Online Dating Can Make You [sic]

I'm at the age where I can count my single female friends one hand, and we have all tried online dating. One meticulous friend has just launched herself into the cyber-abyss and often seeks my war-weary advice. She has written, revised, spell-checked, and double-checked her profile to include her interests and passions: each word carefully chosen, each comma properly placed. And yet she receives emails that show no evidence of having read said profile...or of even knowing how to spell "profile." Are we picky? Are we alone? Apparently not, thank goodness. From Jaime Epstein's "Sentence Sensibility" in the New York Times:

I didn’t realize, however, what a huge boulder I would be rolling uphill — what with my being a “literary person,” a sometime editor of this column, someone whose ear is as tuned to the pitch of language as a cellist’s is to music — until the misplaced modifiers, dyslexic spellings and grievous abuses of syntax started pouring in. One seeker of a woman to call his own allowed that the last book he had read was “Atonement,” which was about to earn him a gold star, Ian McEwan having his own section on my bookshelves, except that he didn’t quit while he was ahead — he had to add that it was written by . . . Ian McGregor! O.K., no big deal, you say, they’re both Brits, it’s hard to keep all the Ians (or, um, Ewans!) straight, you know what/whom he meant and at least he reads something besides Gawker. Well, yeah, but couldn’t he have malapropriated a lesser writer’s name, one whose first and last aren’t tattooed on my forehead, one not sitting on a pedestal in front of my computer? Couldn’t he have checked his sources?

Hold the Phone

Who knew that lack of home-based Internet would make a girl crazy? After exactly a full month of daily chats with the painfully polite tech support in Mumbai, I have given up the phone-line ghost. As of today, I'm all about cable modems. Big thanks to the poor bugger who had to drop a new coaxial cable in the 30+ C heat. And I could do was offer him a glass of water and a spanner.

Under the Sign of Sam

Yonge Street in Toronto will retain its legendary landmark: Sam the Record Man's sign. According to CTV, the city has granted the icon heritage status. The shop is scheduled to close on June 30, 2007. Git yer credit cards ready, kids, there's gonna be a sale.

Holy Crap! China Doesn't Mess Around

The International Herald Tribune today reports that,

The former head of China's top food and drug safety agency was sentenced to death Tuesday after pleading guilty to corruption and accepting bribes, the state-controlled news media reported.

Zheng Xiaoyu, who served as commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration from its founding in 1998 until mid-2005, was detained in February as part of a government investigation into corruption at the agency.

The unusually harsh sentence for the 62-year-old former commissioner came at a time of heightened concern about the quality and safety of China's food and drug system, following a series of scandals here involving tainted food and counterfeit drugs.

This isn't just a bureaucrat accepting C-notes for favours. According to the article Chinese exports have been responsible for the following deaths and sicknesses:

• pet food recall in North America
• diethylene glycol, a toxic chemical used to make antifreeze, ended up in cough syrup and toothpaste in Latin America
• 100 Panamanians dying as a result of injesting cough medicine laced with diethylene glycol
• Chinese-made toothpaste tainted with diethylene glycol was pulled off store shelves in Panama, the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua
• Last year 11 people died in China after being treated with an injection tainted by a fake chemical
• 6 Chinese died and 80 fell ill after taking an antibiotic that was produced with what regulators later said was a "substandard disinfectant"

Zheng is being held ultimately responsible. And they say shit only rolls downhill. Scary.

Once

I'm adding Irish indie film Once to my to-see list. Why? Well, it looks good, and stars Glen Hansard, he of the film The Commitments and the band The Frames.

I Know, I Know

I'm bad blogger. In fact, I think I hear the sneakered feet of net geeks at my door to pry my keyboard from my cold, sleep-deprived hands. My excuse? Well, six-day work weeks, a promotion and its accompanying work load, and spring. After a whole two months of winter (ok, technically four if you include the grey-and-bleak season) I need out of my bunker. I've begun my wee container garden. I'm up to three containers, all of which contain flowers. Up next: herbs. When I'm not digging in "triple-mix soil," I'm reading for work. Occasionally, I manage to look the boggle box. Or sleep. Which is where I'm headed now. But stay tuned: I have managed to have a life, flag some news articles, and get outraged. Oh, and see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Do so, too, if you have the chance.

Over and zzzzz.

The Reality of "Reality" TV

According to the LA Times, The Writers' Guild is threatening to strike. This means a lot of overtime for all the crew as scripts are stockpiled and shows are shot. This will also likely mean the continuation of crappy reality shows:

Network business affairs executives are combing their libraries to identify which shows they have the rights to rebroadcast and to compile alternative schedules jammed with movies, news programs, reality fare and game shows.

Hit shows such as Fox's "American Idol" are not only hugely popular, but they are also cheaper to produce than scripted programs. And most reality shows aren't covered under the Writers Guild contracts despite efforts by the union to organize the booming sector

And it is for this reason I don't watch "reality" progamming. Writers write better shows.

Give 'em Enough Rope

The Independent reports that legendary record producer Phil Spector said that women deserve a bullet in the brain:

Separately, prosecutors are also attempting to introduce testimony from a former police detective who provided security at a Christmas party held at the home of Joan Rivers in 1995 or 1996 that Mr Spector declared that women "deserve to die. They all deserve a bullet in their... head" while he was being escorted out after a fracas inside.

He's still on trial for the murder of actress Lana Clarkson at his Los Angeles mansion on Febrary 3, 2003.

Keep talkin', Phil. You're doing great.

Words to Keep in Mind

I finished reading Hunter S. Thompson's Hey Rube. The edition I had was murder to my copy-editing eyes, but I've learned (or am trying to learn) to read for content when I'm not on the clock. (When is that exactly? I don't friggen know.) The following is found at the end:

Politics is the art of controlling your environment. That is one of the key things I learned in these years, and I learned it the hard way. Anybody who thinks that "it doesn't matter who's president" has never been drafted and sent off to a fight and die in a vicious, stupid war on the other side of the world---or been beaten and gassed by police for trespassing on public property---or been hounded by the IRS for purely political reasons---or locked up in the Cook County Jail with a broken nose and no phone access and twelve perverts wanting to stomp your ass in the shower. That is when it matters who is president or governor or police chief. That is when you will wish you had voted.

Lockdown!

Does it mean I have street cred if every school I attended was locked down? Ok, I didn't attend at the time, but still it's weird when your elementary, junior high, and high schools make headlines:

From the Globe and Mail:

Nearly one in seven Toronto public schools was locked down in the past academic year in response to threats or acts of violence on school grounds or nearby.

Lockdowns affected 81 of the Toronto District School Board's 558 schools -- and some principals had to keep their students behind locked classroom doors more than once during the school year.

Education officials frequently point to safety procedures instituted after violent incidents. But the figures, obtained by The Globe and Mail through an access-to-information request, paint a distressing picture of schools not doing enough to deter intruders and, as a result, having to resort to lockdowns.

Not only that, but my local Hell's Angel's clubhouse was closed down by police today. There goes the neighbourhood.

How to Cure a Head Cold

In a big mug, pour hot water over

1-2 oz whiskey
chamomile tea
honey
1 lemon slice
1-2 cloves
1 cinnamon stick

Best when served with a big, fluffy duvet, a box of Kleenex, and Vanity Fair.

Who Knew, Hoodoo Guru?

Australia's Hoodoo Gurus are back and back it, according to today's Toronto Star:

Twenty-three years after the Hoodoo Gurus broke into the Australian rock arena with the garage/alt.country-grunge/pop masterpiece Stoneage Romeos and not heard together since the 1996 release of their unofficial "final statement," the album Blue Cave, the Gurus are among us again, determined to rock on as if they'd never been gone.

"We weren't really gone ... we just didn't play together as the Gurus after Blue Cave," the Gurus' front man and songwriter Dave Faulkner said in a phone interview last week from Austin, Tex., where the band performed four times in two days at the giant SXSW fest.

They play at the Legendary Horseshoe Tavern tomorrow, Friday, March 23 at 11:30. Advance tickets are $20 at Ticketmaster, the club, Rotate This, and Soundscapes. At the door, they're $25.

Are You or Were You Ever a Member?

The Communist Party USA today announced that it was donating its history to New York University. According to the New York Times:

By offering such an inside view, the archives have the potential to revise assumptions on both the left and the right about one of the most contentious subjects in American history, in addition to filling out the story of progressive politics, the labor movement and the civil rights struggles.

“It is one of the most exciting collecting opportunities that has ever presented itself here,” said Michael Nash, the director of New York University’s Tamiment Library, which will announce the donation on Friday.

Liberal and conservative historians, told by The New York Times about the archives, were enthusiastic about the addition of so many original documents to the historical record. No one yet knows whether they can resolve the die-hard disputes about the extent of the links between American subversives and Moscow since, as Mr. Nash said, “it will take us years to catalog.” But what is most exciting, said Mr. Nash and other scholars, is the new areas it opens up for research beyond the homegrown threat to security during the cold war.

