oakwriter

My Thoughts on My Winnipeg

2009-03-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

Review: My Winnipeg

When I selected Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg from the Movies list on The Movie Network, I fully expected to get twenty minutes into it before pressing stop.

“This is going to be all weird and inaccessible,” I mumbled to myself, remote control in hand. I’d read and heard that Maddin’s work is the epitome of self-indulgence, at times visually brilliant, but mostly the strange labour of some lost, mad child in grown man’s body. Be that as it may, I found myself utterly enthralled. It was anything but inaccessible. What a wonderful invitation to the mind of this peerless filmmaker and his conflicted relationship with his home city, Winnipeg.

Now, many of us have complex relationships with the places where we live or have lived. I can tell you how I feel about a number of places and how I’ve imagined them on quiet, cold, winter nights. I’ve never lived in Winnipeg but I have visited it three times, always in summer, and I find this eastern gateway to the Prairies inscrutably fascinating. Having experienced My Winnipeg, I feel as though I’ve had a long psychic conversation with a local lad to see if his dreams of his home speak to my first visceral impressions of the city and how its winters must feel.

How many of us have found ourselves immobilized by the sight of a frosty halo around a street light during a snow storm, and then found ourselves wondering about our own place in this country? Has anyone has really felt at home here, transplanted in this new ancient land? To be sure, My Winnipeg has plenty of Canadiana in it. Maddin takes us to hockey rinks, an Old Eaton’s building, and to the Hudson’s Bay Company. However, this film is not only for Canadians. Who knows where any of our family trees really started on this planet? We all wander, haunted by the desire to go backwards and forwards in time, to penetrate. The answer may lie in “The Forks,” the current beneath the convergence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers.

What journey it is to enter the world of how Maddin sees his home, not through a plodding, linear narrative, but by running through the museum of his mind, by sensing his longing and his urge to escape, which in My Winnipeg is portrayed in an eerie black and white phantasmagoria of past images and re-enactments of childhood experiences, of trips down the seedy back laneways inhabited by a darker flipside Winnipeg, of frozen dead horses and Cree living on urban rooftops, of dashed hopes and lost sleepwalkers .

I won’t mention specific claims Maddin makes about the city or his family, some of which I suspect are made-up or distorted, though I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter. This is a film about emotional truths, not literal ones. Besides, their mention outside the context of Maddin’s dream-like state would seem absurd, meaningless, or merely banal.

One Los Angeles reviewer suggested that only a Canadian filmmaker could have made such a movie. If so, then Maddin has given the world a real treasure, because this is a transcendent film. My Winnipeg is everyone’s home.

Hit play.

Looking for the down escalator

2007-11-04T16:46:00.000-08:00

The song, by The Chameleons, was a frontal assault of buzzing angst and booming vocals, the guitar rising and falling with urgent melancholy that suited the title - "Up the Down Escalator." This was one of those deliciously gloomy tunes about a world gone mad that came out in the early to mid-eighties, when post-punk and goth were giving over to industrial, when the club scene in Toronto was about dancing, music, and the tragedy of young adult disappointment (before the real tragedy of guns in the hands of the young clubbers.)

On many nights songs like "Up the Down Escalator" kept me company (whether I was alone or not) in my car, in my room, or on the dance floor. And then the band, like many, just disappeared. Those times, which I occasionally recall with pangs of bittersweet longing, seem innocent twenty years later. Ah, the clubbing in the eighties...

...Ah, searching for music in the 2000's. I wouldn't call it pangs I feel, but slight annoyance. For years now I've searched stores and online in the hopes of finding the studio version, but without luck. Sure, I managed to download a live version I found on iTunes. But this performance, though full of the energy I remember, is a little off: the melancholy of the guitar is overpowered by the buzzing angst. Who was on the mixing board during that show?! The studio version is strong and balanced, like youth itself... Okay, maybe "balanced" doesn't apply.

But no matter. The live version, like life itself, is imperfect and often difficult to make out. And yet it contains the passion of the studio version, as does the grown up version of my own life. In fact, I would say my life today is better than my life when I was 21, in so many ways. While the world still has problems, I have a clearer sense of direction, a better understanding of my options, and greater control of my personal power. Not perfect, but improved. Perhaps this is what is called wisdom.

As for the song, I can always replay the studio version in my mind while listening to the downloaded one. In a way, I get the best of both worlds. Besides, I've come to accept that reality rarely lives up to the down escalator of one's memories.

Sometimes it's better.

At the Crease ... at a distance

2007-10-24T16:37:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I was in the throes of shingles and therefore sleeping every spare moment I could get, when the goalie who posed for Ken Danby's renowned painting, At the Crease, was revealed as Dennis Kemp, a junior B player who guarded the net for the Biltmore Mad Hatters back in 1972 and 1973.

This is not news now. Far from it. A few weeks have passed, after all. But it was news to me when about a week ago members of my family forwarded me this link to the Guelph Mercury.

While I won't claim to be a lifelong Danby aficionado, I can say without hesitation that the image of that determined, menacing goaltender was definitely a part of my youth. I would go so far as to say it was the quintessential goalie: fearless, steady, and ready to spring, so tense with potential energy that his stillness is like motion.

The image's significance, personally and on a national level, was well captured by David Akin.

At the Crease haunted me from a distance most of my life, as I was around six years old when the painting was done, and I only saw it a handful of times throughout my life. But it's power was undeniable when I saw it again last week.

What also haunted me throughout my youth was my desire to find my mother's roots, as she was adopted during the Second World War. There's a whole story there, of course. Our family's eventual discovery of our biological family was captured in my CBC Outfront documentary, The Secrets of Stanley Mission, in which I explore the reasons why my mother was given up for adoption and the life of my biological grandfather, Everett Kemp.

... You may see where this is going...

So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I realized that the Dennis Kemp of the Danby story is in fact my first cousin once removed! He lives out west. I have a picture of him, which I won't share here out of respect for the universality of THE goalie and the privacy of a family member. If another journalist or writer finds a picture of Dennis and shows it, so be it.

When I first decided to blog again after a regrettably long hiatus, I was going to talk about my shingles, which have subsided, both physiologically and mentally. Yes, this illness is dramatic in that it is painful and relatively rare among youngish middle-aged adults. But the discovery that I am connected to someone who was likely involved in the creation of an image that has filled me with awe and pride in our national pass-time, this seemed worthy of my return to blogging.

Now, some have questioned the truth of Kemp's connection to Danby's iconic work, and one blogger even impugned the quality of the journalism involved in this story. I will leave the critics, doubters, and naysayers to their arguments.

While At the Crease belongs to all of us, my angle on this story is my own.

Under the Tuscon Sun

2007-06-07T18:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in darn near two months, so I figured I'd best be posting again.

The flavour of that last sentence was inspired by the sweet, earthy taste of the Arizona air still fresh in my mind. When you're there, it gets into everything.

After the recent passing of my father-in-law (from post-surgical complications), my wife, stepson and I went to a resort in the desert just south of Tucson, Arizona. She attended some of a conference for work, and the rest of the time we all made a family getaway of it. Now, Arizona is truly a getaway.

I'd been to the state before (so had my wife), as my grandfather spends his winters in Yuma, AZ, but that was in January. Winter in Arizona is what I imagine the anteroom to God's office would be like: almost perfection. It's blue, dry, and 75. However, daytime highs in late May and early June in the land of the Saguaro cactus are over 100 F. But the humidity levels top out around 15%. So when the night temps plummet about 40 degrees, you can turn off the air conditioner.

Beautiful.

Though my ancestors came from the wet lands of Ireland, England, and Newfoundland, I have always been fascinated by deserts - particularly red ones. Their starkness and inescapable hostility make my imagination soar into the blue skies that drop rain only on occasion. (This was partly the reason why I loved A Canticle For Leibowitz and Dune.) Granted, we got to soar in an air-conditioned mini bus from the airport, so survival was not really a big issue. But, it's about imagination, so work with me here.

Speaking of which, one of the highlights of the otherwise low-key vacation was an outing to the Old Tucson Studios. During its heyday, several westerns were filmed in this town-studio first constructed to resemble the Tucson of 1860 for the film Arizona, starring William Holden. You can read the detailed history if you're interested. For me it was a portal into a way of life that has intrigued me ever since I was a kid in Northern Ontario.

To say I loved movies growing up would be an understatement. So when the guide on the bus said the image of the mountain at the beginning of Columbia Pictures movies comes from one of the rugged hills right next to the Old Tuscon Studio, I felt as though I were coming home. Throw an outdoor BBQ and a former John Wayne double into the deal, I'm there. Yeee-haw! We had to shout this on our way out of the bus to the studio. I know, it sounds silly.

Yes, the family fun park experience is a little cheesy. But after two months of watching my father-in-law's slow, heartbreaking decline, we were all ready for some child-like fun, overcooked meat, and questionable peach cobbler.

Because life can be short, even if you don't have to combat the heat of the desert. And it's sweet, whatever the taste.

Guns, Germs, and Steel ... and books

2007-04-08T15:26:00.000-07:00

I'm just about finished Jared Diamond's Pulitzer Prize winning Guns, Germs, and Steel. For years now my good, and well-read, buddy Kris has been praising the book and urging me to get my Western ass to the book store so I can read the book which won the Pulitzer Prize for introducing the world to a broad and far-reaching explanation as to why the world is the way it is. Okay, Kris never said the words Western ass, but this seems an apt expression for a book about how the Europeans (and the places they colonized) became the big, fat cats of the world.

I see what he means. Finally I read a book that addresses the questions I've been asking myself, and a few of my friends, for years now. The thrust of the book is that we here in the West won not because we are smarter than others, but because of geography, or as Diamond puts it, good real estate. Or as I'm putting it now, location.

Here it is in a nutshell: Eurasia (particularly the Fertile Crescent and China) had great geography and the best plants and animals for farming, so it developed food production first, which meant societal complexity and specialization, which meant writing systems for recording events and keeping track of trade, which also meant military to guard the food and land, which meant professional soldiers to conquer the hunter-gatherers, which meant more land and people, which meant more resources and technological advancement, which meant formalized learning and, eventually, stories (and propaganda) about conquests to inspire or subdue people. And so on.

By the time of the Greeks and Romans, most of the crops and livestock we take for granted today had become the norm. As the Middle East dried up the power continued to move west.

So how did China, a great civilization that had developed writing when my Celtic ancestors were still carrying the heads of their slain enemies on their belts, manage to lose out to Europe?

Again, the answer is geography, says Diamond. China eventually became a highly centralized, rigid, and politically unified society due in large part to its smooth coastline the unimpeded east-west travel east within the country. One bad decision could have wide and long-lasting consequences. Conversely, Europe became a collection of diverse societies due largely to mountains, peninsulas, and other geographic nooks and crannies that promoted inventiveness and power as its many cultures competed with one another. Columbus tried several avenues before getting the green light and money to sail across the Atlantic.

By the Middle Ages, we had developed guns, steel, and immunity to germs because of our millennia of exposure to livestock. Conquering Australia and the Americas was a slam dunk.

Now, I've grossly oversimplified Diamond's impressive research. He brings together linguistics, biology, history, and a much more detailed examination of geography than I have here. He takes a broad look at the world , going back in time long before the points where most history classes start. He looks at ultimate causes, not just proximate ones, which are often biased, Euro-centric, and tied up in myths about cultural and ethnic superiority.

Now, having said all this, I must add that Diamond doesn't say that individual intelligence, culture, and unforeseeable events (both human and environmental) don't play into it. These other factors are certainly part of the mix, which is why Diamond's work is more about general patterns than it is about trying to predict future events the way pure scientists do. However, he does say that some societies had the good fortune to have started out with more, which influences choices and events early on.

I think this is one of those books about the distant past that will stay with me far into the future. Maybe Gutenberg was just lucky to have been a European, as I am to be a Canadian.

The Number 23

2007-03-21T17:50:00.000-07:00

I saw the movie The Number 23 a while back.

While Jim Carrey gives an interesting and disturbing performance as a man with a lot on his mind, the movie as a whole piece of work is just plain bad. Essentially, it’s about a man obsessed with the number 23. Now, the idea of obsession with patterns or numerology as a field of study can certainly provide some grist for the creative mill. (An eminently wise and learned colleague of mine once said that for a writer, belief is irrelevant. The job of the writer is to entertain the notion and explore it. I would agree with this.) Some feel that numbers can explain the world around us, or even the reason for the world around us. However, when these ideas are turned into film, the results are often, well, rather silly. And this new Carrey flick is a case in point. I won’t get into plot details because, quite frankly, I don’t care enough to do so.

Essentially, the film commits two main errors - one structural, the other in how it deals with the number 23 itself (or in some cases its reverse, 32).

First of all, the movie’s structure is uneven. The beginning is playful; the middle is more a series of edgy and bizarre scenes put together than a second act; and the end, if you make it that far, is an okay ending for a movie we wish this movie could’ve been. The movie doesn’t know what it wants to be, quite simply. Secondly, the connection the film makes between numbers is so tenuous as to be laughable. Now I’m no mathematician, but I was laughing, and not in a good way.

However, I did think that Carrey’s hair in the film was very, er, 1976. Wait! If you add up those four number you get … no … yes … 23! See how cool that is? See what I mean?

I also think the price of the movie ticket, the popcorn, and the pop might be around 23 bucks – what you’ll save by not seeing this movie.

When I first decided to beat up on this movie in a blog post, I considered coming up with 23 reasons not to see this film. But, that would suggest obsession on my part, which might support the very idea I was trying to lampoon.

How about this: 3 minus 2 is 1, and 2 minus 3 is -1. Add those two results together and you get 0.

End of post.

