Wasabi Squirrel

Bus Stories, No. 4: Transfer

2011-11-07T14:21:00.000-05:00

I think I'm losing it.

Yesterday morning, while waiting for the bus, I couldn't find my BlackBerry. I started patting down all my pockets, rifled through my satchel, and generally started to panic before realizing that the BlackBerry was in my other hand and I was talking on the phone.

Yeah. I think I need to take a "mental health day." Or two.

Anyway, all this is by way of preface. While on the bus, it took me fifteen minutes to notice that someone had left a little origami flower, made out of a transfer ticket. I took a picture on my BlackBerry, thankfully without the preceding panic attack:

I don't know who made this flower, but right now I'm rather jealous of their mental capacity.

Also, the facebook feed doesn't seem to be working correctly. Will fix it when I have more brain power.

Ahead by a Century

2011-10-27T12:47:00.005-04:00

Well, here we are - the one hundredth post of Wasabi Squirrel. Exciting times. I feel like I should write some extra special post, but since I am already a day behind my blogging "schedule" and have nothing written, that's not going to happen. Quelle surprise, eh?

I do have something nifty to unveil today, however. If you take a look to the right of this post, you will notice two new additions to Wasabi Squirrel. For the past few days, I have been tinkering with adding features to this blog to make it a bit easier to follow, given the sporadic nature of my updates. For those of you who use facebook, there is now a "like" button on the side that will take you to the Wasabi Squirrel facebook page. At least in theory, "liking" this page will make new blog entries appear in your news feed.

Feature creep: when bad things happen to good ideas.

For those of you who don't use facebook (you know who you are), I've also added a "follow by email" link on the side. Enter your email address into the box and follow the directions. I haven't tested it yet, but in theory, it should send new blog posts to your email inbox.

In the coming weeks I will continue to tweak these new features, and possibly add other accessibility options to the blog. Just promise you'll stop me if I succumb to feature creep and add an embedded media player that plays anything by The Tragically Hip.

Bus Stories No. 3: The Purse

2011-10-23T19:06:00.002-04:00

We're sitting toward the front of the bus, the three of us. I can't speak for the others, but I for one am tired. Exhausted. I've got a coffee in hand, but it just isn't working this morning. It's too early, and the week has been too long.

We're nearing the last stop, and the crowd has thinned out. Earlier there were many people, some standing, others sitting, all going. There were two men with stubbled faces and rugged packs - travelers, it seemed. They had similar features and complexions, though one was much older, judging by his grizzled hair. Father and son, perhaps. Despite their hardened good looks, they seem strangely uncertain, out of place. Eventually the older one leans forward and asks us, the others, if we are nearing the train station. The young woman sitting beside me says something, but I can't hear her at first over my mp3 player. It becomes clear that she can't help them, so I take off my headphones and tell them that it's not far. A woman sitting across the aisle leans forward, elaborating: "it's two stops." She's friendlier than the average transit user.

The girl next to me is evidently amicable, too, for she tells me, "I'm new here, I don't know the area." She's being friendly, but I'm not much in the mood for being awake, let alone conversant, so I smile and put my headphones back on. The travelers get off at the train station, disappearing onto the misty platform as more passengers pile on. The coffee still hasn't kicked in, and I'm not very interested in the commotion. I wrap a protective arm over my satchel and close my eyes.

A few stops later I open my eyes, and once again it's just the three of us at the front of the bus, myself and the two friendly woman. I notice, though, that there is a purse sitting on the ledge behind the driver's alcove. It wasn't there before. I look around, but there doesn't seem to be an owner.

They see it, too, the others. A few more passengers board, and I watch while they pass the purse on their way to the back of the bus. They notice it as well, but keep on walking. A few minutes go by and we're nearing the terminal. We all stand up to depart. No one is saying anything. As the bus rolls up to the platform, I ask if the purse belongs to anyone. They shake their heads and leave.

I reach to pick up the purse, and hesitate for a moment. Maybe I've become paranoid, maybe I distrust people too much, but the thought crosses my mind - could it be dangerous? Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself, it's not a bomb. I take it to the driver, tell him someone left it. "Shit" he says. It's clear from his distasteful expression that I've just made his day worse. As far as he's concerned, I should have just left it for some less than scrupulous passenger. Not his problem.

The coffee still hasn't taken effect, and my feet are heavy as I leave the terminal. It's one of those mornings where you have to fight the impulse to curl up into the fetal position and shut the world out, and the purse episode isn't helping. I watch as the friendly women walk into the distance, and wonder if they would have left it there. Good people doing nothing, evil triumphing and all that jazz. I'll never know, just as I'll never know if the purse found its way back to its owner, and whether she was grateful or just irritated at the trouble of having to retrieve it.

But perhaps that's an uncharitable, overly dualistic perspective. As the women fade into the distance of memory, it seems to me that some mornings, we're all just grizzled travelers, uncertain of our destination.

Comm Chatter

2011-10-19T23:31:00.001-04:00

Well, jeez. Guess it's been almost four months since I updated this thing.

A whole season has come and gone, and to be honest, it really wasn't the best season. The details aren't important. What is important is that slowly, surely, things are getting better. I tell you this with confidence, because I read it in a book.

No, no, not like that. I haven't turned to the quatrains of Nostradamus quite yet, although I did check my horoscope last week (apparently I was supposed to consider changing my address on Monday). No, what I mean is this: there is a direct correlation between how well my life is running, and how much I read. When times are tough, it can take me months to wade through a book; between April and September, for instance, I read only a single novel.

Now, to be fair, that was partly the book's fault. The book in question - Kingsley Amis' The Old Devils, winner of the 1986 Booker prize - was, well, an old devil to get through. Or, at least, that was my impression of it, which may or may not have been skewed by the circumstances of my outside world. At any rate, seeing as I am now finished with both the book and the summer, the time has come to seek vengeance for my grievances. Were I a monstrous B movie lizard, I would rise out of the sea and stomp on my enemies, and perhaps a few innocent bystanders as well (collateral damage never seems to be much of a concern for Godzilla). Regrettably, though, I am not a giant lizard, and so the best I can offer you now is Godzilla Dave's opinions on The Old Devils.

Where to begin? Perhaps Mr. Amis should have asked that very question himself before penning The Old Devils. From the start, it's a confused mess of crotchety old Welshmen tottering about from one pub to another, all the while whining about other Welshmen very much like themselves. Some of them have wives, who are, by and large, equally unbearable.

In dismissing these personages, I do not mean to imply that Amis is unskillful in his characterizations. I will say, however, that each of his characters can be described quite easily with a few choice words. There is, for example, The Drunk (actually, there are several of these, but that is beside the point). There is The Fat Lout and The Henpecked Hypochondriac, as well as The Miser and The Shrew. Last but certainly not least, there is The Womanizer/Erstwhile Minor Celebrity, a character who is not as interesting as his title would suggest. To be clear, all of these characters have names, but I quickly lost track of them and their relationships to one another. This, dear readers, is what happens when you insist on giving all your characters names like "Charlie" and "Peter."

I should also mention that The Old Devils is a comedy. At least, that is my understanding from reading other reviews. Perhaps it is extremely funny if you are British, or if you care very deeply (or even better, not at all) about Wales. The prose is a steady stream of satire about The Welsh Identity, complete with various regional jokes and the odd word unfit for this blog. The novel is very dry, unlike its pub-dwelling characters.

Perhaps that's the fundamental trouble with The Old Devils. I suspect there is a mote of humanity to be found in between the dry satire and the drunken insults, although I'm afraid I was unable to find it. I have a theory that a good writer can make you care about likeable characters, but only a great one can make you care about human beings. I won't say that Amis is a bad writer. I will say, however, that when one of the main players suddenly and unexpectedly expired toward the end of the book, I didn't much care one way or the other. What's worse, I wasn't even sure if I was supposed to care.

So be it. In the end, I finished The Old Devils, mostly because I didn't want to waste a better book on this wretched summer. Happily, both are now past, and new books - and blog entries - await.

Radio Silence

2011-06-25T20:37:00.001-04:00

Well, it appears that almost a month has passed since I last updated this blog. Quel dommage!

Long story short, things have been rather busy in the past few weeks, between hunting for an apartment, writing (or rather pretending to write) a thesis, practicing for an upcoming solo Liszt recital, and accompanying twenty-five people at the Ontario Music Festivals Association provincial finals. The good news is that some of it is done: yesterday I signed a lease on a bachelor apartment for August 1st, and I survived Provincials. The bad news (or rather, the "busy" news) is that the Liszt recital is in fewer than ten days, the thesis still looms like an ornery rain cloud, and it looks as though I will be accompanying people at Nationals in Nova Scotia in August. Not that I'm complaining about it all - if there's one thing I've realized in the past month, it's how lucky I am to be able to pay my bills by working exclusively in my chosen field - but it will be nice when everything wraps up in mid-August. Of course, that's what I said about mid-May, too, and we know how that turned out.

(Actually, that's all a front. The real reason for the dearth of updates is that, in true Canadian fashion, the squirrels at the Walton Fiction Factory are on strike. Apparently I insulted their nuts, or something.)

Anyway, all that is just to say that updates may continue to be sparse for the next little while. When the dust settles, expect some shiny new features (facebook feed?) and the same cranky rants about stuff you probably don't care about. Until then, "Keep Calm and Carry On."

Off to the races

2011-05-29T21:26:00.005-04:00

This weekend is Race Weekend in Ottawa. This means that much of the downtown core of the city is overrun by sweaty, red-faced people - and those are just the politicians!

[No?]

All jokes aside, though, I should really applaud these runners for their athletic efforts. Still, I can't quite get excited about the whole affair. Maybe it's because I have to get up earlier than usual on account of the traffic and detours. More likely, it's because the runners make me feel guilty about my own lack of athletic ambition.

But this weekend isn't only about the races. This Saturday, May 28th has been officially declared the Ottawa Gay Men's Chorus Day in the city of Ottawa, in honour of the aforementioned choir's 25th anniversary. I know this because I had the pleasure of working as a substitute rehearsal pianist for the choir a few times this spring, and attended their Jubilé concert last night.

It's a little tricky to write about an event like this, for two reasons. First, I make a point of avoiding commenting on the concerts of my colleagues - we musicians are notoriously jealous and insecure, and so when you publicly laud one colleague, you had best publicly laud all the rest, or you may soon find yourself in hot water. Second, I try to avoid revealing my personal politics in my posts here, lest this blog should become yet another partisan propaganda site.

So, what to say about the OGMC's 25th anniversary concert? There was the predictable amount of pomp and pageantry, with plenty of politicians sending congratulatory messages, and various speeches being made. There were also moments of quiet reflection and remembrance, as the community looked back on the past twenty-five years. I will admit that it made me pause and think - this choir has been around since the year I was born, and even I have seen great changes in my lifetime. Still, perhaps because I am a cynical, callous fellow, or perhaps because I've watched Philadelphia a few too many times, I wasn't quite moved to tears by any of it. At least, not until the end.

So what was so special about the final number? Before the last song on the program was sung, the announcer requested that the audience hold on to their seats for a "special surprise." Sure enough, as the audience applauded the final anthem, the choir began singing an encore. The song was a choral arrangement of Bruno Mars' pop tune Marry You. It's a cute, catchy song, to be sure, but it seemed slightly anticlimactic after the powerful protest song that ended the concert. As the song reached its final refrain, however, a man in the audience stood up and started walking to the front. At first, it wasn't clear what was happening, and I was a bit alarmed - as a performer, you know that it's rarely a good thing when the audience starts marching toward the stage. But when the man approached a tenor in the front row and got down on one knee, it suddenly made sense. The tenor said yes, and the two men shared a kiss as the audience cheered. And I'm not gonna lie, I got a little misty-eyed.

And at the end of the night, I guess that's the heart of the matter. As I said earlier, this is not an easy post to write. It is beyond the scope and purpose of this blog to try to sum up an event that celebrates not only the anniversary of a choir, but also the growth of a community. In the end, though, maybe it isn't so much about that. Perhaps it is about something that is at once far simpler, and infinitely more complex: two people finding love. And in these troubled days and years, shouldn't that always be a cause for celebration?

This post brought to you by April showers

2011-05-25T21:57:00.000-04:00

Amidst the chaos and destruction wrought by various natural disasters in recent days, it can be hard to remember that sometimes, a little inclement weather can be beautiful. On Monday, after a long day of thunderstorms, I was walking through the grounds of the Ottawa city hall. The rain had torn the flowers off the crabapple trees, and the walkway was strewn with pink petals (click photos to enlarge):

To be sure, though, some of the sights on the grounds were less natural in origin:

First the hills, now the trees - what's next?

Call me paranoid, but some days I have the feeling that I'm being watched.

On the Road, Part 3

2011-05-21T23:50:00.000-04:00

Over the past few days I've had a chance to see a lot of this city called Ottawa. If you've never been, you should know that it's a large city. Not by population, mind - in that regard, it is actually quite small, with fewer than a million residents in the city proper - but rather by area. Only in the downtown core will you find many buildings more than ten stories tall, and in many areas there are still fields and other remnants of farmland.

Forgive my digression. As I mentioned, I've had the chance to see a lot of this city in the past three days. On Thursday morning I was accompanying a singer in a lesson in Nepean, and that evening I was in Orleans for a choir rehearsal. Friday I found myself in the Barrhaven locale onstage accompanying at a gala, and this morning I was again playing in a lesson, this time in Kanata. As I compose this post on my BlackBerry, I am walking to a bus station in Alta Vista, where I just attended a concert.

I would like to say that all this roaming provided me with some great insights about modern city life, but let's be honest here: there's nothing terribly romantic about commuting for work. I will say, though, that when you spend half your day on a bus, you do start to think about what you are working for. For me, right now, the thing I am working for is an apartment. I am hoping to find a bachelor unit for August, and so I find myself tracking every last penny I earn in an effort to see what kind of apartment I can actually afford. Riveting stuff, I know.

But perhaps geography does have something to do with it, after all. I've noticed in the course of my recent excursions that each part of the city has its own distinctive architectural style. If you're envisioning quaint Victorian estates in one area and terraced brownstones in another, that's not what I mean. What I mean is that you can tell from the buildings and houses just how rich - or poor - the neighbourhood is. It's not rocket science, of course, but given my current preoccupation with living situations, it got me thinking. How much must some of these people work just to afford these houses? How much of your life do you have to give up, just to sleep in a fancier bed when you finally get home at night? And how any hours will I have to spend on the bus running from gig to gig just to make rent on my next apartment?

My father once told me a story from his early years in northern Ontario. When he was still quite young, he was visiting his uncle, who owned a farm. Seeing a farmer on a neighbouring property plowing the fields with a horse, he asked his uncle why the man didn't just get a tractor. His uncle asked, by way of reply, whether my father really thought it would be worth it for the farmer to invest in a machine that would break down, require constant refueling, and to which he would have no human connection. It suddenly seemed like less of a wise decision.

Of course we can't go back to the days of the horse, and nor should we. But at the same time, I am not so convinced these days that newer and bigger is always better.

Don't try this at home

2011-05-18T22:39:00.002-04:00

Pro Tip: it is not a good idea to crush your finger under the lid of a piano bench immediately prior to a three-hour rehearsal.

Just sayin'.

On a related note, my right eyelid has started twitching. Interestingly enough, it's not as funny as when it happens in sitcoms. That said, if it gives me an excuse to wear an eye-patch and speak like a pirate, it might turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

In other news, there is a warm pizza sitting on top of the stove right now. I am not entirely sure what the call of a wild pizza sounds like, but I just heard an odd sound coming from the kitchen that sounded something like "eeeet miiiii." So if you'll excuse me, I think this warrants further investigation.

The dog ate my blog!

2011-05-14T18:43:00.001-04:00

I was informed earlier today that Wednesday's blog post had gone mysteriously missing. A quick check on my mobile browser confirmed the disappearance, and like any good nerd (is that an oxymoron?), I started worrying. It doesn't matter that it was a mere blog post; data loss is always a cause for concern. Happily, after logging in to my account, it turned out that the entry was still in my draft folder. Apparently I edited it and forgot to click "Publish Post" again. Either that, or it was mistaken for a cheezburger and eaten by hungry lolcats. One never knows.

All jokes aside, data loss is a sobering prospect. As the tech mantra goes, if it isn't saved in at least two places, it isn't important to you. I currently own not one, but three external hard drives just to protect my data. Granted, they are all sitting on a shelf in my apartment, so in the case of a fire, it would all be for naught, but let's not even go there.

At any rate, it's a rainy day outside, and I still have practicing to do and emails to send. It's such thrilling stuff that I wish I had time to write all about it. Happily for you, however, I do not. Actually, you can think of it as me doing you a favour: instead of wasting your time reading a lengthy blog post, you can spend it backing up your important data!

(Laugh all you want now. But trust me, when your computer dies and you realize you have a redundant copy of your password keyring, it will be eric.)

" . . . and get off my lawn!"

2011-05-14T17:46:00.000-04:00

So there I was last night, standing at the grocery store checkout, when something awkward happened: the cashier started bagging my groceries. I had already put a few items into my cloth bags (gotta get the PC points, baby - and oh yeah, the environment) when she reached out and stuffed some boxes of pasta into a bag. I felt suddenly very awkward, that someone should be doing my work for me.

That's when it struck me, how much times have changed. A few years ago, you never bagged your own groceries. Hell, you never even brought your own bags. You just made your choice when the bag boy asked "paper or plastic?" and that was that. Now I'm not saying that it isn't a good thing that grocery stores have started giving incentives for bringing in reusable bags, or even that it's a bad thing to pack one's own groceries. I actually don't mind bagging my purchases, if only because I usually do a better job than the careless kids ever did. But still - how times have changed.

Perhaps, though, I am reading too much into too little, overreacting to an insignificant event. Maybe it is simply a side effect of the changing seasons, this hypersensitivity to change. Still, I suspect I am not alone. In the past few weeks, between the Canadian election and the death of Osama bin Laden, the fact that it has been nearly ten years since 9/11 has been at the forefront of the public consciousness.

There are already more than enough political opinion blogs clogging the blogosphere, so I will refrain from adding water to the ocean. I will say, though, that looking back on the past ten years, it's hard to feel terribly optimistic. It has been a decade of pain, conflict, disaster and devastation, and things don't look to be getting much better.

That said, it is possible to find some (gallows) humour in the whole mess. Shortly after the news of Osama bin Laden's death broke, a friend of mine posted this clip from Robin Williams' post-9/11 Broadway stand-up show:

Should we laugh? Perhaps not. But I did. And I also fell victim to a fit of what the Greeks call "asbestos gelos" ("unquenchable laughter") as I watched the rest of the ninety-minute show. There was a certain prescience to Williams' monologue; even though the show took place in the summer of 2002, his jokes about the news of the day are only more bitterly amusing nine years on. But while most of his jabs at politicians and celebrities rang true, one did not. As Williams joked about the athletic prowess of a certain Tiger Woods, it was only possible to laugh ironically, considering the golfer's recent fall from grace. I was reminded of how many publications chose Tiger as their person of the year in 2009, and it struck me that perhaps he would make a better "person of the decade." After all, the real tragedy of the past ten years is not that we let our leaders - political, corporate, and otherwise - lead us into the jaws of hell. It's that we trusted them.

It's inevitable that society changes, and no matter how many times I joke about becoming a bitter old man, there's little we can do to stop it. Still, we can laugh through the pain. And we can make sure that we ourselves don't succumb to the same change.

Oh Snap - Literally!

2011-05-08T22:22:00.011-04:00

If this blog gets updated a day late one more time, I think I will officially have to change the header from "updates every Wednesday and Saturday" to "updates Wednesdays and Weekends." My excuse this time? Another busy week, followed by an even busier weekend. True story: it's after ten o'clock on Sunday evening, and not only have I not had time to eat dinner, but I still have about two dozen business emails in my inbox that must be dealt with tonight.

But enough whining. The good news is that I have a strategy for dealing with this state of affairs: bubble wrap. In the process of cleaning my room yesterday, I came across a roll of the stuff, and seeing as I won't be shipping any fragile parcels in the foreseeable future, I decided that it should be, ahem, repurposed as a stress-relief device. So far I have popped through at least a few dozen bubbles, and I guarantee that at least twenty more will meet their demise before the night is done.

Incidentally, do you remember those "stress balls" that were all the rage about ten years ago? You know, the ones they sold at every drug store, little stretchy bags filled with sand? Whatever happened to those? Did people suddenly become less stressed? Because if so, I definitely missed that press release.

At any rate, this is just to say that, well, I don't have anything to say (or more accurately, no time to say it). So instead, here is an amusing quote from a video game journalist, in an article entitled Making Sense of Super Mario Bros. The article itself isn't terribly enlightening (though I will never view Mario's raccoon suit quite the same way), but I thought the closing paragraph was appropriate, given this blog's ongoing fascination with a certain Mr. Pac-Man:

Think that Super Mario Bros. is the only 2D game with hidden meaning? Don't even get me started on Pac-Man's obvious dependency on drugs as a means to confront his personal demons.

Happily I do not share Pac-Man's addiction to power pellets, but at the current rate, I may soon need rehab for my bubble wrap dependency.

PS If this post has left you with an urge to pop some bubbles, but you don't have the necessary materials, never fear: the internet is here to help.

Confessions of a Workaholic

2011-05-04T22:46:00.001-04:00

A while back I introduced you to Walton's Law. Before that was the Ray-Ban Nuremburg Defense. Today, though, it is time for something new: The Blogger's Corollary. It goes like this:

The longer the day, the shorter the blog post.

Let's just say that if it weren't for the preceding sentences, this post would have borne a striking resemblance to a haiku.

Danish and Taxes

2011-05-01T18:50:00.004-04:00

Well, it turned out in the end that the T4 I spent my Wednesday morning searching for never existed in the first place (excuse me while I pat myself on the back for being less disorganized than previously reported), and thus I spent my Friday morning (and one hundred ten of my hard-earned dollars) having my taxes done. I won't bore you with the gritty details, but suffice it to say that when all was signed, sealed, and delivered, I was quite ready to be done with the whole ordeal. Happily, there was a Timmy's across the street, and so I went there to drown (smother?) my sorrows in fatty pastries.

(N.B. Surprising though it may seem given the ubiquitous references to Timmy's, this blog is neither endorsed nor sponsored by Tim Hortons Inc. However, Timmy, if you're listening, I am open to such a partnership, and am will to accept payment in Timbits.)

Now for the record, I did try to resist the advances of the cherry-cheese Danish in the glass pastry case. Still, I could swear it was staring at me like a sad puppy at the pound, and in an act of compassion I relented and took it home. (Actually, it didn't make it past the first block, but I would have brought it home if it wasn't so tasty.) Nonetheless, I felt the need to justify my unhealthy eating choice when I ordered it from the lady working the cash. She looked like every cool aunt you've ever wanted.

"I totally shouldn't, but I just did my taxes, so I figure I deserve it."

"Oh, honey . . . " There wasn't even an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. "I feel your pain. I just did mine on Tuesday and I got a lousy eleven bucks back. Shit!"

"Ugh, that's harsh."

"Well I know right? I mean it's not like I'm raking in the millions. And you know the corporate fat cats aren't paying a damn penny. I mean, shiiiit."

(She spits out the word with enough conviction to give Marcus Fenix a run for his money. Definitely the cool aunt.)

"It just makes you want to go out and vote, but there's nobody worth voting for, it's terrible."

"Well I've been saying for years now I need to start a new party, call it the Pajama Party. Have lots of nap-time on the mandate."

"You've got my vote" I said as she passed me the Danish. I smiled at her on the way out, but as I stepped onto the street, I couldn't help feeling a little bitter about the whole thing. In an age of corporate welfare tax breaks and government kickbacks, it stings to see a good person working hard at a minimum-wage job when she should be retired. Sure, she was joking, but her jokes were masking the pain.

Between a visit to the bank and lots of paperwork, the rest of the afternoon didn't look promising. But when I bit into the Danish and discovered it was still warm, well, elections and taxes be damned, maybe it wasn't such a bad day.

Death and Taxes

2011-04-27T23:12:00.005-04:00

Let's get one thing straight here: I am not an organized person.

Take today, for example. Tax season (or, as it is known here in Canada, the Stanley Cup playoffs) is once again upon us, and accordingly I spent most of the morning herding up my T4's, T5's, and T-I-don't-give-a-damns. Now any smart person would file away such forms upon receipt, and in fairness, I did try to do just that. However, apparently I neglected to stuff one T4 into my folder, and thus I wasted several hours today scouring my room for the missing slip. The good news is that my room is now tidier than it has been since last tax season. Still, I can't help but think that this sort of thing would never happen to a man like Harold Crick.

Who's Harold Crick, you ask? Well . . .

