not good

Very early one morning last Summer 2 Toronto youths were street racing along a stretch of Mt Pleasant Blvd that would be perfect for racing were it not for the fact that it’s not a racetrack, and street racing is illegal and endangering to other drivers and pedestrians. One of the cars struck a cab, killing the driver and leaving his family without a husband/father. Yesterday the 2 youths were sentenced to one year’s house arrest, which is like being grounded by your parents. Oh, and they’re allowed to leave the house to go to work and school.

When the sentence for talking a human life through wreckless endangerment is a one year “grounding” the waterline is well over our heads.

emissions

I read an interesting statistic today. Canadians use 14,500 litres of gas a minute. Mind you some days I expel 14,500 cubic metres of gas a minute, but I’m polite enough to warn those around me.

Mind you that gas could also probably power a few vehicles…

dance as if no one's watching...or not...

Right now there’s a girl sitting across from me on the GO Train listening to music and bopping her head. I have a friend who refers to this as “boho dancing”.

hawkee

Does anyone else think the NHL playoff schedule just plain blows? There hasn’t been a Saturday night game for 2 weeks, and the Stanley Cup finals kicked off on a Monday night (???)

Mind you it was fun seeing Ahhnohld Shvahzenneggehh (goveneh of deh graate staate of Calleefohneeyaahh) with Ron Maclean in a pre-game interview, but Don Cherry’s obsequious behaviour carried a pretty high cringe factor. To quote my lovely wife “he looks like he’s going to pee his pants”.

I’m actually pretty amused that so many Toronto Leaf fans are cheering on the Ducks in the finals, as opposed to supporting the lone Canadian team – because, you know, the Leafs had SUCH a fighting chance to make the playoffs this year, until those Ottawa bastards put a voodoo hex on ‘em. Can’t you just smell the mojo? Aikalimba!

I was 8 years old the last time the Leafs won the cup, that’s how long it’s been.

Trash talk

Littering has to be the most inane activity next to politics. Seriously, it’s one of the most common forms of pollution and yet the easiest to remedy. In fact it’s totally preventable.

The Fountain

Sometimes you chance upon a movie that totally engrosses you from start to finish, that holds you spellbound with it’s sheer beauty and heartbreak. We watched “The Fountain” this past weekend and that’s what it did for me.

In a previous blog I’d mentioned another opportunity to see this film – as an in-flight movie – but I declined. Subtlety + jet engine roar = frustration.

In a nutshell “The Fountain” contrasts the notions of “living forever” with “life everlasting”, an important distinction.

Hugh Jackman plays 3 separate roles in 3 separate time periods; Spanish Conquistador (during the Spanish Inquisition); neural scientist and surgeon (present day); and despondent time traveler (uhm…future). All his earthly time is spent in pursuit of immortality. His obsession with extending life is all-consuming, to the point where he’s no longer actually “living” his own life.

Rachel Weisz, in the present tense, plays his wife who is stricken with brain cancer. While her husband spends most of his time away from her, running a desperate race against time to find a cure for her cancer, she wants nothing more than to have them spend what little time she has left, together.

“The Fountain” is a poignantly told, beautifully illustrated picture of moral dilemma, ethical transgression, and ultimately love.

The Great Outdoors

I’m going camping this weekend, in beautiful Algonquin Park. The last time I went camping it snowed. Yup, nothing like walking out in yer underwear and scraping snow and ice off the tent. However in the 17 years since then I’ve completely abandoned any “purist” notions of camping. This time I’m renting a “yurt”, which is a semi-permanent pre-constructed 16 foot diameter tent that’s already in place in one of the campgrounds. On Saturday morning I will drive up, open the door, toss everything inside and then enjoy the great outdoors. I will bring a coffee maker, an electric griddle, and a radio so I can listen to hockey playoffs and baseball games. Occasionally I will plug in my iPod. “Roughing it” will be confined to using a public shower.

However at some point I WILL capture squirrels, skin ‘em and slow roast them on a spit. Hey, gotta get back to nature somehow…

Law and Disorder

I think it’s time for Law and Order to wrap up its caseload and call it a day. This past Friday night I caught one of the newer shows, albeit a re-run, which introduced Jesse L. Martin’s latest partner, a stunningly beautiful woman named Milena Govich. She replaced Dennis Farina, who replaced the late Jerry Orbach, who was one of the best tv cops ever.

As much as I enjoy looking at Milena Govich for the 30 minutes of the “Law” portion of each week’s show, there’s a small part that’s missing, which would be the acting part. She has 2 expressions – blank, and blank with eyebrows arched.

This past Friday’s episode introduced her character, detective Nina Cassady, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where she came from or how the hell she wound up a homicide detective. There was several mentions of her being a former beauty queen, and at one point her legitimacy as a homicide detective was called into question, but I got the distinct feeling I had more qualifications than she did since I played a cop in a high school production of “Arsenic and Old Lace” many years ago.

There have been several classic characters in L&O’s sometimes illustrious run, but probably only one classic lineup;

Detective Lennie Brisco – Jerry Orbach (R.I.P.)
Detective Mike Logan – Chris Noth
Lt. Anita Van Buren – S. Epatha Merkerson
Executive Assistant District Attorney Ben Stone – Michael Moriarty
Assistant District Attorney Claire Kinkaid – Jill Hennessy

This was killer ensemble acting which has since become the domain of HBO, leaving conventional network television in it’s dust.

I once was blind, then I picked up a hammer and saw

At last count there were 700 of these home reno shows on tv – “Fix This House”, “Flip This Dump” “Fix This Flippin’ Dump” and my favourite “Just What The F*** Was I Thinking Anyway”. Btw I’ve sent a proposal to The Learning Channel (slogan: “Violence Disguised As Education”) for a show called “Burn And Earn”, which involves speculation and arson, but I’ve not heard back from them to date.

I’m actually beginning to enjoy these programs BECAUSE I CAN RELATE to finding out all sorts of shit about a “used” house that makes absolutely no sense…whatsoever. For example why did the previous owners paint the dining room ceiling BLACK? Who the hell owned this house, Anton LaVey? (Google it, peeps…)

Actually to be fair we’ve also discovered some interesting if not amusing things about our house, which was constructed during the reign of the Pharohs. Fer instance there’s a bricked-in square in one of the basement walls, which once served as a coal chute (told ya it was old). We also found a pair of gas jets in the walls on either side of the fireplace, to which gaslights would once have been attached.

But my fave was a recent discovery. We have a walk-in attic storage space (supah handy!!!), the ceiling of which has forever been sheets of cardboard covering rotten insulation. Recently I decided to tear it all out, replace the insulation, and cover it with drywall. As I grabbed the first sheet of cardboard and wailed on it with all my might, out fell 2 packs of DuMaurier cigarettes and a 1971 Playboy magazine. Seems the previous owners kids’ used the attic space fer smoke and spank parties. Funny, you never see those kinds of discoveries on the Discovery channel.

Back to the tube. Last night’s show (I can’t remember the name so make up your own) spotlighted a couple who’d purchased an abandoned 3 bedroom house, sight unseen, at an auction. As they opened the back door for the first time they recoiled from the stench and considered calling the police to check for bodies. However as they pried the door open further, out walked a dog and 2 cats.

SOME ASSHOLE MOVED OUT OF THIS HOUSE AND LEFT A DOG AND 2 CATS BEHIND.

This infuriates me. These are living creatures that you have locked in a house void of food and water to fend for themselves, asswipe.

This kind of crime should carry jail time. Seriously, this is abuse plain and simple, and the kind of person who would imprison an animal with the excuse that it’s life is no longer “convenient” needs to be imprisoned themselves.

There’s no shortage of studies linking animal abuse to human abuse, and no shortage of evidence that children who abuse animals grow up with a disregard for life in general, and become abusive adults.

And frankly I can see no better place for these “animals” than in a cage.

A timely song

I think the values of compassion and forgiveness are important. I just wish I was better at it than I am, but I suppose we all have difficulty with that one.

I’ve been listening to Tom Wait’s “Orphans” CD a lot lately, and I was particularly moved by the song “Down There By The Train”. Tom wrote it in 1994 and the late Johnny Cash recorded it for the first of his Rick Rubin produced projects “American Recordings”. Tom’s own version is one of those songs that just stays with you. Here’s the lyric, enjoy.


There's a place I know where the train goes slow
Where the sinner can be washed in the blood of the lamb
There's a river by the trestle down by sinner's grove
Down where the willow and the dogwood grow

You can hear the whistle, you can hear the bell
From the halls of heaven to the gates of hell
And there's room for the forsaken if you're there on time
You'll be washed of all your sins and all of your crimes
If you're down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there where the train goes slow

There's a golden moon that shines up through the mist
And I know that your name can be on that list
There's no eye for an eye, there's no tooth for a tooth
I saw Judas Iscariot carrying John Wilkes Booth
He was down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
He was down there where the train goes slow

If you've lost all your hope, if you've lost all your faith
I know you can be cared for and I know you can be safe
And all the shamefuls and all of the whores
And even the soldier who pierced the side of the Lord
Is down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there where the train goes slow

Well, I've never asked forgiveness and I've never said a prayer
Never given of myself, never truly cared
I've left the ones who loved me and I'm still raising Cain
I've taken the low road and if you've done the same
Meet me down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there where the train goes slow

Meet me down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there by the train
Down there where the train goes slow

Gas pains pt I

Excuses the oil companies use to raise the price of gas;

