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, September 27, 2002

DREADING THE WEDDING

Life is pretty good at the moment -- now if I could just avoid the wedding I have to go to in Hamilton this Saturday. It'll be long, it'll be Catholic, it'll be awful.

I'll be giving up a day of my life to sit in uncomfortable pews, wear a starchy suit, and listen to endless blathering about the holy union reserved exclusively for the man and the woman from a priest who thinks I'm heading for hell.

My cousin is lucky I like him, and I'll be focusing on that fondness all the way through the damn thing.

LISTEN 'UP'

Having bought it days ago, I was finally able to sit down and settle back with the first album from Peter Gabriel in ten years. The suspense has been awful -- what if the new material is terrible? Or worse, dull? Well, I can at last say that 'Up' is not terrible, not dull, not even fine -- it's astonishing.

The new album is a collection of staggeringly inventive, rich soundscapes and easily the most ambitious production he's done. Each of the songs in turn are beautiful or spiky, uplifting or unsettling: "Growing Up" rivals his classic "Sledgehammer" for a muscular, grinding dance track, while "Darkness" takes the themes of "Digging in the Dirt" even deeper.

Also, Gabriel's singing voice is not only remarkably consistent with his classic 80's sound but occasionally evokes his earlier Genesis days as well. He has a unique quality of anguish in his singing, as if he's just within reach of everything he needs in his life but still has a bit to go. It's a voice of hope and pain, one that has inspired me for nearly twenty years.

I'm thrilled to hear an album that gets me so excited about music again (especially in such a robotic time) and more thrilled to know that he'll be doing a live show in Toronto this December. Check out www.petergabriel.com for info and song samples, or just do yourself a favour and get your own copy. Maybe I'll see you in Saturday's ticket line!

Labels: Trawna

NOT BAD, AL


The big story today is how Al Gore has come out swinging against President Bush's plans to oust Saddam Hussein, claiming that, "in the immediate aftermath of September 11th, more than a year ago, we had an enormous reservoir of good will and sympathy and shared resolve all over the world. That has been squandered in a year's time and replaced with great anxiety all around the world, not primarily about what the terrorist networks are going to do, but about what we're going to do."

The American press has leapt all over Gore for these supposedly-traitorous comments, but I do think his speech in San Francisco last night contained more than just the usual Bush-bashing. Gore believes that "the war against terrorism manifestly requires...the continuing, sustained cooperation of many nations. Our ability to secure that kind of multilateral cooperation in the war against terrorism can be severely damaged in the way we go about undertaking unilateral action against Iraq."

This seems like an entirely sensible opinion, but one we're not seeing reflected in the current situation. Comparing Iraq's current state to its invasion of Kuwait in 1990, Gore says that "back then, every Arab nation except Jordan...supported our military effort, was a part of the international coalition and some of them supplied troops. Our allies in Europe and Asia supported the coalition without exception." This is not the case right now, as we all know, and Bush needs to proceed with more thought than he's displayed so far. I agree completely with Al when he says, "If what America represents to the world is leadership in a commonwealth of equals, then our friends are legion. If what we represent to the world is an empire, then it is our enemies who will be legion." And when the US is starting with most of the Arab world, this is a scary notion.

In a related note, the chair of the UK Labour party -- behind Tony Blair's back, I imagine -- has co-written a critique of The dishonest case for war against Iraq -- yet another viewpoint to consider. I don't envy George Bush one bit but, unlike Al Gore, I'd like to be able to praise him at some point.

Labels: George W Bush

A NEVER-ENDING STRUGGLE?

Too busy to blog.

It's sad but the twin jobs that are pulling me out of a financial swamp are also pushing me into quicksand. I'm working. All. The. Time. And I worry about the days I'm giving up as I do so. But I'm still pleased, as I'm watching someone I know prepare to leave Toronto and move back in with her parents, in order to save money and get out of debt. I could never do that and I'm thrilled that I haven't had to. I paid off three months of phone and cable bills today, along with a debt of $400 owed to someone else, and I then treated myself to a couple of cheap DVDs and comic books, so I wouldn't feel like a total adult!