Among the various correspondence, newsletters, buttons, and so on are Pete Seeger's lyrics to "Turn, Turn, Turn" and songwriter/poet/activist Joe Hill's handwritten will.

Fashion Weak

Any dictionary will concur: a book launch at a Fashion Week event is ironic. Sex and the City aside, fashionistas are not lit freaks. If it ain’t glossy, it ain’t. That rule holds for people as much as it does for books.

And so I found myself at such a gathering this week. Last Friday, my invitation arrived in my work email. Being a glutton for “material,” I figured I’d go and channel my inner Carrie Bradshaw. Naturally, I spent the weekend agonizing over what to wear. I’m not a clothes horse. I could be. I’d like to be, but working in the arts, particularly in publishing, is not conducive to such equine aspirations.

I settled on a wardrobe, planned on transportation, worked the day, met a friend, and then at 10 p.m., set off with a coworker to the event. Easy peasy.

Not so much. Once through the door, I was made abundantly aware that I was underdressed, under-heeled, under-augmented, and over-aged. Mere glances. That was all that was needed.

I’ve been to film, music, and publishing events. Each has its own pretenses, and while I feel like a bit of an outsider, I’m always able to navigate my way through. At Fashion Week, I felt completely alien, as though I was walking through an air-kissing, lip-glossed, acid-rain cloud about to float away.

When we arrived at our particular section of cloud, things got easier. They always do when you can commiserate with cultural kin. Together, us bookish types could gush, drink, and make quiet fun of our surroundings. We may have been outnumbered, but none of us got off the fucking boat, so we were safe.

Nevertheless, it was weird. I think I met my match. And if the opportunity arose again, and I decided to enter the ring, I’d definitely go shopping first. For the Fashion Weak, clothes will make or break the woman.

Wizard Rock

Ok, I'm all about kids reading. And I absolutely do not begrudge a single mom making a gazillion dollars if she turns reluctant readers into book worms. Turning Harry Potter into a music genre. Well, that goes beyond geek. That's like thinking Dungeons & Dragons will get you girls. And, God willing, you will NEVER be admitted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Sigh. Dear readers, I give you...Wizard Rock. Fuck, man, that sounds like a Jethro Tull--Dantalian's Chariot love child. But it ain't. It's more like emo meets Elmo:

There are more than 100 bands like it in North America, but Harry and the Potters is considered the original wizard rock group. Paul DeGeorge recalls how he began the movement.

He had just finished reading one of the books in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series in 2002 and began fiddling with his acoustic guitar. He incorporated what he had just read into a song.

There was a makeshift show in his backyard in Norwood, Mass., to an audience of six. More performances followed, MySpace promotion helped to build their fan base and triggered a following of 100 other character-driven bands like Draco and the Malfoys (that riff on Potter's nemesis) and Ginny and the Heartbreakers (based on Potter's crush).

Shudder.

Book As Throw Pillow

Philip Hensher's piece "Great Books and Stupid Readers" from the Independent made the rounds on various lit sites this week. Nothing new or startling, but I'm always amazed by these kinds of findings:

55 per cent, interestingly, admitted to buying books only as decoration, or to look intelligent to their guests - Ulysses was the top choice here.

You scoff, but I can tell you from working in book retail it's true. And publishers bend to this trend. I believe it was Anne-Marie MacDonald's book As the Crow Flies that was available in different coloured jackets. I had a woman buy a specific colour to better match her sofa.

Sex, Drugs, and Recycling

According to the New York Times, there's a movement afoot among more socially concious bands to put on environmentally friendly tours. And there are consultants for hire to help artists do this. From recycling batteries to providing biodegradable cups and plates to biofuelled buses. This is all good, I guess. Chalk it up to "every little bit helps," but I wonder if a couple of tour buses running on fast-food effluent is gonna make as much of a dent as it would if the Rolling Stones would deflate their expectations and run a more fuel efficient tour. I mean, it's all very well and good setting up tents housing Greenpeace to sing to the chior at the latest WhateverPalooza mudfest. It another story altogether to get suburbanites to leave their SUVs at home and take public transit into the city to see a $200 show. Indeed, how will Sting reconcile his rainforest conservation work with the Police megatour? Admittedly, he's an easy target. Pearl Jam are touring this year. They're pretty aware guys. And how about Genesis? It's guys like these that need to run enviromentally friendly tours. Forget about donating proceeds. Too easy. Make an effort. Be an example. That takes more integrity than signing a cheque.

Getting Chilly Again?

Who said the Cold War was over? First, Alexander Litvinenko, now this. From the Independent:

A military correspondent for Russia's top business daily died after falling out of a window and some media alleged yesterday that he might have been killed for his critical reporting.

Ivan Safronov, the military affairs writer for Kommersant, died Friday after falling from a fifth-story window in the stairwell of his apartment building in Moscow, according to officials; his body was found by neighbors shortly after the fall....

...Safronov, who had served as a colonel in the Russian Space Forces before joining Kommersant in 1997, frequently angered authorities with his critical reporting and was repeatedly questioned by the Federal Security Service, the main KGB successor, which suspected him of divulging state secrets.

No charges were filed because Safronov was able to prove his reports were based on open sources, Kommersant said.

Last December, Safronov angered the authorities when he was the first to report the third consecutive launch failure of the new Bulava intercontinental ballistic missile, which President Vladimir Putin hailed as a basis of the nation's nuclear might for years to come. The authorities never acknowledged the launch failure.

For the full story, please click the link in the heading.

Alexei Sayle Alive and Well

Ran across a blast from the past while reading the Independent. Apparently, British comedian Alexei Sayle does an occasional Motoring column for the UK paper. Today, we learn that "Only the mad go carless in LA":

So, in a town where car status is everything, walking throws everybody into confusion because you can't easily rank somebody who's walking. I remember on our first night at the Chateau Marmont we went out for a walk along a deserted Sunset Boulevard and up ahead of us was a single pedestrian. "I bet they're British," I said and when we got up to them, they turned out not only to be British but also to be Billy Bragg.

Not sidesplitting, granted, but it's good to know that he's still kicking around. Sadly, I never got to see him live, but I do remember the video for "Didn't You Kick My Brother":

Want to sing along?

Hey, you. Hey, you. Hey, you, come here. Come here, you. Come here, you. Hey, you, come here. You. I said you. I said you. I said you. I said you. I said you, with the tail. You come here. You. Yes, you. Come here. Go away. Come here. Hey, you, come here. Come here. Come here. Go away. Come here. Go away. Stop. Come here. Come here. Come here. Go away. Go. Come here. Hey, you. I said you. I said you. I said you, mate. I said you. I'm looking at you, mate. I said you, mate. I said, you come here. I said, go away. Didn't you kill my brother?

My sister-in-law was an oak tree, or do I mean a manhole cover?

I've got a brain like a jukebox.

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

I got a job as a petrol pump for the government, undercover.

Come here. I want to talk to you.

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

(I like a laugh!)

(I like a laugh!)

You're the best pal a girl ever had.

I wouldn't drop you for another.

Give us a pound or I'll kick your teeth in!

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

I like strangling budgies.

(I'm what you'd call an animal lover.)

I like North Korean Sherry.

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

You know, I've only known you for ten minutes. I've only known you for ten minutes, but you're the best pal I've ever had! You're the bestest pal I've ever had! You're my mate! You and me, mate! You're my Here, didn't you kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

(I like a laugh)

(It's a funny old world)

Hello, mate. How you keeping?

Hello, mate. How you keeping?

Hello, mate. How you keeping?

Here, didn't you kill my brother?

I saw ya.

I saw ya.

Didn't you kill my brother?

You bought him a pint of lager, and then you killed him.

You killed my brother.

I saw ya.

I saw ya.

Didn't you kill my brother?

You did a very nice job.

I really must congratulate ya.

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

Didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill, didn't ya kill my brother?

(I like a laugh.)

(I like a laugh.)

(I like like like like like a laugh.)

Ah, good stuff, that.

Red Card

I get rules. I understand the need for them. So here's a rule: dumbasses are forbidden to officiate at kids' soccer matches.

According to the Globe and Mail, eleven-year-old Asmahan Mansour was about to play her third game of a tournament in Laval, Quebec, this past Sunday. The referee---who is Muslim (huh?)---pointed at her and then to the bench. The kid had been expelled for wearing a hijab, a Muslim head scarf.

After her expulsion, her coach, Louis Maneiro, was shown a memo from the Quebec Soccer Federation saying the hijab and other religious headgear were forbidden. His team forfeited the game in protest.

Good for the coach and kudos to the team.

Brigitte Frot, executive director of the Quebec federation, said in an interview it wasn't a religious matter and that her organization is just enforcing the laws of FIFA, the sport's Zurich-based world governing body, which bans dangerous equipment.

