What I Want in the Next Decade...

All right, I am still sick, but I went for a run this morning and thought deeply and sincerely about what I want from this new decade (as I am sure many of you out there have as well). I don't mean resolutions; I never bother with those sort of things. What I want is to leave you with a practical list of advice before the ball drops (these are the things I have on my mind):
1) A new job - all the work I do is on contract and it sucks. I have to make some serious changes in the new decade
2) A (new) girlfriend - this is iffy; will have to come after the job
3) Tell people how you really feel about them no matter what the consequences might be - this is mainly for the people I cannot stand, but it could be useful in other circumstances (see #2)
4) More toys - i.e. I need a new laptop (I am very agreeable to anything with the Apple logo)
5) Less worrying about the future - I cannot be the only one thinking about this
6) The immediate cessation of reality TV - I cannot be the only one thinking about this
7) More time for my pursuits - I have to explain this one: I had my guitar with me over the last few days and had not played it because I was sick. I only picked it up because my mom complained that she had not heard it since I'd been back. And it felt right; like it belonged in my hands. Not a bad feeling; perhaps I can apply this to my other points (see #2)
8) Get a grip on my family tree - I have so many relations that I have no sense of being related to; needs to be mapped out
9) Keep up this three-times-a-week jogging plan - I don't really have any serious vices to keep me from doing this (see #2)
10) Wish everyone I love the best in the new year and hope that it is a damn sight better than the one we just left - no need to add to this one

Just in Time for the New Year

I guess that freezing rain caught up with me.
I am typing this out through a head cold and a sore throat that is slowly healing. I would not mind so much if this were not my last week at home for the holidays (timing,as I have had to confess to myself) means everything. It also means that I missed my nephew's two games (he's heading to the NHL) and several trips to visit people I have not seen in a year or more. So sad...
Hopefully, by the end of the aughties, I will be hale and ready to make myself very unhealthy with something I should not be drinking (what a cycle)!

Home for the Helladays?

Yeah, I went back. I am typing this on the Dell in my family's living room while my relatives discuss drunken relatives, missing relatives (meaning that they did not bother to come over to eat and get drunk and get talked about), bad weather (i.e. no snow) and watch football. And I could not be happier.
I got a last-minute ticket and caught a train from home. And the engine broke down for two hours halfway to the city. Then there was the freezing rain and the bus drive that took more than an hour on the highway because he took the service roads whenever he could. So, nine hours for what is usually a six-hour trip.
Bright spots? The taxi driver. He, of course, had a degree in electrical engineering that he could not use, even though he went to a local college in my hometown. Fill in this blank: he is south Asian and driving cabs for people who could not walk and chew gum at the same time. But he was not bitter. In fact, he woke me up to how lucky I am go be back. The other bright spot was when I went home and he waited with me as I opened the door and surprised everyone. I did not tell them I would be back and it was a perfect coda to the day, especially with my mom and niece.
So, helladays? Not quite...
Happy everything to everyone!

A Christmas Message

I wish all of you the best over the next few weeks. It is not my favorite time of the year, but I do like to give gifts and stay out of the cold. I think that this will be an interesting time for me to head back. I plan on surprising my family with my presence and I hope they appreciate how hard it is getting back home and receiving their complaints about my life.
Just kidding...almost.

On the Job Hunt (Part Five)

Another interview last week for a job in January. Does not really help me now, but I will have something to cushion the blow of the new year instead of waiting for contracts for more teaching gigs.
Now, I just have to wait for the call... Should be soon. They told me they will need a lot of people for the job (working on the auto show in Montreal).
Patience...

Four Musical Anniversaries and Why They Matter

I was not going to bother with this particular blog, but I realised that there are a few albums that have hit the thirtieth anniversary mark this year (and the year is almost thru!): Talking Heads' Fear of Music, The Clash's London Calling, Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures and Public Image Limited's Metal Box/Second Edition. All of the above were released in 1979 and it makes me wonder...

1979: Economic Problems, Hostage Takings, Disco about to Drop Dead, Hip-Hop about to Rise Up, the first Walkman, the first Home Videogames,and a General Feeling of Malaise (a word I have seen in too many history books to ignore). A perfect storm for some of the most challenging music record companies would ever dare release (just before record sales crashed and burned on all fronts). Maybe we need to inject some of that feeling into the music we have around our ears today. Oh, wait. No need. Apart from the hostages, we have everything else (although disco is now techno, and we are involved in two wars that we cannot get out of).

So, where is the music? Bands that are pointed out as being influenced by the above groups have not really shown their mettle: Radiohead, the Flaming Lips, Massive Attack, Bjork, etc. This is not to say that they do not have their moments of auditory genius. It just feels as though they cannot shift the earth the way these early bands did. Remember: 1979 is post punk (Sid Vicious had died, just in time for most hardcore punk bands to become a parody of themselves); it could have gone in a nice and safe direction where disco lasted until the late eighties (to be replaced by acid house), and the only hard rock or experimental music to be heard was on certain FM radio stations.

I guess I want to much. I think that we deserve more. And I am typing this as I have a Legacy Edition of the 25th anniversary edition of London Calling. You may know the cover: Paul Simonon, at the end of a frustrating performance at the Palladium in New York, is about to do the business to a bass guitar.

Could anyone name a group today that would do the same? Anyone?

I've got a story to tell...

Another year of writing has passed and another season of short story contests is over. For me, the submissions ended with the December first deadline for The Fiddlehead's short story contest. My spring, summer and autumn brought me to other contests, including the CBC and the Writers' Union of Canada (an ominous title for any group). I even posted my updates on Facebook to let my friends know that I am still so stubborn that I think I can win one of these things. That is what I do when I get a pen or a mouse in my hands and my imagination has not been drained by work, routine and life.

So, how have I done? Too soon to tell. I won't hear anything on three of my stories until the new year. Only found out one was not worthy last month. You really can learn from rejection. I have learned that I cannot give this up and that editors really do want you to stay with one format and tone of voice.

Let's be honest: how many of you out there pay attention to these contests or their entrants? Most of the magazines I submit to are found in the section of the magazine rack that you never look at (and apart from the CBC's wish to broadcast the work, very few of the stories that win are read or heard by a wide audience). I once came in second place in a bookstore contest, meaning that it was not printed up in the one weekly journal in the city that paid attention to such things (the first place winner was published) and I received a $500 gift certificate. I think about this often when I write and how I cannot let this habit go if I have had even one glimmer of hope.

So, let me end this entry by encouraging you to read some of those more obscure magazines that need your attention. Some of our greatest writers began this way and I think that you may find a few surprises.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

It is now closing in on December - thanks Black Friday, and all your minions - and I am still looking for more work. I was going to call this entry another "On the Job Hunt", but this feels more personal; more emotionally draining.

Let me explain: I got two letters in the mail from my family stating their concern over me and my situation in Montreal. This is fair. I have not done too well by staying here. In fact, I am pretty broke and have not been able to find work that lasts more than the space of six months a few times a week (teaching gigs, mostly). And now they are all wondering if I am going to head home for the hella-(sorry) holidays.

I do want to go back. I have never spent the break away from my family while living in Canada and I do not want to start a trend. But it is all a question of money. I get paid this week, just in time to end my main teaching contract, but I have not yet found anything to fill in the three weeks leading to those days. This is hard. Plus, I have another story to finish for another short-story contest and some other work that I want to get published. Amazing how I can be so busy and so broke.

So, that is where I stand. I am waiting on some other work, but I am not getting any hopes up. But I will keep on posting!

