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October 31, 2005

There are very few bands

There are very few bands that manage to genuinely bridge the gap between country and rock/pop music. Too many of them end up forgetting that all they have to do is remember where rock and roll came from in the first place and they'll be able to get the right feel and sound. Instead what you get is bands playing rock music but throwing a pedal steel guitar in for effect, or country bands throwing in an occasional burning guitar solo. In each case the effect is more jarring than pleasing to the ear. Of the bands and individual artists that have attempted to mix the two genres the only three that I know of from the past thirty to forty years (that doesn't mean there aren't others) with any degree of success were "The Byrds", "The Grateful Dead", and "Graham Parsons and the Grievous Angels". Since then while bands like the "Flying Burrito Brothers" may have attempted such experiments its been left to a bunch of city boys from Toronto Ontario to pick up that torch.

"Blue Rodeo", unlike a number of their contemporaries, seems to have found the perfect balance of sensibilities to create a fusion of the two genres. Their songs have a timeless feel that doesn't tie them to one era, allowing one to believe they could have been recorded anywhere from the fifties in the Sun Record studios with Elvis just down the hall, or in a more contemporary setting with any number of current rock bands.

Their current album, Are You Ready is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. No matter what the tempo or topic the songs, with one note worthy exception, bring the best of both worlds together. Country's heart felt emotions are rid of cheap sentimentality by a world-weary rock attitude.

Where most bands stumble when attempting this merger, "Blue Rodeo" excels: the actual crafting of the songs. On Are You Ready the predominant theme is of love lost and relationships ending. Pretty standard heartbreak country stuff you might think, that doesn’t have a hope in hell of sounding palatable. But in the hands of the song writing team of Greg Keelor and Jim Cuddy the material transcends cliché and becomes something real.


"Thank you December for your cold grey air/lakes are frozen, trees are bare./I once loved her of that I am proud/just no room for me up on that cloud" Blue Rodeo "Up On That Cloud", Are You Ready 2005

Lines like that used to describe the vulnerability of an unrequited love, when you know you have no hope in hell of ever having it reciprocated, are the perfect antidote to the usual she don't know I exist moaning that passes for emotion. I don't normally associate song lyrics with poetry; most lyricists are too intent on reproducing a formula, but the imagery utilized by Keelor and Cuddy is equal to that of any poets.

Of course lyrics alone don't make for interesting music. On Are You Ready once again shows that they are equally as comfortable with rocking out, "Can't Help Wondering Why", as they are with introspective ballads "Phaedra's Meadow" This song is also an example of their willingness to step outside the type of music that people normally associate with them in an attempt to find the means to express the emotion contained in the song.

In most other bands if they all of a sudden throw a tin whistle and Uilleann Pipes into a song it would sound like they were cashing in on the whole Riverdance/Celtic thing. But listen to the lyrics and feel the mood they create, and you realize that nothing is more appropriate than the haunting sounds of those instruments for these songs.

Blue Rodeo is one of those bands you can always count on for producing intelligent and thoughtful music that avoids the pitfalls of cheap sentimentality and songs about pick-up trucks. But consistency in their case does not mean stagnation, and they continue to grow and both musically and lyrically. Are You Ready is another step in the really interesting journey that is Blue Rodeo. If you've never heard their music you're in for a pleasant treat, for the long time fan there's some pleasant surprises as well reassurance that they are still one of the most consistent bands on the market today.


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Ain't life a funny old

Ain't life a funny old thing? The twist and turns that it takes you on, you never know where you're going to end up. You need look no further than the guy typing this thing that you're reading for a good example of that. I'm not even talking about major life changing events, of which I've experienced a few, but the little casual things that end up sending ripples through your entire life.

Seven months ago I was looking for a way to practice my writing skills. I had been plugging away at a novel for about a year, eked out a few poems, and written a couple of short articles. I had opened an account at one of the many self-publishing houses on the web, Lulu.com, in the hopes that people would actually buy the material of an author they had never heard of.

Something was missing though. No matter how many words I wrote, or how many pages I'd publish, nothing felt right. I was getting bored with my own writing, and it was a struggle to remain interested in what my characters were doing. I figured that wasn't a good sign: if I wasn't interested in what my creations were doing who the hell was going to be.

To make matters worse all my ideas were beginning to feel and sound contrived. I'd read some dialogue and wonder if that's what people really sounded like or if a piece of action was realistic in the context of what I'd created.

Then I realized it wasn't a matter of what the characters did or said that was awkward, it was the way in which they were doing and saying things that was strange. Instead of my words seamlessly piecing together the little pictures of a jigsaw puzzle to create one final image, I was forcing them to fit together with a sledgehammer. The, if it doesn't work use a bigger hammer approach may work for computer repair, but it sure doesn't work for writing!

That's when I made the decision that I should begin blogging. I needed a place where I could write about anything under the sun, and with freedom. It's one thing to care about your writing, but another altogether to be uptight about it to the point that you can't write anymore. I needed a place where I could write and learn to develop some emotional detachment from the work.

Heart and soul are valuable ingredients in writing, but when the investment becomes so great that you become paralysed by your worry about screwing up, there is something wrong. I needed to learn how to love my writing without being scared of the fact that it was important to me.

Another part of me also hoped that if I had a blog people would get to know of my existence and perhaps be intrigued enough to check out the writing I had for sale at my store front. Hell, maybe some syndicate would pick me up to write a weekly column that could be sold across North America and my financial woes would be solved.

With dreams of sugarplums and contracts dancing in my head I set forth into the blogsphere and began writing. Such was my naivety and innocence that I had no concept of how many millions of people were already out there doing this, and how it was almost next to impossible to be noticed amidst the noise of all those voices shouting for attention.

So I learned about RSS feeds, blog listings, search engine tricks, and all the other little nuances and ploys to attract people to your site. If I ever wanted to be read by more people than my wife and our friends it seemed like I'd have to spend as much time promoting my site as actually writing.

It was during one of those forays into searching for a means to get my name out there, that I came across a site which offered links to a variety of places that published blogs in online magazine format. Thus, was my affiliation with Blogcritics.org born. I knew absolutely nothing about them, but it seemed like a place where I could publish my blog and gain some notice.

In spite of my initial reluctance to understand that proper spelling and grammar could somehow be important to an article, I began to find a comfortable niche within the Blgocritics circle. I knew people were reading my articles because I would receive comments in my inbox on a daily basis, sometimes they agreed with my opinions, sometimes they didn't.

Aside from the standard amount of abuse from people who don't understand what the word argument means, most of the comments were intelligent, thought out responses which forced me to be even more careful with arguments. I had to learn how to get an opinion across in an intelligent and comprehensible manner. Thankfully there have been many willing and able teachers and editors at Blogcritics who have taught met how to put my best foot forward when it comes to presenting my thoughts in typeface.

By refusing to accept mediocrity on their site, and by assisting those willing to achieve the standards they have set, they have established an atmosphere that inspires creativity and self-discipline. Not only are those traits essential for good writing but, to my delight I have discovered that it was an imbalance between them that was causing my dissatisfaction with my work.

I have never lacked for the initial impulse that would propel the birth of a story. It has always been in the completion, or the communication of the idea, that I have stumbled. Awkward constructions, clumsy reasoning (in print anyway) and poor organization had conspired to make everything a struggle and sound awkward. These days I feel much less a fraud when I say that I am a writer.

When I was an actor I had the usual performer's low opinion of critics and reviewers. It went without saying that they were all failed performers, writers, musicians, and painters. Imagine the surprise on my younger self's face if he could see me now. Not only do I review and critique work on almost a daily basis now, but I actively solicit publishers, publicists, and others for copies of their artist's work to write about.

The bonuses of this type of work are both obvious and subtle. First it gives me access to all sorts of wonderful music, films, and writing that otherwise I would never have had a chance to appreciate. Of course there is also the feelings of importance you get from having U.P.S. show up at your front door on a regular basis with packages from all over North America for you, and the Christmas like excitement of opening packages on a regular basis.

The other, less obvious benefit for me has been the noticeable improvement in my critical thinking. I've been able to look at my own writing with a much more dispassionate eye ever since I started evaluating other's work. I've trained myself to look for what works, what doesn't work and figure out what's needed to make something work properly.

Each time I review something; I'm actually learning a little more about how to present my own work. The medium under review is irrelevant to the lesson being learned, because there is always something that can be learned from the way one artist does something, even if they're musicians and you are a writer.

Timing is everything, as they say in comedy, and in the instance of my joining Blogcritics it was spot on. Not only have I hitched my wagon to a site that is fast becoming a presence on the Internet, it came at exactly the right time in life. I needed that extra push that the site has provided to push my writing to the next level. The slightly nebulous idea of: I want to be a writer, has been solidified into I am writing.

Seven months ago when I had the initial idea of starting my own blog to hone my writing skills I had no idea of the twists and turns that path would entail. I'm nowhere close to nearing the end of the process, I still have plenty of room for improvement, but now, at least I know where I'm going.

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October 30, 2005

Growing up in Canada in

Growing up in Canada in the 1960's left you sort of oblivious to the issue of race. It's not that it didn't exist, more the fact that there simply were very few people of colour living in Canada at the time. Probably the only visible minority present in any number were people of Asian descent, and those days that simply meant Chinese.

So it was hard as a young child to understand the whole civil rights and black power issue. Now both of my parents were socialists (no, not like most Canadians, there are very few who would call themselves that no matter what people think) and had better insight into what was going on than the majority of people in Canada. They were friends with people who had been freedom riders; people who had gone down to the Southern States in the late fifties and early sixties to help with the voter registration drives and other integration protests.

But as a kid those things didn't really permeate my awareness except for on a couple of occasions. One was a conversation I remember overhearing my father having with my mother about visiting a friend of theirs in Windsor Ontario. For those of you who don't know Windsor is just across the border from Detroit Michigan, and in those innocent days people would just walk through the tunnel under the St. Clair river and go into Detroit for a visit.

My father told my mom that before he and their friend would cross the border his friend made sure that he was carrying a copy of the latest Black Panther newsletter, which he would carry displayed prominently under one arm when they walked the streets. This ensured that their chances of being harassed were reduced to a minimum.

Of course that piece of information only served to confuse me, because at that point in time the only black panther I even knew of was the one in the Jungle Bookby Rudyard Kipling who had befriended Mowgli. Needless to say this left me with some very confused mental images of going to visit Detroit.

It was a 1968 visit to Washington D.C., when I was seven, that I began to understand about the whole black and white issue, and how things were different in the United States than Canada. I'm not saying that I gained any huge grasp of the issues or anything like that, I just began to understand that unfairness and anger existed in the world.

I think my parents had thought a trip to Washington in the spring would be pleasant, the trees blossoming and not as many tourists crowding the monuments. We were to be staying with a friend of the family's who worked for the Canadian Broadcast Corporation's (C. B. C.) Washington bureau.

World events have a way of making all your best-laid plans look ridiculous. Washington D.C. in the spring of 1968 was not the ideal vacation spot. I'm sure the only reason we still went on the family trip was because it was too late to return the plane tickets, and to change my father's vacation time. Just a week or two before we were to travel Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.

In the days leading up to our trip the front pages of the papers were full of pictures of inner city America in flames. I think there were lots of phone calls made to Washington before my parents were convinced it was safe to travel. It turned out to be a remarkably uneventful trip with very few indications that anything untoward had recently happened in the city.

In fact there was only one occasion that I remember anything being mentioned at all by our host. We had parked the car at the top of a hill, I can't remember where we were going, and when one of us went of lock the car doors he said not to bother, he'd rather it stolen then destroyed. Turning to my father he added that two weeks ago standing here you could see smoke billowing upwards from various points through out the city.

But for me the biggest revelation of the whole trip was the number of black people. To my eyes, which were completely unused to seeing any people of colour, it appeared they were the predominant race in the United States. Somewhere along the way I had come to understand that J. F. Kennedy had been associated with the civil rights movement, so at one point I turned to my mom and asked if that's how he got elected because all of the black people had voted for him. She replied that there were not enough black people in the United States for their vote alone to have guaranteed his election.

Now I won't be presumptuous enough to say at the age of seven that those events changed my life, but it certainly widened my worldview. Over the next few years, before high school at any rate, through reading fiction such as To Kill A Mockingbird and histories of the era, I became familiarized with the events surrounding Montgomery, Birmingham, and integration in general.

The other thing that happened, as I grew older, was that I started to leave the shelter of my middle class neighbourhood and discover Canada had people of colour living here as well. Of course Canada has always been a lot politer than most other countries, so our racism has always been more discreet. Why do you need fire hoses and dogs when economics and social lines do the job a lot cheaper and just as efficiently?

In some ways the racism in Canada runs deeper than that in the United States. With power still lingering in the hands of those whose father's held the reigns from before we were a country the chances of any person of colour becoming part of the inner circles of power in this country are next to nil. Unlike Colin Powell and Ms. Rice who genuinely wield power, Canada's most visible minority, Michelle Jean the new Governor General, is simply for show.

Although some people trumpet her appointment as the new face of Canada, implying a future of multicultural pluralism, I find it hard to believe. We've never been forced to deal with the issue of race and confront our own fears and bigotries in the manner our neighbours to the south have. Placidly we live in the belief that we are better than them because of that, failing to see that we are beset with the exact same problems.

We have the same economic gap, the same disproportionate representation in jails, and the problem with assumption of guilt that black men experience in the States is just as wide spread in Canada.

Rosa Parks never would have had to fight for a seat on our buses, because we are just too polite to do that sort of thing in public. The trick would have been for her to get a seat at the same table as everybody else. Not much has changed there, and it doesn't look like it will any time soon.


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October 29, 2005

Saturday October 29, 2005, 3:06

Saturday October 29, 2005, 3:06 am 68 hours and 54 minutes until fingers in motion.

With just over two days to go before the gun sounds to kick of NaNoWriMo it's time to take stock of the situation and make sure that all systems are go. Just like astronauts, scuba divers, and airline pilots I'm running through my pre-trip checklist. Are my fuel tanks fully loaded; my dials spinning in the right direction, and do I have enough oxygen in case things get rough?

The problem of course is all the intangibles that I can't just check off on a list of things. Those guys sit in their cockpits or on their boats and they have the dials to look and the buttons to push. They have their clipboards in front of them listing what everything is supposed to look like, and they have somebody with them double-checking everything.

On the other hand I have my keyboard and me. The laptop seems to be working in tiptop shape, all the keys still move and the memory is fine. There's plenty of room on the hard drive for 50,000 words and even in the eventuality that I need to create more I can just hook up the external floppy disc and start dumping stuff. (This is a very old laptop that I picked up on e-bay for $100.00 but it's the best investment I've ever made)

But what about what's sitting in front of the laptop? How's it doing? The only person that's going to run a checklist on me is me so I'd better start doing it. The cat sitting on my lap is a nice guy, but he doesn't have the greatest insight into my ability to finish this project, he's just grateful for food and treats. My wife, who probably knows me better than I do on occasion, will most likely, and wisely, just try and stay out of my way for the duration.

Physically I have no doubts that I'll be able to squeeze out an extra 1700 or more words a day. I'm not going to stop if I'm on a roll so there's even the chance of finishing early. What I really need to worry about is any emotional and psychological barriers that I am going to need to overcome.

Oh, yeah and the technical business of writing could be a problem. Plot, characters, story line; you know stuff like that. This last week I've spent a few days playing around with ideas, and starting sample chapters. The end result is that I feel that the rough story line I've been developing in my head will be just fine. There's lots of room for interpersonal conflict, a love story, suspense, pathos, and humour.

The great thing about fiction is that you can make it up. That's why its called fiction, you can invent everything and not have to worry about anyone calling you on facts and dates or whatever, because you're the one who's the creator of the universe. The only thing you have to try and do is stay consistent.