- the sun was in our eyes
- a tanker truck in Wyoming got a flat on the way to a refinery
- there might be a flood/hurricane/tornado/drought/plague of locusts/famine somewhere in the world, and this will affect oil prices; and even if there isn’t the very thought of it gives us the willies, so this will affect oil prices
- there’s not enough oil
- there’s too much oil
- we think there’s going to be too much oil at some point, or possibly not enough
- our feet hurt
- hey, a guy/girl has to eat
- there was a well fire on a platform off the coast of Bora Bora, and even though we don’t buy our oil from Bora Bora, this will still affect the price of oil
- an elk tripped over the Alaskan pipeline and, well, you know…
- someone saw the ghost of Saddam Hussein pissing in an oil well – hey, can’t sell that batch
- someone threw sand in the Alberta oil sands – can’t sell contaminated oil
- rock, paper, scissors
- papa needs a brand new bag
- hey, someone’s gotta pay for those “On The Go” stores, might as well be you
- Texas isn’t as big as we originally thought, and this will affect the price of oil
- We found a hole in one of the barrels
- The neighbour’s dog “Son of Sammy” spoke to us – “ruff ruff ruff, raise the price of oil”
- Some kids poured a bag of sugar into the North Sea and it got into all the offshore wells
- Daylight’s comin’ and I wanta go home

Gas pains pt II

I travel past an oil refinery in Bronte, Ontario twice every single weekday on my way to and from work. I’m guessing that they have gasoline there – lots of gasoline. Gasoline that’s been in those mammoth tanks for, oh , 3 months or more. Gasoline that has neither been affected by natural disasters nor oil shortages or well fires. Funny thing though – the gasoline in those tanks will sell for the same or more than the oil that HAS been through the aforementioned misfortunes. Unfortunately I’ll never get any politician to explain this discrepancy to me. They don’t have to, their gas is paid for – by us.

Gov't MIA

The last time the price of gas went well above a dollar a litre I did what our members of parliament encourage us to do. I wrote to our now retired Liberal MP Beth Phinney. She never wrote back. I also wrote her several years ago when a teenager was brutally murdered at a mall near our home. She never wrote back. I’m pretty sure she can read because she would regularly send us a “report” telling us all about the wonderful work she was doing on parliament hill as our elected representative. Oddly she never mentioned gas price gouging or crime stats. I guess these things didn’t matter in her world.

Ship of fools

Last December the Ontario Liberal party, the reigning fools in our province, forced through a bill granting themselves a 25 percent pay raise. This was their last act of business prior to their Christmas break, which lasts into February. The bill was introduced by my own member of provincial parliament Marie Bountragiani. In the four years that she’s served as our elected representative in provincial parliament this is the FIRST act of business that I’ve EVER heard of Ms Bountragiani bring involved in. Apparently the only person she’s representing is herself.

the cycle of poverty

I find it sadly ironic that the kinds of foods that are most affordable to those living at or below the poverty line are the least nutritious and therefore the worst for them. Foods that are full of fats, sugars and starches; fast foods that are barely fit for animal consumption; junk foods that are responsible for obesity and lethargy. All of these contribute to the vicious circle of poverty.

imho

I’m convinced that Radiohead’s “OK Computer” is the closest that my generation will come to The Beatles “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”.

And speaking of “Sgt Pepper’s” – yesterday I read a quote from Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek in which he’s convinced that The Beatles ripped off the orchestral climax of “A Day In The Life” from the climax of The Doors “The End”. Piss off Ray. BTW am I the only one who thinks that Jim Morrison was a highly overrated drunk?

Time tunnel

When I was young and drunk several of my friends (flesh-and-blood friends that is, not “myspace” friends) would go to see Canrockers Goddo at every available opportunity. I was never a big fan of the band, but that’s neither here nor there. I bring this up because head Goddo guy Greg Godovitz is now employed by one of the radio stations I work for, and he’s frequently seen in the hallways. Yesterday I was walking back to my studio and heard this over the station intercom system: “Would Greg Godovitz please call reception, Greg Godovitz please call reception”. I dunno, seemed kind of funny…

non sequitor

Do you ever have weird thoughts pop into your head, stuff like “I wonder how long it would take me to dismantle that building by hand?”

No?

Me neither…

Sir George

The evening of Thursday May 3rd was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. I saw Sir George Martin speak at Toronto’s Wintergarden Theatre. For those of you too young to remember The Beatles, and that’s most of you on myspace, George Martin was their Producer. He’s often referred to as “the 5th Beatle”. In truth I always thought “the 5th Beatle” referred to Charlie Manson – turns out no.

Imagine spending 2 rapturous hours spellbound by stories about the making of “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, listening to original demos for the songs that made up that landmark album (we used to call them “albums” son, now pull up your pants and straighten that ball cap”), hearing Sir George solo different parts of songs like “Strawberry Fields” and “A Day In The Life” so that he could illustrate how John Lennon double-tracked his vocal parts, or how drums and vocals were often recorded to one track because they only had 4 tracks to work with and they needed 2 for bass and guitars.

Now imagine this 81 year old, handsome, dignified master who saw The Beatles at their very best and their very worst, solemnly recalling the day his close friend, Beatle’s manager Brian Epstein, took his own life.

George Martin, with incredible technical skill and an even greater empathy for the artistic spirit, allowed The Beatles to explore musical ideas that broke all convention. When John Lennon wanted a calliope on the song “For The Benefit of Mr Kite” George Martin didn’t tell him why they couldn’t haul a steam-driven behemoth of an instrument into Abbey Road studios – instead he created John’s calliope with hundreds of bits of cut-up recording tape randomly spliced together. There was no such thing as “no”, there was only “how”.

Here are a few precious tidbits I learned that night;

- George Martin almost didn’t sign The Beatles to EMI when Brian Epstein first played him their demo tape. Martin thought the songs were terrible, and he is a man who would know these things. However when the band played live for him he signed them on the spot, if for no other reason than their spirit and charm, and their unfaltering belief that they would make it big

- when he wrote the string quartet arrangement for “Eleanor Rigby” George Martin based it on Bernard Herrman’s theme for the Hitchcock film “Psycho” – not the “screech screech screech” part from the shower scene, but the main theme with it’s staccato syncopations

- the trumpet solo for “Penny Lane” was based on Bach’s “Brandenburg Concerto”. Paul McCartney had seen a London Symphony trumpeter performing the concerto on television. George Martin wrote the part, and McCartney had that same trumpeter perform it in the song

Sir George finished the evening with a poignant tale about John Lennon and his method of counting in a song. Traditionally if a song is in 4/4 time one of the musicians will count in “1,2,3,4” and the band begins to play. However John Lennon would always count in songs with nonsense words spoken in the rhythm of the tune. So in closing, as the house lights dimmed and the large screen onstage lit up with an image of John at a microphone, his now sadly disembodied voice quietly counted in “sugarplum fai-ry, sugarplum fai-ry” – and as the opening piano chords of “A Day In The Life” filled the room, the world of rock and roll as all of us had known it changed forever.

Cause and defect

Every time I see a TV commercial for some monster pickup truck with a 300 horsepower V8 hemi, or an SUV big enough to carry a professional sports team, all I can think is that SOLDIERS AND CITIZENS ARE BEING KILLED IN IRAQ SO THAT SELF-CENTERED DOUCHEBAGS CAN FILL THEIR GARGANTUAN TANKS AND DRIVE TO THE FUCKING MALL.

Sorry, was that out loud?

Perspective

Several years ago I was driving through downtown Toronto towards the highway in the early evening of Hallowe’en. As I neared my ramp I saw, on the sidewalk adjacent to the St Lawrence Market, a woman in a wheelchair with a small child in her lap. The child was dressed in a Hallowe’en costume, and the mother was taking her trick or treating, door to door in a wheelchair. I didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

I believe that every major experience in your life shapes the person you become, mentally and physiologically. That may sound really obvious, but a lot of people remain in stoic denial of life’s shifting reality. These people usually die in factory accidents.

One of my favourite bands, Tool, is playing my hometown July 9th, and I fully intend to be there. Their last album “10,000 Days” has been out for close to a year now. The title refers to the number of days singer Maynard Keenan’s mother spent in a wheelchair (approximately 27 years), the result of a stroke. This happened when he was around 11 years old.

Imagine growing up watching your mother imprisoned in her own body for reasons you can’t begin to understand, nevermind accept. Naturally, in the absence of a medical explanation you’re going to look for someone or something to blame. Maynard blamed God. The irony is that before AND after her stroke, his mother remained devoutly faithful to God, Christianity and the church. Maynard’s lyrics, written for both Tool and side-project A Perfect Circle, testify to his frustration at not being able to resolve this dichotomy, much as you or I would find it difficult to forgive someone for murdering a family member.

Keenan’s most powerful outrage came in the song “Judith” from the first Perfect Circle album “Mers De Nom” (Judith Marie was his mother’s name) In the song’s chorus he screams “F*** your God”. Not much doubt there.

Maynard Keenan’s mother passed away in 2003. Two tracks on “10,000 Days” (“Wings For Marie” and the title track) narrate both the struggle and the spiritual liberation of letting her go,


Who could deny you were the one who illuminated
your little piece of the divine

This little light of mine, a gift you passed onto me,
I'm gonna let it shine,
to guide you safely on your way

Your way home...

Ohh, what are they gonna do when the lights go down
without you to guide them all to Zion?
What are they gonna do when the rivers overrun
other than tremble incessantly?

High is the way
but our eyes are upon the ground.
You are the light and the way
They'll only read about

I only pray heaven knows
When to lift you out

10000 days in the fire is long enough.
You're going home...

You're the only one who can hold your head up high,
Shake your fist at the gates saying,
"I have come home now!

Fetch me the spirit, the son and the father,
Tell them their pillar of faith has ascended.

It's time now!
My time now!
Give me my
Give me my wings”

You are the light, the way,that they will only read about

Set as I am in my ways and my arrogance
Burden of proof tossed upon non-believers.
You were my witness, my eyes, my evidence,
Judith Marie, unconditional one.