Kendall on Kindle

Okay, I've read the ads and one review about it, so I think that I can comment on this new reading device. The Kindle is now available...in Zimbabwe, Myanmar and the Falkland Islands. Us hosers will have to wait for Amazon to notice us. This intrigues me, because I have just read a review of the device by Ian Brown, columnist for Canada's very own Globe and Mail. Apparently, the international version of the device was not available, so Mr Brown made due with a less universal version. This gave me enough info to form some thoughts on e-books and e-readers.

Mr Brown did not like it. Did not expect him to. Complaints: no page numbers (only something called location numbers); percentages given (stating how much of the book has been completed or needs to be read, in case you cannot wait); the "text-to-speech" feature (far too robotic-sounding); heaviness; screen's lack of a light source (for night readers); rushed text (a little confusing, but I think he meant that we have to be careful about how often we click if we are on a particular screen); poor choice of literature (no Philip Roth, no Diary of Anne Frank, no One Hundred Years of Solitude; it does have Twilight and Mr Brown states that it is good for genre fiction). Telling line in his review: "[R]eading on a Kindle is to reading a book as having sex while wearing (two) condoms is to having sex: It's still technically intercourse, but doesn't feel the same".

On that happy note, I want to say that I agree with this review without having used the device. I do own a laptop, but I have no desire for an iPhone, Blackberry or any other portable device that eats up my time and costs more than it is worth (a friend mentioned someone he knows who got a +$400 phone bill after taking his portable device with him on vacation). I use books, which means that I have piles of them available at hand, and there is a library nearby that also feeds my addiction. I do not want to boil this collection down to a digital code. But I think that this new device is going to be a hit.

Yes, there is no cover, no spine, no pictures of the authors who created the work and no way to share the book your reading with someone who does not own the device. But I remember the complaints about the first paperbacks (the first Penguins were condemned by George Orwell), but they survived and remain with us today. It will be hard to get the latest toy out of curious hands and much harder to critique anything that allows people to read more frequently. But I am not here to praise it. I have my doubts.

I don't think that I will use it because I cannot think of any books that I would like to read on it. I subscribe to magazines and newspapers on line because of the convenience of scanning for the latest news. I read books in order to expand my knowledge and sensitivity about what makes us what we are (yes, I love fiction and poetry). To read on a Kindle is not to read at all; it is to scan. I cannot imagine reading War and Peace or anything by Shakespeare on one. So, not for me.

But perhaps for that lover of genre fiction it is a true gift (would work well with Choose Your Own Adventure books or the Adrian Mole series). Let's see how this plays out.

Who Cares What Stephen Harper Is Reading?

Okay, let me explain for those of you outside of our borders. Our Canadian prime minister has been the recipient of a book and a letter once a week from the Booker-Prize-winning author Yann Martel. Reason why? Mr Martel would like Prime Minister Harper to read more literature (mainly novels) and expand his horizons (emotionally and intellectually).
I heard Mr Martel speak at a local bookstore this week and take questions from the audience after reading sections from the book. There was praise; there was also an attack that the author easily took out with his wit and intelligence. But I wonder now about the whole project. Yann Martel excluded non-fiction from the list and admitted that he himself did not read a great deal of poetry. This made him suspect to me.
Of course, I have my own list. This is a list of ten books whittled down from my own mental and physical library:
1) Siddhartha by Herman Hesse: This is about a leader forced to grow up and consider the life he is leading and how life should be lived.
2) Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain: All men should read it and learn how a life of cooking can change your life.
3) The Cartoon History of the Universe by Larry Gonick: A quick guide to the history of the world.
4) On the Road by Jack Kerouac: A spirit of freedom and a sense of what the world offers is important.
5) The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane: Any leader who wants to send young people to war should be made to read this slim work of genius.
6) The Autobiography of Malcolm X by Alex Haley: A life with all its flaws. Needs to be read and understood.
7) The Penguin Book of Interviews: An introduction to the minds of great men and women.
8) Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie: His best book and the one that received the Booker of Bookers (should be on any list).
9) A House for Mr Biswas by V.S. Naipaul: The Nobel-Prize-winning author's best work (a family and a man trying to live as a full human being - inspiring).
10) A History of Reading by Alberto Manguel: A study of the act of reading (a perfect conclusion to the project!)

Epiphany at Expozine

You never know where or when you will have a revelation. I went to Montreal's annual fair for independent art, literature and esoterica - officially, it is MONTREAL'S EIGHTH ANNUAL SMALL PRESS, COMIC AND ZINE FAIR! - and nearly collapsed. This was partly my fault (I overdressed for the weather), but I feel that I can also blame the building itself. It was held, once again, in Eglise Saint-Enfant Jesus's basement, a conference room with a stage, a bar/restaurant and too many vendors. It was the first time that I ever felt close to fainting, and to do so among so much bad art did not seem like a professional thing to do. I only managed to speak to one friend, grab a bottle of water, and then rush out for some fresh air.

Listen: I don't think that I am any more cynical than the next goatee-sporting, indie-music loving fan. But I have to wonder now why I have devoted so much time to this particular festival. I always end up with the same free merchandise and find myself attacked by ads for anarchism (sorry, I don't have the time or the money for it), bad scribbles passed off as art and books that are incredibly limited in scope (why can't indie publishers write about things not covered by the big labels; they just seem to present the same material in a new package).

This is my last Expozine; not that anyone should care. I do regret this, but I think that I can be honest and admit that I was given a sign that forced me to take a really hard look - and sniff (another sense memory to burn away) - and say that it is no longer for me.

My best to these dreamers.

A Day to Remember

I did not watch the Remembrance Day ceremonies this morning, but I did wear the poppy and read and listened to news about the events on the web. Rather too convenient and I am bothered by this. I live in a city where the poppy is still optional in some people's minds and the veteran whom I received mine from was bitter about his retirement plans.
I hope that people do remember what these men and women gave over several conflicts and what our soldiers are still giving today (whatever you may think of our government's policies in Afghanistan or the U.S. here and in Iraq, these soldiers deserve our respect and thoughts).

On the Job Hunt (Part Four)

I think that I am a patient man. I have to be considering some of the things that I have had to face with potential employers. I have just spent the past week dealing with two companies that claim that they not only haven't received my application - including my written work (essays and mock campaign material) - but also that they ad I read was a fake one posted on Craigslist. Interesting...
If any of you have had the same problems, please share.

Happy Hallowe'en?

A long gap between entries... I have my reasons. Most of the house I'm in is preparing for a long night of drunken stupidity and costuming at different parties around Montreal and beyond. Normally, I would applaud their efforts, without participating, but I am skipping Hallowe'en this year.

There is enough real horror out there without pretending to be scared by makeup and plastic. H1N1 is a very real threat (still have not received my needle - better to wait and see how it spreads first); bombs are still going off in countries with our troops and allies; the economy is in the toilet; and Montreal has an election tomorrow (like bald men fighting over a comb - see the latest Macleans magazine article on our fair town).

Plan for me is to watch a lot of scary movies, get drunk (ha,ha - won't bother; would take the edge off of the films), and remember to do that whole daylight savings time thing (Spring forward, Fall back). However, I may have to get out of the house to avoid the beggars - I mean, children - who will be pounding at the door for free things.

A camera and a night out might work. But I won't pretend to be scared by the show.

Failure, or a look at the Toronto Maple Leafs

"Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm." - Sir Winston Churchill

I was not going to bother writing a single thing about the Toronto Maple Leafs and their abysmal start to the season (they always seemed bad, so why pay attention now), but I think that I have no choice now. I just found an article online in the U.K. Guardian that critiques both the city and the team, and you know that things are serious when other countries which have no concept of the sport start running you down. I have to chip in with a few thoughts.

