crazy canuck

anonymous asked:

What the ever living shit Spidey, I just had an all-dressed potato chip for the first time and now I'm concerned. What other shit are you crazy canucks hiding from us?


Real poutine!  A mix of fresh cut fries, specifically spiced poutine gravy and cheese curds.

Hawkins Cheezies!  You like Cheetos?  Well buckle up because Cheezies are better in every way.  They’re crunchier, more cheesy, made with corn and don’t look/taste artificial.

Smarties!  Think M&M’s but bigger and with a harder shell more solid chocolate inside.  In fact, most Canadian chocolate is different (better) as it is smoother, sweeter and creamier.  Which leads us too…

Coffee Crisp!  Foam coffee filling between wafers and covered in chocolate.  

And Aero bars!  Super sweet, Canadian milk chocolate, aerated with little bubbles so the bar feels like it was made out of a chocolate cloud!  

Fudgee-O’s!  Made by the same company, think Oreos but with a fudge icing inside!

Hickory Sticks, goddamnit!  Slivers of hickory smoked potato chip slivers.

Tourtiere.  Spiced meat pies!  Pork or beef, nothing quite compares.  Crisp on the outside, savory on the inside.  The best meat pies.  Period.

Kraft Peanut Butter.  Apparently Kraft doesn’t make this peanut butter for you Americans.  Probably for the best, since it’d put all other peanut butter brands out of business.  Also, LOOKIT THE CUTE BEARS.

Tim Hortons, sweet baby Jesus.  From donuts to timbits to bagels to coffee, you can’t go wrong with this chain.  I cannot even begin to describe what you’re missing out on if you haven’t had their coffee or donuts.  Rows upon rows of donuts of all assortments, with the smell of brewed coffee in the air.  Holy shit.

Oh and the annual Roll Up the Rim to Win.  Which beats the crap out of whatever monopoly scam McDonalds pulls.


anonymous asked:

Otapliroy take a vacation to Hawaii. Yuri looking fine as hell in a hula skirt. JJ JJSTYLEs in every photo. Beka is mostly just amused. Ocean sex.

I didn’t manage the photo part that well and the overall is underwhelming. But here it is, anon. Sorry.


They’re on a Hawaiian beach, three quarters of a way through a bottle of Captain Morgans and deep into each other’s asses. JJ alternates between laughing and yelping as Otabek slams into him while Yuri is in flops on a lounger. His hula skirt is a travesty to Hawaii and public decency because he’s got nothing on underneath and his bare ass is hanging out as he props himself up in his elbow and takes video on his cell phone. “How’s that JJ Style going?”

JJ grabs his ankle and yanks Yuri down. “Come get some, Kitten.” He’s laughing and Yuri’s snorting and Otabek slaps his ass extra hard and JJ positively howls. Yuri is trying to crawl his way back to his iPhone, sitting somewhere between the waves and the other forty eight American states, when JJ’s grip tightens. “You want some JJ Style, baby?”

Yuri is laughing too hard to get out from under him. “You’re such a fucking idiot.” And Otabek snorts as Yuri wails and wraps his arms and legs around JJ. God, they’re so ridiculous. So fucking beautiful drunk ridiculous. And he’s so fucking drunk. “Fuck him harder, Beks! Fuck him - ah, shit! You goddamn crazy Canuck!”

Fuck, Otabek loves Hawaii.


Yuri is wiggling his ass doing nothing resembling a hula as he wears a grass skirt and nothing else. No, it’s more like he’s grinding up against JJ while while he’s guzzling from the rum bottle. “I was this close, Leroy. One tenth of a point.” He took silver and the only reason Yuri wasn’t pissed was because Otabek took bronze and they all locked down the podiums at World’s. The three of them stood up there, holding hands, feeling a strange elation as the crowd cheered. It was like all three of them won.

“Shake that ass, Kitten!” JJ didn’t even bother wearing anything. He’d been strutting around naked and half hard, since their suitcases hit the floor and they got an eyeful of the view (and privacy) one thousand American dollars a night bought in Hawaiian hotel beachfront. Otabek leaned against the sliding glass doors with a rum and coke, watching JJ smack Yuri’s ass while he bends over and grinds all over his junk. “Woo! Yeah! JJ Style, baby!”

“Watch it, dumbass! Or I’ll shove this bottle up your ass!”

“Mmmm! I like my kitty feisty!”

Ladies and gentlemen: behold the fuck-nuttery of Otabek Altin’s love life. Otabek sucked the rest of his drink down.

Otabek snorted, strolled by them and stood in the sand, feeling the sand beneath his toes as he closed his eyes and let the pacific wind whip through his hair. This was as close to paradise as he could get, outside of flying above the ice. He took off his shirt and felt the setting sun on his skin, listened to the waves crash and looked over his shoulder. Okay, so he didn’t spend half his life performing without being completely oblivious to scenery and dramatic effect. He knew he looked damn good. And he knew they’d be staring. He wasn’t wrong. “You two done playing with your dicks?” He tossed the shirt and it landed on JJ’s face.

