...well that's nobody's business but the Turks.

You ever write out a whole blog article and then look back on it and realize you just want to post pictures? No? Well I did it anyway. Photos from my trip to Istanbul.

A few short stories recalled in no more than one paragraph.

J-Dubs.

I was born in the 1980s in a small town called Valley East. It was super monoethnic, monocultural, monoreligious. The most prominent religion after Christianity in Sudbury was the Jehova's Witnesses. In post-secondary I dated a girl who was part of this group: Natasha. Natasha was a gem. She was smart, beautiful, and faithful. She even convinced me to go to a few Jehova's Witness meetings with her as evidence I wasn't just a worldly devil. During one of these events, we were chatting up a married couple who was our age, around 20 years old. I had on my Sunday best and blended in well. They had a dog who birthed a litter of puppies and were looking to place them in loving homes. They asked us if we would take one in. After we politely declined, they let us know that they were worried about the last two puppies not finding a home and may have to resort to... shudder... placing them in homes of worldly folk. They were genuinely distressed about this. Which brings to light the question; Do dogs have souls we can save?

Special.

My mother works with specially-abled children. In high school, one of my best friends, Liane Giroux, befriended my mom's main student: Adam. He was born with cerebral palsy. My mom would tell me stories about his development and it hit close to home. He had the same intelligence and emotional range of any other high schooler, but was trapped inside a prison of a body that prevented him from expressing himself. Liane would take the time to go say hi to him every day. I came by as well, but it really was Liane who made a point of befriending him, despite it being a very one-sided conversation. My mother had been trying to teach Adam to vocalize his needs for years now: bathroom, water, food. With strained effort, he finally forced out his first word in that classroom: Liane.

Talent Show.

I used to play piano, kinda. I never took lessons or anything like that. I'd just hammer at the keys like a monkey until the right sounds came out. Repeat the process until you have something equivalent to an early Blink 182 rough cut. When I was in 10th grade our high school decided to host a talent show. I entered the first round with a a song I had created. I had spent a few months perfecting this piece. Friends and family had confirmed my suspicions: I was a musical genius. I stepped up in front of the school and busted out that song with all the depth and emotion that only an angsty teenager can muster. The auditorium stood and cheered. The music teacher was less than impressed, she cut me from advancing to the next round. Thank God. That was the only song I knew.

I drew my first palm tree when I was around seven years old. I saw them in Florida but soon after, my attention was drawn to another city: Los Angeles. An oasis in the desert, land of tall palms that fan the ghettos of Compton. A place where you can skateboard all year. Where celebrities can be spotted on the daily and carbon-fiber-hooded Supras are on every street corner. Perfect place for a sheltered white kid from the valley.

From the air-conditioned cockpit of my Mazda 3, endless miles of sand lay baking in the sun. I passed a sign reading "Mojave Desert" and checked the thermostat in my car. It read a blistering 44 degrees Celcius. I turned the music up, pushed the gas pedal into the floorboard and sped up as the world around me transitioned from sanddunes to moutains.

The hours drifted by and the distance to my destination shrank. At a certian point, suburbs started emerging around me. I was almost there. I noticed a partiuclarly wealthy looking neighbourhood with the words "Rancho Cucamonga" layered over an archway. I couldn't help but smile as I remembered Ice Cube riding riding around in Pinky's car.

We'll skip over the details but LA traffic is every bit as congested as they say. First stop: the Griffith Observatory. I walked from the the base to the top to realize... "Holy shit, GTA V nailed it on this one". Rockstar actually got quite a bit of LA spot on. Standing atop the roof of the observatory, i had this feeling. Have you ever looked forward to something your entire life? I'd spent a good portion of my life visualizing what it would be like to step foot in Los Angeles. Take in the sights, sounds, smells. I was convinced I would have done well in the same neighbourhoods Dre and Ice Cube came up from (I realize now that priviledged teenage white boys from Hanmer wouldn't fare too well in the 'hood) Regardless, I had always wanted to go to LA. Now I was there, and this relief ran through my body. I'm not talking about a relief like "Ahhh... I'm home." More like a "holy shit, I've had to pee for three hours and now I finally can" kind of relief.