The team will have to move. If my hometown, Hamilton, cannot have a team for financial reasons (just admit it, Mr Bettman), then Toronto cannot have a team for psychological and emotional reasons. What does it do to someone or some place when they keep trying to live on past glories when the present is far too bitter to face? Shouldn't they just move on? Macleans magazine and Saturday's Globe and Mail have commented on how the city is the most successful market for hockey. But whose success and on what terms?

The name of the arena will have to change back to Maple Leaf Gardens. To hell with the Air Canada Centre crap! Names are important and should reflect the environment they are in. Anyone that proud to fly Air Canada? Anyone?

These are just a few thoughts, but the problems run much deeper. The seats will be full, but there will always be a culture of arrogance and conservatism in that city that cannot be shaken. There is also too much money flowing into too many hands for so little return. My idea on the move is not just a joke; it is a means of survival.

And one final thing: Vive Les Habitants!

Where the Wild Things Are (a review)

I just sat through a matinee of Spike Jonze's newest film, Where the Wild Things Are. The film debuted last Friday at select theatres around North America. That date - the 16th of October - should be remembered and set in some sort of celluloid memory. This is simply one of the best films about the growth of a child into maturity and empathy that I have ever seen.

Now, there are already complaints about the film that seem fair...on first viewing. Yes, the second half is slow. But I would ask people to remember that this is in the imaginative mind of a boy, a rather hyperactive and outgoing boy. And personally, I did not find this part slow. Compared to other films, with their quick editing and punchline-like scripting, Jonze shot this film like one of the great European masters. If Pasolini or Bergman had ever shot a film with computer-manipulated muppets, it would resemble the second half of the film. Maybe we all need to reconnect with what films were instead of what they have become: video games with larger budgets.

It does not stick with its source. Are you kidding? The book has less than 500 words and there is not much in the way of character development. The film corrects this with some subtlety and genius. Simple scenes with Max (Max Records) and his mother (Catherine Keener); the igloo and the snowball fight; an overheard conversation on the phone and a glimpse of a room are perfectly balanced and pitched. These scenes are cut with the right amount of economy. When Max makes it to the island, he runs to a forest to find the boat. There is no metamorphosis in his room - bed and walls do not become trees - and he is allowed to spend more than one day with his friends. There are relationships between the monsters that are deeper than anything Maurice Sendak included in the book (this is not to critique the source; the story had to get going).

And there is this: It will frighten children. Nonsense. I know that it depends on the child, but I serious doubt that any child exposed to Saturday morning cartoons or comic books will be terrified by Max, Judith, KW, Carol and the other monsters.

So, check it out. Twice. It deserves a special place in film history.

The Good Laptop Thief (a true story)

I was going to send this off for a literary contest, but I felt that it would be better to put it up here and save it for the web community to judge. I also realize that I stole part of the name from an excellent French film (also a remake) but I could not come up with something better. It is also the pseudonym of an interesting saint.

And what I have here is a true story!

It has been said that your friends are not the ones you choose; they are simply the ones who got there first. With that thought in mind, I now wonder how roommates get chosen.

In the summer of 2002, I moved to Montreal to start graduate school at McGill University and I was desperate to find a place. I spent a week and a half in motels and hotels phoning potential landlords and homeowners, but the occupancy rates were against me. After one stressed out phone call home to explain where I stood, my mother suggested contacting a friend’s mother in Verdun. She owned a third-floor walk-up and I would be sharing space with two other students. The real surprise was who one of those students turned out to be.

There was a young man from Zimbabwe who had already failed one year of schooling (it did not really matter; his family was rich enough to take care of his whims and ignore his apology); the other tenant was someone that I had known since he was a boy. He was also studying at McGill in an undergraduate program for physical fitness. This living arrangement would have advantages and disadvantages that I did not foresee.

There were no obvious problems with living together. The landlord’s complaints were the worst of it. Remember, she was the mother of a friend of the family; anything that happened would immediately get back home and redirect itself into a long phone call. But again, there were no serious problems. I often acted as an intermediary when other portions of the rent were late, garbage overflowed in the bin on the fire escape, or she simply wanted to vent at someone who would listen. I still speak to her and the conversations are now always warm and comfortable. She knew that I kept the place as stable as it could possibly be.

We were not in the habit of keeping our individual rooms locked. I often watched cable in the large main room taken by my near-relative. And that relative would sometime use the mirrors on my closet when exercising. There was no shock in coming home and finding someone sleeping on your bed or using one of your chairs to change a light bulb in your own room. We were comfortable invading each other’s space.

This did not last very long. On Sundays, I worked at a privately-owned ESL school to make some extra money. These classes ran from 9 to 12 in the morning and then 6 to 9 in the evening. Usually, I came home between classes, changed, exercised, bathed, ate, and then got back on the bus for the next session. On a Sunday when the school only had a half-day, I went home early to discover that my laptop was missing.

The African roommate had told me that he would be leaving on vacation that very morning. I immediately named my thief. Then, after counting silently to ten, I contacted his girlfriend, who knew nothing of the trip or laptop (she seemed to want me to know how ignorant she was about everything). Then I spoke to the other roommate, who had been asleep with the TV on in his room the whole time I was away and knew even less than the girlfriend.

Later that night, I decided to write about it in my journal, all the time imagining what I would do to the missing roommate when I saw him again. In the middle of writing the entry, the house phone rang. This was the gist of the phone call:

“Hello?”

“Hello, is that ____________?”

Great, I thought. I am now his secretary.

“No, he’s not here. He’s on vacation.”

There was a brief pause on the other side of the line. And then I heard the one thing I did not expect to hear after the day I had just had.

“Is that Kendall?”

After a pause on my side of the line, I managed to say something close enough to a “Yes” for him to reply with:

“Come to the front door.”

I had a vague image of myself being assaulted by students or parents upset over the grades that I had handed out in a more innocent time.

“I can’t do that unless you tell me why.”

And this was the punchline:

“Well, I have your laptop.”

*

It was a very long walk down the narrow staircase to the second-floor door. I left lights on in the stairwell and turned on the outside light so that I could see my caller. The only problem with this plan was that the frosted glass in the window did not make him any clearer. All I saw was a blurred image of someone moving about impatiently on the landing.

He was tall, dressed in black, and smiling. He asked me once again if I was Kendall and, when I gave him the same positive answer, he passed back the laptop and all of the accessories he had stored in a plastic bag. His story was that the roommate I had blamed for taking it had told him to pass by that very day to get some money owed to him. This roommate sometimes managed a nightclub and had hired this man as a bouncer. His vacation was a way for him to avoid paying this stranger what he was owed. So, breaking into our place and moving from unlocked room to unlocked room – not the most difficult thing to do – he entered my space and made his withdrawal.

That incident led to locked doors, labels on everything we owned, avoided contact with each other beyond brief greetings when we were in the same room, and simply not trusting each other. This thief had revealed what another roommate was capable of and a part of me still thanks him for this. His truth was better than a lie for which I had almost lost my computer.

I did not ask for his name. I simply mentioned that this was the “weirdest night of my entire life” and wondered to myself if a good thief would make a better roommate than dishonest friend.

Oh, and the amount of money he was owed? $150.00.

The Poet (performance/poem piece)

Another one of my braindroppings from way back. I performed this once in a coffeeshop and got an interesting response (they laughed in the right places).
Enjoy!


The poet begins with a blank piece of paper, a deadline and too much time on his hands.

The poet realizes that he has just begun to start the first lines of his new poem.

The poet stops here. He pauses. He is thinking. The next line does not come to him so easily.

The poet realizes that he should have avoided the distractions available in writing at home.