Yuri fell back laughing like a maniac as JJ put two fingers up like horns and charged. “Watch out for horny Canuks, Beks!” Yuri hollered as JJ tackled him to the ground.

“Want me to play with yours instead?” He was drunk, straddling him with his big smile and his big body and his hands were pinning him down and Otabek just let him stay that way for a second, just to give him a false sense of confidence - and maybe because the sun shimmering on his skin was a little magical.

JJ tried to kiss him and Otabek let him think it was going to happen. Once he was close and his guard was down, Otabek flipped him over and closed the gap. JJ gasped and Yuri clapped as Otabek dipped his head and shut him up. He crooked his finger for Yuri. And Yuri, never one to disappoint, was there when Otabek sat up to take over. Except he didn’t put his mouth on JJ’s.

Not that JJ was all that upset. He was happy as a clam when Yuri sat on his face with that ridiculous hula skirt. And Yuri was the happiest one of all because he was guzzling more rum, laughing and wiggling that fine, firm ass all over JJ’s face as he rode his tongue. “Fuck, yeah! Gimme that JJ Style!” And he got it. Otabek cocked an eyebrow when JJ’s hand snaked up and started jerking Yuri off.

Yuri caught Otabek’s eye and licked his lips. He was the sloppiest drunk Otabek ever saw. “I look hot, don’t I?” No, he was a train wreck, and he was glorious.

God, Hawaii was the best idea he ever had.

anaisnein  asked:

as a member of a diasporic jewish family that's diffused to the four corners of the earth and has changed continents in the direct nuclear line in each of the last 4-5 generations, and as a person living in nyc, your post and the response interest me. i don't work with local or ancestral spirits but this is stuff i'm thinking about on the back burner. i think there's oldness, locality, deep continuity on tap here as well as transience, disruption, technoflicker. just in a different mode, or sth.

Cities have local spirits too; districts fuse and blend. As catvincent is fond of pointing out, London’s full of spirits - fusions of old-deepness with flickering streetlight. The Fleet river was covered over because it had become an open sewer, virtually forgotten about for two hundred years - now she’s everywhere in pop culture and fiction.

Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London books for all their flaws, have it down - Mama Thames is as much an embodiment of a West Indian immigrant nurse sacrificed to the waters by her suicide as she is the old pre-Roman river god. Warren Ellis’ Gun Machine has a serial killer stalk in Manhattan, except between the skyscrapers, he walks in the verdant green of the lands of the Lanape Indians.

Here’s the thing of it - transience and technoflicker have always been here and Now. Certain states of consciousness can reveal that much as I argue with Plato, he is quite correct that gnosis - the knowing-of-things is an act of remembering.

.At the risk of belaboring a metaphor - blood flows and moves.

If I pick on my dear bro theheadlesshashasheen here, we have a guy who moved to Sacramento, wanders round the city making connexions with the genus loci by using techniques that at the very least, are older than Christianity. The reason I call him brother is not simply some dudebro thing, but because even though we’re separated by a large amount of water, he and I and a crazy Canuck did things and shared experiences which not only connected us, but connected us to some very, very, old Mysteries which seemed to manifest in layers - weird Lovecraftian chaos magic to the grimoires to Arthurian shit to Tibetan Buddhism to the Greek Magical Papyri to Proto-Indo-European spirit work - real Second Star on the Right and Straight on til Morning oddness. 

I got Heathen thanks in part to the damn lwa,  and I’m as damn whitebread as you can get, and they’re not the only folks from ATR who have shown an interest. The Old Man gave me a new heiti for him Tactical Striker - with accompanying black-ops intelligence imagery, as well a precison martial arts.

When I say layers - I mean that; each layer presses into each other, supports the whole. It’s like an onion, y’know? Layer after layer, but there’s no real core. The layers and their interelations are what make the onion.

Zum Raum wird hier die Zeit  - Gurnemanz to Parsifal

Roughly translated, this reads: Time turns here into Space

There’s a fucktonne of magical-shamanic wisdom there. We are no longer operating on a single dimensional plane. Instead, we operate within a multidimensional field. Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow are simply arbitrary methods, routes of Navigating Now-ness.

We can through judicious use of Thought and Memory, travel in time as we would in space. To be sure, the manifestation of that journey may mean that things get strange - ancient gods may speak out of MP3 lists.

Deep Time is like Deep Politics - half the conspiracy nuts in the world will talk of a shadow-state, and they are quite correct. They are correct precisely because there is a level at which our actions interact with an order or reality which shadows this one. I’m not talking about alien lizard-lords (mostly) but instead the notion that there are certain patterns which repeat throughout history. Nothing so unsubtle or neutered as post-Jungian conceptions of archetypes, or even notions of repetitions. Rather things generated by the interactions of humanity with itself and its environment.