Quirpon and on

2007-02-10T06:58:00.000-08:00

I got this picture today from my mom. Apparently this little cove is the first Canadian location anyone in my family tree called home. As you may've guessed, this is a shot of somewhere in Newfoundland. Well, this is Quirpon - where, I'm told, my great-great-grandfather (with perhaps another "great" in there), Henry Pynn, was the first Brit to set down roots. Word also has it that the windows and some of the boards of this house, now a Heritage Site, are from the original home, which dates back to around 1820. English adventurer and mariner Sir Humphrey Gilbert, who claimed Newfoundland as a colony, was reported to have yelled, "We are as near to heaven by sea as by land!" as his ship went down in the North Atlantic. Well, I don't know if Newfoundland is close to heaven, but I do know Quirpon is a long way from Markham, Ontario, where I grew up! And it's probably closer to England than it is to Prince Albert, where other ancestors of mine lie buried next to an old prairie church. I think this warrants a visit east.

---

(I apologize for the solid block of text. There's a new Blogger-Google thing going on, and I'm having trouble formatting... I should just switch to Word Press!)

Unexplained Canada on CBC

2006-11-29T18:05:00.000-08:00

I should have posted this a little earlier.

If you get digital TV and are in the mood for some intriguing and enduring Canadian tales, check out Unexplained Canada, a six-part documentary which starts showing on CBC Country Canada this Saturday (December 2) at 11:30 a.m.

As I've mentioned a few times in the past, I loved working on this show. I had the pleasure of researching and writing stories while speaking with people in many provinces - from the Atlantic to the Prairies.

Canada is not a dull place, if you know where and how to look.

Seek with your imagination, and enjoy the show.

A Matter of Character

2006-11-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

Though for now I continue to slog away in the trenches of modern office life, I am taking on freelance writing projects in addition to my Gleaner assignments. Hey, the writer never stops writing new stuff, and lately I've been writing about something called the York Region Character Community initiative. This piece was published in the York Region Newspaper Group's Business Times.

Rome and Catullus

2006-09-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

I've been enjoying the HBO series Rome. I've been renting it from the video store. It portrays a Rome I've long imagined: a republic (and then empire) full of blood, lust, greed and glory. But this series favours the smaller, more intimate stories of the men and women as individuals - an approach I'm sure some have criticized. After all, some like historical tales to be big epics. But then, this is TV, so we should be getting into Caesar's sex life and showing some of his weaknesses as well, no?

Now, if you can get past the fact that most of the characters - merchants, soldiers, consuls, and even Caesar himself - sound like they just strolled out of an English university or a British pub, then you have a fine series. In my humble opinion. (And bear in mind the Roman citizenry was hardly ethnically homogeneous.) But then, I love the everyday detail as much as the larger-than-life events that create civilizations. Passion, energy, and motivation often start at home.

And when it comes to home and its rude, raunchy, and ribald details, I recommend the Roman poet Catullus, whose work was translated by an acquaintance of mine, Ewan Whyte, and published by Mosaic Press in 2004.

For all of Catullus' knee-slapping rough humour, he does have moments of passionate tenderness:

Let us live and love,
not listening to old men's talk.
Suns will rise and set
long after our little light
has gone away to darkness.
Kiss me again and again.
Let me kiss you a hundred times,
a thousand more, again a thousand
without rest, losing count, so no
one can speak of us and say
they know the number of our kisses.

We will never know all the kisses of Rome or anywhere else.

I don't need that much detail.

Back in town tonight

2006-09-10T15:41:00.000-07:00

I figured a bit of borrowed lyric from a Tragically Hip song was as good a title as any to restart my blogging. It's been, what, four or five months now. I figured it was time to saddle up and ride back into town. I fired up my email this evening and saw that someone had stumbled upon my blog posts about our Morkie pup, Timmy, and was wondering what it was like to own such a beast. That's all it took - to see that someone was looking for information or opinions I could actually provide.

(I will provide doggy feedback to this aforementioned individual via email. Suffice it to say, Timmy is healthy and crazy and lots of fun.)

For those who came to my blog from time to time and wondered what happened to me, it's not that I stopped blogging out of anger or on some kind of sour note or anything. I simply lost my rhythm for a while, as my working days got very long and very tiring. You see, I'd fallen into debt (that's another story) and therefore had to take a day gig in order to earn some steady cash. So, I took a job working with underwriters in a mortgage company. Some may've seen my last post and wondered what the hell I was talking about. After all, I am supposed to be a writer. Many a writer (some famous ones) has done other stuff while writing. Besides, aspects of my job are vaguely journalistic: I get documents, do online investigations, conduct short interviews, and then do write-ups for the files. Occasionally I even edit the work of others. It's not glamorous but it does pay okay. Anyone who knows the mortgage/housing industry knows it is absolutely insane during summer. Hence the hiatus.

Enough other work talk. Back to writing. I'm still taking freelance gigs and writing for the community papers from time to time. And I do have some other, bigger, irons in the fire, some weenies on the stick, marshmallows on the roast, what have you. I know, those are tedious and trite metaphors. Or just tedious. No one uses those last two.

Ahhhh. Few, if any, may notice my return, but it feels good to be home just the same.

Talk to you sooner than later.

Absence makes the heart grow blogger

2006-05-07T19:17:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged much in the past month or two. To be honest, I've been too busy to realize how busy I've been. You know, it's like when you're so deprived of sleep you actually feel okay. But it's misleading, and unhealthy. You're just really friggin' tired.

Out of necessity, and for the time being, I've taken a day job, which saps a lot of my time and energy. Toss in a one-hour commute each way, and not much is left. At nights and on weekends I do my creative stuff, all the time awaiting my next creative gig.

I did submit a short piece to the CBC's The Arts Tonight. Not sure yet if they like it. If not, maybe I should write about my current day job - about a writer who has to work in a mortgage underwriting department. Writer vs. underwriter. Hm. Hmm. Back off, it was my idea first!

...Well, then there's my family life, which continues to make its merry way, supplying me with material I may tap into at some point. It certainly sustains me in general.

And I draw blogger inspiration from Joe Mahoney, who produces, writes, commutes, and more - regularly. And hey, he's 41 (you'll read on his blog) whereas I'm still 39 ... for three more months! Count 'em.

Speaking of time, my time away from my blog has shown me I can't stay away. For good or ill, I will blog again.

...Actually, you're reading it. Well wasn't that an anticlimax!

Sorry, I'm rusty.

Until next time...

Later.

Northern Trader

2006-04-12T16:45:00.000-07:00

Last fall I did a CBC Outfront piece about my maternal grandfather, Everett Kemp, and his trip to Stanley Mission, Lac La Ronge, in Northern Saskatchewan, where he and his siblings grew up among the Cree. During Everett's childhood, his parents, Elsie and Harold, managed a Revillon Frères trading post, across the river from the Hudson's Bay post.

That was back in the 1920s. Eventually, Harold moved the family to Prince Albert, in central Saskatchewan. Years later, long after Everett had grown up and left the house, my great-grandfather wrote a book called Northern Trader, a straightforward but highly engaging account of what he described as the true Northern life, as he recalled it, not a fanciful tale like those written by urban writers in Toronto or New York. He was a highly independent man who liked to disagree, I'm told. But even before the book was released, in 1956, Harold wanted to disabuse readers of their false notions about the North by publishing a series of magazine pieces -- tales inspired by his experiences.

Three summers ago in Winnipeg, I met my grandfather for the first time. It was an amazing experience, which I describe in my Outfront piece. When I shook Everett's hand, I tried to connect him to the stories in the book, which I had just read. Everett's steel grip spoke of another age, of hours spent alone, often on foot or in a canoe, and the constant struggle to eat and survive while in the North's harsh embrace.

The Prairies may be harsh in the winter and teeming with insects in the summer, but the air is clear (except for the bugs) and the distance seems scaleless. Some hate the big, open sky of the Prairies and the bush to the north, but for me it always feels like home. The vastness emboldens me even as it fills me with awe.

For those who know what I'm talking about, I'd recommend the book. I recently discovered the above link, which is why I'm thinking about it lately. I understand Northern Trader is still read in some Saskatchewan schools. Not sure. If you have read it, drop me a line and share your thoughts.

Great news

2006-03-24T12:32:00.000-08:00

I'm sure by now many of you have seen, heard, or read the news about the freeing of the CPT hostages in Iraq.

And after several months, Philly is blogging again.

If these docks could talk

2006-03-19T07:23:00.000-08:00

I enjoy reading stories like this one, which was published in the Toronto Star's GTA section. I dig any discovery (I know, a cheap pun) or image that forces me to look beyond the space around me and see it in the light of an imagined past (or how it might be in the future). Many times I've stood at St. Clair, which was countryside in the 19th century, and looked toward the lake, wondering what the city looked like, sounded like, and smelled like back in the 1800s.

How did the ships' crews and stevedores regard our fair city back then? Were they just glad to have work (as I would be right about now)? Did they drink at the Wheat Sheaf? Where did these men live? Did they have permanent homes? And where were the hookers (not what I'm looking for, by the way)? Did the men at Fort York look across the water and say, "Bloody Americans," as so many Canadians do today? (Note: I happen to like most Americans.)

Of course, there are many more questions than these, the most pressing of which is, what do we do with history when we uncover it? If at all possible, I would love to see this dock preserved as a lakeside park feature, so I can challenge my view of the lakeshore simply by walking through it whenever I wish.

Remembering Urban Carmichael

2006-03-03T08:51:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I listened to a performance by Urban Carmichael on CBC Radio. Wow. I've heard him a few times now and he never ceases to amaze and entertain me. The legendary storyteller and comedian passed away in February at the age of 54. When I heard the news last month, I quietly acknowledged it with a few people, though I didn't blog about it at that time. Instead, I remembered my brief contact with this talented, brilliant man.

I had the great pleasure of speaking to Urban on the phone a few times this past summer while working as a researcher and writer for the TV documentary series Unexplained Canada, which just finished running on Space: The Imagination Station. I discovered Urban while looking for a storyteller from PEI. And he graciously agreed to participate in one our episodes.

The moment I heard his voice on the phone, I knew he was an exceptional person. I have spoken with or interviewed a number of people, many of them over the phone. None has engaged me quite like he did. The man breathed stories. I was laughing one or two sentences into our conversation! What a delight. What an inspiration.

Urban's positive energy put me at ease, and reminded me to relax and accept my membership in the human race, with all its foibles.

What a pleasure it was to have been part of the same production. I only wish I had met him earlier.

Knotts & McGavin

2006-02-26T17:55:00.000-08:00

By now you've likely heard or read about the recent passing of Don Knotts and Darren McGavin, 81 and 83 respectively. These two actors played memorable roles in my childhood.

I have fond memories of watching Knotts in The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, which always seemed to air on Sunday afternoons. I sympathized with Knotts as he tried to prove he was brave (and a good reporter) - tried to prove he belonged. I can also remember eating chips and drinking pop on the gym floor mats while my friends and I watched this movie.

And then there was McGavin, whose performance as Kolchak: The Night Stalker stays with me to this day. He, too, played a reporter. The situations he found himself in seriously creeped me out. I've encountered the occasional bit of resistance or attitude while following a story, but I've never been attacked by a room full of possessed mannequins. Or maybe that was just in his mind. I don't know: I was 8 at the time. But here I am writing about it. And some say TV doesn't matter. Rubbish.

But I definitely recall the sense of intrigue and the excited conversations with my friends the mornings following each episode. Standing under the big steel cross bolted to the front of the our Catholic school in Markham, we would share our reactions to Kolchak and speculate on the evil that lurked around every corner.

In my quieter moments, I would ponder the role of the storyteller or journalist. The very idea of snooping around and writing about it seemed too good to be true. Perhaps that's why the idea of becoming a writer of any kind never really came back to me until I was long out of university. But that's a whole other story.

What I do know is that I'm sorry to hear about the deaths of these two actors. But they will live on, because these men were a part of my childhood. And they will serve to remind me why I love telling stories so damn much. It's not just about telling them; it's about remembering and retelling them.

And if you inspire someone else to tell stories (yours or theirs), then you've done your job and can rest in peace.

Update: Shortly after I posted this, I heard that Dennis Weaver, also in his early 80s, passed away. What the hell? That's three. Maybe I shouldn't read too much into this. Old people do die.

Still. It's weird.

Karma on a Sunday Afternoon

2006-02-20T04:26:00.000-08:00

Since Louise broke her elbow I've been on full-time chauffeur duty. I drive three generations (her parents live in the basement) of family members here and there - school, work, grocery store, etc. I would do it even if I didn't like it, because, well, they're family (see my last post).

But it just so happens I love driving. When Louise and I first met we discovered this fact right away and were delighted. She doesn't care for driving. I love being at the wheel. I especially love road trips. I still don't mind city driving too much, except when I'm in a hurry. Or when I'm in a bad mood.

One day last week I was in a bad mood AND I was late for something. Having forgotten something at home, I sped through a nearby residential area, narrowly avoiding detection by a policeman who was idling at an intersection and whose line of vision was temporarily blocked by a SUV. Judging by the way he stared at me as I passed him, I'm sure he sensed something was up. Now, this is a quiet residential area with three schools. I really deserved to be punished.

Yesterday I was driving Louise somewhere. This time I was driving on an insanely busy stretch of Weston Road near Albion. I had just passed up over the 401, down under the Albion overpass, and was motoring along a a good clip when, BAM, I got the wave-over. You know that angry cop wave - the shame wave. Rigid finger on one hand and radar gun in the other: "Gotcha, buddy. Get the fuck over here."

I'm not sure if profanity was going through his mind at the time, but it was going through mine.

I was doing 71 in a 50. How such a bustling area gets a 50 km/hr designation is beyond me. The flow of traffic demands speed there. It's a busy interchange teeming with cars jockeying for position. Anyway, I got my first speeding ticket since high shool (1984 or so), and $103.75 worth of karma to boot.

