By Gabriel García Márquez, translated by Gregory Rabassa
Published by Harper Perennial
Trade paper: $18.95
Whenever I mention that I’ve just finished this book, people look at me expectantly and ask, “So, what did you think?”; not in a curious way, but rather in an iconoclastic-expose-the-canon manner.
I have to disappoint, I’m afraid, because I did like this Oprah pick.
Originally published in Spanish in 1967, Márquez is touted as being first to employ “magic realism.” (It could be argued that Lewis Carroll or Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels were be forerunners, but I digress.) “Magic realism” is a strange and wonderful device that weaves the fantastic (in the true sense of the word) into a real story (i.e.: not a whiff if dragon dung to be found). Hence the true reason for me to sign this book out of the library; I’m a big fan of Jeanette Winterson and other writers of her ilk.
To be fair, I’m still mulling over the story. And having returned the book (incurring $2.00 in overdue fines), I cannot provide quotes or exact details. Nevertheless, a synopsis is in order.
One Hundred Years of Solitude takes place in Macondo, an imaginary, isolated, South American town at an indeterminate time in history. Centering on the Buendía family, we follow the sorrows, merriment, tragedy, and frustrations of the clan over a century; from the town’s settlement to its demise. Informed by the politics that Márquez lived through as a journalist and writer, the author ably sweeps away moral judgments to paint flawed human characters.
To compose an adequate essay exploring the themes and nuances the author examines would take not only more time, but a second and third reading, pencil and notebook in hand. An comparative lit major I am not. But as a reader, I found I had to stick this out; I knew Márquez would deliver, resolve, and satisfy the time I invested.
Many who have read One Hundred Years of Solitude hated it. Admittedly, it’s quite lengthy and can be depressing (I think of one particular scene about three quarters of the way through that underscores my sentiment about politics) but the poetic execution and the need to chew the story over make the experience worthwhile. Definitely worth revisiting.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Movie Review: King Kong
Director: Peter Jackson
Writers: Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens (screenplay)
Merian C. Cooper and Edgar Wallace (story)
Remember Saturday-afternoon matinees full of romping, restless kids jacked up on popcorn and pop? Ok, nor do I really, but I do recall the live-action Sinbad movies complete with the sword-fighting skeletons. Not cinematic glory or special-effects milestones, but fun and fulfilling nonetheless. Hollywood spectacles aren’t necessarily about art or meaning or the greater good. Sometimes it’s about chase scenes and treasure islands and scary-larger-than-live monsters. George Lucas once unapologetically described his often-maligned Star Wars series as “popcorn movies.” The Mummy falls into this category and so does King Kong.
Peter Jackson’s latest clocks in at approximately three hours; pretty lengthy even for grown-ups. Indeed, a lot of people have complained about this. Strangely, the length didn’t bother me at all; I was too busy running from dinosaurs to look at my watch. The story divides into four acts: the character introduction in Depression-era New York, the sailing to Skull Island, the adventure on the island, and the return to Gotham with Kong in tow.
Throughout the camera captures plenty of emoting courtesy of Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts), which would normally bug me but I’ll forgive for this picture; it’s in keeping with the ‘30s-era movie-making tone I think Jackson wanted to set. There’s lots of “damsel in distress” stuff happening, but to change that would be to further wrest the movie from the original’s moorings. This occurs often enough without further changing the characterizations. For example, there’s a sweet yet silly scene where Darrow entertains the ape, which I’m not sure actually appeared in the 1933 original. (If somebody knows for sure, please do comment. Otherwise, I’ll need to rent it to find out for myself.) All in good fun, though.
The production and art design are amazing, too. A quick search through the credits on Internet Movie Database confirms that many of the crew also worked on the Lord of the Rings films. So too with the digital effects developers. The scope and fine detail added to the entertainment value.
As far as a message or sub-text goes, King Kong is somewhat confusing. There’s a love story of sorts between a giant gorilla and a woman who later falls into the rescuing arms of writer Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody). Is this a compassionate thing à la Dian Fosey, something sexually weird, or an overarching allegory for women’s perceived nurturing love of nature supplanted by men’s perceived technologically imperialist pursuit of the almighty entertainment buck? Perhaps this question is best left for the chin-rubbing wags of the film-studies set a part of which I’m not, thankfully.
So cast aside your watches, bring on the popcorn, suck back your soda, and enjoy. Be warned: the eighth wonder is best served on the big screen.
Writers: Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens (screenplay)
Merian C. Cooper and Edgar Wallace (story)
Remember Saturday-afternoon matinees full of romping, restless kids jacked up on popcorn and pop? Ok, nor do I really, but I do recall the live-action Sinbad movies complete with the sword-fighting skeletons. Not cinematic glory or special-effects milestones, but fun and fulfilling nonetheless. Hollywood spectacles aren’t necessarily about art or meaning or the greater good. Sometimes it’s about chase scenes and treasure islands and scary-larger-than-live monsters. George Lucas once unapologetically described his often-maligned Star Wars series as “popcorn movies.” The Mummy falls into this category and so does King Kong.
Peter Jackson’s latest clocks in at approximately three hours; pretty lengthy even for grown-ups. Indeed, a lot of people have complained about this. Strangely, the length didn’t bother me at all; I was too busy running from dinosaurs to look at my watch. The story divides into four acts: the character introduction in Depression-era New York, the sailing to Skull Island, the adventure on the island, and the return to Gotham with Kong in tow.
Throughout the camera captures plenty of emoting courtesy of Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts), which would normally bug me but I’ll forgive for this picture; it’s in keeping with the ‘30s-era movie-making tone I think Jackson wanted to set. There’s lots of “damsel in distress” stuff happening, but to change that would be to further wrest the movie from the original’s moorings. This occurs often enough without further changing the characterizations. For example, there’s a sweet yet silly scene where Darrow entertains the ape, which I’m not sure actually appeared in the 1933 original. (If somebody knows for sure, please do comment. Otherwise, I’ll need to rent it to find out for myself.) All in good fun, though.
The production and art design are amazing, too. A quick search through the credits on Internet Movie Database confirms that many of the crew also worked on the Lord of the Rings films. So too with the digital effects developers. The scope and fine detail added to the entertainment value.
As far as a message or sub-text goes, King Kong is somewhat confusing. There’s a love story of sorts between a giant gorilla and a woman who later falls into the rescuing arms of writer Jack Driscoll (Adrien Brody). Is this a compassionate thing à la Dian Fosey, something sexually weird, or an overarching allegory for women’s perceived nurturing love of nature supplanted by men’s perceived technologically imperialist pursuit of the almighty entertainment buck? Perhaps this question is best left for the chin-rubbing wags of the film-studies set a part of which I’m not, thankfully.
So cast aside your watches, bring on the popcorn, suck back your soda, and enjoy. Be warned: the eighth wonder is best served on the big screen.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Hi Resolutions
Merry Christmas and Happy 2006!
I've only a few random thoughts since I last had a moment to grace this space. To start, it was an interesting experiment to conciously wish people a "Merry Christmas" than merely "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings." Some say the latter in an effort to not offend anyone. Strange. I'm not Jewish, but I'd hardly take offence at someone wishing me a Happy Hannukah. It's a blessing of sorts. The CBC news noted that customers actually walked out of stores or refused to patronize shops that used the inoffensive milque toast seasonal saluation. In my recent retail experiment, I wished my customers a merry Christmas and received surprised smiles or shocked recipricals.