The poet now has an idea. He begins to add the necessary words, allusions and poetic devices.

The poet takes another pause. He notices the time.

The poet should really learn to pay attention to those deadlines.

The poet now believes that procrastination is a viable option for a poetic subject.

The poet entertains the idea on the page and in his mind. He looks at the time.

The poet realizes that he cannot look at time itself; he can only look at his watch or a clock.

The poet congratulates himself on this observation.

The poet worries about becoming too metaphysical.

The poet wonders if he should continue.

The poet asks himself if it is actually necessary.

The poet realizes that he never gets paid for his work.

The poet develops more doubts about his talent.

The poet wonders if he is really a poet.

The poet takes a look at himself in the mirror.

The poet wonders if he has the look of a poet.

The poet remembers the pictures he has seen of other poets.

The poet begins on a new sheet of paper.

The poet wonders if this is necessary.

The poet looks back at the mirror.

The poet realizes that he is a handsome devil.

The poet wonders if this is a detriment to writing poetry.

The poet’s ego now has a boost.

The poet can add his vanity to the poem.

The poet has added enough to the poem to let it stand on its own.

The poet starts to add more.

The poet adds too much.

The poet wonders whether he has gone too far.

The poet understands that this no longer matters.

The poet feels sorry for his audience.

The poet promises that this is the last page.

The poet has broken his promises before.

The poet may be running out of ideas.

The poet pays closer attention to the distractions that come from writing at home.

The poet sees that the television has been turned on.

The poet sees supermodels in the latest fashions on the runways of Paris, New York and Rome.

The poet can no longer concentrate on finishing his poem.

The poet wonders if he should be sharing this with his audience.

The poet thinks that he should have turned the TV off.

The poet stares at the TV.

The poet starts a third page.

The poet apologizes once again.

The poet is still staring at the TV.

The poet spills hot tea on his lap.

The poet is no longer interested in the models.

The poet stops the poem here.

The poet thanks the audience for listening.

Under The Needle: Vancouver 2010 and H1N1

It is strange how things work out. There has been a lot of talk this week about how athletes will not be allowed to compete for Canada in the Winter Olympics if they do not receive the vaccine for H1N1 swine flu.
So, it is finally true: they do want our athletes to take drugs.
Laughter aside, what about those other countries that will be staying in the Olympic village. Will African athletes be dismissed if they have not taken a cocktail of AZT to combat HIV/AIDS? Will athletes in any nation with a particular history of disease (India, China, etc.) be shunned on the podium? True, these are not places known for producing great winter sports athletes, but they are scenarios that have to be discussed.
Someone should be thinking rationally about the disease and how to keep athletes healthy. We don't need to segregate during an event devoted to bringing the world together.

A Letter to Scarlett Johansson

Ahh, Mrs. J. How little we knew you. You actually do have a wonderful singing voice when you try. I have listened to Break Up about half-a-dozen times since I found it at a nearby Starbucks and I think that you could challenge a few other singers out there (American Idol contestants have nothing on you).

Yes, I bought it. No downloading for free if I can help it. I figured that I was curious enough to get the whole package and that I owed you one, since I had not seen one of your films since Lost in Translation (man, I miss Tokyo!)

Now, this Pete Yorn fellow: Are you sure this is how you want to go? Most of the stuff he wrote for you is pretty middle-of-the-road fare, excepting some of the blips and noises on Relator (my least favorite song on the album and the one released with a video, but I digress). This is not say that he cannot write. I Don't Know What to Do, Blackie's Dead and even Clean work for me (good for your vocal range). But you need another challenge. Not that covering Tom Waits wasn't a challenge (we all know that it was), but maybe other collaborations could work. Any interest in the Flaming Lips? Yo La Tengo? The London Symphony Orchestra? They could all do with your touch...

Nice cover of I Am The Cosmos, by the way. Who picked that Chris Bell classic? Please say that it was you. I doubt that Mr Yorn would have chosen it, as it is the most moving song on the CD. Maybe I should add Alex Chilton to the list and see if he is free.

All right, you did it. I did not waste my money out of curiosity over something with your face on it. I am giving you a pass on this one. I may even check out another of your films one day!
KD

P.S. Use real drums next time! All those electronic strings and programming effects can only take you so far.

P.P.S. You really saved your hubby's bacon on SNL! Porcelain fountains, anyone?

Barack Nobel Obama

Okay, it is official: the world loves him.
President Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize last week and there has been much written and knocked about as to why he got the ultimate humanitarian prize. The Right believes that they are receiving the middle finger from Oslo; the Left believes that it has just received a high-5.
Now, I have an opinion on this that I want to get it out of the way and in print. I spoke to a friend yesterday who asked for it and all I said was, "No comment." I now believe that he deserved to get it. He has changed the game and is trying harder than any other recent US leader to talk to the ones who need a talking to, instead of continuing the previous "with us or against us" theory of negotiation. And recall that the prize was not given to him for winning an election. The Nobel committee is specific about how he has acted as a statesman in and out of the Oval Office.
Some names deserve to be remembered (Mandela, Dr King); others still make me cringe (Kissinger, Mother Teresa). Obama has just been given a great big nudge from the international community.
Let's see how he plays this one out.

A Nobel Week

I picked up the paper today and realized that my favorite week is up: The Nobel Prizes are being handed out.
I look forward to this time of year the way sports fans love their respective playoffs. And I think that it is a good sign that my own home country has not yet been honoured with a prize in literature. I admit it; I do not pay much attention to the other awards (today was medicine; tomorrow is physics - ra,ra), but I will be tuned into the news on Thursday when a particularly obscure and not always deserving writer takes up the medal and prepares for a speech in front of a bunch of decrepit people who likely have not read their work.
Oh, and the peace prize is handed out on Friday. I am not making any predictions on this one. Any guesses?

Taste Testing Via

I look at instant coffee the way children look at Castor oil or being sick in the summertime: an unnecessary evil that should be abolished with the full weight of the law. But I was intrigued when I learned that Starbucks released their particular brand of instants. I had to know what they were thinking.
The full name is Starbucks Via Ready Brew Instant Coffee, and it is available at any company franchise where they serve real coffee. On a week night, I stopped by, bought two 3-shot packets, and left the café without making eye contact.
So, how did it turn out? I started with the Italian Roast (Extra Bold). After a very small breakfast, and only with a little sugar to top it off, I tried it. Not too bad. It was a little weaker than the store's own urn-ready drink, but quaffable. It was light - a little like Taster's Choice, but not too close - and the finish was not overwhelming. Nothing sharp or bold about that one (six spoons out of ten).
Then there was the Columbia (Medium). After a small dinner, and no extra sugar, I tried this one straight up. It had a good taste and real body to it. Of course, there was some tartness (especially in the aftertaste), but it worked for me. It brought back just how Colombian coffee should taste - even without self-ground beans and a cafetiere - and I would not avoid another shot late at night as I try to finish a blog after a very long delay between entries (eight cups out of ten).
I wonder if this trend will pick up and become standard practice with the big chains. Instant Second Cup brands? Instant Dunkin' Donuts (would anyone notice)? If they can put out their own Colombian mixes, I will take them out for a run.
One last note: Inside the packet, I noticed that the Columbia is described as a Red Eye Flight and that the Italian Roast is Business Trip. Fair enough, if you had to take a brief puddle jump over an exhausting long haul.
And now, something else to drink...

The Fan (a poem)

This is a poem that I wrote some time ago and it seems appropriate for this time of year (baseball season is winding down; hockey season is gearing up). It is in the villanelle form - like Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - and it has its own narrative and logic. And it is funny, too!