The only comic book I still follow avidly is an X-Men spin-off formerly called Cable but recently renamed Soldier X -- a terrible title but one that deserves a look. Writer Danko Macan and artist Igor Kordey are both Croatian-born and have given the comic a gritty, real-world feel.

Its hero-from-the-future Nathan Summers fights mobsters, terrorists and spies throughout Europe and Central America -- trying to prevent the dystopian society he grew up in, 2000 years from now -- using his telekinetic powers and a sort-of future-Buddhism called Askani, which means 'outsider'.

In the current, third issue, Nathan is trying to save a mutant Russian girl from being horribly exploited, but her own father refuses to help, saying, "Maybe you can't understand this, friend Nathan. You are not Russian, you have hope. We don't. What's is...is, and that's all."

As Nathan writes to a friend, "And that, dear Irene, was what really made me angry.
'What is...is' is a credo of my faith. An Askani says those words to pardon the world before he starts changing it. To hear that holy phrase reduced to an excuse for despair...that I couldn't stand."

But later, he admits his doubts:
"And what do I do, the soldier who has outlived his war?
Does the world really need me? Does anyone?
What do I do?"

"The world needs hope, that much is certain. But it certainly does not need me.
For, what kind of message do I represent?
Inability to attain peace, with myself or the others? A never-ending struggle?
Those words do not spell hope.
Who, then, would want to believe in me --
-- when I could not.
When I would not."

And when I read those words this week, I felt happier knowing that someone understands how I'm feeling lately, that even a comic-book character like Nathan Summers can be the conduit (cable?) for the writer sharing his experience and connecting with mine. And then perhaps yours, and then perhaps all of us. I'd like to think such words could spell hope.

Labels: comic books, Trawna

SCENES FROM THE LISTENING POST

A short, strange, middle-aged man was hunting for a particular version of Burt Bacharach's "Do You Know The Way To San Jose?" and had two of my record store colleagues tearing open at least ten CD's for him to listen to. The classic Dionne Warwick arrangement just wasn't working for him, I guess, but no other version turned up.A couple hours later, I was in the middle of resealing all those albums when there he was again. Had he left and come back, I wondered, or had he been in the store the whole time? "Excuse me," he asked, "do you have any Burt Bacharach CD's?" I wish I could've seen my own face at that moment. Not knowing how to sugar-coat this one, I simply said, "Yes...you've listened to all of them." With an "ohhhh" of recognition, his eyes widened and he said, "That was here?" "Yes it was," I said, suppressing a laugh. "Oh," he said, "okay," and wandered off. There's nothing quite like working at Yonge and Dundas...

NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGER

Robert Beltran is the happy actor who recently ended a seven-year run on Star Trek: Voyager. He'd earned the wrath of Trekkies for complaining about the show in the press, describing the show's writing as "shit." His comments were obviously unprofessional and entirely right. Voyager was mostly crap, a waste of time that led Beltran to beg the producers to kill off his character. It didn't happen but, a year after the show's end, Beltran was asked this week if he's been freely watching its new replacement, Enterprise, and he replied:

"I have already done that, I know what it is about. I know that there is going to be a certain amount of shakes and bombings and the shields are going to go down to 20 percent and the warp core is gonna bust and some aliens are gonna try to kill everybody and they will make it through, so what's to see? I already know that. That's for the fans. I am not a fan."

Thanks to speeches like this, I am a fan...of Robert Beltran. I like his brutal honesty and refusal to play along only for the sake of money (though he was being very well-paid). If television is truly a collaborative medium, why can't the actors comment on the lines they're being given? Or why can't the writers comment on the acting? Anything that leads to a better program is a good thing, right? Robert Beltran may have simply wanted more interesting things to do but, as a viewer, I wanted to see him do more interesting things. Too bad we were both disappointed.

THE ROADS TO HELL

My brother's birthday today, and Darcy was kind enough to offer me a lift to Hamilton. So much for good intentions. Those who say a road trip is the true test of a couple's bond are only partially right -- navigating the tangled streets of 'Steel Town' is the ultimate challenge to fidelity. At the wheel, Darcy was becoming increasingly annoyed with my lack of highway knowledge while I, attempting to keep us travelling in the right direction at least, got us increasingly lost. "If only we had a helicopter," I joked, but that car was a tough room. We eventually made it to my parents' house, of course, but not before some tones of voice were sharpened. I'd say we arrived just in time...