So I've grabbed an historical period from our world and transported into a fictional construct so I can do whatever I want with it. If people catch on to what it is I've done that will be okay, but even if they don't, as long as they like the story I'll be happy.

I know there are authors who go to great lengths to research a time period, and then create a whole new world based on our history. I wonder why if they're making a new world why they insist on such verisimilitude to its parallel in our universe? I've no problem with a novel being novel.

I've always been fascinated with my Mother's paternal family line and I'm going to use this novel to try and recreate one of the many potential stories of those people. She is a mixed Polish/Romanian Jew. Maybe if you don't know much about the history of Jewish people that won't seem like such a big deal to you, but there is a world of difference between the two nationalities. (When her father married my grandmother his family took him aside and said to him: "Remember to hold your head high. You're a Romanian and she is only a Polack")

While there is no doubting that Polish Jews are of Ashkenazi stock, there is some mystery around my Mother's Romanian family. Both of us have had cause to wonder whether or not they could be of Sephardic heritage. There has always been a certain romantic appeal about the Sephardic, not least their co-mingling with the gypsies of Spain during the periods of the Inquisition and the expulsions of Jews from the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal)

There is historical documentation that Jews and gypsies both sought shelter in caves in the hills surrounding the cities that they were expelled from before beginning their migrations to other parts of Europe. It may be that as the more tolerant Moorish and Ottoman empires retreated before the armies of the reconquista (forces retaking the lands for Christianity) that Jews fled with them. The path of retreat would have been through the Balkans and back across South Eastern Europe to Turkey, which would have passed through countries like Romania and Hungary.

Using those few historical facts and a lot of imagination the world I create will have the equivalent of gypsies and Sephardic Jews coming together to flee before the armies of conversion. For me it will be a wonderful opportunity to create a romantic history for my family. I'll be able to incorporate the little that my grandfather passed along to us in terms of family history that is pertinent (things like how he helped make the Bronfman family their first million by running whisky across the Canadian/American border during Prohibition won't make the cut)

So I don't actually have too many worries on the whole plot and story front. It really looks like that's going to be able to take care of itself. All I'm going to have to do is go along for the ride and type it out. Of course that's also where the potential for problems exist. There are really only two things I know in advance that I'll need to be concerned about (more of course could develop as I progress)

The first is to remember that this is not a finished product. First of all 50,000 words are not a completed novel so I should not be anticipating ending the month of November with a manuscript that's ready to be sent off to publishers. This means I have to also avoid the trap of thinking I need to have every word exactly right, and I mustn't get caught up in polishing up sentences, and spending precious moments fretting over style. There is no place for perfectionism in this type of word count only contest.

You've heard of the condition called repetitive muscle injury, where your hands or other body parts seize up because of repeating the same motion over and over again. Well in this case I'm more worried about repetitive brain strain. Every day writing about the same thing, the same story, the same people, and the same situation; what kind of damage is that going to do to my brain?

Will I get too bored to continue? Churning out 1700 plus words on a daily basis on the same topic might just drive me crazy and I'll stop caring enough about the project to complete it. I know that sounds silly, but I also know what I'm like and how quickly I can run out of steam or motivation.

I'm hoping that by keeping up with my regular postings and publishing this series a least once a week that I will be able to avoid that problem. They will provide my brain with enough alternate stimulation to keep it happy. Picking a subject that's close to home should also help me maintain interest. I can imagine reading it to my grandfather once it's complete, and. he can complain how I got everything wrong. Since he's been dead for twenty years it will defiantly be imaginary.

But, truth be told, the thing that will more than likely ensure that I'll finish no matter what, is the fact that I'm being so public with the whole thing. I don't know if I could live with falling short after all this build-up. Pride may go before the fall, but in this case pride will ensure there is no failure.

This is my last entry before the start of the contest. For the next month anytime we meet up here on these pages, you'll be hearing about how its going, and maybe even reading a couple of paragraphs. I hope you don't mind if you end up being my ear to vent into, my shoulder to cry on, and in return I'll try to give you a peak inside the mind of a writer in constant overdrive.

I'll be talking to you again soon. Until then, for all those who are embarking on this strange journey good luck and have fun. The rest of you can just sit back and enjoy the show.

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October 28, 2005

How many times in the

How many times in the past sixty odd years have we heard some Arab leader or another say in reference to Israel "We will drive them into the Sea? In recent years we've seen a reduction of the more inflammatory remarks from heads of state; usually pronouncements like this are now the preserve of leaders of groups like Hamas or Islamic Jiad.

In a region where most countries are now trying to establish western ties, why than would the leadership in Iran decide to make such an overtly public declaration of hatred. I hadn't noticed any stories announcing that competition had been opened for the title of number one pariah state, but I guess since the fall of Saddam's regime the role has been going begging.

Maybe the Iranian government just could never stand being seen as second best to that secular pig-dog running Iraq, and they want to show the world how a "real" Muslim state goes about isolating itself from the civilized world. Iran hasn't been the model of a democratic societie for quite some time. Prior to their experiment with Holy Fascism they were under the benevolent thumb of the Peacock throne. Given that history it should come as no surprise that they are now bucking for the "Doesn't Play Well Others" award from the United Nations.

The past ten years have seen Iranians flirt briefly with a moderate government and a genuine swing in public opinion toward a more liberal society. But it was too early too soon and the Ayatollahs weren't ready to step down from their autocratic ways. For stolid inflexibility on social issues the only match these guys have are the current crop in the Vatican and some of the more deep fried Southern Baptists.

Not surprisingly t they managed to get their people "elected" and are now in complete control again. If anyone doubted their new found zeal the last Summer Olympics in Athens insured that no one was left wondering. When an Iranian wrestler ended up in the same draw with an Israeli he withdrew rather than risk being contaminated by close contact with a Zionist devil. Obviously the man had no choice in the matter, and it was either that or risk sever punishment when he returned home.

Iran claims to be building a state that will be home to true believers. Those who talk of them as trying to turn back the clock to the middle ages have got it wrong; it wouldn't be so bad if that were what they were genuinely trying to do. If you look at history the Islamic rulers of the Ottoman and Moorish empires that spanned the globe from Istanbul to Spain and the Balkans were actually far more tolerant of other religions than the equivalent Christian empires.

Other faiths were free to practice their beliefs as long as they accepted the rule of the sultan and publicly abided by the laws of Islam. For Jewish people this was not that difficult as their dietary laws are identical and they share similar attitudes about modesty. For the most part Jews were, if not able to thrive, at least not be in persistent fear of death and persecution under Muslim rule.

It was only as the Sultans were forced to relinquish their hold on Europe and the Christian kingdoms advanced, that organizations like Spanish Inquisition began to flourish. So the Iranian government's claim to be restoring traditional Islamic living is false. Like any religion, there has always been a fringe element of extremists in the Islamic world, and unfortunately the people ruling Iran right now are some of the worst.

With the Middle East stumbling towards peace, tiny baby step after tiny baby step, and parties on both sides of the Arab and Israeli divide trying to find a way out of the hole they've made for themselves, Iran faces the possibility of being isolated from their Arab neighbours. Egypt, Jordan, and the Palestine Authority have all recognised the state of Israel; Lebanon is up in arms against Syria, and has always been sympathetic to the west. This leaves Iran with only Syria, a few of the emirates and the terrorists groups as their only allies.

Taking their statement of driving Israel into the sea into that context one can see it as a rallying cry to the troops in an attempt to see who they really have as allies in the region. Syria may not wish to get embroiled in anything that risks outright confrontation with the west. The simple fact of the matter is they need the cash that only the G-8 can provide to remain afloat.

Iran is already fighting it out with North Korea for the number one spot on the list of pariah's in the eyes of most western governments, so what harm does this statement really do to them in the international community? Their reputation can't really get any more tarnished than it already was. So to them the risk was minimal.

Of course there's also the very real possibility that they are being deliberately provocative to see how far they can push the world community. They know that the American armed forces are stretched to the limit right now, in terms of ground troops so the chances of this developing into open warfare are slim. But even so that still might be their goal.

Maybe they feel that if they push the American's into acting they will be able to rally enough support to their side that the Middle East could just disintegrate into a firestorm of unrest again for another decade. It is imperative that no one acts rashly in these circumstances, because that's probably what they want.

No one has any true idea of their nuclear capability, although it seems unlikely they have any actual warheads yet, that does not mean they can't produce them in the near future. There are probably still enough floating around on the open market that they could even pick up a few for a bargain prices if they so chose. This means we can't ignore them and hope they will go away.

We can ignore their provocative language. Maybe hit them with a sanction or two, but give them little or no ammunition for their propaganda weapon. Don't let them paint themselves the victim of western oppression and generate sympathy amongst some of the borderline Muslim states and populaces. Instead of moving against them assist the Palestine Authority in its attempts to establish their state and provide real hope in the region. Help them and the Israelis police their borders so that terrorist attacks can become a thing of the past. Which will in turn cut back on Israel's retaliatory raids into Lebanon and other regions.

The best solution to the inflammatory comments right now is to concentrate on ensuring the success of the new Palestinian government, and show real commitment to the peace process as well. Trust and faith are commodities in high demand but short supply in the region. Rectifying that problem will go a long way towards defusing Iran.


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October 27, 2005

Although some out there may

Although some out there may find it hard to believe I actually understand the profit motive. Who doesn't want to make money in return for their hard work? Who doesn't want to see the money they invest in a project come back with interest? Unless you're looking for a tax write off there's not much point in doing business if not for the money. Since that's the world we live in, that's the way you play the game. (Whether or not that world is necessarily a good one is a whole other question)

That being said, yes here's the "but" you were all waiting for, there are times when this model is totally just doesn't work. While it makes perfect sense for an investment banker or a stockbroker to work along those lines, the idea of book publishers existing solely to make profits is a concept that needs re-examining. The problem stems from the ways in which they insist on doing business.

First there's the fact that they seem prone to making mind boggling stupid decisions when it comes to handing out advances. Paying an author like Lauren Weisberger two, one million dollar advances after she had only written one book, and that a gossipy hatchet job about her former boss at "Vogue" magazine, is not what most people would call economically sound.

Okay so her first book The Devil Wears Prada was a bestseller, but she has no track record as an author, and even in New York City bitchiness doesn't play well for an extended period. Her second book Everybody Worth Knowing is already showing signs that it will not come anywhere near the success of her premier effort. There are only so many bad reviews an author can get before people start believing them.

Simon and Schuster have committed two million dollars in advances to this woman, and God knows how much money on top of that for marketing and publicity. All in the hopes that she might catch lighting in a bag again, write a hit, and provide a return on their investment. What kind of business sense is that?

We're not talking about a proven best seller like Steven King, Tom Clancy, or John Grishom, but a one hit wonder whose only previous experience was a year's internship at "Vogue" I'd say the chances of Simon and Schuster recouping their close to three million dollar investment (advances, promotion, and the physical cost of publication) are pretty slim.

How many good books are not going to get published because they've committed that much money to one person of dubious quality? By performing this type of crapshoot of dumping all their eggs in one basket aren't publishers actually diminishing their chances of making money?

I would think that it would be a simple matter of probability. You publish five books for an investment of one million dollars and you have five chances of striking a chord with audiences. Even if none of them become run away best sellers your odds of breaking even or turning a profit are higher because none of them have to generate massive sales to begin showing a return. In fact I would think the ideal book for a publisher would be one that generated consistent sales over an extended period of time rather than one huge burst of popularity.

The folks that own the rights to a work like J. D. Salingers's Catcher In The Rye are still getting a nice return on their investment close to fifty years after its initial publication date. Certainly there is no way of guaranteeing any books durability, but walk into any book store and pick up any one of the books that still sells fairly consistently and I'm sure you'll begin to learn what to look for when it comes to quality in a novel. If not than perhaps you shouldn't be in the publishing business in the first place.

Is it any wonder that next to the music business these people are some of the biggest whiners when it comes to complaining about their profit margins? Look at the whole brouhaha around Google's proposed on line library which would have permitted people to read excerpts from books that are protected under copy write and the full text of books in public domain.

Not only does it show how petty they are when they worry that something like that could possibly make any substantial impact on their profits, but it also shows them to be out of touch with a good many readers. Have you ever read a scanned document on a computer? No matter what the quality it will never be equal to actually reading a book.

One of my favourite authors is serialising an older story of his online and I'm having a hard time reading it off my monitor, and he's been typing it, not scanning. Scanned material is really aggravating to read and very few people I know have ever been successful in reading a complete novel on line let alone one that has been uploaded through scanning.

Instead of looking at the Google proposal for ways in which they could make money: promoting books, promoting reading etc, they immediately became defensive and couldn't see past the fact they might lose a few pennies. In my mind that would be a far better investment than a two million dollar advance paid to an author with only one book to her credit.

An industry like publishing, or any artistic endeavour, is not the best place for profit oriented business practices. There is an inevitable clash of philosophies that happens. Artistic growth is based on the freedom to be able to create from your inspiration, not working to suit the needs of a market.

None of the great works of art that are still popular today were created on the basis of their marketability. For all people say that Shakespeare wrote for his audience, implying market forces at work, his work simply mirrored the society he lived in. We look back and say "oh he wrote for the lowest common denominator so he could make money" when in fact it was just a reflection of his societies morals and standards.

Modern publishers don't seem to have the vision to see past what was popular last week, or what this year's trend is. They cheat the reading public out of experiencing the diversity of the world's potential by creating a blinkered view of what they can make money from. Unfortunately by flooding the market with only those books they believe people will buy, they have generated a spiral of self-fulfilling prophecy. The only books that are marketable, are the ones that people are buying, (which are the only ones for sale) so we have to continue putting out books like the ones people are buying, and on the circle goes.

It's now reached the point of such ridiculousness that an author I know, who has world wide sales well over the million mark, is unable to get an American publisher interested in his latest work because they can not fit it into their vision of the market place. Although since this is the same industry that had J. K. Rowling "translate" Harry Potter into American I can't say I'm too surprised.

If publishing wants to survive and compete in this new high tech world they are going to have to rethink the way in which they do business. Like sports league and other entertainment industries they have started to price themselves out of the reach of the majority of people. When they are paying out advances of one million dollars, plus having to worry about marketing expenses and printing costs the prices of individual books keep rising higher and higher.

This of course limits the number of people who are going to buy books, which in turns limits which books are going to be published, and look we're into another spiral of self perpetuating limitations. Sure you can walk into any big chain bookstore and see hundreds if not thousands of books, but walk through any section, be it mystery, science fiction, or just straight fiction and see how many different books there are really.

I'm finding it harder and harder to find anything on the shelves that stands out as different and exciting. In the past five years or so I'd say I've come across only five authors whose work is distinctive from the bulk of what's being published. Maybe other people's experiences are different, but I know for myself that whereas I used to be able to go into a bookstore and come out with at least a couple of books I was really interested in; now, more often or not, I come out empty handed.

The only two choices I see for publishing houses to change the situation is they either have to start emulating not for profit organizations where the emphasise is on ensuring the work gets produced. The people working for the company make a salary, but there is no one expecting to reap a windfall from the profits to pay for their penthouse over looking Central Park West.

The other option is to stop paying authors massive advances. If none of the big houses are willing to pay, then agents will very quickly realize they will have to start lowering demands. If publishers are able to get out from under huge monetary commitments to only a few people, financial risks will be kept to a minimum allowing them to be open to different ideas.

Unless, or until, this happens the people who suffer the most, aside from authors, are us the readers. Publishers will continue to deny us access to books because their view of the world is defined by how much will it make me. Tis a pity, but tis true.