Daylight dims leaving cold fluorescence.
Difficult to see you in this light.
Please forgive this bold suggestion:
Should you see your maker's face tonight
Look him in the eye
Look him in the eye and tell him
I never lived a lie, never took a life,
But surely saved one
Hallelujah,
It's time for you to bring me home.

A far cry from “F*** your God”, this song speaks volumes about the impact a loved one’s personal journey can eventually have on your own life.

Not everyone’s taste, but there’s no denying that Tool is a band that has remained unflinchingly honest and true to themselves and their art.

Never forget who you work for

I can’t stand Olivia Chow…or Jack Layton for that matter. Together they embody those most despicable qualities of any politician: arrogance and pretension.

When our provincial government announced that they were banning the use of Facebook at Queen’s Park (Ontario’s provincial house of government), Olivia Chow (who has approximately 1,000 Facebook “friends”) opined “what are my thousands of friends going to do now? How will they stay in touch with me?” DAMN I hate it when politicians spin their own self-serving electioneering into public service pleas. Gosh Olivia, what WILL your thousands of friends do? Chances are they’ll become hopelessly despondent and drink themselves to death. Some may leap from office towers, leaving behind scribbled notes proclaiming that a life without Olivia is no life at all. Others will pick up a scythe or bridle horse to plow and go to work tilling the fields, all the while believing that the cause of the worker must prevail, that even though the head dies the body lives on.

Or maybe they’ll do what the rest of us do and just ignore you.

Baseball

I love baseball. Not in a memorize-every-stat kind of way, more as a romantic ideal. Football is brute force with some strategy thrown in for appearance. Hockey is strength and fury. Baseball is enchantment played out on a field of grass and dirt. Baseball takes us out of our own thoughts and into a (somewhat) civilized world of order, ritual and history.

There’s a poetry to baseball, a prose that reveals itself over 9 innings, where the outcome can change right up to the last pitch. There’s an assured calm to baseball - not pin-drop quiet but rather a feeling that for 2-and-a-half hours on a sunny afternoon everything is right in the world.

Baseball is Joe Carter’s dramatic home run in the dying moments of the ’93 World Series. It’s Kirk Gibson coming into the game with a bad leg injury, 9th inning, game 1 of the ’85 World Series and pounding it into the stands to win it for the Dodgers. It’s the late Tom Cheek’s fatherly voice calling the game on the radio, occasionally dropping in anecdotes of the great players and the great plays.

Baseball transcends everyday life, and every October when the last pitch has been thrown and the final out has been called I feel a certain sadness that winter is upon us, and a good friend has gone away.

Oh look, a duck…

I’m at an age where I don’t care if people see me laughing to myself in public. Fact is I work in Toronto where laughing to one’s self in public is de rigueur for many inhabitants, but I digress.

Occasionally I’ll find myself walking down the street or waiting for the subway or whatever and suddenly from somewhere in the slimy folds of my brain creeps up a joke I’ve heard or a funny line from a movie. For example, on Thursday evening while the GO Train was pulling into Union Station I suddenly remembered 2 lines from “This Is Spinal Tap”…

“In this magazine the reviewer wrote ‘Shark sandwich? This album should be called “shit sandwich’…”

“Your 2nd album was called ‘Intravenus De-milo’…”

Yes, I am easily amused, thank you.

Airline movies

If you’ve ever wondered what became of concert promoters who put together lineups like this (all real, btw)…

The Monkees with opening act Jimi Hendrix

Emerson, Lake and Palmer with opening act Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes

YES, with opening act Bob Seger

…I have the answer. They now schedule in-flight movies.

I recently returned from Panama (beautiful country/long flight). The Sunwing “entertainment experience” included a movie called “The Fountain”. Now believe me, this is a movie I’ve wanted to see for a while, but I’ll just bet that most of the exhausted, sunburnt and alcohol poisoned returning vacationers didn’t share my enthusiasm at viewing a 2 hour ART FILM whilst jammed inside a metal tube 30,000 feet above the earth. Just guessing.

For the record I am not an art film snob…I just found it an oddball choice for an air flick. For starters the film jumps back and forth, without warning, between 3 different time periods – the Spanish Inquisition, the present, and the future in which a head-shaved Hugh Jackman floats through space in a giant bubble, hoping to bring his deceased wife back to life. And no car chases.

This was followed by “Night At The Museum”.

Kind of like showing “2001: A Space Odyssey” and following it up with “Son of Flubber”, or some other Dean Jones/Kurt Russell Disney guffaw-fest.

I didn’t watch “Night At The Museum” cuz I’m getting kinda burnt on Ben Stiller’s “sameness” in most of his movies, but I DID look up just in time to see the slapping match with the monkey, which was funny as hell.

A few years back I was returning from Costa Rica (4+ hours) when some sadistic airline entertainment chump scheduled the Madonna barf-up (title) with the Jackie Chan/Jennifer Love Hewitt comic romp “The Tuxedo”. And, for the same reason that I eat the prefab meals they serve on planes (cuz it’s there and I didn’t bring my own meal), I watched them both from start to finish.

In some small way I suppose it was better than nose-diving into the Gulf of Mexico…

And speaking of airlines…

A few years back I was too stupid to weasel my way out of jury duty and spent 3 days with people I normally wouldn’t share 3 minutes with. Actually that’s unfair, most of them were really nice folks, I just didn’t have much in common with them and I’m not the most outgoing fellow. During our first coffee break together (they ALWAYS keep you together when court is in session) everyone engaged in the ritualistic icebreaking “so what do you do” small talk. Turns out one young woman was a flight attendant for the now defunct Canada 3000 airline. When the gent who was chatting with her asked “is it true that the rear of the plane is the safest place to sit” without missing a beat she replied “well, you don’t see too many planes BACKING into the side of a mountain”. This still makes me laugh.

And speaking of movies…

I love it when a movie is SO good that you get even more out of it on 2nd viewing. I recently re-watched “Good Night and Good Luck”. DAMN this is a great movie. Seriously, this is art fulfilling it’s promise as a reflection on life. I can’t think of a better allegory of George Bush’s damaged mis-administration, his chokehold on civil rights, and his fanatical corruption of “values” that he passes off as Christianity. Ponder this thought for a second: if you removed the name “America” from Bush’s version of government and placed it anywhere else in the world, you would might well think “what kind of corrupt 3rd world facist bullshit is this”?

Sorry, I got off track. “Good Night and Good Luck” is one of those films that provides a kind of rapturous clarity of thought. Placed alongside “Syriana” you really have to respect George Clooney for fearlessness in the arts.

And, for the record, I also liked “Solaris”…even though it bombed…

har har har har har

Headline: “40 Seal Hunting Boats Still Stuck In Ice Off The Coast of Newfoundland”

I think this is funny.

Fuck y’all for seal hunting anyway.

Priorities

Very early this past Monday morning a Toronto Transit Commission worker was killed and 2 others injured while performing maintenance in a subway tunnel. This happened prior to the early morning commute, so a good portion of the system was closed off for investigation. As you can imagine this made getting to work somewhat difficult for a lot of people – difficult, but in no way impossible.

On Tuesday morning the front pages of all 3 Toronto papers featured large headlines and even larger photo spreads of “stranded” commuters caught in the “snarl” and “inconvenience” of the situation.

And not a single headline about the man who was killed.

A man lost his life.
What the fuck have we come to?

B.A. B.S.

Bryan Adams is to music what Popiel is to fishing. Just once I'd like to wind up and crack the guy. Bryan Adams I mean. I have no issues with Ron Popiel.

Strike a Pose

At the risk of waxing reactionary (or employing "the great man" theory) every time I hear a current artist refer to themselves as "punk" I pull out the '77 yardstick ('77 was the year punk broke) and check the watermark. Let's use Avril Lavigne as an example. Would her current hit "Girlfriend" have sounded out of place on, say, "Never Mind The Bullocks" or "Young, Loud and Snotty"? If the answer is "yes" (ding ding ding ding ding) then – let's check the stick – nope, she not a "punk". Oddly though I could imagine The Ramones covering it, albeit twice as fast and thrice as loud. And I'd probably buy it.

I believe that if you have to TELL people what you are then you're probably not really what you think you are, that your image is contrived. If someone TELLS you that they are cool, zany, or intelligent then you should in no way believe it. Do you know why David Bowie is still probably the coolest guy on earth? Because he doesn't have to TELL you he's cool, he just IS.

At any rate it's too late for punk, the farm has been sold, the cows and sheep are pimping GAP and Old McDonald ate the cold barrel of a Glock 9.

"And blind acceptance is a sign/of stupid fools who stand in line…" John Lydon/"EMI"

I’ll Take ExLax for 500, Alex

(even as I write that subject line I realized that it's a childishly funny double entendre)

If today's blog was a Jeopardy category it would be "Potpourri". When we bought our 70 year old house about 20 years ago there were a number of things that required fixin'. I wish I'd inherited my dad's handyman gene, but alas naught, so it was trial by disaster. Here's the deal with fixing stuff on a house. If you f*** something up it can usually be repaired, but the degree to which you're willing to f*** it up, and the amount of disposable income you have at your disposal is the tipping point, to overuse an overused term.

Leaky faucets? No big deal. Installing vinyl floor tile? A bit more pressure, especially if your friends have a sense of how it SHOULD look ie straight. Installing ceramic floor tile, hardwood flooring, constructing a load-bearing wall? Ain't gonna happen. Cutting a 12" by 12" hole in your roof so you can install a powered ventilator to draw the heat from your attic? That was my first biggie, and I sat on that roof for an hour straight, saw in hand, trying to work up the nerve to actually cut a hole in my roof, one big enough that a small animal could jump through, soaked from the downpour that would inevitably burst from the sky the moment I opened up the roof. But I did it, and it worked.