Godzilla Dave Presents: Stranger than Fiction

Stranger than Fiction (2006) tells the story of Harold Crick (Will Ferrell), an IRS auditor who is every inch the everyman. Actually, that is inaccurate: the story of Harold Crick is in fact told by a narrator whose voice Harold begins hearing in his head. At first Harold is merely nonplussed by the fact that he is a character in a novel. This changes, however, when the narrator forecasts Harold's imminent death.

If this plot sounds like a bit of a mind trip, don't panic. Stranger than Fiction is a gentle film, because at its core it is about a gentle man. As Harold attempts to discover the identity of the writer of his life, he also embarks on a quest for meaning, and manages to find love along the way. Equal parts drama, romance, and subtle comedy, Stranger than Fiction is intelligent without being esoteric. Rather than attempting to create a dialogue about narrativity, it examines the role of stories by being a story - which is to say, it's smart without being a smartass.

That said, Stranger than Fiction is not a simple film, and there is enough depth and style that it remains engaging after several viewings. Take, for example, the subtle visual references to the art of René Magritte - the green apples, the curious clouds. Or consider the questions it dares to raise, questions about free will and meaning. The tone remains light throughout most of the film, but the content is certainly not.

René Magritte: The Son of Man. 1964, Oil on Canvas

Such questions converge toward the end of the film. As Harold ponders his oncoming demise, he is reminded that while he may fight his fate, no one is exempt from death, and at least his death, as written by a professional novelist, would have a certain poetic elegance. The more troubling question becomes whether or not his life was equally poetic. And there is the crux of the problem: we are all the authors of our own lives. And how many of us have written anything worth reading?

Whatever our private answers to that question, in Stranger than Fiction, director Marc Forster has created something very much worth watching.

What it cost: A few bucks for a rental - if you can find it.
What it was worth: The money you'll spend on early Spoon albums after you get hooked on the soundtrack.

Beating the Odds

2011-04-23T23:55:00.000-04:00

One of my favourite movies of all time is Ocean's Eleven (the new one, that is - but then, who really liked the old one, besides the actors in it?). No matter how many times I watch it, I always laugh at the heists and hijinks of Danny Ocean and his crew of ne'er-do-wells. And even though I've never been to a casino, and have little desire to do so, I can't help but relish the spectacle.

It may come as some surprise, then, that even though I have watched Ocean's Eleven and even its sequels many a time, I had never played a real game of poker until last night. I had played against a computer a few times and was familiar with the basic rules, but it would be fair to say that the extent of my knowledge put me on par with Topher "all reds" Grace:

At any rate, last night, a few hands into a friendly game of Texas Hold-em, I received a rather memorable hand. It didn't start off as much. I was dealt the queen of diamonds and the two of hearts, and I was seriously considering folding right off the bat. In the spirit of bluffing, though, I checked, and when the dealer turned over two diamonds in the flop, I became more interested. There was a small possibility of a flush, so I stayed in. The next card was another diamond, and I raised. My friend also raised, however, and ended up going all in. I matched and waited with baited breath for the final card. Not only was it a diamond, but it was in fact the diamond: I had a royal flush.

Later on I checked up the probability of getting a royal flush in Texas Hold-em. The oracle of Google revealed the odds to be one in 649,740. I'm seriously considering never playing poker again, just to keep my rare hand ratio high.

As pleased as I am, though, I can't help but think that it would have been much better if my luck had been spent on a Timmy's cup with a car under the rim. Maybe next year . . .

Til Next Time, Tim

2011-04-20T18:51:00.001-04:00

I am an anomaly. Unlike most university students, I am not happy that classes have ended. Don't get me wrong - I don't mind that the school year is drawing to a close. But I do very much mind that during the exam season, the Tim Hortons on campus closes at 1:30 every day. This is almost as bad as the fact that the student pub is also closed, a horrifying discovery a friend and I made this afternoon (yes, afternoon - don't judge).

I suppose this is at least half the reason you won't get a decent post out of me today. After all, can a writer really be expected to produce in the absence of both coffee and alcohol? It's a travesty, really, and I trust that both Voltaire and Hemingway are rolling in their graves.

At any rate, this sorry state of affairs did remind me that I had forgotten to recap my final Roll Up The Rim 2011 experience. All told, in the month of March I won a total of nine coffees and three donuts, which is pretty good considering that the odds of winning were 1:6, and I had approximately forty cups of coffee (which, incidentally, is far fewer than Voltaire had each day). I'm still not convinced I'm a real winner here, since I am now furiously addicted to Timmy's beverages (not that I wasn't before, but again, don't judge), but hey, I'll still count it as a win.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off in search of sustenance of the liquid variety. Tally ho!

Déjà vu

2011-04-16T21:07:00.002-04:00

If, as the sitcom title suggests, it's always sunny in Philadelphia, then I put it to you that it's always rainy in Ottawa. Back in December I wrote about my encounter with an unfortunate soul on the Somerset footbridge, and today I was reminded of that as I walked home in the rain. My umbrella had become an unbrella and was providing little cover from the alternating hail, rain, and snow, and my shoes were doing a good job of filtering the rainwater through my socks. (I actually bought new shoes today, but I didn't want to destroy them quite yet.) As I walked across the bridge, a cyclist riding in the opposite direction caught my eye. She was wearing very trendy cyclist gear, the kind that supposedly makes you more aerodynamic (and unquestionably makes you look like a seal), but she also looked very wet. I can't imagine how she even managed to see me, so fogged up were her glasses, but she caught my eye, and as she pedaled past, she cracked a smile. And even though I was in a foul mood, I found myself grinning back.

Some days, it's all about solidarity.

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry . . .

2011-04-13T22:51:00.002-04:00

This pretty much sums up my day.

(Actually, it was entirely an accident. But you gotta admit, any day where an eight-hundred pound piano nearly falls on you is questionable at best!)

Signs of the Season, Part 4

2011-04-10T23:33:00.000-04:00

Yet again the Saturday post is a day late. My excuse this time? I was attacked by a marauding band of ROUSes.

(Actually, I was very sick with a nasty cold. But the ROUS thing is much more entertaining, right?)

I'm still too tired and sick to formulate any real post, so for now I'll let someone else do the writing for me. I don't know who they are, actually, but apparently they had something to say, since they left this sign on a bike rack on campus today:

"Thank you, bike thief, for tainting my mood on this glorious sunny day. Instead of ruining someone's day, try making it better. I think you will find it more rewarding."

There are a lot of things I could say about this sign, and I'm not gonna lie, most of them are cynical and obnoxious. Happily for you, though, I am sick enough that the only thing that appeals to me now is crawling into bed and hoping for death to come. But, you know, only the "mostly dead" kind of death.

(Note to self: find and watch The Princess Bride as soon as strength is regained.)

Bus Stories No. 2: The Perspective of Distance

2011-04-06T22:07:00.002-04:00

It's Sunday morning and I've missed the early bus by thirty seconds. Resigned to another fifteen minute wait, I turn up my collar against the April chill, and take stock of my surroundings.

The bus stop - Campus Station, in case you know it - is not well populated this morning. It's sunny, but a cold wind steals the heat and chases bits of newsprint and cellophane along the gutter. Even the sunlight seems half-hearted, and the red metal poles of the shelter stand bleached and tired.

The bus station is divided by a fenced median that bisects the transitway. The signs are clear: anyone who attempts to jaywalk across the way will be penalized. But though the wall keeps us from walking to the other side, it can't stop us from watching our opposite neighbours. Today the other side is populated by a single man. He is sporting a jet fedora, and under his leather jacket I spy a white shirt and a black tie. His frizzy hair is pulled back in a plump ponytail. The ensemble is strangely reminiscent of something, but I can't quite place it.

A bus appears in the distance and I stand on the tips of my dress shoes to see which one it is. As it draws closer I fall back to my heels - it's not the right one. It draws up alongside me to let off a passenger, and although I have already turned to look for the next bus, I am reminded of its presence by the roiling shadows of its exhaust on the platform.

The unwanted bus departs and again I find myself looking across the way. Fedora Man is now wriggling and writhing with shocking speed, and after a moment I realize he is practicing dance moves. It's then that I make the connection: Michael Jackson. He's quite good, actually. He launches into a complicated series of moves and gestures for which I do not know the names, before abruptly stopping and resuming a nonchalant pose of normalcy. I am reminded of a cat who trips, only to continue on as though no-one saw what did not happen.

I turn again to my watch, and as I look down the long platform into the distance, I am struck by the perspective, how the red bars recede and grow smaller. In the cruel spring sunlight it looks like something out of a De Chirico painting, equal parts desolation and loneliness. I want to take a photo, but I'm afraid Michael Jackson will notice and think I'm photographing him. I would hate for him to stop his show on account of the bus stop paparazzi. Besides, the puny camera on my phone wouldn't capture the washed out soul of the metal and concrete.

Back on my side a man steps into view from the underpass. He's short but stocky, and he wears a white and blue striped sweatshirt with the hood drawn up. His complexion is ruddy and I immediately think of an English bulldog as he sidles past. Some atavistic instinct in my blood detects an unmistakeable air of hostility to his presence, and I simultaneously avoid eye contact and mentally calculate whether or not I could take him in a fight. He's shorter, but also bigger. I don't fancy my chances. I monitor him from behind my aviators and note that he is holding a single book under one arm. I can't see what it is, but I assume it is a religious text; that's what most books are at bus stations on Sunday mornings.

At last my bus arrives. I am all set to continue my people-watching on board when I recognize a colleague on the bus. He, too, is on his way to a gig. We talk for a time, until he reaches his stop. I learn that yesterday he was in Switzerland, playing an audition. A rather longer trip than my half hour commute, to say the least.

Perhaps it was then that it struck me, how small this world is, despite all the distance we put between ourselves.

Giorgio de Chirico: Mystery and Melancholy of a Street. 1914, Oil on canvas.

Backstage Blogging

2011-04-02T21:33:00.000-04:00

Today I am writing from the green room of a church. Later tonight I will be accompanying Peter (of Peter's Movie Thoughts fame) in a set of two trumpet pieces, for a gala-type charity concert. The first piece is Jacques Castérède's Breves Rencontres, and it is difficult enough that there aren't any good recordings of it, at least that I have found. The other piece is Rafael Méndez's Chiapanecas, which is rather less frightening, not least of all because it is based on a cheeky Mexican folk dance.

It's always interesting to watch other musicians' backstage rituals. No matter how many times you do it, the experience of stepping out into the spotlight is always a bit of a shock. In that moment when your foot hits the wood of the stage, you suddenly change from a person into something entirely different: the performer. Making that transition is always stressful, even if you are one of the lucky few who enjoys the heat of the stage lights. Your heartbeat accelerates, and you become acutely aware of the length of your footsteps. And you suddenly realize that you probably should have made a trip to the lavatory before leaving the green room.

But back to the backstage. Right now the musicians with instruments are warming up. It's not as romantic as it sounds: at the moment I hear two flutes, a bassoon, a guitar, and a violin, all playing in different keys. And they're not playing melodies, but rather tiny fragments of music, the hardest parts of their pieces. Over and over and over. Philip Glass would be pleased.

The pianists are less fortunate, because there are rarely keyboards backstage. Some of them stretch their fingers, or flip through their scores. Others talk shop, or talk politics - pianists often tend toward such topics. Some have more peculiar rituals. A good friend of mine, one of the best pianists I know, always eats a banana before performing - he says the potassium calms his nerves. I myself used to always run up and down a few flights of stairs before stepping on stage, as it would raise my heart rate and lesson the physical impact of the change.

In the end, though, no matter how much you prepare, no matter what your rituals, the moment when the stage door opens always comes quicker than you think. And that moment is just about upon me - so I'll see you on the other side.

Oh Snap, it's a Blogiversary!

2011-03-30T22:01:00.000-04:00

Yep, that's right, a full year has passed since this blog's first post. Twelve months and eighty-eight entries later, it seems to me that this occasion warrants a truly eric write-up. Unfortunately, though, circumstances are conspiring against our dear friend eric, for in the past twelve hours I have played three rehearsals and accompanied two recitals, and spent the rest of the time drinking coffee and practicing. So right now, I am going to celebrate with my good friends Scotch and Drambuie.

It's been a good year, and it's gonna be a good night.

110 on the Richter Scale

2011-03-27T18:47:00.008-04:00

Well, for the second weekend in a row, this blog post is a day late. Not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things, though it still irks me. At least I have a reason for the delay - I was up practicing past four in the morning on Friday night in preparation for accompanying people at their auditions all day Saturday. So really, you can blame good ol' Wolfgang Amadeus is to blame for this late post. That weaselly bastard.

When you spend most of your waking hours (not to mention quite a few hours which really shouldn't be waking) practicing, rehearsing, discussing, and generally all but digesting music, you tend to want to step away from the subject in your free time. Perhaps it's for this reason that I rarely write about music here. Still, the flip side of that equation is that when you spend all of your time and energy working as a musician, you have to consciously find ways to maintain your love for the art - because the money sure ain't good enough to make it worthwhile.

Full disclosure? Over the past fourteen years I have often struggled to find ways to keep my relationship with the piano alive. I use the word "relationship" intentionally, for make no mistake, any serious musician is in a relationship with their art (you might be surprised to learn that many players actually name their instruments). Just like any serious affair of the heart, it requires commitment and sacrifice, for there will always be dark days and passionless periods. It requires you to make deposits into the so-called emotional bank account, so that when times are tight, you have savings to fall back on.

In my own emotional bank account with the piano, there are a few things - a handful of recordings, a selection of scores - that have protected me from bankruptcy on more than a few occasions. So today, in light of the insanity of the past few weeks, here is one of the recordings that keeps my love of music alive, even in the face of late nights and caffeine-fueled days.

The recording in question is Sviatoslav Richter's 1965 performance of Beethoven's penultimate piano sonata, the sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110. Enough has been said about both Richter and Beethoven that I will write no more here. I will merely say that it is a testament to Richter's pianism that he makes me enjoy this piece, given that I generally dislike Beethoven, and specifically dislike this sonata, having heard it butchered by pianists too many times. Take a listen:

What makes this recording so special? Hundreds of other pianists have recorded this movement, most of them with fewer wrong notes and better audio quality. But no pianist that I have heard has exerted such control over the listener's experience of the music. Consider the outrageous ritardando Richter takes beginning around 1:17. Richter's tempo becomes so slow that the musical pulse actually stops. Most Beethoven performance scholars would disparage such a musical decision. Stylistically speaking, it is wrong. Still, it never fails to capture my attention, no matter how many times I hear it. Richter manages to stop time, as it were, and in doing so, he pulls the listener out of their clockwork thoughts. It is the Zen kōan of piano playing.

I will probably never play "one-ten" (as it is referred to by pianists). I have no illusions - I would be one of the players who would butcher it. But whenever I am ready to close the lid on the piano once and for all, Richter's recording is there for me.

Perhaps it will be there for you, too.

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 3.1

2011-03-23T23:39:00.000-04:00

Last spring, I recounted my encounter with the Muffin Man, and posted about how it was The Greatest Thing Ever. Well. It so happens that I was recently involved in another cupcake incident, and yes, it was eric.

The story begins on Tuesday morning. Tuesday mornings are never a happy time for me, if for no other reason than I have 8:30 class followed by a long day of work. It didn't help that I was practicing past one o'clock the night before, and had thus chalked up a grand total of five hours of sleep. Nonetheless, I was trooping through the day, helped by a cup of Timmy's finest (my current record, FYI, is six for nineteen).

After class, I went to teach several piano lessons, as usual. I think my students were slightly sketched out by my hyperactive state (suffice it to say that sleep deprivation plus caffeine turns me into this blog's namesake). I was particularly spacey owing to the fact that I had not packed a lunch, and was getting rather hungry. It was then that The Greatest Thing Ever (version 3.1) happened: one of my students brought me a cupcake. And not just any cupcake: this was (so I am told) a red velvet chocolate cupcake. Apparently it was a special charity cupcake, with all the proceeds going to relief efforts for the recent earthquake in Japan. This made me feel even better about eating it, even though I didn't buy it myself.

(Incidentally, I'm pretty sure that charity-supporting baked goods have fewer calories than their regular counterparts, just as broken cookies have no calories.)

Now reader, I'm not gonna lie here - I definitely scarfed the whole cupcake long before I thought to take a picture of it. Fortunately, though, my student had other cupcakes, so I took a picture of them with my phone (this did nothing to convince her that I'm not insane, but then again that ship sailed long ago).

The cupcakes hide in a plain yet stylish box . . .

. . . before leaping out in a calorie-filled ambush. Egad!

My student made me promise to put in a plug for the bakery (it was only a matter of time before this blog sold out, but I still feel dirty), so I hereby formally recommend you to the culinary care of Isobel's Cupcakes. Apparently they're one of only two nut-free bakeries in Ottawa ("the more you know"). So the next time you're in Vanier, check them out.

True story.

Not a plug for Crazy Heart

2011-03-20T13:15:00.002-04:00

Yes, yes, this post is a day late. I didn't forget about it. I was just really busy. If it's any consolation (because I know you are just oh-so-heartbroken) I had really weird dreams about blogging all last night. It's all a little fuzzy, but I distinctly remember intending to blog about a guitar-playing guy who looked suspiciously like Jeff Bridges. He sang a song which I don't remember, then switched to a rendition of something by Bach. In my dream, I was convinced that this was The Most Interesting Thing Ever, and that it would make for The Greatest Blog Post of All Time.

(I knew I shouldn't have eaten that second helping of egg foo young last night. In my defense, though, it was staring at me.)

At any rate, I am still very busy, so even though this is decidedly not The Greatest Blog Post of All Time, it will have to suffice for now.

Go forth and be merry, etc.

Le Rostinaille, Part Deux

2011-03-16T22:57:00.001-04:00

Tonight I am celebrating. This morning I successfully defended my thesis proposal, which means I can officially begin writing my MA thesis. Not that I will, mind - if history serves as any indicator, I will procrastinate and avoid writing the actual paper until the last possible moment. That, however, is another story for another time. For now, I would rather enjoy the glass of Scotch I am drinking, poured from one of three (count 'em) bottles on my shelf.

Before you conclude that I am an alcoholic, I should explain why I am in possession of so much Scotch whisky (trivia of the night: "whisky" is spelled without an "e" when referring to Scotch). It seems to have become a yearly tradition to drink Scotch on my birthday. Last year, I discovered the Rusty Nail. This year, I was fortunate to receive not one, but three bottles of Scotch whisky for my 25th birthday. In recognition of this, I have devised a new rule. It goes like this:

A birthday may be considered a success if either of the following two requirements are fulfilled:

You partake of Scotch which is equal to, or older than, your current age
You receive multiple bottles of Scotch which, when added together, are older than your current age

This year, for example, I received three bottles of twelve-year-old Scotch, equaling a total of thirty-six years, thus qualifying 2011 as a successful birthday vintage. Note that this rule can also be applied to wine, for those who are not fond of stronger liquors.

(For the record, it would have been a very successful birthday regardless of the Scotch age rule, owing to the company of many friends and loved ones, a splendid birthday dinner, and a rollicking surprise party. In my experience, however, a bottle of Scotch is much less likely to take offence at being appreciated based on quantitative data!)

I'm glad we had this talk.

I'll bet she was a communications major

2011-03-12T12:36:00.002-05:00

There are two things you learn very quickly when you begin your studies at a Canadian university. The first is how to get from one building to another without stepping outside into the cold, usually via overpasses or underground tunnels. The second is where the nearest Tim Hortons is located. (Incidentally, the third thing you learn is how to plan your route between buildings such that you pass by Timmy's. This is also offered in lecture format as Communications 101.)

The good news is that on most Canadian campuses, one need not step foot outside to get to Timmy's, since there is usually at least one franchise located within the school's walls. Often these miniaturized coffee stops are built into the hallways, a small alcove housing a coffee machine and a case of donuts. At my undergraduate school, there was one such Timmy's in the campus centre. After hours, it would be enclosed in the sort of metal caging that you see over pawnshops. The fluorescent lights in the hallway were always ready to die, so the scene was quite eerie in the flickering half-light. My roommate and I once hatched a plan to dress up as zombies and hide inside the cage at night, leaping out and rattling the bars anytime a student walked by, but sadly, we never managed to put the plan into effect. I can't imagine why not.

There is a Timmy's booth here at uOttawa, too, not too far from the main library. I was walking there a few days ago when I caught a snippet of a conversation between a boy and a girl sitting on a bench. The girl was gesturing animatedly, and just as I walked by, she said, "and then I turned and I smacked him!" I don't know the context of the story, but I can say that she definitely did have the Crazy Eyes. The boy was aware of this, too, and he looked apologetically at me as I grinned. I knew the look in his eyes, too, for it is a look that every male freshman has at one point or another: "I know she's batshit crazy, but I really want to get laid!"

I fear for his soul.

I don't know if the kid did end up getting lucky, or just getting smacked, but I did get lucky with my next Timmy's coffee, winning a free donut. The count so far: four wins for ten cups. No car yet, though.

Rollin' on

2011-03-09T23:29:00.002-05:00

I'm literally phoning this one in tonight, typing out these words on my BlackBerry in a practice room between shifts of Shostakovich. The only thing I really have to report today is that I should have quit while I was ahead; my Timmy's count is now a meager three wins for nine cups of coffee. My win ratio only stands to go down from here, so if I were smart I would just stop now and maintain a respectable 1:3 ratio.

I can tell you, though, that if there were a Tim Horton's open within ten minute's walk right now, I'd be there in a heartbeat. It's gonna be a long night.

Shredded Tweet

2011-03-05T19:45:00.003-05:00

Some days are just not meant to be. Today, for example, I find myself sitting in a waiting room in the university's administrative sector, with - according to my ticket - eighteen people ahead of me in line. To my right there is a black and red screen displaying the numbers, an infernal alarm clock that threatens to never go off. It's just out of my line of sight, and my neck is tense from turning to check for my number every time the screen emits a wheezy beep.

It's frustrating being stuck here when I am already busy enough for two people, but at least it's a chance to catch up on some people watching. Sitting across from me, for example, is a girl who stands out because she alone does not have a newspaper, iPod, or smartphone to occupy her. She is bundled up in colourful, coarse cloaks, and one suspects she would not seem out of place on a Peruvian mountainside. I notice her looking at me several times. She's not flirting, though; just bored. After a few minutes her number comes up, and she shuffles away.

Within moments her chair is filled by an obnoxiously touchy couple, who stave off boredom by kissing frequently and giggling. They really don't need two chairs, they're sitting so close together. He has a faux-hawk and a pencil-thin chinstrap beard; she is wearing shoes that are ridiculously inappropriate for this weather, but which he thinks are cute, no doubt. I wonder if she thinks his deep V-neck and gold chain are cute, too - if not, I doubt she'd tell him.

I've been here forty minutes now, and have to be in a rehearsal in another thirty. All this to replace a student card with a broken chip, for the second time this year.

The couple get up to talk to the secretary, asking how long it will be. In the time they are gone, their seats are taken, and when they return, they look around cluelessly. His eyes fix on my bag which is sitting on the chair next to mine, and I put it on the floor. The pair of them snuggle up beside me, and I tilt my Blackberry away so they won't see that I am writing about them. Not that they would, anyway, so deep are they burried in each other's eyes.

Ten minutes later the screen sneezes, and at last my number appears. I gather my coat and the other entrapments of winter and hustle off down the corridor. A young man in a questionable polo shirt greets me and ushers me over to the ID card lamination booth. Would you like a new picture, he asks, and I shrug yes - after all, it can't possibly be worse than the two previous incarnations.

The camera flashes and I figure it can't be long now. If I'm lucky I might still have time to grab a cup of Timmy's before the rehearsal (I am three for five on Roll-up-the-Rim so far this year, an unprecedented win streak). The guy in the polo shirt presses a button and the laminator makes a sound like a dog's squeak toy being sucked into a lawn mower. Sorry, he says, the machine has been acting up lately. He extracts a cartridge from the guts of the device and disappears into an adjoining office. He emerges several minutes later with another cartridge, fiddles with the mechanism, and presses the button again.

This time it's Tweety Bird in the lawn mower, and the whole office turns to stare. A woman in a business suit and a man who is clearly a tech come running out of the office. Ooh, that's not good, the tech says, stooping with his hands on his knees and peering into the device. He starts to extract a seemingly endless feed of tape, and one is suddenly reminded of the days of VHS cassettes. We're going to be a few minutes, polo shirt guy says. Why don't you wait in the waiting room?

The waiting room is full by now, or at least full enough that you have to sit next to a stranger. The girl with the shoes spies me and smiles wryly over her boyfriend's head. He is nuzzling her neck, and, I suspect, looking down her shirt, while she bats her eyelashes proudly, a tawdry Las Vegas parody of Madonna and unholy child. A girl in the seat next to them shifts even farther away and rustles her newspaper uncomfortably.

