved sites like that... especially the ones that played off key christmas carols and showed family photos from the mid 80's in the middle of July.

Today, a local fishwrap ran a column from this very blog - A Final Card Trick. Inevitably, there is always criticism that comes with increased readership. Critiques are great though, because they allow you to reconsider, sharpen the blades, and tune an argument. The one critique that was heard concerned the fairy tale nature of the post... that it was too politically correct, with a typical crying over spilt milk of dashed dreams.

The issue of the fairy tale brings us to the very essence of baseball... a game governed by rules and scoreboards like all the rest, but also a legend crafted by collective imaginations like none other. It is the intertwining of art and science that leave this sport separate from the rest. Sure the game is as closely measured as anything out there, with pundits calculating averages and percentages for everything that can be counted. Yet, these numbers are revered by the followers of the game. Lets compare a batting average with a quarterback rating... on paper, they're both just numbers and math. But, in the mind, they couldn't be more different. The numbers themselves could tell a story without players even being mentioned. 755, 715, and .406 carry with them personalities like characters in a novel. Interestingly, so does 61. Yet 73 is meaningless. At some point, the fairy tale died... and took the art with it.

Now, if the piece had been politically correct, it would have taken place in a court of law. Thats where most of the big news seems to take place now, in sports anyhow. Agents, unions, arbitrators.. collectively bargaining carries more weight than collecting baseball cards ever did. A truly politically correct scene would have the players in expensive 3 piece suits, taking swings with subpeonas and legal jargon. The scene of baseball players in front of US Congress ironically looked just like that. Politically correct is not fun. Nobody dreams of politically correct. Just ask any NHL fan how much they liked a season stripped of any magic that might have been left. If we give up the hope of such magic returning, we might as well let lawyers play the games.

Fact is, the science has overtaken the art. What was once relegated to crunching numbers to quantify greatness has turned into urine tests to destroy it. Unfortunately, the actions of some have ruined the reputation of all. Is the magic gone for good? Maybe. Will I still watch baseball... of course. Its a sport to me now, like anything else. I just wish the magic could somehow come back.... that a generation of young people could learn about the cast of characters...get to know 755, 715, .406 and 61 over that gritty AM radio station in a faraway land, the one they can only get when they position the antenna in just that special spot. I'm not insane, maybe a bit of a purist, but not overly so. In other words, I'm not waiting for players to reach out to me from a cornfield, but if they ever did, I certainly wouldn't blink or walk away.

Where are you going?

A few weeks back I was talking running with screamer. We got talking about why we do it, and what we think about while running. So, I thought about it tonight, as I covered my 10 miles. This should hopefully have some substance and some style, so diesel won't be bored to tears.

I'd like to think that if my life ever flashed before my eyes, I'd be able to grab it and wrestle it to the ground. Too often people describe this phenomenon as passive observers, watching moments pass like boxcars of a slow moving train. I suppose an apparition of a life would be a tough foe; elusive and evasive, not wanting to be caught. Life does have the tendency to slip away when you're not paying attention. If one could ever hope to be prepared for a future rendezvous with a phantom life, what better chance is there to rehearse than in this first run through?

In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Pirsig talked about experiencing life first hand. On a cycle, the wind in your face and the sounds in the air are your reality, and you are a part of the scene. When sitting in a car, you lose the firsthand interaction... the glass that separates you from the world becomes a television screen, as you watch the world pass you by. Running is a step further into the scene. Pirsig's metaphor of the cycle as the self is no longer necessary; you truly are your own cycle. You are in charge.. and life is at your mercy.

So what is the point of it all? I'm still not sure. I keep going so that if the point ever does reveal itself, I'll be ready. So that if a spectre of a life ever does appear, and I manage to take it down, I'll see my own face staring back; content. And if I couldn't quite get a grip on it, I could at least challenge my life to a race up the steepest hill, and give it a run for its money; double or nothing.

Stealin' from the thieves...

They used to say the best things in life were free. These days though, it seems that free is a dirty word; gratis has become the eighth deadly sin. The entire world of big media has launched a war against free; movies, music, tv, text. Everywhere we turn, sales are down, revenues falling, heads rolling. Blame it on the kids, they say... the product is as good as it ever was... its gotta be the kids.

The problem sounds mighty one sided when you hear about the evils of free. Albums being stolen and movies watched by unpaying eyes! The legal pursuits of the content industry is depicted as a moral battle: the navy is chasing the pirates because the pirates have stolen the gold. However, when examined closely, a greater issue arises. A relative of free is at risk; the real war is on freedom. This is not freedom in a George Bush kinda way, but it is a type of call to arms. This is about freedom of choice and the lack thereof. When you balance the argument against free, with this war on freedom, the entire issue is turned on its head.