Actually while I'm on the subject of domestic repairs here's a list of things I've done to myself whilst puttering around the homestead;

- fell off the roof and cracked some ribs
- fell off a ladder and cracked some ribs
- cut into a live 100 amp electrical circuit with a pair of pliers (melted part of the pliers and made a big Discovery Channel kind of sound)
- ran over my foot with a 400 pound lawn roller
- cut into my fingers with an electric hedge trimmer
- fell off the deck and tore all the ligaments in my left ankle
- tore the skin off the inside of my lower lip because I thought it would be a good place to hold a piece of duct tape while I made an adjustment to whatever I was taping

Of course beyond the house there are things I simply refuse to take apart, one being a computer hard drive. Sure, I can install one (it's pretty easy, give it a shot, save yourself a few bucks) but if there's a serious cock-up that Norton or Disk Warrior can't fix then who am I to go poking at the innards like a moron trying to free a trapped bagel from a live toaster with a bread knife. So it's off to Future Shop (slogan: "We don't give a f***, just buy something"), flaky drive in hand. By mistake I cued up in line at the "disservice" counter. While Doug of the 2 man Bob and Doug service team trundled off to Aisle 7 with a customer, Bob told the next 2 people in line that he couldn't help them, that their queries were Doug's department. This made it my turn. I explained my problem, and before I could finish, Mr Service Man, whose attention span was that of a crack addict with a bladder issue, told me to take it to a cashier and exchange it for a new one. When I explained that it was a 3 year old drive that I didn't buy at Future Shop, the exchange went like this;

HIM: I can't help you

ME: You can't repair it? (naively I thought the sign saying "repairs" meant "repairs"

HIM: No. Next?

This kind of shit drives me nuts. If you have no intention of even taking the time to listen to a customer and then explaining WHY you can't fix it, and then suggesting an alternative solution, then you should become a MP or an MPP or go work at CanadianTire (slogan: "we don't have it") – but those are 2 stories that I'll save for another day.

F**k Karla Homolka

This past Thursday the Toronto Sun ran a front page showing murderess Karla Homolka taking her newborn baby to a clinic.

About 6 weeks ago I had occasion to drive past Lake Gibson, just outside St Catharines, Ontario. This is where the dismembered body of 17 year old Lesley Mahaffey was discovered, her remains encased in blocks of cement.
When I was a teenager growing up in St Catharines I regularly walked past the church parking lot where 15 year old Kristen French was abducted. If you're not from this part of Canada you probably don't recognize these landmarks. They played key roles in one of the most brutal sex slaying crimes in Canadian history, the Paul Bernardo/Karla Homolka case. The married couple kidnapped, raped, terrorized, tortured and murdered 4 teenaged girls; Kristen French, Lesley Mahaffey, Karla's own sister Tammy, and a "Jane Doe". In a complete and utter travesty of justice Homolka received a mere 12 year prison sentence, thanks to a "deal" she made with our laughable judicial system. The deal, scribed under the pretense that there had been only 3 victims, allowed for leniency in exchange for her testimony against Paul Bernardo. The crown claimed it had to make the deal because there wasn't enough physical evidence to convict.

Guess what - there was. Shortly after Bernardo's arrest video tapes of the crimes were removed from the Bernardo/Homolka residence by Bernardo's lawyer, someone whose karma points are definitely in the deficit column. Was the evidence disclosed as required by Canadian law? No. Was this lowlife charged, tried and convicted for HIS crimes? No. Dis-barred maybe? No. So a deal predicated on undisclosed evidence was allowed to stand.

It gets better. Once the deal was signed it was discovered that there had been a 4th victim, the aforementioned "Jane Doe". The "Deal with the devil' as it came to be known, stipulated that should any more than the currently known number of victims be discovered the deal would be null and void and sentencing would be contingent on the severity of the crimes. When news of a 4th victim came to light our farcical judiciary shrugged its shoulders and sighed a big "oh well". The deal stood.

Why rehash this now? Karla Homolka, who kidnapped, raped, terrorized, tortured and murdered 4 teenaged girls, now has a child of her own. Obviously no one can stop another person from having a child, this violates basic individual rights and puts us back there with China in the civilization department. HOWEVER had our system done the job that we are paying them to do, had our governments listened to the outraged cries of it's citizens, had they displayed even a modicum of compassion for the victims' families, a compassion that Karla Homolka NEVER EVER displayed, she would be in prison for the rest of her hideous, despicable and worthless life – and a baby would surely be out of the question.

I don't like the idea of a murderous pig reproducing. I don't like the idea of someone who took the lives of 4 innocent children having the opportunity to mother one of her own. There are those who say "she's served her time, she's paid her debt to society, now just let her live her life". The flaw in that argument is that no, she did not serve her time, she did not pay her debt – she made a dishonourable "deal" that prosecutors then honoured.

We've been had – again.

2 sayings

I wish I could take credit for these, but two of my favourite sayings came from other folks;

"If the meek shall inherit the earth, how hard's it gonna be to get it back from them?" (from my close personal friend Hellbitch Diddley)

"I'm a Frisbeean – I believe that when you die your soul goes up on the roof and you can't get it back down again"

The latter is from my close personal friend Kevin Konkle who is a tri-athlete and about 3 years back uttered a phrase that you will NEVER EVER hear coming from my lips. Following his completion of the Iron Man triathlon in Lake Placid I asked how he made out. He answered "well, the first 8 hours were OK, but the last 4 were pretty rough".

I have to lie down now.

Do you know who your friends are?

This is too funny. The other day I received a myspace "message" from a young girl who said she was looking for new friends and she thought my page looked kind of interesting and was I young and cute.

The answers, in order: That's nice, ya kinda I guess, no, and no.

I've had a few friend requests from folks who clearly haven't read anything on my page. True, a stuffed monkey wearing headphones is cuter than the peachfuzz on a bumble bee's butt (and I honestly can't believe I just wrote that) but the truth is I'm not a monkey, I'm a Llama – A LLAMA DAMMIT – IN FACT MY REAL NAME IS ALANNA LLAMA and I was child star until oxycontin and booze stole my innocence and…and…I became a…former…child star. Now I just walk in circles around this ratty pen, my collar tied to a stake, the fur around my once buoyant smile now all gone to mange. The apples and sugar cubes have been replaced by moldy straw and the occasional rotten carrot. Someone threw a hand in here one day. I want my mother.

Soooooo, ya still wanna be my friend?

Bank fees

We received a notice in the mail the other day from our dear friends at TD Canada Trust. I used to like Canada Trust, until they merged with TD, canned a lot of tellers, and started messing things up on a somewhat regular basis – all the while telling me that "banking CAN be this comfortable". Hell, I've had prostate exams that were more comfortable than banking experiences, but I digress, and you might be eating as you read this, so onwards.

This corporate love letter was a schedule of bank fee increases, to take effect in May. I'm going to my local ATM and withdrawing enough cash to buy TD Canada Trust a clue, because they clearly missed the memo. Let's re-cap;

THE GENERAL PUBLIC IS EXTREMELY PISSED OFF ABOUT BANKS FEES…you knuckleheads.

When corporations, especially banks, reach a certain size they lose touch with reality, then try to spin it with tv commercials that emphasize how "small and personable" they really are. Note to banks: I don't care how early you open in the morning, you're closed when I get into work at 6:30AM; and I don't care how late in the evening you stay open cuzzzz I'm not gonna stand in line like a hamster waiting for a biscuit (if that's what hamsters eat, I dunno, mine always croaked prior to feeding time). What I care about is that you are competent and secure enough to maintain my accounts, and that you don't rip me off. Sometimes I doubt the former, most times I don't doubt the latter. I'm not a financial wizard, but I do understand the basic premise of banking. By putting my money into a "savings" account I am effectively loaning the bank my money in exchange for an extremely modest return. However this return is usually negated by "fees" that they charge me for letting me loan them my money. Does this make any sense? In the meantime they earn MILLIONS in annual profits from all the money that WE have loaned them, and I get a T5 that says my taxable annual interest is $60.00. SIXTY DOLLARS, on which I then have to pay income tax!!!

We have governments that are hell bent on protecting us from ourselves, but they don't have the balls to put a leash on these thieving corporate bastahds. No, a dollar-fifty won't break the piggy bank, but it's MY dollar-fifty dammit!

Little Miss Sunshine

I avoided this movie for the longest time cuz I thought it'd be a bit too warm and fuzzy for my tastes. I'm glad I finally gave in, this was REALLY REALLY fun. Alan Arkin is classic and deserved his Oscar mos def – and it was nice to see him playing against character. Mind you he's great in EVERYTHING he does, but to make this character endearing despite (or maybe because of) his faults was really an achievement. And the girl who played the lead? Damn, SHE should have won an Oscar just for being so adorable and totally believable! I'm ashamed that I can't even recall her name right now, how lame of me. Anyway, a must-see.

Lost - not the tv show

Man, I've been having an out-of-brain experience for the past 3 weeks. So far I've lost 2 laptop batteries (@ $200 each) and a digital camera. Arrrgggghhhhh…

If anyone sees them please drop me a line, but if you find them inside of my house I believe a proper explanation will be in order.

Travel Tip

A good friend gave me a useful travel tip a few years ago, prior to a European vacation. I was I a quandry about which travel guides were more reliable (eg Fodor's, Frommer's, Michelin, etc). He suggested going to a bookstore and glancing through a tour book of your own city – if it's accurate then it's fair to say their books on other cities will also be accurate. However if their tour book for Toronto describes the Jane-Finch area as "pleasant and friendly" then best to take a pass. Ditto with online travel sites.

