Doucheflaggery

I am a Canadian citizen, and contentedly so. I've played ice hockey (albeit poorly), I listen to the Arcade Fire and I know that Stéphane Dion is not Céline's more politically active older brother. Sure, our draconian laws regarding the public consumption of alcohol could use a little Danish influence but that's a topic for another day. I'm happy to live where I do and feel fortunate to have been born where my rights as a human being are, for the most part, respected and upheld by our Constitution and the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

Having gotten the necessary pro-Canada preamble out of the way, I'd say the most ubiquitously irritating trend I've encountered while abroad is the irredeemably insipid practice of sewing a Canadian flag on one's backpack. There is nary a country I've been to where I haven't run into at least a couple of obnoxious Canucks proudly sporting the maple leaf on their brand, spanking new MEC gear. Far from invoking patriotism, the sight of this garish display invariably triggers feelings of contempt and shame within me, prompting the internal question, "Oh, my god, are we really this lame?" Unfortunately, I know the answer and it's one I'm intent on changing.

Before I can do that, however, I must at least attempt to offer an explanation as to why this tacky phenomenon exists to begin with. One popular interpretation is that Canadian elementary school teachers, who work in environments where textbooks from the 1950's and 60's are not uncommon, are still perpetuating the myth that Canadians are somehow revered overseas. This perhaps hearkens back to our participation in both World Wars and the misperception that our involvement still invokes feelings of gratitude in the average...oh, let's say Belgian citizen. Young Canadians are frequently regaled with accounts of generosity and general benevolence being extended to flag-wearing backpackers. Although I have traveled to almost 40 countries, and spent a good year and a half of my life abroad, I have never experienced even the faintest change in a foreigner's demeanor or attitude towards me upon my having reluctantly identified myself as a Canadian. Guess what? Nobody cares.

I have noticed that the only people who are attracted to this beacon of the bland are fellow flag-sewing Canadians, yearning for a nibble of the familiar; hockey talk, general America(n)-bashing and Bryan Adams singalongs. Well, at least the chorus, thankfully no one ever seems to know any words to the verses. It has never occurred to me that the purpose of blowing your savings and hauling all your shit thousands of kilometres across the Earth might be to meet other Canadians. Couldn't I do that from the comfort of my local Tim Hortons? If so, would that require me to eat their excreble reconstituted "food" products?

"Timbits" aside, if these people are going to insist on subscribing to this lamentable practice, they should at least stop and objectively think about why they're doing it. Why is it that all Canadians feel this need to explicitly differentiate themselves from Americans? I believe that in many ways Canadians feel marginalized and inferior and that this absolute lack of identity oftentimes manifests itself as a self-righteous superiority complex, especially as it pertains to the States. The mere fact that I happened to be born on any particular piece of land does not make me better than those who, by sheer chance, were born a few hundred kilometres to the south. I frequently put forth this opinion in social settings and am invariably verbally assaulted by robotic Canadians who insist that they aren't better, just 'different'. Pause and consider the facts for a few minutes, are we really any different? If so, what separates us? Is this really apparent to people around the World?

I can say with resounding conviction that the vast majority of people I've encountered abroad have, unless they've actually been to Canada, a less-than-cursory knowledge of our belovedly bloated ice cube. I'm not talking about poor farmers living in the backwaters of Bangladesh either, most residents of generally accepted well-educated socieities have never heard of Stephen Harper (or Pierre Trudeau for that matter) and can't tell the difference between Michigan and Manitoba. It's time to face facts: Canada is just not relevant to 99.9% of the World.

It seems to me that, coming from a country that is so internationally and culturally inconsequential, the only way Canadians have found to identify themselves as unique is through pointing out the perceived differences between themselves our currently unpopular neighbours to the south. Is this nationalistic view, whereby one's nationality is the most important aspect of their identity, something we should be perpetuating? Certainly nothing could possibly be wrong with the development and encouragement of a deep-seeded national sense of superiority...*cough, cough, Germany, cough*.

No, the reality is that national pride is for desperate losers and only succeeds in accentuating the perceived differences that may or may not exist across arbitrary political boundaries. In my experience, it is peoples' shared similarities across borders that is both surprising and inspirational. These similarities should ideally be the emphasis of people's travel experience and interaction with locals and fellow travelers alike. Ultimately, people everywhere (including US citizens) want exactly the same things out of life; the best possible chance of success for their families through fair working conditions, good education and affordable food and shelter. How this is not evident to the flag-sporting Canadian traveler, especially now in the era of globalization is both frustrating and puzzling.

Ignoring the obvious ideological issues, does it not occur to these flag-toting jackasses that loudly announcing they are from another country (particularly a wealthy, polite and naive one) is more likely to result in their being the target of theft or far more nefarious schemes than it is reverence? Have any of them considered that blatantly looking like a tourist is quite possibly the worst way to ingratiate yourself to a nation much less experience a culture?