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October 26, 2005

There's a story that use

There's a story that use to circulate around the Toronto acting community about the birth of one of the more famous routines on Canadian television. (Although it maybe just one of those myths that circulate in the world of Canadian entertainment) When SCTV were still being broadcast by the Canadian Broadcast Corporation (C.B.C.) they were told that their sketch show needed more direct Canadian content. This being such a ridiculous demand, in light of the cast being predominantly Canadian, Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas created the now infamous Mackenzie brothers.

It was those moments of brilliant satire that continue to set SCTV apart from the rest of the sketch comedy shows that have come down the pipe in the interim. Focused around the lives of the various characters that ran and appeared in the programming of a low rent television station, the show provided scathing bite the hand that feeds me indictments of their own industry.
Moranis Album Cover
Since Second City went off the air individual cast member have gone on to do a variety of projects with mixed success. Some like Eugene Levy and Catherine O'Hara have carved out successful movie careers; Dave Thomas has had roles on a variety of television shows and directed the occasional movie, and Andrea Martin has been doing stage work in Canada.

Rick Moranis was one of the ones who carved out a successful movie career for himself in the mid eighties on through to the mid nineties, starting with Ghostbusters, the Honey I Shrunk The Kids franchise, and finishing with his last feature movie The Bully in 1996. Since then he has virtually dropped off the map, limiting himself to voiceovers for animated films rather than committing to features.

Like Mark Twain, contrary to rumours of his death he's been very much alive (There was a nasty Internet rumour that made the rounds last year that Mr. Moranis had died in a car crash.) He was happily at home raising his kids and doing some small projects that enabled him to spend time with his family.

His most recent project, a country and western CD called The Agoraphobic Cowboy may not sound like something one would associate with the very urban persona presented by Rick in the characters he's created. In a recent interview with the "Globe and Mail" he described the disc's evolution.


"It's not like I said, 'I'm going to write myself a country and western album…I'm not trying to jump-start anything -- I'm not trying to become something I'm not. I had an idea, one that could have been done in another form, but it seemed to fit best as a song…(his daughter) had been listening to a lot of non-commercial music, bands like Widespread Panic, The String Cheese Incident and Yonder Mountain String Band…I'd rediscovered country and bluegrass through my kids. I wrote a couple of songs and sang them to friends over the phone. I ended up with about a dozen. It wasn't planned." Rick Moranis, "Globe and Mail" Tuesday October 18th /2005
This is obviously not a project he's done with fame in mind, he's selling Agoraphobic Cowboy through a web site on the Artist Share Network, but as a means of continuing to express himself. He's always considered himself a writer and anything else simply a means for getting his writing out there.

"Performance for me was always just a vehicle to get the writing out. That's how I ended up acting -- I never enjoyed it, that's why I stopped -- it was creatively unfulfilling." Rick Moranis, "Globe and Mail" Tuesday October 18th/2005
It's not as if he's a novice when it comes to singing. In the movie version of Little Shop of Horrors he did all his own singing and he did plenty of musical numbers back in his T. V. days. Don't look for him to be making fun of the genre he's playing either. He seems to have a genuine affection for country music, from its more traditional roots all the way up to some of the newer country.

Over at his web site, Rick Moranis.com, you can find out much more about Agoraphobic Cowboy. There's a letter from Rich talking about the album and its evolution in detail, a player so you can listen to a song or two, lyrics from a few of the songs, and a link to purchase it.

Looking at the lyrics for "I Ain't Goin' Nowhere", done in the mode of Hank Snow's "I've Been Everywhere"(or for the more modern amongst us, MacLean and MacLean's "I've Seen Pubic Hair") one can see that Moranis hasn't lost his talent for writing satire. It's a peon to the delights of never leaving your house and the joys of agoraphobia. Who needs to live in the world with all its dangers when you have it at the tips of your fingers in the privacy of your own home?

The site also has a nice little contact form so you can leave comments for Rick, which I did, along with an offer to review the disc in this space. I've since heard back from Mr. Moranis and he's sending me out a copy of Agoraphobic Cowboy so I'll be posting a review in the very near future. In the meantime head on over to Rick's site and give it a listen.

Good satire is hard to come by these days, so it will be interesting to see if Rick Moranis still knows which balloons need popping and where to stick the pins for best effect. Here's hoping he still has the same eye and ear that were so discerning back in the seventies and the eighties. It would go a long way to proving that he's still alive.

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October 25, 2005

This past year has seen

This past year has seen the proliferation of the insidious Top (insert subject and number here) List. Top ten this, top twenty-five that, top fifty, top one hundred, hell there might even be a top one thousand something or other out there for all I know. On its own "Time Magazine" has put out at least four: Top 100 English language books, Top 100 movies, Top 50 Blogs, and Top 10 Graphic Novels. Over the past few months I've seen lists ranging from "Rolling Stone's" Top 100 Guitarists, Top Ten worst band names, worst song titles, best all time actors (both male and female). Hell I was guilty of contributing to the mess myself by compiling a list of my twenty favourite women actors.

I have yet to see any point to these things. The argument could be made that they are a means of formulating discussion on topics, but have you seen any of the comments left in any of the threads where these lists are discussed? The majority of it descends into slanging matches and insults. In a world where very few people understand that someone can hold a different opinion without being a congenital idiot, reasonable discourse has gone the way of the horse and buggy.

The question in my head, one of many about the peculiarities of modern life, is what impulse drives these list makers? Do the publications make them simply to attract attention to them selves or do they honestly believe they are seen as arbitrators of taste and style to the extent that their opinions are of significant consequence?

Of course by far the worst offender in that game is our friend Oprah. Not content with clogging the air waves with her hackneyed new age babble speak psychologist friends, celebrity ass licking, and sentimental manipulation, she has set herself up as the seal of approval for novels.

That ubiquities O stares back at you from the covers of books everywhere now. Bookstores have racks devoted to "Oprah's Book Club" choices, and I'm sure publishers are vying for the right to get that blue sticker plunked on the cover of their books. Somehow or other she has gained such influence that the sales figures of any book she selects jumps significantly.

When I think about, and in all honestly I try not to give the world of popular culture too much thought because it tends to make me cranky-hence this article-, I begin to see a correlation between Oprah's book club and The Lists. As she gains more influence on the minds and hearts of the consumer, others have begun to worry that their self-perceived place in the pantheon of mass cultural impact is being eroded.

Establishments like "Time Magazine", who've always had an overblown view of their own importance (Man of The Year), are finally beginning to realize that they are not even close to being the only game in town anymore. As a weekly they've never been able to be as topical as the newspapers, and now with more and more people using the Internet as a source of news, they have become even less relevant. They and the other print media are desperate to find the means to regain their positions as the voice of authority.

Thus the lists: create a category that makes it significant and unique to your publication, and yours becomes the definitive list. Perception and appearance are what matters today above substance, so that the actual content of a list is secondary to the fact that people see you as being important enough to produce one. If worded correctly, like "Time's" best since we've been publishing lists, people don't tend to question why you've done it, instead they treat them seriously. Even when they disagree with you they are giving credence to the fact that what you say matters.

I could spew out list after list and probably no one would give a damn. I just don't have the reputation or influence. But for magazines like "Time", "Rolling Stone", "Newsweek", and "People", these things are becoming more and more important. It used to be that most publications would do some sort of end of the year round up, an annual summation to help their audiences put the previous months in perspective.

But now it seems like they create any old excuse to come up with a best of type list that will increase their appearance of mattering. It's like they are all hoping that they will become a label on the cover of a book or a record. In the past a book may have had a special notice about the author winning the Booker or the Pulitzer Prize; a record a Grammy; a video an Oscar, and so on.

But if publications like "Time" have their way, are we in for a future when books, cds, and DVDs are covered with labels: "Picked as one of the top ten books written during a Leap Year" or " Chosen one of the top twenty albums using pan European-Asian percussion in the new age/retro rock category"

Lists have become serious business for the publications producing them. A list is a means for them to utilize their name brand to establish themselves as an authority in a certain field, whether they warrant it or not. Nobody has questioned Oprah's literary credentials; her name alone is all that matters to publishers and booksellers, and the same applies to all the purveyors of lists.

It's only a matter of time before publishers, movie producers and music executives start specifically looking for items that will fit the characteristics of what could be chosen by Oprah, or any of the other lists. It will become a symbiotic relationship where items will be produced to fit into the lists, and the lists will identify these items as pieces of quality cementing their reputations as arbitrators of culture. Everybody will be happy and make lots of money, except for the people who don't fit into the list.

But if you're not the list, you can't be any good, because you're not on the list.


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October 24, 2005

Music Review: The Pogues - Rum Sodomy & The Lash (Reissued and Re-mastered)

Ah the eighties! Those tumultuous years that saw greed become fashionable and two forms of outlaw music become co-opted. By 1980 punk rock was already turning into new wave (how can you tell a punker from a new wavee: a new waver wears pins on their jacket a punker has a pin through her nose) and rap was moving out of the hands of Gil Scott-Herron and Grandmaster Flash into the mitts of Vanilla Ice.

Oh they were heady days alright, so much to celebrate and remember: Oliver North, Tammy Faye and Husband Jim Bakker of Pass The Loot our way (All right P.T.L. really stood for Praise The Lord) and Jimmy Swaggert, showing he could be as down and dirty as his cousin Jerry Lee Lewis, getting caught with a prostitute in a run down motel.
The Pogues
The Moral Majority were starting to flex their muscles, and they had to shed some of the more "eccentric" of the brethren if they wanted to be taken seriously. Jerry Falwell and friends were quick to distance themselves from Tammy of the blessed eye shadow and Jimmy's penchant for misunderstanding the meaning of the word proselytising.

It was time for the religious right to start being taken seriously, and to prove it Pat Robertson ran for President, well at least the Republican nomination. It turns out America wasn't quite ready for what old Pat was selling and after a good showing in Iowa caucuses he fell quickly by the way side. But it was OK because Papa George was there to succeed King Ronnie who, much to Nancy's chagrin, had to hand over the sceptre of power after eight years.

The eighties were so good that even Great Britain got to pretend it was an empire again. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher decided to send her armada across the seas and teach the Argentineans who was boss. No wog from South America was going to threaten the British Sheep Farming Industry of the Falkland Islands if Maggie T. had any say in the matter. Which unfortunately for all the people who died in that war she did.

Neither the ghosts of the British and Argentinean sailors who died in that war, nor the soldiers and villagers from the Iran and Iraq war of the same decade, ever seem to get invited to the eighties revival parties and club nights. In fact I sometimes wonder where I was during the eighties because I never recognise any of the music that gets played or te fashions that get worn at these events (Not that I'm very often invited to them either)

I was forcibly reminded of this the other day when my wife came home with the special re issue of the seminal Pogues album Rum, Sodomy & the Lash the other day. Originally released in 1985, the good people at Warner Music re-released it last year with six additional cuts obviously never released before.

When Rum, Sodomy & the Lash was first released it stood the world of Irish folk music firmly on its ear. Even though the boys were using primarily the same old traditional instruments, boron, tin whistle, etc, they imparted a particular punk like sensibility to their tunes that left some blowing bubbles in their Guinness. (If you've ever had Guinness you'll know how hard that is)

It wasn't just the way they played their instruments, hard and fast, which got up the traditionalist's noses, and they could probably have lived with Shane MacGowan's snarling voice and curled lip attitude; the subject matter of their originals was another matter all together. There was no glorification of rebels or Ireland, but songs about rent boys, drugs, and the horrors of war.


"And now I am lying here, I've had too much booze/ I've been shat on and spat on and raped and abused/I know that I am dying and I wish I could beg/For some money to take me from the old main drag" The Pogues: "The Old Main Drag", Rum Sodomy & the Lash 1985.
Yes, well welcome to the real world and all everybody. Ireland's history didn't end in 1926. This is the new world of heroin, hookers and poverty. Not what you want to hear being sung over the uillean pipe and banjo; could put you off your Guinness and chips. Then when the same boyos, and that lassie, wind up and take a run at "Jessie James", it's so hard and fast you don't know when and if you'll ever breath again. Well that just doesn't sit right with some people.

Which could explain why you're not going to hear very much from the Pogues at any one of those eighties revival meetings where they stand around and worship at the alter of Adam Ant and Rich Ashely. They didn't have hair that could be flipped back out of their eyes while they doodled cool notes on a keyboard and sang in plumy English boarding school accents about wanting me baby or if you really meant to hurt me.

No getting the dirt from the back alleys of Belfast and Dublin tossed in your teeth isn't going to make you sentimental for something you never lived through in the first place and probably wouldn't sell much beer to the university crowd anyway. Snarling drunk Irish poets tend to frighten suburban North Americans who have been raised on the white bread of Brittany, Brandy, and Backstreet Boys.

Rum, Sodomy & the Lash (the title was take from a Winston Churchill quote: "Don't talk to me about naval tradition, it's all rum, sodomy and the lash") was the Pogues second album, but it was the one that took them beyond bar band status. For starters it was produced by Elvis Costello, who had taken a real shine to the band, and that gave them instant press credibility and attention.

"I saw my task was to capture them in their dilapidated glory before some more professional producer fucked them up" Elvis Costello
That he did. They shine through like rough diamonds on this disc, unfinished but radiant in their strength and power. Not the polished ring you�d give to your sweetheart maybe, but definitely the drill bit you'd use to carve a lasting impression in stone.

For an album that's awash with songs about death, there is something powerfully life affirming about the Pogues' Rum Sodomy & the Lash. The fact that they can perform songs like "The Band Played Waltz Matilda", and "A Pair of Brown Eyes", which both feature not too pleasant reminders of the reality of war, with passion is what offsets the morbidity of the subject matter. Nobody who cares that much looks like they're about to give up the ghost.

So if you're like me and were actually of drinking age during the eighties, and you're in need of a serious antidote to the schlock of nostalgia nights, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash from the Pogues is just the thing to get you back on your feet. For those who don't know any better, and think that Boy George was the epitome of eighties rock, please listen to the Pogues, and maybe you won't think us such wankers after all.

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October 23, 2005

I was reading an article

I was reading an article over the weekend that offered a new perspective on the old saying "the ends justify the means". According to Rick Salutin we spend far too much time agonising over the means aspect of that statement without ever analysing the "ends". In his article he looks at the current debate over torture to try and explain his opinion.
"Now, I certainly think you can imagine a situation in which any of us might act brutally under stress for the sake of a noble result, often involving kids or loved ones, or mass murder of innocents…" Rick Salutin, "The Globe and Mail" October 21, 2005
Well, yeah of course, what wouldn't we do if someone we loved were in jeopardy, or we knew that the person in front of us had the answer to preventing mass murder? Probably anything, and then we would have to live with the consequences of our actions. Most likely most of us might have a coupled nights troubled sleep, but aside from that our consciences would be clear.

But that's an entirely different matter from the legalization of torture, or turning a blind eye to it by shipping people to a third party country, on the off chance that this person may have information pertaining to "The War on Terror" When the Canadian government allowed Syrian officials to torture people like Maher Arar they did so on the off chance that he might know somebody within Al Queada.

Now a lot of people are appalled at the obvious mal treatment of an innocent man, but not many people have questioned the mentality that brought about his circumstances. Mr. Salutin makes the argument that we would be better served questioning the responses to the bombing of the World Trade Centre (The War on Terror, and the level of fear generated by governments among their populaces), than trying to stake out moral high ground on issues like torture.

The war in Iraq has a tangible target, whether we agree with it or not is another question, but that war will supposedly end when the pacification of the country is completed and their new government is established. When will the War of Terror end? Who is the enemy? If tomorrow it were announced that Osama bin Laden had been captured would that mark its end?

Of course not, there's always going to be someone out there who will be willing to pick up the gauntlet and make anti western statements. There will always be people fanatical enough to be willing to blow themselves to smithereens for a cause. People like the folk who blew up the building in Oklahoma City. The War on Terror is a nebulous phrase which gives who ever is governing the power to do what ever they want without having to make excuses.