Coffee is out of the question by the time the guy in the polo shirt returns with my card, but at least I am not late for my rehearsal. And at least I don't have to spend another minute typing out this blog post on a cell phone keypad.

Today's blog post has been brought to you by BlackBerry, and by the makers of the Acme Deluxe Laminator 3000.

Rockin' and Rollin'

2011-03-02T23:13:00.004-05:00

Anyone who claims that April is the cruelest month has clearly never lived in Canada. No, dear Mr. Eliot, February is verily the cruelest month of all, breeding icicles out of the dead air. And so it is that I am pleased to herald the arrival of March.

But wait, you say: March, that most Napoleonic of months, is little better than its predecessor. Still the slush laps at your ankles and still the frost bites at your nose. To be fair, March is rather like February, but for one important difference: you can't roll up the rim to win in February.

(Actually, make that two important differences: March has St. Patrick's Day, while February only has St. Valentine's Day. You know which one is better.)

For those of you who don't live in Canada, I should explain this whole "rolling" business. Every year for the past twenty-five years, Tim Horton's (a coffee and donut chain) has an annual contest where you roll up the rim of paper coffee cups to reveal a prize. It's possibly the single greatest promotional ploy ever: combining coffee and gambling - two of the most addictive things known to humankind - is pure genius. Pure evil genius, to be more specific.

Still, however much I recognize the marketing scheme at play, I can't help but continue to love Tim Horton's. Just as Winston ends up loving Big Brother, so do I love Timmy Ho's (I would even go so far as to say that Tim's is one of the Greatest Things Ever, but that's another post for another time). And never is my devotion stronger than in the month of March.

Still, though I love deeply, I do not love blindly, and so this year I'm keeping track of my Roll-up-the-Rim winnings. Apparently in 2011 each person has a one in six chance of winning with each cup (last year was one in nine). With this in mind, I'll be tracking my winnings, much in the same way that hockey teams track their power play stats. As of this morning I was zero for two cups, but I got lucky this evening: I won a coffee, and won a coffee on that coffee.

I figure that if I have a coffee a day for the rest of the month, I should win six times. But I'll settle for just one more win if that win includes a Toyota Matrix. I know, I know: I say this every year, and every year Timmy betrays my faith. But this time will be different, I just know it.

(I'm not an addict, I swear.)

. . . and then I found five dollars.

What's "Pac-Man" in Swedish?

2011-02-26T21:41:00.001-05:00

Loyal reader, perhaps you will recall the last time I ranted about Ikea. If you have read even further back, you may recall my post about Pac-Man. Well, apparently I am running out of things to write about, since today I can only offer you a post that combines those two:

The Ikea Pac-Man Conspiracy!

So, yesterday I went to Ikea, and while walking around the aisles of furniture and furnishings, I noticed something suspicious for the first time: the store has very few exits, and many dots on the floor (exhibit A).

I then noticed that whole store is built around a central room where food is served:

(Actually, this picture was taken during my second trip to the food area. It just seemed wrong not to get a second plate of two dollar organic pasta.)

But that's not all. The whole store layout is suspiciously reminiscent of a maze:

The parallels are uncanny:

Still skeptical? Take note of those four round dots on the Pac-Man maze, the ones that give the little yellow glutton ghost-zapping powers. Apparently, they're called "power pellets." So basically, they're batteries. Well, lo and behold, I discovered that Ikea conveniently stashes mounds of alkaline batteries at several locations in the store (always near corners, incidentally):

You can't really seem them, but trust me, those are batteries.

All these things lead to only one logical conclusion: after hours, when the store is closed, Ikea employees engage in an intense game of real-life Pac-Man.

I'm pretty sure the winner gets to take home the leftover cinnamon buns. True story.

Next Blog: A Rant

2011-02-23T17:14:00.001-05:00

It is Reading Week right now, and productivity is not at an all time high. Don't get me wrong, there is plenty of stuff I should be doing. It's just that sitting in my comfy Ikea chair and browsing the 'net is much, much more appealing than tidying my room or writing my thesis. And why not? Way I figure it, if I can't be surfing the waves in Hawaii, I might as well be surfing the web in Ottawa.

Speaking of surfing the web, you know you're just wasting time when you start clicking random links to see if anything interesting turns up. Having already checked the soccer scores three times today, caught up on my forum posting, replied to every email in my inbox (okay, so maybe this afternoon hasn't been entirely unproductive), and browsed some favourite webcomics, I have pretty much exhausted my usual internet routine. Sure, I could read one of the hundred-plus links I have bookmarked as "Rainy Day Reading," but most of those pages require actual brain power, something which is in very short supply around these parts at the moment. And so, in the interests of maintaining meeting my unproductivity quota, I started clicking the most insidious link in the world: "Next Blog»."

If you are confused by this "Next Blog»" business, I encourage you to direct your attention to the top navbar of this page, toward the left hand side. Yeah, that's the one. If you click it, you will be taken to another blog on the Blogger network, apparently at random. (I sincerely doubt that it is, in fact, random, but I am far too lazy to research the inner workings of the network.) The interesting thing is that if you click it enough times, you start to notice patterns à la Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Certain types of blogs start cropping up over and over again. To wit, in a given next-blogging session, you will likely find:

four blogs that have not been updated since 2008
eight "mommy" blogs featuring too much information about too many children
several artsy (read: emo) photography blogs featuring mediocre snapshots of cityscapes
at least a dozen blogs in a foreign language (I notice that Polish turns up with unnerving frequency)
a blog by a teenage girl who is convinced that she will either be America's next top model, or Milan's next great fashion designer
more religious testimony blogs than you can shake a stick at (take note of how many are written in the third person)
a blog by a pretentious college poli-sci major who thinks he can solve the world's political problems by writing intractable tracts on governance
a healthy serving of foodie blogs (and a proportionate number of diet blogs)
multiple blogs focusing on a single topic that does not supply enough material for regular updates (here's looking at you, runner's blogs)
too many wedding blogs (seriously, it's one day out of your life - get over it and focus on your marriage)
a plethora of pages featuring poor spelling, grammar, and punctuation

I realize that this is the internet, so my expectations shouldn't be too high. Still, it's hard not to feel just a bit disappointed in the human race when you start reading these blogs. It's not the subject matter that discourages me. It's that the subject matter replaces the subjects - that is to say, the writers. I do not read blogs to gain information on a topic. That purpose is better served by Wikipedia and Google. I read blogs for the personal insights they can provide, the things they reveal about their authors. As William Carlos Williams wrote in Asphodel, that Greeny Flower,

It is difficult

to get the news from poems

yet men die miserably every day

for lack

of what is found there.

This isn't to say that your blog should be a poem - I've ranted before on the deluge of paltry verse clogging the internet these days. Still, if you must write a blog, make it about you. I don't care about your beliefs or your hobbies, I care about what makes your experience of being human different from mine. Tell me about the feel of sun on your skin, or the heat of the ground under your feet. Tell me about how you fold your laundry or pay your bills.

Because at the end of the day, these are the things that make our lives unique.

Kids These Days

2011-02-19T22:40:00.002-05:00

February is one of my least favourite times of the year. I'm not alone in this sentiment, but whenever this dreary month rolls around again, I hold the opinion that it's worse for me than for anyone else. After all, clearly I am the centre of the universe.

All jokes aside, though, it does seem easier to become wrapped up in your own problems when every day is either a) cold, wet, and grey, or b) grey, wet, and cold. Walking around outside, you keep your head down and your collar up, and generally avoid eye contact with people. It's just how it goes.

Unfortunately, the downside of walking around in your own little world is that sometimes your world collides with the real world. This is what happened on Thursday night, when I nearly walked into a tree.

Now before you start judging, hear me out: I wasn't expecting to see a tree. After all, I was walking across the Somerset footbridge over the canal:

I'm pretty sure you can see the Loch Ness Monster if you look close enough.

As far as I can tell, some wag decided to prop up a Christmas tree in the snow in the middle of the bridge. The moral of the story? Apparently February affects us all in different ways.

One final note: as you may have surmised, I have finally bitten the bullet and upgraded my phone. While I am enjoying my new Blackberry, it is with sadness that I bid farewell to my old cell. One of my friends has insisted that we must have an "eric" funeral for the phone. Will keep you posted.

Somewhere over In Rainbows

2011-02-16T23:30:00.003-05:00

So, Radiohead revealed their latest album earlier this week, due to be released online this Saturday. It's an unusual move, announcing an album five days before its release, but hardly unexpected given the band's history. Back in October of 2007, their contract with EMI having expired, they unleashed In Rainbows online using a pay-what-you-want system that signaled a sea-change in the music industry. While analysts and economists debated the feasibility of the distribution model, fans of the band reveled in the dark, seductive songs, and critics hailed it as one of the best albums of the year.

But enough with the pop-culture history lesson. When I grow old, I doubt I will remember the controversy surrounding the release of In Rainbows, but I will surely never forget what that album meant to me. In 2007 I was living in Waterloo, sharing a cheap basement apartment with my two best friends, and finishing my final year of an undergraduate degree in music. I survived on Mr. Noodles and frozen peas, and made friends with Elliott, the feisty orange tomcat who lived upstairs. I spent most of my hours and days practicing piano in moldy practice rooms on campus, preparing for grad school auditions. I wouldn't say I was a workaholic, but I was something close to it.

My roommate Matt, also a music student, was something less than a workaholic. Matt is one of the most naturally creative people I have ever met, and I suspect this had something to do with the fact that he actually took the time to sleep and relax, rather than frantically running around like the leggy centipedes which lived in our walls (we named the largest one Charlie). In our first year, in an effort to distinguish between us, our peers nicknamed us "Stress Matt" and "Chill Matt" based on our respective demeanours. I will leave it to you to surmise which Matt I was.

Around the time when In Rainbows was released, I discovered a computer game called The Battle for Wesnoth. Wesnoth was precisely as dorky (and awesome) as it sounds. It was a simple game, featuring outdated 2D graphics, a MIDI soundtrack that was equal parts cheesy and epic, and an archaic turn-based combat system. Yet, to call it simple is unfair, because it required deep strategies and masterful planning. Basically, it was chess on steroids, with plenty of elves, dragons, and wizards thrown in for good measure. And so help me, it was more addictive than the MSG in my Mr. Noodles.

What Wesnoth and In Rainbows had in common was that they both represented a new way of producing and distributing data. Wesnoth was (and is) an open-source game, made by a team of volunteer developers and released free to the sweaty, nerdy masses. For a pair of young musicians, it was exhilarating to see how the internet could be used as a medium for the transmission of our work, and we spent hours chattering about how awesome the future was going to be (I'll spare you the gory details of our first encounters with The Real World).

I don't know exactly when it first happened, but one rainy Saturday morning, as I packed a lunch in preparation for a day at school, Matt challenged me to a game of Wesnoth. I didn't really have time, but I caved and booted up my old desktop PC. We set In Rainbows to loop and began our epic battle against the wicked goblin armies of the north.

. . . Sixteen hours later, we vowed that we really would go to school and get work done the next day.

We didn't.

That weekend we spent every waking minute playing Wesnoth and listening to Radiohead, and the next weekend too. Looking back on it, I remember feeling guilty for not getting more work done. But for the life of me, I can't remember what work I actually had to do. It certainly doesn't matter now. The truth is, I don't remember much of what I learned in classes that term, but whenever I hear the opening beats of 15 Step, my head is filled with visions of pixelated elves and memories of Matt and I arguing over strategies.

When The King of Limbs is released this Saturday, I'll be sure to download my pre-ordered copy the moment it is made available. I don't know whether it will be brilliant or mediocre, but that doesn't really matter. As long as it helps me make some memories, it will be worth every penny.

Love is in the Snow

2011-02-12T22:13:00.004-05:00

There are many things I love about living in Ottawa. I love skating on the canal in the winter (even if I've only done it twice), and I love lounging on pub patios in the ByWard Market in the summer. I love living in a city where you hear two languages spoken constantly, and where nearly every downtown block has an foreign embassy proudly flying its flag. And I definitely love that there is a shop that has a sign featuring a green squirrel just around the corner from a sushi restaurant called Wasabi.

Still, no city is perfect, and I will go on record as saying that I absolutely hate one thing about Ottawa: the plethora of one-way streets. I dislike city driving at the best of times, but when every second street is one-way, my stress meter overclocks. I once spent forty-five minutes trying to park a car, just because all the one-way streets made me circle around so much that I actually ended up getting shunted onto the 417 Queensway. True story.

The only upside of one-way streets is that since I don't own a car, I don't have to deal with them on a regular basis. I do have to walk them, however, and that is what I found myself doing last Sunday morning while en route to work. It was shortly after eight o'clock, and a fresh layer of white flakes lay on the ground, conveniently hiding the dirty blocks of frozen slush. Every car parked overnight on the street was powdered in icing sugar snow, and as I walked further, I noticed something curious: someone had drawn heart symbols in the snow on each hood or windshield. Each heart was a different size, but all had the same signature curves, revealing them to be the work of one hand.

As I passed by heart after heart, I began to smile. It was cheesy, to be sure, but at least it was more personal than most of the crassly commercial Valentine's Day inventory displayed in store windows. It wasn't until a few days later, though, that I found myself thinking again of those snowy hearts, and wondering who had made them. My first assumption was that it must have been the work of a little girl. On second thought, however, it seem unlikely that a young child would have been out for a leisurely stroll so early on a frosty Sunday morning. Perhaps it was an old man drawing the hearts in memory of a late wife, or a young woman leaving a message for her lover. I would never know.

And that's when it struck me: the romantic artist could have been anyone. Love, for however mysterious or misunderstood or even painful it may be at times, is an experience that respects no boundaries. Love is not owned by those of a certain race, age, gender, or orientation. It transcends all. In an world torn by war and hate and apathy, it might just be one of the few things we humans have in common with each other.

As we brace ourselves for Valentine's Day once again, it's often hard not to feel disgusted by the commercialization of love. Every store window is filled with overpriced candies and sappy cards that seem to be more about sentiment than love. Still, take heart: I know for certain that Cupid is alive and well. I saw his work myself on MacLaren Street just last week.

Badger Badger Badger Badger

2011-02-09T23:24:00.004-05:00

Are you familiar with Godwin's Law? Much like Murphy's Law (which, incidentally, is known as "Sod's Law" in the UK), Godwin's Law is something less than legally binding, and you won't end up paying any fines if you break it. The principle is simple: the longer a conversation continues on the internet, the more likely it is that a comparison will be made involving Nazis or Hitler. In my experience this is usually true, perhaps due to John Gabriel's Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory, but that's another story for another post. For today, however, I would like to nominate a new "law" for adoption into the popular lexicon legislation: Walton's Law (what, you were expecting something more original?).

Walton's Law states that the more alcohol is consumed by a group of Generation Y-ers, the more likely it is that the conversation will shift to reminisces on Super Mario Bros. And I'm not talking about the new-fangled Super Mario games that the kids play today with 3D graphics and motion controls. I'm talking about the real Mario, the Mario we played on those old grey NES consoles that all the cool kids had back in day. The Mario that (gasp) turned twenty-five last year.

But I digress. It so happened that a few weeks back I was at a bar with some colleagues, and, perhaps inevitably, the topic turned to Mario. It's a subject that in some ways makes less sense as you grow older (someone needs to explain to me how it is that wearing a raccoon suit makes you able to fly), and in some ways makes more sense (I suddenly understand why eating mushrooms makes Mario higher - er, I mean, bigger). Debates raged for hours (or at least, a few minutes) about which was the hardest boss, and about which was the best game of the original trilogy (the first one, obviously). We were all enjoying our recollections of the good old days until I said The Wrong Thing:

"Oh man, remember those Goombas? Those things were so fun to squish."

There then followed a silence. Reader, take note: a silence in a bar on a Friday night is never a good thing. "Dude," someone said, "what are you talking about?"

"You know, Goombas, those mushroom things that waddle around that you stomp on."

"Dude, 'Goombah' is an ethnic slur against Italians."

Perhaps I should point out that a corollary of Walton's Law is that no matter how drunk a white person is, they always feel mortified if they think they have said something that qualifies as racist (well, at least a non-racist white person, anyway - wait, can I even say that?). Awkward apologies ensued. More alcohol was consumed. The conversation changed to other topics ("Hey, remember Pac-Man?").

Now, however mortified I might have been that night, I still wasn't entirely convinced that I was wrong. The next day, I used the powers of Google, and it turns out that - a-ha! - those mushroom things actually are called Goombas. Apparently, though, "Goombah" (with an "h") is indeed pejorative slang for an Italian-American. The more you know.

Why did I get to thinking about all this? Well. Last week one of my roommates had a party celebrating Chinese New Year, and in preparation for this he procured large quantities of food from Ottawa's Chinatown. Happily for me, he bought too many shiitake mushrooms, and so for the past two days I have been adding the chewy fungi to my trademark dish (that would be Ramen al dente). Now, to put it bluntly, I'm not much of a chef, but I'm pretty sure even normal people (i.e., as distinct from "student people") could stomach my Eric Shiitake Noodles. They're that tasty.

I could go on about mushrooms, but just writing about them has made me hungry. Buckle up, readers - it's shiitake time!

Paging Bill Watterson

2011-02-05T13:45:00.003-05:00

It's Saturday morning (well, afternoon now actually - funny how that happens), and here's what I've done so far:

started three loads of laundry (may or may not have been very excited to discover all three machines were free)
dropped off dry cleaning (my clothes may feel clean, but I feel stodgy)
had a shower (well, I did)
balanced January's finances (miraculously in the green, hurrah!)
replied to a bunch of business-related emails (but not all of them, yet)
debated whether it was late enough in the day to start drinking (it wasn't, and still isn't)
discovered that despite my best efforts and attentions, a fugitive piece of Kleenex managed to sneak its way into my laundry (why do bad things happen to good people?)
wondered why the hell I ever thought it would be a good idea to grow up (Saturday morning should be for sugary cereal and cartoons)

Now if you'll excuse me (and my newfound obsession with parentheses), I am going to try to erase the memories of the past few hours of grown-up activities by playing some video games. After all, those alien bastards aren't going to shoot themselves.

"Debris! We got debris!"

2011-02-02T19:17:00.000-05:00

I never went to the cinema much as a youngster. It just wasn't something my family did very often. As a result, I remember every film (all seven of them!) I saw before the age of seventeen. The first movie I saw in a theatre was Beauty and the Beast, followed two years later by Free Willy. The next film, Mr. Holland's Opus, was the most memorable by far, though not because of the movie itself (which, contrary to popular belief, is not every music student's favourite film). Rather, I vividly remember seeing Mr. Holland's Opus on April 20th, 1996 (yes, Mr. Holland's Opus was released in January, but this is small town Ontario, where films come rarely), because that night an F3 tornado tore through a nearby town.

Looking back, I remember seeing the wreckage of many homes and barns not far from where I lived. Being a typical young boy, I thought it was pretty cool. I can't help but think, though, that this story would have been even cooler if I hadn't been watching a cheesy movie about a music teacher, but had instead watched an eric film about tornadoes, like the one that hit theaters three weeks later.

Godzilla Dave Presents: Twister

Twister is the sort of film that succeeds not because it's good, but because it meets your expectations. It's the rule of Chekhov's Gun: if you hang a rifle on the wall in the first act, it must be fired in the third. By this logic, Twister fires on all cylinders, and so it succeeds. There is nothing unpredictable in the script: the bad guys are bad, the good guys are good, and the tornadoes are windy. Very windy, in fact: the MPAA awarded Twister a rating of PG-13 for "intense depiction of very bad weather." Surprise, surprise.

So how does a film that is so (intentionally) predictable succeed? Sure, the special effects do a lot of the work, and it is easy to be blown away (har har) by the CGI, despite its age. But even the most hardened connoisseurs of action-adventure films would be bored by ninety straight minutes of action. The key to selling such a story, then, is to embrace the predictability and the genre tropes with enough gusto to inspire anticipation in the audience. It's like watching a favourite comedy for the fourth time, and laughing harder because you know the punchlines and anticipate them - only doing so the first time around.

It is in this regard that Twister goes above and beyond. You know from the first moment the bad guys appear on screen that they will eventually be sucked up into a tornado. But when their truck explodes in a blaze of flame mid-funnel, it satisfies a hunger you didn't even know you had. You've already seen every side character in a dozen other films, but have you ever heard such memorable catchphrases? It's impossible not to appreciate a sidekick like Dusty (Philip Seymour Hoffmann), who introduces us to "'the Suck Zone.' That's basically the point where the twister . . . sucks you up. It's not the technical term for it, obviously."

Twister isn't a great film, but it's great at what it does. Even fifteen years on, it's still as fresh as a summer breeze. Make that a strong summer breeze.

What it cost me: A cow
What it was worth: 'Nother cow . . .

Bust out the Coppertone

2011-01-29T16:27:00.000-05:00

It's warmed up a bit the past few days, but it's still plenty cold enough here in Ottawa. My ears were tender for four days after the frostnip incident, and now the skin on the tops is starting to peel off, just like with a bad sunburn. Lovely.

It's important to remember that it could always be worse, though. I talked to a woman yesterday whose husband is currently working in Resolute Bay. Where is that, you ask? The simple answer is "north" because it is north of just about anywhere you could possibly be reading this. Apparently it's -55° Celsius there. Delightfully brisk, one might say.

But perhaps I just need to find a silver lining to all this miserable weather (winter is not my favourite time of year, in case you hadn't guessed). Walking to school today, I could see at least a hundred skaters on the canal, all of whom seemed to be enjoying themselves. One girl had a black lab on a leash on the ice, and it was pulling her along. Every once in a while it would see another skater skim by and rush after it, the girl in tow. Well, whatever works I guess.

At any rate, in an effort to beat the winter blues, I've decided to take today off entirely. No work, no checking the email, no nothing. It's gonna be eric.

So . . . cold . . .

2011-01-26T14:22:00.000-05:00

Sunday was the coldest day I can remember. Walking to the bus stop on the way to work, the snow crackled under my feet. On some streets, I could hear the crunch of my footsteps echoing off of buildings across the way. As I walked on the footbridge over the canal, I could see a few brave skaters below me. Their skates made a brittle rasping sound in the morning air. The sound of winter.

I missed my bus, and had to wait for fifteen minutes for the next one. It wasn't such a big deal, since I had planned on taking an early bus anyway. But it did mean I was stuck in the cold bus shelter next to the transitway. I had to choose between standing inside the unheated shelter, or standing outside in the sun. Six of one, a half-dozen of the other. In the end, I chose to stand in the sun - no point in missing a bus because the driver didn't see me.

After about ten minutes, I stepped inside to check if it was warmer. It wasn't, but I noticed a guy in a yellow parka was staring at me. He was wearing a striped beanie hat, and looked like the sort of kid who didn't much like talking to strangers. But he kept staring. Eventually he spoke:

"Dude, your ears - you've got frostbite. I'm kinda worried about you."

I put my gloved hands to my ears. "I can't feel anything. Are they blue?"

"No, they're white. But . . . definitely frostbite. You should put your scarf around them."

I looped my scarf up over my ears and stepped outside again. There comes a certain primal fear when you realize that you don't know what is happening to a part of your body, that you can't see it or feel it. The unknown is always scarier than the known. When the bus finally arrived, I stumbled inside, still clasping my ears. I tried to peek in the driver's mirror, but couldn't get the right angle. Next I saw a convex circular mirror above the seats, but it was no good, either. I had to wait twenty minutes til I reached my destination. It was only toward the end of those twenty minutes that I started to feel a prickling around the fringes of my ears.

The bus terminal I end at is next to a mall, and I walk through the mall to get to the church where I work. The stores were still closed, but I was able to see my reflection in one window. My ears were swollen and red. I looked like a boxer after a few bad hits.

The one store in the mall that was open was the Second Cup, and I opted to get a coffee. It was a strategic move - if I got coffee, I would be warmer on the remaining fifteen minute walk to work, but I wouldn't be able to hold my ears in my hands. It's hard to say if it was a good choice. The coffee was lukewarm within a minute of my stepping outside, and when I spilled some on my gloves and coat, it froze instantly into peculiarly round droplets. By the time I arrived at the church, the coffee was tepid at most.

It's six hours later that I'm writing this, and my ears are still red and puffy. It could be worse, and it probably would have been if that kid hadn't said something. I checked the weather report later, and it was -39° Celsius this morning, counting the windchill (-38.2° Fahrenheit). That's damn cold.

The good news is that this means hell is freezing over, so maybe the Ottawa Senators actually have a chance of winning a game this season.

The Wheels on the Bus

2011-01-22T20:41:00.007-05:00

Back when I was living in Waterloo, Ontario, I frequently rode the number seven bus down King Street. I say "frequently," not "every day," because most of the time it was faster to make the twenty-four minute walk from my apartment to school than to wait for the bus.