Uh huh. I saw the World Cup. Heads outta be banned. Ah, but the plot thickens:

However, FIFA officials have been promoting the game in Muslim countries by saying that it is all right for female players to wear the hijab.

The FIFA website even has a 2006 article praising the Iranian women's national team, with a photo of a hijab-wearing player taking a free kick.

And, reached in Zurich, a FIFA official said the game laws allow "non-basic equipment" as long as it isn't dangerous.

Oops.

"We are bound to FIFA [rules]," Ms. Frot said yesterday, explaining that Quebec officials have in the past ordered the removal of jewellery in piercings and medical bracelets.

The 2006 supplementary FIFA guidelines, aimed at clarifying the game laws for referees, say that "non-basic" gear made with soft, light and padded material is allowed, such as some knee braces or goggles.

While made of fabric, the hijab could still be dangerous because the player could strangle herself, Ms. Frot said.

Amazing. And if you click on the FIFA link above, you'll see a whole team of hijab-wearing footballers! Mind you, they look friggin' warm with the long pants and shirtsleeves...

Apparently, the people who let the girl play two games of the tournament were "at fault." No, mesdames, I think the fault lies elsewhere

And They're Off!

I damn near spit my lunch (a salad) out my nose when I read this from today's Globe and Mail (registration required till I learn how to "share"):

Honda Racing will run a car on the F1 circuit this season that is covered in a map of the Earth rather than a collage of corporate logos. The team formerly was sponsored by a tobacco company

That will make quite an impression at 250+ miles an hour. And it gets better:

In a statement issued at a news conference in London yesterday, the team said that via its website, www.myearthdream.com, "anyone who wishes, will have the opportunity to have their name on the car, make a pledge to make a lifestyle change to improve the environment and make a donation to an environmental charity. Under the concept of 'our car is your car', each name will form a tiny individual pixel, which will help build the image of planet Earth on the car."

Previously, the Honda team was sponsored by a tobacco company.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby Part 3

Perhaps I should subtitle this: That Ain't Cricket, Mate!

On one hand, the fact that Pakistani women get to go see their much-loved cricket match is a great thing. At least when they show up, they won’t be considered the equivalent of “puck bunnies.” They can yell and cheer as much as they want. Fabulous. The players are all women, too. Good stuff.

But no men are allowed except for player’s families and the officials. This is to be a segregated event.

Ok, but it’s a baby step, right?

"The decision proves that women's cricket is progressing in our country and through this event we would promote a softer and moderate image of Pakistan," said Shamsa Hashmi, secretary of the Pakistan Cricket Board women's wing.

What nonsense! That’s like the no-bodychecking rule in women’s hockey. For crying out loud, women aren’t fragile. If we can push the equivalent of a ten-pound turkey out a hole the size of a loonie, we can handle a little shoving in the rink or on the pitch. And if you think female sports fans are all warm and cuddly, you wait till their side is losing.

Don't get me wrong: support for women's sport is good. But women being allowed to openly attend and support any sport regardless of the gender of the players is better.

Ms. Hashmi, there are far better ways of promoting a “softer and moderate image” of Pakistan.

from Al Jazeera, photo by GALLO/GETTY

Food Fights and Dancing Gorillas

I laughed when I saw the American Association for Retired Persons (AARP) ad featuring the Buzzcocks’ song, “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays.” I don't care anymore that pre-recorded songs are in commercials; indeed, I dare say Pete Shelly and the boys are well within AARP’s fifty-something demographic as are their original fans. But, like Jim DeRogatis, I do despair the lack of catchy jingles written specifically for an ad. They were fun and gave songwriters a good gig between shots at pop-star fame.

The “selling out” argument doesn’t hold for me, but DeRogatis points out a more important element of why this lyrical “editorialization” feels wrong:

The message of the AARP ad is that life will be one big, happy birthday party for retiring Baby Boomers, complete with food fights, balloons and dancing gorillas. But the theme of the Buzzcocks' song is exactly the opposite: The key line that sets up the catchy chorus of "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" is "Life's an illusion, love is the dream." The tune was a bookend to another 1979 single, "I Believe," that made the group's cynical worldview even clearer: "There is no love in this world anymore." In other words, the Buzzcocks are saying "life stinks," and AARP is saying "everything's peachy." But the Orwellian power of advertising and TV are such that ever such black and white distinctions can be obliterated

via Glorious Noise

You've Come a Long Way, Baby Part 2

When I was a girl,Charlie’s Angels and Barbie were going to make us into pliant, barfing, disappointments to the women’s movement. But they didn’t. We played at being Charlie’s Angels at dusk, chasing around in the streets in our torn jeans and grass-stained runners. And Barbie did what ever she wanted to do, when she wanted to, and drove her own van. And we had terrible corrupting teen magazines before we were actually teens (I got a Tiger Beat as part a loot bag from my friend’s tenth birthday. Shaun Cassidy was on the cover. I still have it.) But I have yet the need to check in to a eating disorder clinic.

So what the hell happened?

The Washington Post reports that according to the American Psychological Association's Task Force on the Sexualization of Girls, “Throughout U.S. culture, and particularly in mainstream media, women and girls are depicted in a sexualizing manner," but admits that:

While little research to date has documented the effect of sexualized images specifically on young girls, the APA authors argue it is reasonable to infer harm similar to that shown for those 18 and older; for them, sexualization has been linked to "three of the most common mental health problems of girls and women: eating disorders, low self-esteem and depression."

Said report contributor and psychologist Sharon Lamb: "I don't think because we don't have the research yet on the younger girls that we can ignore that [sexualization is] of harm to them. Common sense would say that, and part of the reason we wrote the report is so we can get funding to prove that."

So this is a hypothesis. Normally, I would think this was just more hysteria, but I look around me and I think otherwise. I see little girls--—pre-pre-pubescent, barely out of Pull-ups—--dressing like little hookers. And they ain’t buying this crap with their allowance. No, parents, usually mothers, are forking over for this gear. Even more stomach churning is that makeup and spa treatments (I wish I was joking) are marketing to little girls. Shit, I wasn’t allowed to tart myself up till I was fourteen, the same year I could bear ear piercing. Sure, my mum and I would battle it out over lipstick, but invariably she won. I was too young and she was right. She was being a parent, not a friend.

Apparently, parents are an endangered species. Or is it worse? Are some actually encouraging their girls to “look good”:

Eight-year-old Maya Williams owns four bracelets, eight necklaces, about 20 pairs of earrings and six rings, an assortment of which she sprinkles on every day. "Sometimes, she'll stand in front of the mirror and ask, ‘Are these pretty, Mommy?’"

Her mom, Gaithersburg tutor Leah Haworth, is fine with Maya's budding interest in beauty. In fact, when Maya "wasn't sure" about getting her ears pierced, says Haworth,"I talked her into it by showing her all the pretty earrings she could wear."
What about all these sexualization allegations? "I don't equate looking good with attracting the opposite sex," Haworth says. Besides, "Maya knows her worth is based on her personality. She knows we love her for who she is."

"Looking good just shows that you care about yourself, care about how you present yourself to the world. People are judged by their appearance. People get better service and are treated better when they look better. That's just the way it is," she says. "I think discouraging children from paying attention to their appearance does them a disservice."

Staggering. So at what age do girls think they have to look presentable? According to the Post,“’A few years ago, it was 6 or 7,’ says Deborah Roffman, a Baltimore-based sex educator. ‘I think it begins by 4 now.’"

To be fair, apparently stores make it difficult to find age-appropriate clothes and accessories for girls. But a quick look at Old Navy’s website rendered the usual modest T-shirts, shorts, and jeans for girls. Nothing particularly risqué there. But then consider that Canada’s La Senza, the women’s lingerie store, has a girls’ shop. And the chain just been bought by Victoria’s Secret. Also, what you see online doesn’t necessarily reflect what you find in stores, or the overwhelmingly pink-glitter swathed malls.

But still, what ever happened to saying no you can’t have that? Ok, I don’t have kids, but I heard that phrase plenty growing up. Are things that different today? And if so, why? And what ever happened to saying no I won’t buy what you’re selling? Are consumers/parents that spineless?

Apparently, Bratz dolls are also culprits in the sexualiztion of girls as they (ahem) provide poor role models. But as the Guardian’s Caroline Bennett points out, reality and its television equivalent aren’t much better:

Meanwhile, the tale of [footballer fiancé] Coleen McLoughlin has been unfolding. Highlights from her life story, appearing simultaneously in the Sun and the Mirror, have explored the transformation from schoolgirl nonentity to international celebrity that pretty Coleen has achieved by the simple expedient of going out with the footballer and former patron of prostitutes, Wayne Rooney. Everywhere, from broadsheet to tabloid, the media celebrates her accomplishments: getting dressed, losing a few pounds, forgetting about Wayne's "auld slapper". How long before her first South Bank Show? Or before the makers of BBC2's The Verdict put in a request for her to play the judge in their next, cutting edge series? At the very least, acclaim for this modern-day Cinderella will, in the words of the task force, provide younger girls with a model "that they can use to fashion their own behaviours, self-concepts and identities".