“Just let me finish with the game, honey.”
My wife just sat there, staring into space.
“Last time I checked, the score was 3 to 3,

And could you pass me my beer if you see
it by the lamp…with the bulb I will replace…
Just let me finish with the game, honey.

“That last goal was disallowed, but tell me
why he’s still on?” (She had started to pace.)
“Last time I checked the score was 3 to 3.

And I didn’t see the damn referee
until they passed to…what’s-his-face…
Just let me finish with the game, honey.”

I guess she must have heard. I knew that she
had to go out tonight (no time to waste)…
“Last time I checked, the score was…3 to 3.”

(Very stupid words to repeat, believe
me.) She left with her purse (and suitcase?)
“Just let me finish with the game…honey?
Last time I checked, the score was 3 to 3.”

Observations on my Birthday

Yes, I got older today, and not because of the job-hunting or stress. I will not give my age here, but I will say that I am old enough to notice a few things:
1) Graffiti that includes a web address. This intrigues me enough to seriously consider adding a link here (not going to, though; don't want that responsibility).
2) Your true friends will always stay in touch. Amazing how distance does not matter if people care. I know which faces I want to see and remember.
3) I don't look my age. People keep guessing way off the mark. That can be advantageous.
4) My family misses me. My fault for having a life.
5) Strangers sometimes do care. Just introducing my birthday into the conversation proves this theory.
6) There are some things that are just perfect (click here).
7) My mom misses me. Not much else to say.
8) I share my birthday with Faulkner, Shostakovich and Glenn Gould. I also share it with Mark Hamill, Cheryl Tiegs and Will Smith. There is some celestial joke there.
9) I really have to stop typing and get off this computer for one night.

On the Job Hunt (Part Three)

Okay, I am desperate. I have an interview this Thursday with an "easy phone campaign" group (i.e. telemarketing). I have done this before - another desperate time - and I am very curious about what the shell game will be like this time.
More to come, if I bother with this interview!

Misery Loves Company (a poem?)

This is another one of the brainwaves I have had that never received more than a spoken word performance and considerable laughter. Hope you like it:

Misery loves company
And… Bigotry loves stupidity
Beauty loves envy
Civility loves courtesy
Apathy loves cruelty
Vanity loves celebrity
Sincerity loves honesty
Military loves mobility
Poverty loves sympathy
Property loves jealousy
Melody loves harmony
Energy loves study
Biology loves chemistry
Industry loves machinery
Surgery loves appendectomy
Psychology loves psychiatry
Necessity loves ingenuity
Vocabulary loves spontaneity
Primary loves secondary
Society loves complacency
Humanity loves universality
Literacy loves opportunity
Minority loves majority
Variety loves vivacity
City loves municipality
Duty loves responsibility
Maturity loves puberty
Infancy loves nursery
Seniority loves memory
Inability loves obscurity
Philosophy loves Nietzsche
Sensitivity loves fragility
Modesty loves dignity
Melancholy loves tragedy
Originality loves identity
Mystery loves story
Joanie loves Chachi
Ministry loves clergy
Democracy loves responsibility
Hurdy loves Gurdy
Hewy loves Louie
Louie loves Dewy
Lucy loves Desi
Mythology loves Archaeology
Glossary loves dictionary
Theory loves unity
University loves faculty
Timothy loves Findley
Astronomy loves galaxy
Ulysses loves Penelope
Spaghetti loves vermicelli
Nitty loves gritty
Mommy loves Daddy
Jury loves duty
Italy loves Sicily
The West Indies loves Donavan Bailey
And….
We love poetry

How (Not) to Kill a Roommate (Part Two)

A follow-up:
I have some interesting problems with one roommate in regard to noise. She calls it music that she enjoys listening to; I prefer to think of it as noise when it is played on her laptop at four in the morning as the volume causes my room to vibrate.
So, what to do: fight fire with gasoline. I have come up with a little list of music that I think will help me - and you - if I ever have to face another session of a roommate's laptop performance:
1) Einstürzende Neubauten - never thought I would be mentioning them here, but they work (check out Autobahn or Stella Maris if you can - perfect for the eardrums)
2) Sister Ray - Velvet Underground classic that has not gone stale
3) Weasels Ripped My Flesh (song, not full album - too much melodic material available on the full Zappa CD/download)
4) Ecclusiastics - a Charles Mingus track where he howls along to the melody at one point (wonderful!)
5) Anything by Iannis Xenakis (check out La Legende d'Eer, or any of his experiments from the '60s)
6) Anything from Throbbing Gristle (check out Hamburger Lady - this could give Satan nightmares)
7) Whatever you think works

Now, after you have chosen the track, set up your speakers appropriately around the offending room, set the laptop or stereo on "repeat," lock your door and leave the house. An hour of your noise assault should teach a lesson not to be forgotten.
Let me know if you have any other tracks that work!

On the Job Hunt (Part Two)

Read those job postings carefully! And do some research! I had a long talk with a woman who promised me riches with her company and the promise of selling goods privately to a distinct clientele. Then I looked up the company (no problem); I saw its history (very good). And then I found the complaints (a long time to scroll through the whole page, which also had additional sections worth clicking on) and I could not find this particular woman's name connected to the company (a pseudonym is understandable when you are lying).
So, back to the job sites, but this time with a sharper eye.

The Age of Stupid (as if you did not know...)

Yes, it is obvious that this is a sometimes accurate description of the age we live in. But it is also an event; a film event that will premiere globally on September 21st and 22nd. The theme is global warming and a possible future (or lack of one) for all of us if we do not do something drastic and courageous right now.
Check out the web site and tell me what you think. There is a fantastic trailer that you should see as well.

On the Job Hunt (Part One)

Another Sunday night and I am expecting a few messages come Monday morning. One should definitely hold the promise of new work. Currently, everything I have is by contract (not the best way of making a living) and I am trying to find more than just relying on the good favour of certain establishments. So, this is going to be a series of messages asking for any assistance available for a jobhunter.
I will keep you very informed!

Recovery

Not much to say tonight. A roommate celebrated a birthday this week and we had a party tonight wherein we all cooked or brought food to share and eat together. Now my stomach feels like a beach ball with that creature from the film Alien struggling to get out of it.
I know what I wrote about roommates, but sometimes these things work out. One night in a year is not too bad.
Now I have to get some sleep, wake up early, and go for a very long run!

Obit A.G. (A poem for a genius)

I wrote this for the American Beat poet Allen Ginsberg the day after he passed away. I think that I should share it with you (it is amazing what I leave on file and forget). The indentation is off - computer has its own ideas on how to make it look - but the feeling is clear:

Obit A.G.

Well, CNN got it all wrong
(they could not even get the year
you sprung forth right). It was necessary to watch
our foreign neighbours in order to get the truth.
I had no choice but to surf
the screens to pin down your life.

And yes, you had your disturbances,
Four-eyed and bold in the
secret societies of your pen
and muse, who taught you your sex and verse
and consumed your hair.

And there was that omnipotent howl along
negro streets. You were taking
a fix on life, the peel of conformity
blasted off the fruit which blossomed forth over
angelheads who played with chants –
Om Ah Hum again and again.

It was good to know that the song did run into
a sun, taking a wrinkled form. It stayed
deep within the softness of the belly of
America. You cursed and drank and screwed without
the olden golden fears that burnt a nation into charcoal
Sketches and unleavened desire.

They called it obscene as you lead the bacchae
and youth followed, avoiding Moloch and
teasing you with eyelines and headlines.
The absolute emptiness of their lives came down
in the rain and ash of the fall of america.

And soon the children of your flower power grew
restless, faced realities, but still they
clutched the books and beads, knowing the thrill
of it being unpasteurized, caffeinated and
virtually spotted, signaling out of the academia
hope and its forthcoming resurrection.