Ultimately, this practice needs to be stopped. These people are embarrassing themselves, they're embarrassing the country and, worst of all, they're embarrassing their fellow travelers. The truth is that residents of other countries are laughing at us, and are at a complete loss as to why we feel the need to proclaim our citizenship on our luggage. Canadians are about as exotic as white rice. We are not universally admired nor are we superior, in any way to the average American or citizen or that of any other country.

Canada is a fine place. There are pretty mountains, adorable baby seals and socialized medicine but let's just keep things in perspective. The time has come to break free of the fine threads that tie our souvenir-shop identities to our carry-on baggage. Take those flags off your backpacks, Canadians, and become a citizen of the World.

Man from Del Monte: You're the Pits - Updated!

On Monday I received the following reply from "Linda" at Del Monte consumer affairs:

July 28, 2008
Dear R. Alexander,

Thank you for your e-mail.

While we wish we could be of help, Del Monte Foods does not distribute products in Canada. Del Monte Brand products sold in Canada are produced and distributed by a different company.

For Del Monte canned fruits and vegetables sold in Canada, the contact information is:

CanGro Foods
1-866-829-1132
www.cangrofoods.ca

I appreciate the opportunity to respond and hope this information is helpful.

Linda, Del Monte Foods Consumer Affairs
consumeraffairs@delmonte.com

Del Monte. Nourishing families. Enriching lives. Every Day. (Groan)

Needless to say I have forwarded my concerns to Cangro and patiently await their reply. You can read my original letter in full below:


The following is a verbatim reproduction of a letter I sent to the Del Monte Company regarding their "Very Cherry" fruit cocktail. Rest assured that any response from the Man from Del Monte or any of his representatives will be posted here as well.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Dear Señor or Señorita Del Monte,


I am writing to you in an effort to convey heartfelt regret and dissatisfaction with my recent purchase of your "Very Cherry" mixed fruit product. For myself, as I'm sure is the case with many of your customers, the highlight of any fruit cocktail is unquestionably the fluorescent red, hemispherical cherry morsels. These provide not only some visual diversity but a sweet taste and squishy texture that, while not resembling an actual cherry in any way, are undeniably delectable.

Thus try to imagine my disappointment when, upon opening the can, I found a paltry eight halve-cherries within. Without performing any actual measurement, I approximated the cherry portion of the entire can to constitute less than 2% of the overall mass. Devastating, to say the least.

Feeling this was likely an aberration, I decided to perform a test and returned to the supermarket to purchase cans of both "Very Cherry" and your regular fruit cocktail (in light syrup) to use as a control. The results were shocking! The can of ordinary fruit cocktail contained a mere four partial cherry pieces while the entire can of "Very Cherry" contained only nine. That's correct, nine bits, ranging in size from a half to a contemptible quarter cherry.

While I recognize that this constitutes a 225% increase in cherries over your regular fruit cocktail, I feel that a product that is advertised as being "Loaded with Cherries" should contain more than a token smattering. Dictionary.com provides the following definition for the term 'loaded': "To provide or fill nearly to overflowing." As a fairly obvious understatement, I would submit that this product falls precipitously short of meet that definition.

Accordingly, might I suggest "Nary Cherry" as a more suitably descriptive moniker for this item? In my opinion, this constitutes nothing more than a blatantly deliberate attempt to mislead the trusting but gullible public into forking over their hard-earned dollars for an inferior product. Curse you, Del Monte, for not only your lack of conviction, but compassion for the cherry-starved everyman.

I've noticed that in your most recent annual report that your company shows net income for the 2007 fiscal year of $112.6 million USD. Would it be too much to ask you to plough even a fraction of that prodigious profit into cherry production and harvesting? Failing this, would it be too much to ask you to provide me with several cans filled exclusively with cherries so that I may add them at my own discretion to your substandard fruit cocktail in the future? Surely this request is within the means of a multi-billion dollar corporation such as yours.

As I find it highly doubtful that either one of my suggestions will be regarded with any seriousness, I hereby pledge my allegiance to the good people at Dole until such time that the cherry content of your "Very Cherry" fruit cocktail lives up to its name. I will encourage my friends and all fellow fruit cocktail (or medley or salad) lovers to do the same.

So go ahead, Señor, and continue to exalt in your presumably lavish Central American cartel-kingpin-style mansion donning your ostentatious white hat and casual pants. It is a sad day, indeed, when the formerly esteemed Man from Del Monte, once renowned for saying "Yes!" can only muster a dismissive "Up Yours."

Regrettably,
R. Alexander Sykes

The International House of Pancakes

"IHOP, where the proletariat eat breakfast". Perhaps not exactly what George Orwell would have predicted but likely not that far off the mark. The clientele at your average IHOP is decidedly plebeian, lodged firmly in that upper lower-class demographic you're all feverishly rubbing away at your scratch-n'-wins to escape. But don't let that deter all you lower middle-class and above breakfast fans out there. While IHOP is far from breakfast bliss, if you're looking for something cheap and chain, you're going to come away from IHOP wholly satisfied and likely sporting a couple of extra chins at no extra charge.

Adding to its low-brow legend, all of the twelve International Houses Of Pancakes in the Lower Mainland are inconveniently located throughout various suburban wastelands. Our target today is situated a stone's throw away from Highway 99, presumably to facilitate the ease with which surly truckers and Winnebago caravans can identify and access its sumptuous wares.