The transit system in Waterloo wasn't good. The buses were unreliable and rather erratic, despite the fact that it was not a particularly traffic-heavy city. The only reason I used the buses at all was because I had a free pass with my student card ("free" in the sense that it was mandatory with your tuition, of course).

There was one thing I liked about the buses in Waterloo, though. Every bus featured an arts campaign called Poetry on the Way, in which poetry by Canadian writers was displayed in the ad spaces above the seats. It was the sort of program that every municipal arts council loves, because it paid lip service to both "the arts" and "the community" (fickle beasts, the both of them), while costing little money and causing little controversy. For the most part, it was a successful enterprise, though it always struck me as slightly unfortunate to see a piece of poetry squashed between an ad for Birthright on one side and Lifestyles on the other.

Before I go on, I should note that I have an uneasy relationship with poetry. There are some poets - mostly modern - whom I love. On my bookshelf back home you will find volumes of Miłosz and Eliot, and a few overpriced anthologies as well (the latter can be blamed on undergraduate English courses). At the same time, I generally loath the majority of poetry I encounter. I have only rarely written any verses myself, and then only for school assignments or to woo women (blame Dead Poets Society). Above all, I abhor any and all angsty teenage poetry.

At any rate, one day while riding the bus, I came across a poem that I rather liked, written by a chap named Steve McOrmond. In fact, I liked it enough that I eventually copied it down in a notebook. Here it is:

Heat, Smog, Ultraviolet

Undeterred by the warnings, we move
along the street, pushing against a wall
of dead air. There's a homeless guy
on the corner, six white rats clinging to his coat sleeve.
His friend lifts a clenched fist to his ear: Look,
I'll call you back on the landline. This sends
the rat man into convulsions, his laughter a hemorrhage.
Either side of us, office towers stand watch
like paramilitary police in mirrored sunglasses.
We walk in their shadow, we who are
so much shadow and ruin. We glance upwards,
all that steel yawing in the wind, and our hearts,
cheap pocket watches, tick faster. This life
we've built can't bear its own weight.

~ ~ ~

The buses here in Ottawa are good. They are more reliable than those in Waterloo, even though the weather is worse and the streets are more crowded. Still, I rather miss those buses in Waterloo, if only for the poetry.

Speak of the Devil . . .

2011-01-19T20:56:00.002-05:00

Exactly one week ago, I posted about the trials and tribulations of life as a working musician. I noted that "if you injure yourself, you're up the creek," and hey, whaddaya know, I done gone and got me an injury. Managed to sprain both my wrists playing indoor soccer on a hardwood floor (bad idea, I know - live and learn?). Spent yesterday running around (or rather, waiting around) for x-rays and the works. Things seem to be okay, but it's still more than a little terrifying.

The one upside of the past few days is that I've had a chance to catch up on my movie watching, since it's about the only thing I can do. So today you get - wait for it - a quadruple shot of Godzilla Dave. Lucky you.

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

The plot: Dorky Canadian teen Scott Pilgrim (Michael Cera) falls in love with a pretty girl, but must defeat her seven evil exes in battle in order to be with her.

The result: Even though I never read the comic (ahem . . . "graphic novel") series that this film is based on, I enjoyed just about every one of its 112 minutes. To be clear, this movie is all about style, not substance. But the style alone is worth the price of admission. Every frame is confident and bold in its design, and it's a thrill to watch. The cast sells every scene, and the writing is light and quick. It is very topical in its humour (if you've never played a Nintendo game, don't waste your time on this one), and ten years from now, it won't be half as funny. For now, though, Scott Pilgrim is serious bang for your buck.

What it cost me: A cheap frozen pizza, two beers, and a pack of mac-and-cheese (eating this sort of food is mandatory when watching this sort of movie).
What it was worth: Every last bite.

A History of Violence

The plot: Viggo Mortensen plays Tom Stall, a nice family man who lives in a nice little town. Nice, that is, until he kills two men in self-defence during a robbery at his diner. Turns out Tom has a talent for killing, and a past that his family doesn't know about.

The result: Easily the best film of the Sprained Wrists Marathon. Viggo Mortensen succeeds in selling Tom as both a kind, loving family man, and as a savage killing artist. The story revolves around how he and the other characters negotiate their relationships in the face of this dichotomy. It's no surprise that this is a brutal, violent film. The surprise is that the man at the center of the storm, the man whose propensity for killing is so strong, wants none of it.

What it cost me: 96 minutes of my life.
What it was worth: The two hours I spent afterward perusing reviews and reading up on director David Cronenberg's other films.

Closer

The plot: Four young people engage in a complicated series of relationships and affairs. Lies and lust reign supreme.

The result: "You've ruined my life," says Dan. "You'll get over it," Anna replies. Now if only it were so easy to get over the fact that I wasted two hours of my life watching this movie. Headlined by an all-star cast of attractive but untalented actors (Jude Law, Clive Owen, Julia Roberts, and Natalie Portman), Closer is a sorry piece of work. It's a wordy, heartless movie that features characters who prattle on about love in the same way that children chat about politics. I get the distinct impression that I am supposed to sympathize with these selfish, whiny characters, but there's nothing about them to like. Worse, it's hard to care enough about them to even hate them.

What it cost me: Four viewing sessions - I couldn't force myself to watch it all at once.
What it was worth: Well, the pain of watching this film made the pain in my wrists seem mild in comparison, so I guess that's worth something . . .

Me and You and Everyone We Know

The Plot: An eclectic group of suburbanites struggle to forge odd relationships in a quirky look at contemporary life.

The result: I had high hopes for this independent film, having read glowing reviews from both friends and professional critics. Alas, it was not to be. This movie attempts to be profound and innovative by being quirky and transgressive, but ends up being merely cloying and grotesque. The characters and situations are too bizarre to be touching. While the film is not particularly graphic or offensive, its subjects are at times off-putting, and one feels as though the director was trying too hard to curry favour at indie film festivals.

What it cost me: Fifteen minutes in the shower trying to rinse off the residue of indie cred.

What it was worth: About as much as a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Alright, that's it for now. Time to get back to icing the wrists and watching more movies.

The Booket List: Vernon God Little

2011-01-15T12:43:00.002-05:00

Ever since I was a wee laddie, I've been obsessed with making lists of hierarchies. Growing up, I constantly asked my parents and friends to list the best movies they had ever seen, in order, or to pick their top five pieces of music "of all time." Less, shall we say, precise people would quickly become annoyed at my incessant and largely irrelevant questions, and I, in turn, would quickly become annoyed at their uselessness. After all, if you can't name your ten favourite books at any given moment, what good are you as a human being?

While this tendency towards categorizing and list-making has been tempered by the passage of time, it still lurks beneath my ostensibly sane persona like a crocodile submerged in a swamp. This unattractive trait typically manifests itself most noticeably during the months of December and January, when I invariably find myself making mental charts of the best things of the year. It's an interesting activity in that it gives you a sense of perspective on the past twelve months; for example, I can say with considerable subjectivity that 2010 was a rotten year for film (is Inception really the best you can do?). I can also say that DBC Pierre's Vernon God Little was the best book I read in 2010.

Vernon God Little (which won the Booker Prize in 2003) tells the story of a teenage boy embroiled in the aftermath of a high school shooting. Set in a town described as the barbecue sauce capital of Texas, the story is told through the voice of the title character. While not involved in the shooting, Vernon becomes a scapegoat for the tragedy, and is repeatedly tricked and betrayed by almost everyone he trusts. Fearing for his life as accusations pile up, he eventually runs away from home, taking with him only a few dollars and his unique narrative voice.

In a nutshell, yes, it's The Catcher in the Rye for the post-Columbine generation. But whereas Holden Caulfield's rants about phonies struck me as rather peevish and narcissistic, Vernon G. Little is an altogether different kind of narrator. Even though his preferred adjective is "fucken," his inner commentary reveals a poetic soul. His tragic flaw is that he cannot express this reality to the hostile world he inhabits; it is only in passing that he mentions to the reader an incident in which he was summoned to the principal's office for having released the frogs in a science class (and this from a boy accused of engineering a massacre!).

If I have painted Vernon God Little as a dark or depressing affair, let me correct that now. Despite its frequently appalling subject matter - and there are scenes that will horrify you - this story is more comedy than tragedy. Although Vernon is trapped in a world of violence, betrayal, and perversion that would give Hieronymus Bosch nightmares, he finds dark humour in every experience. His commentary on his plight is at times so eloquent in its vulgarity that many critics complained that his voice was too literate (funny how that happens when an adult Australian author writes as a Texan teen). But no matter, when the result offers lines like this:

I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school—the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.

Vernon God Little is not a subtle book, to be sure, but in a world where school massacres no longer elicit anything more than a perked eyebrow in the direction of the morning news, is that such a sin? Kafka opined that "a book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us," and as I look out the window into the icy night, I can think of no finer example.

This Musical Life

2011-01-12T22:34:00.009-05:00

Several years ago, I read an interview with a British concert violinist by the name of Tasmin Little. Little, who often traveled to schools to give concerts, noted how she was frequently asked by youngsters whether or not it was a good idea to pursue a career in music. Her response was simple: "do you really want a career that requires eighteen years of on-the-job training?"

Pert soundbytes aside, it's a valid point. It takes years of practice and hands-on experience to attain a professional level of musicianship, and between paying for lessons and instruments, many aspiring musicians find themselves drowning in debt by the time they are ready to begin their careers. The icing on the cake is that there are few decent jobs in the field. The number of musicians who end up playing in orchestras or teaching at universities is comparatively small; many of the rest either pursue careers in other fields, or eke out meager livings teaching beginner students in private studios. Virtually no musicians today actually make a career solely out of performing as soloists.

As for myself, I have been relatively lucky. My parents supported my goals and paid for my early lessons and instruments, and I have been fortunate enough to win scholarships that have helped finance my university studies. Nonetheless, as I enter the world of professional music making, I am often frustrated by the challenge of simply putting food on the table. The hours are long, evenings and weekends are your prime hours, and at times gigs are few and far between. There's no pension or benefits when you're freelancing as a pianist, and if you injure yourself, you're up the creek. It's not all bad, to be sure, but it's not quite the romantic life of creativity and freedom that too many people envision.

~ ~ ~

It was cold last night as I walked down the street outside my apartment. The canal is finally frozen here in Ottawa, though I haven't seen many skaters as of yet. That's not so surprising, though, when you consider that it's -15° Celsius with the wind chill.

Despite the cold, the sidewalks were covered in a pâté of grey slush due to the salt the city uses to keep the roads from icing. I pulled my scarf up over the back of my neck, and rued my decision to have my hair cut short that afternoon. As I adjusted my earphones, I was approached by a man carrying a guitar. He was obviously homeless, judging by his leathery skin and shabby attire.

"Hey mate, wanna hear a song?"

Before I could even answer, he had nimbly set himself down on one knee on the cold sidewalk, setting the guitar across his leg. It was only then that I noticed he was missing most of his left arm, a coffee mug with a broken-off handle encasing the stump. He had to kneel just so that he could hold the guitar. While I was still taking this in, he launched into a lively song, plucking the strings with surprising speed considering how cold his fingers must have been. I missed most of the words of his song, since I didn't think to take out my earphones until a minute in (how rude!). It seemed to be his own composition, though, and he sang of how long it had been since he had slept in a warm bed. He played mainly with his right hand, but the plucked riffs were punctuated by slides accomplished running the mug up the fretboard. I was struck by how much spirit he had, and how he still had a twinkle in his eyes even though he was kneeling on a wet sidewalk in the biting cold of a January night.

~ ~ ~

Being a musician is a hard job, and I hold on tight to every penny I make playing piano. I was glad, though, to find a pair of toonies in my bluejeans to give to the man. It was a good song, and a cold, cold night. The way I see it, if life can treat you like that and you still have a song to sing, well, you're a better musician than I.

But what does Gordon Freeman's voice sound like?

2011-01-08T21:28:00.004-05:00

Did you see that movie a few years back called The Bucket List? If you did, you'll have to tell me about it. After reading a few negative reviews I decided against seeing it. I figured I already had a bad enough case of Freemanic Paracusia:

Mouse-over text: It's amazing what it does for YouTube comments.

Even though I never watched the movie, I recently got to thinking about my own "bucket list," and the term itself. As for the latter, a quick Google search suggests that phrase "bucket list" is a product of the 2007 movie, though of course the idiom "kicked the bucket" originated much earlier (it may come from the practice of execution by hanging - when gallows were unavailable, the noosed victim could be stood on an overturned bucket, which could be kicked away to hang the person). As for my own list, I quickly came to the realization that I am a very boring person. Here are some highlights:

Visit the British Isles, and drink a Guinness in Dublin (apparently it tastes best fresh)
Watch a World Cup game in person (was hoping that England would win the bid for the 2018 cup - could have kicked two buckets with one . . . um . . . bail, bail!)
Write a novel (in progress)
Get in a fist fight (if I play my cards right, I could probably scratch this one off the list at the World Cup)

Alright, so that last one is a joke (though I've always wondered what it would feel like to land a really good punch on someone - the trials and tribulations of growing up without brothers!). The point is, though, that for the most part, I don't really have any world-conquering aspirations. Much like a squirrel in winter, I prefer to stay home, and stay warm.

Seriously, does this look like fun to you? Didn't think so.

That said, staying home need not be boring, or without its quiet ambitions. On that note, I have one other item to add to my bucket list:

Read every winner of the Man Booker Prize for Fiction

The Booker Prize is widely considered one of the most prestigious awards given to English-language fiction, despite the fact that it excludes American books. Since 1969, forty-two novels have won the prize, and most of them have become instant bestsellers after winning. Fortunately, most of them are also worth reading, which is more than one can say for many chart-topping novels. To date, I have managed to read roughly a third of the winners, and with that in mind, in the coming year, I will be posting reviews of these books, Godzilla Dave style. Of course, since the original Godzilla Dave never wrote about books, a new title will be in order: "The Booket List."

It's a terrible pun, I know. So this is just to say, in the event that I actually do scratch "write a novel" off my Bucket List, I won't have to read the end product, since it sure as hell won't win the Booker Prize!

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 7: Inadvertent Quotes

2011-01-05T22:15:00.006-05:00

It's been a long day, and I am writing this post during a break in the middle of a three-hour rehearsal. I've whined before about the seven-to-ten rehearsal, and I stand by my claim that it is the bane of the working musician's existence. Regrettably, it is also the bread and butter of our existence, and so we find ways to cope. For example, most conductors try to keep spirits high by inserting a few jokes or lame musical puns into the rehearsal. Indeed, some conductors are better known for their quips than for their performances - Sir Thomas Beecham springs to mind (addressing a lady cellist in his orchestra, he famously noted, "madam, you have between your legs an instrument capable of giving pleasure to thousands and all you can do is scratch it.")

Not surprisingly, musicians also invariably have some choice jokes about the conductor, though they rarely say these aloud. (What is the difference between a bull and an orchestra? The bull has the horns in the front and the asshole in the back.)

However amusing the caustic exchanges between conductors and their ensembles may be, though, the greatest thing I have ever heard during a rehearsal was not intended as a joke. Some time ago, I was working with a choir, and the conductor (who shall remain nameless) was trying to convince the singers to place their vowels on the beat, or some such thing. The conductor said, and I quote:

"Try not to anticipate what is coming in your mouth."

There followed an awkward silence wherein the conductor paused, clearly debating whether to rephrase the sentence. The silence was reciprocated by the choir (no mean feat, since as any musician can tell you, large ensembles are never quiet, rather like large groups of small children). In the end, the conductor decided against correcting the slip, since doing so would be to admit to the unfortunate turn of phrase in the first place (and Bach forbid a conductor should ever admit to being wrong).

I don't remember anything else from that rehearsal, for it was just like every other three-hour rehearsal: long and exhausting. But even if I remain a musician til my dying day, I do not expect to hear anything quite so brilliant as what the conductor said that night.

2011: No Alarms and No Surprises, Please

2011-01-01T18:23:00.002-05:00

It's raining today in Ottawa, and whatever snow was on the ground is melting away faster than most New Year's resolutions. The shops are closed, of course, and there is only light traffic. Looking out the window, not so many people are out and about, deterred perhaps by the fog. It's not unpleasant, really, but rather, it encourages one to stay indoors and contemplate the coming year.

"Stayed indoors" tidily sums up most of what I have done today. A few loads of laundry cleaned (and some still in progress - apparently everyone in the apartment building has the same idea), some remnants of wrapping paper crumpled and put in recycling, some bills paid, a modest meal of noodles and vegetables cooked and eaten. Meant to do work, but left needed materials at the office, which is closed today - so much the better. A pair of clementine oranges sit on the coffee table nearby; I'll peel and eat them when this post is finished, since sticky fingers do not a keyboard love.

All told, it's an inauspicious start to 2011, but not a bad one. Each holiday season, we wish each other "all the best" or "brightness and happiness" in the new year, but really, would it be so bad just to have an average, quiet year? A year in which not so much happens, a year with no alarms and no surprises?

And so, I offer a simple New Year's wish: may the coming year hold many foggy days, and may you find peace and quiet satisfaction in the times ahead.

The Ikea Syndrome

2010-12-29T17:05:00.003-05:00

Ikea - mark my words - will be the death of us.

Don't get me wrong. I love Ikea as much as the next guy. Maybe even more. That scene in (500) Days of Summer where Jason Gordon Levitt and Zooey Deschanel romp through an Ikea store, playing house? That's me. Half the furniture in my apartment hails from Ikea (including the sofa that came from the street - but that's another story), and heck, most of the glasses and utensils do too.

Still, Ikea will be the death of us. Trust me. It's not the ridiculously cheap plates of organic pasta they sell in their cafés that will do it, or the ingenious Allen keys they use in place of screwdrivers. It's not even the hard to pronounce yet surprisingly catchy names they come up with for their products. It's the sheer ease and convenience of everything Ikea that will spell our demise.

At first glance, it's tempting to think that this ease and convenience is a good thing. In fact, though, it is too much of a good thing. When something becomes too accessible, too simple, it loses some of its value, and we appreciate it a little less. Do you remember learning in grade school history how civilizations only begin to produce art or culture when they have advanced to a point where their basic needs are easily met, thus affording them "leisure time"? Well, I am starting to think that is only part of the story. When things become too easy for a civilization, when we have too much leisure time, suddenly (and perhaps ironically) we stop being creative. Such is the case for our civilization: we have advanced to a point where not only do we possess the technology to meet our basic survival needs with relative ease, but we also possess the means to replace our need to create during our leisure time.

Ikea is the perfect example of this. Have you ever bought, say, a coffee table, or perhaps an armchair from Ikea? If you have, you undoubtedly remember how you pored over the catalogue before travelling to the store, looking for the perfect item to compliment your chic Duderö lamp and your plain but practical Ullakajsa roller blinds. You remember travelling out of the suburbs to the store with its blue and yellow façade, then following the arrows on the floor to the living room section, pausing to marvel at that ingenious Tolga closet organizer en route. You remember feeling strangely empowered when, having located your piece de resistance, you finally chose between four types of wood and seven colours of paint. And of course, you remember feeling supremely satisfied when, having found your new furniture in the warehouse, hauled it home in the trunk of your sedan, and spent an hour puzzling over instructions and tightening oddly-shaped screws, you finally stood back and looked at the newest addition to your home.

Still, however smug and satisfied you may have felt, the question remains - did you actually subdue your creative demons? While your expedition to Ikea may have imbued your life with a sense of adventure, did it placate your inner muse? Yes, you enjoyed the challenge of assembling your new desk, but did you actually design it or build it? Sure, you savoured the sense of agency you got from choosing from a dozen different options when it came to colour and material, but then again, how unique are you really when fourteen thousand other people have the same wardrobe in their bedrooms? Part of Ikea's success comes from the fact that it sells a sense of creativity, without actually selling creativity itself. It's kinda brilliant, really.

I got to thinking about all this last summer when I decided to bite the bullet and invest in a dresser for my bedroom. My closet had been threatening to overflow for months, and I was tired of having to part the cloth sea every time I wanted to hang up a shirt. I toyed with the idea of going to Ikea (there's got to be a rap song in there somewhere), but ultimately got a used dresser from a friend. Between wedging the ungainly piece in a taxi and spending hours sanding it down and repainting it, it was definitely more of a PITA than just buying an Ikea model. Heck, it probably wasn't even cheaper. But you know what? Every time I look at my blue dresser, I think about all the time and effort I spent sanding, polishing, and painting, and goshdarnit if I don't feel satisfied.

As we approach the new year, consider making a resolution to DIY the next time you need a new coffee table or computer desk. It won't be easier than just going to Ikea, but you may very well find it meets a need that even those ridiculously cheap Swedish cinnamon rolls can't fill.

Signs of the Season, Part 3

2010-12-25T16:57:00.001-05:00

From all the squirrels at the Walton Fiction Factory . . .

So not lovin' it . . .

Signs of the Season, Part 2

2010-12-22T17:04:00.002-05:00

Did you know that they don't let you take pictures in malls? At least they didn't the one time I tried, years ago. We're gonna say that's the reason why there aren't any snapshots to accompany this brief post (it's definitely not because I'm too lazy to return to the mall just to take a photo). At any rate, I offer you two more failtastic holiday advertising slogans:

"Tech the Halls" - courtesy of The Source by Circuit City (a.k.a. The Artist Formerly Known As Radioshack)

"Merry Kicksmas (and a Happy Shoe Year)" - courtesy of Footlocker (one wonders if they realized how much that sounds like "kick some ass")

That's all for now, for I have wrapping to do. Despair not, though. The final installment of "Signs of the Season" is yet to come, and trust me, it's gonna be eric.

Shades of Grey

2010-12-18T20:27:00.001-05:00

One of the worst things about living in Canada is coping with spelling. Here in the Great White North, we're constantly caught between two languages, British English and American English. Sure, technically we adhere to British spellings, but when half the words you read on a daily basis are written in American English, it can get confusing. So while most Canadians know that it's colour, not color, other words are trickier, and may require a judgement (judgment?) call.

One such troublesome distinction is the word grey/gray. For years I could never decide which one was the "correct" colour (heh) to use. Recently, though, I turned to almighty Google and discovered the answer: "gray" is a color, while "grey" is a colour. There's an easy way to remember this distinction:

grAy is how it's spelled in America
grEy is how it's spelled in England

Speaking of grey, I recently came across another interesting tidbit (n.b., Canadians apparently use the American "tidbit," rather than the British "titbit"), this time courtesy of Wikipedia. Whilst browsing the page on squirrels (are you really surprised?) I learned that the grey and black squirrels that inhabit most of eastern North America are actually the same species, despite their different colours. While the Eastern Grey Squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis) is, as its name suggests, typically grey, it can also be black or even white. The black squirrels are simply a melanistic variety of the species, and grey mating pairs can produce black offspring. The more you know.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to do some squirrel fishing.

Freakhog Eric!

2010-12-15T19:56:00.003-05:00

The other day, I learned about a fascinating creature: the freakhog. Have you ever seen a freakhog? If you use T9 word, maybe.

If none of the previous sentences made any sense to you, don't panic. It just means you rarely send text messages, or you have one of those new-fangled qwerty phones that all the kids are raving about these days. If you're like me, however, and you still text on an old-school cell phone (strange, isn't it, how a technology that's only been around for about two decades can be considered "old-school"), there's a decent chance you use T9.

T9 stands for "Text on Nine Keys," and it is a patented predictive text input technology. It works by attempting to predict the words you are trying to spell when texting on a numeric keypad. For example, if you type in the number 2337666, T9 assumes that you mean to spell "bedroom," thus saving you from having to type out each letter individually.

While this technology is quite brilliant, it's not without its flaws. Perhaps the foremost problem is that many number combinations can stand for several words. For example, while I might mean to type "let's go to the pub for a beer," T9 will write "let's in to the sub for a adds." This problem is so prevalent that it has spawned its own word: textonym. Some textonyms are completely nonsensical; for example, attempting to type "freaking" yields "freakhog." Other textonyms are just plain ironic: if you try to type "Smirnoff," you may find yourself "poisoned."

My favourite textonym, however, is "eric." This is the word you receive when you attempt to spell "epic" using T9. I like to think of "eric" as a more intense, less-overused version of "epic," and have even started using it in everyday speech. It's lame, I know. But it's also catching on, and spreading. So if in the future you overhear a skateboarding teen saying "dude, that was eric!" to his buddies, you'll know who started it.

Trust me, it's gonna be eric.

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 6: Busted

2010-12-11T17:14:00.006-05:00

When I was a kid, I had a black Lab named Lizzie and a black cat named Stormy. The Lab's full name was Lady Elizabeth, a moniker she rarely dignified. The cat's full name was Stormcloud, and she usually lived up to it.

