What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
(and remember, you can always e-mail me if you love or loathe anything you're about to read)...


   Friday, August 30, 2002

YELLING FROM THE BLEACHERS

As major league baseball lurches toward a strike this week, I fearfully remember how the last one a few years back virtually ended the sport's already waning popularity. At a game this week, one fan was shown on TV holding up a sign that read, "IF YOU GO, DON'T COME BACK." After over a century, it looks like this is the bottom of the ninth with two men out and two strikes for the sport itself...

MAYBE IT'LL SOUND BETTER COMING FROM HIM

Charles Kimball is chair of the department of religion at Wake Forest University and the author of three books about religion in the Middle East. His latest couldn't be more necessary -- it seems he's cast his net a little wider this time for a timely overview entitled When Religion Becomes Evil. As he puts it:

"Whatever religious people may say about their love of God or the mandates of their religion, when their behavior toward others is violent and destructive, when it causes suffering among their neighbors, you can be sure the religion has been corrupted and reform is desperately needed. When religion becomes evil these five corruptions are always present. Conversely, when religion remains true to its authentic sources, it is actively dismantling these corruptions ..."

Dr. Kimball's new book will be featured in the New York Times on -- when else? -- September 11th and while I'm sure the press and public will eagerly listen to his critiques of Islamic fundamentalism, I hope this Baptist scholar won't let his own clan off too easy. Religious fundamentalism -- Islamic, Christian, Zionist, whichever -- is steadily becoming one of humanity's most troubling issues and it has to stop before more innocents are killed. Cheers to Charles Kimball for beating the drum.

Labels: religion

FINDING WORDS

I'm lucky to have few regrets in my life so far but lately I'm feeling a major one. With a past year spent worrying over attacks on the US, looking for a new career, my father's poor health, and an off-again, on-again relationship with Darcy -- I've let a few friendships suffer or even lapse altogether. Basically, I'm finding myself trying to undo six months of withdrawl from the people around me.

Despite the sleek beauty of e-mail, I've communicated less with various people in my life, finding it difficult to focus on what to say. While I've used my journals (including this latest open-to-the-public variation) to push myself forward a little more these last few months, I've frequently found myself with nothing more helpful to say to my friends than the usual chitchat. Especially odd, since I've learned in life that just simple chitchat often leads to conversations that can inspire or challenge, but I haven't been practising what I preach.

Being unemployed was a huge part of this -- as long as I was nervously scraping by on a pub salary, I was utterly distracted and self-absorbed. I felt of no use to anyone. Now, that feeling is ebbing somewhat but that makes me laugh as I'm now in a record shop -- how useful is that? I have to keep reminding myself that sometimes the attempts are every bit as important as the results.

Last week, my mother invited me on a family road trip to New York State. Now, she and I both know that I have no time these days for anything like that, but she called long distance to tell me that she wanted my company. I appreciated the gesture and it's time I started making some of my own, assuming that the people who haven't heard from me in a while still have any interest.

That's the part that raises scary questions. Can a true friendship survive a long period of no-contact? Should it? If you have nothing in common with someone anymore, or no time for them, is there any point to maintaining a friendship? What do you do when one person wants to be friends but the other doesn't -- can friends be 'divorced'? And what could you say to prevent such a fate? Or are some friendships just meant to wrap up at some point?

I don't know the answers to any of this, sadly, but I do know that -- with one, long, glorious day off from both jobs tomorrow -- I'll be sitting back down here, writing a couple of letters, making a couple of phone calls, figuring out what I need to say and hoping that I haven't run out of time.

Labels: oh l'amour

NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLITT

Darcy and I stayed up watching Bullitt on CityTV's "Late Great Movies" last night. I oohed and aahed over the location filming in lovely San Francisco, while Darcy thrilled to Steve McQueen's Ford Mustang. And, of course, the car chase that uses both is still one of the most exciting ever filmed.