Where is this war on freedom, you ask. No one is telling me what to watch. I listen to whatever radio station I choose! This is, after all, the free world! Recent findings, however, paint a different picture. Just last week, Sony Music admitted to a pay for play campaign in major US markets. Sony representatives would pay radio stations, both monetarily and with incentive packages in order to boost the number of spins for Sony artists. Sounds like an encroachment on freedom to me. Poor Sony, business has become so bad that they must resort to these practices in order to better their bottom line. All because of the kids looking for something free. Well, this is called Payola, and it is illegal. Turns out, this isn't a rare occurance. It happens all the time. No wonder that song is stuck in your head. But wait, there's more! Just today, the same Sony was ordered to pay $1.5 million because of the use of a fake movie critic in their advertising for major motion pictures. This as well, is illegal. When the illusion of moral high ground is removed, the image of the virtuous navy fighting lawless pirates suddenly doesn't hold much water. It becomes apparent that the controlling tendencies of the content industry contribute more to the problem than those they are trying to fight.

I'll admit it freely... Bit Torrent is a friend of mine. The ability of a worldwide network of like minded music and movie fans dwarfs the power of any conglomerate, even one as massive as Clear Channel. With the radio turned off, we can tune out the static. With the TV turned off, we can filter the frequencies. Using our ears, eyes and brain as our tourguides, we truly become free to choose what we digest. When you find an artist you like, play it for a friend. Blog about it! Go see a show. Buy the album from the band. Listen and support indie podcasts for a true taste of free form programming. Word of mouth advertising is a great thing...better than any advertising agency could drum up. Its authentic. Its influential. Target marketed. Whats the word of the day? Oh yeah, its free.

The majors had it right though. The problem is with the kids. And it totally involves "free". People are tired of hearing the same song over and over... tired of seeing the same movie trailer every commercial break, and tired of realizing that their hard earned is going towards funding the very source of their irritation. The kids want something to be free alright; themselves.

A Final Card Trick

I remember a time when the back of a baseball card meant something. We'd spend hours staring at the stats; a beautiful cycle from a simpler time: scrounge enough loose change to buy a pack, grab the requisite best friend, and ride bikes to the corner store. We'd pour over the box of packs like a doctor examining a patient, as if our meditation would cause the destined collection of heroes to glow. The secret was, the best pack is always at the bottom... I mean, isn't it obvious? If a superstar lived on the top of the pile, someone would have obviously bought that one before we had arrived.

Even after making a choice, there was always a private moment prior to the unveiling of the cards. A secret prayer would be made; if a mistake had been made in selecting this particular package, this final wish to the heavens would cause a reorganization of the past. Like a magician causing an ace to rise to the top, everyone had a special method of invoking the card of their favourite star. Personally, I would stash the unopened cards in a pocket and ride to the schoolyard, afraid to open them before the cosmic reshuffling had taken place.

Opening the packaging was another sacred ceremony; carefully unwrapping the plastic to unveil our fortunes. Of course, the star was never on the top of the stack. We figured those in charge of wrapping up each package wouldn't ruin the mystery like that. It was a wonderful game of hide and seek; sorting through the veteran catchers and sure-handed shortstops in search of the ace pitchers, fresh faced rookies and silver sluggers. Every great hero has an alter ego; a plain clothed persona that they could hide behind to increase their mystique. Baseball cards are no different. For Superman, it was Clark Kent. For Batman, Bruce Wayne. For Ozzie Smith it was Manny Lee; for Nolan Ryan, it was Mark Langston.

The cards represented more than the photos on the front and the stats on the back. It was the substance between the two that held the magic; the feeling that because you had your favourite player's card, you somehow owned a share of the company. As a fully believing, never wavering shareholder, you knew that in the bottom of the 9th, when you needed a miracle, you could look at that card, and you wouldn't be let down. You were after all, part of the team; a card carrying member.

But, as are all memories, those days are behind us... and oh how far we have fallen. In a search to boost the stats on the back of the card, and the physique on the front of the card, our superstars have lost all substance. The company is bankrupt, the dreams are clouded; the magic is gone. The alter egos have been stripped away, and a current crop of stars have been exposed as frauds. Some of the same players that once hid behind the hobbled fourth outfielder and grizzled relief pitcher in my magical childhood have been unveiled in front of Congress. First it was Barry, then Jason and Jose. Mark and Sammy weren't far behind. Today, it was Rafael. To think, I spent all of those spiritual afternoons in silent prayer over a pack of cardboard pictures, in search of a bunch of cheaters.

I'd like to think they weren't cheating all along, that it was only after I had stopped pulling out their card in a time of need that they began their fall from grace. I just wouldn't feel right knowing that I had once been so devoted to something so phony. The truth is, our heroes needn't be brawny and superhuman. I never needed my heroes to run faster than a speeding bullet, or crush a baseball in a single swing; a clutch hit up the middle or sacrifice fly always got the job done. On those sunny afternoons, I was never looking for Superman or Batman in that magical pack of cards; I was looking for human beings. I always thought they were hiding to build up the suspense; so we could enjoy the chase and continue our ritualized dance. Now I realize that they all just had something to hide.