In Canada there was what was known as the October crises in 1970. The Quebec provincial minister of justice was kidnapped and murdered, and the British high commissioner was kidnapped by the Front de Liberation du Quebec (F.L.Q.). The federal government imposed a little know piece of legislation known as The War Measures Act, which stripped every citizen in Canada of civil liberties. Thousands of people were rounded up and thrown in jail in Quebec just based on suspicion. (Including a surprising number of people who supported candidates running against the incumbent mayor of Montreal in imminent municipal elections)

I don’t think one of those people even went to trial let alone served any jail time aside from those days spent wondering why they had been arrested. How many people in Canada and the United States, who are currently being held prisoner, or being shipped out to Syria for torture, are in the same situation right now?

What I would find amusing, if it weren't so sad, is how many people who support these moves are the same ones who complain bitterly about what they call government interference in their lives. What could be more invasive than a government's right to arrest you without any reason?

Maybe they feel safe because right now because it's other people who are getting rounded up. What would happen if all of a sudden there were a spate of Oklahoma City type bombings again, and the government decided that they had to round people with those types of political leanings? These laws are on the books now, and can be applied to any situation and anybody, not just people with swarthy skin and funny sounding last names.

Is that far fetched? Perhaps, but Oklahoma City was bombed, and there are still enough disgruntled people out there that if times change and a government they are less enamoured of comes into power…who knows. I guess the only trouble would be figuring out who to round up. Can't just go around arresting every person who's ever had anything to do with a libertarian now can you?

The point is that we need to hold our governments far more accountable for the ends they use to justify their actions. Laws and policies need to reflect more than just the current world situation, but be a reflection of the society they are written for. If we in the developed world claim to be setting the bar as far as governance and social behaviour goes, why are we utilizing the practices of those societies we say we condemn?

It is one thing to be driven by the exigencies of circumstances, but another altogether to justify actions in circumstances when they aren't warranted. Ends that allow for any means, while having no clear definition themselves, are subject to abuse that could eventually become more of a threat to our society, than the threat they were supposedly designed to cope with.


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October 22, 2005

Well I've done it again.

Well I've done it again. I've got myself hooked on a new series. Why is it that every time I discover a new author I like he, or in this case they, has to be working on at least a trilogy. Maybe those folks who know they have a long time to develop their plots are able to write with a more carefree attitude. What ever the reason I'm now hooked on The Eldarn Sequence

In the first book The Hickory Staff the two authors Robert Scott and Jay Gordon have got their hooks into me and unless they really screw up in the second book, I'm theirs until they've finished. It's not that they've discovered something new under the sun, it's the fact that they've been able to take a familiar theme and give it new life and depth that makes this book, and hopefully the series, such a good read.

It’s the standard other world type story, where people from our world accidentally cross over, and find that they have a role to play in preventing a horrible evil from destroying all the worlds. Yep, been there, done that, bought one too many t-shirts and seen the movie in its special tenth anniversary boxed set, would be my reaction too if it wasn't for the fact that the two authors have managed make it seem like no one has ever written this type of story before.

I was on a trawling expedition through my local large chain bookstore when I found The Hickory Staff. It was the cover that caught my eye and the title. Simple sepia toned background with a line drawing of a tree, and scripted characters for the title and the author's names: nothing flashy but evocative. I know that authors usually have no control over a book's cover art, but I couldn't help feeling that any work that felt secure enough to package itself plainly deserved a look.

The first thing you'll notice differing from other books of this type is that it diverges from the typical formula almost immediately. Instead of the action building on our world with the main characters sliding into the alternative one, the scene shifts continually between the earth and Eldarn.

The authors give us the details that the characters from earth are going to have to understand when they get to their eventual destination. The situation in Eldarn and the characters we will meet there are as familiar to us from the start as the people in our own world. While Steven Taylor and Mark Jenkins from Idaho Springs Colorado are still the main characters, they are only cogs in the larger story of the ongoing history of Eldarn.

Once we are in Eldarn and certain other facts come to life the idea of alternate worlds is ever so slightly turned on its head. Earth and Eldarn: which is the central world? There has been more traffic from Eldarn to Earth over the years than the other way round. With only Steven, Mark, and Steven's girl friend Hannah, ever having fallen into Eldarn, while planned trips in reverse seem to have happened more than a few times in the past, Earth becomes less the centre of the universe than is usual in these types of stories.

The differences between the two worlds lie in the fact that on Eldarn magic is a viable force, where as on earth technology has risen to the forefront. In fact it is the corrupted magic of one sorcerer that has retarded the growth of Eldarn. It's the usual story of power, corruption, and unspeakable evil, where one man Nerak, trying to tap an ancient source of power released an evil that drove him insane.

Using his newfound powers he carefully eliminated the ruling families of all the countries of Eldarn, and all but two of his fellow wizards, until he was able to claim absolute dominion over the world. But the ultimate goal of the evil that possesses him is to obtain the "key" that will unlock the magic needed to release the power that will decimate all the worlds.

The key happened to end up in a safety deposit box in the bank where Steven Taylor is assistant manager. Steven is one of those guys who epitomises the saying he who hesitates is lost. He lost out on all the good jobs when he graduated from collage by dithering, and so ended up in Idaho Springs as assistant manager in a small bank.

Even when he meets Hannah, who he instantly falls in love with, if it wasn't for her being willing to risk taking the initiative, their relationship would never have started. Perhaps his confidence is boosted by her interest, or perhaps something else is pushing events, but whatever it is, when he discovers a one hundred and thirty odd year old safety deposit box in the basement of the bank, he decides he must find out what’s inside of it.

One Friday night he secrets the box in his briefcase and takes it home. He and his room mate Mark open the box to discover that it contains a strange rock and a tapestry. They lay the tapestry out flat on the floor. When they notice a current of energy running through the room they assume that the rock could be radioactive. They decide to vacate the apartment to seek assistance in dealing with the dangerous rock. Steven leaves the room and Mark trips and falls into the tapestry.

The tapestry is the portal. Steven finally figures out where Mark has vanished to and is horrified. He's frozen with fear. What can he do? He spends the rest of the night berating himself for being a coward, and finally as dawn breaks he works up the nerve and jumps through the portal to try and find Mark.

Eldran with its magic and immediate threats forces Steven to finally confront himself. He has been chosen by someone or something to wield an instrument of power: the hickory staff of the title, and be the main opponent to Nerak. He must find a way to remain true to himself but be strong enough to confront the variety of enemies and challenges this strange and wild world throws at him.

A key element in the success of this book is the strength and variety of the characters. The writers have done a masterful job in creating a diverse group of peoples with a myriad of motivations for why they do what they do. Even spirits and soulless warriors are allowed to show that they have the potential for more than one dimension.

At various times in The Hickory Staff we switch from one group of characters to another, and each time are rewarded with a different perspective of the land and the trials its people have endured. When Steven's girl friend Hannah stumbles through the portal, it’s a day after the guys, and so she ends up in a different part of the world.

She is eventually befriended by people who are searching for a means to end the rule of Nerak, and learns more about the seemingly insurmountable task facing all of those who oppose him. When Steven and Mark had landed, they had been picked up by members of the resistance, whose first instinct is to kill them. Anyone dressed as strangely as the two men were must be dangerous.

In both instances the strangers are taken to meet someone who supposedly will be able to help them return to their own world. Not surprisingly they turn out to be the two wizards that survived Nerak's killing spree the first time round. It just so happens that they are in completely separate parts of the world, and by the end of the first book Steven and Hannah have yet to be reunited. In fact Steven has had to go back to Colorado to retrieve the "key"(remember that rock) from his apartment before Nerak beats him to it.

Unless Steven manages to retrieve the key, and return with it, not only will nobody else be coming home anytime soon, but there might not be any worlds anywhere for anyone.

Robert Scott and Jay Gordon have written a tantalizing opening volume to what promises to be an exciting sequence of books. Although there is an underlying threat of action through out the book, it is not dominated by action scenes. The Hickory Staff is far more than just sword and sorcery and this alone would raise it above so many books who attempt the alternate world scenario.

What really sets apart are the range and depth of the characters. We learn about all of them naturally; either through their own eyes, or through others' perceptions of them. You find yourself caring about what happens to these people much more than you would normally in most fiction. The Hickory Staff is a book well worth reading, and what's even better is that you know there's more of the same still to come.

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October 21, 2005

Two new releases from the

Two new releases from the Heretic DVD label showed up in my mail to be reviewed today. Not having anything else happening I decided to treat myself to a double feature and watch them one after the other. That may not have been one of my wiser decisions.

Heretic films specializes in independent films that are "Inventive and cutting edge: scary, violent, gory, and sexy…" Probably not an ideal combination for a calming afternoon double-header, but I didn't really want to watch them after dark. The thing is that both movies had far more substance than most movies that are churned out by the Hollywood machine these days.

While Red Cockroaches is a futuristic psychological thriller and Last Exit a film noir type look at people on the bottom rung of society's ladder, they both share a commitment to gritty reality and honesty that is missing from a deal of film making these days. For those of you who still think of "Sundance" as the epitome of independent film making, these movies will be an eye opener.

Nigel, the protagonist of Last Exit is a multi time loser down on his luck. Forced to flee his native England because of bad debts to a loan shark, he marries his on again off again Danish girl friend and settles in Denmark. Desperate for money he takes a series of jobs storing stolen goods for a thug called the President.

Thus begins his descent from the bottom rung into the pit. He begins a torrid love affair with a prostitute named Tanya (Gry Bay) that alienates him even further from his wife and sucks him deeper into a world of deceit and violence. Even the sex he enjoys with Tanya becomes increasingly surreal, augmented with bizarre light shows and projected images across their bodies.

Director David Noel Bourke has created a pulsating, tension filled Copenhagen; short choppy editing, hand held cameras, dissonant music and unreal lighting combine to augment the feeling of a life spiralling out of control. The only times that Nigel and we get any relief are his visits to Jimmie, the existentialist pot dealer.

If such a thing could be said to exist in Last Exit you could describe Jimmie as comic relief, but in reality he is more like a calm pool in the rapids that are carrying Nigel over the edge. He tries to tell Nigel what he needs to hear to find his way out of his turmoil, but Nigel won't listen and eventually his final plunge is assured.

The acting in Final Exit is surprisingly good, with the cast able to be convincing in their roles, without the usual B-movie bad acting mannerisms. Morten Bogelius as Nigel is especially capable in his depiction of the multi-time loser. You can see in his eyes the fact that he knows, no matter what he says, does, or thinks, that he is lost. It's just a matter of time before it falls apart completely.

There are a couple of scenes of violence in this movie that some people might find overt, including me, but it's not a gore fest by any stretch of the imaginations. The violence is not gratuitous, as it does fit into the scheme of the movie, but if you have a weak stomach there are a couple of times when you should keep your DVD player's remote handy.


Red Cockroaches on the other hand has little on screen heavy physical violence; all of the violence in this movie is done to your brain and perceptions of life. Plot twists and red herrings abound, with tidbits delivered via television commercials and interviews so that we get our information in the exact same manner as the movie's characters.

Our setting is at some future point in New York City's history. There are rumours that the acid rain has gotten so bad that it is causing human mutations to occur. Flying cars dot the horizon, but there is still street traffic as well. As the movie progresses the situation in the world seems to be deteriorating on par with the disintegration of the main character's life.

When we first meet Adam he is drifting. He's involved with a girl whom he doesn't seem to really care about, he has a job that means nothing to him, and he's as bland and boring as anybody can be. One day he catches sight of a striking young woman on the subway platform. They make eye contact, and he is quickly enthralled and walks over to meet her, but by the time he gets to where she was, she's gone. Mysteriously, right where she was standing a human tooth has appeared.

Without having even talked to her, she seems to have already started to affect his life. He breaks off his relationship with his girlfriend and begins to reassess where he's going and who he is. The very next day the mysterious woman shows up at his apartment inquiring about the roommate wanted advertisement that Adam had placed. In the end she decides not to take the room and leaves.

On a trip out to his mother's we find out that Adam's father and sister both died ten years ago in a car crash. As his mother has reminded him that it is the tenth anniversary of their death, he decides to visit their grave on the way back into town. Mysteriously the woman is there also. They start to have sex but are chased away by a minister. Again she appears to vanish into thin air.

Adam receives a panicky phone call from his mother and rushes out to her house, only to find the mysterious woman there. She is claiming to be his sister. She and the father had been in France at the time of the accident and she claims that the French authorities had kept her alive in a coma for nine years, and she has just awoken recently.

Lilly, has already convinced their mother of who she is, but Adam doesn't want to, and can't believe this strange woman is his dead sister Lilly. Unfortunately for him and his confused desires, she is able to supply irrefutable proof of her identity, by knowing things that only Lilly could have known.

The problem is that Adam hadn't been thinking of her as his sister, and isn't able to get those thoughts out of his mind. Lilly doesn't seem to be discouraging them either. She acts in a deliberately provocative manner, which results in what can only be described as a type of consensual rape.

Lilly had wanted this to happen so that she could have the excuse to reveal a secret. When they had both been children their father had sexually abused her while Adam had watched. She both hates Adam and wants him to devote himself to her. Eventually he makes the choice, and they become lovers.

All around them the world is getting worse: the city of New York is now sounding alarms whenever it looks like rain so that people can seek shelter because the effects have gotten so bad; mysterious red cockroaches have shown up everywhere and nobody is sure where they came from or what they mean; and children are starting to disappear. Is there some connection between the three happenings, and even more mysteriously could Lilly be in some way connected?

At one point when Lilly is out of the house Adam comes across the tooth he had found on the subway platform. When he breaks it open with a hammer he discovers a small red insect like creature had been living inside.

Red Cockroaches takes us into places where we don't want to go. Incest between a brother and sister is one of the big taboos of our society. This movie asks us what would you do, could you pull back if you found out the woman you were obsessing about turned out to be your sister? What lengths would you go to in order to make the relationship work?

We can see the toll this is taking on Adam. At the beginning of the movie he is neat and tidy. He dresses well and takes care of himself. As the movie progresses he lets himself go. His hair gets long and unkempt and he is paying less attention to the rest of his appearance.

We get the feeling that there's still more to Lilly than meets the eye. Why is she involved with her brother, especially after she has almost accused him of being complicit in her abuse as a child? Is she out for revenge, or is she just confused and messed up from her years in the coma, and the sexual abuse? Either answer would explain her behaviour; half coquettish, half stay away from me or I'll kill you.

Director Miguel Coyula has done a masterful job of putting this puzzle together, and leading us through the maze of emotions and secrets. He has also done a fantastic job of integrating computer-generated elements into the live action. The virtual and the real blend together almost seamlessly, so that when a flying car flits across the screen it looks like the everyday experience its supposed to be.

His two leads, Adam Plotch and Talia Rubel as Adam and Lilly respectively are called upon to do some difficult and emotionally draining work. Any number of their scenes could have disintegrated into overacting and melodrama, but they and the director have done a fine job of keeping it as real as possible.

Both roles call for degrees of subtlety that would be difficult for many actors to handle, but these two do valiant work in difficult circumstances. Some of their scenes together could not have been easy to perform, and they should be given credit for doing them in such a credible manner.

Like Last Exit, Red Cockroaches deals with subject matter that is far from mainstream and not for the delicate. But instead of being worried about squeamishness, I would worry about the emotional burden placed on the viewer by this movie.

Some may find the end of the movie leaves too many questions unanswered, but, relationships like Adam and Lilly's go beyond rationale, anyway on the back of the DVD box it says something about Red Cockroaches being the first of three movies, so maybe the answers are still forth coming.