Labels: oh l'amour

"I'M DOING WHAT I DO TO SEE ME THROUGH"

My friend Darrell and I have been tossing some international-politics-related e-mails back and forth this week -- no surprise there. I hope he won't mind if I respond to the newest one sometime later, but it's late and I'm too sleepy to properly argue the intriguing points he raises (as usual). He did, however, neatly capture my own mood regarding this now-mournful date and I feel compelled to share his words:

"During one of my insomniac mental workouts, I was reminded how the unexpected "gift" of 9/11 had been an immediate appreciation for the friends and family I have grown to love. And perhaps that is how we best mark this awful anniversary: by letting them know they are loved and valued and integral to our own existence."

Amen to that, my friend. While I understand the powerful rage, fear, doubt and grief that grips us all at this point in time, love and joy and faith are still the only things that will save us. After a bit of rest, I will go out into my city on September 11th and I will work, think, talk, laugh, hope and love. To quote a fond Pet Shop Boys song:

Is it enough
to live in hope
that one day we'll be free
without this fear?
I'm going out,
and carrying on as normal.

Labels: Pet Shop Boys

A LOVER SPURNED

Television has always received little respect. As a medium, Ernie Kovacs famously said, "it is neither rare nor well-done." I've always defended it though, for its immediacy with news, its broad reach, and its relative affordability. Also, drama and comedy programs on TV are generally better-written than most American films these days. No, I've argued, television is not the problem -- it's the advertising that the medium exists to serve that truly binds us.

How, then, do I react to what TV is up to this week? No advertising on any major network all Wednesday, yet round-the-clock features, footage and interviews on an anniversary that I fervently wish we could overlook. Will any of this propaganda truly help the grieving people who couldn't even bury their loved ones? I don't think so, though I'd like to be wrong.

I've spent a year trying to erase certain images from my memory and -- call it denial if you must -- but I refuse to allow the screens I've been so fond of to flash those images back into my brain. My TV is turned off this week.

WITH ARMS CLOSED SHUT

Since there apparently weren't enough music genres, someone had to coin the label "nu-metal" to describe the ascension of crap rock these past few years (and the badly-spelled name makes me think of the Who: "Meet the nu-metal; same as the old metal."). I can't tell these bands apart -- they all feature the usual overblown production, wall-of-sound guitar and a kind of throaty, self-important singing that sounds like Celine Dion with testicles. Try singing "My Heart Will Go On" in a growly, lower pitch and you too could be fronting Nickelback any time now.

I reserve particular judgment for Creed, who combine a Pearl Jam impression with lyrics that, depending on your own spiritual interests, are either deep, heartfelt howls from the soul or turgid, pretentious Christian wanking. But don't take my word for it -- here's an example:

Only in America
We're slaves to be free
Only in America we kill the unborn
To make ends meet
Only in America
Sexuality is democracy
Only in America we stamp our god
"In God We Trust"

What is right or wrong
I don't know who to believe in
My soul sings a different song
In America

Where does one start? Where in America is this factory line that kills babies "to make ends meet"? Do physicians become abortionists because that doctorin' work is just so hard to find? Is it the only way they can put food on their tables, or could it possible that they believe in supporting the reproductive and emotional health of their patients?

And cheers to Creed for their savvy exploitation of teen angst -- oh, it's just so hard to figure out "what is right or wrong" these days, isn't it? Maybe for this band, it is, but many of us have our moral compasses set just fine, thanks.

Labels: religion

"SUPPOSE THE EMPEROR HAS GONE MAD"

As the dreaded anniversary date approaches, conversations about the aftermath of September 11th, 2001 are everywhere. Most of them concern George Bush's plans for Iraq, so they end up being pointless and frustrating. A year ago, it seemed that the one good thing that could possibly come out of America's sorrow was a newfound concern about its role in world affairs. Now, however, it's back to sleep while the military takes care of the Bad Guys.