Then I made my way down the hill. I took the woods, looking for adventure, assuming I'd find trails. Nope. Tons of thickets, a few cliff jumps but was all in good fun.

I drove down Hollywood blvd, then Sunset blvd, as the sky bled pink and purple; the sun retiring for the evening. I made my way to Chateau Marmont for dinner: no reso? Try again later for cocktail hour. I drove through Santa Monica and parked my car at the overly-expensive Best Western. I found a highly rated restaurant in Venice and made my way. They were also full up. Annoyance began to bubble. I went into two other restaurants only to find out they were all, also, full up. I sat on a bench and realized: I kind of hate LA.

I should explain. Between the dense traffic, the insane hoards of people, the amount of money everything costs, the city seemed a lot like every other metropolitan city. It felt like someone had re-skinned Toronto with a palm tree theme.

Defeated and starving, I made my way back to my first choice in Venice: Felix. I stood by the 6 stool bar, waiting for a spot to open up. After a while: boom! A vacancy. By this point, it was nearly 10pm, I was famished, but cocktails first. I asked for a recommendation and was not disappointed. The bartender came at me with a hammering of flavour: floral gin, peaty scotch, elderflower syrup and lemon-basil garnish. I fell in love on the spot. It was followed by cheese-filled vegetables and a savoury al'amatriciana that hit all the right notes.

I went back to the hotel. Felix had brightened my mood but I was looking forward to the next day so I could move on and forget how much I'd hyped up this city, and how much it had failed to meet my expectations.

As I wiped the cloud of sleep from my eyes, I gave in to the idea that I had to see the boardwalk before leaving. I drove to Santa Monica pier, parked the car and started walking. The bright colours paired with the sound of the ocean and the lethargic morning energy was perfect. Kids were just starting to run up to the rides with tickets in hand. Young couples were holding hands and eating ice cream. Fisherman were planted with their buckets of bait next to them, just taking in the morning air.

I made my way to Venice. Picture every stereotype you've ever heard of LA: this is where they all become reality. Musclebound machismos riding tiny BMX bikes, girls in bikins rollerblading down the path, vagabonds walking with shopping carts and of course, surfers running towards the ocean. The sky was clear, the energy was pheonominal, it was perfect.

I stopped by the skatepark; the Mecca of my teenage years. Growing up, my best friend Joey and I would go on endlessly about renting a van and making our way to LA to skate that park. I stood on the railings and watched this new generation of skateboarders go. An hour passed by and I didn't even realize until my stomach grumbled.

I visited Arnold's famous sand-side gym, checked out a few shops, some boardwalk-side wares and took a stroll through the Venice canals. On the way back towards the car I checked out Hank Moody's apartment. By the time I got back to my car, 5 hours later, I was burnt like a lobster.

I unlocked the door to my car and plugged in my next destination. That's when I realized I had completely forgotten to dip my toes into the Pacific Ocean. I left my shoes and my shirt and ran out to the water. As the foam lapped my feet, calm ran through me. The morning had changed my view of LA from an overcrowded, generic tourist-trap to what it is: A beautiful, bright city with a culture worth exploring.

Oh right, and In n Out is dope.

Once upon a time, in an itty bitty town called Toronto, lived a young man who was bored out of his gourd. He had finished up a contract position for the Wicked Witch of the East and was getting acustomed to sitting around in his boxers, eating peanut butter from the jar and playing Rocket League all day. A notification popped up on his phone: a letter of offer from a company, starting in two weeks. He put down the jar of peanut butter, stood up from the near-permanent-indentation he'd made in the couch and his words echoed into the ether "It's time."