Boxing Day reminds me that people really are strange. Exactly three minutes after we opened the shop at eleven a.m., we had a full store. Nuts. Why are thirty-cent books more appealing than those priced at three dollars? How is something a deal if you weren't going to buy it in the first place?
So with all this merrymaking comes resolution drafting. In 2004 I decided to loose weight. I did. Last year I resolved to move up in my career. I did. This brand-spanking new 2006 I'll pay down debt; not sexy but somewhat achieveable, which is the aim of a resolution. I don't smoke and I don't drink heavily, so those traditional sins are nipped in the bud. I thought also I'd try to see more movies; perhaps one a week. And last, I'll endeavor to post my missives more often than once a month. So I resolve to keep you entertained. In twelve months, we'll see how I fared.
To you, yours, and those you have your eye on, have a boistrous and properous new year. May you achieve everything you set out to do and then some.
Cheers!
I've only a few random thoughts since I last had a moment to grace this space. To start, it was an interesting experiment to conciously wish people a "Merry Christmas" than merely "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings." Some say the latter in an effort to not offend anyone. Strange. I'm not Jewish, but I'd hardly take offence at someone wishing me a Happy Hannukah. It's a blessing of sorts. The CBC news noted that customers actually walked out of stores or refused to patronize shops that used the inoffensive milque toast seasonal saluation. In my recent retail experiment, I wished my customers a merry Christmas and received surprised smiles or shocked recipricals.
Boxing Day reminds me that people really are strange. Exactly three minutes after we opened the shop at eleven a.m., we had a full store. Nuts. Why are thirty-cent books more appealing than those priced at three dollars? How is something a deal if you weren't going to buy it in the first place?
So with all this merrymaking comes resolution drafting. In 2004 I decided to loose weight. I did. Last year I resolved to move up in my career. I did. This brand-spanking new 2006 I'll pay down debt; not sexy but somewhat achieveable, which is the aim of a resolution. I don't smoke and I don't drink heavily, so those traditional sins are nipped in the bud. I thought also I'd try to see more movies; perhaps one a week. And last, I'll endeavor to post my missives more often than once a month. So I resolve to keep you entertained. In twelve months, we'll see how I fared.
To you, yours, and those you have your eye on, have a boistrous and properous new year. May you achieve everything you set out to do and then some.
Cheers!
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Wilco's Jeff Tweedy on File Sharing
Admittedly, the bulk of this AP interview (from the Mercury News in San Jose, CA) is reporter John Carrucci asking basic band questions of Jeff Tweedy. However, I liked the Wilco frontman's take on file sharing and thought I'd pass it along. It's not long or profound; it won't make you run for your dictionary. Just one very successful musician talking about his craft and it's distribution. Without giving it all away, here's a quick bite:
via Pregnant Without Intercourse who got it from Largehearted Boy...My God, it's like a disease! Quick! Call a Royal Commission!
I think more than anything else it has engendered an enthusiasm for music. It's a no-brainer that it should be embraced, that's kind the whole point of making music, to be heard. The only thing that stands in the way of making sense to most people is greed.Nicely put.
via Pregnant Without Intercourse who got it from Largehearted Boy...My God, it's like a disease! Quick! Call a Royal Commission!
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Freedom from the Chains
Former Canadian crime reporter Jeremy Mercer has selected his top ten bookshops in the world. He seems to have missed mine, but This Ain't The Rosedale Library made the list, so that's cool. From this article in the Guardian:
So for those travelling hither and yon, here's a way to unshackle thyself from the chain stores.
Bookstores are sanctuaries. Places to lose yourself, escape the harsh demands of daily life, find new ways to dream and new sources of inspiration. I love all booksellers; anybody who helps spread the word is doing noble work. But my favourite bookstores are the small eccentric independents run by passionate and usually slightly mad book lovers. These are some of the best.
So for those travelling hither and yon, here's a way to unshackle thyself from the chain stores.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Ok Go Say No Go
To be clear, I'm not about theft. I don't condone stealing from hard working artists. I do, however, have a hard time with people screwing around with my computer without my explicit permission. This is why I won't buy Sony/BMG CDs again. And I'm not alone. Damian Kulash Jr., the lead singer for OK Go has a hard time with a large media conglomerate (which also makes money from recording media manufacture) screwing around with a young band's audience. Check out his opinion piece in the New York Times.
Copyright and intellectual property isn't a cut and dry issue. It's about control. Too often the creators of art/inventions/innovations don't have it. This is the true crime.
Via the springy boing boing
Copyright and intellectual property isn't a cut and dry issue. It's about control. Too often the creators of art/inventions/innovations don't have it. This is the true crime.
Via the springy boing boing
Monday, December 05, 2005
Movie Review: The Squid and the Whale
The Squid and the Whale
Director & Writer: Noah Baumbach
I imagine you’ve read and heard everyone rave about this picture. Pay attention. The Squid and the Whale, based on director/writer Noah Baumbach’s boyhood is a poignant story written with honest candour.
Set in 1986 Brooklyn, in the Park Slope neighbourhood, the story bares the pain, anger, and confusion of the Berkman family divorce. The father, Bernard (Jeff Daniels), has seen his literary star dull while he polishes the work of his grad students. Meanwhile, his wife Joan (Laura Linney) is making a dent in the New York world of letters. The boys Frank (Owen Kline) and Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) bear the brunt of adult frustrations and infidelity.
Baumbach’s writing is top notch and scathing. While the characters demand a certain amount of empathy or anger, they are written and played with human complexity thereby failing to deliver cliché. Veterans Daniels and Linney are both great but merely support the heart-wrenchingly sweet performances of Kline and Eisenberg. You cannot take your eyes or ears off of either of them. Boys are definitely boys here; no soft-focus saccharine sentimentality; no purposeful twanging of heartstrings. Both actors will make strong dramatic appearances again, one hopes.
A wonderful film.
Director & Writer: Noah Baumbach
I imagine you’ve read and heard everyone rave about this picture. Pay attention. The Squid and the Whale, based on director/writer Noah Baumbach’s boyhood is a poignant story written with honest candour.
Set in 1986 Brooklyn, in the Park Slope neighbourhood, the story bares the pain, anger, and confusion of the Berkman family divorce. The father, Bernard (Jeff Daniels), has seen his literary star dull while he polishes the work of his grad students. Meanwhile, his wife Joan (Laura Linney) is making a dent in the New York world of letters. The boys Frank (Owen Kline) and Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) bear the brunt of adult frustrations and infidelity.
Baumbach’s writing is top notch and scathing. While the characters demand a certain amount of empathy or anger, they are written and played with human complexity thereby failing to deliver cliché. Veterans Daniels and Linney are both great but merely support the heart-wrenchingly sweet performances of Kline and Eisenberg. You cannot take your eyes or ears off of either of them. Boys are definitely boys here; no soft-focus saccharine sentimentality; no purposeful twanging of heartstrings. Both actors will make strong dramatic appearances again, one hopes.
A wonderful film.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Wanna See Someone About a Horse
Patti Smith's Horses is 30 years old and it still kicks the llama's ass. This is a seminal punk record because it didn't mean to be; it happened. Every self-respecting music fan must own this. Don't believe me? Check out Will Hermes' article in the Village Voice.
More from me later...when my eyes are less fried and my brain is more thawed. Unless someone sends me on an all-expense-paid trip to New York to witness Ms.Smith perform...Takers? Anyone?