What really surprised me while seeing this movie again for the first time in at least a decade was the film's humanity. McQueen's cop character is a perfect tough guy -- the classic hard-boiled detective -- but you can see him stopping to check on the people around him in warm little ways and you can tell that he's upset by the violence he both encounters and dishes out. How different from the Schwarzenegger types who coolly march on after a quick, cruel joke at the evil villain's expense. "Bullitt" is that rare action movie that cares about the people in it, making your heart pound in empathy as well as excitement.

Labels: oh l'amour

AND SO IT BEGINS...

Today began my stint at the record store and it was, as they say, a blast from the past. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed being in a busy environment and dealing with the widest-possible assortment of people. I'd also forgotten how much it hurts to stay on your feet for eight or nine hours -- say a little prayer for the next person who helps you with your shopping!

I worked from 12:30 pm until 9:00 pm, then popped home to change for a shift at the pub from 10:00 pm till 3 am. I'd forgotten how gruelling that sort of schedule is as well, but it's what I'll do for the next little while until my financial picture is looking a bit rosier. Besides, that new Coldplay album I've waited for is out today and I'll get it cheaper than anyone. I'll take my perks where I can.

HAVING AN AVERAGE WEEKEND

Some people ask me if working the door at the pub is terribly dull -- imagining nights spent staring onto the street as I click the little counters when people pass me by. Other people ask me if working the door at the pub is wonderfully exciting -- imagining nights spent giddly with power as I wrestle drunken psychos down the stairs. The truth, I tell them, is usually in the middle and the '80/20 rule' applies here -- my nights are mostly dull with the occasional burst of drama.

What some people don't seem to understand is why I'm doing it at all. They seem unaware that a bar can be fined or even shut down for having customers who are under 19 or who get too drunk, either in our pub or somewhere before. The authorities refer to that second part as customers being "overserved" and it doesn't matter who does it. It's my job then to either keep already-drunken people from entering or escort out the ones who get too drunk in our own pub. Tonight, that meant keeping out these people:

-- A man in a T-shirt, a swimsuit(?) and sandals who was pointed out on the street by the other doorman as someone our pub has permanently barred for getting violent when he drinks. He kept arguing that, since we'd never spoken face-to-face before, I couldn't be sure it was him so he should be allowed in. I love 'drunk logic.'

-- A red-haired girl who had trouble pulling out her ID, after having "a few coolers." She and her friend had to drink elsewhere.

-- A baby-faced goth girl with no ID at all. Since I believed her when she insisted she's 20, I felt badly about sending her home but it's what I have to do.

-- Two guys on a pub-crawl. See 'the red-haired girl and friend' above.

-- A hefty, stumbling older man with broken blood vessels in his face. I had to keep explaining to him that, at 1:59 am, there was no time for him to make last call but he kept softly demanding "just a small pint." It's these types that make me feel the saddest.

-- And, my personal favourite, a man who'd passed by my manager inside as he led a staggering, lurching friend by the hand. My boss waved me into the pub, pointing and asking, "Is that guy blind?" Turns out no, not blind, and I was horrified that I could've missed such an obviously messy drunk. Fortunately, as I insisted he leave, it turns out he wasn't drunk either. "C'mon, guy," he said, as I pulled him out to the sidewalk, "I was just being funny." "Actually, you weren't," I told him, "You're not funny at all," and I let Seinfeld and Kramer practise their routine somewhere else.

Meanwhile this evening, there were two people escorted out of the pub by the security staff working inside so, out of nearly 1400 people who passed me on their way in, eleven were problems for us. Not a bad ratio at all and proof, I'd say, that most of our customers are lovely, agreeable people having a good time in our pub -- no matter what those eleven will say about "that red-haired bitch at the door." *

* an actual quote from an evening past -- it still makes me laugh!

SO WHO VOTED FOR "THE PILLOW BOOK"?

Every ten years, the British film journal Sight and Sound polls virtually every major director and film critic for a 'top ten' list of the greatest films of all time. The 2002 edition is now up on their site. The fun part is that it not only features separate lists for critics and directors but cross-references everything, so you can see who voted for what. While it's no shock that "Citizen Kane" tops both lists, with "Vertigo" a strong contender, there are some surprises amongst the individual voters. For instance, Ernest Dickerson -- writer/director of "Juice" and the cinematographer for nearly every Spike Lee film -- voted for two of my favourites, "Brazil" and "Blade Runner," and I'm curious as to how these two sci-fi futures have influenced his gritty urban style. Meanwhile, there are two directors out there who respectively think that "Dawn of the Dead" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" are two of the greatest films ever made and, while one might certainly wonder why, only a heartless snob would disparage their choices. That's the irrational joy of being a movie-lover.