Music City U.S.A

Me and the Mrs are going to Nashville this week. We already have Opry tickets for Saturday night March 17 (Loretta Lynn and Gretchen Wilson); TRYING to get tix for the sold-out George Jones show at the Ryman, and maybe the Willie Nelson/Merle Haggard/Ray Price show at the Ryman as well.

I've been to Nashville once before, when I was a little kid. I have 2 memories of Nashville - standing outside the Ryman Auditorium, the original home of the Grand Ole Opry, in the sweltering heat waiting to get in; and sitting inside the Ryman in the sweltering heat (it wasn't air conditioned at the time) watching the show. I don't recall exactly who was on the bill, but I seem to remember it was the late Hank Snow, and MAYBE Little Jimmy Dickens. But I didn't care – I was at the Grand Ole Opry, the shrine of country music, one of the cultural landmarks of American roots music.

I'm so looking forward to this trip. We were in Memphis and the Mississippi Delta a couple of years back, tracing the roots of Delta Blues music. I see this as a completion of sorts since country music was born of the blues, a sort of white man's blues. And of course both forms spawned rock and roll.

Yee haw!

Babel

I just finished watching "Babel". It seems I have a lot to think about so I'm not going to say much except to recommend you see it.

I loved Martin Scorcese's "The Departed", and I'm happy that he's finally received the Best Director Oscar. However after seeing Babel it's hard to know what the Academy didn't get that caused them to bypass it for Best Picture. This is one of those films that's hard to describe without sounding like a play-by-play announcer doing a book report. It's an entirely emotional, deeply poetic experience, an unfaltering fable of a picture. Beautiful, beautiful stuff – but overwhelmingly sad. Just like life.

Floydian Slip

David Gilmour, one of my all-time favourite guitar players, turned 60 last Tuesday. Few guitarists have such an instantly recognizable sound. When I was younger my pals and I would sit around the bar and argue who was the best guitar player. Inevitably the top offers were the ones with the quickest fingers – Eddie Van Halen, Alex Lifeson, Robert Fripp – or those with a signature sound – Tony Iommi, Ronnie Montrose. Without fail whenever I would cast a vote for David Gilmour I was castigated for championing a "slow" player.

By his own admission David Gilmour isn't a "shredder". What sets him apart is his tone, the fluidity of his solo lines, the way he bends a note up a tone, holds it, and then bends it up another tone-and-a-half. His playing is melodious, it always serves the song, it's not blowing for the sake of blowing.

I saw David Gilmour last Summer at Toronto's Massey Hall, which seats about 3,000. He had a solid band, a tasteful light show, his voice was as good as it was 30 years ago, his playing incomparable. In addition to songs from his latest solo album "On A Beach" he dug into the Pink Floyd songbook for favourites such as "Shine On Your Crazy Diamond" and "Echoes". In contrast I saw Roger Waters several months later at Toronto's ACC (an 18,000 seat NHL arena, for those unfamiliar). While technically flawless the show was bombastic, the band was ridiculously large (3 guitar players to boot), Roger seemed keen on playing "rock star" – the entire thing was bloated and garish. When they pulled out the Floyd the songs were meticulously executed note-for-note. Thrilling? No, kind of boring actually. At one point it struck me that I was watching the world's most expensive Pink Floyd cover band.

David Gilmour has succeeded on subtlety and understatement whereas Roger Waters thrives on excess. It's little wonder they don't get along.

Incidentally David Gilmour released his first, eponymous solo album in 1978. Search it out, it's a gem.

Infamous

We watched a film called "Infamous" on the weekend. "Infamous" had the misfortune of being released within a year of "Capote" – misfortune because it dealt with the same subject matter, the late Truman Capote's struggle to write his masterwork "In Cold Blood", and the entropy that became his life following it's release. However the timing also affords the viewer a greater albeit unintentional luxury – the opportunity to see an identical non-fiction story told from 2 different perspectives by 2 contemporaries, directors Bennett Miller (Capote) and Douglas McGrath (Infamous). IMHO "Capote" is hands-down the superior film. Philip Seymour Hoffman's portrayal of Truman Capote is subtle and studied, with just enough of the author's trademark flamboyance to make it credible. However in "Infamous" Toby Jone's Truman Capote is a caricature, an over-the-top parade of conceit that comes off being too cartoonish to elicit any empathy. In fact several of the wide-eyed pug-faced close-ups combined with THAT VOICE were more Looney Tunes than looney killers. Although I can't fault him for the voice, which was Capote's own. Hoffman's Capote was idiosyncratic, Jone's Capote was idiotic.

As for the other characters, in "Infamous" Daniel Craig (yup, James Bond himself) is miscast as Perry Smith, the cold-blooded killer made "victim" in the author's eyes. Craig's Perry Smith is flat, played too close to the surface – he seems no more the killer than Capote himself. In "Capote" Clifton Collins Jr's Perry Smith is dark and brooding, a smoldering mass of externalized self-loathing. In "Capote" Smith's partner in crime Richard "Dick" Hicock (played by Mark Pellegrino) is a menacing combination of bravado and detachment, believably sociopathic. In "Infamous" Hicock (played by Lee Pace) comes off like Eddie Haskell gone wrong. BTW here's a little movie trivia: in 1967's film adaptation of Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood" Dick Hicock is played by Scott Wilson aka Sam Braun from CSI.

"Infamous" is not without one redeeming factor however – Sandra Bullock as Harper Lee, Truman Capote's moral keel. Sandra Bullock is actually REALLY good. Never thought I'd say that.

"Capote" had a sense of coldness about it, from the exterior shots of snow-covered wheat fields and the penitentiary (shot in Manitoba) to Smith and Hicock's darkly humoured exchanges just prior to their hangings. "Infamous" was a comic romp through serial-killer world, complete with an inappropriate soundtrack, cutesy nicknames (Capote refers to Chief Inspector Alvin Dewey as "Foxy"), and the intensity of a Disney short.

When Philip Seymour Hoffman won the Best Actor Oscar for "Capote" sour grapes were spat by some who accused the actor of mere mimicry. Watch these 2 films back-to-back and judge for yourself.

The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd

I grudgingly attended a play with my wife yesterday. I say grudgingly because while enjoy I enjoy live theatre when it's done WELL, when it's done poorly it's insufferable. I swear it's a 50/50 shot. Yesterday's spectacle was a production Willy Russell's "Blood Brothers", and guess what? Yup, it sucked like a Dyson.

The horror began when we settled into our seats and I cracked the program and saw 8 or 10 titles listed under each act.

F***, IT'S A MUSICAL!!! I HATE MUSICALS!!!

Don't get me wrong, I respect the craft that goes into producing a musical, and singing while dancing is no mean feat – I just don't enjoy musicals, they're like discount opera, and opera, really good opera, is an almost narcotic experience (I mean that in a good way). Musicals? I I don't get 'em, I've just never enjoyed seeing actors, at the height of drama, break into song – kinda waters down the whole thing for me

Throughout the duration of this mess all I could think was "how did this epic turd ever make it to the stage in the first place?" The libretto (song lyrics) went so far beyond cheese that mice were running for traps, hoping for a quick escape from the pain. At one point an actor sang a line and I turned to my wife and finished the line for him, word for word. Predictability ain't not no good thing in writin', y'all.

The cast were mostly doing what casts do in a musical, but the gent who played "The Narrator" (Oooooooo) was so over-the-top menacingly evil that I swore if I'd been in the front row I would have jumped the proscenium and filled his mouth with the papery goodness of my sweaty, wrinkled program.

But, alas, there was but a brief moment of poetic justice. At the very anguished climax of the action one of the lead characters delivered a line that was clearly meant to be intensely dramatic, but instead caused the entire audience to break into laughter. Note to playwright: if a line does not elicit the intended response, drop the f***er like a plate of radioactive dogshit.

Three hours of my life I'll never get back? Yup

Snack-o-liscious

Hey, whenever someone says "it's a whole new ballgame", who doesn't think of the "Bits and Bites" guy from that animated tv commercial from the 80's? I still love that one.

Very sick kids

I read an article this morning that cited a rise in narcissism among teenagers. Really??? Interestingly researchers place the blame on coddling parents that repeatedly tell their children that they are "special" and that "they can do anything they want". Both of these are double-edged swords. Yes, to most parents their child is special – but should their child go through life convinced they are any more or less "special" than any other child? These are the seeds of inequality. The 2nd phrase can mean that a child, should they put their mind to it and work hard, can ACHIEVE anything they want. However the alternate context suggests that a child is ENTITLED to do anything they want – which is just plain wrong.

I have a low tolerance for spoiled, narcissistic kids who think the world owes them something, for a couple of reasons. In July of 2005 I spent a week in Voi, Kenya – a poverty stricken region in Africa. I met children who were dying of AIDS, children who were orphans of AIDS, children who were sick with Malaria and slept on the ground in a hut made of mud and sticks. That's all I'll say about that journey for now, there's far too much of it to cover in a single blog.

The other reason for my intolerance of spoiled brats is this. Each year in the Spring our group of radio stations undertakes a 3 day Radiothon in support of Toronto's Hospital for Sick Children. Part of my job is to record interviews with families whose children have spent considerable time at Sick Kids, and often the children are included in the interviews. I spent today meeting the parents of young children (2 or 3 years old on average) and recording their stories. Stories of newborns suffering heart attacks. Stories of kids born with rare forms of cancer. Stories of kids suffering multiple strokes. Stories of kids fighting for their lives while diseases with meaningless names ravaged their organs. The day finished with a father calmly, almost serenely telling the story of his daughter who was born with an incurable form of cancer and died at just 5 months of age. When I spoke to him following the interview he told me that at his daughter's "celebration" (funeral) they played KD Lang singing Leonard Cohen's beautiful "Hallelujah". I'll never hear this song in the same way.