More from me later...when my eyes are less fried and my brain is more thawed. Unless someone sends me on an all-expense-paid trip to New York to witness Ms.Smith perform...Takers? Anyone?
Monday, October 24, 2005
Something to keep you busy this winter...
Here is Time Magazine's "Top 100 English-Language Novels From 1923 to the Present." How they settled on that year, I have no idea. Now to determine how many I've read...fifteeen. Not bad. Only eighty-five to go. Glad I have a library card.
via Quill & Quire which got it from The Morning News which published some silly reviews from priggish readers who thought it was clever to post their thoughts on Amazon. Jeez, I just thought it was the author's mum who did such things!
via Quill & Quire which got it from The Morning News which published some silly reviews from priggish readers who thought it was clever to post their thoughts on Amazon. Jeez, I just thought it was the author's mum who did such things!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
A Study in Ketchup
Where to begin? Without boring you with too many silly personal details, I’m currently working two jobs while going to school. What can I say? You don’t do publishing for the money.
And Muse Ink isn’t the only thing I’m hustling to catch-up with. I’ve been scratching together my pennies for a few shows and accompanying CDs. So here we go. But first I’ll need to see some ID and check your person for drugs and weapons. No joke.
Oct. 3 2005
The Posies w/ Lou Barlow opening
Lee’s Palace.
It’s been maybe nine years since The Posies graced a stage here in Toronto. Same bar. Worse sound. Big apologies. This time great sound and big rocking show. Much of the set consisted of tracks from Amazing Disgrace with some of their classic early singles (“Suddenly Mary”) thrown in just for me. Relentless.True blessed-blue power pop. More dynamic than their records simply because they can throw themselves around the stage. The grateful audience loved it. And during the last encore, Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow played in the audience—guitars, mics, and stands—with out bass or drums for much of it. Ah, so good. Just such a great sow.
Lou Barlow’s inclusion on the bill fit surprisingly nicely, too. Accompanied by tape loops, a keyboard, two mics (one with sound-effects), he provided a gentle lovely pop intro. Good songwriting and audience interaction. Quite nice.
CD? The Posies’ Jon Auer worked the merch table and kindly autographed a limited edition (#697) solo record called The Birthday Party. Sounds like he looked himself up to a four track and played acoustic versions of songs some of which I know (“I May Hate You Sometimes”) and others I don’t. Plus, he covers Big Star’s “Thirteen.” Yep, this was a happy surprise and a worthwhile experiment.
So all is right in Posies-land.
Oct. 9, 2005 (Turkey Day-eve)
New Pornographers w/ Immaculate Machine and Destroyer
Phoenix
I’ve seen the New Pornographers twice, each tour supporting each record. Maybe it was me, maybe the muddy sound, but somehow the sparkle was dimmed tonight. No one shook their snow balls (except for drummer Kurt Dahle; someone did something to his snow ball cause he was the most fun). They mentioned something about equipment going missing or getting stolen. Not sure about the story behind that. Maybe it was a bad night; they certainly weren’t mid-tour. Apparently they’re headed across the US then off to Europe. Technically they were great; no false notes. The between song banter was strained, but that happens. Maybe it was me.
I can’t say much about Immaculate Machine as I walked in just as they were wrapping up their set. Check our their Web site for more information about the poppy trio. Things that stood out: solid drumming and the keyboardist later played with New Pornographers.
Destroyer (Dan Bejar’s project—not the KISS cover band) are not my taste, as I soon found out. After hearing so much internet chatter about this band/guy, I was curious. Indulgent. Good guitarist, but inaccessible lyrically. My subjective two cents. Maybe I’ll give him another listen, but I suspect the work I’ll like most are those songs he contributes to New Pornographers.
So, yes, I bought Twin Cinema. Musically its holds up well to Mass Romantic and The Electric Version (the former being my favourite, I confess). There’s something else going on though. I hear a 70s pop sensibility eking through, which is new (“These Are The Fables” and “Sing Me Spanish Techno”). The layered harmonies that are so wonderful are still at work here(“Falling Through Your Clothes”) and there’s a Byrd-ish riff sneaking in “Jackie, Dressed in Cobras.” I wish they’d grace us with lyrics in the liner notes. Next time? Please?
Okay. Fed and watered on the West Coast.
Oct. 17 2005
Son Volt w/ The Fruitbats
Opera House
And so I come full circle to see a “reformed” Son Volt: Jay Farrar (vocal, guitar, piano, harmonica), Dave Bryson (drums), Andrew Duplantis (bass, backing vocal), and Brad Rice (guitar). I say “full circle” because during their heyday in the 90s, I was largely cut off from a lot of new bands (long stupid story, suffice it to say I was in self-imposed exile.) When I saw the listing I penned the date in my daytimer and bought a ticket. I confess to feeling a touch of “Janey-come-lately” guilt. I’m more familiar with Farrar’s solo stuff; indeed, I saw him perform a few years back. But who cares? It’s music and so long as you find out about a band and enjoy their music what does it matter when you start? So back to the show. Son Volt were tight, professional, and didn’t waste time on talk. Almost exactly 120 minutes filled with old, new, and solo (“Barstow”) songs.
Seattle’s Fruitbats opened the show (as they do much of the tour). Just as Son Volt was a band for it’s time, so too are these guys. Sparse enough twang to fit the bill, but don’t mistake them for “alt-(cringe)-country.” Indie pop without being twee. Think Shins with a banjo and lap steel. Don’t think soundtrack (ok, do, but you get my meaning; they won’t be on The OC anytime soon, God willing.)
Despite saving my coin for a Son Volt record, there weren’t any. This freed up fifteen bucks for the Fruitbats’ Spelled in Bones. To be fair, I’m only six tracks into it as I write this. So far so good. Not trendy. Very nice instrumentation, full and lush. No obvious coattails being trod on. But they DO have liner notes. With lyrics. Hey, Carl Newman get a load o’ this!
So that’s it. I’m caught up with live shows and putting a dent in my headphone time. Next is reading. Currently I crawl into bed with Neil Gaiman and his Anansi Boys. Hopefully, I can string something meaningful together soon. I’ve also been reading the paper every day, so beware: I feel a rant coming on.
Till then, thanks for visiting! We love you Richmond, Virginia! Whoo hoo!!
And Muse Ink isn’t the only thing I’m hustling to catch-up with. I’ve been scratching together my pennies for a few shows and accompanying CDs. So here we go. But first I’ll need to see some ID and check your person for drugs and weapons. No joke.
Oct. 3 2005
The Posies w/ Lou Barlow opening
Lee’s Palace.
It’s been maybe nine years since The Posies graced a stage here in Toronto. Same bar. Worse sound. Big apologies. This time great sound and big rocking show. Much of the set consisted of tracks from Amazing Disgrace with some of their classic early singles (“Suddenly Mary”) thrown in just for me. Relentless.True blessed-blue power pop. More dynamic than their records simply because they can throw themselves around the stage. The grateful audience loved it. And during the last encore, Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow played in the audience—guitars, mics, and stands—with out bass or drums for much of it. Ah, so good. Just such a great sow.
Lou Barlow’s inclusion on the bill fit surprisingly nicely, too. Accompanied by tape loops, a keyboard, two mics (one with sound-effects), he provided a gentle lovely pop intro. Good songwriting and audience interaction. Quite nice.
CD? The Posies’ Jon Auer worked the merch table and kindly autographed a limited edition (#697) solo record called The Birthday Party. Sounds like he looked himself up to a four track and played acoustic versions of songs some of which I know (“I May Hate You Sometimes”) and others I don’t. Plus, he covers Big Star’s “Thirteen.” Yep, this was a happy surprise and a worthwhile experiment.