If you've ever had a Lab, you know that as a breed, they have a nose for trouble, and Lizzie was no exception. Not a day went by when she didn't try to smuggle home a piece of garbage on her morning walk, or eat the cat's food when no one was looking. For the most part, she didn't get in too much trouble for it, because, well, she was a black Lab with big innocent eyes and floppy ears. Occasionally, though, she would do something particularly heinous, and this would precipitate a few minutes of yelling and stern repetitions of doggy-sized phrases like "no, no," and "bad girl" in low voices. In response she would look guilty, and then we would feel guilty. I think the Pope would have approved.

Stormy the cat was generally less troublesome, though infinitely more evil. As Longfellow put it, "when she was good, she was very very good, / But when she was bad she was horrid." Every once in a while she would think we weren't watching, and use the opportunity to take a vindictive swipe at Lizzie's nose. Lizzie would yelp, and we would turn to find the culprit slinking away around the corner. What followed became a standard routine. The cat would be extracted from behind a sofa, tapped on the head with a rolled up newspaper, and sternly reprimanded. She wouldn't look guilty, and we wouldn't feel guilty. Lizzie, meanwhile, would dance around excitedly, her tail wagging furiously, having already forgotten the feline's nefarious deed. Seeing her nemesis getting busted was the highlight of her week, at least until the next time she heard the clang of kibble hitting her food dish (black Labs have short memories).

~ ~ ~

Last Wednesday I was at the campus library writing a term paper. One of the perks of being a master's student is that you have access to the sixth floor of the library, which is (at least theoretically) reserved for profs and grad students. The sixth floor isn't really so different from the fifth or the fourth, but for the fact that it is clearly designated as a silent floor. Every wall, pillar, and door is emblazoned with a sign reminding students that cell phones are strictly verboten. When you're trying to write a term paper, there's no better place to be.

Before I go on, a disclaimer: just because a person is enrolled in a graduate program, it does not mean they are literate. At least this is the conclusion I have come to, for apparently about half the students on the sixth floor last Wednesday were unable to read the signs prohibiting the use of cell phones. Evidently none of these students had even the slightest understanding of sound waves, either, for they seemed to assume that since they were standing in between rows of bookshelves, no one could hear them talking.

One girl was speaking especially loud on her pink-skinned iPhone. She was wearing fur-trimmed Ugg boots and rolled-over Lululemon yoga pants, and save for the fact that she had a Russian accent, she would have been the model Valley Girl. She had been yakking away for several minutes, oblivious to the glares of other more studious students, and I was starting to wonder if I would have to pull a Wayne Brady and choke a bitch.

Just as I was about to snap, a librarian (who, happily, actually looked a bit like Wayne Brady) walked by. He heard Miss Ugg Boots, and he was not impressed. "Excuse me miss, you can't talk on that in here." The girl, instead of hanging up her phone, turned and walked away from the librarian, rudely holding up her index finger as though he were interrupting her. "Miss, no, turn off your phone. You must go to another floor." She continued to scuffle away, and the librarian actually had to grab for her phone before she stopped talking and turned it off.

I sat there gaping as she stomped off indignantly, but once the shock wore off, I suddenly realized that seeing someone getting the comeuppance they so richly deserve is one of The Greatest Things Ever. Lizzie the Lab knew it all those years ago, and I assure you that if I had a tail, it would still be wagging three days later.

A Link is Worth a Thousand Words

2010-12-08T23:10:00.004-05:00

The cardinal rule of being a musician is that the number of hours you spend rehearsing in a given day should never exceed the number of hours you spent sleeping the night before. Unfortunately, I broke this rule today, having slept for four hours and rehearsed for seven. This may or may not be related to the fact that I also wrote a five-thousand word term paper in the past twenty-four hours.

This is just to say that today I will not be writing a "real" blog post. I guarantee that if I tried, it would read a lot like a term paper, something that nobody wants to read. However, if you wish to peruse some prose that's worth your time, I encourage you to read this blog entry posted over on Salon.com. It chronicles the experiences of a lawyer and mother as she works on a difficult custody case, and though it is written as a factual account of the events in the courthouse, it is so eloquent that it reads like a gripping short story. If there is better writing on the internet, I have not seen it.

Signs of the Season

2010-12-04T14:35:00.002-05:00

It seems that a lot of my recent posts have concerned my encounters with people in grocery stores and the like. In case you were wondering, this is because I am so busy that the only social interaction I get is with cashiers (not really, but you'll feel more sympathetic if I put it like that).

So it was that this Thursday I found myself navigating the aisles of the local Loblaws. The night before, when checking my planner, I had been pleased to discover that Thursday was a "day off." To be clear, the term "day off" is very relative in this context. There was a time when a day off meant sitting on a sofa playing video games and drinking beer (attractive, I know), but these days, it more often entails doing laundry, buying groceries, and taking out the recycling, not to mention heading to work in the evening. Thursday, for example, I washed and dried two loads of clothes, and made three - count 'em - trips to the grocery store, before catching a bus to an evening gig.

If you think that three trips to the grocery store sounds like two trips too many, you would be right. But when you haven't had time to shop for food in three weeks, and when you don't have a car to carry multiple bags, it becomes a reality. The issue is compounded when there are sales on multiple essential items, such as pasta sauce, instant noodles, and frozen pizzas. The middle-aged woman at checkout did raise an eyebrow as she scanned the twentieth pack of Mr. Noodles, but when I mumbled "they were on sale, student budget, you know . . . " she nodded sympathetically. "Just wait til you join the working poor, hon," she opined. "It doesn't get better."

Her dreary sentiment was mirrored in the tired clouds as I walked home. Being bored and, shall we say, unimpressed with life, I made an effort to find interest in my surroundings. I do not exaggerate when I say that the whole world looked rather grey (welcome to Ottawa in winter), and so my eyes were caught by the many colourful signs urging me to celebrate the holiday season by burning even more of my hard-earned money. Some of these signs were tasteful and heart-warming, but as my holiday cheer rarely extends past the occasional gruff "bah-humbug," I found more pleasure in inwardly mocking those signs that failed in their endeavours. And, since I had to make multiple trips past each sign, I decided to snap some photos and share my observations in this blog. Lucky you.

The first target of my derision is a hand-written sign stabbed into the frozen ground outside a Second Cup near my apartment. Take a look:

Click to upgrade to "Venti" size.

Now, I am not immune to the wordplay in this sign. I do get that certain coffee shop beverages are steamed. But let's be honest: the only time you can use the word "steaming" as an adjective is when it is followed by "pile of $#!%." One can only assume that the employee writing the sign was a disgruntled member of the working poor, but while I do sympathize, my sense of solidarity is not strong enough to want any "steaming" drinks.

Speaking of drinks, the LCBO also has a festive ad that suffers under scrutiny. At first glance, it's a pleasant triptych:

Click to enlarge and feel the holiday joy.

But when you walk past an ad six times, you start to notice things. The first panel is straightforward enough, presenting an unrealistically attractive couple standing with their cute Christmas puppy. The message is as simple and direct as it is warm and fuzzy, but in case you didn't get it, the second panel spells it out in two-hundred point font: "Enjoy." All's well until the third panel, in which the chocolate lab is left outside in the cold, all alone. One can only presume that the couple didn't enjoy the steaming gift the dog left under the Christmas tree. Poor puppy doesn't know what went wrong.

While there were more signs of the season worthy of derision, regrettably today is not a day off, and I have work to do. Stay tuned for more holiday cheer, though. Christmas is still three weeks away, and I am quite confident that several ad companies will be finding lumps of coal in their stockings before the season has passed.

Raining Tots and Dogs

2010-12-01T23:48:00.001-05:00

Today was not a good day.

It was raining as I stepped out of my apartment, and my cheap dollar-store umbrella was not feeling cooperative. The night before, a particularly vindictive gust of wind had rent it inside out, contorting its flimsy wires such that it looked like an octopus jetting away on the end of a pole, and I wrestled with the mangled frame as I walked down the stairs to the street. I was so distracted that I did not see the puddle until it was too late. It was not a deep pool, but as I stepped into it, I felt the grey water permeate my socks. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a large hole in the bottom of my shoe. Fuckfuckfuck.

I was still fuming as I squelched across the footbridge over the canal. The Rideau Canal is one of my favourite spots in this city, but it is also one of the cruelest on a chilly day. The wind charges down the channel with an exceptional vehemence, and in the coldest days of winter, you can actually feel your skin burning from exposure. To be fair, today was not the worst of days. The rain was cold and the wind was colder, but as I crossed the Somerset Footbridge, I saw something that warmed my heart. Walking towards me was a gray-haired woman, looking approximately as bitter and wet as I felt. I don't know how old she was, but she was far too old to be the mother of the toddler she was carrying. Perhaps she was his nanny, or grandmother. Whatever his relation to the her, the little man was almost certainly related to King Lear, for he was hollering in a voice loud enough to cut through the inclement weather. He was throwing a tantrum, and he was kicking his legs and flailing his arms as the woman held him around the waist. She was struggling to hold onto him with her right arm only, for her left hand was tied up in a leash connected at the other end to a small yappy terrier. The dog, of course, was excited by the toddler's fit, and it ran in circles around the woman, entangling her in the rope.

I imagine the only thing that kept the woman from swearing was the fact that she was dealing with an impressionable youngster. I admire her restraint; not only would I have sworn, but I would have been quite tempted to throw the brat clear off the bridge. At any rate, in the midst of the chaos, she suddenly looked up, and noticed me staring at her. And in that moment, we suddenly found ourselves grinning. I suspect we shared the same thought: this world, some days, this world.

Today was not a good day. But at least I know that it could have been worse.

Honey Bunches of Guilt

2010-11-27T16:01:00.017-05:00

More and more these days, I find myself pondering the state of the world. Perhaps I was simply too young to recognize the true nature of things, but it seems to me that people have changed since 9/11. They care less, and are quicker to look out for themselves, even at the expense of others.

But perhaps I have simply grown cynical with age. Life has never been easy, yet it goes on. The haiku master Kobayashi Issa knew this, two centuries ago -

Yo no naka wa
Jigoku no ue no
Hanami kana

In this world

We walk on the roof of hell

Gazing at flowers

~ ~ ~

While I do not spend so much time gazing at flowers these days, the state of this world was the farthest thing from my mind this Saturday morning as I shopped for groceries. No, my bleary brain was trying to choose a box of cereal, a decision not helped by the fact that I hadn't yet eaten.

Do you have a favourite brand of cereal? I don't. My choice usually has more to do with which box of flakes or squares or "O's" is cheapest. I once read that the most profitable aisle in any grocery store is the cereal aisle, and I believe it. It makes sense, really. Almost everyone eats cereal regularly, and every box is expensive.

As I stood there comparing the prices of the different brands, I noticed a pad of tear-off coupons on one of the shelves. The offer was simple: buy a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, get a free tub of yogurt. I hadn't eaten Honey Nut Cheerios since I was a small boy, and only then when I was visiting relatives (no such sugary cereals in my home, no sir!), and I never buy yogurt, but who was I to scorn such a deal? My decision was made. I snatched a box off the shelf and headed for the dairy aisle, smiling smugly at my thriftiness. My Ukrainian grandmother with her clipped-out coupons would have been proud.

The yogurt section proved just as overwhelming as the cereal aisle when it came to choices, and I found myself pondering how Hamlet would have survived this modern world. As I stood there in front of the rows of yogurt in their fluorescent shrine, a lady - white, thirty-five or forty - strode past and grabbed a tub without breaking pace. (Evidently indecision is not contagious!) As I watched her trundle away with her cart, it occurred to me that she could get the yogurt for free if she bought the cereal, which cost less. I eyed her as she plucked a jar of jam off the shelf further down the aisle. I considered telling her, but instead, I simply returned to my ruminations on dairy, feeling, I suspect, very much like the cows that produced the milk.

I did feel slightly guilty as I walked away. "I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do . . . let me do it now. . . . for I shall not pass this way again." The words of the old Quaker proverb wafted through my thoughts, but were soon snuffed by the strains of some sad song streamed over the store's sound system. Increasingly aware of my hunger, I took the example of the Honey Nut mascot, and made a bee-line for the checkout.

The scanner bleeped tiredly as I emptied my shopping basket onto the conveyor belt, the girl at the till taking little notice of my presence. It was still too early in the morning for conversation. While I stood there waiting, the woman from the yogurt aisle parked her cart behind me and began unloading. She, too, looked tired. Perhaps we all do in the Supermarket's artificial morning light. I watched with slow eyes as she stacked the yogurt on top of a frozen dinner. I should tell her, I thought. But instead I stood there, waiting for my receipt. It was easier.

~ ~ ~

More and more these days, I find myself pondering the state of the world. Perhaps I was simply too naive to recognize the true nature of things, but it seems to me that I have changed since 9/11. I care less, and am quicker to look out for myself, even at the expense of others.

But perhaps I have simply grown cynical with age. Life has never been easy, yet it goes on. The English poet John Donne knew this, two centuries before Issa penned his haiku -

. . . therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

"We're not in Kansas anymore . . . "

2010-11-24T17:50:00.006-05:00

Some days, I just shouldn't talk.

October 31st, 2009 - Halloween - was just such a day. Being generally oblivious to festivals and holidays (though I did manage to celebrate Alexander Keith's birthday this year, hurrah), I had not suited up for the occasion. Happily, many people were feeling more festive than I, and I encountered many a ghoulish customer as I trolled the aisles of the local grocery store. There's nothing like sorting through navel oranges alongside Darth Vader to add a dash of surreality to one's life.

Shopping for groceries is one of the small pleasures in life. It's one of the few times during the course of a busy week when you feel like you have some semblance of control over your existence. While it can be overwhelming picking out a box of cereal from a façade of flakes and squares - a topic I will take up this Saturday, spoiler alert! - I suspect that most people find a quiet sense of agency in choosing their foodstuffs. We take pride in our selections and our tastes; just as everyone thinks that they are an above-average driver, so do we all secretly believe that we alone know the secrets to a well-balanced and satisfying diet.

However fulfilling a trip to the grocer may be, though, one thing is certain: grocery stores play the worst music known to humankind. I enjoy an inane pop tune as much as the next shopper, but grocery stores don't even have the decency to churn top-40 hits through their sound systems. No, instead they insist on playing synthesized-instrumental versions of Golden Oldies. I can only assume that this is a strategic choice, to avoid the risk of offending customers by playing music with offensive lyrics (those darned hand-holding Beatles!), though I suspect that most people are more offended by inanity than profanity.

Speaking of offending people, I must return to my story. In an effort to escape from a quavering faux-string orchestra rendition of "Moon River" (a song which, as I was recently informed, is instantly improved if you mentally replace the first words with "Hill . . . billlieees") I had installed a pair of headphones in my ears, and was listening to an audiobook version of Harry Potter and the Something of Some Such. It was quite pleasant, really. Nothing (with the possible exception of a pitcher of Alexander Keith's) so improves mundane activities as listening to tales of witches and wizards, and I found myself in the thrall of a world of magic as I approached the cashier.

You can imagine my delight, then, when I saw that my cashier was a middle-aged woman dressed as a witch, complete with black cloak and pointed hat. (I hope the reader will not think me uncharitable if I mention that she had rather sallow skin and sunken eyes, which really completed the ensemble.) As she scanned my foodstuffs (alas, with a handheld scanner, not a wand), I couldn't stop myself from striking up a conversation. It was just too perfect.

"You know, I've got to say, your costume just made my day. I've been listening to Harry Potter on my mp3 player and then suddenly I see a witch costume - it's brilliant!"

"It's not a costume," she replied out of the side of her thin mouth. (Apparently witches these days can't take a compliment.)

"Oh, I . . . see." (I didn't see.)

"I'm a real witch. I'm Wiccan, it's my religion." Her tone was colder than a witch's . . . well, nevermind.

"Oh, I - sorry. Didn't mean to offend."

A few more seconds passed in a humourless silence punctuated only by the chirp of the scanner. I quickly took stock of the conversation, and recalled the adage that "a closed mouth gathers no foot." Still, the fog of awkward panic was quickly descending, and I soon found myself extemporizing.

"You know, I had a friend once who was Wiccan. She was really nice."

She glared. While I wasn't wearing a costume, it was clear from her eyes that I might as well have been wearing an outfit right out of an off-Broadway production of The Crucible. Some days, you just can't win.

The good news is that the grocery store is having a sale on sunblock this week. I'll need to stock up, because I'm going to hell.

No Hablo Starbucks

2010-11-20T13:11:00.000-05:00

Reader, a confession: when it comes to hot, caffeinated beverages, I am a wimp.

Don't get me wrong. When I do drink coffee, I drink it black. I don't particularly enjoy it, but it gets the job done. Most of the time, though, I discretely order a hot chocolate or a similar sugary drink with a name like "French Vanilla" or "English Toffee." Sure, it's the non-alcoholic equivalent of a Strawberry Daiquiri. But while your scotch-swilling mates mock you when your drink arrives in a cocktail glass garnished with an umbrella, no one knows that you're drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream and vanilla sprinkles through the lid of that recycled paper coffee cup.

(For the record, I've never had a drink with vanilla sprinkles. A man has to draw the line somewhere.)

Speaking of lines, two weeks ago I was at a Second Cup, waiting my turn for a hit of caffeine. It had been a long day, and I was half way through accompanying a three hour choir rehearsal. (The seven-to-ten rehearsal is the bane of the musician's existence, but that's another story for another post.) I considered getting a manly black coffee, I really did. But I only needed enough caffeine to get me through the next hour of choral music. I glanced furtively around the coffeehouse, and, not seeing anyone I recognized, ordered a hot chocolate.

"Would you like whipped cream with that?" asked the barista. There was almost definitely a patronizing undertone to the question.

I considered. Whipped cream was hardly manly, but hell, the damage was already done. It was time to go big or go home. I nodded.

She turned to the young woman making the drinks and shouted over the din of the machines. "One ho' cho' with snow!"

It's a curious thing that the more you pay for a drink at a coffee house, the longer you have to wait before it's ready. A Tim Horton's coffee will set you back all of ninety-five cents and you'll have it in your hands in thirty seconds. A Starbucks coffee (or whatever they call it - no hablo Starbucks) will cost you three bucks and will take as many minutes to prepare. I'm far from convinced that it actually takes any longer to make the drink, but at least it gives you time to strike up awkward conversations with celebrities.

At any rate, it was a good thing that I had to wait for my drink, because it took me longer than I'd like to admit to figure out that a "ho' cho' with snow" is barista-talk for "hot chocolate with whipped cream." Or at least, I assumed it was standard barista jargon.

And you know what they say about assuming.

So it was that last Wednesday I found myself again in line at Second Cup. I couldn't resist.

"HelloSirCanITakeYourOrder?"

"Yeah, can I have a medium ho' cho' with snow please?"

Gentle reader, if you take away only one thing from this blog, let it be this: never use the word "ho" when addressing a woman for the first time. It gives the wrong impression. (I recommend using "rake" instead.)

The barista fixed me with a cockeyed stare. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"A ho' - cho' - with - snow?" (More staring.) "I'm sorry, I heard someone here say it. A hot chocolate with whipped cream."

She nodded slowly, still staring. She was definitely judging me. I mumbled awkwardly as I fumbled in my pocket for change, then slunk off to the area where the drinks were prepared.

As I stood there in front of the coppery machines, the seconds squeezing by as slowly as the last drops from a coffee filter, it struck me that this was a low point. Not only had I just failed at using the world's lamest pun, but I still had over an hour of rehearsal left before I could go home for a late dinner. I didn't even have a good story to tell. I was almost ready to find five dollars, when the barista making the drinks slid my cup across the counter.

"One ho' cho' with snow," she said with a coy wink.

What Jack said to Rose

2010-11-17T00:04:00.005-05:00

About ten years ago, I read an article on the future of opera in which a critic suggested that contemporary composers should consider choosing plots that would appeal to modern audiences. (I was one of the cool kids, in case you were wondering.) The critic mused that in an age when we are bombarded by epic CGI fests in every movie, opera composers should consider writing science fiction based works. However, the critic also lamented that too often sci-fi - whatever the medium - is more about the science than the fiction.

I am reminded of this sentiment every time I watch the latest futuristic action movie. Don't get me wrong - I enjoy a good ray-gun shootout as much as the next guy. After a while, though, special effects cease to be either special or effective. As Roger Ebert wrote in his review of The Matrix,

it's kind of a letdown when a movie begins by redefining the nature of reality, and ends with a shoot-out. We want a leap of the imagination, not one of those obligatory climaxes with automatic weapons fire.

Every once in a while, though, a film comes along that does not fall victim to The Matrix Syndrome.

Godzilla Dave Presents: Never Let Me Go

Never Let Me Go is just such a film. It is science fiction, yes, but the science exists merely to support the fiction, not to replace it. This finer balance is due to the fact that Never Let Me Go is an adaptation of the novel of the same name by Kazuo Ishiguro. If you have never read any of Ishiguro's work, I urge you to do so. Few writers alive today have a better grasp of the intricacies of the English language than Ishiguro, and none use it with more subtlety. His 1989 work The Remains of the Day received the Man Booker Prize, and will undoubtedly go on to be considered one of the landmarks of postmodern literature. (Never Let Me Go was shortlisted for the same award sixteen years later, but ultimately lost by a single vote to John Banville's The Sea. Banville reportedly saw this as a kind of justice, as The Remains of the Day had pipped The Book of Evidence for the award the first time around; having read both books, though, I can only say that Never Let Me Go has remained in my memory with far greater immediacy.)

But I digress. Never Let Me Go tells the story of (spoiler alert) a group of children raised for the sole purpose of becoming donors of vital organs. Largely segregated from society, they grow up in the English countryside with the vague knowledge that when they reach adulthood, they will be harvested until they "complete." Despite this rather horrific premise, though, the story is told with a calm detachment.

This calm detachment is both a strength and a weakness. In the novel, it is a strength: Ishiguro is the master of subtlety, and much of his writing deftly reveals the inner lives of ordinary people through quiet descriptions of the their works and days. The movie, though, is unable to capture the ephemeral, nostalgic nature of Ishiguro's prose, and instead resorts to creating a sense of the pastoral. Perhaps it is because I was raised in the countryside, but I find myself unmoved by subtle scenes of English cottages inhabited by primped schoolchildren. Instead I find myself rather bored, and in general agreeance with the attitude of Elisabeth Lutyens, who once infamously described the work of the pastoral school of English composers as "cowpat music."

Yet while the film version of Never Let Me Go fails to capture the subtle desperation of the book, it also succeeds in ways the book does not. Although Ishiguro's subtle writing illuminates the mundane aspects of the character's lives, it is less effective in delivering the devastation of the story's climax. Here the movie triumphs, in no small part due to Andrew Garfield's acting. While Garfield (who, incidentally, is slated to be the next Spiderman) is not subtle in his emoting, the frenetic energy of his performance drives the film to an agonizing climax that alone is worth the price of admission.

Speaking of the price of admission, in the spirit of Godzilla Dave, the time has come to give a rating. (In the previous review, I neglected to do so, much to the chagrin of at least one reader.) Unusually, I actually saw this film in a theatre. And so . . .

What I Paid: $9.99 at the Empire 7
What the Film was Worth: $8.50

One final note. Never Let Me Go co-stars Keira Knightly, an actor known better for her pouty lips than for her dramatic abilities, and I cannot help but feel that her primary purpose in the film is to draw in audiences. Be that as it may, it strikes me as tragic that we live in a world where the work of a mediocre actor is valued more than that of a masterful writer.

Squirrel Watching

2010-11-13T12:32:00.003-05:00

"So, you watched any good squirrels lately?"

There was an impish glee in my student's eyes as she posed the question, and she wasn't the first person to ask. All week people had been making wry comments of a similar nature. This always happens after a concert.

Let me explain. One of the less romantic aspects of the musical life is preparing concert programs, a process which invariably includes the composition of a bio. (N.B. While we call it a bio, in reality it's more of an autobio - no one writes these for you.) The bio is an occupational hazard of the musician. How do you write about your professional background and accomplishments without sounding like a pompous fool? It is a question I struggle with each time I am asked to submit my bio for publication. Being a professional, however, I face the problem head on: I search through the mess of documents on my hard drive until I find an old, outdated snippet that summarizes my life in a bite-sized paragraph. I daresay I haven't read, let alone edited, this piece in years, which is why I always forget about the last line: "in his spare time, Matty enjoys writing, playing soccer, and watching squirrels." Not sure what I was thinking (or perhaps, drinking) when I wrote that.