Having spent the morning hours nurturing a hangover, he waddled his way into his bedroom and loaded up a duffel bag with whatever clean clothes were laying around his room. Armed with only a tent, a camera and a few rations, he jumped in his car and heroically drove off into the afternoon sun.

Westward. That was the only plan. Bypassing Kitchener (shoutout to Josee and afternoon coffee), London and Sarnia, our hero encountered his first opponent: the big, bad Canada/USA border. After a relentless hour-long parry, the young man emerged vicotrious. He was rewarded for his efforts with a sweet, sweet, McDonalds chicken-bacon sandwich in Michigan. He passed through Flint, avoiding the treacherous, unpotable drinking water.

Under the bright lights of Chigao, IL, he rested his hat in a local saloon. After a few cocktails, the charming young lad made friends with locals who rejoiced in hearing the tales of his travels thus far. His eyelids heavy, he rested at the luxurious Walmart Parking Lot Inn, just outside Ottawa, IL.

Loading up on supplies from the Inn, he was off again the next morning. Westward ho! He visited Des Moines, IA. From miles away, he could see the city castle; it's rooftop gleaming with golden rays. He visited the local library and revelled in their extensive catalogue of literature. Before resuming his journey, he popped into Zombie Burger for a Mac'n'Cheese burger (the buns are litterally deep-fried mac'n'cheese... drool).

He continued in his charcoal coloured chariot through Kansas City, which resembled Capreol's downtown so much he didn't dare stay longer than a hot minute. The day ended in Witchita, KS, which regrettably didn't have any witches to battle.

The next morning he opened his magical map device from his pocket, 11 hours to the next desitnation. Damn. He'd already exhausted his top 30 playlist and recited the movie Blow in his mind too many times to count. He downloaded an audiobook and soldiered on. The terrain started to change, rock fomations emerged from the flat plains. The earth transitioned from a grassy brown to scorched red. And eventually, the first real mountains were visible on the horizon. Our hero raced against the clock to get to his destination before nightfall.

With only 30 minutes of sunlight left, his chariot pulled up to one of the most beautiful places this side of the Atlantic: White Sands National Monument. White dunes as far as the eye can see, encircled by rocky extrusions painted purple against an ochre setting sun. He ran his fingers through the sand and marvelled at how far he'd travelled. The first destination on his bucket list had been checked off.

The stars rose in the sky and darkness cooled the sandhills. Our hero resumed his voyage. Westward! He drove until his body wouldn't allow him to continue. In complete darkness, he pulled off on the side of the road in an unknown location and closed his eyes.

A few hours later he was awakened by birds chirping in the distance. He opened his eyes and was greeted by not-so-wild wild horses just chillin', doing their horse thing. His magical map device reminded him that he was racing against the clock to make it to his next destination. As the miles of pavement disappeared behind him, the mountains grew taller. Chasms emerged in the distance, splitting the earth in two. Sweat formed on our hero's brow. Having battled many foes in his lifetime, there was one enemy that he had yet to conquer: heights.

A wooden sign greeted our champion: Grand Canyon National Park. He paid the entry fee, believing he'd drive along the ridge, be terrified the entire time and move on because... well, fuck heights. He made his way to the Desert View lookout and parked his chariot. As he walked up to the platform he was overwhelmed. Not by fear, just the grandeur of what lay before him. The sheer size of the Grand Canyon, the vastness, the depth, imparted a calmness that dried his brow. Having conquered one of his greatest foes, our knight in shining armour made his way to a campground near the cliff's edge. He claimed the last campsite and sheltered himself from the incoming rainstorm.

During a brief recess in the storm, he attempted to start a fire. A shout come from over his shoulder "Canadian?". With the swiftness of a mountain lion, our hero swivelled around, fire-poking-stick in hand, ready for combat. "You're Canadian right? Your license plate says Ontario" a young man proclaimed. As it turns out, the stranger was from Oakville, not far from Toronto, our hero's village. The young man was also solo-travelling through the USA in his car. They shared hot dogs and ale, swapping travel stories.