So all is right in Posies-land.
Oct. 9, 2005 (Turkey Day-eve)
New Pornographers w/ Immaculate Machine and Destroyer
Phoenix
I’ve seen the New Pornographers twice, each tour supporting each record. Maybe it was me, maybe the muddy sound, but somehow the sparkle was dimmed tonight. No one shook their snow balls (except for drummer Kurt Dahle; someone did something to his snow ball cause he was the most fun). They mentioned something about equipment going missing or getting stolen. Not sure about the story behind that. Maybe it was a bad night; they certainly weren’t mid-tour. Apparently they’re headed across the US then off to Europe. Technically they were great; no false notes. The between song banter was strained, but that happens. Maybe it was me.
I can’t say much about Immaculate Machine as I walked in just as they were wrapping up their set. Check our their Web site for more information about the poppy trio. Things that stood out: solid drumming and the keyboardist later played with New Pornographers.
Destroyer (Dan Bejar’s project—not the KISS cover band) are not my taste, as I soon found out. After hearing so much internet chatter about this band/guy, I was curious. Indulgent. Good guitarist, but inaccessible lyrically. My subjective two cents. Maybe I’ll give him another listen, but I suspect the work I’ll like most are those songs he contributes to New Pornographers.
So, yes, I bought Twin Cinema. Musically its holds up well to Mass Romantic and The Electric Version (the former being my favourite, I confess). There’s something else going on though. I hear a 70s pop sensibility eking through, which is new (“These Are The Fables” and “Sing Me Spanish Techno”). The layered harmonies that are so wonderful are still at work here(“Falling Through Your Clothes”) and there’s a Byrd-ish riff sneaking in “Jackie, Dressed in Cobras.” I wish they’d grace us with lyrics in the liner notes. Next time? Please?
Okay. Fed and watered on the West Coast.
Oct. 17 2005
Son Volt w/ The Fruitbats
Opera House
And so I come full circle to see a “reformed” Son Volt: Jay Farrar (vocal, guitar, piano, harmonica), Dave Bryson (drums), Andrew Duplantis (bass, backing vocal), and Brad Rice (guitar). I say “full circle” because during their heyday in the 90s, I was largely cut off from a lot of new bands (long stupid story, suffice it to say I was in self-imposed exile.) When I saw the listing I penned the date in my daytimer and bought a ticket. I confess to feeling a touch of “Janey-come-lately” guilt. I’m more familiar with Farrar’s solo stuff; indeed, I saw him perform a few years back. But who cares? It’s music and so long as you find out about a band and enjoy their music what does it matter when you start? So back to the show. Son Volt were tight, professional, and didn’t waste time on talk. Almost exactly 120 minutes filled with old, new, and solo (“Barstow”) songs.
Seattle’s Fruitbats opened the show (as they do much of the tour). Just as Son Volt was a band for it’s time, so too are these guys. Sparse enough twang to fit the bill, but don’t mistake them for “alt-(cringe)-country.” Indie pop without being twee. Think Shins with a banjo and lap steel. Don’t think soundtrack (ok, do, but you get my meaning; they won’t be on The OC anytime soon, God willing.)
Despite saving my coin for a Son Volt record, there weren’t any. This freed up fifteen bucks for the Fruitbats’ Spelled in Bones. To be fair, I’m only six tracks into it as I write this. So far so good. Not trendy. Very nice instrumentation, full and lush. No obvious coattails being trod on. But they DO have liner notes. With lyrics. Hey, Carl Newman get a load o’ this!
So that’s it. I’m caught up with live shows and putting a dent in my headphone time. Next is reading. Currently I crawl into bed with Neil Gaiman and his Anansi Boys. Hopefully, I can string something meaningful together soon. I’ve also been reading the paper every day, so beware: I feel a rant coming on.
Till then, thanks for visiting! We love you Richmond, Virginia! Whoo hoo!!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Called to the Barre
What is it with lawyers and punk bands these days? Boys, boys, boys...you're spoiling the buzz!
From today's Guardian
From today's Guardian
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Hell Hath No Fury...
Warren Kinsella has extremely thin skin. Poor thing. Apparently Globe & Mail columnist, Carl Wilson didn't like his book, Fury's Hour. Seems we have something in common. If you recall, Wilson and I participated in the "Pregnant Without Intercourse Top Canuck 50" back in the spring.
This exchange of venom starts out from Canadian publishing trade monthly Quill & Quire. From there, you can follow the links to Wilson's Web site and move on to Kinsella's. Or you can just have a laugh, put on a record, pop a cold one, and fuck it all.
This exchange of venom starts out from Canadian publishing trade monthly Quill & Quire. From there, you can follow the links to Wilson's Web site and move on to Kinsella's. Or you can just have a laugh, put on a record, pop a cold one, and fuck it all.
Monday, August 29, 2005
That Magic Moment...
For all you loyal readers out there, my apologies for the lack of regularlity. I've recently been promoted and with it comes, well, work. Plus I have a second job. Hey publishing doesn't pay much and I've got debts that no honest gal can pay. All this leaves little time for prose, punditry, or posts; the Fury's Hour piece took goddamn forever to drum up!
Having said that, I've grabbed a pretty decent piece from the Washington Post. It takes some time to read, but so does pouring a Guinness properly and it end, ain't it worth the time?
So, without further ado, here's David Segal and "Memoirs of a Music Man"
via the glorious Glorious Noise.
Cheers
Carol
Having said that, I've grabbed a pretty decent piece from the Washington Post. It takes some time to read, but so does pouring a Guinness properly and it end, ain't it worth the time?
So, without further ado, here's David Segal and "Memoirs of a Music Man"
via the glorious Glorious Noise.
Cheers
Carol
Book Review: Fury's Hour
Fury’s Hour: a (sort of) punk manifesto
By Warren Kinsella
Published by Random House
Trade paperback
$27.00 CDN
Reviewed as an uncorrected proof. (Meaning, short of a few grammatical changes, my money says the bulk remained unchanged.)
“Is punk dead?” Not an age-old question. In fact, most people couldn’t care less and those who care more are blue in the face. Me, I don’t think it ever went away and started way before Warren Kinsella presumes it did.
Fury’s Hour is the author’s attempt to make youthful angst matter more than just a fashion statement. Like many of us who came of age with “the fury” in our ears, hearts, and minds, we’re getting old and stiff. Yet, unlike the boomers and their millennial spawn, we had more hope than money. Still do; unless you get called to the bar and inhabit the back rooms of the nation’s capital with the prime minister. Then you have money and a questionable rolodex.
I suppose I take issue with someone who on one hand rests back on his greying laurels and pronounces that Johnny Lydon isn’t punk rock and in fact sold out. Yet, on the other dismisses Prime Minister Paul Martin in his book and on his web site kisses Jean Chretien’s ass. Who the fuck are you to decide what is “punk” or who “sold out,” counselor? To underscore this, it’s published by Random House, the largest English-language publisher in the world. Not that that in itself is a bad thing, but if you’re going to espouse the do-it-yourself (DIY) ethos, then, well I’m not sure the media conglomerate is necessarily the way to do it. Then again, that never bothered fellow Random House author, Naomi Klein when she released the hole-filled tome No Logo. Perhaps they wrung their hands together over a wine-spritzer and expensed the lunch.