There's a fine line between violent gross out B movie flicks, and razor sharp independent movies that go places studio movies wouldn't dare. Both Last Exit and Red Cockroaches manage to stay on the right side of that line and present grim, challenging views of the world. They might be unsettling, but so is the world.

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October 20, 2005

We live in a world

We live in a world of continual news reports. Anytime of the day or night you can turn on your television, radio, or computer and receive updates on the world's situation. Satellites beam information from the four corners of the world on a continual basis, providing a continual update on whatever is considered "hot".

Images of grim faced reporters are flashed into our living rooms; terse sounding voices emanate from our radios; and scrolls of typeset flash across our monitors: each one striving to provide us with the "big picture" first. But how "big" is that "big picture"?

Most broadcasters are going to only show news that is pertinent to their viewing audience. If you are watching a regional broadcast you're sure to receive the latest crime reports, municipal news, and updates on the local sports teams. If the station is an affiliate of a larger network at some point you will receive some international and national clips that head office has deemed important enough to make available for local consumption. Usually they are the stories that the national broadcast team will be covering in greater depth latter in the evening.

Dependant on the country you live in, and sometimes even the region of the country you live in, the important stories will vary according to what the broadcasters believe you want to know about. If you live in Quebec Canada for instance, and there is any story making the news about the issue of language or sovereignty you can be sure that will be the lead item.

Similarly if you live in the United States the lead story will have to do with either the latest news from Washington, or updates on the situation in Iraq. Broadcasters, newspapers, even Internet sites, exist to make money for their owners. (Even supposedly "public" broadcasters like the Canadian Broadcast Corporation (C.B.C.) operate on that principle) It only makes sense that they offer up material that will appeal to as many people as possible.

Invariably what results is an across the board uniformity of stories and information. Nobody who depends on market shares for survival risks editorializing for fear of alienating potential audience. This means that any statement issued by any public figure, no matter how far fetched or misinformed, will be reported verbatim and lent the veneer of legitimacy associated with appearing on the news.

All of our politicians have learned long ago how to exploit this and use it for their own ends. They can make the wildest accusations about opponents in a political campaign and know it will be reported without question. If a newspaper headline reads that candidate "A" accused their competitor of being unpatriotic, the simple fact that it is printed without commentary or analysis lends it an air of credibility.

Once something is presented as "fact", no matter how farfetched, by the media, it's as if it has been given a stamp of approval. No matter what happens afterwards the first impression is what sticks in people's minds. Your mother didn't know how right she was when she stressed the importance of making a good first impression.

The media, much to the hilarity of people on all sides of the political spectrum, have always staked out the moral high ground of objectivity. They claim it is their job as reporters of the news to not tell people how to think, just to let them know what's going on. They seem to forget that there is a difference between analysis and opinion.

Unbelievable as it may sound, it is possible to analyse a situation without venturing a personal opinion. Instead of blithely reporting that someone has said 2 + 2 = 5 and leaving it at that, why not point out that 2 + 2 actually equals four? As long as you don't call them mathematically challenged, you won't be offering an opinion.

The media often adorn themselves with titles like International, World News, or something similar. It sounds impressive doesn't it? But what does it really mean? I know that in Canada the C.B.C. makes no bones about it and says right up front something along the lines of: "The stories that matter to you from a Canadian perspective".

That means when they run a story on the softwood tariff dispute between Canada and The Untied States, we hear from the Canadians involved, and get the Canadian view on the matter. Perhaps they'll let an American speak, but only so his points can be rebutted.

On the other side of the border, if the story is even making the news, I would guess the opposite would be true. Spokespeople from the American lumber industry, and Industry and Trade, would be trotted out to give their view. Each side will use their media to spread their word to the people. The cast might stay the same, but dependant on which side of the border you are on, the role of villain and hero switches.

That's why if amuses me so much to hear anyone accuse another media of being propaganda. In its current incarnation that's all any mass media is anymore. Open any newspaper; watch any broadcast, and some one's view is going to be propagated as the truth. Whether government policy, moral standards, or casualty lists of civilians from a war. Everything that is printed or televised is designed to shape opinion.

Certainly state controlled media outlets are more obviously controlled, but hasn't our media, through its refusal to analyse, become no more than a mouthpiece for those with power? If any dare stray from the official line they are vilified as being unpatriotic or playing into the hands of our enemies?

The sad part is that we, and I mean we in all the supposed free press countries, not just the United States, have gone along with this. The press, and the public have all allowed the erosion of our one means of questioning authority to happen without complaint.

While the Internet has opened up discussion, in the form of blogs and independent news web sites, the majority of people still obtain their information from the same old sources. While the Internet does provide anyone with a computer the chance to voice their opinions in public, and provide a means for dissemination of dissenting view points, how long will it be before it is co-opted into the mainstream.

All the major networks, and newspapers maintain a web presence, as do radio stations and politicians. What is going to make the virtual world that much different from the real world? If you go to any site that has political discussion all you are likely to find is people slagging each other about their opinions. That's not going to lead to a freer and opener expression of the news.

What it comes down to is what are people going to be satisfied with in the form of news. As long as we continue to turn to and accept the mainstream outlets nothing is going to change. We will continue to get a very limited view of the big picture.


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October 19, 2005

I've never been a big

I've never been a big fan of boxing; the attraction of seeing two people whale away on each other has always alluded me. There's also always been that sort of sleazy aftertaste associated with the sport; poor kids from the slums risking their lives and unscrupulous promoters making big money from their sweat.

But there was a period of about eight or nine years from 1970 onwards, that one figure stood out in the boxing world as no other had before or will ever again. I first became aware of Muhammad Ali when he lost his come back fight to Joe Frazier in 1970. It was his first fight back after having had his world heavyweight title stripped from him for refusing to report for the draft and fight in Viet Nam.
Ali Frazier 75
I was only nine years old at the time and knew nothing of the background behind the fight, Ali's history as the young Cassius Clay, his conversion to Islam, or his history of draft resistance. But there was something about him that captured my imagination, and held me enthralled up to his rematch with Leon Spinks where he once again retained his championship.

When Frazier beat him in 1970 I remember being disappointed, but if you had asked me why I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Looking back on it now I understand my feelings better. They were all brought back the other day by an article in the on line "Globe and Mail" which reported on the forty best magazine covers of the past forty years.

The initial picture that accompanied the article was actually of the third place winner: Esquires' 1968 picture of Muhammad Ali pierced by a number of arrows a la St. Sebastian. ali cover They had obviously chosen the image to depict his tribulations over being banned from boxing because of his refusal to fight. I wonder now if the irony of a fighter refusing to fight in a war was lost on people back then? Or were there so many other issues in America in 1968 that irony was a luxury reserved for people outside the fray?

I understand now why Ali appealed to me unlike the rest of my classmates, who merely parroted the putdowns that were common those days: boastful, obnoxious, and a show off. Abuse victims need figures of hope and encouragement; they also cheer for the outsider and the underdog. If he or she loses the disappointment isn't as bad, but if they do win out against the odds, than it gives you hope for yourself.

I doubt that any of those thoughts would have formed that coherently in my young confused brain when I chose to identify with Ali, I just thought he was cool. Neither my parents nor older brother had much interest in sports, so there was little or no influence exerted on me when it came to decisions about whom to support or cheer for. The only conflicts that ever ensued was attempting to read the sports section to find out the results of his matches.

In those pre pay per view satelitte broadcasts, a fight fought on the other side of the world in Zaire or Manila, might not find it's way into the sport's section until a day or two after the bout. In those days "The Globe and Mail" sport's section was tacked on to the business section, and read back to front. In order to read anything I had to be able to grab the paper before my father came down to breakfast, and scan through it quickly. Otherwise I wouldn't see it unless it returned from work with him that evening.

So I was only able to follow Ali's triumphs over Foreman, Norton, and finally Frazier in quickly grabbed snatches. Then there was the series of stupid fights, as a board Ali looked to make money while waiting another serious challenge. It was that period of his career where he came closest to becoming a cartoon figure: a caricature of himself. The seventies seemed to bring out the worst in a lot of people.

In the late seventies one of those "bums" surprised him; Leon Spinks beat an obviously out of shape Ali. In his hey day he could have stopped Spinks cold, but now he was nearing the end of his boxing days, and unprepared, the unthinkable happened. He lost.

All the old detractors came out of the woodwork where they had been lurking. That loud-mouthed punk had finally got what was coming to him. No one believed that he could come back again, except Ali. The experts wrote him off as too old and too slow.

In probably one of the last fights televised live on Network television Ali danced around Leon Spinks for fifteen rounds. Bobbing and weaving, he hit Spinks at will. It didn't matter that his punches lacked the power they once had, what mattered is that he couldn't be touched. He was still up on his toes in round fifteen, effortlessly holding his opponent at bay with jabs to the face and fancy footwork.

Up in the broadcast booth, Howard Cosell, who had covered Ali's fights for longer then anybody else in the media, couldn't help himself. There had been times when the two men had been at odds with each other, but not now. As Ali put on a boxing clinic Cosell became less and less the objective media representative and more the fan. At one point in round fifteen he did something I'll never forget: (for a variety of reasons) he recited chunks of the Bob Dylan song "Forever Young" in recognition of Ali's achievement that night. (This wasn't the last time that Cosell would break out of his sportscasters' role and reach out to the audience: on the night John Lennon was murdered, he was working Monday night football. All of a sudden the commentary stopped. He came back on the air and made the announcement of what had happened, and said he didn't think it appropriate to continue on with the commentary, and just let the game run on its on.)

That fight was pretty much it for Ali's career. Larry Holmes was waiting in the wings, and became the next champion. Heavyweight boxing hasn't been the same. Those same people who probably dumped on Ali have finally realized what a unique person he was, and how much money he made them. Without his presence the sport has once again been relegated to the fringes of the sports sections. The lightweights and the featherweights have their followers, especially amongst the Latino population in the United States, but they don't have the glamour of the heavyweights.

The combination of Don King, Mike Tyson, and Bob Avrum has left such a negative impression in so many people's minds that it will take a boxer with the character and personality of Ali to recapture people's hearts. But there will never be another Ali.

Ali was, and still is, a symbol of hope for so many people, especially those of African descent. He showed that the game, any game, could be played on your own terms, and that you could stand up for what you believed in and still win. Maybe that's why he's treated like a head of state whenever he travels through Africa.

With his walk reduced to a shuffle and his speech slurred through the ravages of Parkinson's disease, he still commands immediate attention when he walks in a room. On the T.V. clips I've seen of him he still carries himself with dignity and that mischievous twinkle still shows up in his eye.

Thankfully somebody around Ali ensured that he would have money when he stopped boxing so he can now live out his days in comfort. When he boldly predicted he would knock out Sonny Liston more then forty years ago, he was dismissed as a loud mouth that would soon get his comeuppance. He has spent the time since confounding his critics both inside and out of the ring. Here's hoping he's able to for years still to come.


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October 18, 2005

Twenty-five years ago, on a

Twenty-five years ago, on a summer's day in Toronto, I went down to the waterfront at around noon to stake out at a seat for a concert that wouldn't begin until eight o'clock that evening. The old Ontario Place Forum's seating was almost full, only the final rows of seats were still available, and people were already beginning to claim patches of lawn to lay blankets on.

When eight o'clock finally came round the band came out onto stage followed by two men. One older slender man followed by a guy with a mass of really curly hair. Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie were doing one of their of periodic concert tours; two generations of music experience that probably represented a century's worth of music .
alice_poster
For two and half hours they sang songs, together, and solo, that represented a history of the American Folk song. Songs from the Spanish Civil War, from the early days of the fight to organize unions, from the depression, all the way up to songs that had just been written. The music they played that afternoon is probably the closest thing we in North America have to an oral history.

Arlo Guthrie's two disc Live In Sydney continues that tradition. Twenty-five years latter and the roles have changed. Arlo now represents the voice that reaches back into the past, connecting and reminding us of things that are still important, while the future is represented in the form of his son, Abe Guthrie, playing keyboards and providing background vocals for his dad.

Anyone who is familiar with Arlo Guthrie will know he's as much a story teller as singer; the first song that he received recognition for, "Alice's Restaurant Massacree parts one and two", was a recounting of the events leading up to his arrest for littering one thanksgiving, and his visit to the draft board. One of the great joys of any Arlo concert, whether live or on disc, are the stories he tells in between songs.

Whether introducing a song, talking about the world, or sharing memories of people he's known and places he's been, his wry humour and self deprecating attitude create an atmosphere so relaxed you can almost forget your in a concert hall. His stories serve to bridge the gap between performer and audience, allowing those listening to feel as much a part of what's happening as the people on stage.

"Some people think a folksinger is someone who just sings their own songs. That's a shame. It's like being of the tradition, rather than in it. I've taught myself to make any song I like, my own." Arlo Guthrie
The songs on this release range from Arlo's own originals, including earlier pieces like "Chilling of the Evening", and brand new ones like the bittersweet "My Old Friend"; songs from his father's generation by Cisco Huston, Woody Guthrie and others; and a couple of songs from some contemporaries of Arlo's, Kris Kristofferson, Bob Dylan, and Steve Goodman.

Being Arlo , he also has a story to go with almost every song. It could be a brief intro with a memory of how he first heard it, like Steve Goodman buying him a beer so he'd listen to "City of New Orleans". Or how events reminded him of a song he used to play: walking down the street and in a store window seeing a poster of himself and Janis Joplin and remembering it being taken the time he played her a song he'd just been taught, "Me and Bobby McGee".

Then of course there are the songs that are stories and the songs with a story. In the former category falls the infamous tale of driving his motorcycle and having his "E" string break (written out in full for what must be the first time in the booklet accompanying the two cd set.) Of course how could an Arlo album recorded the year before the 40th anniversary of his most famous song, "Alice's Restaurant" be complete without a story about the song?

"Remembering Alice" is about the time he didn't one time on stage. About ten minutes into the song he recounts going completely blank, and trying to stall. Two of his children were on stage with him that night, and he asked each them for help, but neither knew the lyrics. In a joke after the show he says to them, "I know my daddy's songs".

The upshot was that his daughter took it upon herself to learn it:

"I said, "My God, I'm free" The never-ending half hour Groundhog Day movie of my life had been passed to the next generation. And I thought, "My goodness that poor kid"…Any way when she comes to Australia, just ask her. I'm sure she'll be happy to do it for you" Arlo Guthrie, Live In Sydney
Of all the songs that were written by Arlo's father Woody "This Land is Your Land" is probably the most famous. I remember once seeing Arlo being interviewed about his dad on a P.B.S. special and he was talking about being in school as a kid and being the only one in class to not know the lyrics. It could be why on this album he tells of how it was the only one of his Dad's songs that Woody actually taught him.

He tells of how in the early seventies his mother had been part of a cultural exchange to China. She had been a dancer with the Martha Graham company, and she was taken out to the middle of China and a group of school children came out and sang "This Land is Your Land" Now she was all excited about that, but he made some smart assed comment about "Why would they be singing about California to the New York island?" "She just looked at me with one of those Mom kind of looks and said "Oh Arlo'' and walked away"

So what was the point in the story? Well the point was to show that the song wasn't about geography but about those things that are important to a lot of us: Liberty, freedom and justice. That's the thing about Arlo and his stories, some of them may be nonsense (The intro for "Coming Into Los Angeles" for example) but he uses them to make us think about songs that we might take for granted. In his gentle way he reminds us of the important things in life that we might have forgotten.

Arlo laughs a lot, usually at his own expense, and that laughter is infectious. His concerts have the feel of a get together out at the family homestead where the family is sitting around trading stories about the places they've been and the people they've known. His voice may strain to reach high notes, it always has, but he always strikes that perfect note of connection with is audience.