At first I was pissed off for getting snagged in speed trap. Then I thought about the kids in that residential area. While helping my own family I had forgotten to think about other families. That's bad.

So, I quietly folded my ticket, told the officer I had no questions, and slowly drove off. As I merged into traffic on Weston Road, I saw the young officer was waving an SUV into the same parking lot.

Valentine's Day

2006-02-13T10:29:00.000-08:00

Love and let love. Get up tomorrow and do it again.

There is no greater courage.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Spam Slam, Thank You Mam

2006-02-09T13:30:00.000-08:00

I think it's time to put a spam block on my computer. I have the other protection packages. But I never bothered with the spam one because, well, I never used to get much spam.

Lately, however, I've been getting a steady stream of emails offering cheap drugs. Most of these emails deal with sexual performance. Now I need a protection package to block email dealing with ... packages.

You've probably been seen the work of these penis-pill shills: "Increased stamina" and "Firmer, stronger erections" and "Increase blood flow" and so on.

Now, on my planet one does not seriously discuss private parts with strangers. This policy has served me well all my life, so I don't intend to adopt a new one now. However, it seems that something has changed in terms of communication in the other direction. At what point did the presumption of impotence in all men become an acceptable and effective marketing strategy? Don't get me wrong. I'm not dismissing men who actually suffer from erectile difficulties. I wish them all the best (whatever that means to them). I'm just saying that I don't believe I know anyone who would respond favourably to unsolicited messages implying sexual inadequacy, especially first thing in the morning.

It's like a deranged man poking his head into your window and shouting, "Hey, good mornin', has the cock crowed?! Does the cock crow?"

To which you could only reply, "I think he just did."

Furthermore, why quote statistics? Is that to feign sympathy? Or is it to make men feel guilty?

To quote one of the emails: "A recent survey showed that 68% of women are unsatisfied with their sexual partners."

So? How is this my problem? I leave it to 68% (give or take, depending on lifestyle choices) of the adult male population to deal with those women. Leave me out of it!

Besides, my guess is that most men suffering from this sort of problem don't give a damn about the other, er, members of the crowd. As for me, I'm content to keep the private private.

I wish the spammers would do the same.

An intense week

2006-02-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

It's been quite the week. We got our puppy early, which was a nice bonus, and began playing with him and feeding him. Happy puppy. Happy family. Everything was good.

Then, two days later, while going to work the morning after rain and a temperature drop, my partner, Louise, slipped on snow-covered ice and broke her elbow. It was bad. It needed surgery, and wires to hold it together. Connor and I both fell going to her aid. Evil ice! It was as though it was going after the entire family! We two males were okay, luckily, though my own badly bruised elbow and knee still smart when I put pressure on them.

So we rushed to the hospital. After waiting a day to be sure surgery was necessary, we struggled (with the help of the surgeon) to get Louise into the O.R. as quickly as possible. Such an overloaded health care system! This is no surprise, of course. But things seem worse and painfully clear when someone you love is hurt. The brain tends to work that way, I think. Maybe it's just us, but we don't think someone with a shattered elbow should have to sit in a gown all day, I.V. in arm, waiting for surgery. The triage nurse told us they had admitted a whole bunch of slip-and-fall cases that slippery day. Stupid weather.

At the hospital we got upset. The staff were great. They just don't have the resources and space. So, after fuming at the hospital, I would drive home, where I would get angry with the puppy for doing his business in the wrong places. I know, he's just a puppy and doing what comes natural to puppies. We hadn't had time to get him a cage or start to train him properly when the accident happened. I think I went through a truckload of paper towels in one week. Compounding all this was the usual stress of life.

To cut a long and stress-filled story short, Louise is home and recovering. Her prognosis is good. And the puppy is starting to do his thing on the puppy pads. Happy day! I spent the past week tending to my family. And though my blog is back on my radar, my priorities as clear as ever.

Clearer, in fact.

Timmy the Morkie

2006-01-24T18:21:00.000-08:00

This is our Morkie puppy, all three pounds of him. We call him ... Timmy.

I came, I saw, I voted

2006-01-23T13:15:00.000-08:00

Another federal election down. For me, at least. Around 2 o'clock this afternoon, at a local middle school, I went into the booth and marked an "X" beside... Well, I won't say. I will say, however, that my choice would please some friends and family members and would no doubt piss off others. I'm being vague, but my choice at the ballot box was clear. Such is the beauty and power of voting: It's you, a piece of paper, and a pencil. It's not about what your friends and family will think. It's about the country as a whole, and the stranger on the street. I watched as old voters shuffled past a gymnasium filled with kids too young to vote. Our votes are for their future. I know, this all sounds pretty platitudinous. But who the hell else do we vote for, ultimately? The squirrels in the trashcan? Well, I suppose that depends on which party you vote for.

Speaking of furry little animals, we're getting our puppy this afternoon. Maybe that's why I'm so sentimental.

Puppy. National election coverage. The excitement is almost too much to bear.

The Morkie

2006-01-19T18:41:00.000-08:00

In anticipation of the election, I've been reading about the parties and their platforms. All that stuff. I'm too tired of it tonight to post any thoughts on the matter. Not that my blog is terribly political anyway. No, I've decided to keep my subject matter small in scope.

Our Morkie (I've discovered they're called) will look something like this:

Except ours will have white markings instead of brown ones. My partner Louise says he has a sturdy and determined look about him. (Our politicians try to appear this way.) Now we just have to decide what to call him. I'm sure we'll come up with a name for the wee pup when we pick him up in a week. I'm starting to warm to the idea of a little hair ball watching me while I work at my computer. Maybe I'll even get used to scooping poop (as much as I hate poo). Yeah, you could say I'm looking forward to next weekend.

Now, I'm not sure if we Canadians will have a new government by next weekend, but here in our house, we will have a new member of the family... who will proudly poo in the back yard...

But then, so do many politicians. Maybe I didn't have to blog about the election after all.

Puppy

2006-01-14T16:01:00.000-08:00

We're getting a puppy. Which is different than having a puppy. For one thing, an entire household of people having puppies (or a collective puppy) would be quite disruptive and upsetting. I mean, how would you know whose puppy to focus on?

No, we're getting an actual canine, in two week's time. He's part Maltese and part Yorkshire Terrier. So, that makes him a Morkie, I guess. Or would that be a Yorktese?

Anyway, I understand he's tiny and very cute. I suppose many beings start out that way. In his case, he'll never be very big. Which is fine. Though I like big dogs, it's not as if this Etobicoke neighbourhood needs more dog. They seem to be everywhere. Four doors up the road is a house where the dogs empty their bowels freely and the owners never pick up after them. My god, their front yard is a festival of poo. We call it Casa Caca. Believe me, you step carefully after a strong wind or heavy rain.

Well, it's our turn to make our canine contribution to the neighbourhood. Actually, I'm looking forward to it: I haven't had a pet since I was in high school. They always seemed to be so much trouble. When I was single, what I valued most was the mobility to enjoy my social life. A pet would've screwed that up. But now I'm happily rooted, so I think I can deal with an animal.

Yup, we're getting a small puppy. And we'll all focus on the little guy. Which I'm sure will really trip him out and make him bark at us. We'll all go "awww" and handle him with rough affection. Given his breed mix, he'll look like a little mop, or maybe a four-legged wise man.

But if he poos in my office, where I write this blog ... then I'll have a puppy.

I've been tagged

2006-01-11T20:33:00.000-08:00

Matt Watts has tagged me with this Fun Joel meme.

What was your earliest film-related memory?

When I went to see Pinocchio with my older brother. It was in Haileybury, 1971. I don't remember much except that I really liked the popcorn and just wanted the little wooden boy to get the hell out of the whale's stomach.

What was your earliest cool film-related memory?

When I saw Jaws at the Towne Cinema (Markham's only theatre in those days). It was the summer of 1975. I was eight years old. The buzz around the movie had spread to my day camp. (I only went to day camp for one week as a child, which suited me fine.) Kids had been talking about this HUGE shark. The counsellors wanted to get us into crafts with beads or dried corn or something; I just wanted to talk about the shark.

Favorite lines from movies?

(With possible/likely inaccuracies)

“Ah yes, Juicy Fruit" - Chief's first words to McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest
"And Del ... when you speak, have a point!" - Steve Martin to John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles
Anything from This is Spinal Tap. And lots of lines from Monty Python.
"I'm a hustler. Didn't I tell ya?" - Joe Buck to Ratzo in Midnight Cowboy
"My man is so cool, sheep count him." - from David Mamet's Heist
"Coffee is for closers." - Alex Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross
Rutger Hauer's lines during his character's death scene in Blade Runner.

Jobs You’d Do if You Could Not Work In “The Biz”:

Teacher or historical tour guide
Firefighter (I'd have to beef up)
Pilot (or anything to do with travel or motion or speed)
I considered being a lawyer once. Before that I considered being a surgeon.
Detective work has always held some allure for me, but I couldn't do it. Let's be real: I interview people for stories, not to put them away.
Druid would be cool. Oh wait, we don't have those anymore. It's tough enough being a Bard.

Name jobs you have actually held outside The Industry.

Credit rep for an oil company
Lab worker in the food industry
Front desk in an marketing agency
Painter, dishwasher, landscaper, and a shipper/receiver - at different times, mind you
One fall I worked in the factory of a Scarborough display company, assembling the entire Santa Claus house/yard for the Scarborough Town Centre.
Many more jobs....

Book authors I like:
H.G. Wells, Ian McEwan, Roddy Doyle, Jonathan Lethem, Thomas Hardy, Edgar Allan Poe, George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, Joseph Heller (Catch-22), Douglas Coupland, Stuart McLean, Evelyn Waugh, Frank Herbert (Dune), Dostoevsky, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Stephen Fry...

Name two movies you would like to remake or properties you’d like to adapt:
At this moment, I honestly don't know. I've never really considered doing a remake or an adaptation. Not enough to have two answers at the ready.

Name one screenwriter you think is underrated:
I’m stealing Matt's answer … All of them.

Three people I’m tagging to answer this meme next:
Not sure... I don't know any other bloggers in "the Biz". My old friends are regular, non-media folk. So I guess that's it.

Being Quoted

2006-01-10T12:49:00.000-08:00

In my part-time gig as a writer for a community newspaper, I've quoted a number of people. I love it. I enjoy asking questions and getting answers. I love telling stories - whether they be news stories or works of fiction.

But being part of the story is something entirely new to me.

When you're used to selecting quotes and shaping stories, you can't help but feel a little uneasy when you're the one being quoted. Seeing your words in someone else's work for the first time is as strange as it is gratifying.

Recently I did a phone interview with another newspaper reporter. As the interview drew to a close I felt my stomach churning. I wasn't pleased with my answers. I wanted to say:

"Don't use that bit. That was a bad word that doesn't jibe with the spirit of the show's press release. And that other stuff isn't germane to the story; ignore it. What's your hook? And where I am positioned in the piece? You aren't going to screw around with the context, are you? I mean, I wasn't really making fun of those people. Glibness is a bad habit of mine, especially when I get nervous. That's off the record; don't quote me on that. Okay, let's just redo the whole thing. Better yet, just send me a transcript of the interview and I'll sent you my notes..."

Of course, she would've been well within her rights in telling me to go fly a kite. Actually, she seemed very fair and decent. I'm not too worried.

People trust me, so I guess I'll have to trust others.

...Or maybe I just won't answer the phone.

I'm kidding. Mostly...

Update (January 11): I've just obtained the article. It's fine. I worried for nothing.

Grooming

2006-01-07T11:26:00.000-08:00

I looked in the mirror yesterday morning. Staring back at me was a mug from the mid-1970s. My wavy (bushy) hair was like something from Welcome Back Kotter, and the 4-day stubble on my face said "Hoodlum #3" in the credits of some cheesy cop drama from that same era.

Actually, the look was more like that of Ronald McDonald after being "voted off the island" in Survivor. Yeah, that's it.

So I rushed down to see to Mario, my awesome downtown hair guy. He worked his magic and now I look all spiffy and preppy again. It's a look that seems to work for me; and I don't like to spend too much money or time on my appearance.

Besides, the only other free time for a cut was this morning, and I didn't want to miss Steve the Second, the second set of "Steve" radio plays by brilliant comedy writer Matt Watts, and well produced by Joe Mahoney. If you haven't heard this show, which airs on CBC Radio One, I highly recommend you tune in. And pick up Steve the First if you haven't heard it. You can order it on the CBC website.

The acting is superb. And the material is highly intelligent, playfully layered, and very, very funny.

Even funnier than my hair before I go to visit Mario.

Reads, Blogs & Leaves

2005-12-30T16:55:00.000-08:00

I used my Chapters Indigo gift certificate to buy some books. There is something exciting about purchasing a crisp new book. And it only seemed proper that I should obtain a fresh copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves by British journalist and writer Lynne Truss.

She is a stickler, after all.

You may've heard about this book. It's Truss's (I hope I got that right!) attack on the growing misuse of punctuation. And it's her battle cry to "sticklers" - those who are punctilious about apostrophes, commas, semicolons, etc. It's also a highly entertaining journey into the history of punctuation and a vehement denunciation of the rise of illiteracy in England.

My own writing is not flawless. I'm afraid I do not possess that Mozart-like ability to craft a perfect piece in one go. Particularly when it comes to the small details, which I admit ARE very important. Suffice it say, I'm so glad there are editors and other sticklers out there. They help me sleep at night. Though I catch most of my mistakes, I do count on others for final edits. I rely on the eyes and minds of those strange and vigilant creatures known as copyeditors. They would rather die than fail to detect an error. They are the beat cops of literacy, making sure our words behave properly in society.