As a primer on what happened, who happened, what to read, and what to listen to, Kinsella is pretty much on the money. It’s an historical read for kids today. But, as he confesses, so are many others. Indeed, Maximum Rock and Roll still keeps illicit photocopiers humming in drone-filled cubicle factories everywhere. And now there’s this internet thingy.
So what does Fury’s Hour have to offer that these other guys & gals don’t? It’s one of the few that documents what happened in Canada. And a lot did. Also, Kinsella ably draws on his prior investigative reportage on Nazism in this country A chilling reminder that Canada is definitely not a hippie-pot-smoking utopia. Far fucking from it.
On the other side of the zealotry coin, he addresses the splintering of Vancouver’s the Subhumans and the formation of Direct Action. DA were a band of terrorists bent on blowing shit up while trying not to hurt people. They failed. People did get hurt. Kudos to Kinsella for speaking up about this. Too many placards and not enough reason changes nothing.
Having made these salient points, he proceeds to write about feminism and racism and punk. A valiant attempt, but honestly, it sucked. Stick to what you know, sir.
With that, then, we look to the kids. Are they alright? Did we get our point across? Well, sort of, I guess. What was our point exactly? Dress funny? Swear a lot? Yell and scream? Carry placards? Adopt poor grooming habits? To find out for sure, Kinsella got warm and fuzzy with Blink 182 and Good Charlotte—Hey, I saw that! Don’t fuckin’ through the rotten tomato at me, jerkface! I’m not the one reading Billboard to find out what the kids are listening to these days! And if I did, I’d know that Rancid hasn’t made any appearances on that list lately. In MRR, maybe.
So, is punk dead, maaaaaan? No, but Kinsella and I are old farts and should keep our fuckin’ noses out of it. Punk is about energy and hope and urgency and now. Punk is rock and roll. And when you’re past it, you’ll know. No needs to tell you. You start thinking about something you didn’t when you yelled and screamed and thrashed out with energy you had no idea what to do with. You realize there is a future, and you’re not dreaming. The other side isn’t so bad, but living in the past is wrong. Dead wrong. It ain’t punk, Mr. Kinsella. Give it up because the Kids are Alright. They don’t need us.
So, in true BBC/Nick Hornby-style, here are main points again:
10. Warren Kinsella is a Liberal apologist and Chretien cheerleader. If that ain’t enough to get your Canuck blood boiling, then you voted for Teflon Jean.
9. Kinsella makes no apologies for the above and nor should he.
8. I make no apologies for despising the Liberals and Chretien and nor should I.
7. I am not a Conservative. Nor will Liberal door knockers threatening that my NDP vote will put them in power change my mind. So get the gun away from my head.
6. Fury’s Hour is a late-boomer middle-age crisis memoir.
5. Fury’s Hour demonstrates that middle-age crises have definitely changed. But I can still wait for mine…and I do have to wait.
4. Kinsella has clearly read High Fidelity.
3. Fury’s Hour demonstrates that Kinsella and I could not sit down over a pint and talk politics.
2. Fury’s Hour demonstrates that Kinsella and I could sit down over a pint and talk music.
1. In the end, point #2 is all that matters.
Thank you and good night.
By Warren Kinsella
Published by Random House
Trade paperback
$27.00 CDN
Reviewed as an uncorrected proof. (Meaning, short of a few grammatical changes, my money says the bulk remained unchanged.)
“Is punk dead?” Not an age-old question. In fact, most people couldn’t care less and those who care more are blue in the face. Me, I don’t think it ever went away and started way before Warren Kinsella presumes it did.
Fury’s Hour is the author’s attempt to make youthful angst matter more than just a fashion statement. Like many of us who came of age with “the fury” in our ears, hearts, and minds, we’re getting old and stiff. Yet, unlike the boomers and their millennial spawn, we had more hope than money. Still do; unless you get called to the bar and inhabit the back rooms of the nation’s capital with the prime minister. Then you have money and a questionable rolodex.
I suppose I take issue with someone who on one hand rests back on his greying laurels and pronounces that Johnny Lydon isn’t punk rock and in fact sold out. Yet, on the other dismisses Prime Minister Paul Martin in his book and on his web site kisses Jean Chretien’s ass. Who the fuck are you to decide what is “punk” or who “sold out,” counselor? To underscore this, it’s published by Random House, the largest English-language publisher in the world. Not that that in itself is a bad thing, but if you’re going to espouse the do-it-yourself (DIY) ethos, then, well I’m not sure the media conglomerate is necessarily the way to do it. Then again, that never bothered fellow Random House author, Naomi Klein when she released the hole-filled tome No Logo. Perhaps they wrung their hands together over a wine-spritzer and expensed the lunch.
As a primer on what happened, who happened, what to read, and what to listen to, Kinsella is pretty much on the money. It’s an historical read for kids today. But, as he confesses, so are many others. Indeed, Maximum Rock and Roll still keeps illicit photocopiers humming in drone-filled cubicle factories everywhere. And now there’s this internet thingy.
So what does Fury’s Hour have to offer that these other guys & gals don’t? It’s one of the few that documents what happened in Canada. And a lot did. Also, Kinsella ably draws on his prior investigative reportage on Nazism in this country A chilling reminder that Canada is definitely not a hippie-pot-smoking utopia. Far fucking from it.
On the other side of the zealotry coin, he addresses the splintering of Vancouver’s the Subhumans and the formation of Direct Action. DA were a band of terrorists bent on blowing shit up while trying not to hurt people. They failed. People did get hurt. Kudos to Kinsella for speaking up about this. Too many placards and not enough reason changes nothing.
Having made these salient points, he proceeds to write about feminism and racism and punk. A valiant attempt, but honestly, it sucked. Stick to what you know, sir.
With that, then, we look to the kids. Are they alright? Did we get our point across? Well, sort of, I guess. What was our point exactly? Dress funny? Swear a lot? Yell and scream? Carry placards? Adopt poor grooming habits? To find out for sure, Kinsella got warm and fuzzy with Blink 182 and Good Charlotte—Hey, I saw that! Don’t fuckin’ through the rotten tomato at me, jerkface! I’m not the one reading Billboard to find out what the kids are listening to these days! And if I did, I’d know that Rancid hasn’t made any appearances on that list lately. In MRR, maybe.
So, is punk dead, maaaaaan? No, but Kinsella and I are old farts and should keep our fuckin’ noses out of it. Punk is about energy and hope and urgency and now. Punk is rock and roll. And when you’re past it, you’ll know. No needs to tell you. You start thinking about something you didn’t when you yelled and screamed and thrashed out with energy you had no idea what to do with. You realize there is a future, and you’re not dreaming. The other side isn’t so bad, but living in the past is wrong. Dead wrong. It ain’t punk, Mr. Kinsella. Give it up because the Kids are Alright. They don’t need us.
So, in true BBC/Nick Hornby-style, here are main points again:
10. Warren Kinsella is a Liberal apologist and Chretien cheerleader. If that ain’t enough to get your Canuck blood boiling, then you voted for Teflon Jean.
9. Kinsella makes no apologies for the above and nor should he.
8. I make no apologies for despising the Liberals and Chretien and nor should I.
7. I am not a Conservative. Nor will Liberal door knockers threatening that my NDP vote will put them in power change my mind. So get the gun away from my head.
6. Fury’s Hour is a late-boomer middle-age crisis memoir.
5. Fury’s Hour demonstrates that middle-age crises have definitely changed. But I can still wait for mine…and I do have to wait.