When you consider the respect accorded to Coleen and her many C-list colleagues for their achievements in shopping and grooming, the Bratz team start to look a bit up themselves. Coleen and Wayne keep busy watching Emmerdale, Coronation Street, EastEnders, then Corrie again. Look on the Bratz website and you will find the dolls have favourite classes (Jade picks chemistry), movies and even, "fave books": "mysteries" for Cloe, and, for Sasha, "biographies of successful people". And what kind of sleazy, disempowering message is that?

But what’s a beleaguered parent to do? Well, look no farther than The Experts! They have all the answers…because common sense isn’t.

Just when you thought we’d progressed two steps forward, we fall four steps back.

Techhead Alert

Curvebender Publishing is a new publisher whose first book is Recording the Beatles, a very detailed document about, um, recording the Beatles. According to DM News:

“There are a lot of books out there on the Beatles, but this is the first one that goes through each and every one of their recording techniques,” said Brian Kehew, co-author of the book and co-president of Curvebender, Los Angeles

But the fun doesn't stop there. Nope, this monster book (which apparently took fifteen years to make) is 540 pages long, and weighs 11 pounds. And "it comes packed in a tape case reminiscent of an old tape-recording storage case that the Beatles recorded on." Too good.

What else is interesting, at least to people in publishing and marketing, is that this hundred-dollar book is only available from the publisher's website.
This news comes from DM News, a magazine targeting "direct, database, and Internet marketing."

Mr. Kehew said that the firm also started a Web site that gave information on the book and an option to subscribe to the book’s mailing list. Once a release date was set, about a year after the site was launched, Curvebender began taking preorders offering the incentive of signed and numbered books to the first 1,000 buyers.

The publisher also targeted Web sites with e-mail links to the book’s site. These included Beatles fan sites, recording forums and sites affiliated with products discussed in the book. As the book neared completion, publicity quotes were gathered from the proofreaders, most of whom had worked with the Beatles.

via Glorious Noise

China Covers Up Detention of AIDS Doctor

Why does this not surprise me?
From the New York Times:

BEIJING, Feb. 15 — The photograph and article in Tuesday’s Henan Daily could have been headlined “Happy Holidays.” Three highranking Henan Province officials, beaming and clapping as if presenting a lottery check, were making an early Lunar New Year visit to the apartment of a renowned AIDS doctor, Gao Yaojie.

They gave her flowers. Dr. Gao, 80, squinted toward the camera, surely understanding that pictures can lie. She was under house arrest to prevent her from getting a visa to accept an honor in Washington. Her detention attracted international attention, and the photo op was a sham, apparently intended to say, “Look, she’s fine and free as a bird.”

On Thursday, Dr. Gao said in a telephone interview, a handful of police officers remained stationed outside her apartment building in the central Chinese city of Zhengzhou.

Year of the Pig, indeed.

Nine Days till Oscar Fashion Night

The Academy Awards are my weakness. It's the one night I can sit and sanctomoniously yell at the TV and know I'm right, especially after a couple of glasses of merlot: "She's had work," or "He'd look hot in a wet paper bag," or "Wow! I had no I idea she was knocked up. Looks good on her." (I think preggers is the new black, by the way.)

Oh, there are the "fil-ums" for our consideration. I happen to love a number of the nominees, which means they'll get one award apiece (like when Charlie Kaufman won the award for best screenplay in 2004 with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Sofia Coppola won the same award in 2003 for Lost in Translation). This year the two pictures that I like that are up for best screenpaly are Pan's Labyrinth and Little Miss Sunshine. My money says the former will not win. Fortunately, Guillermo del Toro is up for foreign-language film, for which I believe he is a front runner.

That brings me to the article I say today in the New York Times. Nothing earth-shattering or headline-making, but a decent read:

But as the Academy Award nominees for best picture suggest, it has been a terrific year for films about global politics. The culture clash between Japanese and American soldiers is at the heart of Letters; Babel ranges over several continents and languages to explore the anxiety and violence gripping the world.

And there is another, extraordinary group of Oscar films that grapple with explosive issues. The nominees for best foreign-language film are even more politically charged, and every bit as artistically successful, emotionally touching and accessible as the English-language candidates. Set mostly in the past, these films use a sneaky indirection that allows them to resonate with the most volatile questions of today.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

From the Independent:

Mecca Laa Laa,20,one of the newly graduated lifeguards,said it would give Australian Muslim women the freedom to enjoy the beach while fulfilling their religious obligations. "The point is to get women active in the water, to encourage them to participate in sporting activities ... and wearing the burqini allows them to do that," she said.

From the Salon's Catherine Price:

On the other hand, it still bothers me that women should have to hide their entire bodies in public.

You and me both, Ms. Price.

Green is the New Black, Dahling

Climate change is getting you down? Musician and writer Rick Moranis gives us some much needed perspective in today's New York Times:

We should penalize S.U.V. idlers outside the building, the way that principal at the 92nd Street Y did. In fact, we should have a simple carbon footprint rating and award system in the building. Maybe the winner gets to miss a month’s maintenance charge. I don’t know. Maybe a plaque. It just seems like such a waste to have drivers waiting outside the building all the time, even in hybrids.

Myth-ing the Facts

Here's a great op-ed by Fergus M. Bordewich, author of Bound for Canaan: The Underground Railroad and the War for the Soul of America, from the New York Times addressing history, mythologizing, and missing the facts:

The larger importance of the Underground Railroad lies not in fanciful legends, but in the diverse history of the men and women, black and white, who made it work and in the far-reaching political and moral consequences of what they did.... Eye-catching quilts and mysterious tunnels satisfy the human penchant for easily digestible history. Myths deliver us the heroes we crave, and submerge the horrific reality of slavery in a gilded haze of uplift. But in claiming to honor the history of African-Americans, they serve only to erase it in a new way.

Lamenting the Mix Tape

I have been the recepient and the creator of mix tapes in the past, and I admit they do work as part of the ritual of wooing. They also work as part of proving you have a way cool record collection. With this in mind, a friend sent this Guardian article to me this week:

As any old-school mix-meister will tell you, compiling a tape takes a rare combination of skills, including instinct, knowledge, patience and, of course,
consummate good taste.

Ahem, Mr. O'Hagen, I would love a copy of that tape.

UK Tribute to Stax Records

From the Independent

In spring 1967 British audiences got the opportunity to experience the Stax Revue for the first time. The 13-date tour boasted a wealth of the label's talent - Otis Redding, Sam and Dave, Arthur Conley, Carla Thomas and Eddie Floyd - performing with the musicians who had recorded dance-floor and jukebox favourites such as "Knock on Wood" and "You Don't Know Like I Know".

In the six years since former country-fiddle-playing bank clerk Jim Stewart and his sister Estelle Axton had renamed their tiny Memphis-based label, Satellite, Stax had come to epitomise Deep Soul. The tour was thus a defining moment for British fans - young mods, future stars, even the Beatles - turned out to hail the visiting emissaries.Some were surprised to discover that the blend of rolling organ, punchy horns, compulsively danceable bass and drums that defined the Stax sound was created by a mix of black (organist Booker T Jones and drummer Al Jackson) and white writer, guitarist and A&R man Steve Cropper and bassist Donald "Duck" Dunn)musicians.

Sounds pretty awesome right?:

'Soul Britannia' starts at 9pm on BBC4 tonight. The Barbican Soul Britannia Concerts take place tonight, tomorrow and Sunday (which features Stax stars Sam Moore and Eddie Floyd). The musical tribute to Stax/Atlantic, 'Sweet Soul Music', begins its UK tour this month

So, brothers and sisters, tune to dial to BBC4, and prepare for the sweet soul music.

Record Labels 101

How to build a record label in the privacy of your own home.

via the Guardian

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy

I’m feeling a little cynical these days. Global warming plays no small part in my malaise. The overall stupidity of people and their inability to fully appreciate their noses on their faces flabbergasts me to an appalling degree. I think it all comes down to convenience.

For starters, a local Toronto morning show featured a suburban enterprise that operates a kitchen for people too “busy” to prepare their own meals. Well, sort of. You see, how it works is this company has different counters, each with cooked and/or cut-up ingredients for meals. You just slap the prepared stuff together in plastic containers (enough for about a week) and you’re done. No fuss, no bother. Except for perhaps the driving from work, picking up the kids, driving to the “kitchen,” slapping the shit together, putting it all in your SUV, driving back home, stuffing each meal in the microwave, and then watching some crappy “reality” show together…as a family…or as a couple…or as you eat alone while everyone else is off doing something. Yup. No need to drive a quarter the distance for groceries, thinking about what to feed yourself and your family, spending a few minutes chopping (with your family?), putting it all in the oven, and thirty to forty minutes later dinner is ready. The actual family thing, well, perhaps Dr. Phil or your mum can help you with that.