Which doesn't mean I'm off the hook. It behooves me to clean up my own messes. I am accountable. And so I apologize if you find any mistakes in this post. I would like to say it's just a damn blog post and I have my life to live; but I'm afraid Lynne Truss will hunt me down, box my ears, and tell me all copy is important and smarten up!

So if your faillible lik me, or you're writing could use tuching up because its ripe with errers, than I suggest you give Truss' book a reed. Youll be glad you di'd.

And if the last sentence angered the crap out of you then pick up Truss's book and join the worldwide legion of sticklers.

Happy Holidays

2005-12-26T10:13:00.000-08:00

Season's Greetings and Happy New Year!

Another Christmas has passed and a new year approaches. Thanks to an adverse reaction to crab meat this Christmas Eve, my system was a little too tender for gorging. So I haven't managed to put on the extra few pounds I usually do around this time of year. It's just as well. I'll need to be lean and nimble for my romp through the woods. I'm interviewing a photographer tomorrow. I've got my boots and my trusty new Sony recorder, so I'm set for a walking Q & A. Maybe I will eat a few extra cookies for fuel. Yup.

On Wendesday another family visit. Hm, maybe I'll go easy on the cookies.

Nah.

Unexplained Canada reminder

2005-12-22T17:13:00.000-08:00

Just a reminder that Unexplained Canada premieres on Space on January 4, 2006. It will also be showing on CBC Country Canada at some point in the future.

Not the Final Vinyl

2005-12-18T17:43:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not talking about LP records. Well, not directly. I'm talking about Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe books. Many who know McLean's well-known show on CBC Radio show also know about his books, which look in on the lives of record store owner Dave, his wife Morley, and their two children, Stephanie and Sam. I got three Vinyl Cafe books for Christmas last year.

My brother and his wife had chosen wisely, and they were correct when they asked, "You like that kind of stuff, right?"

Having heard the radio show a few times before, I read the first book immediately, saving the second and third for later. I like to savour really good stories, the way I take my time with a sweet and delicious dessert.

When I read about Dave's screw-ups and misadventures, I nod and grin with pleasure. I could say a lot about McLean's brillant storytelling, his honest insight, and his impeccable timing. But I'll just say this: few writers can make me laugh by the end of the first sentence, and then choke me up as I read the last sentence... I know, I'm a medium-size softie.

I'm already looking forward to next Christmas!

Maybe I won't wait that long.

Sprawling Past

2005-12-15T05:53:00.000-08:00

On yesterday's The Current, Anna Maria Tremonti interviewed a chap named Robert Bruegmann. They chatted about urban sprawl. It was an interesting discussion, so I decided to take a quick look in some our family photo archives.

Here are two photos of Toronto's Forest Hill in the early 1900s. These shots were taken from Bathurst Street, northwest of Casa Loma, about a century ago.

Suburban monster homes of yesteryear:

Back then wealthy people wanted to get out of the city. Today many wealthy people want to remain in (or move into) the city. People have left Forest Hill (people like my mom's family, long ago), to be replaced by newer money. Which is the one constant -- money. In Forest Hill, I mean. Not in my bank account! Our Forest Hill days ended in the early 1930s. I eat Kraft Dinner and take the TTC like so many others.

Kong

2005-12-13T17:22:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed King Kong, which opens tomorrow (we had passes to the advance screening).

Though the fight scene between Kong and the dinosaurs is a little overdone, it is fun to watch. And the relationship between Ann Darrow (played by Naomi Watts) and King Kong has more depth to it than in previous Kong flicks. At times I got a little tired of her wordless, doe-eyed stares. But then it occurred to me she's looking for beauty IN the beast, to restore her faith in something, anything, perhaps herself. And besides, just what kind of conversation can you really have with a giant gorilla? Less is more in the dialogue department, I think. And there are times when her acting is radiant. Other performances I enjoyed were those of Adrien Brody and Jack Black, who play the writer and producer respectively. Watch for the scene in which the group is attacked by giant insects. Note the unflinching ferocity with which Brody and Black (and other characters) fight back. The creepy crawlies are deeply horrifying. But this doesn't stop the determined writer and the savvy producer from New York. They don't look like tough guys, but they are. They toil in a tough industry, in a tough city, in a tough era (The Great Depression). Yes, Kong's world is a savage place, and I side with him in his noble fight. But the beasts on his island have never run up against the brutality of men who are driven by the terrifying prospect of utter failure.

Kong never stood a chance.

More great singing

2005-12-12T11:25:00.000-08:00

Louise and I went to see the Exultate Chamber Singers on Friday night. Rather, we went to listen to their glorious singing. Warm voices on a cold night. Very nice. However, I was a little disappointed during the intermission when I discovered that there were in fact no mince tarts to be had, as CBC's Steve Wadhams, a tenor with the choir, had led me to believe during his amusing speech to the audience. In all likelihood he was joking and I was simply to dim to realize it. Or maybe I was lulled by Exultate's dulcet harmonies. Yeah, that must be it.

Clinton Sings Imagine

2005-12-12T10:44:00.000-08:00

A friend sent this to me.

The Philosopher and the Ad Exec

2005-12-10T10:51:00.000-08:00

Today, while listening to DNTO on CBC Radio, I wrote this imaginary exchange between a philosopher and an advertising executive:

P: I think, therefore—
A: You think less of yourself.
P: Do you mean that thinking inevitably leads to self doubt? Or do you mean that simply knowing I’m a thinker will lead to self doubt?
A: What do you think?
P: I think you’re trying to play with me.
A: No. You think, therefore you think I’m trying to play with you.
P: Are you trying to play with me?
A: I already am playing with you.
P: You play, therefore—
A: You get played.
P: Do you mean that I get played generally speaking? Or do you mean I am getting played at this very moment?
A: That very moment has passed. And if you’re going to speak generally and not make your thoughts clear, then you will get played.
P: So will I get played in the future?
A: I don’t know your future.
P: Aren’t advertising people paid to make the future happen?
A: We’re paid to play. And the future will happen. Are these two related?
P: Now you’re playing MY game.
A: Surely by now this is our game. It takes two to make this work.
P: Those two are the player and the played?
A: Now you’re getting my game.
P: I think I already got your game.
A: You think, therefore you got my game.
P: Therefore I have played your game.
A: You think?
P: Therefore I am.
A: Played.
P: Well played.
A: You're beautiful.

My Gleaner Column

2005-12-08T06:22:00.000-08:00

A little bit more about me.

I write a column for a small community newspaper called The Village Gleaner. In my column, Divercity, I explore and profile various ethnic and cultural communities in Toronto's west end - Parkdale, High Park, Bloor West Village, and eastern Etobicoke.

Here's just one, which was reprinted on this blog.

I've also written for the other two Gleaner monthlies - The Annex Gleaner and The Liberty Gleaner. In my humble, and biased, opinion, these are great newspapers. The editorial staff - Annemarie Brissenden (editor-in-chief), Karen Mackenzie, Peter Armstrong, Lydia Hanson, and staff photographer Brendan Donaghey - and the freelancers really roll up their sleeves, learn about their communities, and put together some interesting stories. It's a great team. Karen Mackenzie is the managing editor at The Village Gleaner, and has also contributed to James Koole's blog.

As for my contribution to the Gleaner papers, you can read more of my stories here. Just click on the Articles tab.

Okay. I've plugged three gigs. That should do for now.

Thanks.

300 Dollar Divorce

2005-12-06T06:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was going south on the Royal York bus. When we stopped at Eglinton Avenue West, I glanced out the window.

On the side of the bus shelter there was a small poster which read: "Divorce $300!" There was a phone number. The graphics were even a little jaunty and playful. Hm. Cheap divorce services. Get 'em here!

So, the key two-part question: Who's buying, and who's selling?

Let's face it...

2005-12-04T17:59:00.000-08:00

Last night I felt like this:

Except I didn't have a little woman at the back of my head...

But my cold never materialized. I had a small brandy and went to bed. Slept like a log. My headache, burning eyes, and sore, er, throat, were all gone this morning. Maybe I just needed a good night's sleep.

Today I woke up feeling like:

And I played with some fun face recognition software Matt Watts links to in his blog. The software matches your face to a celebrity's. Well, as Matt suggests, it's not very accurate. The best result I got was a 59 per cent match with Gene Hackman:

Hey, maybe it is accurate after all. Kidding. Wait. Something just occurred to me. If you mixed a big, happy snow bear with Kong, and then added in personality, cool, and amazing acting ability, would you get Hackman?

Think about it.

Nasopharynx

2005-12-03T16:48:00.000-08:00

I have a headache. My eyes are burning. I'm getting chills. And, worst of all, my nasopharynx is sore and raw.

Which probably means I'm coming down with a cold.

#@&*!

One of the things I hate most about colds is that they force me to think about my nasopharynx! I mean, why else would I think about this strange and transitional part of my anatomy? Really, who among us, apart from a nose, ear, and throat specialist, would give any thought whatsoever to the nasopharynx? So I am asking you to think about it now. Yours. Mine. Plato's perfect nasopharynx. Hell, we're here now, so any one of them will do.

But we're in tricky territory. You see, even Wikipedia was reluctant to talk about it. And given Wiki is a public forum, I can only assume its standards are those of society! When I did a search for the term nasopharynx, the site redirected me to the general search term, pharynx, apparently a more acceptable, more... palatable area of the body. I know, in polite society one does not broach the subject of one's nasopharyngeal problems.

So am I like that guy who gets drunk and emotional at a dinner party, causing everyone else to stare at each for confirmation of their social superiority! Please tell me I haven't crossed that line! You see what happens when you look inward and start gazing at your nasopharynx? You lose perspective and judgement.

Thankfully, there are drugs. If this becomes a full-blown cold, I will pick me up some powerful antihistimines. I assure you, when I take those, my focus will be quite outward. Spacey, in fact. And I won't think about my nasopharynx again ... until my next cold.

Kamalot

2005-12-01T07:35:00.000-08:00

My good buddy Kris Westerlaken - graphic designer, lover of literature, and trenchant social critic - has a new comic strip called Kamalot. Check it out. And give him some feedback, if you wish.

He is also the man who created my logo.

Desperate Housewife?

2005-11-30T09:40:00.000-08:00

Last night I saw a middle-aged woman clip and run off with a branch from a spruce bush next to the 7-Eleven a few blocks from my house. When she saw me coming she fled, the branch in one hand, gardening clippers in the other.

...Christmas in the 'burbs.

I saw a lot of strange and funny things during the 12 years I lived downtown, but I never saw anyone steal brush from a mini-mart.

Unexplained Canada

2005-11-28T12:01:00.000-08:00

I invite you to watch Unexplained Canada.

This six-part series premieres on Space: The Imagination Station, January 4, 2006. Please follow the above link for info and show times!

I had a great time a researcher/writer on this project. What a blast! Many thanks to all the people who worked with me. My special thanks to producer/director, Sean C. Karow, and our host and senior researcher, John Robert Colombo - Canada's Mr. Mystery.

Please join us as we explore some of Canada's enduring mysteries.

Cusack on Strummer

2005-11-25T09:16:00.000-08:00

I was looking at blogs today when discovered an interesting post on the Parkdale Pictures blog.

Nice post, Parkdale.

The post points to a Thanksgiving (U.S.) piece written by John Cusack. Now, I've always been a Cusack fan. Ever since high school. So I was pleased to discover the talented actor's column about Joe Strummer.

Pleased, but not surprised.

W.O.W. or not

2005-11-24T06:43:00.000-08:00

So I rented War of the Worlds. You see, I had to go to the store anyway, to rent a video game. I caved in and rented W.O.W.

Which it didn't. It didn't wow me. Though there are some moments of good acting, the characters are annoying. And while it has some big, fancy effects, the film is like a Spielberg combo plate. At one point there is Jaws music ... just as the alien tripod is about to attack! You almost expect to see the "Land Shark" from S.N.L.

Worst of all, there is no dread. Effects without dread are just not thrilling.

I got halfway through the flick and stopped it. I watched Weeds instead.

I'll just take the DVD back. Oh well. At least the file of the book is still intact in my brain.

Phew, that was close...

Now that's dread!

War of the Worlds

2005-11-23T09:36:00.000-08:00

It's out and I'm conflicted. I'm talking about Spielberg's War of the Worlds, out on DVD this week.

Now, I LOVED the book. As for as I'm concerned, H.G. Wells' The War of the Worlds is one of the most engaging and entertaining narratives ever written. Masterful. I have a buddy, a real science fiction lover, who has read it 17 times!

I've heard some of the 1938 radio play. But I've never seen a cinematic interpretation of this story. Twice I've psyched myself up to walk to Blockbuster, only to decide against it at the last minute. Something's holding me back...

Could it be that almost everyone says this movie sucks rocks? Could it be I don't want to see Tom Cruise work out Church of Scientology beliefs on screen? Or maybe it's that Dakota Fanning kid, who annoys me because she's too clever and articulate for a child. Also, she reminds me of another kid I know, a nasty little girl who is mean to my stepson.

Whatever the reason, I can't seem to go and rent it. Do I need the $5.99 so badly?

This is possible. But no, there is something else at work here, though I'm not sure what. The novel is nicely filed in my mind. I can go to it whenever I want, and enter a world in which grim and grimy Victorian London is under attack. Intriguing. Haunting.

Will Spielberg's flick ruin that file? Maybe. Probably. But I haven't seen a BIG movie in a while. I have a craving. Blockbuster is just down the street.

But I know better. I shouldn't go.

I'm still undecided...

