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...