Next is an article in this month’s Vanity Fair by Michael Wolff called “Billionaires and Broadsheets.” The author details the large corporate buy-ups of major newspapers. The purchasers are old guys (fifty years of age and older) for whom owning a paper still holds Hearstian status:

There are among others music and film impresario David Geffen ($4.6 billion), after the LA Times; supermarket king and Clinton buddy Ron Burkle ($2.5 billion), and real-estate giant Eli Broad ($5.8 billion), bidding for the Tribune Company; America’s most celebrated retired executive, former GE CEO Jack Welch (some $720 million), going for the New York Times–owned Boston Globe; and insurance mogul—roughed up by Eliot Spitzer—Hand Greenburg ($2.8 billion), amassing shares in the New York Times.

However, what Wolff rightfully points out is that fewer and fewer people are actually buying newspapers anymore. He writes that in 1950, 100 per cent of households took one or more daily papers. “Fifty-six years later fewer than half of American homes get one. At the current rate of decline, no homes will get a newspaper in the not-to-distant future.”

Now I admit, I used to subscribe to a daily paper. When I moved, I had to cancel. These days, I buy a weekend Globe and Mail and read parts of the New York Times Sunday print edition at work. Otherwise, I manage to read the headlines of the free online editions of those papers plus the Guardian, the Independent, the Village Voice, and, if time, the Wall Street Journal. Sounds full, right? But it isn’t. Not even close. I find when I read print newspapers, I read most of the articles, plus inserts such as the New York Times magazine. Online, not even close. (Perhaps I’ll expand my New Year’s resolution to include buying a daily paper, too.)

What about others less diligent? What about kids weaned on Internet-only information and MySpace, for whom large swaths of text doesn’t even include vowels let alone analysis of voting records in either the houses of Parliament or Representatives? What then? Once papers go down (and I believe they will) then what regular, reliable news source will people turn to? Or will they? And will they vote?

Which brings me to flying. Noted for this love of things environmental, Prince Charles recently flew to from the UK to the US to receive an award for his advocacy. He drew much criticism from ecologists for the trip as it burnt loads of gas to fly said airplane. Last year at a book launch for WorldChanging: A User’s Guide for the 21st Century, photographer Ed Burtynsky (Manufactured Landscapes) remarked on the environmental damage caused by air travel. I’ve long thought that planes likely burn as much fuel as a football field (or two) of Hummers. So, ok, how does one travel to Europe or Asia or Australia. Or perhaps we don’t. Therein lies the problem, one which musician Peter Gabriel addressed recently at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. While the world-music aficionado sees the need to reduce greenhouse-gas emissions, he worries about what the lack of travel will do to cultural awareness. Our respective worlds could get much smaller, and our ideas much narrower. The Internet can only communicate so much. Code cannot fully appreciate the grandeur of the Alps. Zeros and ones do not equate smells and senses. Second Life isn’t real life.

So there you have it: people driving miles out of their way for convenient dinners they are "too busy" make in their own kitchens, scanning convenient headlines on the Internet, and moaning about foreigners.

Maybe I just need some sunshine-induced vitamin D. Or a good stiff drink.

Neko Hits #45

Rolling Stone's top-fifty for 2006 is in, and its not a complete steaming pile of crap. In fact, Neko Case made on this year's list. Not too shabby.

Eno Exhibits Latest Talent with Ambitious Art Show

Musician Brian Eno will debut his light and sound project at a British comtemporary art gallery.

The installation,"Constellations (77 Million Paintings)," is the result of Eno working with software experts to create "a computer programme that continually fuses layers of more than 300 of his 'paintings' to create up to 77 million permutations. The paintings are in the form of slides coated with paint which, when dried, are scratched to produce abstract works which are digitised at high resolution."

Apparently he has put Andy Warhol's Empire to shame: "It has been estimated that it would take more than 9,000 years to watch the entire show at the fastest speed available on the software. The images can change within 15 seconds or at the speed of the hour hand of a clock."

from The Independent

Inflation Is Up

I’ve been noticing strange things this season, apart from the West Coast-like climate (which is itself experiencing an Ontario-like December. Sends chills, but I digress.). Inflation is up. Everywhere. And it’s getting weird.

First, a house on my street has a roughly ten-foot snowman on it’s four-foot “lawn.” Ok, I think, cute, but obnoxious. Whatever. Then I’m walking to a party and encounter an inflated merry-go-round featuring Santa, a snowman, and Rudolf. Motorized. Not ok, not cute, and definitely obnoxious.

What the hell?

And it’s not just the east end or just Toronto. This damn scourge has spread across North America! Why? It’s not attractive or funny, and by definition not innovative or creative. And if everyone’s doing it, it’s not cool. So, what motivates someone to put an inflatable anything on their lawn or roof?

Perhaps the New York Times can provide a clue: “The magic of the Airblown is that you buy it, plug it in, and it’s ready to go,” said Sharlene Jenner, the marketing manager for Gemmy, a company that first made its mark six years ago with a wall-mounted singing fish known as Big Mouth Billy Bass, and began making Christmas floats soon after. “You’re going to make a big statement without 20 hours of work. It’s a lot of decoration for the dollar, in other words.”

Ah, it’s all about convenience and “making a statement.” Of course, that statement is the same damn one everyone and their frigging dog is making…but who wants to stand out from the crowd?

From the same Times article: “A grand tour of some of Long Island’s most ambitious Christmas displays suggests that the inflatable decorations are scarce in lower-income neighborhoods, but they are also rare in pricier places, where the culture of understatement seems to rule: white lights twined with fresh evergreen sprigs, etc.”

I would have to agree with the less-is-more school of thought on this one. I’ve seen the simple strings of light on nearby low-income apartments and I think they hold the same beauty as the simple strings of lights and evergreen on neighbouring high-income houses.

And a simple tug on the power cord will resolve the inflated issue for one night.

Now, about the mechanized carol-singing, hip-swinging snowman at the restaurant at the end of my street. Maybe a call to David Lynch is in order…

Wacky Copyrights

The beloved RIAA just loves to dig itself deeper.

In his article for Stereophile, Wes Phillips writes:

In the heated debate over new digital technologies and their impact upon the traditional recording distribution system, we've grown used to intemperate dialog, but an organization now charges that "mechanical royalties currently are out of whack with historical and international rates."

Here's the twist: The group is the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America). And here's the part that won't surprise you: Their solution is to lower the rate they pay music publishers and songwriters for using lyrics and melodies to create sound recordings.

Just keep giving them enough rope...

Happy Pogues-mas

Only four more pouring days left before Seán Mac Gabhan's (Shane MacGowan) birthday. So belly up to the bar now, buy the lad a pint, and get your sorry ass in court to bear merry tidings:

Once we're on that stage we become the troubadours of old, and we make our joyous noise. Afterwards I continue the far more serious business of holding court: whether backstage or back at the hotel. My birthday's the December 25, so congregations of people coming to praise me this time of year have a fitting
resonance.

via The Guardian

Music in a Nutshell #1

In the past, I’ve reviewed single records at some length; not bloody great essays, but around 350 words more or less. (I’ll leave the book-length treatises to the 33 1/3 authors.) These days, however, I’ve taken to summing things up, giving my first impression based on a handful of listens. One’s headspace and situation (on the bus or in life) plays a huge role in how one experiences music. So if I hate a record today, I may love it to death in a month. And visa versa. So, what I thought I’d do is provide a nutshell first blush at recent purchases.

November 4, 2006:
I'm actually looking forward to getting Yo La Tengo’s I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass and The Shin’s Winching the Night Away. Meanwhile, I've got The Clash's London Calling on repeat. What a fucking great album! One the best ever recorded. Definitely in my top five. Oh, so good...

November 16, 2006:
My self-imposed "exile" of about ten years means that many "indie" bands of the 90s are new to me. This feels good because the members are about my age now; I'm not being sung to by a squeaky kid for whom the 80s is both a genre and retro. I also notice I'm more open to genres I wouldn't have considered in the past, so that's all new to me now, too.

Nostalgia gets twisted when you buy old stuff in a new format with newly found recordings (Clash special editions, Beatles demo recordings). You sort of change a light bulb on an old lamp to shine a new light on things.

So what do I plan to buy this week? I'm reaching back to last year for the second Interpol release. While this sounds ironic (re: my "squeeky kid" comment), I liked that their first record felt more influenced than carbon copied.

Hmm. I guess you could call this a "hipster replacement."

November 18, 2006:
Well, Interpol was absent from my dealer's bin, but my ears pricked to the sweetness emanating from his speakers. Irene's Apple Bay made my toes tap and my face smile on a grim November day, making the purchase a necessity. According to their website, this is their debut. It has hints of the Smiths, Jonathan Richmond, Velvet Underground, and Reindeer Section. The lyrics are odd. At times they're saccharine then turn frank: "Think about the way we used to meet, dear. Think about he way the sunlight kissed our feet, but your got cold feet...Think about the way we used to touch, dear. And think about the way you used to fondle by crotch. But you got cold feet." (from "Cold Feet"). Oh, those wacky Swedes.