LET'S SEE THAT AGAIN

Forgot to set the VCR to tape tonight's airing of Peter Greenaway's "The Pillow Book" on Showcase. Fortunately, I was able to catch the last half-hour of it (not enough!) when I got home. Watching the ending again, after seeing this movie in the theatre a couple years back, reminded me how a good film can improve with subsequent viewings.

The first time around, I thrilled to a movie that celebrated books, calligraphy, and Ewan McGregor's penis. What's not to like? Well, the second half of the film, it turns out, in which the plot takes some gruesome twists that I found distasteful and ugly, a betrayal of the eroticism and poetry of the first half.

Watching the ending again, however, I found myself appreciating it more, realizing that the vengeance and gore are the dark side of the pleasure and sexuality, all of it pertaining to the body and what we do with it. The surging passions of sex and violence are too similar, too easily linked.

Makes me want to see the entire thing again, and not just because I missed Ewan McGregor. Meanwhile, I was amused to see that, while Showcase was sure to warn viewers of the film's "nudity and sexuality," the bits with blood are apparently fine. It's American movie logic: kill a person and get a PG rating; have sex with a person and it's rated R.

MORE VANITY (FAIR)...

The cover of this month's Vanity Fair features Oscar-winning actress Jennifer Connelly, and I marvelled at the blurb, which reads, "The exquisite beauty and impossible talent of Jennifer Connelly." Now, this woman is indeed beautiful and, judging from her last few movies, very talented. Nevertheless, I can't help but wonder who at Vanity Fair did her publicist sleep with to get such a quote? Even by Hollywood standards, it's outrageously fawning. VF needs to turn the dial on their hype-machine down from '11' before they blow a valve.

NOT EVERY ANNIVERSARY SHOULD BE CELEBRATED

During one of my usual bookstore pop-ins, I see that Vanity Fair is the first magazine to feature the cover slogan, "9/11 - One Year Later" -- the first of way too many, I'm sure. I mention this in an e-mail to my friend Darrell, who replies, "And isn't that just what America needs? Vanity Fair putting 9/11 into perspective for us?" Gosh, I love that man. Right now, I'm going to schedule a dentist appointment for September 12, as I'll need it after three weeks of gritting my teeth in dread.

SURVIVAL FOR ONE

Having already decided to retreat to the warm bosom of retail, I've been dismayed by the agonizingly slow process of getting a mere clerk job. After two(!) interviews for a job at a Queen West bookstore and weeks of nail-biting, I was finally told (via my answering machine) that they decided to go with someone else. Fair enough, I thought, until they said it's because I "won't mesh well" with their current staff. End of message. I was reeling in horror over this, wondering just what was so wrong with me that I would be such an alien presence in a bloody bookstore.

I remained morose until a lucky appearance by my friend Michael Rowe, who simply asked, "Are you joining a staff or a cult?" and angrily listed many, many reasons why I'm better than the pretentious, unfriendly, unpublished poets who currently staff that place. I'd thought about calling the managers to ask exactly why my personality wouldn't "mesh" but realized that I don't want to give them another chance to put me down.

Fortunately, the staff at a Yonge Street record store feel differently -- after my one interview with them, they seem quite pleased to get me on board and I'll be starting there later this week. The pay is, of course, abysmal but it'll add enough to what I'm currently making at the pub to ease my current money woes. From that point, I'll be better able to plan my next move, instead of scrabbling to cover every new financial dilemma.

The only lingering fear is over my own relief that I don't have any children. How do parents do it? I know many people just getting by on their own -- how would they extend their resources to kids? The answer is, of course, that parents just do whatever they have to for their children -- a task that deserves more praise than it gets, but perhaps more exclusivity than it has. I'm certainly not cut out for parenting -- I don't feel I could even manage a dog right now -- and I wish people in general weren't just expected to be. It's a calling, not a requirement.