Well, so much the better. Because the fact is, in answer to the student's question, I have watched some good squirrels lately. Last week, for example, while walking through the grounds of Ottawa's City Hall on the way to work, I saw a scurry of black squirrels scavenging through the crust of yellow leaves on the ground. One was climbing face-first down a tree when it froze and fixed me with that dead-eyed gaze made famous by the shark from Jaws. I would have been more intimidated if it wasn't so fuzzy. Nearby, a father had parked his two-seater stroller in front of the trees and was speaking softly in French to his two children, who were cooing making grabbing motions in the direction of the squirrels. I didn't hear what he was saying, but I hope it was a gruff fatherly warning. Those City Hall squirrels have been known to make off with small, grabby children.

So you see, squirrel watching is indeed quite an endeavour. One never knows when they will appear next. Apparently I am not the only one with this obsession, however; a quick search of sites on the Blogger network shows that there are in fact twenty-seven blogs written by people who list "squirrel watching" as an interest. Curiously, though, the majority of these blogs are written from the perspective of dogs and cats. Not sure what this says about me.

Speaking of blogs, an announcement: Wasabi Squirrel will now be updated according to a regular schedule. It's not that I suddenly have more time - in fact, my life is as busy as it has ever been - but rather that I don't have time not to write. And so, this blog will be updated every Wednesday and Saturday (two days that have the same first letters as "Wasabi" and "Squirrel" - see what I did there?).

And so, until Wednesday, I bid you good squirrel watching!

Tom Stoppard had it all wrong

2010-09-06T18:56:00.004-04:00

Alas, poor Weblog . . . the blogger doth update too little, methinks. Yet we defy blogury; there's a special providence in the fall of a squirrel. If it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.

To wit, having recently taken a position as a church choir accompanist in Orleans, I have become rather lax in my blogging. Yet this site is not the only party to suffer neglect; this Sunday, for instance, I was too busy to pack a lunch, and found myself partaking of cuisine à la Quiznos on the way home from work.

The Quiznos in question was located in a mall not far from the bus station, and it was staffed this Sunday morn by two lads of indeterminate age. Evidently my memory is about as fuzzy as the peach-hair on their cheeks, for I do not recall if they had name tags. I do, however, recall their ebullient banter, so I will call them . . .

Rosencrantz: Heya. What can I get for you?
Me: I'll have a veggie light on rosemary Parmesan.
Rosencrantz: Oh, good choice! But hey, we're out of red onions, are sautéed onions okay?
Me: Sure. Sautéed, huh? Now I feel all classy . . .
Rosencrantz: Oh you know it, this is haute cuisine. Sautéed à la micro-ondes!
Me: Oh, even better!
Guildenstern: [to Rosencrantz] Hey, we're running low on mushrooms, too.
Rosencrantz: I know, right? And the next shipment isn't til Tuesday. It's not like we can just grow them in our garden!
Guildenstern: It was bad enough that we had to bring in the tomatoes from your garden. Do you know how hard it is to grow fungi?
Rosencrantz: No, do I look like a fungi farmer?
Guildenstern: Trust me, it's ridonkulous. I mean, you can't just grow mushrooms in your back yard, you need a whole set up . . .
Rosencrantz: [to me] Would you like your sandwich toasted?

True story.

. . . and then she found two euros

2010-08-12T12:16:00.017-04:00

So. You've heard of the Nuremburg Defense ("I was only following orders"). Maybe you've even heard of the Yuppie Nuremburg Defense ("I just need to pay the mortgage"). But two euros says you've never heard of the Ray-Ban Nuremburg Defense. It goes like this: "I was wearing aviators."

True story: when you're wearing aviators, you can be a douche. Aviators have long been popular not just because they look cool (and I mean really, really cool - years ago, I was approached by a Mennonite classmate who said, and I quote, "man, those are some bitchin' sunglasses!"), but also because they're particularly effective at preventing eye-contact. And it's a lot easier to be a douche when you don't have to look people in the eye.

I recently experienced the Ray-Ban Nuremberg Defense firsthand, while on my way to the grocery store. My grocery store, it must be noted, is not located in a scenic area. It lies in the shadow of a freeway overpass, and it shares a tree-less parking lot with both a liquor store and a beer store. The buildings are twenty years out of style, and the even the pavement looks tired and worn out. The tableau is completed by the drunken homeless men who invariably linger outside the alcohol stores, slurring pleas for change.

But I digress. It had been a busy day, and I just wanted to get my instant noodles and laundry detergent and get home. I was sore and irritable, but hey, at least I looked pretty damn cool in my black dress shirt and dark tinted aviators. As I walked past the liquor store toward the grocery store, I passed by a kid selling chocolates for a charity. "Excuse me sir, would you like to buy -"

I didn't even let her finish. I just walked on by, and coolly motioned with two fingers that I just wasn't interested. I didn't say, "no thanks," or even turn to acknowledge her. Even so, as I walked away, cool and cold as the steely music on my headphones, I heard her say "thank you for your time, sir," the sound of her voice receding behind me.

As I scurried around the grocery store collecting my provisions, I couldn't help but think about the kid selling chocolate bars. However much I was annoyed at being accosted, I had to admit that at least she was refreshingly earnest and polite. If nothing else, she didn't deserve to be rudely brushed aside, her efforts unacknowledged.

I left the grocery store, and went to the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine. The girl was still standing there, being turned away by strangers, and as I passed, I got a better look at her from behind my aviators. She was maybe ten or eleven, a bit homely, and she squinted in the harsh sun. Judging from her burnt face, she had been standing in the parking lot all day, and though I looked around, I couldn't see anyone who might be a parent. In fact, the only other person who wasn't rushing by with grocery bags or cases of beer was an inebriated beggar squatting nearby in the shade of the beer store's awning. As I walked through the sliding doors into the air conditioned liquor store, I suddenly felt grateful that my parents had never enrolled me in any summer program that had me trying to sell chocolates in a scorched parking lot by the freeway.

A few minutes later, I exited the store, a bottle of Wolf Blass under my arm, the handles of the over-full grocery bags chewing into my palms. I walked past the girl one last time, and heard the familiar refrain. "Excuse me sir, would you like to support . . . "

I walked a few paces further, grimaced, and turned around. "Sure, why not?" I set down my bags and pocketed the aviators. "What have you got?" It was four bucks for a small box of chocolate covered almonds. Well, fine. I gave her a five, and she bent down to find change in her bag. "Ugh, my back is so sore, I've been standing here all day." - "Long day, huh?" She sorted through a handful of quarters and toonies, looking for a dollar in change. "I'll see if I can find a loonie for you." - "Oh, it's okay, quarters are fine."

Then she paused. Something in the pile of coins didn't belong. I leaned in to see as she extracted a bimetallic coin that looked like a toonie, but wasn't. "What is that?" I asked. She examined it before sighing sadly, "I think it's a euro . . . guess I've been scammed."

The girl seemed pretty sad about the euro, so I offered to take it instead of the loonie. "The girlfriend will get a kick out of it, she was just in Italy." - "Yeah, she'll like it, she can cash it in, it's worth like, four dollars." - "Oh, you sure you don't you want to keep it then, you can cash it in?" - "Nah. You take it."

I thanked her for the chocolate and the euro (which, upon later inspection, turned out to be a two-euro coin), and wished her a good night. I was still tired and sore as I walked away, but as I reached for my sunglasses, I changed my mind, and left them hanging in my pocket.

The sun felt good.

Those Star Trek tricorders have nothing on this

2010-08-08T03:16:00.003-04:00

Recently, while walking to the grocery store, I was confronted by something that warranted a double take. On the second take, I realized that it was just a man on a bicycle. But oh, what a bike!

How to describe it? It was custom built, certainly, and doubtless included duct tape somewhere. It had the two wheels and frame of a normal bicycle, but welded on top of this was the frame of a second bike, sans wheels. The pedals, seat, and handlebars were on this second frame, and the roller chain was connected to the lower bike. Simply put, it was a bike on top of a bike, such that the man's feet were perhaps four full feet off the ground.

How he managed to mount this contraption, let alone dismount it without falling, is a mystery to me. It did not seem very practical. Truth be told, my mind could not quite take it all in during the few seconds during which he sped past. A young woman, faded denim shorts and bleached hair, was taking a photo with her cell phone, and I suspect she had the right idea; perhaps she has a blog, too, and if she does, I'm sure her readers will be much more satisfied.

Before you feel too deprived, however, I should mention that there is a reason for the lack of visual aids. Quite simply, my cell phone is not a camera phone. I do have both a camera and a phone, and while I was tempted to glue them together Flight of the Concords style, I decided that there was already too much tape on my phone to risk using more adhesives (Exhibit A):

Could this be the long lost "missing link" in the evolution of the Blackberry?

As you can see, my cell phone could be fairly described as "retro." The back panel is broken, so it is held together by Scotch tape (duct tape being reserved for more extreme measures).

This phone might seem a bit out of character, considering that I am anything but a technophobe. I've been told by many friends that I "need" to replace my phone, to the point where one even offered me his old cell phone as an upgrade (it turned out that my cell was so old that it didn't even have the removable SIM card needed to transfer the account). While I have considered buying a new model, I never do, because in the end, however old and beat-up my cell may be, it still does what I need it to do. It makes a ringing sound, and it sends and receives text messages (albeit in increments of 140 characters). And really, what more do you need from a phone?

Maybe I'm just behind the times. Maybe I'm just turning into a stubborn oldster who refuses to embrace new technologies. But maybe, just maybe, I sleep a little better at night because I know that at least one piece of technology I own isn't smarter than I am.

What We Don't Get About Football

2010-07-30T15:32:00.003-04:00

Last month, football fans cried foul when England's Frank Lampard scored against Germany in the World Cup, only to have the goal disallowed by the referee. Upon video replay, it became clear that the ball did, in fact, completely cross the line:

Germany went on to crush England 4-1, marking the worst World Cup defeat in England's history. Predictably, fans immediately began crusading for the implementation of goal-line technology that would ensure that in the future, such mistakes would not occur. The media had a field day, and people argued endlessly over the introduction of technology into "the beautiful game." Here in North America, football naysayers used the incident as an example of why the sport simply doesn't measure up. While many valid points were raised on both sides, one was largely forgotten: that football is, above all, a game about stories.

Rewind forty-four years to July 30th, 1966. Ninety-eight thousand people are packed like sardines inside London's Wembley Stadium, and another four hundred million are watching on television sets around the world. On the field, twenty-two men - eleven German, eleven English - will decide which country becomes the world champion.

After ninety minutes, the score is level at 2-2, the Germans having scored an equalizer with one minute left. The men are weary and broken, for in 1966 no substitutions are allowed. The game goes to extra time, and finally, impossibly, in the 101st minute, Geoff Hurst scores a crucial goal for England:

But the goal is controversial. While the English celebrate, the Germans appeal to the referee, arguing that the ball did not completely cross the goal line. The Swiss referee is himself unsure, and he approaches his linesman, a Soviet man by the name of Tofik Bakhramov. Bakhramov declares it a goal, and England goes on to lift the Jules Rimet trophy for the first and, to date, only time.

The story does not end there, however. The goal becomes infamous, and is debated not just for years, but for decades. In Germany, the phrase "Wembley Tor" ("Wembley Goal") comes to refer to any dubious goal, and in England, engineers at Oxford use video metrology to prove that the ball was indeed 6 cm away from being a legitimate goal. The Beatles use a sound clip of a commentator's reaction in one of their songs, and numerous ads parody the event.

But the final word comes in 1993, when, according to legend, Tofik Bakhramov lies on his death bed in his native Azerbaijan. As he nears his final moments, he is asked one last time how he knew the ball crossed the line. His reply is only one word: "Stalingrad," referring to the site of the WWII battle in which nearly half a million Soviets died fighting the Nazis.

~ ~ ~

Football is more than just a game played with a ball on a field with lines and goal posts. It is, at a fundamental level, a game about people and nations, a game about history and culture. Here in North America, we regard our sports teams as largely commercial ventures (indeed, it is only here that they are known as "franchises"); when a team fails to attract fans in one city, it will simply fold or transfer elsewhere. Not so in the rest of the world. Most every town in England has a football side, and win or lose, its fans are loyal to the grave. In Argentina, many stadiums are so central to their communities that they in fact house public schools and community centers inside their walls. Simply put, at its best, football is not about the sport, but about the sense of identity and community it engenders. And, as any German or English fan can tell you, it is about the stories that result from human error, and from human experience.

And at the end of the day, maybe, just maybe, those stories matter more than whether or not a ball crossed a line on a field.

Daniel Craig never had to put up with this shit!

2010-07-15T20:51:00.004-04:00

AskMen.com will be the death of me.

I've complained before about the pitfalls of being a straight white male in 2010, and one of the worst afflictions facing my demographic is style. With the rise of the metrosexual - that is, the straight male who exhibits the strong concern for appearance and lifestyle that is stereotypically associated with homosexual culture - it is no longer acceptable for a guy to pay little attention to his image. To be fair, maybe it was always that way. Still, I can't help thinking that David Beckham made our lives just a little bit harder.

Simply put, expectations of masculinity have changed. Have you ever seen one of those old movies in which the young, invariably overacted boys chatter excitedly about growing chest hair? These days men are more likely to debate on whether it is better to shave or to wax their chests, not to mention various other areas. It used to be that as a long as a man's clothes were clean, it didn't matter if they were cut in the latest style or bought from the most fashionable store. Not so anymore - as a linguist on UrbanDictionary snipes, "you might be 'metrosexual' if . . . you just can't walk past a Banana Republic store without making a purchase."

And now, a confession: I have never been the most style-conscious individual. At least, until recently. In the wake of a yuletide break-up, I started paying more attention to my image. Chances are you've been there, too; it's just one of those things you do when you find yourself single. And so it was that over the past six months I've spent more time and money than I'd like to admit reshaping my image.

Now, some things are easy enough to do. Getting a fresh haircut helps (though granted, my initial post-break-up haircut was anything but stylish), and buying a tie or two never hurts anything other than your pocketbook. But after these basics, the straight white male runs into a problem: how do you remake your style, when you have no sense of style? (Talk about ethical dilemmas - Thomas Aquinas had it easy!)

Fortunately, along with the rise of the metrosexual, the twenty-first century has also seen the rise of the internet, and there are a plethora of sites offering style insights to the clueless men of my generation. Sites like AskMen.com are tremendously useful in providing tips on matching pants with blazers, knotting ties, and picking out the right pair of sunglasses. The problem is that it becomes an information overload, even in this day and age of infornography. After being bombarded by articles debating the latest fashions in cuff links and explaining which beard styles are best for which facial types, I can't help feeling a certain sympathy for the fairer sex, who have had to navigate this image-obsessed culture for much longer. Guess the joke's on us men, now.

And so it was that yesterday, having read an article highlighting the necessity of having several styles of undergarments for different occasions, I decided to bite the bullet and shop for better underwear. A long-time adherent of the cult of the plain plaid boxer (you know the type - boring, baggy, and bearing a striking resemblance to what your father wore to the breakfast table when you were a kid), I conceded that it was time to up my game.

So there I was in the men's department in Sears, looking for a new style of underwear. Now, maybe it's just me, but I'm pretty sure it's a guy thing in general: we don't like being disturbed when we are shopping for undergarments. It's just one of those things. It was fine when the salesman with his tight pants and even tighter purple shirt came by and asked me once if I needed help, but when he came by a second time (apparently it was a slow day), I started to feel the pressure. I had to make a decision, and soon, because it was becoming increasingly clear that I was looking as clueless as I felt (and even twenty-first century men don't stop and ask for directions). I grabbed a two-pack of black boxer-briefs, paid, and fled.

Of course, the trouble with buying undergarments is that you can't very well return them once the package is opened. Later that night, I stretched open a hole in the plastic bag and extracted a pair of the boxer-briefs. They were considerably more elastic than I had anticipated, but I decided to give them a shot nonetheless. Bad idea.

In the immortal words of Calvin, "some days even [your] lucky rocketship underpants don't help." Well, these underpants will never help. Not only was the style anything but flattering to my body type (seriously, who modeled these - Georges St-Pierre?), but they also turned out to be a size too small, and as a result, they gave me a spare tire. Great.

And that, good readers, is the story of how I spent twenty-eight dollars on two pairs of boxer-briefs that I will never wear. But enough complaining. When life gives you lemons, make a blog post. So, here's to a twenty-eight dollar blog post - hope it made you laugh, folks.

Post Script: +5 to anyone who knows the two movie scenes referenced in the title of this post. Go!

She would have done it sooner, but the train was delayed

2010-07-04T20:48:00.002-04:00

It's hotter than the gates of hell today, and I am severely unmotivated. May or may not have spent most of the day wandering shirtless and aimless around my apartment. This, of course, is not a pretty sight; even I winced each time I passed the mirror (let us just say that the only six-pack in the apartment this afternoon was in the fridge). I was tempted to affect a positive change in this state of affairs, but it was really too hot to do more than a dozen crunches (at least that's what I'm telling myself).

While it has certainly been a very lackadaisical day, it was not for lack of things to do. For weeks now I have been meaning to attend to such duties as weeding through my closet, studying for the LSAT, organizing numerous binders of sheet music, and updating the operating system on my laptop. And I even began some of these tasks today. Currently my closet door is wide open, revealing the chaos looming inside; I got as far as throwing out a pair of ratty old slippers and polishing some dress shoes, but then lethargy set in. I also began editing a few blog posts that have been lingering in my drafts folder for weeks, but soon gave up, defeated by the heat. I did actually manage to start and finish cooking lunch, and even chopped up and sautéed vegetables for the pasta sauce, but alas, I did not finish eating the tortellini when it was done. This last failure, however, had more to do with concern for the aforementioned abs (or rather, the absence thereof) than with any lack of appetite.

As I sit here composing this post, leaning forward in my chair since it is still simply too hot to rest any portion of one's body on a cushioned surface, I am rather disappointed: so much could have been accomplished today, and yet I have little to show for it. However, I am slowly learning that it is not always such a crime to leave things unfinished.

Allow me to explain. For years, I held myself to a strict policy of finishing every book I began reading. No matter how much I disliked a book, I would slog through to the end. I once spent an entire summer dragging my eyes across the pages of Anna Karenina, even though it made me want to throw myself under a train. Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty consumed another summer, and the only thing that got me through it was the fact that I enjoyed complaining about it to anyone who would listen (it was around August that I stopped receiving invitations to parties).

This summer, I began reading Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, on the recommendation of two (erstwhile?) friends. I was irritated from the start. Rand's prose style left me yearning for the sweet syntax of Steinbeck or Salinger, and from the opening lines of the author's introduction, her attitudes and ideas piqued my sensibilities (and not in the positive sense of the word). Still, the novel had been recommended by not one, but two people, so I prevailed. I read the first hundred-odd pages, and little had improved. It was not difficult reading, but neither was it worth reading. Another five hundred pages loomed. Tough choices had to be made.

Long story short (a concept evidently unfamiliar to Rand), The Fountainhead now sits on a shelf, unread and unloved. It seemed like the right thing to do. For the fact is, looking back on it now, my life is really no better for having finished Anna Karenina, or for having staggered through the final act of Timon of Athens. (To be fair, I actually rather appreciate The Line of Beauty in retrospect, but that's another story for another time.) Life is too short to read long books, if they aren't well-written or entertaining.

And so it is that I have set aside the watery prose of The Fountainhead and turned my attentions to the saline currents of Iris Murdoch's The Sea, The Sea. We'll see (sea?) if it fares better on the Anna Karenina Scale. As a backup, however, I have also started reading a much shorter book, David Eagleman's Sum, on the recommendation of a friend and fellow blogger. So far, so good - no locomotives will be required. Godzilla Dave might even stop by with a review - but whether it will be finished is up to the weather.

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 5: Sleeping In

2010-07-01T02:14:00.002-04:00

I have never been particularly good at traveling. From a young age I struggled with long trips (and anything over an hour in the car qualified as "long"). I was no stranger to motion sickness, and "are we there yet?" was my constant refrain from the backseat.

As the years went by, I slowly became more accustomed to long road trips (a necessity when one lives in Canada), and more recently I have come to enjoy the freedom of the open road. However, I still find traveling exhausting and draining, mostly because I do not sleep well when I am away from my own bed.

With this in mind, you will understand when I say that I am truly exhausted, having just returned from almost three weeks on the road. The silver lining to this, however, is that it makes sleeping in my own bed again all the sweeter. Last night, I went to bed around 0400, after a late-night run along the canal, followed by a hot shower. I was about to set the alarm on my cell phone, when I realized that I had a wonderful opportunity: I could sleep in.

Sleeping in is one of The Greatest Things Ever. There are few feelings that compare to waking up slowly. You gradually become aware of the sunlight seeping through the blinds, and the warmth of daylight. You notice that your muscles are stiff, so you roll over until you're comfortable, nuzzle up to your pillow, and drift back into dreams. Really, really think - is there anything much better than that?

I remember reading a James Herriot story as a child that left a great impression on me. The chapter concerned a Yorkshire farmer who had spent an entire lifetime waking up before sunlight each day. The farmer told the vet that one of his greatest pleasures in life was waking up in the middle of the night, and realizing that he could return to sleep for another hour or two.

Sadly, though, sleeping in will remain a luxury for me, an occasional indulgence. Perhaps it is best that way - like most things, it would cease to be special if it were a regular event. The question, then, is how to make waking up early more pleasant. After all, is there really any sound worse than that of an angry alarm clock? I think the solution might just be to have a Seven of Nine alarm clock, but then again . . .

Presenting . . . le Rostinaille!

2010-06-26T01:55:00.002-04:00

A few months back, I discovered a most excellent beverage: the Rostinaille. You've never heard of it, you say? Well, then, I'd best start from the beginning.

It was my twenty-fourth birthday, and for this event, my father took me out for dinner at the Fairmont Château Laurier. The Château Laurier is a magnificent establishment, steeped in history and lore, and it is one of the grand hotels from the golden age of the Canadian railway. Legend has it that it even plays host to a few ghosts. It is impossible to do justice to this landmark in a just a few lines in a blog, so in the interest of brevity, let us simply say that "it's nice."

Really nice.

(Have we established that this is far and beyond the fanciest establishment I have ever dined at? Excellent. On with the story!)

So, there I was at the Château Laurier, and the server was taking our drink orders. If memory serves, I requested my standby, a gin and tonic. My father, however, had more class: "might I have a Rostinaille?" I had never heard of this drink, but its fancy French name intrigued me, so I asked for details (after the server had left, of course - I wasn't about to reveal my ignorance of fine dining before appetizers had been served!). The Rostinaille, I learned, was a mixture of Scotch and Drambuie. This sounded delightful, so I changed my order. The drink came. And do you know what? It was delightful.

. . . It was roughly three hours later that it finally dawned on me that this delightful beverage was not some newfangled Parisian concoction, but rather an old classic - the Rusty Nail. I blame it on the classy setting - enough candlelight, soft jazz, and spectacular views, and anyone would starting hearing things in French, right? Right? (Help me out here, folks - I've got nothing.)

While my introduction to the Rusty Nail might best be described as a justly fail, I have since come to give this drink the appreciation it deserves. Recently, for example, my father and I spent an evening sharing stories over several rounds of Rusty Nails. The Rusty Nail is a perfect drink to share with your old man - after all, it's a sturdy, manly beverage, and it's classier than a beer. Plus, it's strong enough that after a few rounds, you get a real conversation going.

I've noted before on this blog that the stories we tell make us who we are, and today I'd like to add to that thought: we are also defined by the stories we hear. If you'll permit a short digression, I've always found it slightly difficult to maintain a sense of cultural identity as a third- or fourth-generation Canadian of mixed European ethnicity. Don't get me wrong - I fully understand that as a middle-class white male residing in one of the more prosperous and secure nations in the world, I'm not exactly hard done by. Still, in terms of having a strong sense of heritage, it's difficult not to feel like a jack of all trades and master of none. History is not concerned with the stories of the bland, homogenized masses, but rather with the stories of distinctive social groups, whether they are defined by their ethnicity, their wealth, their beliefs, or any number of other factors. And when your background is a haphazard mixture of several different cultures, well, everything gets diluted. You might know a few of your cultures' stories, but you certainly don't own them.

What I am increasingly coming to realize, though, is that sometimes you don't have to have find your identity in your cultural heritage. Sitting around the table and sharing stories with my father, I began to understand that the most important history isn't always taught in schools or written in textbooks. My ancestors are not famous or influential in the broad scheme of things, but as I listened to the tales of their works and days, I couldn't help but think that they might just matter more than the stories of the famous leaders and explorers and generals.

All this is just to say that the next time you have a chance, down a few drinks with your family and oldest friends, and listen to their stories. After a while, you might just discover that you're listening to your stories.