How was it in the negro streets all decked out
with city lights and affairs with B and K and
F under the gaveling government who wanted
more consumption as they fed their secret hungers
in covert operations and the jingoism of war?

I can no longer expect the instant replay without
forgetting your space and the hungry gap,
the trim home of your spectacles, books and Buddha.
If all of these images could only be fastened on
the kite strings of your heart (broken, as I heard it) as
the Great Pooh Bear in the sky takes you up by a stuffed finger,

I could believe that you were going to muse
with the masters, Whitman as your everlasting
hostess, and teach them about the poet’s
professionalism and your saintly trips to
the boys of Tangiers and Morocco in the missing East.

I received a call from a friend who had not heard
of your passing. The Central Neurosis Network
said that you were surrounded by yours as the
cells under and below formed new lives and
repeated themselves in your full view. I don’t
know how many new Buddhas we have left. I can’t
say how soon a new beat will pulse with the
everlasting instantaneousness that will bear the
new texts. I don’t know where the rhyme will fall
and when it will lift up its pen to leave.

I only remember the phone call
and the repeated cycle of the voice
ash-dull and grey with disturbed tears:
“No, no, no…where does this leave us?”
I reply: “We can only end the line here. The first warrior
has taken
flight.”

Nine on Nine on Nine

There has been a lot of buzz about this particular day. I am getting to the end of the ninth day of the ninth month of the ninth year of this particular millenium. Couples are getting married or engaged. The Beatles are being remastered, recaptured - check out their latest moves on the latest Guitar Hero - and resold on CD (plenty to say about their own "Revolution 9," I suppose).
Now, I am not superstitious, but I am sure that there are plenty of you out there who are. And referring once again to the Beatles, let me point out that John Lennon was born on the ninth, wrote the above quoted song, and died on the ninth (on British time).
Good luck or bad? Superstition or superfact? Let me know what you think.

The Nobel Acceptance Speech

I have always wondered what it would be like to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Forgive me - some writers get too ambitious! I wrote this piece as a fictional speech that would have to make if I ever won. Enjoy and critique!

The following is an official transcript of the Nobel acceptance speech given on Dec. 10, 20--:

Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press: I must say that I still feel as though I have been having a long and beautiful dream these last few months. Nothing can prepare the writer for the moment – a vivid point of realization - when he discovers that his chosen profession was not a mistake or a whim that would have been best left to adolescence. For that, I thank the academy. I thank you all.

If you will permit me, I will spend some time discussing my life as an artist and how it was possible for me to become a writer. In their time, William Faulkner spoke of the agony and the sweat of our labor; Camus meditated on his inability to live without art; and Rushdie analysed the actual construction of a book and what it could possibly reveal about its author. I will also attempt to use this moment for other things, knowing the import that this honour has for all of my fellow citizens - the first time our country has been so honoured in this field. First, there are themes that the critics have discovered in my work which need some comment. Then I will take a moment to discuss certain controversies that have followed me over the course of the last twenty years, such as the ones that you in the press may be more familiar with than necessary. My life and the details not present in the journals or newspapers announcing my receipt of this award will illuminate much that the critics have failed to reveal. Please bear with my garrulousness and excuse me for any confusion which may arise.

Critics spend their time mentioning that I often concern myself with the minutiae of life to the detriment of noticing the essentials of living in a fast and shape-shifting culture. I accept part of this critique, but I must mention how human beings work with sensations and change. We are all sensitive to these points of reference yet may not know how to understand them. Often, they are accepted or ignored and stored away in the mind. For me, the one thing that leads back to the memories of my childhood is peppermint. Yes, peppermint. We boiled the raw leaves that grew in our small garden and drank the tea as a family. I can even recall the cup my serving would be poured into, its dimensions and weight. And I would recall the mornings when drinking this brew would be a necessity against the cold that seemed a living creature outside the door, prowling in the neighbourhood. As a child, you may not think these memories exist to be recalled later in life, but artists are not allowed to forget. We always work with what others have forgotten, which brings me to another theme: the reference to the “missing figure” in my novels. Perhaps this is a fair observation. In “Straightjacket” and “So What About the Others?” there are male figures that do not perform their roles either due to absence or their own selfish behaviour. That may be a trope, or trap, that I cannot escape from when I move from one book to the next. Only my non-fiction, playwriting, and television work is seen as formless, which seems very odd. I make every effort to do my best and still entertain. Dear critics, please take a second look! (much laughter)

I mentioned controversies, so let me be brief with them. Some of the newspapers here and abroad mention my marriages and affairs as if they are all that matter, as though the books are the results of such things. I have finished a third marriage after ten years of what I considered bliss and met someone new with whom I can finally say that I feel a true love. And yes, she is an actress, just like the others. It may be that I am fulfilling a wish that I have long had to be a part of the limelight. The academy may be playing its part in that dream. (laughter)

Now, the main focus of my talk: the origin of the man you see before you. You could not piece together the ill-fitting sections of my life and arrived at a writer. My voice is just one of many that may have never been heard if it were not for a love of books, a love of creation. In my family, no one was intellectually adventurous. We owned an ancient dictionary, several bibles and an atlas. That was a book which I confess hypnotized me whenever I had a chance to open its heavy cover and explore. That made the act of reading more than visual to me. It made me desire to think of new ideas, new places. There was also the issue of never being read to as a young boy. No one ever stood between me and those few available books. My mother, bless her, would spend her rare free time singing to me or to no one but the space of the kitchen. This would wake me on Sunday mornings when we had to go to church and could expect a large breakfast after praying for our souls. With my father, things are on a different standing. I say are because I never feel as though I have escaped from what he was. We had a fine poet in my country who once wrote, “My father’s body was a globe of fear"; I would always have that image in my mind when thinking of him. He did not want to know me and seemed determined to remain unknown to me. There were humiliations, physical and mental assaults and verbal hectoring. Throttles, slaps, shoves and punches are not emotional, meaning that anyone can recover from them. It is what remains inside that suffers. A child begins to believe in his or her own lack of worth when no other opinion is ventured. My mother was never a participant or observer. She had no need to be. When she learned of these events, it was a difficult but important step in both our lives. We now knew each other beyond what most families allow themselves to feel. And when she passed away I mourned that I had not only lost a parent but also a friend who knew me well. Maybe I am still searching for that friend. (pause)

Finally, let me say that this Defoe accepts this award as recognition of all that I have done to make sure that my voice is heard and accepted by readers and especially the writers who are now taking those journeys into their imaginations and discovering all of the wonders that reside there. I hope that one day they will also have a chance to share this honour with me and the long line of dreamers who let their voices exist and grow on the page.
Once again, many thanks. (applause)

How (Not) to Kill a Roommate

Some advice:
1. Usually, when sharing things with a roommate, certain sections of the refrigerator should be portioned off for your use and their use. If, for some reason, your roommate has forgotten which drink is his or how to make spaghetti sauce without using your vegetables, simply provide a strong electric current directly into the metal wiring of your shelf and leave several damp beer cans in clear view. This problem will solve itself.
2. An apartment can become quite dirty when a roommate forgets to take the time needed to pass a broom, mop, or vacuum cleaner over a carpet or uncovered floor. Encourage him to make it his business to keep things clean and tidy by reminding him of the potential for rats and roaches in an unkempt home. If this point remains unheeded, a small sampling of rats or roaches in, say, a knapsack, cereal box, or soap dish can bring this situation to an effective conclusion.
3. Everyone has a special cup or set of plates that are for use only on special occasions. Sometimes, a roommate can forget about your rule regarding usage and cleaning of certain glasses, china plates, and utensils. At such moments, it is not unwise to consider removing all of the dishes, cups, silverware, and the like which bears his name or is under the auspices of a family gift or heirloom. An added bonus here is that it provides more space for you in the drawers and cabinets.
4. Finally, there is the matter of dating. This is a sensitive issue that must be handled delicately in order that there are no red faces the next day. A special lady deserves to know just what your roommate is all about, as does the roommate’s girlfriend and parents. A handy list of previous encounters on index cards can provide an easy means of reference to likes, dislikes, and particular habits before the romance of the evening stalls without the presence of such a conversation piece. Of course, this can be created using the information taken from your roommate’s journal, parents and ex-girlfriends. It will give you all something to talk about in the weeks to come.