Staying Alive on Metro Morning

2005-11-21T10:05:00.000-08:00

I've realized something. The little Metro Morning tune on CBC Radio One sounds a little bit like "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees. It sounds crazy, but I always find myself singing it during the show. Okay. Get the tune into your head and work with me here: "Deedel deedel deedel dit dit da deedel deedel deedel, staying alive, staying alive...."

Ah? Ah? No? Okay. Maybe it's just my thing.

I know, Andy Barrie's deep voice is very un-Bee Gee. But the contrast helps keep me awake in the morning. Hey, it's a miracle I'm even up in the morning. For years I was a night person. And during those years, my many corporate stints, my long commutes, and the peer pressure of society in general could not turn me into a morning person. Friends and coworkers used to wag their fingers at me and say: "Once you get a routine, you'll become a morning person."

Nope.

I had many routines. None turned me into a morning person. None turned me into anything, really. I was just tired all the time. And then it happened, the only arrangement that can truly change this man and his habits...

A woman. And her child. And the fear and elation that go with that.

So, now I'm a morning person. I'm usually on my computer before 7:30.

Me, Andy, and the Bee Gees.

Shut up. :-)

The Children of 1964

2005-11-20T15:44:00.000-08:00

Generalizations are seldom acceptable as conclusions, but they are often useful as starting points for discussion. Sometimes, however, I find it hard not to accept a conclusion when my observations point to it so strongly.

My previous post reminded me of a discussion I once had with a friend of mine. We had asked ourselves what may seem a rather odd question: Who the hell are the people born in 1964?

I have many friends who were born that year. My older brother is a 1964 baby. I've worked with a few 1964-ers. And yet they remain somewhat of an enigma.

These people seem to have no pop culture patterns about them whatsoever. Some love the Beatles. Some love punk. Some love both the Beatles and punk. Some love neither. They're elusive. Each does his or her own thing. They don't talk much. Though it doesn't appear they're trying to be mysterious; they simply don't seem to give a damn about generational categorizations, even though for decades now demographers have tagged them on to the tail end of the baby boom (which always struck me as odd and inaccurate).

But maybe there are commonalities.

I will say this about the 1964 people I know. They rarely complain. They don't struggle with their identity. At least not publically. They aren't easily impressed. They reject groupthink. They do their own thing whether you like it or not, and they do it with determination and stealth. They do not and will not buckle or bend over for anyone. Ever. And they don't buy your bullshit. They don't buy my bullshit. They won't buy this post! They don't even buy their own bullshit, if they have any! They are some of the toughest and most independent people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Two quotations: "I've never met a man I was afraid of" and "Go down with nothing less than blood pumping from your ears."

These words were spoken by two different men, both born in 1964. Family men.

Hey, I can only tell you've what I've seen and heard.

Though some big things happened in 1964 -- the Beatles were on The Ed Sullivan Show, the movie Goldfinger was released, the Toronto Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup, Lyndon B. Johnson was re-elected, Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life in prison, the Civil Liberties Act was passed in the U.S., and Muhammed Ali became the heavyweight champion of the world -- we don't hear much about the people who were born that year.

Clive Owen was born in 1964. Need I say more? He didn't want the role of James Bond. How 1964 is that?

See how I invoke the name of a movie star to make my point? Someone born in 1964 wouldn't do that. Wouldn't even consider it. He or she would make their point with steely-eyed clarity, and then move on.

If we are ever attacked, don't send our young adults. Send in the boys and girls of 1964. The enemy won't stand a chance.

Actually, I think the 1964 babies are a little crazy. I mean that in a good way.

So here's to the people of 1964. Wherever you are.

Whoever you are.

P.S. Read this post by Philly Markowitz.

Zip Bam, Boomer

2005-11-19T08:35:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I was standing in the paved courtyard of my stepson's school. This is the area where parents gather, gossip, amble, and wait for the afternoon bell to sound the release of their children from the portables.

I had arrived a little early, so I was alone for a few minutes. As I am wont to do, I started scanning my surroundings, looking for details and patterns, when I spotted a string of bird's nests in the deciduous trees beyond the portables. Having lost their leaves the trees could no longer hide what they had hidden months earlier: the birds' survival instinct and tendency to act in concert.

But there were no birds, only wind. Then, breaking my focus, the Beatles song "Hey Jude" began blaring from a nearby portable, filling my ears.

Now, I like the Beatles. Always have. They had some brilliant stuff. Besides, my taste in music is generation-less.

But I couldn't help but recall hearing that song in class back in the 1970s. Our young boomer teachers, who at that time were fresh out of university, often played rock and folk tunes for our edification. We thought it was kinda cool. Kinda.

However, standing there in the courtyard I thought: "Wait. People my age are the teachers now. Aren't we? Maybe that's a boomer teacher in that portable. Or is my generation so utterly without cultural ownership of any kind that we have to recycle the 1960s stuff for these kids? What about our stuff? Then it occurred to me that a class of children chiming along to "Cars" by Gary Numan would be kinda weird, if not a little funny. The grinding indignation of Skinny Puppy would be unthinkable. Bjork might scare and confuse them. Bauhaus might mess them up. And "God Save the Queen" by the Sex Pistols would hardly be appropriate in a place of childhood education. Especially the line, 'No future for you...'"

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against boomers as individuals. Some of my friends are boomers. My mom is remarried to a boomer (who was even at Woodstock). And boomers have given me breaks in my work life. Conversely, I've been burned by Gen Xers. Unfortunately, there is a full spectrum of assholes out there.

The boomers are just doing what every other generation has done -- holding the levers as long as possible. It's human nature. It's evolutionary. You and your peers strive to create meaning and leave a legacy. Though I'm sure most of us would agree the boomers have made their mark by now. And I do feel a little rare when they break into song and dance, as on one episode of Murphy Brown or in movies like The Big Chill.

Of course, we had to go and dance to The Knack's "My Sharona" in a 7-11 in the movie Reality Bites. That was gay. I felt rare during that scene.

So, what of my generation's cultural contribution? What will be our legacy when we finally get the reins?

Read this piece by Jack Shafer in Slate.

Outfront piece has aired

2005-11-16T07:10:00.000-08:00

My piece aired last night. I've received some positive comments from people.

However, some of you missed it. If you haven't heard the piece and would like to, simply go here, and listen.

I hope you enjoy it. Thank you.

And thanks again to my producer, Steve Wadhams.

I would also like to thank Deb Greening and her family, at Land of the Loon Resort, Anglin Lake, Saskatchewan, for helping with the logistics of my trip, so that I was free to run around with my minidisc and microphone.

Cheers!

The Machinist and Me

2005-11-14T14:05:00.000-08:00

I've always had a good appetite.

As a child I had no trouble finishing all the food on my plate. When I was in high school, I had the appetite of a full crew of construction workers. And today, I still enjoy full meals AND dessert. Very few dishes disgust me; I'll eat almost anything. Just ask my partner, Louise. She'll tell you. The mere smell of food, particularly succulent meat and rich sauces, awakens my reptilian brain, causing me to cast aside all other concerns and rush to the dinner table.

I eat.

And yet at 5' 10" I am only 165 lbs. I think I have an average metabolism. Don't know. I do move quickly. I do walk a lot. And I worry a lot. I guess that's it. Anyway, I'm not fat. If I miss a meal or two, my pants become loose.

Which is why I took me months of psychological preparation before I could watch The Machinst, which stars Christian Bale and Jennifer Jason Leigh. I watched it this past weekend.

Christian Bale's performance is brilliantly, achingly repulsive, and yet sublimely symbolic of self-detruction and torment. Bale's appearance will startle you. He lost 60 pounds for the role. His character, Trevor Reznik, is clearly at the end of his rope. In The Machinist, we see a man so tortured by existential horror that he is barely eating. He is so wracked with guilt and anguish and so captive to his own twisted assumptions of reality, he can't sleep. It's mind vs. the body. Or mind against matter, if you will. And he hurts others around him, making him unwelcome almost everywhere.

Bale does an amazing job at taking us into his character's dark and moribund world. And we start to realize that we all live within our own assumptions, be they liberating or delusional, good or bad. In this way the film does some fascinating, intriguing stuff here.

It's a real head trip.

And yet, for all the film's virtues, for all the thought it provokes, the most powerful reaction I had to the film was a visceral one. I found myself thinking, for God's sake, man, get some sleep, and eat. Eat! Don't die! Stay with us and get some help.

Maybe that's what writer Scott Kosar and director Brad Anderson were trying to accomplish. If so, they did a darn good job.

...Still, I think I'll go and rent Bale's Batman Begins again, just to see him healthy.

Outfront piece airing next week

2005-11-10T15:12:00.000-08:00

I just found out my CBC Outfront radio doc will be airing this coming Wednesday (Nov. 16) at 8:43 p.m.

Heading into the day

2005-11-10T05:02:00.000-08:00

Just had a head rush.

I haven't had one of these in ages. After checking my email and quickly scanning my New York Times e-paper, I decided to get up and get another coffee. Suddenly, my connection to the world went fuzzy and I had to sit down on the carpet. No matter how many of these things I get, they're always trippy.

I'm okay now...

I used to get head rushes all the time, even years ago, in high school and university, when I was in better shape. (Not that I'm really out of shape now, as I do walk a lot. Vigorously.) I never knew why. I'd always had a good diet. Still do, in fact. If these episodes had happened only after pub nights then I would've considered the mystery solved. But that wasn't the case. Not one to run to the doctor for any old reason, I would just shrug them off and continue on with whatever it was I was doing at the time.

Then, in 1996, something really weird happened.

While looking for one of the highly sought-after parking spaces near Mount Pleasant and Roehampton, so I could grab a much-needed coffee, I drove my secondhand Escort into a brand new Corolla ... after looking both ways, my friend Steve later told me, and looking right at the damn Corolla! I was 30, the other guy 19. After checking to see if Steve was okay (he was), we both got out. Then the other guy got out of his car. As he approached me he cocked his right arm and clenched his first. I stared him in the eye and didn't flinch. This wasn't bravery: I was just dazed and exhausted and in dire need of coffee. And his eyes and body language spoke more of frustration than violence. Just the same, Steve, who is 6' 3" and 235 lbs., stepped forward when he saw the quivering fist. Then the kid dropped his arm and kicked a hydro pole. A much better choice, I thought.

This time I sought medical advice. Two neurologists. Two brain scans. Both turned out negative results. My brain structure was healthy and normal, which surprised the hell out of my friends and family.

Barring a dramatic subluxation of a cervical vertebra, there was only one reason for this accident and my head rushes, the doctor said. Severe sleep deprivation. Which had resulted from my tendency, shared by others in my family, to push myself way too hard. At the time, I had a long commute to Oakville, a stressful corporate job, and was trying to write.

I never had an accident like that one again. Nor have I had many head rushes since 1996. In fact, the only noteworthy thing that remains of my past life is my writing. And my friend Steve.

So what caused this morning's episode? The New York Times? Don't think so. I think I'll end my blog and get that second coffee now.

Revisiting The Stone Roses

2005-11-08T20:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I listened The Stone Roses' 1989 début CD for the umpteenth time.

This music is nothing less than inspired. The arrangements, the vocal harmonies, and the sheer melodic power of this work set it apart from most of the other music that was out in the late 1980s, when my friends and I were in university. John Squire's guitar playing is absolutely amazing. He deftly selects his notes, at times lifting the listener to the heavens, and at other times charging downward with intense, gritty urgency. And Ian Brown sings his irreverent and uncompromising lyrics with the angry longing of an abandoned angel. The drums and bass serve as a steady thumping jumping-off point for this music that for a brief moment in history managed to soar way above the crowd.

Outfront piece done

2005-11-03T17:28:00.000-08:00

Today my CBC radio producer and I finished my Outfront piece!

After all the travelling, gathering, recording, thinking, writing, and editing ... the doc is finally done. Well, it's almost done. A few finishing touches are required. Technical things.

I'll be posting the air date when I know it ... and when I'm at liberty to publicize it.

To everyone at Outfront who had a hand in giving my story the green light, thank you so much.

To my producer, Steve, THANKS! Your skill and experience were tremendously important to me during this project. It was a pleasure working with you.

What a great experience.

Thanks again!

Halloween portrait(s) of the artist as a young man

2005-10-30T08:54:00.000-08:00

I remember the strain of Halloween. First you had to come up with a costume that wasn't too lame. Then you had to get the stuff to wear. Then you had to put in on and go out in the neighbourhood and get into the spooky spirit of things. Sometimes you even had to fight off bands of mauraders from other schools.

Okay, I probably ended up enjoying myself, but not without a lot of fretting beforehand.

Look at this photo taken of me when I was 7 years old:

THE HORROR! THE HORROR!

I appear ill at ease. I was in a new school, living in the suburbs for the first time. I felt rare! And it wasn't as if my costume was bad. I was Dracula, for crying out loud. Tried and true.

Still.

The UNICEF box didn't help matters any. Not that I didn't care about kids around the world, but, well, I was 7. The box was a big drag. And it also made me a target for mauraders!

Woody Allen said comedy is tragedy plus time. What about horror plus time?

Fast forward about twenty years to a Halloween party at my place in the Annex. What was my brilliant costume idea? Phantom of the Outback. Lame. Thrown together a few minutes before the party.

But I didn't care. Look at the picture. I am comfortable. Because horror plus time minus one annoying UNICEF box gives you...

THE BEER! THE BEER!

Fast forward again, about twelve years. I am back in the suburbs (no picture) and I'm a writer...

Man, I could use that UNICEF box right about now... But the horror is gone. Now, there's comedy. Specifically, my stepson, Connor. What a great kid.

And abundantly confident in his role as Dracula:

I don't dress up anymore. But I love Halloween.

L Word turning Japanese?