December 2, 2006:
One cannot Christmas shop for CDs without treating oneself. Ok, I can’t. Hell, I have a hard time walking past a record store without poking my head in. So, after I visited the jazz department at Sam the Record Man, I meandered down to the regular section whereupon I clapped my eyes on A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector. (“For me? Aw, Phil, you shouldn’t have!”) I’ve coveted this record for about a decade. It is definitely in my top ten. Unapologetic, Christmas-y pop goodness. Love me some “Marshmallow World” by Darlene Love. Fabulous stuff!

December 17, 2006:
I picked up Belle and Sebastian's If You're Feeling Sinister (part of my ongoing rebuilding of the backlist). Interesting. A colleague at work calls them "creepy," which I kind of get, but I like nonetheless. This one sounds like a mix of British 60s psychedelia and the Velvets. I'm sure I'll hear more as I spend more time with it.

Movie Review: Down in the Valley

Title: Down in the Valley
Director: David Jacobson
Writer: David Jacobson
Year: 2005 (film), 2006 (DVD)

Every generation of American filmmakers has its idea based on lore about how the West was won. Indeed, the mavericks of western legends range from sheriffs to outlaws, from homesteaders to cowboys. And when the boundaries pushed closer to the Pacific, we can include Oakies and prospectors. With pushers come those who are pushed over: Indians and Mexicans. Down in the Valley takes these characters and flips the genre on its head. The American West was lost. And no one cares.

Ok, one person cares: Harlan Fairfax Carruthers. He misses the old ways. He misses the frontier. And like the cowboy he reinvents for himself, he is alone. Even when he meets the station wagon (covered wagon) full of teens, in particular Tobe. No one understands. And, in keeping with the Western, when the cowboy literally crosses the fence of Tobe’s homestead, there’s hell to pay. Her father, Wade, is the country sheriff. Down in the Valley is rife with these lovely unwitting archetypes.

Writer/director David Jacobson, while not wanting to make a sociological study of his film (see the special features), paints both broad and subtle strokes concerning modernity. The wide vistas sliced by power lines are obvious. But there is a wonderful exchange between Wade and his son Lonnie about gumption:

Lonnie: The meek shall inherit the earth.
Wade: (Laughs) Where did you here
that crap?
Lonnie: Television

All the performances are stellar. Evan Rachel Wood, Rory Caulkin, and David Morse play off each other naturally as a family headed by a single father trying to keep his teenagers out of trouble. Harlan encompasses Edward Norton and moves in his skin with the grace of wind-driven tumbleweed.

The DVD’s special features include a Q&A with Norton and Jacobson with Rolling Stone film critic Peter Travers that give some insight into the writing of the script. The deleted scenes answer niggling questions about some minor plot points, but also raise the question of why were some cut in the first place.

Overall, Down in the Valley adds a fine nuance to a beleaguered genre and reminds us that “money is the root of all confusion.”

Take note of the gorgeous soundtrack featuring Peter Salett, which provides the wonderful backdrop.

Movie Review: Erasurehead

Title: Erasurehead
Director: David Lynch
Writer: David Lynch
Year: 1977 (film), 2002 (DVD)

So Sunday I was able to scratch Erasurehead off my list of movies to see. Despite my appreciation of David Lynch’s films, I’ve been reluctant to view this one; its reputation for weirdness intimidated me. However, one thing I want to do in 2007 is whittle said list down to more of a list and less of a chapter.

The fellow at Film Buff confirmed Erasurehead’s weirdness, but assured me it was worth seeing. My money says most viewers imbibed prior to its screening. Not my style, but I did have a can of Strongbow close at hand. It took me close to two hours to finish, so my reaction is sober.

Many have described Lynch’s debut feature film as a masterpiece. I have a hard time with that; how can one’s first full-length film be one’s best? Certainly, it bespeaks of later cinematic ingenuity, but a masterpiece? I think that’s the acid talking.

Erasurehead feels like a young filmmaker with something to say. It’s definitely over-the-top and chock full of symbolism, be it conscious or no. The director readily admits that his life in Pittsburg informed his film: the industrial environment, the constant mechanical noise, the small communities that spring up amidst the machines. Other things crop up. Filmed in black and white, Erasurehead had a classic 1950s feel to it despite its being shot in the 1970s. The atomic-age Woman in the Radiator seemed somewhat Fellini-esque; indeed, the whole picture appeared to be informed by postwar Italian cinema.

Certainly postwar Italy bore little or no resemblance to postwar America, but what I got from Erasurehead is a comment on the American dream. So in this way, it’s a comment on promises unfulfilled. That the promise of a family, a job, a house, a car, and a stable life is a pipe dream: the pipes in the X’s house, the radiator in the apartment, the pipe-style headboard and footboard. Recall Bill X’s comment, “I remember when this was pastoral, before the pipes.” Admittedly, my analysis is very rudimentary and cliché. Nevertheless, I think it’s borne out.

I don’t think the basis of the film is particularly weird; indeed, I think its actually quite normal. Henry works at a boring job, lives an uneventful life, has a girlfriend, Mary X, who he doesn’t see much, and finds out she’s had his child. He meets the family and makes average conversation. It’s the space between that’s discomforting. Conversation isn’t fluffed up with non sequitors to fill the air. Who hasn’t felt strange “meeting the parents”? Mind you, we don’t all have the same eerie experience with chicken, but the meal never feels right, never tastes the same. People always look a little strange. Lynch merely stretched that sensation out—way out.

So the new parents set up house in Henry’s dire little apartment, and we get glimpse at their child, the one Mrs. X calls “premature” and Mary says, “Doesn’t even look like a baby.” Yup. Looks pretty strange and we recoil. But think about it. How strange does it really look? Don’t most parents (usually fathers) describe their newborns as appearing “alien”? They’re wrinkly and wet and red and cry and demand and get sick... Mary’s frustration and sleep deprivation are hardly weird. Lynch just skews them thus. Makes me wonder if he was, in fact, a new dad at the time. He seemed to nail it just right.

There’s lots of other things going on in Erasurehead: the man on the planet, the pencil machine, losing one’s head, etc. But if you really think about it, David Lynch has merely given form to the various neuroses from which we all suffer, and it makes us uncomfortable. Being uncomfortable is good because it makes us squirm, which makes us move. Otherwise, we are like he morbidly fat man on the couch and become one in the same.

I highly recommend sitting through the “Stories” special feature on the DVD. Lynch has a wonderful speaking style, which is echoed in his films. His new venture, Inland Empire, did the festival circuit in 2006 and appears to have had a limited release. Hopefully, wider screenings are planned for 2007.

Bad Sex Between the Sheets

From today's Guardian:

David Mitchell was no doubt celebrating last night, when it was announced that he was in the running for the £25,000 Costa (formerly Whitbread) novel award with Black Swan Green. He may be less pleased this morning to find out that the same book has won him a place on the shortlist for the Literary Review Bad Sex award.

Book Review: War

Title: War
Author: Gwynne Dyer
Publisher: Random House
Year: 2004
*From Uncorrected Proof

Dr. Gwynne Dyer knows his stuff. The Canadian has served in the Canadian, British and American navies. He earned his Ph.D. in military history from the University of London and taught at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He is no slouch.

He also possesses the envious ability to fly among the hawks and doves. War is evidence of this. While he is not neutral, his dovish tendencies are grounded in reality. Dyer demonstrates that war has always been with us; indeed, it may be part of us. The difference is war has evolved in a dangerous key way: now it has the potential to kill us all—not just the warriors, not the just the village, not just the tribe, but the whole damn species.

With open eyes and mind, Dyer takes us from “The Nature of the Beast” right through its theorists down the “The Road of to Mass Warfare” to “A Short History of Nuclear War” to “Guerrillas and Terrorists” to finally “The End of War.” It’s dense like a jungle, full of facts and figures, blood and guts, sweat and tears. Make no mistake. War is hell. And Dyer makes sure we are aware of it.

Gwynne Dyer stands apart, as objectively as he can, to deliver a solid and balanced look at war. Be aware: this is something to sit with and absorb, not dip into on the way to work.

This edition of War is updated and revised from his award-winning original published in 1986. That book accompanied a seven-part documentary, one episode of which was nominated for an Oscar.

Book Review: The Fortress of Solitude

Title: The Fortress of Solitude
Author: Jonathan Lethem
Publisher: Doubleday (US)
Year: 2003

In The Fortress of Solitude, Jonathan Lethem tells the tale of two boys, Dylan Edbus and Mingus Rude, who grow up in Brooklyn. Opening in the 1970s we navigate with them through racial minefields that extend into the 1980s and on to the 90s. And the soundtrack changes with the times. And if that weren’t enough, there’s the issue of superpowers…

This, his sixth novel, is dense and feels very autobiographical. He knows the setting so intimately that you bear the weight Dylan does; you anticipate a yoking when he does; you smell his fear and intimidation. It’s exhausting but you go on; you are simply compelled.

