Back when we were a tribe, a newspaper man would work tirelessly to weave a fabric strong enough to hammock even a down and out but happy street drunk after a celebratory night. The fabric held with prudent checks and tolerant balances. The outcasts in the tribe were given equal rights, a testament to accommodation. But the the tribe's majority wish was what kept this place with a curious name strong. For one hundred years, people would read George Brown as it affected their lives. But alas I cannot wish this place with a curious name a Happy Birthday for if indeed the newspaper man's sentiment is still about plotting a course, I must admit the first 5 pages of the newspaper man's offering on this day has nothing to do with this tribesman's life. Don't reflect too much Brown's children on the past glory of solidarity with it's evil's because your own story is near the end and your defunct tartan has no cheer. But I'm sure in your minds you've done the right thing today.