"Eloquent" might not be the best descriptor

2010-06-24T14:07:00.002-04:00

Have you ever encountered a turn of phrase so memorable that it sticks in your mind for weeks after you read it? Just like a melody that has become entrapped between your ears, it swims in silent circles around your subconscious, a goldfish in a bowl, occasionally splashing and sending ripples across the surface.

I encountered one such phrase last month, and it has proven so irrepressible that I fear the only way to purge it from my stream of consciousness is to share it. A quick Google search revealed its source, an article over at the A.V. Club. Here's the sound bite (text bite?):

". . . in a recent interview . . . [Joni] Mitchell criticized Bob Dylan, saying, 'Bob is not authentic at all. He's a plagiarist, and his name and voice are fake. Everything about Bob is a deception' . . . . When we can’t even rely on the writer of 'Woodstock' to encourage a spirit of loving and togetherness, it’s like where have all the motherfucking flowers gone, yo?" [emphasis added]

Maybe it's the inclusion of the oh-so-colloquial "like" and "yo" in the final line, or perhaps it's the juxtaposition of profanity with the title of a classic song, but either way, that sentence makes me smile every time it nudges its way to the surface of my mind.

Incidentally, while we are on the topic of profanity, I recently learned from a Francophone friend that there is a distinct cultural divide in the nature of foul language between Québécois French and European French. In a nutshell, while both regions share vulgar terms and expressions related to sex and bodily functions (much as in English), Quebec also has a unique vocabulary of profane words based on the Catholic liturgy (our friend Wikipedia has the full story). While my French is quite limited, I will admit that I know my fair share of uncouth terms in that language. However, I never realized until now that only half of these words would make sense when spoken outside of Canada! See, this is the sort of stuff they just don't teach you in French class . . .

Chekhov's must have looked like a frozen raisin

2010-06-22T15:22:00.002-04:00

Good denizens of the interwebs, I come bearing good news! Following extensive negotiations (read: a busy week at work), a deal has been reached to end the strike, and ten thousand tenacious squirrels have resumed their posts at ten thousand tiny typewriters. (Turns out all they wanted was a break room with a dirt floor so that they could bury their lunches.) I'm expecting the furry nutters to churn out Othello any day now, but in the meantime, you'll have to be content with a movie review.

Godzilla Dave Presents: Cold Souls

In the 2009 comedy-drama Cold Souls, Paul Giamatti (yeah, the guy from Sideways) plays, well, a fictionalized version of Paul Giamatti. Struggling to escape from the emotional accretions of his career as a stage actor, Giamatti decides to undergo a procedure that allows him to extract his soul from his body and place it in cold storage. Predictably enough, just as Faust discovered that selling his soul was mistake, and just as many a gullible New York tourist discovered that public bridges are not, in fact, for sale, Giamatti learns that without a soul, some things are just not the same. Go figure.

But no matter. Writer-director Sophie Barthes is a clever cookie, and she knows that in a world where souls can be extracted and contained, they can also be sold. This is convenient for Giamatti, who rents the soul of a Russian poet to help him perform a role in a Chekhov drama. When the play's run is complete, however, Giamatti decides to reinstate his own soul, only to discover that it has been sold on the black market to a soap opera star, who is under the impression that she has purchased the spiritual essence of Al Pacino.

If you suspect that such scenarios will strike laughter into your own soul, so much the better, for make no mistake: Cold Souls is a dark, chilly film that asks questions about the condition of the modern spirit, without providing answers. Like many a Russian play, it unsympathetically scrutinizes desperate, unhappy characters, and leads the audience through bleak, icy fields toward an uncertain destination. Mercifully, though, it also provides relief through frequent dry humour, as when Giamatti peers into the jar containing his disembodied soul, only to be confronted by something that looks suspiciously like a chick pea.

Cold Souls is not an entirely successful film. While it proffers up many - perhaps too many - compelling and problematic ideas, it lacks the courage to develop these ideas, or the conviction to force them to their resolution. Yet this is a small quibble. How often does one encounter a film brave enough to challenge its viewers to consider the weight of their own souls, and to do so while maintaining a genuinely droll sensibility?

While we may not have machines to extract and sublet our souls, Cold Souls subtly reminds us that over the course of the lifetime, we do in fact give away slivers of our selves, and take pieces of others. What happens to us when we portion away too much, or when we carry fragments of too many? One could explore such imponderables by reading Chekhov or Gogol, but let's be honest - you'll laugh more with Cold Souls.

With Apologies to William Carlos Williams

2010-06-11T13:09:00.002-04:00

This is just to say
I have taken
the job
that was in
the city

and which
will probably
prevent
new posts this week

Forgive me
the cash was good
so hard
and so cold

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 4: Generous Vending Machines

2010-06-10T03:55:00.007-04:00

Let me tell you about my night. It started out when -

Actually, on second thought, nevermind. It's not a particularly interesting story. In fact, it's such a boring story that there is a good chance it would end with me finding five dollars. The nutshell version is that yours truly was stressed and exhausted and not feeling particularly amicable towards the world, to the point where the only thing that could salvage the night was a trip to the vending machine.

Now, as a rule, I try to avoid eating junk food. Five bucks says you try to avoid it, too. It's one of those things we do. Of course, the operative word in that statement is "try," because truth be told, I eat far more chocolate bars and potato chips than I would like to admit (but it's okay, since it's dark chocolate and organic potatoes, right? No?). I'm weak and I know it, so to avoid temptation, I simply avoid walking around with spare change. No spare change = no trips to the vending machine = no spare tire. It's a foolproof formula.

So there I was this evening, in desperate need of sugary salvation, with not a coin in my pocket. All was not lost, however: I knew that I had once left a few coins in my office mailbox before running to a gig (it simply doesn't do to have coins jangling in your pocket when walking on stage). Sure enough, the coins were still there: about a dozen pennies, a few nickels, and exactly five quarters.

I know there were exactly five quarters because I needed six to buy a chocolate bar from the vending machine.

Yeah. It was tragic.

So I got back to work, and my night continued to get worse. By about half an hour later, things had gotten bad enough that I decided to scrounge the mailbox for change one more time.

. . . and then I found twenty-five cents!

Yes, indeed! Nestled in the back corner of the box was a single quarter that had become separated from the rest of the herd. Never have I been so happy to find a quarter. I rushed to the vending machine and loaded the coins into the slot with such urgency that it made Leonardo DiCaprio look positively relaxed in that scene in Titanic with the locked gate and the Massive Keyring of Doom.™ I picked my poison: stale oatmeal and raisin cookies. The machine creaked and pushed the cookies forward so slowly as to impart an air of ceremony. Finally, gravity took over, and the cookies tumbled. I reached to extract the offering, and then -

. . . and then I found a granola bar!

True story! There at the bottom of the machine was a perfectly good granola bar. From whence it came I do not know. Perhaps it fell off its shelf earlier in the day due to a flaw in the vending machine's architecture. Regardless, it was The Greatest Thing Ever. First finding that last quarter, and then getting not one, but two over-packaged bundles of preservatives and trans-poly-unsaturated-fats - priceless.

Suiting Up, Part 2

2010-06-07T12:38:00.003-04:00

You remember the bubblegum pink tie, right? (Perhaps the better question is, "could you forget it?" . . . )

Well. Today, I had a chance to wear it a second time. I was accompanying a violinist this morning at the Château Laurier (an establishment which will be mentioned in a future post), and said violinist was wearing a pink dress. Seeing an opportunity, I suited up, and knotted up the pink tie:

Exhibit A: The bubblegum pink tie. Blue chair not included.

(Yes. It really is that pink.)

After the gig, I was walking home in the rain, when I noticed a crowd of pink-outfitted women coming toward me. It was alarming - not only were they wearing pink clothes, but many of them had pink umbrellas or pink rain coats. And they were advancing on me at a great pace!

My heart pounded. Visions of Pepto Bismol danced in my head. Had the fashion police had finally come to get me?

It was then that I realized that this weekend was the Ottawa Weekend to End Breast Cancer.

Now, I'd like to say that I was socially aware enough that I had planned my outfit in support of the cause, but we both know that's not the case. I will say this, however: I doubt I'll ever receive as many grins and compliments on my pink tie as I did today.

( . . . and then I found five dollars!)

André had nothing on this . . .

2010-06-04T03:17:00.008-04:00

Have you ever had a conversation with a chatbot? It's an experience every human should have at least once, if only for the entertainment value.

(If you aren't familiar with the phenomenon of the spam chatbot, and are too lazy to click the link which I so lovingly provided for you above, a chatbot is an automated program designed to replicate intelligent responses, based on contextual clues - think of it as a primitive facsimile of artificial intelligence.)

This evening when I logged on to my MSN instant messaging account, I had a friend request from an address that I did not recognize. Needing a good laugh, I accepted the request, and sure enough, moments later, a chat window popped up. Feeling fractious, I decided to play along. Happily, my chat client logs all conversations, and so, for your amusement and edification (well, perhaps not edification, on second thought), I present: My Dinner with Android.

(10:50:07 PM) Chatbot: hey cutie
(10:50:35 PM) Me: hey there you sexy spambot!
(10:50:44 PM) Chatbot: nah, I am a vegetarian... no spam for me! haha
(10:50:58 PM) Me: ooh, nice line . . . good programming
(10:51:02 PM) Me: so do you like tofu then?
(10:51:08 PM) Chatbot: Yay someone to talk to :-) !! how are u? I found your name in the msn online members search :)
(10:51:21 PM) Me: uh huh, sure you did
(10:51:24 PM) Me: a/s/l?
(10:51:32 PM) Chatbot: my roomates just stepped out I only have a little while alone... ;-) are u alone too? we should cam2cam ;)
(10:53:34 PM) Me: but . . . my webcam doesn't work!
(10:53:43 PM) Chatbot: K here's the link to my cam it's http://www.[address removed - c'mon, do you really think I'm going to dignify that garbage by posting it on this blog?].com go there and you should see me, just click the join free tab on top of the page, I use this site cause you can't record it like on here -- my dad would kill me if he found out I was doing this kinky stuff on his computer lol
(11:03:36 PM) Chatbot: where did you go?
(11:04:17 PM) Me: Oh, sorry, did you get lonely? I'd hate to leave a little spambot dangling . . .
(11:04:28 PM) Chatbot: nah, I am a vegetarian... no spam for me! haha
(11:04:40 PM) Me: you already used that line. Fail.
(11:04:51 PM) Chatbot: LOL aw you're cute.. well can u see my cam it was giving me trouble earlier but it looks ok now? oh I hope u dont mind chatting with a sexy girl!
(11:05:23 PM) Me: No I don't mind actually. But I do mind chatting with a pathetic spambot.

(11:05:33 PM) Chatbot: nah, I am a vegetarian... no spam for me! haha
(11:06:08 PM) Me: Do you have a Monty Python fetish?
(11:06:18 PM) Chatbot: yeah, i have a hot or not account
(11:06:36 PM) Me: What?! Monty Python is on hot or not? That's incredible!
(11:06:41 PM) Me: Not hot, obviously.
(11:06:46 PM) Chatbot: ohh hotornot, hey how are u?
(11:07:13 PM) Me: Oh, I'm pretty good. So let's see this hot or not account.
(11:07:22 PM) Chatbot: yeah i'm horny lolz! u? Wait you're not a stalker are u?? LOL
(11:07:54 PM) Me: Hey, you added me, spammy. OMG wait are YOU stalking ME?
(11:08:00 PM) Me: OMG is that you outside my window?
(11:08:04 PM) Chatbot: nah, I am a vegetarian... no spam for me! haha
(11:08:06 PM) Me: I'M CALLING THE POLICE!
(11:08:16 PM) Chatbot: hahaha! call em! and tell them you are reporting a felony... YOUR HAIRSTYLE!! You might wanna get that looked at!
(11:08:54 PM) Me: Woah. Woah. Did you just diss my hairstyle? Puhleez. At least I have hair. You just have a degraded hard drive.
(11:09:04 PM) Chatbot: Mhhm u never know lol I have to make sure! babe u sound confident I like that .. maybe we can trade phone numbers after we chat on cam ? I'd love to...
(11:11:04 PM) Me: How about you give me your phone number right now? I'll text you.
(11:11:16 PM) Chatbot: is that hot or not?
(11:11:55 PM) Me: Oh, my texts are hot. Trust me.
(11:13:12 PM) Chatbot: :)....nice well u can also just watch me if u want....it's up to u ;) oh babe what's your favorite color?
(11:14:14 PM) Me: I like the colour of your eyes . . . oh wait you don't have any.
(11:14:38 PM) Chatbot: make sure u fill out your correct b-day k? cause they won't let u in if you can't verify age ;-) I had to use my debit card to verify age but they don't charge, it's just to make sure you're not a kid :)
(11:15:40 PM) Me: Oh man but I'm only 14!
(11:15:44 PM) Me: What should I do?
(11:15:51 PM) Chatbot: I'm gonna turn off Messenger so my cam doesn't run slow....plus I really want u to watch me, I'm getting so turned on it's driving me crazy ;-)
(11:27:13 PM) Me: uh. Sure. Sorry. I forgot about you there.
(11:27:14 PM) Message was not sent because the system is unavailable. This normally happens when the user is blocked or does not exist.

Yes. That's right. I just irritated a robot so much that it blocked me.

~ ~ ~

When I was young, my father always encouraged me to watch Star Trek "so that I would know what to do when the Borg come." Well, I guess all those years of training in front of the television screen are starting to pay off. When the robots take over the world, you'll know who to call. Just ask for Mr. Anderson.

Where there's smoke, there's . . . joggers?

2010-06-01T03:28:00.008-04:00

Let's get one thing straight: I am not a jogger. No, I am one of those lazy people who delights in telling his gym-rat friends that "exercise is for chumps," while secretly hating them for being buff. So before you get any ideas about inviting me to join your running club or encouraging me to train for a marathon, be sure to have a chat with my good friends Mr. Couch and Mr. Potato. They're warm, welcoming folks, salt of the earth types, really. Give them a chance, and I'm sure you'll get along just dandy.

Caveats aside, however, I have been known to jog on occasion. This aberrant behaviour has various causes, none of which are particularly interesting (suffice it to say that my nemesis, Mr. Guilt, is usually involved). Tonight, for example, I elected to go for a run because I needed to burn off some stress, not to mention a few extra pounds (the latter being a gift from my two-faced cohort Mr. Guinness).

As much as I dislike jogging, I will allow that under the right conditions, it can be a relatively painless activity. Tonight, for example, I planned my route such that I would run along the Rideau Canal. This helps for two reasons. First, the scenery is pleasant enough that it takes one's mind off the inevitable cramps and exhaustion. Second, the canal is a jogging hotspot, and, being possessed of a vindictive, bitter soul, nothing motivates me to run faster than the prospect of overtaking one of the myriad of smug, trendy, designer outfit-clad runners who actually enjoy running. Do not be deceived, readers: the road to "ripped" is paved with petty intentions.

Running can also be made more tolerable with the careful application of proper music. While I may be a classically trained pianist, and while I may listen almost exclusively to jazz and indie rock outside of my work, when it comes to running, there is simply no substitute for rap. This evening's selection was Eminem's 2002 album The Eminem Show. Complain all you want about the content, but the stuff's got one heck of a beat. Besides, sometimes there's nothing better than listening to a scrawny, disaffected white dude whine about stuff nobody cares about. It's a matter of solidarity.

At any rate, there I was, running along the canal, listening to Marshall Mathers III dropping rhymes, and sweating and smiling profusely, having overtaken several hardcore joggers in a row (clothes might make the man, but evidently designer running gear doesn't make the jogger!). I noticed that the air quality seemed increasingly poor - strangely thick, and with an odd smell. I attributed this to a combination of city smog and the stench from the algae and debris floating in the canal, and thought nothing more of it. It was only later that I discovered that the air was in fact filled with smoke from the forest fires that are raging through Quebec at the moment.

The moral of the story? You try to go out and do something good for your health, and you fill your lungs with smoke. I was right all along. Exercise is for chumps.

I'm glad we had this talk.

The Jason Bourne Effect

2010-05-28T01:26:00.007-04:00

Sorry folks, Godzilla Dave called in sick, so no Robin Hood review today.

(I know, you're crushed. Just hold tight.)

The reason for the lack of a review? Blame Carl Nielsen, a Danish composer who composed a fiendishly difficult flute concerto that I am accompanying tomorrow evening, having received the score this afternoon. (Yeah . . . it's gonna be a long night.)

Please don't think that I'm complaining, though. While taking on a project like this is - to quote a colleague's reaction - "almost professional suicide" due to the high risk of crashing and burning in public, I relish the challenge. Maybe I'm just an adrenaline junkie, but there's nothing quite like the high you get from pulling off a demanding piece you've never seen before on short notice.

Performing a fresh piece in a pinch is always a bit of a leap of faith. At certain points, you have to trust that your brain and muscles will work together and take over from your conscious mind, to allow you to do things you don't think you can do. Think of it as the Jason Bourne Effect. You're playing a piece, and suddenly you arrive at a passage that you know you simply can't sight read, or a part that you know you just can't play up to tempo. Fear eats your soul. Just as the panic sets in, though, sometimes - not even often, just sometimes - a higher reflex kicks in, and you do it anyway. The poor CIA dude never saw it coming, and heck, neither did you.

I don't know what causes this phenomenon. Perhaps it's a combination of muscle memory (you know, the reflex that allows you to type your email address and name ridiculously fast, without thinking about it) and years of training. I'm not sure I even want to know the gritty details - after all, it's more fun to imagine that you're a CIA-trained pianist assassin suffering from amnesia. Whatever the cause may be, it is at once one of the most exhilarating and terrifying experiences imaginable. People often tell me I'm crazy for accepting last minute gigs like this one, but the truth is, it makes you feel more alive than playing solo repertoire that you have prepared and polished for months.

(The part where you get paid feels pretty good, too.)

Alright, that's it for now. It's 1:26 AM - time to return to the practice room.

The Wicked Witch of the West? What she said.

2010-05-26T19:35:00.010-04:00

It is hotter than the gates of hell today, to the point where it's impossible to string together a coherent thought without your brain overheating. So, today you get a point-form description of my itinerary. The heat is making me irritable and vindictive, so I'll be using military time to confuse those readers who are not from either Quebec or Europe. The times are approximate anyway. Deal with it.

Here we go:

0638: Woke up and suited up for gig in Montreal, after three hours of sleep. Grumpy and sleep deprived, but had planned ahead for this by saving new ochre necktie for such an occasion. New ties make everything better.
0703: Stepped outside and immediately discovered that new ties do not make everything better. Even at seven in the morning, it was warm enough that said necktie became my worst enemy.
0710: Got on bus. Put on mp3 player and tuned into French jazz station. Eerie Satie-esque jazz made me wonder if I had unwittingly walked into Burn After Reading.
0740: Arrived at ride rendezvous point early and sat down to read The Fountainhead, a book which I probably will burn after reading. Noticed skin starting to burn as well.
0802: Rendezvoused with ride to Montreal. Car not air-conditioned, but no worries. Rolled down windows and off we went.
0827: Fell asleep in backseat of car.
0942: Woke up in backseat of car. Learned that sleeping with a necktie is A Bad Idea. Am convinced that new tie became tighter while I slept. Perhaps it was sleeping, too, and dreaming of life as a boa constrictor. Got lucky this time, but will forever be suspicious of ochre tie, even if it looks damn sexy.
0956: Drove through outskirts of Montreal. Noticed that the graffiti in Montreal is of a higher quality than elsewhere. It has sharper lines, more colour gradations, and is more audacious in its size and placement. To the artist who tagged a precipitous ledge on the top story of a highrise: you are my hero.
1005: Renounced the art of looking sexy and unknotted the tie. Was sure I received a murderous glance from said tie, but that may have been the heat and oxygen deprivation speaking.
1012: Drained the dregs of lukewarm water from water bottle. Started considering Donner Party measures.
1025: Drove through a seedier part of downtown Montreal. Have heard of bibliothèques, discothèques, and even bifthèques, but a sexothèque? Now that's just brilliant.
1032: Noticed that Montreal has racks of shiny, identical bikes every few blocks - am guessing it's some sort of rent-a-bike initiative, but will have to investigate further.
1035: Noticed that Montreal also has ridiculously spectacular townhouses. (Not as nice as those around Vieux-Québec, but hey, nothing is as nice as stuff in Quebec City.)
1038: Arrived outside McGill music building. It's go time. Made an uneasy truce with necktie and re-suited up.
1039: Noticed copious amounts of shiny confetti stars on the front stairs of music building. Either there was a party here, or it got so hot that the sky melted and all the stars fell down (my money's on the latter).
1045: Led to warm up room, "warm" being the operative part of that phrase. Seriously, McGill - you got an eighty million dollar donation to your music program, and you didn't install air conditioning? Lame.
1052: Discovered that while the practice rooms don't have AC, they do have pencil sharpeners. Proceeded to sharpen about a dozen pencils that have been dull for about as many months. Became unreasonably excited about this.
1123: Arrived in performance hall, which was also not air conditioned. At the very least they should have invested some of that money in a lifeguard, because the air was so thick you could swim.
1130: Accompanied Tomasi sax concerto, and figured out where all that money went: kickass pianos. Seriously, the lower register on this piano would make the bass player for any Seattle-based grunge band weep. Love it.
1152: Waited around while adjudicators sequestered themselves for discussion, presumably in an air-conditioned room. Eyed the competition, a very foxy clarinetist. N.B. Clarinetists tend to be unusually attractive, as far as musicians go. Unfortunately, they also tend to play clarinet.
1157: Became disappointed when my sax player was narrowly edged out by Foxy Clarinetist. Sadface.
1158: Took off necktie again, for the last time. It put up a fight, but I stuffed it in my bag and zipped said bag shut. Am afraid to open bag again, lest the necktie still holds a grudge and leaps out and strangles me. (Hey, it could happen.)
1205: Left music building. Walked straight into a brick wall. At least, that's what the heat felt like.
1209: On the road again. Car substantially hotter. Windows rolled down all the way.
1232: On the freeway. Windows still down all the way, such that the wind is blowing the sunglasses off my face. But it's better than the alternative. Each gust feels like a blast from an oven, but if the windows were up, it would be like being in an actual oven. Shades of Sylvia Plath. (Too soon?)
1317: Stopped for lunch at an establishment known as Scores. Apparently it's a chain in Quebec - who knew? It's a chicken joint - think Swiss Chalet, but with menus in French. Either way, its Marinated Vegetable Focaccia Sandwich should be filed under the heading of Pretty Damn Tasty.
1348: Sax player's mother paid for my lunch, and paid me more than I asked for the gig. N.B. Accompanists like being paid more than they ask. Crazy, eh?
1456: Stopped at gas station on the highway, somewhere between Ontario and Quebec. Got an iced tea.
1459: Finished drinking the last of the iced tea. N.B. That "iced" is a symbolic term only, because the moment I walked outside of the store into the sweltering parking lot, the beverage became plain old tea.
1528: Cruised along highway, windows down, wind blowing, mind wandering. Profound thought of the moment: if a small pebble were to fly up and hit my eyelid, would I get intensive cosmetic surgery to repair the gash, or would I let the Jonathan the Timid Med Student in the ER do a hack job of stitching me up, so that I would have a badass scar like the villain in Casino Royale? (N.B. Ladies, the next time your man gets that distant look in his eyes and you start frantically wondering if he's thinking of another woman, take solace in knowing that he's probably just pondering a life-changing decision like this.)
1557: Finally reached the decision that yes, I would totally go for the badass scar. This decision may need to be reviewed under more air-conditioned circumstances.
1624: Arrived home, suited down, and stripped down to boxers. Wrote this blog post. That's right. You just read a post written by a sweaty, pale, almost naked white guy. Deal with it.

. . . like that. Stay tuned for tomorrow's Godzilla Dave-style review of Robin Hood. (Pro tip: if you were planning to go see it tonight, wait for the review.)

I'm glad we had this talk.

Twenty-Four Bottles of Beer on the Wall

2010-05-25T14:25:00.006-04:00

Today is the day when we from the land of the Timbit celebrate the anniversary of the birth of Queen Victoria. At least, this is what I am told we are celebrating. I wasn't sure until I checked. For, truth be told, this day is better known by it's double entendre moniker: May Two-Four. UrbanDictionary.com provides the scoop:

Queen Victoria's birth day, May 24th, is a statutory holiday in Canada and the first long weekend since Easter. It is the traditional weekend during which one opens 'the camp' (cottage), and [it] signifies the start of summer (and Blackfly season) in Canada. The reference to 'two-four' rather than 'twenty-fourth' is a Canadian inside joke refering [sic] to the obligatory case(s) of 24 bottles of beer, or 'two-fours' required to celebrate the opening of the camp and to steel one's courage against the blackflies and the mice that will have settled into the camp since it was closed in the fall.