I was cheered today, however, by a New York Times poll that suggests that, while most Americans support the idea of military action against Iraq, they also want Bush to wait until the UN has exhausted other options first. This seems surprisingly sensible and I hope Bush remembers that he's there to serve his people, not the other way round.

Two Americans the President won't be listening to are Gore Vidal, who has published a small collection of biting essays entitled Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace: How We Got to Be So Hated, and Harper's editor Lewis Lapham, featured in yesterday's Toronto Star. Lapham's critique of this week's muddled plans to commemorate the anniversary can be found here or by checking out the Star's inevitable "9.11 and after" section.

Even better, both Vidal and Lapham are featured in the transcript of an April 2002 panel discussion entitled Understanding America's Terrorist Crisis. Once you scroll down past the rambling introduction, the discussion is dynamic, funny and vital. Please read that for now and I'll have more terrorism griping later.

Labels: George W Bush, Trawna

AFFRONT ROW

Joining my voice to the chorus of people I've listened to for two weeks now ask, "Why are concert tickets so damn expensive now?" Ten years ago, I passed up seeing Peter Gabriel at the Skydome because I thought the decent seats were too pricey at $40. Foolish me -- these days, tickets for Enrique Iglesias (and you know how little I think of him...) are selling for $120! And let's not discuss the floor seats for the Rolling Stones that sell for $300. Insanity, pure and simple.

At any rate, I'm still happy, since I snagged some OK balcony seats to Tony Bennett at Roy Thompson Hall. Tony'll be there November 22nd, the day before my dad's birthday, and that seemed like too good a coincidence to pass up. Hopefully, he'll be happy enough to make me forget that these nosebleed seats were $80 apiece!

Labels: money - lack thereof, music

BUDDHA BAR

Greatly enjoying the record store gig -- first job I've had in a while where the day whizzes by since I'm so busy and enjoying myself -- but my first paycheque this week was predictably tiny. Very, very welcome, of course, but tiny. No final career destination here, that's for sure.

At the same time, the pub has been a bit dull lately, especially on nights like tonight, when I'm stuck guarding the bathroom. Yes, you read that correctly. Ontario liquor law prohibits bottles in non-licensed areas like bathrooms and foyers, so it's my job to make sure we don't get fined or shut down -- my very dull job (I prefer the 'action' of working the front door).

One man passed by me a few times as the evening went on and finally said, "Wow, you're still here in the same spot." "That's right," I said, waiting for the point. "You're the most steady thing in the bar," he said and I smiled at the psychological implications of that statement. "Yes," I replied, "I could be the most steady thing in this bar." "People will come to you if they want some peace," he laughed, then turned and strolled off.

Now I'm sure this guy was taking the piss out of me with all that, but I liked the notion of being some sort of oasis, the pub's own Buddha. I strive to be that sort of person who people can come to when they need support; unfortunately, at this stage in my life, my mind is too anxious and my routine is too chaotic to really be much help that way. Soon though, hopefully soon.

WHERE'S MY THESAURUS?

Just noticed that the last entry contains three uses of the word 'tacky'. I briefly wondered if I should go back and edit it, to find more varied descriptions, but I don't think so. First of all, it's very late but, more importantly, what's the point? Clifton Hill = tacky. It's that simple. If I'm using the word over and over, it's because the word is so very apt. And besides -- going back and redoing what I've already written, like some diary of George Lucas? That would be tacky.

DWARFED

Took a day-trip out to Niagara Falls yesterday -- visiting both the Canadian and American Falls, which creates that warm 1812 vibe from our side being so much better. I hadn't been there since I was about eleven or so but was easily reminded of why the Falls earns its 'Wonder of the World' title. Visiting the Falls gives you that great feeling of being dwarfed by nature, that swoon that comes from being deep in the woods or out on the sea. Niagara Falls is an epic sight, one that thrillingly reminds you of how small we truly are.