2005-10-27T07:46:00.000-07:00

Now I'm no expert in harmonics, but when I hear the theme song for The L Word during the show's commercials, I can't help but think it would sound really cool mixed with "Turning Japanese," that catchy new wave tune that made a one-hit-wonder out of the band The Vapours back in 1980.

Hm.

Or, it would sound really discordant, uneven and creepy, much like the unsettling tune of an old ice cream truck on a quiet, lonely boulevard just before dusk.

Either way, I would be curious to hear this sonic marriage.

39 read blog-oons

2005-10-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the absence. I've been busy with my TV thing and my column and my life in general.

I'm just saying hello so you don't think I've run off with the circus!

Hey. I have written 39 blog posts since I started blogging. That's one for every year I've been alive! This will never happen again ... unless, of course, I write one post per year for the rest of my life, which would be utterly ridiculous. So this is it.

...Okay, it's not as big as a birthday or an anniversary or a Pulitzer or anything, but it's worth a cookie... Maybe even a Peek Freans cookie. I've already had two tonight.

Yup. Livin' large. Don't even try to stop me.

Thanks for reading.

Later.

Fresh perspective? Fresher bagel

2005-10-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

Today at lunchtime I went into the cupboard and pulled out the bag of 12-grain bagels. I took off the clip and parted the plastic. Mmm. Fresh, rich, moist bagels. So I grabbed one, thinking I was about to have a typically pleasurable bagel experience.

What?

What was this? Something I'd never seen in my entire life: a bagel sliced on an angle, so that the bottom half was like a wedge, like a doughy doorstop. As weird as this sounds, for a brief moment I wondered about the all hidden dimensions in the universe. Some quantum physicists say that there may be as many as 10 dimensions, but that we can only work with a "surface" of 3 dimensions ... and the 4th dimension of time. The others are kind of ... rolled up, out of view, so to speak. Part of this theory is the belief that the evolution of life on Earth was favoured by this model, that we humans wouldn't be here without it. I guess we can't handle more than a few perceptible dimensions at any one time. Maybe they are right.

Screw it, I said to myself. The risk of jam on my fingers was just too great. So I put away the defective bagel and grabbed another. Easy. Simple.

Long live simplicity! It's really good toasted, too. :-)

Fab Vocab

2005-10-18T17:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my 10-year-old stepson was doing his homework on the kitchen table. My partner called me over to show me a sheet entitled "Vocabulary Development."

Fair enough, I thought. Then I started reading the sheet! The words his school is teaching grade five kids! Jeez. No, that's my word. Which is embarrassing when I think of what these kids are learning. The words I saw on this sheet are words I would expect from ... well, certainly not from kids that age. I know we weren't using or learning such big words back in the 1970s.

Here, I'll use a few of them in sentences:

"Jordan! Give me back that rabbit's foot. It's been my talisman since I was five years old."

"Mom, when I said I did all my homework in class and that the teacher said I was his best student, well, that was an embellishment. I just wanted to play X-Box for an extra hour."

"Dad. Mom. I don't really need the X-Box. Dad, you don't really need that big jeep. Mom, you don't really need those fancy prints on the wall. Really. These are just the stupid accoutrements of upper-middle class living. Really. These accoutrements suck!"

"Stephanie! Give me back my Alexis on Fire T-shit! Mom! Stephanie won't gimme back my Alexis-- Oh come on. I'm going to Jordon's birthday party this afternoon and the Alexis on Fire T-shirt is de rigueur!"

When my friends and I were 10 years old, we were watching Gilligan's Island, playing road hockey, stealing pop bottles, and so on.

Some of our typical words and sentences: "No way, Chris. There's no fucking way that was in the net! Oh yeah? You wanna fight? Well, right now! Come on. Let's go! Ass-wipe!"

It was the 1970s. Our teachers were flower children who sang "Blowin' in the Wind," and tried to instill in us a sense of peace and worldwide friendship. I think we got an A or at least a B+ if we said, "The sun is bright" or "The flowers are nice" or "I like chocolate and kittens."

We were all special. But we weren't being watched, not like kids today.

Which is why we had to resort to atrocious words like "ass-wipe" on and off school property, and stealing pop bottles. Or worse.

Clearly their plan didn't work quite as well as they had hoped. Well, I shouldn't be so harsh. I no longer steal pop bottles. And I do like people, most of the time. But damn, if only they hadn't been such a bunch of antiestablishmentarians, then I wouldn't be writing this today.

Shit.

Major Tom

2005-10-16T16:21:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't an attempt at self-aggrandizement. I'm talking about the song "Major Tom" by Peter Schilling. Remember that one? It was a nod to David Bowie. Around 1983 or thereabouts. It was released in English and in German. I liked both versions. They made me think of powdery ski hills and the uber-angst of teenage life - two things I haven't done since the 1980s.

(I'm too lazy to figure out the command for the umlaut, by the way. That's why you got the bargain basement "uber," instead of the more German-looking one. Sorry.)

Well, right now the song is playing on my boombox and it just made me think of blogging. Or, rather, it gave me a place to start this evening's post.

I've been busy writing all weekend. Workin' on a project. I'm a little drained. And this week promises to be just as busy. For one thing, I'll be back in the CBC on Tuesday. Startin' up the radio piece. Looking soooo forward to it. Ahhhh.

When the lockout ended, I asked myself if I'd still have the tension in me to continue blogging now that my career was no longer being thwarted by people I couldn't yell at. I answered this question in about two seconds. Of course I'd have the tension! My neurosis alone would provide enough base material. Besides, it's a big planet with plenty to get tense about. How solipsistic of me!

...The beauty of blogging is that you get to use big, fancy words and no editors will edit them out in the interest of accessibility. This may be a bad thing, actually. Oh well, I did say it's a big planet.

So, with the big planet in mind, I'm going to walk some of it right now... Just my neighbourhood, mind you. My nightly constitutional. Something to clear my head (or find fresh tensions) and work off the lasagna I had for dinner... I don't have lasagna every night, I should point out. I just wanted to be clear on that.

Not much of a blog post, eh? In fact, you might call it bloggerel. Ah? I just made that up. Bloggerel. I rather like that. Though I'm sure someone else has thought of it.

Okay, "Major Tom" is over now. I'm going for a walk. Tomorrow I'll be minor.

Or not.

Empty Glass

2005-10-13T11:20:00.000-07:00

I first heard Pete Townshend's brilliant solo début, Empty Glass, in 1980, when I was 13. Now, over 25 years later, I find this timeless and transcendent music has lost none of its liberating power.

"Thaaat's nice," you're thinking. Okay, so I felt I needed to say something positive and uplifting after the Grizzly Man post (see below).

But make no mistake, Empty Glass is a great album. LP. CD. Whatever the form.

I'm dating myself, but I don't care.

Grizzly Man: a review

2005-10-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I went to see the Werner Herzog documentary Grizzly Man, the story of Timothy Treadwell, the man who spent years filming himself with the grizzly bears of Alaska.

What a strange and compelling story. What a sad case of a man who felt so alienated from the community of humans that he chose to cross the line into the world of bears ... tempting death by camping in a dangerous location just prior to hibernation time, when some bears (often old ones) are hungry and desperate.

Treadwell (1957 - 2003) should've known better, because he had spent 13 summers with the Alaskan grizzlies. As surprising as the above mistake would seem for man apparently experienced with bears, what's even more surprising to me is that he managed to survive with them at all.

Born and raised in Long Island, N.Y., Treadwell had no experience with these massive ursines prior to his first trip to Alaska in the early 1990s. In fact, he had been, among other things, a struggling actor in Hollywood. When he failed to get the part of "Woody" on Cheers, the young man fell into a deep depression. He clung to rough company and spiralled out on alcohol and drugs. After a near-death overdose, he absolutely needed a new beginning.

Then, redemption offered itself in the form of Alaska. And that's how it began.

Herzog interviews those who knew the man, and uses lots of footage taken by Treadwell during his many expeditions -- missions, as he saw them, to save the bears from some faceless enemy. (The bears he was "protecting" actually lived on public land, which is already protected and, by anyone's standard, breathtakingly beautiful.)

When we see Treadwell speaking passionately to school children, to educate them about the bears, we can see a glimmer of reason and hope in the man's life.

However, as the film progresses it clearly shows us that Treadwell was desperately trying to protect himself from his own excesses and mood swings, for his sobriety was completely tied to his bizarre crusade. He wouldn't survive without this sense of purpose, he tells us, during one of the many unsettling and, at times, comical soliloquies, which he performs in a persona so effeminate that some might wonder if his professed difficulty with women was rooted in problems even deeper than his profound unhappiness.

While he had trouble finding lasting romance, he did manage to convince his girlfriend at the time to return to an area of thick bush after the summer of 2003. Strange bears had come into the area from the interior. Hungry bears, not the ones some claimed he treated as live Disney characters.

Treadwell and his girlfriend were both killed and eaten. Her death may be the greater tragedy, for she was there only to support a man who had deluded himself into believing his deathwish was a noble and spiritual calling.

That said, I couldn't help but feel sorry for Treadwell and the circumstances that drove him to despise what most of us call civilization. And yet he wasn't living according to the rules of the wild either. Not according to one local Inuit scholar, who points out that his people are very careful not to confuse human territory with bear territory.

For those who like to question the deeper aspects of human existence, I would highly recommend this film.

One thing is for sure. When I left the theatre, I wasn't thinking about bears. I could only wonder about us humans, our individual realities, and why one man would put himself in such great peril by behaving so contrary to the rules of two worlds -- the one he hated and the one he loved.

Going back to work

2005-10-10T18:47:00.000-07:00

Members of the CMG voted over 88 per cent in favour of ratification of the deal struck by the union and CBC management two Sundays ago. So it's back to work starting tomorrow.

I can't help but wonder how the TBC will feel inside. I'm not just talking about the political environment or working culture, but the inside of the building itself.

You know how when you were a kid and your family went on a road trip for a few weeks during the summer? Or whatever you did that took you away for an extended period of time. Well, remember the return home? Wasn't it strange? The wall colours seemed a little off, your furniture seemed arranged as though part of a stage set, and the air smelled weird. Everything was recognizable, and yet oddly unfamiliar.

Perhaps I'm more likely to experience something like the above, because I wasn't walking the line. For the folks who were on the picket line, I can only imagine what the return to work will feel like. Very strange. Being locked out of a place so vital and central to your existence is, well, just plain unnatural. There are very few, if any, experiences in life to prepare someone for such a thing. Naturally people pictured their desks and wondered what was going on inside.

Now, finally, the time to return has arrived.

To those going back in this week, I hope you find a way to feel at home again. It may take a while. This time, the weird smell won't just be from unfamiliar air, but from the strained and tattered relationships.

So, open some figurative windows and let in some fresh air.

Finkleman on CBC

2005-10-08T11:52:00.000-07:00

Read Ken Finkleman's tips and tricks for the CBC in today's Globe and Mail.

The gist of the piece: the CBC shouldn't worry about what sells -- that's a fool's game.

When I read this article, I thought of a job I had years ago (read below).

What sells

2005-10-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

One of the most anthropologically interesting jobs I've ever had was the esteemed position of customer service rep in a call centre. Not just any call centre, mind you, but a call centre at the back of a marketing and advertising agency. Woohoo! Right near the action!

I won't try to dissect the ad culture here. Suffice it to say, this bizzare environment was characterized by myriad layers of confusion, fear, and reward -- both real and perceived. Though in advertising the line between these two is often blurred beyond detection.

The passage of time in the call centre also played tricks on the mind. Boredom was the most common experience, particularly when the rate of incoming calls was low. We reps would alleviate this dreariness with snatches of conversation. These exchanges were good time-killers, and oftentimes very revealing. People told me some very personal stuff. (Looking back now, I can see it was a great place to be a writer.)

Occasionally, I even revealed things about myself, though I tried to pick my audiences carefully. I had worked "up front" in the agency, where the air always seemed rank with suspicion and betrayal.

On one particular evening, however, I decided to open up to a pleasant young woman. She seemed nice and harmless enough. Besides, I was single at the time and she was pretty. Let's face it, that's reason enough for most men to do anything.

I told her about my work, about the lonely, anxiety-filled hours spent crafting novels and screenplays, most of which had resulted in nothing more than nibbles, nice comments, and, of course, some rejection letters (some very impressive). I also told her about the option on my first screenplay, which, sadly, never made it to production. There was never enough money here in Canada, I told her.

She nodded sympathetically. She seemed to get it.

Pleased to have shared with a pretty and comprehending woman, I turned back around to face my monitor and await the next caller. Life was okay. I felt good. I'd made a connection.

A moment later, she turned to me, tilted her head, and said, "Well... why don't you just write what people want to read? What sells. Wouldn't that be so much easier on you?"

I stopped sharing my inner self in the call centre.

Transition

2005-10-06T16:33:00.000-07:00

Today I enjoyed the sunshine, ate lunch with an old friend, and walked the busy streets of midtown Toronto.

Today marked the beginning of my transition from CBC lockout ambassador-blogger to blogger-at-large.

Today it felt good to be a mere homo sapien moving somewhere between the strain of necessity and joy of invention, looking forward and feeling more hope than worry.

Today I lived without the pain and fear of nagging uncertainty.

And best of all ... tomorrow is FRIDAY! :-)

This feels weird ... in a good way

2005-10-04T06:06:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and, for the first time in seven weeks, didn't wonder what the blogs had to say. Sounds cold, I know: use 'em up and toss 'em away. Hardly.

Thanks to Tod and all the bloggers, the people on the line, and the folks who left comments on the blogs, I have felt connected to something amazing - a new and evolving community of storytellers. It's been a honour to share the blogosphere with so many dedicated, intelligent, and talented people. And I don't think I'll ever look at labour disputes the same way again. I know I said I've never been much of a joiner, but I know a good fight when I see it. The bargaining team fought for its people and for the cause of public broadcasting. I respect that.