Live In Sydney captures all that is wonderful about an Arlo Guthrie concert. His warm laid-back style, his humour, his stories, and most of all his love for what he does. Arlo's is currently on a tour that will take him across North America, check the schedule for a stop near you.

You might notice a two-week period in December that lists a bunch of concert dates as To Be Announced. It's during that time he and a group of friends will be taking the famed "City Of New Orleans" train for one last ride from Chicago to New Orleans in an attempt to raise money to re equip all the bars and night clubs in New Orleans with sound and lighting equipment, so that the music that shaped American pop culture won't stop being played.

One way or another Arlo Guthrie works to ensure the connection between people and their music remains unbroken. He is a real "folk" musician.


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October 17, 2005

I was going to write

I was going to write a post for this year's Halloween season ranting about what I call the neo-pagans and their silliness. But I was half way through when I realized my heart wasn't really into it anymore. They aren't doing any serious harm to anyone, and some of them even have their hearts in the right place, so why pick on them.

Instead I thought I'd talk about how my wife and I have taken to celebrating Halloween and our reasons for what we do. Than everyone can make fun of us.

Neither of us adheres to any strict code of conduct as advocated by any one culture, although I tend towards walking a red road. (The term is take from the expression walking the good red road in reference to the colour assigned by the Sioux peoples to represent one of the four cardinal directions: the south. To walk the road from the south is to walk in faith. Natives use it to describe non-natives who following the practices of any of the native cultures)

There is a long tradition of celebrating the end of one year and the beginning of the next in the fall months. The Jewish new year Rosh Hashanah falls within our calendar months of September and October, and most agricultural based cultures would mark the end of the year by the final harvest.

Quite a number of older cultures have always viewed the three day period of October 31st to November 2nd as not only the end of the year, but a time to remember ones dead. The Celtic celebration of Samhain, the Iroquois Feast for the Dead, and even the Catholic Day Of The Dead celebrations in North America came from ancient Aztec celebrations worshiping their ancestors.

Ten years ago my wife's best friend decided to let go of her life. She had been dieing the long slow death of Multiple Sclerosis and had wasted away to the point where she could no longer feed herself. When she had still been able to talk she had insisted that she did not want a feeding tube, and had asked my wife to insure this was carried out. She died on Halloween, which had also been her birthday.

Halloween had been one of wife's favourite holidays, with all the fun of dressing up and playing, but with the death of her friend on that day it was harder to find reasons to be silly. What she decided to do was to re-invent the holiday so that it became something special to her, so that she could reclaim it from the unhappy memories she associated with it.

It seems to be a common problem for people; holidays evoking bad memories or triggering off emotional responses. For some awful reason Kingston and the surrounding areas seems to have been the home to a circle of ritual abusers. One person who we had been close to for a time had been so badly damaged emotionally that she had developed forty-one personalities.

Halloween was a particularly difficult time for her as so much of the abuse took place under the guise of dark worship. It and Christmas were the times her others (as she called them) were most apt to damage her through self-inflicted wounds etc. The idea of reinventing Halloween so as to reclaim it for herself as a time of fun and celebration especially appealed to her.

So what we do each year is celebrate the life of my wife's friend who passed away ten years ago. I'll bake a lemon meringue pie, because it was her favourite, and we invite any of our friends over who want to remember someone who was important to them, or who just want to eat lemon pie.

As the temperature's been dropping at nights, everything in my garden is withering. It's time to start putting the beds to sleep for the winter. The raccoons in the neighbourhood are looking so big that they are waddling as they walk, making me wonder how they're going to get into their nests up in the tree out back.

The couple of Red Tail hawks who seem to winter in the city have shown up and are delighting in terrifying pigeons across town by flying over them; causing them to rise en masse to spiral against the grey pre winter sky. Most of the Canada Geese are long gone and the squirrels are in overdrive with their gathering of foodstuffs to cram their nests for the upcoming lean times.

Is it any wonder that so many people's consider this the end of a year or equate it with death? What better time is there then now to become introspective when all is becoming dormant around you? The cycle of life in the natural world is on pause for the next few months.

Like the farmers of old took stock of their inventory of feed and produce that was to see them through the winter months, we take stock of the things that we have to be grateful for from the past year. They are the stores that will get us through any austere times we may face in the immediate future.

There is nothing glamorous or flamboyant about how we mark this time. No elaborate rituals that have no relevancy to our lives. We aren’t farmers so a celebration of the harvest has no meaning to us. We have created something that is reflective of the way we are trying to live our life in the here and now.

We've been doing this for the past six years now, and it works for us. To me this is how I can best honour the older ways that I'm trying to emulate, while still remembering my personal reality of being a city dweller. I'm a child of the twentieth century and denying that by acting out harvest rituals from thousands of years ago seems foolish and dishonest.

Have a wonderful Halloween everybody, no matter how you choose to observe it.

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October 16, 2005

East is East and West

East is East and West is West and never the train shall meet is how the saying goes. Often used to describe two diametrically opposed opinions, the sayings origins rest in the supposed separation between the philosophies of Western and Eastern thought.

Thankfully for the fate of the world there are people who refuse to buy into that statement, and attempt to bridge what was formally seen as an unbridgeable gulf. While in the past we have seen some Western performers either work with musicians from India or incorporate instruments into their songs, very few have successfully melded the two into one sound.
Harry Manx
One musician who makes the integration of these supposed opposites seamlessly is Harry Manx. This Canadian based musician has mastered the intricacies of the multiple rhythms of the Indian ragas and blended them with Mississippi delta blues, and a touch of Gospel to create something funky and beautiful..

His CD West Eats Meet is chock full of examples of how successful this seemingly bizarre marriage works. The first track of the disc, "Help Me", only shows hints of what is to come. Having established his blues credentials with some slick guitar work and aching harmonica, the sitar in the guitar solo near the end of the song comes as a surprise.

It's not until the third track of the album, "Shadow Of The Whip" that the full implications of what we are hearing come clear. From the pulsing of the tabla drums in the percussion to the guitar lead that evokes the shimmering of the sitar, Manx is blurring the line that separates East from West musically.

I don't know if you can tell from the picture above, but if you go to his web site you'll be able to get a better idea of how he is able to generate the sounds he does with his guitar. He plays a Mohan Veena-a, 20-string guitar/sitar. The instrument was designed by Vishwa Mohan Bhatt, best known for his collaboration with Ry Cooder on the disc Meeting By The River. Manx studied with Bhatt for five years in the mid eighties, and at the end of that time he was given the guitar.

From what Manx says on his web site it sounds like it could have taken him the entire five years just to learn how to tune and play the instrument. The additional strings are what he calls sympathetic, which I would assume to mean that they resonate in relation to what is being done on the principal strings. He also describes the slide techniques used by Indian musicians as being a circular motion instead of the up and down the fret board style that we associate with the blues.

The fact that he spent five years of his life studying the playing of this instrument, and learning about the music that's to be played upon it, lends creditability to his efforts. It sure makes it difficult to lump it into the novelty act type of thing that rock stars in the past have done. There is none of the "Oh wouldn't a sitar sound cool here" attitude about his work.

Harry Manx's music is a wonderful mix of gospel, delta blues and traditional Indian folk songs. In the hands of a less sincere sounding musician this melding of styles would just be an embarrassment. But Harry doesn't waste this musical melange on traditional pop fluff, or even the regular topics associated with the blues.

Without crossing the line into New Age pap, his songs would defiantly qualify as spiritual, in that they attempt to celebrate the potential of the human spirit. On "The Great Unknown" he ruminates about what it takes to keep going in this world. What type of faith do we need to overcome the sadness and difficulties that surround us is what he seems to be asking?

Harry Manx is a gifted musician and songwriter. Whether he's playing the standard guitar, banjo, harmonica or his Mohan veena-a, his playing is superlative. His voice is expressive and real, giving everything he sings about a down to earth quality missing from far too much acoustic music these days. He may sing about the ethereal on occasion, but there is nothing airy about him.

West Eats East is his fifth album and number six, Mantras For Madmen is forthcoming in November of this year on his own Dog My Cat record label. You can listen to a cut, "San Diego/Tijuana", from his newest album at his web site. It begins to load automatically when you enter. (If you are on dial up like I am it will take quite a wait for the site to load) If you are looking for something new to listen too in the field of blues music, than you can't go wrong with Harry Manx. This is great stuff.

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October 15, 2005

There is very little that

There is very little that you can be certain of any more in this world of ours. Increasingly things have grown more and more complex; nothing is cut and dried and nothing is as simple as we once thought it was. It's in troubled times like this that a familiar voice is that much more comfortable. Neil Young Neil Young may not have the most pleasant voice to come down the pipe, but it carries with it a permanence that seems to steady the ever-shifting earth beneath your feet. His newest release, Prairie Wind, is quintessential Neil Young. Thoughtful, introspective and replete with the vivid imagery that has made his songs famous.

There has long been something poignant about Mr. Young's work, perhaps it's that almost forlorn falsetto that tinges even the most cheerful song with sadness, that speaks directly to the heart of the listener. Even his highly personal songs, and Prairie Wind is his most personal is ages, capture universal truths that speak to most people.

"Trying to remember what my daddy said/Before too much time took his head/He said we're going back and I'll show you what I'm talking about/Going back to Cyprus River/Going back to the old farm house." Neil Young "Prairie Wind", Prairie Wind 2005
Even by most people's standards Mr. Young has had a rough year. Last June he had to have emergency surgery to deal with a brain aneurysm, and he had only just recovered from that ordeal when his father died. The last couple years of his father's life had not been easy as he had began to suffer from the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's disease.

Anybody who has had to watch a parent suffer from Alzheimer's immediately understands the line "Before too much time took his head". Connections to the past live in memories, and if the memory disappears, what happens to our past? On the song " Prairie Wind", and the disc for that matter, Neil Young sees himself becoming the older generation that is the connection to the past.

In the song "No Wonder" he uses the past to warn us about our tenuous future. Comparing people who used to hunt for food with Oil exploration destroying caribou habitat, he bemoans how selfish people have gotten in their attitudes towards the world. He warns us that the clock is ticking down if we don't do something about our behaviour soon.

One of my favourite tracks on the disc so far is "This Old Guitar". I admit that I have a soft spot for anything Emmeylou Harris sings harmonies on, but even without that added bonus, I'd like it for the message it carries. It starts with that, oh so familiar, Neil Young acoustic chord progression that half the world can identify, which leads into the theme of the song perfectly.

"This old guitar, ain't mine to keep/ It's mine to play for a while/This old guitar ain't mine to keep/ its only mine for a while/This old guitar, this old guitar/ This old guitar, this old guitar." Neil Young, "This Old Guitar" Prairie Wind2005
This is a song about knowing who you are, and where you fit into the world. Neil Young has been a highly successful singer and songwriter, but he knows he wasn't the first, and he won't be the last. He has the perspective to realize that it's not him that's important, but the music. I doubt it means he is ready to quit; it's more about being able to see the past and the future simultaneously and appreciating the present.

Neil Young has travelled all over the map musically; from Transformer where he experimented with technology, to grunge rock, to country folk and even a fifties style rockabilly album. Pinning him down musically is a disservice to the man.

If someone were to mention the name Neil Young to me casually in conversation, I would get a certain "sound" in my head. This album is that sound to me. The best way to describe it would be to call it a Neil Young album. Maybe not as hard edged as some of his earlier work, but the toughness is still there in his voice and the challenges he issues with his songs.

Neil Young is a realist. Unlike some of his contemporaries who deny the reality of their aging he accepts it, but does not surrender to it. On Prairie Wind he proves that even though the guitar may not be his to keep, there's no reason for him to be surrendering it any time soon.

If you want to give the album a listen before stepping out to buy it, the people over at Reprise records have given you plenty of opportunities to check out stuff online. The links below will take you to a variety of video and audio streams for your listening and viewing pleasure. Enjoy

Audio Streams for Neil Young's The Painter

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Video Stream "It's A Dream"
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"This Old Guitar" - Video Stream
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Or you can even listen to the whole album on line at this link for a Neil Young Player

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October 14, 2005

Once in a while good

Once in a while good things happen to those who deserve them. Thursday's announcement that Harold Pinter had been awarded the Nobel Prize for literature is in my mind one of those happy occasions. Pinter The Swedish Academy, the group responsible for choosing the award winner, cited the playwright's ability to " uncover(s) the precipice under everyday prattle and force(s) entry into oppression's closed rooms". I think that means he's a dab hand at writing dialogue; especially stuff with a little bit of hidden meaning.

Harold Pinter has written over thirty plays, a variety of poetry, novels, and screenplays. Almost more important than the quantity of work he has produced, is the impact his work has had upon contemporary theatre.

"Pinter did what Auden said a poet should do. He cleaned the gutters of the English language; so that it ever afterwards flowed more easily and more cleanly…The essence of his singular appeal is that you sit down to every play he writes in certain expectation of the unexpected. In sum, this tribute from one writer to another: you never know what the hell's coming next." David Hare in Harold Pinter a Celebration Faber and Faber 2000 p.21.
While Samuel Becket was the first playwright to use pauses in conversation as integral parts of dialogue, it was Pinter who took the concept into the mainstream. His keen ear for dialogue and sense of dramatic timing allowed the lack of conversation to become as dramatically important as any dialogue. What goes unsaid between two people, what is implied; sometimes conveys more truth than words.

Pinter understood this and used the pauses in his scripts to increase tensions between characters, extend emotional moments, and add an overall air of authenticity to the work. We've all heard the expression, "Less is more"; well, to see a Pinter play on stage is to experience that statement. There is never a word out of place, or an extraneous piece of dialogue.

Pinter's work has been described as something called "Comedy of Menace", suggesting an underlying threat pervades the majority of his work. He is sort of an anti-thesis to what "The Monty Python" troop used to do. They once described themselves as taking an illogical premise to very logical conclusion, which resulted in their rather twisted humour. Pinter takes the logical and common place and carries it to an illogical and terrifying conclusion under the guise of humour.

What could be more harmless than a person's birthday party? In Pinter's play The Birthday Party we discover how even that innocent occasion can be perverted to suit the needs of dangerous individuals.

Stanley lives at a quiet seaside boarding house run by Pete and Meg Boles. One day two strangers, Goldberg and McCann, show up and insist on organizing a birthday party for Stanley that very evening; despite his claims that it's not his birthday. For some reason these strangers are after Stanley. Come the morning they haul him away promising to make him a better man.


Goldberg: We'll make a man of you.
McCann: And a woman.
Goldberg: You'll be oriented.
McCann: You'll be rich.
Goldberg: You'll be adjusted
McCann: You'll be our pride and joy
Goldberg: You'll be a mensch
McCann: You'll be a success.
Goldberg: You'll be integrated.
Harold Pinter, The Birthday Party p 136
Reading those lines out of the context of the play they sound quite silly and absurd. But when the men speaking them have spent the past evening terrorizing their subject, and are now forcibly removing him from his home, their flippancy only adds to the menace of the situation.

I'm sure that up to this point my description of the man and his work have made Harold Pinter come across as just one more in a long line of inaccessible Nobel laureates. If you don't have a doctorate in theatre or English your chances of enjoying his work are minimal. While it is true that academics wet themselves over his plays, the wonderful thing about Pinter is how many people can relate to his work.

At one point in my theatre career I was teaching acting classes for young offenders at a detention centre. I was actually able to get a couple of the guys interested in performing one of Pinter's review sketches; a piece called Trouble in the Works. I don't know if you know how hard it is to get any teenager up in front of an audience willing to risk making a fool of him or herself, but multiply that by ten thousand and you may begin to understand the attitude of young offenders, and the importance of cool to them.