4. Kinsella has clearly read High Fidelity.
3. Fury’s Hour demonstrates that Kinsella and I could not sit down over a pint and talk politics.
2. Fury’s Hour demonstrates that Kinsella and I could sit down over a pint and talk music.
1. In the end, point #2 is all that matters.
Thank you and good night.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Bring a cow...
...win a years worth of frozen coffee.
From the Globe and Mail
“Mr. Chan is also worried cow patties outside the stores could become unsanitary. And he wouldn't want kids petting cows while eating ice cream. 'Hand washing could be an issue for other customers that may be touching or petting a cow at the same time they're consuming a Dairy Queen product,' he said.
But Dairy Queen's Ms. Ponath — ‘a farm girl from way back’ — thinks the concerns are overblown.
‘Cows are vegetarian. If they do poop in your driveway, it's good stuff. And with the cows sticking their heads through the window . . . we'll sanitize the drive-through after, so it's no big deal. ' "
From the Globe and Mail
“Mr. Chan is also worried cow patties outside the stores could become unsanitary. And he wouldn't want kids petting cows while eating ice cream. 'Hand washing could be an issue for other customers that may be touching or petting a cow at the same time they're consuming a Dairy Queen product,' he said.
But Dairy Queen's Ms. Ponath — ‘a farm girl from way back’ — thinks the concerns are overblown.
‘Cows are vegetarian. If they do poop in your driveway, it's good stuff. And with the cows sticking their heads through the window . . . we'll sanitize the drive-through after, so it's no big deal. ' "
This Vinyl Femme
The paths that are our individual lives are untravelled despite the experiences of others. This is because it is our journey and while others can provide a map, you always feel like John Cabot or Christopher Columbus—the map ain't quite right, but it will do. So it is with my record collection. The songs are expressions of emotion from the artists’ make you feel like you’re comrades in songs. But in the end this complete stranger’s need to write was entirely different than yours. It’s just skewed perception and heightened emotion that makes me believe that Johnette Napolitano, Neko Case, and I all went out with the same guy. My life was turned upside down and inside out over the past five years, little of it resembling what previously existed. This convoluted twist led me straight to my poor neglected record collection. I think it must be the best lover I've ever had and far more loyal. It's always there, always forgiving, and never forgets. Plus you never have to clean up after it.
The film High Fidelity starring John Cusack hit very close to home to the point that when I moved into my new apartment I did a double take on my record collection. Since everything else had changed, why not this? Should I forego the traditional alphabetical and year released strategy of organization which had stood me in good stead for so many years? Or should I shuffle the wax in order of life experience? Almost every record has a story. There’s Jack Elliot’s Muleskinner Blues that I discovered at the library sale for a quarter. There are the unmentionables that my friend thought I ought to own. There’s Joy Division that I bought used since I thought it important to own, played it once, and got so depressed I couldn’t play it again. There’s the Gun Club that I bought for four bucks from a buddy who routinely sold off portions of his record collection only to buy it again. Then, like most musicphiles, there are the albums we’re way too embarrassed to admit to owning, wonder why the hell we bought them, but cannot bring ourselves to sell since they’d probably work well on a mixed tape.
As for life and long players, well, I’ve discovered serious overlap in songs. Case in point: Concrete Blonde’s debut self-titled album. I got this CD as one of the first upon the purchase of my player. Then it became practically the only record I played when my then-boyfriend traveled across the country on an excursion to find himself. He later called me when he found himself covered in second degrees burns and needed to get home! Later, when we split, I played it only to cry my eyes out. Now, I play it to learn the chords.
Then there’s the Replacements’ Let It Be with the gorgeously poignant song “Answering Machine”. That predictably, was the first song I put on my first answering machine that my mum bought for me at the Canadian Tire in downtown Ottawa. Funny, that answering machine died a few months after my relationship did. The record, on the other hand, lingers on.
So what’s my point. Perhaps this is an open letter apology to my long ignored record collection. For too many years its growth has been neglected and when additions were made, they were done in fits and starts. I, like many fans, have an emotional connection to my musical recordings. These aren’t things I give up to easily, but I am eager to share and read about. I take pride in being able to the spot influences and nods to other artists. This artistic expression, this effort of blood, sweat and beers, has spanned time space and neuroses by a mere fraction of a diamond hitting a groove on a flat piece of vinyl. The tortured feelings emanating from a laser hitting a burned surface has driven me to the waiting embrace of Jack Daniels and the comfort of a Kleenex box. It has fired me up and calmed me down.
Now how is this different from anyone else? Apart from being verbose, I find few soulmates among women in this regard. Record collecting appears often the domain of men. Female friends who used to work in record shops found most record buyers albums were male. This has usually been true through the history of rock and roll. Women usually buy singles. This trend doesn’t appear to have changed much at least from my observations of record shops. I am the only XX-chromosomed human intensely perusing the record bins at thrift stores and CD racks at Sam the Record Man. My gender-mates can sometimes be found at the indie shops, but men usually dominate there too.
This must say something about me. My collection certainly does as it does for so many others. One’s personality can’t help but be reflected by it. This is why I designate a certain amount of time to nosing my way through people’s record collections at parties. If nothing else, it’s an icebreaker. Some take it as an insult that my flipping is a comment on the liveliness of the gathering. Others take it as an inspection of their “street cred”. Still others are able to pump their chests at the finding of a rare Maximum Rock and Roll compilation only to be outed by a well worn Olivia Newton John release. I don’t criticize such finds too much – living in glass houses and all.
In fact, such diversity in taste is a good thing. If the art is indeed a reflection of your life, crazy mixed up collections simply make you that much more dynamic and interesting. There may be a few ruts, but I prefer to think of them as grooves. A friend of mine declared recently that her goal in life, before marriage and babies, is owning every song she liked. A worthy goal, I think.
Special treats for me aren’t manicures or clothes or lipsticks. Rather, they are imported CDs from an artist I can’t afford to buy at any other time. Given the current rising price of CDs, however, these treats are becoming few and far between. On the other hand, I like to think of my continued purchases of CDs as cigarettes, except I’ll live long enough to listen to them when I’m old. What a life!
The film High Fidelity starring John Cusack hit very close to home to the point that when I moved into my new apartment I did a double take on my record collection. Since everything else had changed, why not this? Should I forego the traditional alphabetical and year released strategy of organization which had stood me in good stead for so many years? Or should I shuffle the wax in order of life experience? Almost every record has a story. There’s Jack Elliot’s Muleskinner Blues that I discovered at the library sale for a quarter. There are the unmentionables that my friend thought I ought to own. There’s Joy Division that I bought used since I thought it important to own, played it once, and got so depressed I couldn’t play it again. There’s the Gun Club that I bought for four bucks from a buddy who routinely sold off portions of his record collection only to buy it again. Then, like most musicphiles, there are the albums we’re way too embarrassed to admit to owning, wonder why the hell we bought them, but cannot bring ourselves to sell since they’d probably work well on a mixed tape.
As for life and long players, well, I’ve discovered serious overlap in songs. Case in point: Concrete Blonde’s debut self-titled album. I got this CD as one of the first upon the purchase of my player. Then it became practically the only record I played when my then-boyfriend traveled across the country on an excursion to find himself. He later called me when he found himself covered in second degrees burns and needed to get home! Later, when we split, I played it only to cry my eyes out. Now, I play it to learn the chords.