And to the funny bloggers who made me laugh, especially Matt, a big THANKS! The CBC needs your brilliance! Get in there and help make the country laugh. What would that sound like? Actually, it might be a little startling and disconcerting. But in a good way. :-)

As for my blog, I'm going to continue with it. The lockout introduced me to blogging. I'm glad it did. This can be a great medium. So I'm going to keep on writing here. It'll be a companion to my regular website.

I look forward to seeing where this experience will take all of us.

Thanks everyone.

Wow

2005-10-03T05:42:00.000-07:00

So, this may be it! There may be a deal. There are still some things to take care of -- language, back-to-work talk, ratification, etc...

But at least we have two sides agreeing to a move on a document.

Congratulations! Good work, everyone. Impressive fight.

Rain?

2005-10-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

With all this tension in the blogosphere tonight, I keep waiting for the first falling frog to crash through the window, just like at the end of Magnolia. Maybe it'll knock me away from my computer.

Maybe we need a frog shower to clear the air?

I'd rather see a deal, but let's keep the frogs ready.

It's late. I'm delirious.

Waiting

2005-10-02T18:10:00.000-07:00

Tom Petty was right when he sang, "The waiting is the hardest part."

I'll be killing time in the bathroom. I'll be staring in the mirror, counting the new white whiskers that have appeared in my beard since the lockout began.

The Path

2005-09-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

A true story.

In the summer of 1973, when I was 7 years old, my family moved to Markham from a small town in Northern Ontario. As usual, I settled in and started making new friends. My father was an engineer for the MTO (then MTC), so moving around and finding new friends pretty much defined my early childhood.

Markham life was pleasant. People were friendly, though as a whole they seemed more homogeneous than the folks up north. We lived in a bungalow in a postwar neighbourhood -- a middle-class subdivision. In fact, it was much like Scarborough, but with corn fields and more money per capita. As for our family, we were neither rich nor poor; there were certainly no major obstacles. I took my place in the universe for granted.

And I had my own route to school: go north up the street, turn left behind the dry cleaners, walk a small parking lot, and swing north past the tavern, and then go west on the sidewalk until I arrived at my school.

My path. My own turf.

That winter, I learned a bloody lesson about turf. One weekend I was walking to my school to play. I decided to to cut through "the apartments," two monstrous compounds that loomed within view of our house; their mere presence was vaguely threatening.

Strange turf.

I'd heard the warnings from my classmates: apartment kids are delinquent, illegitimate, evil; they hate the kids who live in houses. Besides, they must be poor Protestants, not moral middle-class Catholics like us. Even at that age I was suspicious of such distinctions. My friends didn't know that I was Protestant on my mother's side. So I dismissed the words of these doomsayers as I made my way between the parking garage and the first apartment building. Instead, I focused on the sound of snow crunching under my feet.

Suddenly, my carefully balanced sense of bliss was disrupted by a coarse voice: "Hey, what do you want?!"

Three apartment boys, looking rough and ready. Which is more than I could say for myself. The rest is a blur. Memory is incomplete. I recall feeling the cold, raw aggression, and the taste of warm iron. It was like an unruly hockey game compressed into several seconds. I arrived home with a bloody nose and a fat, bleeding lip.

My parents fixed me up. My father is a steady man, not easily alarmed. There was some discussion about my route to school. Naturally my mom was worried. My father then asked me if I wanted to keep going that way. I nodded yes, even though I was scared. I didn't want to let him down. Nor did I want to let myself down. Back in the 1970s, fights between boys were cause for discussion, not public inquiry. And no self-respecting boy would accept a lift from his parents. Maybe an armed escort -- an older brother or sister. But my streetwise older brother had his own turf, his own battles to deal with.

This was my problem.

Monday came. My stomach felt like a block of acidy lead. Sullenly, I grabbed my bag and started walking. Sure enough, the leader of the three boys was waiting for me behind the tavern and dry cleaners that separated the apartment buildings from my street. He was saying something about his friends being close by.

I hesitated. He sneered with delight. I told myself (in boy terms): "If you don't walk this walk now, you'll never be in control of your own space. These boys will own you. And you'll never be free."

Shaking, I stepped forward and said, "This is my street. I'm going to school."

The boy held his tough stance, just to see if I had as much strength in my spine as I had in my words. Something revelatory happened: I found my own strength, and I realized my opponent was just another boy with turf that happened to meet my turf.

I marched toward him, my eyes locked on his. He seemed surprised, and strangely pleased. Grinning, he backed away, and I passed. I'd earned his respect. That was enough for him. He took off. His friends were nowhere in sight. I never saw them again.

And I never feared "the apartments" again. And to this day, I don't hate Protestants or apartment building dwellers or anyone else for that matter. But my space is mine. I walk my street. Whenever I choose.

This is my freedom.

Copyright (C) 2005 Tom Kernaghan

Comment on Comments

2005-09-27T17:35:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I've grown weary of all the speculation and anxiety. Or maybe I'm just tired of thinking up blog post ideas for a story that grinds on. The new locale and the looming presence of Joe Fontana helped me for a couple days. But when it comes right down to it, it's all about the two teams squaring off and getting a deal in place. Same shit, different city? I seriously hope not.

Still, I need another diversion.

So I find myself looking at numbers. More specifically, I've been looking at the numbers of comments made about the news items on CBCunplugged.com. Now, my investigative process is hardly what you'd call statistically sound and meaningful. But I do find some mild amusement in the results.

From the past few days (at last count):

Ottawa picket line and the feed -- 24
Inside the negotiating room -- 10
Standing down on the line -- 8
How to blow up the TBC (legally) -- 7
Fontana scrum -- 6
Read the Hansards -- 2
MPs aren't going to yell at Rabinovitch just yet -- 1
Question Period in Parliament -- 1
G&M article report's Fontana's hope -- 0

Now I've stayed away from the more personal stuff on the site. Just out of respect.

I know. My methodology is not only flawed, it's just plain nonexistent. However, isn't it funny that the closer we get to the Hill, the less people have to say? People are interested in the real battle, and the video game, it seems. The Globe and Mail zero at the end of the list? Uh, that's my control? A red herring? Okay, clearly I'm no statistician.

I've completely ignored the qualitative aspects of the comments. Someone could sum up an argument so well that other readers feel no need to comment. Granted. And no doubt there are other qualitative factors and explanations...

... Okay, so much for statistics. I took it in university and hated it. I also hated my industrial relations course. Funny.

Later.

Blog on Bobby

2005-09-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

Read the latest blog entry by Matt Watts.

Joe says...

2005-09-26T10:56:00.000-07:00

Joe Fontana says: "unacceptable."

He's even returning to Hull this afternoon, where he will check on the two teams and their progress at the table.

After six weeks of no talks, talks, and talk about talks, this is the only kind of talk I want to hear.

Moog and other matters

2005-09-25T07:35:00.000-07:00

I should start off by saying that the nice people in my last post's photo are not officially connected to the CBC or the CMG in any way. You likely surmised this, but I thought I'd mention it just to be on the safe side.

Okay, it's time to talk Moog.

Yes, Moog.

I'm referring to Robert Moog, the engineer and synthesizer guy. I'm sure many of you, especially those of you in radio, know about this chap. He passed away last month at the age of 71. Today I had some time on my hands, so decided to read a bit about him. Interesting stuff.

After building his first theremin at age 14, Moog was hooked on sound-making machines. The theremin, named after Russian inventor Leon Theremin, was used to make that weeooweeoo sound in The Day the Earth Stood Still, not to mention some other sci-fi movies and shows. Years later, while at Cornell University, Robert Moog created his own electronic instrument, the Moog music synthesizer.

The Moog (rhymes with vogue) changed the way music was made during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Canadian rock band Rush was known for its use of the Moog, and the synthesizer was used to create the eerie soundtrack for Stanley Kubrick's film A Clockwork Orange.

For me, one of the most striking bits from the Robert Moog bios has nothing to do with his innovative genius or his weird, preternatural relationship with electronic devices, or the many uses of the Moog synthesizer , though these many aspects of the man and his legacy are quite fascinating. Strangely, what piqued my interest even more was the story of Walter Carlos, the musician who in 1969 won three Grammys for "Switched-On Bach," which Carlos created using a Moog.

Robert Moog praised the work and the man ... who, as it turns out, went on to become a woman named Wendy. I'm guessing this decision had nothing to do with Mr. Moog's praise or his sythesizer. I would hope not.

Anyway. For whatever reason, Wendy then distanced herself from the Moog work she'd done as a man. I like to think that art can transcend gender, but perhaps sex is so fundamental to our sense of self that art must explore and express who we are within some kind of gender framework.

Deep questions. I don't know. I guess until you walk a mile in another man's pumps, you can't begin to understand his decisions.

Me, I'm partial to my own Rockports and blue jeans. ;-)

I'm also partial to stories about underdogs. Which brings me to this one, written by CBC casual worker Nancy Westaway. Thanks to Ms. Westaway for writing this piece about the strain she felt working on contract for so many years. Her words remind me never to lose my perspective, and never to hitch all my hope on a situation where I have little or no control over the outcome. Just for my own sanity, if nothing esle. However, her words also encourage me to find a ways to contribute, which brings me to this, this -- my blog.

Over these past several weeks, my blog has been a source of frustration and freedom. The frustration has been the result of uncertainty -- not knowing if what I'm writing matters to anyone. No one likes to write in a vacuum. This was more the case in the early going. During the past few weeks, I've received a couple of nods and hellos, which is good enough for me.

The freedom of the blogosphere, on the other hand, lies in its availability. While my blog has driven me nuts a few times, it is entirely at my disposal. And I don't need to know html to do my thing. I can think of nothing more liberating to a writer than to have immediate access to the world.

If you've been reading my blog, you'll have realized that feeling free is rather important to me. Hey, Walter Carlos found freedom in being Wendy Carlos.

My freedom? Well, you're reading it, baby.

Thanks for reading.

Joe Fontana called?!

2005-09-23T11:17:00.000-07:00

Hey look, honey, Rabinovitch and Amber are going to Ottawa!

Another day

2005-09-22T07:04:00.000-07:00

Today I find myself reassured by the realization that the BOD's statement may be just another play in the game.

For a brief moment last night I was in a blog-mood I would describe as the funk Dostoevsky would be in if he were alive today and listening to Nine Inch Nails while killing a bottle of vodka. I was feeling so down that I contemplated brooding just to cheer myself up! Budalump, pshhhh!

Back to today. Uh, have a nice day, quite simply. Keep passing the open windows (a John Irving reference). And for crying out loud, swat those friggin' wasps. And I don't mean the people that make up half of my family tree. They mean you no harm. I'm talking about the insects.

...I wonder if they can be trained and sent into the negotiating room... Hm. Might speed things up. You know, put things in perspective: "People, today it's wasps -- tomorrow it's locusts! Chop chop. Enjoy the dessert tray!"

Wasps love dessert.

You see, I'm willing to sacrifice tasty treats for a resolution. That's big.

Seize the day.

Full circle

2005-09-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

Okay. So. After reading the board's announcement today, it appears the Flatliners nightmare has swung back on the CMG.

Disgusting. I'm going to bed.

I'm back

2005-09-21T06:52:00.000-07:00

Well, that was neither amusing nor productive. During my blackout, I saw all these managers coming at me, calling me names, shouting "Shame!" and swinging ladders at my head...

Fuck. You see, I'm even cussing for real now. It was horrible. Phew, I'm glad I have some stuff to do. This lockout is getting too much. People puffed up with glee over a bumped head! Honestly, folks, show some class.

Really.

And for the record, I've never been physically attacked by any manager. But just imagine!

Media Flatline?

2005-09-21T06:50:00.000-07:00

My media blackout...

Watch your head

2005-09-21T06:26:00.000-07:00

Richard Stursberg must be feeling as though he has fallen asleep only to wake up in Robert Rabinovitch's Flatliners nightmare.

Meeting somewhere

2005-09-19T13:25:00.000-07:00

Rumour has it the board of directors is meeting here.

No. That's false. I was kidding.

The point is, wherever the board meets, I just hope they talk until they can all agree to do what is necessary and ask Rabinovitch et al just how the lockout and management's intransigence regarding the contract worker issue is fulfilling the corporation's mandate to serve the Canadian public.

Because believe me, in the middle of what many call "nowhere," there are people who truly feel that way without their CBC.

So, board members, if you're reading this (not likely), remember who you serve. Don't leave them nowhere.

Don't leave me nowhere. Hell, just don't leave me in debt. I need my project back to help pay for, well, my project.

...I hope your meeting spot is really nice, with haute cuisine, and trays of nice desserts. You know what I'm talking about. Read my profile. And read the other blogs!

Thanks.

Two you

2005-09-17T10:58:00.000-07:00

My partner and I were at the U2 show last night.

Someone had purchased tickets for us long ago. A thoughtful gift. Otherwise we wouldn't have been able to go. Too expensive.

Now I've been a fan of U2 since I was in high school. I just love the passion they convey with their punchy beats, lofty bass runs, escalating guitar sequences, and urgent lyrics. Bono is a natural performer. Even if you don't like U2's music, you have to admit the man knows how to work a room. People talk about his big ego. Well, like politicians, performers must have strong egos to withstand the barbs and arrows of critics.

Speaking of critics and politics...

I have mixed views about celebs using their positions as platforms to draw awareness to causes. At times I think it's fine to do this; other times it just seems over the top. Not politically, necessarily, but in terms of audience membership and the joy of letting loose at a concert.