These parents were not angry or bitter or resentful, though they had reason to be. They were happy in a way that one is happy only when one has survived the near loss of their own flesh and blood. Their children (I met 3 of them) smiled like it was the happiest day of their lives. The oldest of them, a 15 year old girl with Rhys Syndrome, had spent 8 days in a coma. All she wants now is to live a normal life. There was a calmness and a clarity about here that belied her age. And of course all of them, to their final breath, expressed their unconditional gratitude to Toronto's Sick Kids Hospital for giving their children their lives back.

So all you precocious "I can do whatever I want" narcissistic Paris-sites, how many of you would trade that new iPod, that new Playstation, computer, car, etc etc etc for a few rounds of chemo, a couple of open heart surgeries, a coma, and a lifetime of outpatient care?

Grace.

Concert Memories pt.6

I once pushed my way to the front of the stage at a Grateful Dead concert and handed Jerry Garcia the cowboy hat I was wearing. He took the hat and placed it on top of his amp. Don't know if he ever wore it, but it makes for a good story.

Concert Memories pt. 7

I saw Black Sabbath on their last tour before Ozzy Osbourne left for a solo career. The opening band was Van Halen, out on their first major tour. This was at the Niagara Falls Convention Centre, and we were on the floor which was standing room only (ie no chairs). When the lights went down and the crowd surged forward I tripped and fell and people started walking over me. This was scary as hell. Fortunately one of the guys with us was huge. He reached down, grabbed me by the jacket and pulled me upright with one arm. Thanks Rick.

L.A. Confidential

"L.A. Confidential" was on tv this past Saturday night so I watched it for the fourth time. I never tire of this movie, it's one of the only successful adaptations of a James Ellroy book – unlike "The Black Dahlia", which just pissed me off because it could have been so good and it was soooooo bad. Does anyone else think Scarlet Johannson is as overrated as I do? She was good in "Ghostworld", and "The Man Who Wasn't There", and "Lost In Translation" – until you realize that she plays every role in the same detached, toss the hair and smile way. Her performance in "The Black Dahlia" was just over-the-top annoying. The other problem with the movie was that all the actors were too young and beautiful for the characters that they were playing. In the book detective Bleichert is nicknamed "Bucky" because he has huge front teeth, unlike pretty boy Josh Hartnett. I won't go on but suffice to say your 5 dollars is better spent on half a coffee at Starbucks.

But back to Ellroy, one of America's grittiest, graphic and erudite fiction writers. Surely his masterpieces were a pair of bookends titled "American Tabloid" and "The Cold Six Thousand" (a third companion to these books is apparently in the works, making this a trilogy). These books fictionalize the assassinations of JFK, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King FROM THE INSIDE, but in fact they're much more than that. By the time he penned "The Cold Six Thousand" Ellroy's style had become so taut and bullet-like that no sentence is longer than 5 words. At first this is jarring, after a while it's incredible.

Aspiring authors are often told to "write what you know". James Ellroy's mother was murdered when he was 12 years old, her body dumped near their LA home. To this day it's a cold case.

Write what you know.

Just Another Road Story

Way back when I was the sound and light guy for a rawk band on the endless northern Ontario bar circuit, we spent a grinder of a week in a northern town the name of which I can't recall, but I know it was about 45 minutes out of Sudbury, and it was the dead of winter.

Anyway I've never seen so many dead-end kids with so many drugs, and surprisingly a LOT of barbiturates (Seconal, Tuinal, etc). These goofs had clearly accepted that their lives were pretty much over by age 18 so they spent their days and nights in a wasteland.

As is the norm in just such an asswipe of a town, the bar with the band was the gathering place of choice for drunks, whores and scrappers. And, not surprisingly, the owner was not above serving alcohol to the underaged. Well didn't that just turn around and bite him in the ass. On our final night the packed tavern was raided by the local constabulary. While cops blocked all the exits other cops circulated around the room checking ID's and hoping to spot dopers with dope. Turns out the only dope they confiscated was on the floor, because the moment they announced "raid" everyone's stash hit the floor like they were tossing burning bags of shit from their pockets. Seriously, the floor was littered with bags of pills, weed, hash, and all the paraphernalia that goes with it.

Of course the night was not without personal reward, otherwise the tale would have little point. In his confusion the owner overpaid us by $250. Needless to say we packed up and hauled ass in a hurry, the consensus being that we would spend our newly found riches on a lavish meal for 5, one that didn't include French fries. I don't recall what I ordered, probably a steak, but I do recall it being one of the best meals of my young life.

Oh, and the bar owner was fined quite heavily for serving minors. Oh well…

Jasper the cat/dog

We have 3 cats, one of whom is pretty sure he's a dog. Jasper (so named for the black and white smiling bear statue at the CN station in Jasper, Alberta) never stops wagging his u-shaped tail, follows the mailman along his daily route, and would stroll alongside our neighbours shnauzer when they would take him for a walk (sadly "Peppy" is no longer with us).

Douglas Coupland

Try and recall the most clever thought you've ever had. Then read just about any work of fiction by Douglas Coupland. Then start again.

Douglas Coupland is one of those writers who consistently makes you think "gee, I wish I'd thought of that". I recently read "J-Pod" in which he not only fills the pages with wildy imaginative characters whose lives are amusingly flawed, but also parodies himself as a writer and a public figure. Very clever.

Coupland is also a graphic artist and a sculptor. When MTV first signed on in the 80's, Douglas Coupland was responsible for creating all those nifty graphics that became their trademark.

A couple of months back, much to my delight, my wife discovered his DVD "Souvenir of Canada" at the local video store. Named for his book, this documentary follows Coupland as he strives to define what it is to be Canadian, albeit in an amusingly heartwarming way. He begins by purchasing a 1950's-built house in his hometown of Vancouver, which is destined for destruction (the house, not Vancouver). He then fills the house with every bit of Canadiana you can imagine, from stubby beer bottles to a large Canada goose decoy. The house isn't meant to be lived in, rather it's a living art installation. His "showing" is a large housewarming party for family and friends.

I love being Canadian, I love the diversity of the landscape, I love our quirky self-conscious culture, I love the snow – and I love Douglas Coupland's "Souvenir of Canada" for reminding us that this is a pretty special place to live.

Literacy

Back in January of 2003 (I know, it seems so long ago) we vacationed in Costa Rica. Besides being a stunningly beautiful and civilized country bordered by 2 of the world's largest proponents of the illegal drug trade (Panama and Nicaragua) Costa Rica also has the distinction of being without a military. Back in the mid 60's the government elected to put the money it would have spent on establishing a military, into education. The result is that Costa Rica has a 96% literacy rate, one of the highest in the world for developing countries.

This little blurb was originally going to come back to the latest Canadian Armed Forces tv commercials, but in the course of research I discovered this website…

http://www.worldlit.ca/facts.html

Illiteracy is one of the greatest "crimes against humanity" that I can imagine. Here's the deal: if you provide people with an education they'll have the tools to make a living and support themselves and their families. They'll make a positive contribution to society, they'll have the confidence and the power to elect responsible and accountable governments (I know, this is idealistic but stay with me here) and the corruption that enslaves people will slowly but surely give way to human rights.

Wow, am I on a soapbox or what?

In medieval Europe and in certain tribal cultures (eg the early Mayan culture of Mexico's Yucatan peninsula) the only people who were permitted to learn basic literacy were government and church officials. This was designed to keep the masses subservient – no education, no power – a recipe for slavery.

India has a 50% illiteracy rate.

The ability to read and write should never be taken for granted.

Service Me

I'm a stickler for customer service, I really think it's what separates the best businesses from those who probably shouldn't be in business. Let's face it, everyone in the food service industry can prepare and serve food, everyone in the retail industry can sell products, everyone in the travel industry can transport large groups of people from one place to another. The difference is customer service.

I bring this up because I've now had 2 really great experiences with Jet Blue in the U.S. The first was in October of 2006. I was returning from New York to Buffalo, which is close to where I live and cheaper than flying from Toronto by about $200. When I arrived at New York's LaGuardia airport I discovered my flight had been cancelled because Buffalo was completely snowed in. I can't remember which airline I was booked on but to make a long story short they couldn't have been LESS helpful AND they cancelled all remaining flights to Buffalo that day, even though the Buffalo airport re-opened that afternoon at 3 (my flight was at 4PM). I called Jet Blue, they immediately booked me onto a 5:15PM flight, the flight left at 5:15 and we arrived in Buffalo on time – and they couldn't have been MORE helpful.

My 2nd experience with Jet Blue was this past Thursday afternoon. I received an unsolicited mass-mailing from them APOLOGIZING for service disruptions during this past U.S. holiday weekend, citing horrible snowstorms in the States. Hell, I wasn't even aware of these problems, but they took full responsibility, chastised themselves, and have now published a customers "Bill of Rights" on their website. That just plain rocks.

The next time I fly within the U.S. I will fly Jet Blue because they VALUE me as a customer. And the seatback satellite tv's are pretty cool.

Rehab

"Rehab" has been in the news a lot lately. Know what? Rehab is a really, really serious thing. Rehab is where you go when you know beyond a doubt that your life is completely out of your control; when you've hit bottom; when you are doing things you don't want to do, saying things you shouldn't say, and finding yourself in places you don't want to be. Rehab means that you have at some point given control of your life over to some "thing", be it drugs or alcohol, and let "it" call the shots. But there is one absolute about entering rehab: you have to be ready and you have to do it on your own. Rehab is not a date, it's not a vacation, an afternoon meeting or a quick-fix. Rehab is a commitment. And for anyone entering rehab it's really, really scary.

The scariest thing about rehab is not the people (you get used to being around others with similar problems), it's not the endless discussion of the past, or the time spent in "group" – the scariest thing about rehab is that in order for it to work you have to accept that you will never, ever be able to take another drink, or another hit. Do you know how that boggles the mind for someone whose primary focus in life is feeding the monkey on their back? The sheer panic is overwhelming. You have to be ready and you have to do it on your own.