They, or at least the ones who wanted to, thought the piece cool enough, or could relate to it enough, that it was worth risking losing face in front of their peers to get up and perform. To me that is proof of Pinter's ability to communicate to any audience.

Harold Pinter was probably one of the most influential English language playwrights of the late twentieth century. His work established precedents for both realism and absurdity in contemporary theatre. He proved that theatre does not have to be overblown spectacle to draw an audience and that it could be both experimental and commercially successful simultaneously.

Hopefully the awarding of the Nobel Prize for literature to Harold Pinter will encourage producers and artistic directors to consider staging his works more often. They are some of the finest pieces of theatre written in the English language and deserve to be performed more often than they are now. If you ever have a chance to see any of his work staged professionally do not pass up that opportunity. It will change your perceptions of the English language forever.


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October 13, 2005

Well it looks like it's

Well it looks like it's time to play the academics favourite game again. Did he or didn't he, that is the question? What a piece of work is Shakespeare, how noble in style. How infinite in plot devices, and unlikely to be the work of William Shakespeare.

But he, ill suited to strut before the wanton academics eye, a glover's son, scarcely of a class that could do not but descant upon their own illiteracy, cheated by nature of style, wit and position, ill suited for the title of literary master, must therefore be impostor and never written those fine upstanding words.

Oh what peasants, rogues and slaves are they that do suggest such drivel! But they are so o're steeped in blood they can no longer turn back. Oh for a muse of fire to ascend the brightest heaven of invention, than might they have an original idea.

Plots have they laid, inductions dangerous, to set us and William in deadly hate the one against the other. Their drunken prophesies that state Bacon or now Sir Henry Neville Will's plays be written by.

A plague upon all their houses. Alas, poor academics, I know their type all too well. Sent before their time into this world scarce half made up, with hearts so dry and dusty, that emotions recoil from them, and their only joy is to make misery for others. In this world of pleasure and content, since they cannot play the hero, they are determined to play the villain.

The latest entry into the pointless idiocy exercise of proving that Shakespeare didn't write the plays he wrote is by two folks, Brenda James and William Rubinstein, who have written a soon to be published book called The Truth Will Out: Unmasking The Real Shakespeare. In their, oh so cutely titled, book they claim that the above mentioned Sir Henry Neville had to have written the books.

Their proof: all the references to his family in the histories, and that only a courtier such as himself would be able to describe the different geographies of Europe and the political intrigues at court. In other words that guy William Shakespeare just wouldn't have moved in the right circles to be able to write what is attributed to him.

Well that's a good one. Snobbery as an explanation as to why Shakespeare couldn't have written any of his work: he was only the son of a Glover after all and what do they know. Now to give James and Rubinstein some due, literacy was no where near as common then as is now, and a knowledge of foreign geography was limited.

However, all of our biographical information of Shakespeare suggests that he was an educated man. As for his insights into court politics, and the incidences of families appearing in his plays, that is easily answered as well. They both revolve around the fact that in order to survive he would have had to solicit the patronage of people in the court for financial backing.

What better way to butter up a potential patron then promising to immortalize his family by including them in the plays (in fact the character of Banquo and his son Fleance in Macbeth were ancestors of the King James 1st of England.) To be able to secure patronage one would have to know as much about the intrigues in the palace as would any courtier, how else would you know who was safe to approach for money and who not.

I also wonder at their assumption that in order to write anything the author would have had to have first hand experience of the circumstances. How many mystery writers have actually killed someone? How many horror writers actually know a vampire? If we were to follow their line of reasoning there would be no such thing as fiction anymore, simply reporting on what we'd seen in our lives.

" Neither side seems to give much credit to the artistic imagination: Whoever wrote Shakespeare's plays, he, she or they clearly rejoiced in a very large artistic mind capable of dramatizing a huge range of classes, experiences and places. No single person could possibly have had first-hand experience of all this.” Kate Taylor "The Globe and Mail" Wednesday Oct. 12th 2005.

Shakespeare's histories are full of glaring inaccuracies, ones designed to throw the current monarch in the best light possible, which only furthers the case in favour of the artist trying to sustain himself through the patronage of the court. He had access to the histories that had been written at the time and there was plenty of travel between the continent and England in those days.

How difficult would it be for Shakespeare to pick up information about a variety of countries from sailors and traders he would meet in the bars down by the docks where the play houses were? Where else would such fanciful elements of the sea stories like The Tempest have evolved if not from the mouths of sailors?

I find it easier to visualize a man of Shakespeare's class being able to imagine and recreate scenes at court, than a courtier being able to recreate the bawdy speech of the street that is predominant in all of his plays. Yes artistic imagination works both ways, but going down the class scale is far more traumatic than faking your way up for all involved.

None of the past theories have stood the test of time and popular sentiment. We don't here very many people mentioning Sir Francis Bacon anymore, or even postulating that Chris Marlow wrote Shakespeare's plays. (the fact that Marlow was dead before Romeo and Juliet was produced seems to have put a crimp in that theory) So even if this new theory gains some notoriety, I don't foresee it ever knocking Will off his pedestal.

Until someone comes up with an original folio signed by someone other than William Shakespeare, and not in ballpoint pen either, most of us will just keep on believing that the man from Avon was the one and only writer of the whole works. Nobody has provided sufficient proof of anybody else's credentials to even seriously erode that belief. All the world's a stage and Will has written the best lines for it.

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October 12, 2005

"And, who knows? Maybe one

"And, who knows? Maybe one day, you too will find yourself being frenched by a Degrassi girl" Kevin Smith, Introduction: Degrassi Generations

Well since I began my own Degrassi at twenty-five piece with a quote from one of Kevin Smith's movies it seemed only right to draw upon the series' most famous fan to begin the review of Degrassi Generations, a history of the show written by insider Kathryn Ellis.

As I said in own post I had a variety of reasons for being a fan of the Degrassi shows, none of them involving fantasies with cast members and tongues like Mr. Smith, but primarily its lack of the usual glamour associated with television teenagers. The ability of the show's directors to draw forth convincing performances from young untrained actors lent the show an authenticity sorely lacking from television to this day.

Filming was done on location, in the lower East End of Toronto, on the streets that the kids shooting the scenes called home. It allowed for a comfort level among cast crew that would normally have been lacking. Like the difference in energy between a band recording in a studio and performing in concert, there was a charge that ran through this series missing from those shot on a sound stage.

In the reborn Degrassi: The Next Generation the show is shot predominately on a sound stage, with actors who, although age specific for their characters, all have professional credentials. Although it still presents a grittier view of life than its more mainstream counterparts, it seems to owe more to the teen soap operas of the last ten years, then its predecessors.

Degrassi Generations reflects that slicker more polished reality. Full of glossy pages and pictures, mini "People Magazine" profiles of the actors, and even a chapter on how to throw a "Degrassi Theme" party, it owe more to the future of Degrassi than its illustrious past.

In fact the sense I get from this whole book is that it is serving as a promo for the new series. Certainly there is a nice history, including details of some of it's controversial topics and the resulting difficulties in getting episodes aired, blurbs on past actors and crew, but the main focus is on the newer slicker version.

Cast members are given full-page bios, unlike their predecessor's thumbnails; much is made of The N! Channels (an American cable station for teenagers) participation in production, but nothing is said on how their involvement has influenced script decisions. Unlike when the C. B. C. was producing The N!seems to have slightly colder feet. This has resulted in scenes being shot in such a manner that they can be easily edited for the more sensitive American advertisers, and "consultation" on show topics.

Obviously Degrassi: The Next Gerneration is the show of today, but if you're preparing a book that is supposedly dealing with the history of the whole show, especially one who's initial popularity was built on the original episodes, why only have the current cast on the front cover? It almost feels like their using the credibility garnered from the earlier series to establish the newer version's reputation.

Even though the book gives details of things as interesting as the formation of the repertory company of children actors, the technical details involved with script writing, and other topics not covered in your standard fan oriented presentation, the language used by the author diminishes her attempts to be taken seriously.


"What a pleasure to reconnect with so many of the old gang, both cast and crew. I'm only sorry I couldn't touch base with everyone. What fun it has been to meet all the fabulous new cast members!" Kathryn Ellis, Preface Degrassi Generations

That type of saccharine excitement permeates the book. Even when she is talking about the some of the more serious episodes it feels like her smile never stops. Ms. Ellis is like the person who organises your twentieth high school reunion and thinks even the time someone shot up the school was all just part of the wild and wacky fun.

It almost seems a disservice to a show that worked so hard to be the very opposite of that attitude. There was nothing sentimental about the kids or their situations. That's what made the show so appealing. No clichéd answers, no easy solutions were ever offered by the directors, scriptwriters and producers. The focus was on how the kids, like kids everywhere, muddled through and hoped for the best.

If you are a fan of the show and are interested in a "Tiger Beat" type history, with trivia tidbits about your favourite actors and inside scoops on autograph signings, than I'm sure you'd love this book. If you know nothing about that "Canadian" show your children are watching, then it will be a good introduction to the series as a whole, and probably reassure you of its intent.

But if like me, you have been following the show since it's beginnings as Kids of Degrassi Street you'll probably be a little disappointed. Unlike the show Degrassi Generations is all about gloss and shine. The streets around Queen St East and Degrassi never looked this clean and polished.


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October 11, 2005

It is one of the

It is one of the ironies of my life that some of the movies I consider my favourite are also the ones I'm least able to watch. Obviously, this has nothing to do with the quality of the movie, unless it falls into the so awful it's a masterpiece category, it's their emotional impact that prohibits multiple viewings.

One of the movies that I find hardest to watch, even though I consider it beautiful, is Sally Potter's The Man Who Cried Poignant, bittersweet; pick any one of the usual clichéd adjectives you want and it still falls short of capturing the atmosphere generated by this film.

Perhaps it's the plot that does it to me. Not that it's all that original: young girl sets out to find father who has immigrated to America sounds like the story line from any Disney movie. What distinguishes The Man Who Cried from your standard movie of the week are the time period of the movie, the cast, and most of all Sally Potter's ability to avoid the pitfalls of cheap sentimentality and emotional manipulation.

The movie spans fourteen of some of the most tumultuous years of the twentieth century, and countries on three continents. It starts in the shetels, Jewish farming communities, of Russia in 1927 and ends in the United States in 1940. The physical journey corresponds to the journey of growing up that the lead character experiences on her quest to find her father.

Young Susie (not the character's real name, but the one she is given by the immigration people in England when she lands there unable to speak anything but Yiddish) has a wonderful life with her father and grandmother. Her father is a singer, both secular and religious, who sings to her constantly. The bond between the two is beautifully depicted, through the pleasure that each derives from the other's company.

Shortly after Papa leaves Susie is forced to flee with two boys only slightly older than herself during a pogrom. They eventually make a port town where Susie is separated and ends up alone on a ship heading to England. The image of a small child, clutching a photo of her father, sitting bolt upright on a bed in the steerage hold of a ship epitomises the anguish of refugees the world over.

In England, a teacher of Welsh origins discovers her inherited talents as a singer. He takes it upon himself to help the young girl to assimilate. His sympathy to her plight is made obvious when he is shown forcing her to speak English, and he blurts out: "They wouldn't let me speak Welsh"

It's her talent that takes her on the next stage of her journey. She is hired to be a singer and dancer for a club in Paris with hopes of raising the fare for passage to America through the job so that she can find her father. But this is Paris in late 1939 and the fortunes of the world are swinging heavily against Jewish people.
It's through her nightclub job that she meets the three people who will have the biggest impact on her life in Paris, and who will ultimately decide her fate. Lola, an expatriate Russian dancer and gold digger; Dante Dominio, an Italian opera singer, fascist supporter, and egotist; and Cesar, the leader of a band of gypsies.

By throwing herself at Dante, Lola gets herself and Susie parts in the chorus of the opera company that Dante is staring with. Cesar has been hired by the same company to ride a horse onto stage. While Lola ingratiates herself with the upper crust Dante, Susie falls in love with Cesar.

When the inevitable happens and the German's show up in Paris, it's Lola who manages to secure passage for herself and Susie out of France on a passenger liner heading to the United States. Susie wants to stay with her beloved Cesar, but he insists it's her duty to run and survive so that she can be reunited with her father. Just as it's his duty to stay and fight for his people.

For a movie like this to escape being sentimental claptrap it requires superb direction, and an exemplary cast. The Man Who Cried is blessed with both. Christina Ricci as Susie, Cate Blanchett as Lola, John Turturro as Dante, and Johnny Depp as Cesar are all wonderful in bringing their characters to life. From their use of accents, to the behaviour and reactions of their characters, none of them ever strikes a false note.

Sally Potter never once allows them to go beyond what is needed to convey the power of a scene. While there are many opportunities for over the top scenery chewing performances, she ensures that everything is kept within the bounds of reality.

What makes this movie most powerful is it's ability to create moments of universality; moments that everybody can identify with on an emotional level. Even if we have never experienced the situations that the characters find themselves in, we are able to identify with the emotions the characters are experiencing.

How often have you seen an emotionally charged movie where the music has been used to manipulate your feelings: swelling strings are an indication of love blooming, trumpet blasts and drums mean danger, and so on. The producers of those films appear to have so little faith in the emotional strength of their features that they have to build in cues for the audience to tell them when to feel things.

The sound track of The Man Who Cried is part of the action of the movie. At certain times a song is played in the background of the action, but it is a piece of music we have seen performed earlier, and it's being used to evoke that earlier scene. The music provides an emotional link between the past and the present. It's as if Ms. Potter is reminding us that the only soundtrack that comes with our lives, is the one we create ourselves.

One of the great treats of this movie is the fact that the fabulous gypsy band Taraf de Haidouks appears on screen as the troop traveling with Johnny Depp's character Cesar. There are two marvellous scenes in the movie when we get to experience the excitement of watching them perform. Since a couple of the older members have died since the movie's release in 2000, this remains one of the few film records of them performing.

This is a movie about survival, and how people somehow manage to gather the strength and courage to go on living no matter how devastated they feel or how little hope they may have in success. In A Man Who Cried it's about a young Jewish woman looking to be reunited with her father and survive the terrors of a world gone mad. In today's world Susie could be any young woman from a war torn country in the Balkans or Africa.

This is a beautiful movie that deals with highly emotional subject matter without once attempting to overtly manipulate our emotions or descending into cheap sentimentality. Moving and very human I recommend it highly for anyone desiring insight into the plight of refugees the world over.

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October 10, 2005

"Him: I am an artist,

"Him: I am an artist, I am a man, I am a failure. (Whispers) An artist, a man, and a failure (loudly) MUST PROCEED." e. e. cummings: Him: Act 3 Scene 3.

Sunday Oct 9th 2005:

Twenty- two days until November 1st, the first day of the National Novel Writing Month. As the last of the little goblins and goulies are headed to bed, sugar fixes sated for another year, I, along with thousands of others, will officially begin the process of trying to string 50,000 words together and shape them into a novel.
NaNoWriMo
In an initial burst of enthusiasm I had envisioned posting daily updates: including excerpts from the days writing and commentary on the effort involved. Thankfully, saner editorial heads have prevailed, pointing out that it would likely leave me occupying a padded cell giggling quietly to myself.

In place of that madness I have taken it upon myself to try and provide you with weekly bulletins. I'll be letting you know my progress and my state of mind as I stagger towards the finish line. Somehow within the maelstrom I'll find moments of calm and attempt to analyse the whole process.

Will I uncover any sure-fire techniques for speedwriting a novel or jumpstarting creativity? How hard is it really? Does working within a community of other writers actually make the job easier or will seeing others outstripping your performance destroy what vestiges of confidence you had at the outset?

I'm going into this blind. I've never completed anything of this length so that's sort of intimidating. The closest I've come to attempting something akin to this was writing a one-act play. There was the pressure of a deadline; I needed to be finished for the beginning of rehearsals, but in terms of the word count there's no comparing the two projects.