YOUR DISCO NEEDS HER

Much More Music devoted an entire hour to "An Audience with Kylie Minogue" last night, sixty minutes of the Australian popstar performing and answering "probing questions" from a roomful of fellow celebrities and wide-eyed fans. I watched for about ten: the costumes were lavish, the back-up dancers were acrobatic, the songs were catchy and the singer was...adequate.

The huge international success of Kylie (no need for a last name now that she's apparently been granted Diva status) is a bit mistifying, as there's just nothing remotely interesting about her. But then, that's probably exactly why she's so popular -- her songs are pleasantly fluffy bubble-gum, delivered in a sincere, personality-free voice.

Kylie is the perfect Karaoke artist -- since we know little about her, we're free to project whatever we like onto her. Do you like your popstars nice? Kylie seems to be. Sexy? Kylie's got a body on her. Exotic? Kylie's accent makes her stand out.

Kylie's simplicity (to use a kind word) trumps even the one-note personalities of 'divas' before her: Madonna is Sexy, Whitney is Fierce, Cher's a Survivor. Kylie? She's fresh and exciting, but has also been around since the mid-80's. She's a Sexy, Fierce, Brand New Survivor and, if we can't get her out of our heads, I at least hope I should be so lucky.

DEMONS

After my friend James and I finished working at the pub late last night, we walked to his place nearby to chat for a while over a cup of tea. We do this once a week or so -- co-workers at the pub think "tea" is some kind of euphamism for drugs or something but, no, we are actually having Twinnings tea and watching whatever DVD he's recently picked up. James invested a fair bit of money in a new surround-sound system and, this week, "The Lord of the Rings" is sounding fantastic in his apartment (here's hoping the neighbours' walls are as thick as he thinks).

As I left James' place sometime before five in the morning, I cut through Allen Gardens, as I usually do. It's a large park between Carlton and Gerrard Streets and, like most parks, it's creepy at night but thankfully empty for the most part. Last night, however, I stopped upon discovering a wheelchair standing beside a park bench. There was absolutely no one around. The wheelchair seat held a small clear bag with a candy bar wrapper and an egg inside, as well as a crumpled paper bag that I decided not to open. As I looked at the chair, wondering what had happened to its owner, a spider came creeping along the strands of web that I then noticed all over the armrests. Something about all this weirded me out completely and I backed away.

As I continued along the park path, still wondering if someone out there needed this wheelchair, two guys in their twenties were coming up the other path. They were wearing jeans and grimy T-shirts and one idly scratched at his stomach as I gave them a wide berth. Passing the round fountain in the middle of the park with benches circled around it, I saw a burly man with a goatee sitting on one as he turned to look at me. Silently, he turned away again to face another man on a bench on the other side of the fountain. He too was just sitting there silently. They were like men at a bus station but waiting for what? Sex? Drugs? Rock 'n' Roll? I didn't want to know; I just kept on moving.

Something about the park made me feel a curious sort of fear. Not fear for myself -- I could tell I was in no danger -- but something vaporous, hard to define, and this uneasiness stayed with me all the way down Jarvis Street as I passed various lonely people, a couple of wobbly alcoholics and a man with suitcases trying to hail a cab in front of the hotel. I had turned up the volume on my headphones since the park -- a batch of Fatboy Slim tracks -- and, as I finally reached my block, an elderly Asian man with a straggly grey goatee and wearing a toque walked towards me with his hand raised to catch my attention. As I tensed up, wondering what he wanted, he suddenly started waving his hand hello and he broke into a broad smile as he passed by. It was the last thing I expected. Meanwhile, Macy Gray was singing into my ears:

"All of my demons have withered away
Ecstacy comes and they cannot stay
You'll understand when you come my way
'Cause all of my demons have withered away"

Labels: friends, insanity, working girl

OK, I LIED...