As you and he and Mingus grow up, you feel a certain separation. Indeed, the section set in San Francisco feels disconnected. Perhaps that’s the intent. Maybe Dylan feels disconnected, or wants to feel disconnected, from whence he came. The girlfriend character, Amy, worked in the same manner. She was exceedingly annoying and her dialogue recalled the aimless politically correct circular rhetoric I endured during the same era. Is this good storytelling (meaning the emotional involvement of the reader) or simply cliché? Nevertheless, well evoked, Mr. Letham,

Originally, the Fortress of Solitude was where Superman could hang out and be himself. No pressure. No crime fighting. No girls. Just a room of one’s own, if you will. As one draws to the end, one seeks the fortress, the “middle space,” as Letham calls it, only to find it necessarily fleeting. Finding it in life and in his often poetic novel is decidedly worth the effort

Jonathan Letham’s new novel, You Don’t Love Me Yet, is due out March 2007.
Edward Norton is directing the film version of Motherless Brooklyn, due out next year. Sadly, I only have my hands on the advanced reading copy of the book, not the director of the film.

Iggy Rocks

Or at least someone in his crew does. Smoking Gun (which also rocks) posted Iggy's rider. Too fucking cool, maaaan.

via WFMU

Freedom to Read Week

September 23 to 30 is Banned Books Week as brought to you by the ACLU! According to the American Librarians Association, the following are the top ten most challenged books of 2006:

It’s Perfectly Normal:Changing Bodies, Growing Up, Sex, and Sexual Health for homosexuality, nudity, sex education, religious viewpoint, abortion and being unsuited to age group;

Forever by Judy Blume for sexual content and offensive language;

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger for sexual content, offensive language and being unsuited to age group;The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier for sexual content and offensive language;

Whale Talk by Chris Crutcher for racism and offensive language;

Detour for Emmy by Marilyn Reynolds for sexual content;

What My Mother Doesn’t Know by Sonya Sones for sexual content and being unsuited to age group;

Captain Underpants series by Dav Pilkey for anti-family content, being unsuited to age group and violence;

Crazy Lady! by Jane Leslie Conly for offensive language; and

It’s So Amazing! A Book about Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families by Robie H. Harris for sex education and sexual content.

Off the list this year, but on the list for several years past, are the Alice
series of books by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, Of Mice and Men by John
Steinbeck and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain.

Inside the Box

To my knowledge, Toronto does not contain a Container Store per se. The city does contain a Solutions Store, which solves the problem of not having a Container Store. That problem being a lack of containers, or as some would corporately put it, “organizational tools.” In my mind, however, one using said term is merely describing oneself.

I like lists. I am organized. I have stuff (even George Carlin–type stuff) which is, nine times out of ten, tidily available when I need it. My records are alphabetized as are my books (which are also split into fiction, non-fiction, music, reference, and cooking). People call me anal. Yet I am often the person to whom these people ask about things because I can find the solutions.

These solutions can be found without a large bill from a store purporting to sell me them. I’ve been in the Solutions Store, but alas, I find more problems than solutions. Why do I need pretty empty boxes? More to the point, why do I need stuff to put in those boxes? Perhaps this reflects more on consumerist mentality than it does on the need to be organized in order that information be found.

I admit that as I write this, I’m thinking that I really ought to replace the magazine boxes that house my periodicals. Note, however, that I’m replacing and not adding to a situation based on current and projected needs: Magnet and The Believer are keepers. I have also made notes in them as to the music I want to hear, movies I want to see, and the books I want to read. This marked information makes it on to one or more of my lists.

Buddhism, simplicity, and basics (the idea not the store) wind their ways into mainstream consciousness, and all are valuable concepts. And all have been “leveraged” into marketable commodities—mats, clothes, bags, books, classes, television shows, magazines—flying in the face in the original premise that they share: minimalism, use your resources and make do with what you have. Indeed, why add to your stuff if you cannot handle the stuff you have? For example, how badly do you need a new garlic press when a knife will do? If it’s good enough for Anthony Bourdain, when it’s good enough for me.

On reflection, that last paragraph seems out of place in a essay/rant about a store that sells storage. Hell, I rented my current apartment based on its glorious storage. I kept the original packaging for my computer and other large, expensive items, and it all needs to be stored. It’s all about reduce, reuse, and recycle, and it didn’t cost extra dimes.

Sure I participate as a consumer, but I know when I’m full. And I don’t get all friggin’ anxiety ridden about not having the latest so-handy, purse-sized, pretty-pink, empty box. For one, that anxiety feeds a related market that deserves its very own rant. And two, there are enough “empty boxes” walking around; I’m not in that demographic.

As the Head of Lettuce Crumples

Organizers of fashion week in Madrid have put the kibosh on skinny girls on the catwalk. And they face the wrath of some designers who feel their “artistic vision” is being tampered with. Incredible.

From "When Is Thin Too Thin?", New York Times

The producers of these fashion events have largely dismissed the concerns. On Saturday a British cabinet member, Culture Secretary Tessa Jowell, called for London designers to follow the example of Madrid by banning underweight models. But the British Fashion Council, led by Stuart Rose, the chief executive of Marks & Spencer, said it would not interfere with the designers’ aesthetic. And some designers said it was misleading to equate thinness with being unhealthy and that the standard cited by the organizers in Madrid did not take into account age and puberty, which may cause a model who is unusually tall to appear frighteningly thin.

Um, I get that some girls are skinny, boney even. Perhaps even tall, too. I find it an amazing quirk that these same skinny, tall girls have the other “appropriate” criteria that allows entrance into the great houses of couture. Not a zit among them, which is equally astounding for young models are approaching puberty. So, what are these designers saying? That the girls in their frocks are ten to twelve years old?

From "Like It or Not, This Sells," Globe and Mail (requires login)

[Elmer] Olsen said, "because on a runway, like it or not, thin sells. The pictures turn out better."

Sells to whom? These shows are not marketed to the prêt a porter crowd; indeed, many creators in the industry argue that haute couture is art, and that what they parade on the catwalks is not intended for everyday wear. And I totally buy this argument. There is room in the art world for textiles. Humans are used to exhibit art in most other disciplines (i.e., music, painting, performance). But these art forms see beauty in all types of humans, not merely those that resemble fully-starved gazelles.

“British cabinet minister calls for ban on super-thin models,” Globe and Mail (requires login)

So can a government ban or legislate against this practice? Well, yes, technically it can. Certainly, the industry is not going to self-regulate. The issue of sickly stick figures wearing more weight down the aisle than they do naked on a scale is not new. And designers have not seen fit to dress healthy models. Will said ban or legislation have any effect? That remains to be seen. I highly doubt it.

Karen Von Hahn's column, “The Skinny on Self Esteem,” Globe and Mail (requires login)

Yes, girls often want to look like magazine covers and catwalk models. But body weirdness usually starts at about age twelve. Telling kids “it’s what’s inside that counts” works only up to the point when the insides start making appearances outside. Then the brain goes nuts, people that were icky aren’t icky anymore...and it doesn’t stop till menopause.

So, back to the stage. Can healthy be the new black, dahling? Perhaps for a season. It will last as long as faux fur and heroin chic.

PS: One model agent, Ben Barry, is actually making a dent. For more information, you can visit his website.

Is It That Time of the Month?

Or is it just me? Have we entered a Tardis destined for another past era or is the present day manifest of the adage, "The more things change the more they stay the same"?

Exhibit A: The recent curfuffle about death-defyingly thin models versus "artistic vision." Note that many of the artists in question are men.

Exhibit B: The assassination of women's rights activist and provincial director of Afghanastan's Ministry of Women's Affairs, Safia Ama Jan. According to the Times,

As a well known women rights campaigner, she was aware that she was vulnerable
to attack and had asked for official transport and personal bodyguards. The
Afghan Government rejected these requests. It is thought that she was getting
into a taxi on her way to work when she was killed

She was wearing a burqua at the time.

Exhibit C: On a slightly lighter note, Maud Newton posted this amusing advert concerning vaginas and Lysol.How droll! Oh my, how modern we are now. Not a douche to found on the "feminine hygene" shelves these days, no ma'am. But what's this Ms. Newton points out? Slice and dice my glory hole? Sweet Mary Mother of God!

I guess 1970s nostalgia goes further than just aviator shades. Sigh.

Seth in the New York Times

Canadian cartoonist Seth has a serial novel published in the New York Times.

via Quill & Quire

Cory Doctorow on Copyright

I'm home coughing, weezing, and blowing my nose today. Because daytime TV blows chunks, I'm cleaning out my email. I found this posting from Locus Mag by Canadian sci-fi writer Cory Doctorow as part of a digitial copyright list to which I subscribe.