Then there’s the Replacements’ Let It Be with the gorgeously poignant song “Answering Machine”. That predictably, was the first song I put on my first answering machine that my mum bought for me at the Canadian Tire in downtown Ottawa. Funny, that answering machine died a few months after my relationship did. The record, on the other hand, lingers on.
So what’s my point. Perhaps this is an open letter apology to my long ignored record collection. For too many years its growth has been neglected and when additions were made, they were done in fits and starts. I, like many fans, have an emotional connection to my musical recordings. These aren’t things I give up to easily, but I am eager to share and read about. I take pride in being able to the spot influences and nods to other artists. This artistic expression, this effort of blood, sweat and beers, has spanned time space and neuroses by a mere fraction of a diamond hitting a groove on a flat piece of vinyl. The tortured feelings emanating from a laser hitting a burned surface has driven me to the waiting embrace of Jack Daniels and the comfort of a Kleenex box. It has fired me up and calmed me down.
Now how is this different from anyone else? Apart from being verbose, I find few soulmates among women in this regard. Record collecting appears often the domain of men. Female friends who used to work in record shops found most record buyers albums were male. This has usually been true through the history of rock and roll. Women usually buy singles. This trend doesn’t appear to have changed much at least from my observations of record shops. I am the only XX-chromosomed human intensely perusing the record bins at thrift stores and CD racks at Sam the Record Man. My gender-mates can sometimes be found at the indie shops, but men usually dominate there too.
This must say something about me. My collection certainly does as it does for so many others. One’s personality can’t help but be reflected by it. This is why I designate a certain amount of time to nosing my way through people’s record collections at parties. If nothing else, it’s an icebreaker. Some take it as an insult that my flipping is a comment on the liveliness of the gathering. Others take it as an inspection of their “street cred”. Still others are able to pump their chests at the finding of a rare Maximum Rock and Roll compilation only to be outed by a well worn Olivia Newton John release. I don’t criticize such finds too much – living in glass houses and all.
In fact, such diversity in taste is a good thing. If the art is indeed a reflection of your life, crazy mixed up collections simply make you that much more dynamic and interesting. There may be a few ruts, but I prefer to think of them as grooves. A friend of mine declared recently that her goal in life, before marriage and babies, is owning every song she liked. A worthy goal, I think.
Special treats for me aren’t manicures or clothes or lipsticks. Rather, they are imported CDs from an artist I can’t afford to buy at any other time. Given the current rising price of CDs, however, these treats are becoming few and far between. On the other hand, I like to think of my continued purchases of CDs as cigarettes, except I’ll live long enough to listen to them when I’m old. What a life!
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Happy Mother’s Day
So what makes a great mum? Well, she got excited when she first found out she was pregnant and patted her still flat belly. Then, when we made our presence known to the world, she kept her doctor’s appointments and kept us fed, even if the food was a little weird.
Then she birthed us.
Doesn’t stop there. Mum literally gave of herself to keep us fed. She cleaned us and stayed up nights singing quietly to help us sleep. Mum taught us to talk and walk and read and write. We learned that strained peas came not in jar but on a plane that made strange noises and looked an awful lot like a spoon.
Mum cried and yelled and wondered and shook her head. She picked up and dropped off. Mum called Dad to find where her little darling went with a few local tots only to discover us at the local strip mall attempting to ride the mechanical horse. She learned the map of the discount stores, especially the toy section. And she made her apologies to shop clerks who found a little girl hiding in the racks of ladies apparel.
Then she lived through our teen years. Ahem.
Mum knew when to set conditions when things were unconditional. She knew when to make us pack our bags and get on with our lives. And she knew when doing laundry was the best cure for a broken heart.
She knows when to bite her tongue and when to give us a tongue lashing. And she respects us enough to avoid the m-word and the g-word. She enjoys watching us come to our own conclusion.
A great mum makes us want to be a great mum. And I’d like that very much.
Thanks Mum!
Then she birthed us.
Doesn’t stop there. Mum literally gave of herself to keep us fed. She cleaned us and stayed up nights singing quietly to help us sleep. Mum taught us to talk and walk and read and write. We learned that strained peas came not in jar but on a plane that made strange noises and looked an awful lot like a spoon.
Mum cried and yelled and wondered and shook her head. She picked up and dropped off. Mum called Dad to find where her little darling went with a few local tots only to discover us at the local strip mall attempting to ride the mechanical horse. She learned the map of the discount stores, especially the toy section. And she made her apologies to shop clerks who found a little girl hiding in the racks of ladies apparel.
Then she lived through our teen years. Ahem.
Mum knew when to set conditions when things were unconditional. She knew when to make us pack our bags and get on with our lives. And she knew when doing laundry was the best cure for a broken heart.
She knows when to bite her tongue and when to give us a tongue lashing. And she respects us enough to avoid the m-word and the g-word. She enjoys watching us come to our own conclusion.
A great mum makes us want to be a great mum. And I’d like that very much.
Thanks Mum!
Killing Us Softly
Joe Bender has every right to make a movie. No question. He has the right to think and write and believe whatever he wants. Likewise, I have the right to think and write and believe that he is a sick opportunist with no respect for others Unfortunately, even by expressing my opinion, I’m giving this pornographer publicity.
Bender, director of such memorable hits as Sweet Valley High and The Amazing Race, is a pornographer not for the lack of clothes, but for the lack of conscience. He has exploited the victims of Paul Bernardo and Karla Holmolka and produced Deadly, a biopic about the raping murderous duo.
Recall that the married couple drugged, raped, and murdered Holmolka’s sister Tammy; abducted, drugged, raped, tortured, and murdered Kristen French; and abducted, drugged, raped, tortured, and murdered Leslie Mahaffey. Recall, too, Bernardo was also the notorious “Scarborough Rapist” prevalent in the late 1980s.
Ooh, such tasty fodder for a Hollywood movie maker!
As if there weren’t enough heinous crimes happening in his own hometown, Bender and his producer have to fly up to Toronto, get the court transcriptions, and base a script on it. Nice. Creative. Is this what they taught you in that matchbook film class, buddy? How to take a stomach churning crime that happened in a foreign country make a flick and feed it pack to them? Like choking on your own vomit.
Americans aren’t terribly interested in Canada. I highly doubt any of its citizenry know much less care who Bernardo or Holmolka are. Why will they spend money or time watching a crap-ass movie of the week when there’s narcissists eating leeches on Channel 2?
Global TV aired the exclusive trailer for Deadly during the 11 pm news. I thought I recognized the lead. A quick search on IMDB confirmed that Laura Prepon (AKA: Donna from That 70s Show) plays Karla. Hmm. I wonder how she researched the character? I wonder if she even bothered to search the name on the net? I wonder if she’s hurtin’ for a gig?
Neither Bernard or Holmolka are particularly interesting as people; a rich accountant and a vet’s assistant. Pretty bland and normal. He was into hardcore porn and hardcore capitalism; she was into hardcore diamonds and hardcore boyfriends. Nothing special or story worthy. Just a sick fucked up couple one of whom will never see the light of day and the other a manipulating, cunning bitch that the Crown underestimated and let off with a 12 year jail sentence.
And it’s coming to you soon on DVD complete with it’s own barf bag. Conscience not included.
Bender, director of such memorable hits as Sweet Valley High and The Amazing Race, is a pornographer not for the lack of clothes, but for the lack of conscience. He has exploited the victims of Paul Bernardo and Karla Holmolka and produced Deadly, a biopic about the raping murderous duo.