Indeed, part of the fun of eating at IHOP is the sense of superiority one feels when dining amidst citizens of a lower intellectual and socioeconomic caste. A prime illustration of your average IHOP patrons would be the morbidly obese couple sitting directly next to us. In a vain attempt to engage in fork-to-mouth intercourse, the male component of this tragic duo experienced some elbow-to-belly turbulence, resulting in a poached egg being jarred loose from its clutching tines and plummeting squarely into his expansive lap area. Rather than risking injurious fork-to-genital contact, his corpulent fingers reached downwards, cupping the errant ovum and subsequently shovelling it into his cavernous maw. The gluttonous suckling of his own fingers upon egress forced me to call into question whether or not Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept was remotely applicable in today's sedentary society. But onwards with the review….

As any IHOP frequent feeder knows, the flagship of the menu is the Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-n'-Fruity breakfast. This mother includes two eggs, two bacon strips, two pork sausage links and two buttermilk pancakes, coated with your choice of an assortment of fruit (albeit canned) "topping" for the palatable price of $7.49. I must say that despite the nauseatingly Disney-esque moniker, past occasions when I've chosen to indulge have left me unquestionably contented.

Satiation was a slippery mistress on this day, however, and ultimately eluded us as we ignored our better judgement and chose to step outside of the Rooty-Tooty Safety Zone. I selected the "Corned Beef Hash and Eggs" which, for $8.69, came with three (one more than two!!) eggs, three "fluffy buttermilk pancakes" and a side of completely redundant hash browns. How did it stack up, so to speak? Folks, there's a reason that this place isn't called the "International House of Corned Beef." If you're not a fan of that craptacular, salty, Spammy, Brazilian-rainforest-decimating canned mystery meat, I'd avoid this at all costs.

Having said that, the accompanying pancakes, which I chose to have "Swedish Style", were almost enough to atone for the corned beef's assault on my intestinal lining. For the non-Scandinavians in the audience, Swedish pancakes are comprised of regular pancakes topped with "tart berry sauce" and "Swedish berry butter." To my abject dismay, they were not served by a busty blond in a skimpy milkmaid outfit, tarnishing my heretofore esteemed and completely unrealizable expectations of Swedish culture.

Further cementing the "I" in IHOP, is the option to have your pancakes served French (with orange sauce) or German-style (with lemon butter). Not unexpectedly, there is no "Finnish Style" option as I imagine that there is little demand for pancakes topped with bloody fish-heads and entrails.

The adventure continued as Hun-lo ordered up the megalithic "Split Decision," a steal at $7.99 comprised of two eggs, two bacon, two sausages, two triangles of French toast and two pancakes. Substituting potato pancakes for any of the aforementioned varieties proved to be a near-fatal mistake due to the extremely high grease quotient and overall disgustingness factor involved. The French toast was deemed merely "ok" and served as little more than a vehicle for the array of syrups adorning our table. Dining disaster was narrowly averted as the "perfectly done" eggs and exceptional bacon levelled out the meal to "marginally gratifying" overall.

As alluded to above, one of the real bonuses of a meal at IHOP is the arsenal of syrups that come pre-placed on your table. With standby strawberry, bioluminous blueberry, elusive boysenberry and the mysterious "old-fashioned pancake syrup", there's bound to be a viscous, sucrosey compound to please even the most particular pancake lover in your party. The sheer quantity and variety of syrupy goo available nearly evoked Hun-lo and I into engaging in a Super Troopers-style chug-off. Hoping to delay adult-onset diabetes for a few more months, we opted to postpone until having consulted our respective physicians. But, yeah, I would have kicked his cracker ass to the curb.

Our server, Noel, was genial and prompt on the coffee refills. He didn't push us or try to up-sell and answered all of our asinine questions while still maintaining a modicum of dignity. We appreciated his candour as he openly admitted to being "not really that into my job." The only drawback to Noel was that, and I'm sure all you Mensa members out there already picked up on this, Noel is a man's name and indeed, Noel was a dude.

IHOP is unquestionably not the place one seeks out if one's primary objective is to make time with hot and/or dumb waitresses, pathetically attempting to boost one's triple zero Friday night batting average at the Stone Temple Cabaret. Fear not, fair scumbags, as the suburban locations and reasonable prices ensure each IHOP's clientele will include a table of cum-drunk gutter-sluts making a pit-stop prior to hitting up the local free clinic for this weekend's "morning after" pills. I suppose this could be looked upon as either a bane or a boon, depending on your moral inclinations and standards.

At any rate, despite our rather mediocre outing today, both Hun-lo and myself are decidedly in favour of returning to IHOP in the future and recommend that you do the same. The décor is inoffensive, the wait is reasonable and, as long as you don't stray too far from their namesake pancakes, you won't regret your venture into the suburban sprawl. Just as a helpful hint, you might want to think about growing a mullet, donning a faded "Pantera" T and dusting off those old acid-washed 501's as to avoid drawing attention to yourself. When in Rome…