Internet Addiction and You, Me and Everyone else...

It was bound to happen.
I found a link to a news item that I should have expected. In the United States, the first Internet addiction center has opened. I had already heard a great deal about this on television and wondered if it was really the social problem that it is believed to be. In Asia, they have already opened centres to help out many addicted people. In fact, I once read a story about a man in a Korean café who died after more than two days at a terminal. No one noticed that he had passed away.
I type this as someone who uses their laptop and any other computer he can get his hands on almost every day. I don't play online games, but I understand their attraction. I once visited a café early one morning to send a few messages. I returned later in the day and noted that the same people were still there.
Perhaps this will be another field of addiction study, or a sociological phenomenon that we will soon be reading about in heavy tomes. Either way, it is a sign of the times we live in.
Let me know what you think!

Parker's Blues (Part II)

The mention of personality, which is not the same as talent, must not overrule one central fact of the film: the casting is excellent. One simple measurement of their talent can be found in the ability to see these actors in work beyond monster-hunting in space. Tom Skeritt would go on to do work in other films and on television (notably Nash Bridges); Harry Dean Stanton, who was already a veteran on the Hollywood scene, is still one of America’s best character actors (we look for him even as he disappears into his role); John Hurt and Ian Holm were bred and trained under the British system of acting and can be relied on to surprise and attract an audience in any role; And then there is Sigourney Weaver, our Ripley, in her first important film role (she had a brief out-of-focus cameo in Annie Hall). Nothing earlier in the film leads us to believe that she will be the one to avoid the alien’s appetite and survive three sequels. It was truly her breakout role. Yaphet Kotto was also a veteran of the Hollywood scene. At that point, he had appeared in Across 110th Street, Live and Let Die and numerous other films. He would also appear on television on Homicide: Life on the Streets, earning an Emmy nomination for his portrayal of a police chief. In Alien, he is Parker, an engineer and a member of the repair crew responsible for keeping the ship running. He is also very self-involved and knows that he should be getting a better deal in regard to the “bonus situation”. This is the first sign - apart from the cigarettes - that this film has a cynical hole in its heart (Han Solo’s demands for payment is quickly resolved when he helps blow up the bad guys; Parker and Brett never get their fair share despite their work to get the ship running when the so-called skilled crew makes one of the worst ship landings in sci-fi film history). He speaks for all the working stiffs who help out behind the scenes when things are not going well; all guts and no glory.
Parker also seems to be forewarned of events about to take place. “Ifs” abound in this film and can be traced to his behaviour: If they had listened to him in regards to the mission, they would never have picked up the face-hugging alien; if they had listened to his idea of freezing Kane when he was attached to the creature, the thing about to burst out of his chest would have been someone else’s problem and several crew members would have lived if they had understood what it is he meant by saying that the “son-of-a-bitch is huge” instead of trying to chase it with flamethrowers in a narrow airshaft with faulty tracking equipment. The only possible hole in this theory is the death of Brett, the first member of the crew to succumb to the now full-grown monster. Parker, Ripley and Brett thought that they had the creature cornered. Instead, they almost snare Ripley’s cat, Jones. At Parker’s urging, and because it is his fault, Brett is sent off to find the cat and is killed. I would argue that if Brett were a little bit sharper, he would have survived. Why didn't he ask for backup when he discovered the shedded skin in the grate? And would anyone sensible still go on to look for a cat after seeing Kane’s gastrointestinal problems in the dining area? Brett’s death is his own stupid fault.
There are other dumb deaths in this film (Dallas’ end in a piece of duct work as he tries to hunt down the creature; Lambert’s frozen stance as she is being seduced to death), and it is necessary to include the punishment meted out to Parker. It is clear that Ridley Scott felt that he had given too much to Mr. Kotto as the film progressed and needed to have him die in a death scene that can still make one cringe every time one sees it or thinks about it.
Remember the scene: Lambert, Parker, and Ripley are the last survivors on the Nostromo and they have decided to fly off on the ship’s shuttle after setting the automatic self-destruct command on the ship. Lambert and Parker, while collecting extra canisters of oxygen for their journey, confront the beast. I mentioned Lambert being “seduced to death” and it is hard to argue with this theory. Consider how slowly the creature approaches her as she is rolling canisters across one of the decks. It is also significant that this is the first time the audience gets to see the top half of the creature’s body for longer than just a few frames. After chomping down on all of those men, a little bit of newly-acquired female flesh seems to be on the menu as Lambert is too paralyzed with fear to follow Parker’s command to move to the side as he prepares to barbecue it. But of course, this is just a trick to get Parker killed. The alien is fully aware that he is there and will do something to protect the one he loves (remember Ash’s fondness for the creature’s “purity” in its hostility, intelligence and lack of conscience). It is a relationship that Parker is trying to save, not just a crew member. Clearly, she and Parker have been involved with each other in some manner. It is just a question of piecing together what few clues there are to the relationships in the film. For instance, where are those two while Ripley discovers Ash’s true role as science officer? Out for a little stroll while a monster is hunting them down on board? Not likely. Parker’s lecherous comment that he’d “rather be eating something else” when Lambert’s scolds him for his dining habits displays something almost too subliminal: they were an item before any sort of mission to respond to a “distress signal” led to their deaths. She is trapped between two characters that both respond to her as a sex object and victim and Lambert and Parker both die in close quarters, the only time this occurs in the film. Also, Parker is the only one on the crew who engages with the monster in a one-on-one physical fight before his death. Yes, Ripley does manage to take it on once she is in a space suit and in close proximity to the air lock. But Parker is in a bare knuckle brawl with it, all the while trying to coax Lambert away from the scene for her own good. It would be worth applauding his efforts if it did not play up to the worst sort of stereotypes about black actors being killed off for the sake of their more “innocent” white compatriots. This is not necessary in a film that many have claimed to have broken new ground in the science-fiction/horror genre.
Mr. Yaphet Kotto, son of a Cameroonian crown prince and inspiration for at least one metal band, would not be saddled with this role as his only famous role (see earlier references to his other television and film work); this clearly shows how a talent can rise above the need to stereotype and pigeonhole actors in parts that limited them to a set of moods and responses. Still, it would have been nice if he had been given a better ending than just one as another black performer taking one for the team. He had the talent to deserve better than that.