Unfortunately, a detour along Clifton Hill ("The street of fun at the Falls!") unpleasantly reminds you of how small we truly are. I remembered this neon-soaked strip of gift shops, spook houses and wax museums as a tacky yet fun mess, like eating a big wad of sticky cotton-candy. What I didn't expect to see was a giant Hard Rock Cafe, Planet Hollywood, Rainforest Cafe, Tommy Hilfiger and other corporate behemoths elbowing older haunts off the path.

The perfect symbol for this appeared on the decades-old giant statue of the Frankenstein monster looming over the funhouse named after him, one that now shares its lot with a massive Burger King. The fast-food chain has placed a giant plastic hamburger in the hand of the movie monster, whose angry expression, I guess, is now due to hunger. It's strange when you feel that a big, tacky movie promo has been defaced -- it's not as though it was art to begin with -- but I nevertheless vowed right then to never eat at Burger King again (an easy sacrifice, I admit).

This 'evolution' of Clifton Hill raises an odd question: has this innocently-goofy tourist trap been completely dwarfed by the ever-encroaching blight of Corporate America, or was this sort of tacky money-grubbing area always a natural breeding area for the Hard Rock and its ilk? And, either way, do the millions of tourists visiting daily care? Hopefully not, if they're too busy admiring the Falls.

Labels: Canada

I OUGHTTA BE COMMITTED

As I've mentioned before, one of the perks of my job at the pub is the steady supply of 'eyecandy'. On any given night, there are at least a couple of really attractive men who will wander by and, more occasionally, stop to chat me up. This has been very, very good for this former shy boy's ego. In the year and a half that I've worked there, however, I have only returned such a pass twice (and only once successfully).

For a long while, I avoided getting involved with customers out of some sense of duty -- I'm not being paid to hit on our patrons, after all -- but I eventually realized that such scruples are unneccessary when no one else working there is worried! Soon after that, however, I fell in love with my current boyfriend. He's funny and lovely, the chemistry is fantastic and I haven't needed anyone else.

While working tonight, I was again visited by Shane, an adorable blond 23-year-old who flirts shamelessly with me. I once called him on it by giving him my number and telling him to set up a date, but he never phoned -- we both seem to know that our relationship is strictly teasing. Shane was also flirting with a handsome 28-year-old named Craig but they apparently had the same arrangement, if only because Craig already has a boyfriend.

As I talked to them for a while, I soon began to realize that -- boyfriend or no -- Craig really liked me, Shane really liked Craig and I really liked both, quite frankly. A strange kind of three-way flirting escalated over the next hour or so and I didn't know what to think. While the old, unattached me would've easily known where all this should lead, the current, happily-monogamous me felt a mixture of glee and discomfort.

I like to flirt. I do it all the time, in a gentle way, with men, with women, with whoever seems interested in a tiny connection. I think it's healthy but I do worry about the fine line between being a flirt and being a tease. I worry about leading someone on. I worry about saying something inappropriate. I worry about my boyfriend feeling insecure and jealous about it. I worry about generally being a Bad Person, since I'm a former Catholic and it never goes away. Craig tells me he feels the same way.

The flipside here is that none of us are married -- hell, none of us can be, right? -- and in gay circles, infidelity is often considered a minor crime, if not inevitable. Monogamy, many argue, is an outmoded, sexually-repressive attempt at social control, oppressive to heterosexuals and damaging to homosexuals. I could -- or possibly should -- sleep with Craig, with Shane, with both, and I doubt no one would know or care if they did.

So, as an adult who's earned the right to make my own sexual choices, all I can say is yada yada yada. It's not going to happen. At the weathered old age of 31, I'm still in the process of sorting out how I feel about marriage, monogamy, boyfriends, one-night-stands and all the other labels and categories we impose on our sexual practices. All I know for sure is that, right now, Darcy makes me happy but my sleeping with someone else would upset him. It's as simple as that. The pleasure I'd get from exploring someone new wouldn't be worth the pain of deliberately hurting someone I love.

I'm as committment-phobic as the next man, I'd say. I know that, one day, I may look back on these words after Darcy has left and curse myself for passing up a chance with another but I like to think that, instead, I'll look back with him beside me and pat myself on the back for not screwing up my chance at happiness. No doubt after he complains about me flirting with the waiter again.

Labels: oh l'amour