The next day, our hero took a look at his magical map device. He was less than a day's travel from the pacific coast and his ultimate destination: the fabled city of Lost Angels. I know, I know, this story seems like it's only getting started, but this is where we have to take a break. My fingers are getting tired of typing.>

Will our hero make it to this magical city of Lost Angels? Will he finally battle dragons and ogres? Will he eat Rocky Mountain Oysters? Find out in the next installation of Tales on the Road!

She likes paper more than Michael Scott

A couple things you need to know

For the uninitiated, I should probably preface this story by explaining what a sugar baby is. Have you ever looked at a girl and said to yourself: “I just want to give that girl a bunch of money so that she goes out with me”? No? Then you’d make a terrible sugar daddy.

A sugar daddy/baby relationship happens when a younger woman enters into a contract with an older, established man. The sugar baby(young woman) receives gifts or a monthly allowance and in exchange she goes out to dinner with them, attends social gatherings and um… snoo snoo.

So right now, you’re probably wondering how this is different from prostitution. Don’t worry, I’m not sure either. I did get a bit of enlightenment with regards to a sugar baby’s world one mild evening a few days ago.

The Story

It was a chill Sunday: good company, the AGO and delicious food at Grey Garden. Whenever I’m going home on my own, I usually choose UberPool. Nine times out of ten you meet cool people and hear some fun stories.

The driver pulls up carrying only one other passenger, a young woman in her mid-twenties. She's well spoken and well dressed. We have a little back and forth about Tinder and dating but she’s not about that life. She explains that she doesn’t have time for dating and wouldn’t want to put her arrangements in jeopardy.

I make a few reserved guesses as to what her arrangements are. She laughs and divulges that she’s a sugar baby. Well now my interest is piqued, and we get into the details. She’s got 3 sugar daddies, one from France, one who started a major tech website and a third that she intentionally leaves open-ended. The tech magnate buys her clothes and random gifts. The one from France pays for her groceries and her bills. The third probably has the most interesting story.

She posted a listing explaining what she was looking for. She said it wasn’t on a sugar website but wouldn’t tell me where. One day, a call comes in from a few guys who are looking to hire her to meet up with their friend. They settled on a sum of seven thousand dollars for the night. Take a minute to process that. Seven thousand dollars to meet up with a guy, spend the evening laughing at his jokes and then sleeping with them. As it turns out, she fell for him. She spent a few minutes gushing over his qualities and how she refused the payday since she wanted to make it an ongoing thing. It can’t hurt that he’d already offered her a monthly allowance of three thousand dollars.

She mentioned that she’s looking forward to breaking it off with her other sugar daddies, so she can just spend time with him instead. Puzzled, I asked her why she doesn’t do that right away? She explained that he’s currently injured, which led to the next question “Why does that matter?”

Exiting the car in front a beautiful Forest Hill home, she responds: “A girl still needs to get laid”

Everyone travels differently: Some people are in it for the tourist attractions, some for the "authentic experience" of first world slumming, some travel in groups and some go solo. I took a trip to Greece this year with 7 close friends to celebrate turning 30 because, let's face it, we needed to distract ourselves from the fact that we're getting old. We landed in Athens and... ahh just take a look at the pictures, that's what you came for. I'll just post a few of my favorites for each location otherwise it would take forever to go through them.

Athens

The Peloponnese

The Islands

When I was in grade school my father’s business sponsored our basketball team. We had these sweet teal jerseys with “A Houle Haulage” printed above a tractor. With the originality that only 7th graders have, rival teams would taunt us with “Way to miss that free-throw, A-Hole Haulage!”

In high school, I worked at Cape Connex doing market research surveys. Every call begins with introducing yourself: “Hi, my name is Luc Houle from Acrobat Research.” At least once a shift, someone would chime back with “Okay, Lou Cool. Prank-call someone else.”