I am posting more about World Youth Day, specifically the astonishing $30-million deficit for the organizers, despite the City of Toronto ponying up massive subsidies right at the start. Most of the shortfall, according to Canoe.ca, "came from a lack of registration payments. Organizers had expected 300,000 pilgrims to pay $240 each to register for the event, but they only received about 187,000 registrations." Not to mention the fact that crowd estimates hit the half-million mark. Skipping out on church payments doesn't seem like the Christian thing to do, does it?

The worst part is that there's talk underway to have citizens in Toronto or even Canada in general shell out even more in an attempt to match the necessary funds. A charity drive or a general appeal to Catholics is one thing but I humbly suggest that there's no damn way the WYD bunch should get another penny out of the government -- municipal, provincial or federal.

Perhaps now's a good time to let the Pope know that many of those gold chalices lying around Vatican City would fetch a pretty penny at Sotheby's. Maybe there'd even be some money left over to feed the poor or something. Don't say I didn't try to help.

Labels: Canada, religion, Trawna

HONEYMOON IN VEGAS

This is a weird week for Elvis fans. As we approach the twenty-fifth anniversary of his death (yes, sorry, he is indeed dead), The King's daughter has married actor Nicholas Cage. Now, normally, I'm one of the few people who couldn't give a toss about celebrity marriages -- I don't read People or Hello! and I've never had a theory on why Julia Roberts keeps dumping fiancees -- but I have to admit that this one rattled me a little.

If there's one thing that I've learned about Nicholas Cage, despite not caring much, it's that he's a massive, massive Elvis fan (hell, one look at "Wild at Heart" will tell you that). Marrying Lisa Marie Presley makes him, in effect, Elvis' son-in-law and you just know he's thrilled about that. It's seems a bit creepy.

I hadn't heard about the marriage until my friend Chris told me about it and I asked him, "How do you marry a guy when you know that he might be doing so just because he's insane about your father?" Chris paused for a moment and said, "This is the woman who married Michael Jackson." "Oh yeah," I said, "I'd forgotten about that." Perhaps I do need to pay more attention to these things.

It's all speculation though, and distasteful at that -- I don't truly know anything about Lisa Marie and Nick so'll I just assume that they're deeply in love and that this marriage is a good thing for both of them. Oh wait -- I did that for her and Michael Jackson. Never mind.

BUFFY THE TERRORIST SLAYER?

This month's "Spoonful of Sugar" award goes to US military analyst Anthony H. Cordesman at the Center for Strategic and International Studies. He managed to get the mainstream media interested in a frankly-terrifying overview of biological weapon strategy by realizing that those charged with defending us are not unlike TV's Buffy, a young woman who "lives in a world of unpredictable threats." Her attempts to understand and combat the horrors around her, he says, mirror those of the military concerning biological warfare.

Cordesman admits that his approach is "somewhat unusual," but better than the current methods of threat assessment, a statement that is -- again -- frankly terrifying. His fascinating paper, entitled Biological Warfare and the "Buffy Paradigm", is available as an Adobe Acrobat .pdf file at the CSIS site.

WORLD-CLASS CITY

Those of us who live in Toronto tend to disparage it more than we should. There's so much standing in the way of Toronto being a truly great city that we tend to take what wonders it does have for granted. For instance, I spent a healthy chunk of this evening having a picnic on one of the islands and, as I stood on the deck of the ferry and watched the sailboats glide by, I was happily reminded of how fine a city this is. I looked up at the sunset soon after and saw only a reddish smear, thanks to the sickening smog hanging over us, and was sadly reminded of how much work needs to be done.

Labels: Trawna

ACQUIRED TASTES

Had a candy bar at work last night (a Mars with almonds) and this long-time favourite of mine suddenly struck me as sugary and cloying. When I'm in the mood for something sweet these days, I find myself eating dark chocolate, which I hated as a kid. At this moment, I'm listening to "Blue" by Joni Mitchell, whose high, plaintive voice I also hated as a kid but now delights me (if there's a more heartbreaking song than "River," I haven't found it yet).

I like this ebb and flow of tastes, even as I look at 80's movies, for instance, that I enjoyed as a teen but now consider stupid. I think the trick is not to fall into the trap of berating your younger self for loving those trifles, while preventing the younger you from picking on what a fogey you're becoming.