Last night on the massive screens over the stage, which I'll admit were impressive to watch, Paul Martin's name and number streamed across the pixels. This occurred during a portion of one song. No big deal, right? Well, there I was, trying to enjoy my evening and forget the CBC and blogs and careers and all that shit, when I was immediately reminded of the question lingering in the back of my mind: "What, if anything, is Martin or anyone big going to do about the lockout?"

*&#!. We're talking Bono here, so I shouldn't have been surprised. Don't get me wrong. I had fun and would go again. And thanks, bro', for the tickets! I still like U2.

But at that moment, I knew what I was going to do. I sat down. So did my partner. My partner and I shrugged at each other. And we never quite regained that sweet performer-listener intimacy that Bono is so adept at creating. My mind was temporarily locked out of the show.

Now my CBC-related angst is hardly Bono's problem. But while he was speaking about equality and Toronto and Canada, it would've been nice if he'd said, And to all the locked out freelancers who give their heart and soul to CBC projects, and who now have a blog no one has fucking well deigned to leave a message on...! The crowd, already whipped up, would've gone wild as the eminently charismatic Irishman turned the spotlight on me. It would've been cool, and I would've felt all warm inside (and not just from the beer), and tens of thousands of people would've been motivated right there! Hell, he could've pulled me on stage (though I was too far away) and asked me to work the tubs (drummer talk -- I used to play) for a while. The pied-drummer, maan!

I would've been a hero. I could've been someone, instead of a locked out freelancer bum, which is what I am. :-( (- :

I know, I took you from Bono to Brando with no warning, no segue. Sorry. And I don't mean to be a big ungrateful baby about the show last night.

... Okay, in truth, I needed blog post material and the concert seemed a perfect fit.

Really, I just hope the negotiations go well this weekend. So to the two teams at the table, remember, Bono might just be watching.

I know the rest of us are.

The long run and Terry Fox

2005-09-16T05:57:00.000-07:00

As a new freelancer, I won't pretend to know all the details and politics involved in this... THIS! Really. I'm not on the line, I'm focused on other work, and neither management nor union heads know me from Adam. And I don't know them as human beings.

My father, a retired MTO manager who used to go out of his way to chat with the union people at their events, inculcated in me a healthy level of sketicism about almost everything. Especially messages driven by agendas (no matter what the position). Whether it be someone trying to sell me potato chips or a group peddling a cause, I learned to watch, read, and listen. What I took away from his example was this: As much as possible, trust should be reserved for individuals. If I can't read someone's eyes and body language, then I don't sign over the farm, if you know what I mean.

The upshot: be wary of groups, just on principle.

But what I also learned, from both of my parents in fact, was to be compassionate toward individuals, to deal with individuals.

Perhaps this is why self-employment has always appealed to me. If an environment is at odds with me on some philosophical level, I walk away. If there's a problem with the work, I simply call up the client and settle the matter in one phone call. (Which is why I find it particularly difficult to sit and wait for faceless bargaining teams to do their work. This is hard for everyone, let's be honest.) Are there compromises and hardships in my life? Yes. Is my lifestyle easier because I have a partner with a steady job? Well, really, this is none of your business, but since I'm opening up, the answer is yes.

Another thing I learned from both of my parents is to step into the shoes of others. Hey, if a writer/journalist can't do this, then he/she should put down the quill and put away the ink well. You are all individuals with lives, and I can understand the privation you're all suffering. Which is why I support your fight on a human level.

Do I think most CBC workers should be permenant? Yes. Most people need security. I'm not thrusting my preferences on others. I've read the positions and agree that security for the majority of CBC workers would make for good public journalism. And it's the decent thing to do.

However, I do not support either side of the table when the conflict results in moves contrary to my personal views.

Which is why I feel the need to speak up about the Terry Fox 25th Anniversary fiasco.

Fox epitomized the virtues of individual spirit, courage, and selflessness. He's one of my heroes, for sure. As much as I miss my radio project, I wouldn't give a leg for it. Terry Fox ran halfway across the country to encourage Canada and the world to focus on an issue. He gave his life doing so.

We're dividing the whole by exploiting the memory of a man who stood for full unity.

Shame on all of us today. While I support the individuals walking the line, I feel even more kinship with the young man who ran alone.

I'm with Terry on this one.

Apropos of nothing...

2005-09-14T13:56:00.000-07:00

A boat.

Ha! Usually the existential joke involves a fish. Well I got you. I wanted to paint a bigger picture.
Aren't I the maverick, unh?

Seriously. There's nothing remotely (or even weirdly) symbolic about it. This is just a nice boat I took a ride in a few months ago.

I liked the framing of the shot and wanted to share it.

Bye bye. (Photo courtesy of Michael J. Scanlan)

A pie-dea whose time has come

2005-09-13T13:25:00.000-07:00

Even more good news! Wow, what a week.

Matt Watts has finally revealed -- yup, you guessed it -- the panacea pastry, in response to other recent recipes from cbcworkerbee.

It's all good. Nay, it's great.

Maffin's Magic

2005-09-12T16:53:00.000-07:00

As I said in my previous post, I just got back from Winnipeg and I'm feeling fine.

Well I feel even better now, for I have just finished listening to Tod Maffin's podcast.

I've loved listening to radio since I was a kid, and what has always struck me about the medium is its potential for marrying intimacy with the magic of infinite possibility. I also love how you don't have to sit still to enjoy it.

Tod understands radio and radio listeners. He understands broad vision, healthy forward motion, and the power of the moment. And clearly he understands that when it comes to new technology and the right decisions for the CBC, the moment is now.

Enough of me. Listen for yourself: It's worth a second link.

Distance

2005-09-12T05:40:00.000-07:00

The Prairie Provinces have a salutary effect on me. There is something rejuvenating and liberating about vast blueness, endless horizon, clear air, and strong wind -- reminders of a universe that has nothing whatsoever to do with human motives, foibles, and agendas. In the great outdoors I drop my mental baggage and immerse myself in the tasks at hand. Ah, the blessed and immediate relief of having things to do. (Don't worry, I'm not going to start quoting W.O. Mitchell or anything.)

Speaking of tasks, I must add that an interesting project, engaging work, great company, free food, and the joy of seeing your work in production are also pretty good for one's well-being and long-term perspective. (I remember having that at the CBC... Well, I bought some of my own food.)

This past weekend I returned from out west with a fresh, more relaxed view of things. Of course, regular life in Toronto can and will blow that to hell if I'm not careful. I suppose that's why I'm writing this now.

Quite likely others have already realized what is now clear to me: lockout blogging is not a gig! The lockout is not a client. No one is paying me for this research: I'm new, so I'm not getting lockout pay. And tuning out family members while you edit blog copy is just plain wrong.

Last week, my partner, a wise, gentle, and wonderful woman, said: "Tom, you're freaking me out!"

I had locked on the lockout. My body was locked out and my mind was locked in.

Not doing that anymore. To the forces that thwart: kiss my ---.

For now, I'll blog for the fun of it. And when the blog becomes a bog, I will just keep moving, like the dry prairie wind. I know, that's an obvious and corny simile. But today I don't care! I feel good, for the first time in weeks.

Ah, I think I can see the horizon.

Sweet.

I blog therefore...

2005-09-08T06:33:00.000-07:00

I was about to post something silly, self-serving, and self-indulgent about my radio project. Then I read today's news and was reminded of issues bigger than my blog.

Time to thank my lucky stars and get to work on my other stuff.

Tomorrow I'm off to a TV shoot (not related to the lockout in any way) in Winnipeg.

Take care, folks.

Blogo-severe

2005-09-07T08:09:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think the current CBC vs. CMG situation is nothing more than history inside an enigma inside an agenda inside a riddle inside a lockout inside a bubble of acrimony inside a bigger bubble of the blogosphere inside a bursting bubble of the unknown future all wrapped up in a big steaming, tasty pie that, mark my words, will be served at a reasonable price per slice at a lockout fundraiser hosted by Matt Watts with Pedro the Gnome as his straight man. Or the other way around.

... But really, that's up to them. I'm not an event promoter, just a guy killing time and looking for laughs.

Thank you, gentlemen.

Okay...

2005-09-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

That's enough blogosphere for today. There are too many anonymous writers, and too much information I can't possibly qualify. It's kind of tripping me out!

Well, in the absence of any clear answers, I am strangely buoyed by the timeless and universal truth that management will try to get the most for the least, and the union will try to get the most for as long as they can, that it's just bargaining, not voodoo. So I hope the talks do what they're intended to do -- help the two sides arrive at a good deal. Simple, right?

It sounds naive and optimistic, I know. But hey, it's better than going to bed dreading the thought of no CBC, no future for public broadcasting, and the utter pointlessness and high cost of gathering material for a radio documentary that may never come to fruition.

Lately I've started wearing my night guard, just in case I start grinding my teeth again.

Speaking of grinding, if you haven't had your fill of opinions and perspectives for the day, here's a link to one of my favourite sites: http://www.aldaily.com/

Now, time for some real work -- grocery shopping -- and other writing.

Ta ta.

Oui for Ouimet?

2005-09-06T05:14:00.000-07:00

During war...

the good journalist opens his/her mouth and screams outrage, revealing, exposing...

the good manager/business person, on the other hand, moves with stealth, watching, waiting, communicating very little.

This is a strange beast of a war. I hope Ouimet is being a bad manager in this case.

Odd

2005-09-05T06:16:00.000-07:00

As we await this week's news from the bargaining table, some strange shit is happening. The volume of rhetoric and sniping seems to be on the rise. This after the two sides have already started talking this past week. I'm not an expert on labour negotiations, but I have to wonder if all this continued yelling isn't doing more harm than good. Granted, the progress was "minor" and likely dealt with the no-brainer stuff, and it seems there's still a fair bit of trust to be gained on both sides.

I am inquisitive by nature, as are most writers. Why is the chatter growing? Are people coming home and realizing what is happening? Are columnists positioning their pieces for maximum readership and effect? Are CMG journalists swarming CBC management, gleefully kicking and punching? Or are the journalists still worried and angry and suspicious (understandably)? Or is it all part of the elaborate game of collective bargaining?

As a storyteller, I find things make sense to me when they're placed within a metaphorical and narrative context.

So here goes.

Two parents have already started shovelling the driveway, but they're yelling a lot and shovelling very little. You see, one has been trying to have an affair and the other is hurt and pissed off. Not only has the offending partner tried to spread it around town, but he/she has also had the gall to lock the heartbroken partner and the kids out of the house, accusing them of not being progressive enough: Come on, swing with that 1970s key-swapping party, honey. It must be noted that the heartbroken partner, though generally a good spouse, can be a little shrill and self-righteous from time to time. So, the snow is moving slowly. And the children are heckling from the street, sometimes throwing punches at each other, as they are wont to do. But no one steps in. The neighbours are too busy, though some are speaking up. All the while the foster children of this dysfunctional family are sitting across the street, smoking (stunting their growth), spitting on the sidewalk, and wondering when in the hell the Children's Aid will arrive and what family will have them next. Their siblings, the real offspring, turn and tell them they're in the family. The foster kids cast steely-eyed stares into the unknown distance, and say, "Thanks, I'm with you, but I'm just going to finish my smoke here..."

Talks, not yelling. That's what we want.

Correction

2005-09-04T09:22:00.000-07:00

I've been told I am a member of the CMG by virtue of my freelancing for Outfront. I suppose this makes sense: if you're covered by collective bargaining then you're part of the collective. However, my project was halted mid-production when this lockout began, so no money has changed hands. As this is my first project with the CBC, I assumed I was still in limbo as far as membership status goes, that I was a supplier.

Strange, hazy zone to be in. I'm seeing more and more why so many want permanent employee status. Of course, I wouldn't be devoting so much of my thought and energy to this stuff if the lockout hadn't occurred to begin with. Funny that.

By the way, the above photo was taken during happier times -- while I was working on my project this past July. Note the rosy optimism on my face! Little did I know...

New blog kid in town

2005-09-03T16:27:00.000-07:00

Hello. I'm neither a CBC manager nor a member of the CMG. I'm a humble freelance writer who was working on a CBC Radio Outfront piece when that loathsome, cursed day known simply as August 15 brought darkness to the light of creative collaboration I had been enjoying with my wonderful CBC producer.

Pah! (This was used frequently in a Jean-Paul Sartre novel and I thought it would fit here, given the apparent pointlessness of starting anything at the CBC these days. I hope the reference to existential philosophy isn't too pompous, esoteric or artsy for some of the CBC-haters. Hell, I read the cereal box like everyone else! And I have a fairly good wrist shot as well.)

The writing life can be a real rush. I have a column in a west end community newspaper, and I'm also working on a cool TV gig. But the writer's life can really suck when you're vulnerable to and in fact affected by managerial obstinance. Like right now!

I have a business degree and yet I'm not quite sure what management is doing. Their behaviour is bizzare and puzzling. Unless, of course, they want to ruin the CBC, break the union, or both ... in which case their behaviour makes perfect sense. On the other hand, I can see quite clearly why you CMG folks are fighting so hard.

Your performance these past three weeks is nothing short of inspiring ... even if you do seem to take the Ouimet blog bait and start bickering at each other from time to time. That said, you're an impressive bunch. I'm not sure if it's Sun Tzu or just a school yard axiom: Never underestimate the other kid in the sandbox.

It appears management did. And I hope they realize this, become reasonable, and end this absurdity. They haven't underestimated me, however. I'm just some guy whose project is on hold (as are the projects of many other freelancers), whose money is on hold, and whose minidiscs of content (some of which will belong to CBC) are locked up while you guys are locked out. Just peachy.

I've signed my name to my blog because I'm a writer. I feel that's what writers should do. Otherwise, how do you know who's writing what? I'm simple that way. Besides, it's not as if I'm telling anyone to *$&@ off. Even though I'd be well within my rights in doing so.

That's it for my first post. Have a great weekend!