To ANY person entering rehab, big star or working stiff, rich or poor, young or old, I wish you all the best on your journey to sobriety. You CAN do it, if you're ready.

Concert Memories pt. 5

I once passed out at Toronto's Maple Leaf Gardens and missed an entire Jethro Tull concert. In retrospect I probably didn't miss anything, but there you go.

A Prophecy

I have seen the future, but it was a rainy night and I was really tired so it's kinda fuzzy. I really should have written it down. Damn.

Tommyland

I recently read Tommy Lees' autobiography "Tommyland", and actually enjoyed it quite a bit. Tommy Lee and I will never be mistaken as kindred spirits, and I'm still not a Crue fan, but I totally respect his passion for music and life, and his honesty in addressing tabloid misconceptions AND owing up to his mistakes.

However if the book accomplished anything it was the overwhelming claustrophobia of fame, the "living in a glass house" thing. In this respect his descriptions put the reader in the midst of the madness – papparazi camped in trees outside his house, following him in cars, baiting him with deeply personal mistruths just to get a shot of he and his companion scowling. What I found especially galling, and I had no idea until I read this book, is that most of these dickheads carry mace to use against the objects of their affections if the celeb being photographed should, God forbid, react out of rage. How f***ing dare you. Don't get me wrong, I feel no pity for rockstars or movie stars who suddenly balk at fame because it puts them in the public eye. You asked for it, you got it. What I do have a problem with is the public's supposed "right to know" what goes on in these people's personal lives. What right to know??? The public's "right to know" is overstated. We have no more right to know what goes on in anyone's personal life than they do in ours UNLESS they have been convicted of a serious crime or have done something to intentionally harm another human being or infringe on their basic human rights.

Tommy, much respect – and I think I'll start calling my little corner of the world "Johnnyland".

So THAT'S where I left that JFK assassination film!

Well, Dallas and JFK have been in the news again lately. Seems a 75 year old man who was on the parade route where JFK was shot in '64 and who just happened to be filming the parade only recently remembered that he had this film. I have to think that had it been me this would have been "top of mind" as consultants are so fond of saying, but maybe that's just me. Granted he was filming a couple of blocks away from "the event" but still, what would Jack McCoy say???

I was in Dallas about a year ago, went to Deeley plaza to see where JFK got capped – it's marked by an "X" on the roadway. I thought this was kind of funny. Seriously though, and I am NOT a conspiracy theorist, when you look at the "X" on the road and then look BACK and UP at the 6th floor window of the Texas Book Depository from which Oswald fired you really have to think "ehhhhh, I dunno…"

Nice city though…

Wawa - wah, wah, wah, wah. waaaaaaaah…

Back in 1998 Toronto writer and Rheostatics rhythm guitarist Dave Bidini penned one of the best books on the Canadian rock scene ever written. Titled "On a Cold Road", Mr Dave paralled his band's rock and roll tour-of-duty with those of several well and lesser-known Can-rock artists. The beauty of the book was that whether you'd been there and done that, or just been there, anyone who'd ever done time in a cavernous arena or a seedy rawk bar could relate to Dave's honest yet respectfully endearing tales.

Having spent the better part of a year touring the northern Ontario bar circuit with a band (in a "non-performing" role, as they say in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame) more than a comfortable share of these stories rang true with yours truly. My first road trip with boys in "Viper" was to a desolate skid mark in the middle of a Northern Ontario logging community called Wawa. The pace for the following 2 weeks was set en route at a liquor store in Parry Sound, where we stocked up for the hundreds of miles of barren winter highway ahead of us. We reached the "armpit of the north" around midnight, staggering drunk and freezing, having spent 4 or 5 hours in a cube van with a broken heater. And I'd lost my glasses, which I use for seeing.

Fast forward (or perhaps "slow mo") to the following day. In the glaring northern Ontario sunshine this place looked like shit. Fortunately I found my glasses on the floor of the truck, right where I'm sure I'd left them the night before. We loaded the equipment into the bar, which was a surprisingly good room – big space, fairly high ceiling, ample stage. In the midst of our shlepping all manner of amps, drums and PA we were introduced to "the mayor of Wawa" who, as you've probably guessed, was not the real Mayor but whose imbecilic ways had earned him this dubious moniker. We took an immediate disliking to his honour until he started buying us beer, after which we exchanged mailing addresses as Christmas was mere weeks away and what kind of a shit-heel would ignore Christmas card duty anyway. Seriously though, the band should have been called "The Beer Whores" because alcohol became the crazy glue that bonded us to many a stranger.

That evening we hit the local "fine dining" restaurant, which meant that their chips came with a choice of gravy or no gravy. I should have opted for neither for despite my inebriation it was obvious that the chips were "off". Take note, food poisoning and alcohol equals a feeling of death, or at the very least the desire for a rapid departure from this mortal coil. Holy f***, I think I was vomiting up dinners from LAST Christmas.

At any rate the first week passed like a festering kidney stone, which is to say like the feeling that you want to rid your system of this poisonous thing but you know it won't leave until you've suffered sufficiently. The second week was College shenanigans week wherein every sad sack who'd had the good sense to leave this dog turd of a town inexplicably returned to celebrate the drunken event that was family Christmas in the bush. Truth be told it was a lot of fun having a packed house every night of the week, the collective student body rocking and rolling to the classic teen hits of the day. This was also the setting for my proudest moment as a roadie, for it was my rabbit to set up and execute the pyrotechnical portion of the show. My predecessor in this role, who is now a genius chemical engineering prof somewhere in the USA, crafted his own "flashpots" from two 6 inch rolled steel cylinders welded to a metal base. Inside each pot was a pair of 1 inch bolts which were attached to electrical terminals on the outside of the pot. From these crude connectors was strung common household lamp cord, which ran to a common electrical light switch located back at the homemade lighting board – well out of harm's way – well, my harm's way. Prior to showtime I would string a thin piece of copper wire between the bolts, and pour a single tablespoon of gun powder in a neat pile over the wire. At the appointed moment I would flick the switch which would short out the copper wire and ignite the gunpowder, inspiring a round of "oohs" and "awws" normally reserved for Canada Day fireworks. If this sounds crude and unsafe I can only reply "yes". So, to the point. Wednesday night mere moments before "the big bang" a patron accidently knocked over one of the pots, spilling the gunpowder. Fearing that the fiery climax would be little more than a sparking fart I seized my plastic container of explosive powder, ran to the stage, poured in what a pissed-up Graham Kerr would have called a tablespoon, and ran back to my post just in time to launch a fiery mushroom cloud that would have been more appropriate at the Nevada desert A-bomb tests of the 1950's. As the filthy gray cloud of dusty smoke filled the cavernous bar, fun seekers coughed and hacked their way to the exits, en route to some other watering hole where asphyxiation wasn't part of the deal.

In hindsight this precursor to the horribly tragic Great White "Station Nightclub" fire of 2003 (also due to flashpots) was ill-advised, and fortunately no one was hurt in the ensuing Wawa smoke out - but at the time it was funny as hell.

You can find Dave Bidini's "On a Cold Road" on Amazon, check it out, it's a truly entertaining and insightful (but in a fun kind of way) read.

Faaaaame…

In my line of work I occasionally meet and sometimes work with musical artists who breathe that rarest of air known as "celebrity" – and like many folks I have this bad habit of imagining that most of my favourite artists will be as friendly and erudite as I imagine they will. With a few notable exceptions this has not always been the case. I should mention here that meeting artists whose work I don't like is never disappointing, because I just don't give a shit – they're marked from the get-go.

So here's a partial list of some of my better famous-people-meeting experiences;

Leonard Cohen – hands down the coolest person I've ever met; friendly, charming, patient, intelligent, and poetic. There is no doubt in my mind why women want to be with him, even in his later years. Leonard Cohen IS his writing made flesh.

(Sir) George Martin – the man produced the Beatles, which technically gives him license to be a total prick. The refreshing part is that he is anything BUT. His presence defines grace and humility. I actually began to tear up listening to him recall producing Beatles sessions. He was the English gentleman through and through.

Hunter S Thompson – he arrived an hour late, he mumbled his way through the interview (conducted by the inimitable Ted Woloshyn), he swore, he drank – it was the BEST, and had he been anything less I would have been truly disappointed. The high point came when I asked him to autograph my copy of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas";

Thompson: Who should I sign it to?

Me: 'To John' is fine

Interviewer (Ted): Why don't you sign it 'f*** off'

I now have an autograph that reads "To John - crush them when they tell you to f*** off. Hunter". It's one of my most prized possessions.

I was going to regale you with the list of celebrities whose presence I would sooner forget, but that would be easy and cheap. And so are they…

It Goes Pop

I'm a sucker for a great pop song. True, my musical tastes run the gamut from metal to old skool country, ambient to industrial, but nothing beats a well crafted pop song. Take The Raspberrie's 1972 hit "Go All The Way". Hooks to die for, spine shivering harmonies, clever key changes, slick production, and a driving rhythm that pumps and breathes with pure sexual energy.

Do you know why Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars" was such a phenomenal hit? Because it's a WELL WRITTEN SONG. The band actually sat down with their instruments and thought about it ie here's an opening, here are some verses, some choruses, and lyrics that make an emotional connection – a song. Should all songs come about this way? Absolutely not, music's beauty lies in it's diversity. But once in a while for a very brief moment the perfect pop song cuts through and everything is right in the world.