HIT AND RUN

Here's why I love comic Kate Clinton -- in an article on gay marriage in The Progressive, she can't resist adding:

"Sidebar: you just wish sometimes that the Church protected children as much as they protect fetuses."

YES! And people say I've been Catholic-bashing...

GREEN-EYED MONSTERS

As I guard my pub nightly against drunks, teens and the occasional lunatic, people often stop to express pity for my boyfriend. I'd agree with them if we were talking scheduling, since our evenings together are so brief, but these people are usually talking about feelings. "I wouldn't be able to handle it if my boyfriend worked in a bar," they say, "I'd be so jealous." They believe that working in a gay bar increases my risk of cheating on my boyfriend and, with hundreds of men of every type strolling by me all evening, they're probably right.

I wonder why, though, no one looks at the other side of it? While I sit by the steps of the city's biggest gay bar, in full view of anyone in the neighbourhood, my pitied boyfriend can logically be out doing whatever or whoever he likes. How would I know? I'm working. On Saturday nights, I'm handing back fake ID cards while he's on the dance floor with his friends at the pick-up joint down the street -- so why does he get all the concern?

It's ugly to think that my job would prevent us from simply trusting one another. Having fought over such things with him (breaking up twice, in fact), I can say I'm almost certain that I don't want anyone other than him and I'm almost certain that he doesn't want anyone other than me. It's the 'almost' bits that are both unsettling and apparently universal but I can deal with them if he can.

DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO

In his latest drumbeat for support on Iraq-bombing, US President Bush said this past Saturday that he owed it to "the future of civilisation not to allow the world's worst leaders" to develop "the world's worst weapons." This is a favourite phrase of his -- at a March fund raiser for a pal with eyes on the Senate, Bush spoke of America's enemies and said, "We can't look back and say, 'How come we let this happen?' For the good of our children and grandchildren, we must deny the world's most dangerous leaders from harboring the world's most dangerous weapons."

Funny, then, that George is still pushing to restore Daddy and Uncle Ron's mouldy dream of an orbital targeting grid...I mean, "missile defense" system...ridiculously dubbed "Star Wars." If I were 12 years old and running a country, I'd think that was a really cool idea, but since I'm neither, I don't. The biggest problem is that Bush can't seem to understand why Russia and China aren't especially keen on this "Empire Strikes Back" sequel (pouting because the US won't share its toys with them?) It's taken fifteen years to cool down the arms race, only to have the new prez risk heating it up again, and using the events of September 11th as an emotional hook for support invites anger and defies logic.

Now I confess to not knowing enough about the technology itself to fairly criticize it but, fortunately, arms-control lobbyists The Council for a Livable World have a website that examines the current state of the "Star Wars" program -- and it's not pretty.

Bush isn't the world's worst leader and "Star Wars" isn't the world's most dangerous weapon. But why try to make the list?

Labels: George W Bush

DON'T PANIC (JUST YET)

Toronto is a very expensive city to live in, and that's never quite so apparent as when your income shrinks a bit. Two job interviews this week, both for low-paying retail outlets that I nevertheless feel ideally suited for. Again, I can't say I've ever felt perfect before but really, neither shop could have a better employee. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one who has to be sure of that, am I? But I've done all I can at this point and can only wait and worry, while continuing to spin the financial plates that wobble on the sticks I've placed around me. None have broken yet.

Incessantly listening to Coldplay's "Parachutes" album has helped my mood enormously, by the way. Looking forward to buying their new album due next month with all that disposable income I'll be earning...

Labels: Trawna

THE WORLD SPINS

And I was doing so well…

I’m aiming to produce at least one post a day here but this has been a hectic week, notably for a big job interview this past Monday (crossing my fingers) and my birthday on Wednesday. Both went reasonably well, though the build-ups were more intense than the actual events. There will be a second interview for the job in question on Tuesday (biting my nails) and the birthday simply featured a lovely lunch with Danielle, dinner with Darcy and a shift at the pub’s crowded 13th anniversary party. People said, “How awful to have to work the night of your birthday,” but I just pretended that the whole event was in honour of me and enjoyed myself.

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, working girl