Sadly, I did not fulfill my beer quota; no two-fours were consumed. While I feel vaguely unpatriotic, having failed in this regard, let's face it - beer is too expensive to drink in such quantities!

May Two-Four 2010 did not start out well. The morning began with an early rehearsal with a saxophonist, and while the rehearsal was went well, I was rather less than bright-eyed and bushy tailed (perhaps a bite of wasabi would have helped, but none was on hand). Fortunately, however, I did not need to be particularly alert for the rest of the day, having nothing else planned.

While this blog does not condone the practice of scheduling early rehearsals, it will allow that there is something to be said for the excellent feeling of freedom that comes from been done for the day by eleven in the morning. Soon after my rehearsal was done, I ran into two of my best friends, who, happily, had no plans for the day either. We eventually decided to spend the rest of the day doing, well, nothing in particular, and you know what? It was brilliant. Between making pasta, polishing off leftover bottles of wine, watching random YouTube videos, and spending several hours lying in the shade of a willow tree in a park, we more than made up for the lack of a two-four.

I could write many pages about the day, but it really boils down to this: any day where you repeatedly laugh so hard that you begin clapping like a stoned seal is a Good Day. And the thing is, it's difficult to laugh so much without the help of some friends. This one is going out to you, K and S - thanks for a day that I'll cherish for many May Two-Fours to come.

Surely there's a Simon and Garfunkel joke in here somewhere . . .

2010-05-23T05:20:00.022-04:00

Shortly after arriving last weekend in the small town of Alliston, Ontario, I was seized by the unsettling feeling that I was missing something. I ferreted through my backpack. No, my toothbrush was there. My laptop was there, too, though I never ended up using it (it must be a city-person thing, lugging the laptop everywhere - the twenty-first century version of the security blanket). It was only several hours later, as I lay in bed trying to drift into sleep, that I realized what was missing: noise.

Having spent the past year living in an apartment surrounded by bars, restaurants, and clubs, I have grown accustomed (or rather, desensitized) to a constant level of noise. This isn't necessarily such a horrible thing; as Don DeLillo demonstrated, there is a certain clinical comfort that comes from white noise. That said, there is nothing wrong with the alternative, either. Having spent ten years of my childhood and adolescence living in the countryside, I am well acquainted with both solitude and silence, and neither bothers me.

Lest you receive the wrong impression, however, it must be noted that the rural realm is not always blanketed in pastoral quietude. During my tenure in the country, I was on more than one occasion jolted awake in the middle of the night by the sound of a pack of coyotes yipping and yelping in frenzied fashion. Now, let us be clear: the coyote is an entirely different animal from the wolf. When wolves howl, there is a certain desolate majesty to their ululations. This is what you hear in every nature documentary and Disney movie set in Alaska. Coyotes, by contrast, emit the most unearthly, blood-curdling cacophony you can imagine. Their wails are so piercing and immediate that even when you know their source is far away, you cannot help but feel that the pack is just outside your window, breathing on the glass. It is a sound that combines both the terror of the tortured prey and the bloodlust of the predator, and it ranks among the most disturbing sounds you will ever hear.

But I digress. On the whole, the country is indeed quiet at night, at least in comparison to the city. Admittedly, though, at the end of the day, I rather prefer the omnipresent din of the metropolis. There is a certain comfort in knowing that there is always another soul around. It's nearly four in the morning as I'm writing this, but right now, outside my window, a pair of gentlemen (which is to say, drunken louts) is discussing the finer points of various, shall we say, unconventional sexual acts. This being a public blog, I will not divulge the down-and-dirty of their discourse, but suffice it to say that I was surprised by the level of detail in their discussion, if only because it was quite clear that neither of them, for all their braggadocio, had ever come within ten feet of a woman.

It does get slightly annoying at times, hearing such things outside your window at all hours. But it's also pretty damn entertaining, not to mention a whole lot cheaper than paying for cable.

And now Pac-Man ate my blog!

2010-05-22T13:15:00.001-04:00

It is one of the small ironies of life (or at least of blogging) that the more there is to write about, the less motivated I am to write. Take today, for example. My recent excursion out of the city left me with several posts worth of material, yet I keep making excuses to not actually put pen to paper (wait, that can't be right). In my defense, though, some of these excuses are actually half decent. For example, I have been busy working on The Novel.

Oh, The Novel. As a few of you know by now, I've been hacking away at writing a novel for some time now. It's still in the brainstorming stage. It will probably never be finished. It's one of those things. (It's just part of being white, apparently.)

Long story short (no puns intended), I have recently returned to writing sketches for The Novel after a two month long hiatus. Yesterday I finally cracked the two hundred page mark for my notes. It's not a lot, but it was an important milestone for me. And besides, it's the best excuse I have for not writing good blog entries lately.

In the spirit of full disclosure, though, I do have some, shall we say, less worthy excuses. For example, I played at least two rounds of Pac-Man today, after discovering that it was built into the Google.com homepage:

Perhaps you, too, encountered this nostalgic diversion. The reason behind it, a quick Google search (the irony!) reveals, is that May 22, 2010, marks the thirtieth anniversary of Pac-Man. (Do you suddenly feel very, very old?)

Hard to believe, isn't it, that thirty years on, the little dot-chomper still entertains us? A friend of mine noted that she had heard someone playing the game on the other end of a business phone call today, and I myself was startled to hear the alarm-like 8-bit chirps of the game when I walked into the grad student office this afternoon. Word on the web is that office productivity plummeted around the world today, to the point where many companies actually banned the Google homepage. Pac-Man might be getting older, but you can't deny - the little dude's still got moves!

But, teacher! The blog ate my homework!

2010-05-20T03:21:00.001-04:00

This is just to say . . .

. . . that I composed a "real" post with actual content and substance (well, the substance part is debatable), only to accidentally delete it instead of posting it. It was a masterpiece, truly. The prose! The pictures! The humanity!

(Actually, it wasn't such a great post. But I'm still annoyed with myself for not backing it up while it was in draft stage. I should know better.)

Will rewrite the post tomorrow. In the meantime, will leave you with this thought, passed on from a tech guru:

If you don't have it saved in at least two different places, it isn't important to you!

(N.B. This advice should only be applied to data. Possible side-effects of other applications include Voldemortitis.)

Shower Shoes

2010-05-16T13:43:00.003-04:00

The past two days of life away from Ottawa have been quite pleasant. Don't get me wrong: I love the city dearly. It's refreshing, though, to awaken each morning to the sound of birds singing, instead of to the din of delivery trucks backing up outside the bedroom window. (Granted, given my night-owlish tendencies, it is generally more likely that I will be going to sleep to the sound of birds and trucks, but the point stands.)

Today I took advantage of my "vacation" time to do some shopping. I recently signed up to play in a summer football (i.e., soccer) rec league at Carleton University, and was in need of some new gear, having last played on an organized team about eight years ago. The biggest challenge was finding football boots made from synthetic materials, but evidently Adidas makes a number of leather-free football shoes, including these bad boys:

It's okay if you want to judge me. I would judge me too. The fact is, shoes say a lot about a person. One might even go so far as to say that souls are revealed through the soles. (Did you really expect me to resist that pun?) Every time I see a guy wearing shoes as obnoxious as these, I quietly think to myself, "yep, he's a douche." It's just one of those things.

To be clear, I didn't really want douche shoes. They just happen to be the only ones available in my size that weren't made of leather. Alas - the road to douche-dom is paved with good intentions!

In the end, though, it's probably for the best. If people are distracted by my ostentatious shoes, maybe they won't notice the fact that I can't actually play football to save my life.

On the Road, Part 2

2010-05-15T12:53:00.002-04:00

Well, now. Where were we? Ah, yes - on a bus.

The Greyhound trip could have been much worse. Unusually, things were running according to schedule, and the journey from Ottawa to Toronto took only five hours. To be sure, "only" is perhaps a misleading word in this context, because five hours is quite long enough. Still, five hours is better than, say, eight or even thirteen hours (let it simply be said that overnight trips through snow storms are not enjoyable affairs, and are to be assiduously avoided).

When you are on a bus, it is hard not to notice the people around you. You look sideways at them, perhaps, not wanting to invade their privacy or risk making awkward eye contact, but curious, nonetheless. Have you ever seen a dog - a large, sad-eyed, docile dog, mind - sharing a sofa with a haughty, hostile cat? It is like that. The dog keeps glancing nervously at the aloof feline, wary, perhaps, of its hidden, sudden claws, and yet irresistibly intrigued by the smaller animal. The tip of the dog's tail flicks timidly - will you be my friend? The cat's tail flicks, too, but with a different meaning - well, I haven't checked the weather lately, did hell freeze over?

(May or may not be thinking of a specific dog and cat here. Will leave it to you to decide.)

But I digress. As I say, it is difficult not to be curious about the people sitting around you. Yesterday, for example, the seats across the aisle were occupied by a pair of youths, younger than my roommate and I, if not by much. These young men were in possession of a package of Oreo cookies, as well as a Rubik's Cube. Now, sitting on a bus is a boring affair, and as a result, mundane things start to become quite interesting. And so it was that after surreptitiously watching these lads eating their Oreos for the better part of an hour, I began to develop a craving for some Oreos of my own. (Less intrigued by the Rubik's Cube - that just seems like a recipe for motion sickness.) This craving was sated when the bus stopped at a roadside diner and I was able to procure a package of Mr. Christie's finest.

The first row of Oreos was indeed delicious. However, one of the hazards of being a human and not a large, docile, sad-eyed Labrador dog is that it is indeed quite possible for your eyes to be larger than your stomach (for do not be deceived - however large a Lab's eyes may be, its stomach is always, always larger). The roommate and I made a warriorlike effort to devour the second row, but although we won the battle, we lost the war: two rows of the dastardly desserts remained, taunting us like the overlapping black-and-white shields of a Grecian phalanx.

The sugar high came on quickly and suddenly, and the subsequent inevitable crash brought with it a twinge of nausea. It was around this point that the roommate made a reference to the "name all the American states in six minutes" game (you know, the one from that episode of Friends). For reasons that elude me in retrospect, I thought it would be a good idea to try this game right then and there. (It probably does not need to be said that this was not, in fact, a good idea.) Mild motion sickness ensued, and I am going to blame my failure to name all fifty states on this condition. Not going to admit how many states I missed, but let us just say that no offence was intended toward the good residents Alabama, Mississippi, Wyoming, and about, oh, ten other states. I'm sure your states are beautiful, and that you are very memorable people. It's not you, it's me. And possibly about a dozen Oreos.

As for the Oreos, their story is not quite done. There was no room in my overstuffed backpack for the remainder of the package, so I had to carry it by hand as I walked down Dundas street in Toronto to rendezvous with my ride.

All this is just to say, if you ever need lessons in the art of looking like a clueless tourist, you know where to find me.

On the Road, Part 1

2010-05-14T13:48:00.000-04:00

Have you ever read Kerouac's On the Road? No? Good. Nor have I. I do have a story about it, however.

A few years back, while taking a break from practicing, I noticed a colleague of mine reading a book in the music building lounge. This colleague, was - how to put it diplomatically? - well educated, and she was not afraid of making this attribute known. Now, being (admittedly) a literary snob myself, I enquired as to what she was reading. "Almond Road" she replied. "Have you read it?" I sheepishly admitted that I had never heard of this "Almond Road." She gloated. I blushed. It was only when I had fled and turned the corner that I realized that I had misheard her, and that she had said "On the Road." But by then it was too late. The damage was done. She had seen everything. My street cred (or should I say "boulevard cred"?) was gone.

This story comes to mind because I spent most of today on the road, literally (though not literarily) speaking. After toying with the idea for more than two weeks, I finally decided to leave the city for a spell, and return to my small-town roots. My roommate was also leaving town, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to make the trip from Ottawa to Toronto without having to risk sitting next to an unpleasant stranger on the Greyhound. (You know the type I mean. I have stories to tell on this subject, but why not save such fertile material for a rainy day?)

Having become well acquainted with Greyhound buses over the past few years, I can state with confidence that some things never change. The upholstery still feels resentful, the air still tastes unsettlingly synthetic, and the guy two rows back still feels the need to share his iPod's techno playlist with the rest of the passengers on the bus. Nevertheless, there are new developments. For example, I discovered today that Greyhound is now offering its customers greater security and peace of mind by searching all luggage and providing complimentary hand-held metal detector body scans. I can only assume that this is designed to make you feel loved. In fairness, the process was relatively painless, but it doesn't exactly make one's trip better. Even the security personnel looked rather apologetic about the whole affair - one can only imagine the sort of abuse they must suffer from irritable travelers!

The trip itself was . . . well, why hurry things here? This post is long enough, and stories, like road trips, are better when they are not rushed. For now, enjoy this cover of the Miles Davis-Bill Evans classic Nardis, played by a trumpet and guitar duo.

Now with added YouTube goodness!

2010-05-13T02:18:00.001-04:00

Last month, I played the final recital of my MMus degree. The performance was recorded on video, and today I finally got around to uploading the recording to YouTube. Can't say that I'm entirely pleased with the performance - a few notes I'd like back, and some nasty memory slips that I would like to forget (oh, the irony!) - but I suppose that's par for the course with a live performance. Hopefully sometime this summer I'll have a chance to make a more polished studio recording of this repertoire, but for now, this will have to do.

The second half of the Liszt, as well as the rest of the recital (Radiohead and Rzewski) can be found on my YouTube channel.

Of Pianocchio and Pringles

2010-05-11T18:53:00.001-04:00

Every six months or so, I observe a unique holiday. The day doesn't have a name yet, but the ritual is firmly established. During the afternoon, when the sun is at its peak, I go to the music library, take out the score of Igor Stravinsky's Trois Mouvements de Petrouchka, and proceed to ascend the two flights of stairs to the practice rooms. After a solemn procession down the corridors, I choose the room with the sturdiest piano, enter, and lay the book open upon the rack. Blood pounds in my ears. The time for the ritual sacrifice of my hands and arms draws near.

Do you know Petrouchka? Based on the composer's 1911 ballet, the piece recounts scenes from the story of Petrushka, a puppet who is brought to life, falls in love, and is ultimately murdered in a crime of passion. It is a magnificent piece, beastly and barbaric. So dense are its textures, so wide is its range, that Stravinsky writes it across three staves instead of the usual two. The pianist is presented with page after page of pounding chords, octaves, and tremolandi. It is so difficult, so overwhelming, that it consumes your full attention as you read through it. It is both physically damning and emotionally cathartic, for as you play, the music inspires every atavistic reflex, every primal response in your body. Your arms ache. Your temples pound. Your heart pumps an altogether more insidious quality of blood.

I have never actually learned Petrouchka, for each time I perform this ritual, I am reminded of just how terrifyingly difficult it is to play. Years ago, I made a mental list of the repertoire I must play before I die, and on this list were many pieces that I was sure I would never be able to play. Since then, I have played every one of them - every one, that is, save for Petrouchka.

And so, the ritual continues. Each time I sight-read through it, Petrouchka seems a little less scary. It used to be that after stumbling through the score, I would swear that I could never learn it. Later, I stated that I would never learn it. Today, I say that I might learn it - not now, no, but someday. Such are the things we live for.

I would write more on this matter, but a situation has come to my attention. It seems that my roommate, who was playing Halo in my room earlier today, left a can of Pringles within arm's reach of my chair. Have you ever watched one of those nature documentaries about the predators of the savanna, in which you see a shot of a lion lying in the grass, tail tip flicking, followed by a shot of a gazelle grazing, head down, blissfully unaware of its impending demise? You have? Good. You know, then, what must happen here.

I'm glad we had this talk.

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 3: Why yes, I DO know the Muffin Man

2010-05-09T03:05:00.005-04:00

Today did not start out as a particularly good day. In fact, it started out as a downright awful day. This isn't the time or place for details, but suffice it to say that my mood was accurately reflected by the stormy grey skies above. Midway through the afternoon, however, intervention came from above - two floors above, to be exact.

It went down like this. I was just about to leave my apartment to put my laundry in the dryer, when someone knocked on the front door. I wasn't feeling particularly social, and probably would have ignored the knock, but for the fact that I had to leave to get my laundry anyway. I opened the door to be greeted by a man holding a cooking pan, and a plate of cupcakes. (Confession time: I may or may not have been so distracted by the cupcakes that I didn't catch this gentleman's name. Thus, he will henceforth be known as The Muffin Man - because face it, you and I both know that "The Cupcake Man" just doesn't have that same ring to it.) Apparently, one of my roommates had lent The Muffin Man the pan a while back, and so he was now returning it with edible interest. Not necessary, but not complaining!

Now, you know those "foodie blogs" in which people post pictures of the delectable delicacies they concoct? Well, this will never be one of those blogs. Don't get me wrong here. It's not that I don't like food. I love food. Rather, this will never be a foodie blog because, on those rare occasions when I actually manage to prepare something that looks like it's worth eating, I'm invariably so hungry that I forget to take a photo until I've already eaten half of it. When I saw The Muffin Man's cupcakes, however, I realized that I was in the presence of something special, and I knew what had to be done. So here you go:

Drool, fools, drool!

(In case you were wondering, yes, that is caramel, and yes, those are mocha chocolate eggs. And believe it or not, the cupcakes actually tasted better than they look - c'est incroyable!)

~ ~ ~

I'm writing this post late at night. The day is done, and things didn't get much better. It stopped raining, which was nice, but then it started snowing. I still feel a bit cranky. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I do know this: today would have been much, much worse were it not for the cupcakes. And that, good reader, is why unexpected gifts of cupcakes are The Greatest Thing Ever.

The New Macho, No. 1: Football

2010-05-08T14:11:00.003-04:00

It's tough being a straight white male these days.

Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate that we (i.e., straight white males) are, historically, a privileged bunch. We've taken over the world and generally stuck our noses (among other things) just about everywhere we've wanted, with mixed results. But today, the domain of the straight white male is ebbing. We're not good at being cool, and we're not good at being interesting. We're generally not all that attractive. We don't even dress that well. And let's face it: we have a reputation for being kinda nerdy, flabby, and clueless.

The worst thing, however, is that it's becoming increasingly difficult to be manly. It used to be that a nice middle class white boy could impress the ladies by revving the engine of his Mustang. But today, that just makes him another douche who is killing the environment and, worse, crushing Al Gore's pasty white soul. (And make no mistake: your hybrid Prius might be trendy or even cute, but it sure as hell ain't macho.) It used to be that a man could prove his virility by shooting a deer and dragging it home for dinner. But these days, he's just the insensitive jerk who killed Bambi. (And besides, eating red meat is just so not kosher with the pilates crowd.) And the guy who dresses impeccably and shows the ladies a little chivalry? It used to be that he was a gentleman. Now it's just assumed that he's gay.

And so it is that the straight white male of 2010 faces a challenge: how to be macho without being either a caveman or a gay man (no offence intended to members of either demographic - well, maybe to the cavemen, actually). With this in mind, I present to you today the first item of The New Macho: football.

Now let's be clear here. When we refer to football, we're not talking about the American sport with the cheerleaders, the tight pants, and the wardrobe malfunctions (three things that, surprisingly, aren't directly linked). We're talking about the real football, the sport with history, class, and, on occasion, head-butting.

For years football was considered a wimpy sport in North America. After all, how could a sport played by skinny, long-haired Europeans possibly stack up to a sport like hockey with its toothless goons, or American football with its muscular hulks? Somewhere along the line, though, that perception changed. Many would credit David Beckham with making football manly, but the sport already had all the ingredients (apparently we North Americans just need a pretty face to make us notice). You say it isn't a tough man's sport? Think again. You think football is full of diving and cheating? Maybe, but try watching hockey these days - Sidney Crosby and his Penguins (or, as my Habs-loving roommate calls them, Cindy and the Boys) could probably make most Olympic diving teams. You think footballers have lame hair? Well, fine, I'll give you Carlos Valderama, but Brad Pitt's got nothing on David Beckham.

But here's what makes football a truly great part of The New Macho: pretty much any guy play it, and look manly doing it. On Wednesday I had the opportunity to play some five-on-five pickup with my mates, and while I was no hero on the pitch, I'm pretty sure my MQ (manliness quotient) went up at least five points. Why, you ask? Midway through the game I took a volleyed football to the stomach, and forty-eight hours later, I can still see clearly the imprint of the ball on my stealth abs. (I would post a picture, but let's be honest here, you don't really want to see my untoned, pale belly. It's tough being manly when your skin colour is closer to blue than to white.) Let's just say I'm glad that the ball wasn't aimed, oh, a foot lower.

My legs are so stiff that I still can't really walk well today, and my feet are bubbling with blisters from busting out the cleats for the first time this year. But goshdarnit, I feel like more of a man today for having played football. And I've got the welts to prove it!

The Greatest Things Ever, No. 2: Nina Simone Singing Gershwin

2010-05-06T06:00:00.002-04:00

Sometime ago, in the late nineties or the early noughties, I became acquainted with Bill Evans' 1961 trio album Sunday at the Village Vanguard. It is not an exaggeration to say that it was love at first listen. Many jazz addicts cite Miles Davis' Kind of Blue or Dave Brubeck's Time Out as the albums that got them hooked, but my obsession started somewhere between the Bill Evans Trio's hauntingly empty renditions of Alice in Wonderland and Jade Visions. To this day I have never found a recording, jazz or otherwise, that so epitomizes the idea of sehnsucht.

This post, however, is not about Sunday at the Village Vanguard. Rather, it is about a song that is covered on that album, My Man's Gone Now from George Gershwin's opera Porgy and Bess. One of the wonderful things about exploring jazz is becoming familiar with a cover of a classic song, without actually knowing the original. When you hear the original, perhaps years later, it is a revelatory experience. Such was the case with My Man's Gone Now. I only became familiar with the Gershwin original last year, when I played Percy Grainger's exuberant two-piano fantasy on themes from Porgy and Bess. In preparing the Grainger paraphrase, it was necessary to listen to the original opera, and so I became familiar with My Man's Gone Now in its "pure" form:

As moving as Gershwin's aria is, however, this post is only now arriving at its point. Having become familiar with Bill Evans' cover, Percy Grainger's transcription, and George Gershwin's original, I smugly thought that I had a thorough appreciation of this song. But nothing could possibly have prepared me for what I heard next.

Nina Simone's recording of My Man's Gone Now is perhaps the single most powerful performance of any piece of music that I have ever heard. It's not the technical strengths of her singing and playing that impress me. Rather, it's her ability to balance and control her emotional states. Few and far between are the artists who can communicate such devastation without also conveying a sense of anger or bitterness. But in this recording, Nina Simone creates an overwhelming sense of loss and despair, without ever sacrificing an attitude of calm detachment.

Consider, for example, how she carefully shapes the trajectory of the song. The climax of her performance is arguably between 2:56 and 3:26 on this recording. The piano thunders, the voice storms, and the churning musical heavens break open and rain down. Most musicians would have been content to end the song there. But Simone, ever conscious of the narrative she is weaving, chooses to end the song by returning to the staid, detached character of the opening.

Consider, too, that Simone's recording of My Man's Gone Now is four minutes and fifteen seconds long - exactly as long as Audra McDonald's performance. There is no need to compare, for each version stands on its own. Nonetheless, one cannot help but notice how different they are in tone and character! Would you have even recognized it as the same song?

There is so much one could write about Nina Simone's My Man's Gone Now. Yet as Heinrich Heine famously said, "where words leave off, music begins." On that note I will cease my words, and simply encourage you to listen to this recording again. For in the end, I can only say that this performance is, for me, The Greatest Thing Ever. I hope it is for you, too.

Suiting Up, Part 1

2010-05-02T02:00:00.005-04:00

One of the small pleasures of working as a collaborative pianist (that being the politically correct term for "piano bitch") is having many opportunities to suit up. While accompanists are generally confined to wearing unassuming outfits, they are also encouraged to complement the attire of the soloist. And when the soloist is sporting a colourful formal gown, well, that's a good day.

Take today, for example. This afternoon I accompanied a friend's vocal recital, and said friend was wearing a bubblegum pink dress. (At least, I am told it was bubblegum pink. Not an expert on shades of pink.) Having been advised of this ahead of time, I went on a tie-buying expedition yesterday.

Allow me to backtrack. Last week, while meandering through the mall, I saw a tie I rather liked - ochre, with a curly knot pattern in yellow and gold. In the interest of not being an impulse buyer, however, I didn't purchase it at the time.

Fast forward to yesterday. Returned to the store in search of a bubblegum pink tie, and after locating said flavour of tie, took another look at the ochre tie. It was at this point that my friend drew my attention to the fact that there was a two-for-one sale on ties. Result!

This is to say, yesterday was a Good Day.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the pink tie matched the dress almost perfectly. Perhaps it was just the scent of the flowering crabapple trees after the rain, but I could swear I smelled bubblegum in the air as I knotted the tie . . .