So, as a crude analogy diasporic peoples long for a semi-mythic homeland. This doesn’t mean it never existed, rather that it was never the bald fact of the land itself, and more the interactions humanity has with it, and the interactions which shaped the humanity which came there.

And the trick of it is, it’s constantly changing and eternal all at once. This is hard to articulate - the only way I can put it, is that nothing is ever lost. Where we come from doesn’t change, only our perceptions of it do.

Columbus was trying to get to India when he bumped into the North American landmass. That’s the reason Native Americans were called Indians by the immigrants.  It wasn’t India of course, but the search for the Orient, the Journey to the East, gets transposed in the expansion Westward.

The immigrants brought their dreams of Jerusalem and the twelve tribes and laid them upon the Natives, and they were horribly wrong - except maybe not in the fact that there had been multiple waves of immigrants over the previous centuries and milennia which met and blended with the tribes long before White Folk arrived en masse.

Humans are restless beasts - we always have been; our ancestral homes are patchwork memories of places we have been, our Home wearing ragged technicolor dreamcoats that shift with years and the shaman’s cloak. We know it when we see it, when the bird-wearing and beast-baring figures dance and sing and conjure it forth for us. In that performance, our awareness swells and opens; we are presented with  shapes and forms, porents and portals  which can propel our time-bound minds into the landscape of our heart’s Dreaming.

The Path Up is the Path Down. The gods above are the gods  below. The sun, that burning star which gives us life, resides in the centre of the earth.

We communicate, right here, right now by ghosts of light coursing through tubes of fused sand that used to be mountains. Stone and earth are pressed, silicon wreathed in ringed with gold circuitry that hums, feeding on power from rising steam that turns steel turbines, billions of gallons of water heated by flame and fossil, by wind and nuclear fire.

The wheel of the sun-power whirls on in everything we do.

I wish I could articulate to you the way the awareness shifts, even as I write this, even as I use what little language I have. How the heart unfolds, how blood pulses, suddenly filled with light;  how the background television -watching of my visiting  parents  feels like an ocean of semantic wonder connecting past and future (I think it’s Whitechapel).

How the curtain of Meaning flickers and flaps and is engulfed in a conflagration and something cries out in joy from behind my eyes because with that veil gone, there is only What-Is. How it is to have this knowing come upon you that you do not have to Go anywhere, that you do not  need to be trans-ported or carried away - that the earth beneath my feet is the same beneath yours, just in a different shape and form so that distance means nothing at all, but difference is everything.

I wish I could explain Being, but that can only done by Being -  that I might conclusively demonstrate that there is no such thing as Power, it’s just a heuristic for a bundle of things we never understand until we realise that we are irrevocably connected, and yet the seeming paradox for this to come to fruition is the realisation that we are All that Is.

How our terrified screams into the nightmarish void are simply the playacting of a child who wants attention from a Fellow so that we can play the next stage of the Game we have forgotten we are playing.

But all I can do is this. All I can do is tell you that the Old Things are there, clothed in the New, just as the parents are clothed in a child and given a new way to Be. How we never forgot the Old Ways of Doing Things, we just put them Aside, and we can pick them up if we really want to, and find them to be in a shape most fresh and relevant to our lives.

Then again, what do I know? I’m just a bearded frothing madman after all.


Live performances and talk with country’s Amy Rose! (Interview) (by Bob Andelman)


Neil Young performs Rockin’ In the Free World on Saturday Night Live, September 30th, 1989.

One of the greatest moments in the history of rock and roll with a one-off band assembled just for this performance.

“I picked the biggest drums, the biggest cymbals I could find–I’d been workin’ TV long enough to know that if I didn’t have cymbals that big, nobody would hear ‘em.” -Steve Jordan, drummer

“Frank 'Poncho’ Sampedro (rhythm guitar) oozed a particularly menacing vibe, all pumped up and greased back, while Carley Drayton (bass), in flashy leathers and ripped jeans, tumbleweed hair obscuring his sullen face, slowly lumbered around like a prehistoric mutant marking territory. Steve Jordan pounded the drums with the desperation of a man about to be buried alive. Halfway through the performance, Young flashed a look at his little collection of creatures, and for a moment he seemed ready to burst out laughing. What a band. Two black guys, a Spaniard and a crazy Canuck. They looked like a bunch of car thieves.” -Jimmy McDonough, Shakey

“I was trying to get to the place where I would be when I did Rockin’ in the Free World during my live show. To do that I had to ignore Saturday Night Live completely. I had to pretend I wasn’t there. I had my trainer, and we just lifted weights and I did calisthenics to get my blood to the level it would be at after performing for an hour and twenty-five minutes–which is usually how long I’d be onstage by the time I did that song. To perform that song the way it’s supposed to be performed, you have to be at peak blood level. Everything has to be up, your machine has to be stoked. You can’t walk on cold and do that or you’re gonna look like a fuckin’ idiot.” -Neil Young