Robert Pickton

Riding the subway a couple of weeks back I saw a poster for the new Hannibal Lecter film, I think it's called "Happy Meal" or some such thing. Conversely the front pages of all 4 Toronto papers that same morning were filled with pictures and headlines sensationalizing the opening of Robert Pickton's mass-murder trial in British Columbia. I don't know, I just thought the timing was a bit odd.

When jury selection for the trial concluded a few weeks ago speculation was that the trial would last up to a full year. As with any trial jurors are not allowed to discuss the proceedings with any person outside the courtroom. A full year of graphic testimony, horrific physical evidence and unimaginable mental and emotional anguish, not to mention bearing witness to the never-ending suffering of the victims' families and friends – with no outlet to vent. So many victims.

In his book "My Dark Places" James Elroy, in recalling his mother's murder, said "I'd like to find the asshole who came up with the term 'closure'. There is no closure'."

No closure, only pain.

Place no false idols before me…

Several years ago a radio station I worked for held a "talent contest", which is what reality shows used to be called. The winner was remarkably unspectacular, but was lauded with cash and prizes, to which one of my co-workers remarked "…and somewhere a real artist is eating spaghetti out of a can". That pretty much sums up my feelings about the various "Idol" shows. For starters I think the term "idol" speaks volumes about the state of pop culture. How about "false idol" – ya, "American False Idol", that's better!

I'm not a fan of these shows, which is fine because I'm not their "target audience". I've seen a few episodes of both the Ameri-con and Can-con versions and while some of the contestants do possess musical talent, most seem preoccupied with performing the way they think a "pop star" should perform. Leaping frenetically about the stage or forsaking musical dynamics in favour of over-the-top vocal acrobatics does NOT equal presence. Presence is the appearance that you are about to explode, not the actual act of exploding. Bono has presence, David Bowie has presence; most of the "Idle" contestants have damaged on/off switches.

I've been in bands. Bands are not formed with the help of 3 judges, a pretty-boy mc and a studio audience. In a nutshell here's how it works. Friends who play instruments get together and jam out other people's songs. If there's a spark they continue to jam on a regular basis. After a couple of weeks and more beer, "jams" are referred to as "band practice". The band writes their first original song, which is usually lame and derivative, but everyone's pumped because it's their song. At this point it becomes evident that there's one person in the band that doesn't fit the band's "style", which means they can't play or sing, or they're an asshole. That person is turfed and a replacement recruited. The band writes, the band records, the band gigs. The money sucks, the band starves, and one or more players become addicted to something. Everyone starts to hate everyone else and the band dissolves. Thankfully this isn't true of every band, just the ones I've been in, and for most bands it's not too far off the mark. And oddly all of this happens without phone-in voting!

Actually I wonder how the landscape of rock and roll would have changed had bands based their personnel changes on phone-in voting…and when does the swimsuit competition begin?

Look, if anyone's 15 minutes of fame includes a public flogging on national television by "judges" whose credibility is suspect then knock yourself out. But let's face it – real artists who work really hard and forge out real careers have a FAR better chance of "keeping it real" because they have an intimate relationship with their art.

And speaking of music industry careers - Sugar Jones anyone? Looks like real artists aren't the only ones eating spaghetti out of a can after all.

The Blind Boys

A couple of weeks back we saw The Blind Boys of Alabama, America's pre-eminent black gospel group. Hell, it's no wonder gospel churches in the deep south are packed every Sunday, this shit is FUN. Seriously, I would actually consider returning to church if Sunday mornings were filled with the raucous joy of redemption and salvation rather than the drudgery of sanctimony.

Btw for fans of HBO's "The Wire" (and if you're not yet a fan check it out), the opening theme song "Down In The Hole" (penned by Tom Waits) was performed by The Blind Boys for Season #1.

Passport

I spent a few hours in the Passport office the other day. Actually it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, mainly because the Passport office is located inside a large mall so I was able to walk around.

When I did settle in, waiting for my number to come up, I got to thinking that the only reason we need passports is because the governments of so many nations can't get along. They foster and outwardly encourage hatred, engage in acts of war and terrorism, and generally maintain such an overpowering sense of distrust among nations that their people are required to show proof of their birthright to allow for safe passage.

"Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do".

Air Sickness

The next time you attend an air show and a fighter jet screams across the sky overhead, close your eyes and know that in some parts of the world that same sound is usually followed by the thunder of bombs crashing all around, if not into you. Something that in one part of the world symbolizes power and "freedom" in another symbolizes fear and death.

DIY

I'm not a fan of self-serve checkouts, which seems to be a growing trend in stores like Home Depot and Walmart. When a retailer prices an item the cost of doing business, which includes paying the wages of checkout clerks, is built into that price. Following this logic there should be a discount applied when using a self-serve checkout, and that ain't gonna happen. Instead the self-serve checkout is marketed to us as a "convenience" – just like ATM fees! How it's convenient when I'm doing someone else's job is lost on me. Self-serve checkouts are also the initial step in downsizing staff – if everyone's using them, checkout staff become obsolete. I don't wish to contribute to someone else's mis-fortune. Not gonna use the self-serve checkouts, f**k 'em.

The Wire

I can barely stomach conventional television, so like a lot of folks I now watch pretty much anything that comes from HBO via DVD. For example I was late getting into The Sopranos by 5 years, so we watched he first 5 seasons in 6 weeks. Y'know what? When you watch them all back-to-back like that it's actually not that great a show – really redundant in fact.

Which brings me to The Wire. We've just finished watching season 4. This is without a doubt one of the best shows ever. It's gritty, but not in that fake commercial television kind of way (think David Caruso – no wait, don't, it'll make your ass hurt). The characters are rich and well developed (the cast is quite large), and the writing is crisp and taut, without being over-the-top. In fact part of the shows' beauty is its' subtlety. Often it takes an entire episode to make a single point. That's good storytelling. And 4 seasons in I only just noticed that there is NO incidental music (correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure I'm right). No hit singles to incite pathos because the actors can't pull it off (yes, I understand musical underscore, that's not the point).

Storytelling. How cool is that?

BTW I used to LOVE A&E, in it's pre-"Dog The Bounty Hunter" days. Too bad – A&E could have been HBO.

Measure THIS!

I work in the Canadian radio broadcasting industry. Do you know how the Canadian broadcast industry measures audience numbers? An organization called BBM (Bureau of Broadcast Measurement) sends out diaries at random to households throughout the measurement area. These resemble datebooks, except that they break the day down into 15 minute segments. Ever heard the term "average quarter hour"? That's what they're talking about. Recipients are then asked to fill out these diaries according to their radio listening habits. For example if I listened to "Carl and Googie In the Morning" I would indicate that by penciling the stations call letters into the appropriate time slots. Btw recipients receive a 2 dollar coin as an incentive to fill out these balllots.

I've been to the BBM offices and looked through hundreds of diaries. It's shocking. Despite BBM's "random sampling" I was seeing 2, 3 even 4 diaries in a row that had been filled out by the same person. According to BBM's system, in a city like Toronto 1 diary equals approximately 1000 people. Imagine how one person can misrepresent a radio stations actual listening audience and you'll appreciate that this is a flawed system. Radio lives and dies by these numbers. In Toronto, one share point equals approx 2 million dollars in potential revenue. People's livelihoods literally depend on these numbers. How then does Canadian Idol have a more accurate system of measurement than the Canadian broadcast industry?

Concert Memories pt. 4

A few summers ago I saw Los Lobos at a western New York venue called Melody Fair, an "in-the-round" concert hall that featured a rotating stage. The night before the motors that rotated the stage had fizzled out, so on this night, to ensure everyone in the audience got a good view of the band, every 15 minutes a crew would come running out and physically rotate the stage by a quarter turn. The band looked slightly confused by this at first, but each time after that they would break into a surf tune. This is but one of many reasons Los Lobos is the coolest band on earth.

Microsloth

Man I hate Windoze…seriously, don't you feel cheated paying all that money for an OS that the manufacturer knows is flawed, but releases it anyway? And Windoze "Vista"? Shouldn't it be called "Mac Lite"?

Concert Memories pt. 3

I saw Bob Dylan do an entire show with his shirt tail sticking out of his fly. Blowin' in the wind indeed…

When The Levees Broke

I'm ashamed to admit that when Hurricane Katrina hit the U.S. Gulf Coast and relief agencies began to solicit donations, my first thought was "why should I donate, I'm sure the government of the richest country in the world is down there right now helping those people with food, shelter and evacuation. It's the United States, they wouldn't abandon their own citizens!". Like most people, including the victims of Katrina, I honestly believed this…at first.

Well, we all know how that turned out. However I was recently jolted into an even more sinister reality when we rented the 4 part documentary that Spike Lee produced for HBO, called "When The Levees Broke". Believe me when I say that what we saw of the botched aftermath on tv and newspaper wasn't even the half of it. I was shocked AND awed at the total disregard for the victims of this catastrophe by their elected leaders, their government run emergency relief organization (FEMA) and their own military engineers (The Army Corp of Engineers who designed and constructed the deeply flawed levees which broke under the strain of water).

Check out "When The Levees Broke", and add the disaster in New Orleans to your list of reasons to loathe George W. Bush.

Concert Memories pt. 2

The first time I saw Pink Floyd was their initial outing following the departure of Roger Waters. The show took place at a mistake-of-an-outdoor-venue in Toronto called Exhibition Place. This venue also doubled as a Major League Baseball and Canadian Football League field, with the massive scoreboard at one end, adjacent to the stage. At what was supposed to be a dramatic moment in the show, a huge inflatable pig began it's ascent from behind the scoreboard after which it was to have floated out over the crowd. However it got stuck near the top of the scoreboard whereupon roadies with long poles tried frantically to dislodge the animal, but to no avail – so instead they deflated the pig and we watched it's sad, sagging carcass float to the ground. Oh poor piggy, your moment in the spotlight reduced to so much wasted bacon…