Parker's Blues (Part I)

It is a strange time to be a fan of horror films. After September 11th, the media informed us that the age of irony (in American life, as has to be said) was over and that films would have to deal with cold facts and unpleasant truths in a manner supposedly unseen in recent American films. The press was apparently referring to the brilliant slew of films which arose in the shadow of the Vietnam War, the civil rights movement, hippies, recreational drug use, cults, the counterculture and Watergate. After almost three years after the fact, 9/11 is still firmly rooted in the psyche of the west, yet our films have not followed suit. We still have the blockbusters like Spider-Man, Transformers, and Fantastic Four in crowded cineplexes and Hollywood is pursuing a business-as-usual path. This is not to ignore some of the great “small” films that have gained notice in the press, such as American Splendor, Lost in Translation, Thirteen, and Saved! which have their own particular means of truth-telling or authenticity. They capture the obsessive nature of a culture and the need to see oneself as one actually is: ordinary, lost and unsure of where we stand.
But why horror films, exactly? In the best examples of that genre, they provide the same sort of mirror to their age as seen in so-called important movies. The nineteen-fifties introduced the sci-fi monster movie filled with nuclear accidents, uncontrollable experiments and a vision of places beyond the flatness of that decade’s conservatism. From this point, the jump to the seventies can only be explained through the drama of the decade that preceded it. The sixties – and by that term I mean the years between 1963 and 1975 – was filled with various changes and unforeseen upheavals that instantly dated the work of directors just a decade ago. Only Hitchcock and Roman Polanski captured the new sense of dread and unease in the west with films like Psycho, The Birds, Repulsion, and Rosemary’s Baby. Safe middle-class issues were now jettisoned; authority figures were challenged. The freedoms allowed on the screen would reach a strange peak with the first great possession films of the seventies – The Exorcist and The Omen, two films rooted in the idea of an evil force that was recognizable and yet mysterious (everyone had their own notion of the Devil before those films cemented images in the mind). The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, one of the classics of a new genre known as the “slasher” film, introduced Leatherface, to be followed by Michael Myers (Halloween) and Jason (the Friday the 13th franchise). There was once again a recognizable evil, but one that did not appear to be based in religion or myth. It came straight from the culture which wanted to see its own fears and dread placed on the silver screen.
This brings us to Alien, which closed the decade on a note of low optimism as to what to expect from other imagined worlds. The contrast with Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Star Wars was sharp and unforgiving. Steven Spielberg and George Lucas wanted to imagine the best of several worlds and to portray a faith in extraterrestrials as agents of benevolent change. Ridley Scott brought home the nightmare that was a part of the experience of watching the monster films of the fifties and tied it into the paranoia and excess of his time.
It is still a great film, despite all of the reassessments which have taken place since its re-release in theatres after twenty-four years (an odd time for celebrating its anniversary). Critics who watched the first release were correct in referring to the scarceness of background information on the characters and the problem of believing in the manner in which they attempt to hunt the monster. One interesting review made a point of complaining about the unnecessary amount of drool released by the monster and how it was actually searching for a bib when it began to feast on the ship’s crew. These issues may not be in the layman’s mind when first seeing the film as all of the attention is consumed by the claustrophobic set design, disturbing music score and the visual effects which are still worth mentioning. The alien, created by German artist H R Giger, was made using actual bones and with the intention that it would seem to be more suited to that cramped ship than any of the other humans on board (and lacking in a personality, it is an ideal match). When looking through all of the players, personality seems to go only halfway with any of them. As mentioned earlier, a lack of background detail is quite frustrating while watching the film. It is only through spare comments and quick recognition of certain relationships that the viewer learns anything about these people as they return from a cargo haul on board the Nostromo. This is why the character of Parker becomes more striking after repeated viewings. He is the only one on board who seems driven and determined to be himself with a personality uniquely his own. We should be rooting for him to survive.

Up with Arrested Development

They're back! The notorious Bluths and co. are heading to celluloid with the first film based on the critically acclaimed yet unappreciated Arrested Development sitcom. Apparently, the only holdout was Micheal Cera. I say this as a fellow Canuckistan-hoser: glad to have you back, Brampton boy!
I am definitely going to check this out!

How I Learned the English Language (A Poem)

I don't usually bother with posting my poetry, but I see no other place for my work right now. Tell me what you think:

How I learned the English language

I.
“No, you are making words,”
my mother said.
“Not just spelling with letters.”

The tiles did not help me.
I had the edge of a spine-damaged
board to fill with
a large set of consonants.

“Learn to spell it
in your head and study what’s there.
Make it fit.”

II.
“And which one is bigger?”
Some hands went up.
My arms stayed still.

“Is it this one or the other one I’ve drawn?”
In her glasses, I see myself
choosing the wrong figure.

Quarter, third or half:
Which one has the most letters?
Another failure in math.

III.
“My friend wants to know,”
said the girl who brought
strawberry-scented air,
“if you’ll go out with her.”

My homework was not done
and I could not see a face
in any corner of the floor.

The books gave me no advice in particular on what to do.

IV.
“That was amazing.
You can really write.”
Another reading and
my first vocal critic.

A smile cannot be unsmiled;
a look become unaimed.

Her boyfriend liked the poems, too.

V.
“Read me the bird story.”
A nephew’s demands were
better than anything I had heard that day.

I read it out, gave the characters
their own voices
(meow, caahs and whistles)

And I never did get tired of the book.
Not even when I could have been at work
with my own pen and the white space
of a too-clean page.

He often slept too soon,
and I just had to
close and wait for
his dreams to start.

Sex With Superheroes

I wrote this for a magazine that was asking for lists of weird and esoteric thoughts. They, of course, rejected this outright.

This is just a brief guide to what to expect if you could have a relationship with certain comic book characters:

Superman – he is the Man of Steel; however, he is also faster than a speeding bullet

Batman – in good shape, but he would be selfish in bed; has to have all of those gadgets with him

Spider-Man – does whatever a spider can; could be creative with those web shooters

Wonder Woman – some bondage involved (with that rope, a lot of truth telling); interesting wardrobe, as well

Aquaman – comfortable in and out of the water (better stick to late-night romances in the pool, Jacuzzi or nearest lake or river; lubrication is important)

The Flash – far too fast; you’d never notice

Daredevil – extra sensitive with his other heightened senses (and he is The Man without Fear)

The Green Lantern – man in a mask with matching jewellery (draw your own conclusions, ladies)

The X-Men – an Uncanny group; they would be mostly generous about giving pleasure, especially Wolverine (Rogue might be a challenge)

The Fantastic Four – A married couple and two other men (one who keeps yelling “Flame On!” and the other one is called The Thing): kinky!

Are You Happy?

I am giving this blog entry the worst possible title. It is a question that no one likes to have thrown at them, especially at the beginning of the week and at the end of the summer. But it is on my mind. I found a quiz online that can test your level of happiness.
Tell me how you do and what makes you happy!

2009 Canadian Eastern Regional Barista Championships

This was a good Sunday. I thought that it would be wrong to be so late to see baristas at work preparing different cups of coffee for the honour of being chosen Canada's best. How very wrong of me. I ended up at 2111 St. Laurent at the Just for Laughs museum after 2pm, just in time to see a new entry work his magic on a very fancy Nuova Simonelli machine. This was serendipity in action. I ended up sampling smoothies, four types of coffee, a few flavourful syrups and a free lunch. That was necessary with all of the caffeine in my system.

Now, what exactly am I talking about. This championship, from what I can gather, is a way for manufacturers, coffeemakers and distributors and others in the industry to get their name and product heard. It was also free, which meant that they did want the public to see what they had to offer. I saw parents with their childrens, couples who came in out of curiosity, and people who just wanted the buzz of another espresso or cappuccino.

It also made me think about our obsession with brands and styles of coffee. I sampled two coffees from Bolivia - Colonial Caranavi - and Ethiopia - Sidano - and noted the labels on the different urns. The two "mid-roast" drinks had a "light acidity", "full and heavy body" with a "caramel finish" (the former) and also a "pleasantly sweet" and "balanced acidity" with a "flowery smooth and wild berry finish" (the latter).

Pretentious, wouldn't you say? I guess the thing to do is develop a palette, as you would with wine or other alcohols.

I look forward to discovering more about this championship.