When I visited Paris for the first time, I was looking forward to seeing some famous Houles from history. The least my ancestors could do to make up for English telemarketers calling me “Mr. How-ley” was own a castle or have been amazing artists or something. To my dismay, after exploring museums, churches and monuments, there was no mention of the Houle name anywhere.

This prompted me to research my family tree. I quickly discovered why Paris didn't have mention of us: We’re super Canadian. I’m talking maple syrup-producing, winter-loving, 10 generations deep Canadian. It also doesn’t help that for some odd reason my great(x6) grandfather decided to change his name from Houde to Houle.

Most Canadian Houles can trace their lineage back to one common ancestor: Louis Houde. He immigrated to Canada in 1647 at the age of 30. There’s an entire article on him if you want to know more. My branch of the tree moved from Manou, France to l'île d'orléans – then to Montréal – then to the outskirts of Ottawa – and finally to Sudbury.

Luc Aurelien Houle (b:1987)
Toronto, ON

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Luc Joseph Houle (b:1957) - Claire McMillan (b:1964)
Hanmer, ON

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Aurelien Houle (b:1926) - Therese Despatie (b:)
Hanmer, ON

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Albert Houle (b:1892) - Gabrielle Frappier (b:1895)
Clarence Creek, ON

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Jean-Baptiste Houle (b:1863) - Marguerite Lafontaine (b:1869)
Ottawa, ON

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Augustin Houle (b:1822) - Catherine Derepentigny (b:1828)
Beauharnois, QC

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Michel Houle (b:1788) - Angelique Dugas (b:1792)
Valdreuil, QC

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Charles Houle (b:1759) - Marie-Angelique Henault (b:1762)
St-Anne-de-Bellevue, QC

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Michel Houle (b:1710) - Marie-Genevieve Lemay (b: -)
Chateauguay, QC

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Etienne Houde(b:1682) - Elisabeth-Urusle Denvers (b:1690)
Ste-Famille, QC

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Louis Houde(b:1617) - Madelaine Boucher (b:1641)
Manou, Perche, FR

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Noel Houde (b:1590) - Anne Lefebvre (b:1587)
Manou, Perche, FR

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Andre Houde (b:1563) - Marie-Giselle Jeanne(?) Simoneau(?) (b: - )
Manou, Perche, FR

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There are some milestones in life that are simply incomparable. Your first kiss, your first paycheck, the first time you beat Super Mario even though your sister would only let you play as Luigi. These are all life changing events that help define who you are, and yet all of them pale in comparison to your first taste of Scottish Whiskey. Let's go on a journey to Alness, Scotland and find out what makes the Dalmore 18 so special.

What's the Story?

The Dalmore's story begins during 1263AD in the highlands of Scotland. The badass leader of Clan Mackenzie was out for a stroll near his century-old distillery. As he's avoiding nettle and cursing the cold, wet weather, he hears King Alexander III's fearful scream. Like a boss, he sprints through those stinging little devil plants to save him. A stag is pretty upset with the King and charging at him (I imagine they had a heated disagreement over which rugby team is the best). The kilt-covered clan leader jumps in and using only his bare hands, subdues the beast. Since that day, King Alexander III has granted the Mackenzie Clan use of the 'Royal' 12-pointed stag symbol.

What does it Taste Like?

Aroma: Vanilla, dark chocolate, orange and cinnamon
Palate: Dark chocolate, candied citrus fruits, rich coffee, nutmeg and cloves
Finish: Citrus fruit, oak and spice

They take the heavenly golden nectar and age it for fourteen years in American white oak ex-bourbon casks. But that's not enough. They transfer it to 30 year old Matusalem oloroso sherry wood casks for another four years. Weighing-in at a respectable 43% ABV, the Dalmore 18 has a provocative, bold initial flavour with a lingering aftertaste of cinnamon and nutmeg.

Should I Buy it?

If you're a Scotch aficionado then yes, absolutely. If your whiskey-drinking experience is limited to doing shots of JD on your friends’ birthdays… start with something more accessible.