New on the Tube

Every fall I end up getting suckered into watching at least a few episodes of new television, liking a couple, then one of them gets cancelled, and I forget to watch the rest. Here's this year's picks, why I picked them, and a very quick review:

Show: Standoff
Why: Ron Livingston is hot
Review: Weak writing, but "Burger" is way easy on the eyes. Not sure if this will survive, though.

Show: Weeds
Why: Mary Louise Parker is completely relatable
Review: Good, funny, adult writing. This is cable and not new, but their season was only about six shows long.

Show: Smith
Why: Ray Liotta...I dunno there's something about him. Gotta be the Good Fellas factor
Review: After one show, I want to know if my fearless predictions come true. If I wrote the show, one of his crew would die per episode. The Terence Malik--Thin Red Lineapproach.

Show: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
Why: Matthew Perry could do drama
Review: Feels like West Wing goes Hollywood. Could be worse, but the first episode felt stiff. It needs to stretch and gets it's own voice.

A Little Finger Pickin

According to the New York Times ("Who’s This Guy Dylan Who’s Borrowing Lines From Henry Timrod?"), Bob Dylan is doing a little finger pickin' of Henry Timrod's poetry on the nasally one's latest CD, Modern Times:

It seems that many of the lyrics on that album, Mr. Dylan’s first No. 1 album in 30 years (down to No. 3 this week), bear some strong echoes to the poems of Timrod, a Charleston native who wrote poems about the Civil War and died in 1867 at the age of 39.

“More frailer than the flowers, these precious hours,” the 65-year-old Mr. Dylan sings in “When the Deal Goes Down,” one of the songs on “Modern Times.” Compare that to these lines from Timrod’s “Rhapsody of a Southern Winter Night”:

A round of precious hours

Oh! here, where in that summer noon I basked

And strove, with logic frailer than the flowers.

Reactions are mixed. Some fans are disappointed ("Bob really is a thieving little swine."), some scholars are aghast ("Maybe it’s the teacher in me. If I found out that he had done this in a research paper, he’d be in big trouble.” ), and others are just pleased that the poet lauret of the Civil War is even getting read (“If I were Timrod, I would love it.... I would say he’s doing a great honor to Timrod and let’s celebrate that.”)

Some cite folk-music traditions for the borrowing, and copyright isn't an issue:

Because Timrod is long dead and his work has fallen out of copyright — you can find his collected poems on the Internet — there is no legal claim that could be made against Mr. Dylan.

Whew! I bet SonyBMG is glad about that.

Still, it would have been kinda classy to give "influenced by" or some sort of credit to Henry Timrod.

via Quill & Quire

1234!

Lenny Kaye on CBGBs and the end of an era:

You had to be there, and if it was a-happening, there you were, though because it was so happening, you weren't thinking or even appreciating it much, just
living in the groove of its moment, not wondering how its movement into legend was influencing and inspiring and creating waves that soon found a CBGB in every major city, each with its own roster of local bands and camp followers.

front the what's left of the Village Voice

You Are What You Eat

Man, this takes the cake...and the chips...and the fizzy drinks. Apparently two English mums are fed up and aren't going to take it any more! Dammit, no health nut like Jaime Oliver is going to stop their little darlins from eating junk food. Poor wee lads and lasses aren't gettin' a proper dinner of fat and sugar so they can get doze off in class be tired enough to fall asleep in front of the telly at night. All this veg and fruit is turnin' 'em into picky eaters and that just won't do.

Sadly, this isn't from the Onion. It's from the former great Britain. Remember, the one that gave us Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Nick Hornby, and The Clash? Well, now it's breeding stupid people who really want their offspring to drop dead early from heart disease and diabetes. Yup. I can understand why my folks left in the first place.

Black Cawfee

While copy editing a book today, I found this caffeine website. Apparently it will take 85.71 cups of brewed coffee to kill me. Presumably, this is all in one day.

Impeach the Rat Bastard

The Globe and Mail reports that "Bush acknowledges secret CIA prisons."

Incredible. The smarmy, smug, lying frat boy actually seems to believe, or wants the American public to believe, that lives were saved. Yeah? So, if this is treatment so legitimate, why the FUCK did the prisons have to be secret and located overseas? This is not legal. The war in Iraq is not legal. His presidency is not legal.

Impeach Bush before he kills again.

Book Review: Lost Joy

I dug this review up after logging Lost Joy in LibraryThing. It was originally published by a long-gone webzine out of Milwaukee, WI, Actionman, for which I also reviewed CDs. Thanks to Michael W. of No Karma Music for hooking me up:

Title: Lost Joy
Author: Camden Joy
Published in 2002 by TNI Books

There is the clichéd scene in High Fidelity where Rob goes through his record collection and rearranges it in order of life’s moments. I’m sure I’m not the only music geek to go home after a big break up and think about doing the same thing. And I’m not the only one to shudder at the idea, turn the stereo up, and cry in her beer. Camden Joy understands. Rock and roll isn’t his hobby, or passion, or new love, or even a religion. His records and CDs aren’t collectables over which to get all alpha male. No. It goes deeper than that. Rock and roll, what it means, where it comes from, where it takes you, how it connects is the physical and psychic make up of Camden Joy and his writing.

Lost Joy is a collection of manifestoes, essays, and other prose that until now have not been available in one volume. Unless you consider the walls and hoarding boards of New York City to be a volume. Then walk the walk and read the talk before the latest soft drink sponsored saviour of rock and roll pastes its face across Joy’s musings. No doubt he will organize his thoughts quick enough to foil the designs of the twenty-first century Svengalis. He made a name for himself as a gonzo rock critic in 1995 and his titles include The Last Rock Star, or Liz Phair: A Rant, Boy Island, Hubcap Diamond Star Halo, Palm Tree 13, and Pan that he co-authored with Colin B. Morton.

Joy ably combines the adamant style of Hunter S. Thompson with the enthusiasm of Jack Kerouac. I wouldn’t burden the author with being a voice of Generation X; certainly there are lessers more deserving of that terrible yoke. Joy does speak to those of us who listen to the song or an artist and recognize more. The story “The Greatest Record Album Ever Told”, a tribute to Frank Black’s Teenager of the Year is a good example. The author weaves his life and thoughts into a passionate review of a record. Real simple, but there are always songs and CDs that hearken back to a time dark, or light, or just overcast. Joy sits us down and lets us in to his experience of Black’s discography.

Lost Joy isn’t all glimpses of Joy’s life, or a fictional facsimile thereof. The opening story, “Dum Dum Boys,” sets the tone of the journey upon which the writer takes us. Coming of an age after the zits have been exfoliated away. He undermines studied cynicism evoking a sadness that gives more foundation for jaded wisdom.

MyRecordShop

From today's New York Times article "MySpace Music Store Is New Challenge for Big Labels ":

MySpace, the online community site owned by the News Corporation, said on Friday that it would sell music through a partnership with Snocap, a technology company started by the creator of Napster, Shawn Fanning. When the online store opens this fall, it will allow bands andlabels of any size to sell songs online for whatever price they want.

At first glance, I see a number of good things about this:

1. Poetic justice for the Napster guy
2. Small, unsigned bands can sell their music; maybe not acutally make a profit since Snocap takes forty-five cents per song. (According to the article, iTunes takes thirty-five cents, but the file is sold in its proprietary format, boosting sales of its device.)
3. Purchases can be made using PayPal, which includes the teen and twenty-something demographic
4. It's competition.

Granted, MySpace, as noted in the above quote, is owned by a huge media conglomerate. And EMI are apparently "in talks," so there is a chance the majors will hop on this bandwagon (they'd be characteristically foolish if they didn't). But MySpace offers an option for musicians, and options and choices are always good. Something to keep track of.

How Many...

...country and western singers does it take to change a lightbulb?

Three. One to change the bulb and two to sing about the old one.

Thank you...I'll be appearing all week at Yuk Yuks.

via Never Trust a Hippy

All You Need Is....

...a lawyer. Apparently The Beatles haven't broken up or faded away, but exist as an entity neither animal nor mineral nor Rutle. So with a swipe of Ed Sullivan's arm, here, straight from the UK's Independent, are the Top Ten Beatles Lawsuits (current divorce cases not included):

10 1971: McCartney versus the rest of The Beatles
9 1981: Beatles versus Apple (Round 1)
8 1979: Beatles versus EMI (Round 1)
7 1989: Beatles versus EMI (Round 2)
6 1991: Beatles versus EMI Round 3
5 1989: Beatles versus Apple (Round 2)
4 1995: Beatles versus EMI Round 4
3 1998: Beatles versus Lingasong Music
2 2003: Beatles versus Apple Round 3
1 2005/06: The Beatles versus EMI (Round 5)
And the legal case that wasn't... 2002 Yoko Ono versus Paul McCartney

For all the juicy details, check out "The courtroom hit parade: The Beatles' top ten (lawsuits) "