Recall that the married couple drugged, raped, and murdered Holmolka’s sister Tammy; abducted, drugged, raped, tortured, and murdered Kristen French; and abducted, drugged, raped, tortured, and murdered Leslie Mahaffey. Recall, too, Bernardo was also the notorious “Scarborough Rapist” prevalent in the late 1980s.
Ooh, such tasty fodder for a Hollywood movie maker!
As if there weren’t enough heinous crimes happening in his own hometown, Bender and his producer have to fly up to Toronto, get the court transcriptions, and base a script on it. Nice. Creative. Is this what they taught you in that matchbook film class, buddy? How to take a stomach churning crime that happened in a foreign country make a flick and feed it pack to them? Like choking on your own vomit.
Americans aren’t terribly interested in Canada. I highly doubt any of its citizenry know much less care who Bernardo or Holmolka are. Why will they spend money or time watching a crap-ass movie of the week when there’s narcissists eating leeches on Channel 2?
Global TV aired the exclusive trailer for Deadly during the 11 pm news. I thought I recognized the lead. A quick search on IMDB confirmed that Laura Prepon (AKA: Donna from That 70s Show) plays Karla. Hmm. I wonder how she researched the character? I wonder if she even bothered to search the name on the net? I wonder if she’s hurtin’ for a gig?
Neither Bernard or Holmolka are particularly interesting as people; a rich accountant and a vet’s assistant. Pretty bland and normal. He was into hardcore porn and hardcore capitalism; she was into hardcore diamonds and hardcore boyfriends. Nothing special or story worthy. Just a sick fucked up couple one of whom will never see the light of day and the other a manipulating, cunning bitch that the Crown underestimated and let off with a 12 year jail sentence.
And it’s coming to you soon on DVD complete with it’s own barf bag. Conscience not included.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Best Cellars
I work in an independent book store and very often I’m asked to recommend titles. This can be fun as I can hype my latest favorite book or author and turn a person on to something they’ve never read before. Other times it’s a battle of the stereotypes: guy books, boy books, best sellers = good. My diplomatic attempts to dissuade the customer from limiting themselves to pigeon holes is usually met with blank stares. For the record, I don’t believe there is such a thing as a “guy book” or “boy book”. I do think, however, there is “chick lit” and “women’s lit”; the former being light, insulting and pink and the latter being heavy, depressing, and mauve.
The third stereotype I trip over all the time is the notion that best sellers are good. “I mean, if so many people bought it, it must be good, right?” No. Often I’m accused of being a snob for decrying this idea. Just because it sells a lot, doesn’t make it good; just means it sold. Moreover, as this article from Saturday Night points out, best seller lists (AKA: BS Lists…uh huh you got it) come with an agenda. The numbers are often merely educated speculation on what booksellers would like to see walk out the door. This isn’t new or local. In his book Making the List: A Cultural History of the American Bestseller, 1900-1999, Michael Korda shows how consistent lists have been for as long as they’ve had lists: self-help, religion, blockbusters. Yet, the canon rarely makes “The List”.
This begs the question, what would I put on my Best Seller list. As with music, it really depends on mood. I have to be in the mood for a tome, or science fiction, or feeling chancy, or in dire need of a belly laugh. Right now, David Mitchell’s second book, number9dream, sits by my bed half-way read. I loved his latest, Cloud Atlas, so I scoured the public library for another. He’s a master at structure. Sounds all literary, right? But as my scriptwriting instructor once taught me, every story has a beginning middle and end, but not necessarily in that order. So Mitchell is on my list. Unfortunately, he’s gathering dust on the New Book table at the store.
Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex is on my list. Brilliantly funny and tender. He’s simply a great writer who took me into the head of a kid who turns out to be a hermaphrodite. Smart and human. So naturally I’m eager to read Virgin Suicides which inspired well deserved Oscar winning scriptwriter, Sophia Coppola to direct the film of the same name. Speaking of virgin, both were the respective artists’ debuts. Man, if you’re gonna lose it, what a way to go.
Simon Winchester makes it on my list, particularly The Meaning of Everything. In it, he documents the making of the Oxford English Dictionary. Dry? Not a chance. Funny, detailed, and wholly readable.
Anything by Terry Prachett, Neil Gaiman, Christopher Moore and Jeanette Winterson make it on the list, too. Manda Scott’s Boudica series is a fun read (lots of Roman entrails at the business end of a Celtic sword), so I’ll hold a place for her. Walt Whitman sits high on the list. And my number one spot is reserved for The Bard. With all their talented wordplay, no one holds a candle to Ol’ Willy.
Did they sell tons? Who knows. Better still who cares. An emotional response equals good art. Did you weep? Did you laugh? Did you beg for mercy? Excellent! That’s what matters.
The third stereotype I trip over all the time is the notion that best sellers are good. “I mean, if so many people bought it, it must be good, right?” No. Often I’m accused of being a snob for decrying this idea. Just because it sells a lot, doesn’t make it good; just means it sold. Moreover, as this article from Saturday Night points out, best seller lists (AKA: BS Lists…uh huh you got it) come with an agenda. The numbers are often merely educated speculation on what booksellers would like to see walk out the door. This isn’t new or local. In his book Making the List: A Cultural History of the American Bestseller, 1900-1999, Michael Korda shows how consistent lists have been for as long as they’ve had lists: self-help, religion, blockbusters. Yet, the canon rarely makes “The List”.
This begs the question, what would I put on my Best Seller list. As with music, it really depends on mood. I have to be in the mood for a tome, or science fiction, or feeling chancy, or in dire need of a belly laugh. Right now, David Mitchell’s second book, number9dream, sits by my bed half-way read. I loved his latest, Cloud Atlas, so I scoured the public library for another. He’s a master at structure. Sounds all literary, right? But as my scriptwriting instructor once taught me, every story has a beginning middle and end, but not necessarily in that order. So Mitchell is on my list. Unfortunately, he’s gathering dust on the New Book table at the store.
Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex is on my list. Brilliantly funny and tender. He’s simply a great writer who took me into the head of a kid who turns out to be a hermaphrodite. Smart and human. So naturally I’m eager to read Virgin Suicides which inspired well deserved Oscar winning scriptwriter, Sophia Coppola to direct the film of the same name. Speaking of virgin, both were the respective artists’ debuts. Man, if you’re gonna lose it, what a way to go.
Simon Winchester makes it on my list, particularly The Meaning of Everything. In it, he documents the making of the Oxford English Dictionary. Dry? Not a chance. Funny, detailed, and wholly readable.
Anything by Terry Prachett, Neil Gaiman, Christopher Moore and Jeanette Winterson make it on the list, too. Manda Scott’s Boudica series is a fun read (lots of Roman entrails at the business end of a Celtic sword), so I’ll hold a place for her. Walt Whitman sits high on the list. And my number one spot is reserved for The Bard. With all their talented wordplay, no one holds a candle to Ol’ Willy.
Did they sell tons? Who knows. Better still who cares. An emotional response equals good art. Did you weep? Did you laugh? Did you beg for mercy? Excellent! That’s what matters.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Checkin' In
The last few weeks have been pretty busy, hence the lack of posts. I am still participating in the Canuck Top 50 (see "Muse Ink Gets Pregnant Without Intercourse"), which takes more time than I anticipated when I originally agreed to step in the ring. Thanks and welcome to everyone who visited Muse Ink via that discussion! Stick around; things will freshen up soon. Meanwhile, the Canuck Top 50 and I got mentioned in Toronto's Eye Magazine. Too funny!
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