Than there is the matter of emotional investment; although theatre was important to me at the time, this business of writing has become central to my definition of self. That's a pretty heavy thing to put out there I realize, and probably sounds a tad unhealthy in an obsessive sort of a way.

I can't count the number of times I have heard people say that one of the worst things a person can do is define themselves by what they do. According to conventional wisdom not developing yourself as something distinct from your employment leaves you an unfinished and incomplete person. The problem with conventional wisdom is that it leaves no room for the unconventional.

I have a problem with people that use "I am an artist" as an excuse for their behaviour or their refusal to exert energy on behalf of anything except themselves. It especially wears thin when their definition of artistic endeavour seems to preclude actually ever producing anything. On the other hand there is a certain amount of truth in the dedicated/obsessed artist cliché.

It may sound pretentious to some; even to my own ears there are times when it sounds self-aggrandising, but writing is more than just a hobby, or something I like to do. It's a compulsion. Asking me why I write is equivalent to asking me why I breathe. It's almost an involuntary reflex.

I sit and visualize scenarios in my head, create characters, and start visualising words on paper in idle moments. I hear about a news item, or think of an idea, and the first thing I is envision an opening paragraph. I can't begin to count the number of opening paragraphs for novels or stories I have composed in my head.

When people ask me what I do, I sort of mumble under my breath that I'm a writer. Perhaps being unable to work due to a disability has something to do with that; it's my option to write, not something anyone is forcing me to do. But than again that applies to almost anyone who blogs, or writes for the Internet.

What gives me, or anybody for that matter, the right to set myself apart from the "masses", so to speak? The fact that I agonise over every word that I use, that I'm never satisfied with anything I write, that recognition is no big deal, that if I'm deprived of the opportunity to write I'm despondent, or maybe nothing at all?

Perhaps being an artist has nothing to do with what or why but with expectations. I have none. Oh sure occasionally I dream of maybe publishing something aside from online, and getting paid for my work, but when I set out each morning I expect nothing in return. The gift of being able to do this is sufficient reward; everything else is gravy.

Of course, that all could be so much bullshit. Maybe I'm just another egotistical twat who thinks too much of himself. Hell I've only ever finished that one play, a bunch of short editorial commentaries, and a couple of small volumes of poetry. There must be millions of people around the world at the same level.

NaNoWirMo represents an opportunity to test my resolve in a carefree atmosphere. Currently there are fourteen paragraphs of a novel sitting in the hard drive of this computer, representing about a year and a half's sporadic out-put. I have to finish it some time or another, it would feel like a betrayal to those characters inhabiting the world I've created not to, but at the same time it does not feel like it should be my first novel.

In fact part of the problem is that I realize I care too much about it too want to trivialize it with first novel mistakes. I need to empty my brain of all the accumulated plot twists, literary devices, and extraneous nonsense that I have accumulated from years of envisioning novels in my head. What better way to divest myself of all that than in the damn the torpedoes full steam a head type of atmosphere generated by NaNoWirMo?

Well now that I've settled, in my mind anyway, why the hell I'm doing this, it's only a matter of figuring out what the hell I'm going to do. The sensible thing would be to come up with an idea; compose an outline, create some characters and come up with a variety of scenarios for them. Of course there's always the option of just starting blind; sitting down at the laptop on November 1st with no plans, just an idea, and see where it goes. Ah well, I still have twenty-one days and just over eighteen hours to figure that out. I'll let you know what I've decided.


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October 09, 2005

"Behind carts, in front of

"Behind carts, in front of horses, on foot, in railway cars planes, and ships./Blended in a line of images, we have strolled and limped across the countries and surfaces of a planet./ Whims and fashion, empiric caprice; not God, not fate, are what keep us moving until there is nowhere left./ Borders open to let us out, or shut to keep us in./Doors slam in our faces, and open swinging towards us."
I wrote those lines as part of a much larger poem quite a number of years ago. It was inspired by a number of things, but largely from the frustration of seeing how little things have changed in thousands of years of human existence. You see it was the early nineties and the ethnic murders in the former Yugoslavia were in full swing.

Don't look for me to ever use the term "ethnic cleansing". It sounds too much like everybody getting together to do laundry to convey the horror of what happened in places like Rwanda and the Balkans in the 1990's and earlier. Who ever decided to popularize the term should be tied to stake and bombarded with thesauruses until he or she gains a measure of sense and respect for the English language.

When would we ever learn? Before Bosnia and the rest of the Balkans went up in smoke, you'd think the world had enough examples of racial and ethnic murders, from this century alone, to maybe grow up a little? No, once again we have to prove, that as a species we have cornered the market on xenophobia (that does not mean you are scared of warrior priestesses by the way) "Hey what's that?" "I don't know" "Better kill it than"

If it's not like me or I don't understand it, there is no room for it in my world. The easiest way for people to deal with issues that confuse them, are to get rid of them. Or if you can't get rid of an issue, find someone, or a group of someones, who you can blame it on. Then you can get rid of them.

What's even better is by the time everybody's done with the murder and mayhem; they'll have forgotten what the issue was that got them so upset in the first place. It will look like the problem has been solved. Too many people in this world think diversity is the choice of sauces that comes with their chicken MacNuggets.

The stream of refugees doesn't seem to ever end. I have a memory of an image from a childhood viewing of the movie Fiddler On The Roof that has stayed with me all of my life. It's the end of the movie and the whole village is moving out, headed to America or Canada. Families are trudging along together, carrying what they can on their backs and in their arms, while some are pulling carts laden with the rest of their possessions.

How often is that scene still being repeated on a daily basis somewhere in our world? Well the deserts of the Sub Sahara are now the hot spot for people seeking escape from the economic disintegration of Africa. The Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Mellila have seen desperate people charging their borders of razor wire this past week in an attempt to begin the process of gaining admission to Europe.

Mirroring North American attitudes to illegal Mexican migration, the governments of the European Union's response has been to toughen it's repatriation laws, allowing member states to deport people en masse back to their countries of origin. Borders are closing as fast as the minds who govern within them.

The beginning of the twentieth century saw a mass exodus of eastern Europeans fleeing starvation and persecution. These people walked across chunks of Europe attempting to reach a port town where they could gain passage on a ship heading to America or Canada. One hundred years latter people are walking across the deserts of Africa looking to do something similar.

But now nobody wants them. They're either being shipped back to where they come from, picked up by the Moroccan army and dumped in the desert, or being held on masse in detention camps awaiting their fates. What fate awaits them if they are shipped home? Will they simply do world leaders a favour and die, dreams unfulfilled and hopes destroyed? Or will they become the next wave of terrorists controlled by the first manic able to whip their frustration into anger at the developed world?

In the days leading up to World War Two Jews were scrambling to find any country willing to take them as they attempted to flee Nazi persecution. Neither Canada nor the United States was willing to take on any more refugees. How many people perished because of that decision?

Less then sixty years latter we are once again refusing people admittance. Have we learned nothing from recent history? What makes us so special that we are given the power to relegate thousands of people to the scrap heap? What gives us the right?

Somewhere in the world today there is a person walking along a road with all his processions on his back. Whatever it is that he is leaving behind is so bad that he is willing to risk a journey of thousands of miles that doesn't offer any guarantee of success at the end of the line. If he is willing to take that kind of risk, isn't it only fair for of us to take a chance on him?

With the way economic conditions are getting worse, and unrest continuing to grow apace with it, the seeds are being sown for another bout of ethnic warfare. Perhaps we could take a preventative role this time, instead of just being around after the fact to count the bodies and mop up the blood.


On the dock, on the platform/In the terminal station/stands one with a ticket,/waiting to be plucked from the baggage carousel./Plucked from a mother's birthing arms by tribal hatreds that do not heed a child's tears./The barbed wire runs behind and beyond./It climbs like someone told me roses climb trestles,/like corn grows in a field.

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October 08, 2005

Once in a great while

Once in a great while a book comes along which has an indelible effect on you, for reasons that the author may not have intended. Something in either the way the writer has presented the story, or the subject matter, strikes a chord that resonates on a multitude of levels. There have been a couple of books written by Marge Piercy that have had that effect on me.

The one that had the deepest impact on me, for a variety of reasons, was the novel He, She and It. Nominally a science fiction novel, it moves through territory, which at that time was unfamiliar to most readers. It may not have been the first book to postulate projecting people into the Internet, but it was the first one I read, and still remains one of the best ones I've read.

He, She and It is so much more than just a cyberpunk science fiction novel dealing with computers and technological warfare. It's about the things people will do to preserve their way of life, and the consequences that follow. It also raises the question of what exactly life is, in the form of two examples of artificial intelligence; one based on science and nano-technology, the other on the mysticism of the Kabalah. (Please try to forget any pop stuff that you have heard or read about the Kabalah, because most of it is not relevant to real study of this branch of Jewish mysticism. Unlike what most people who seem to have attempted to claim affinity for this study would have you believe, belief in all the tenets of Judaism is a mandatory prerequisite. Without that it just becomes so many empty words)

In the middle of the twenty-first century we find a world that has just barely survived biological and nuclear warfare. Humans cannot venture into exposed air unprotected. All inhabited areas are covered with protective domes that maintain atmospheric purity. There are no civil governments any more; rather the world is divided into corporate spheres of interest, with multinational corporations ruling their own fiefdoms through out the world.

Scattered little pockets of independence still exist in the form of free towns that barter their freedom with specific services they can sell, and fierce defensive skills that keep the multinationals at bay. Shira Shipman was born in the Jewish free town of Tikva, but ran away to become part of the multinational conglomeration that rules North America, Norika.

When her marriage to another Norikan employee goes down the toilet, and he is awarded complete custody of their child, she flees back to the house where her grandmother raised her. Far from being your stereotypical Jewish Bubbie, grandma Shipman is a computer programmer of the highest order. Primarily responsible for safeguarding Tikva's Net portal, and designing the software they sell to the multinationals in exchange for their freedom, she has become involved in a side project with a fellow Tikvian scientist.

After a series of unsuccessful attempts they have created a being of artificial intelligence that is virtually indistinguishable from a human. In everything from appearance to emotional reactions he is as human as you can get when you don't have internal organs made of muscle and bone. They called him Yod, the equivalent of Y in the Hebrew alphabet, which offers an indication of how many failures they lived through before finally succeeding.

Yod's purpose is to defend the city of Tikva from the multinationals. Both on the net and in person he is far superior to any human, and invulnerable too most forms of attack. His biggest asset is that he never needs to sleep, and is not subject too fatigue induced mistakes, making him the ideal on line guard.

As earlier versions of Yod had failed due to their lack of understanding emotions, and their inability to control them, the elder Shipman has been charged with developing his emotional software. One of things she decides he needs to know about is his Jewish heritage and that there is precedent for his existence.

Running parallel to the story of protecting Tikva from the incursions of Norika is the story of a Shipman ancestors' creation of a Golem to protect the residents of the Prague ghetto during the annual Passover pogroms; rampant destruction of all things Jewish by mobs. The Rabbi has endured many years of persecution and has learned to read the signs indicating when things are going to be worse then usual. He fears that this Passover will be the worst yet.

Like his descendants his wish is to create the means to protect his people from harm and incursion. But as each discover creating life is always more than you bargain for. In the cases of Joseph the golem and Yod the robot they both begin to develop feelings for the woman in their life. Joseph begins to love the rabbi's granddaughter, while Yod and Shira become increasingly attached as the story progresses.

When Shira had arrived home she had found Yod ready to go to work, but needing to be socialised. Learning the nuances of human behaviour and not taking things literally are just two examples of behaviour that he needs to learn so he can walk openly in the community. This enforced close companionship leads where one expects it to lead, with Yod and Shira eventually becoming lovers.

Of course action on other fronts is heating up as well. Excursions into the net are made to infiltrate the Norika system to try and figure out what they are planning in terms of trying to take over Tikva. All people have implants allowing them to plug into the Net and project an image of themselves into virtual reality. They are than able to travel anywhere the net does, including into someone else's files if they can breach their defences.

With Yod as their point man the Tikvians are able to easily breach Norika's file systems, and even locate Shira's son. Latter, in an actual physical incursion, Yod and Shira succeed in retrieving him and returning safely to Tikva. This of course only increases the pressure on the community, because the child was being used as a means of blackmailing Shira to compromise Tikva.

Back in Prague Joseph has been putting his own unique skills to work in defence of the ghetto. Whether through his ability to move freely through the gentile world and gather information in bars about forthcoming assaults, or leading the normally passive Jews in defence of their homes against the assaulting mobs, he is a resounding success.

For both Yod and Joseph the question arises about who they really are, and what is their status. One day in the synagogue they are one person short of a minyon. (The ten men required to be present for a Jewish prayer service to proceed) When one of the congregation suggests Joseph (only two other's know of his true origins) to complete the minyon, the rabbi is confronted with the reality that he doesn't know whether Joseph qualifies as a man.

In Yod's case questions are being asked about the amount of work he seems to be doing, and why he never gets time off. When it is revealed that he is artificial intelligence the town council has to debate on his status. Is he a free person, eligible to all the rights and privileges that this entails, or is he the property of his creators?

Marge Piercy is too accomplished a writer for there ever to be any black and white issues in the world. Of course our sympathies lie with the free town's struggle for independence, but when it comes to the moral issue of where does life begin and end in terms of artificial intelligence she shows that there are no easy answers.

Is Yod less human then someone created in the normal circumstances? How about a person who has been augmented with artificial parts? Even in our world we have people with plastic joints, hearts they weren’t born with, and artificial organs that keep them alive. At what point do they stop being humans and become machines? If the intent in creating artificial life is the same as procreation – the creation of life – does it matter how the result is obtained?

This is a beautifully written book that evokes style and mood wonderfully. Considering the constant changes of scene between 17th century Prague and the mid 21st, Ms. Piercy does a marvellous job of making each era believable. Using the two time periods is more than just a device; the earlier tale is instrumental in bringing about the conclusion of events in the 21st century.

This is a story of the will to endure and maintain dignity and freedom, on a community and personal level. Whether the Jews of Prague or Tikva, or Shira and Yod, each are striving to find and define themselves in a world that seems set against them. It's a story about the importance of community and the values they establish for us, while at the same time cherishing the rights of the individual.

He, She and It manages to be that rarity amongst novels that can impact important lessons and messages without being a message book or strident. Through circumstances and events the characters learn and grow. As Yod becomes more human, and Shira reclaims the emotions she thought she had sealed off as a child, we are shown the path to follow if we wish to emulate their journey. This novel is a trip well worth taking.

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October 07, 2005

Some days I wonder why

Some days I wonder why I read the newspapers anymore. Just when you think you're getting inured to almost any story of human depravity along comes stories like those that were in today's "Globe and Mail" that either make you want to puke or climb the nearest water tower with a high powered rifle and begin picking off humans because as a species we really don't deserve to live.

I admit that I'm less than thrilled with humans these days in general, I'd defy anyone to live in the type of neighbourhood I do and not feel that way. Not a day passes without an act of such selfishness that one wonders if people ever consider other people when they do something. When this is coupled with the noise of street fights between stoned losers, and the drunken parties going all night, my patience has been worn quite thin.

So I'm probably pretty close to "going postal" on a daily basis. Reading about the following two incidences really made me wonder how we've managed to evolve even this far. Is there such a thing as devolution? Or are these things just an example of what happens when the gene pool is reduced too far from cousins marrying each other?

The first story is about the murder trial of some grandparents accused of allowing their grandson to die from neglect. The description of the child by the time of his death sounds like what you'd expect a death camp survivor to look like:

"… at the time of his death, poor Jeffrey was but a bag of bones and sinew and feces-encrusted and infected skin. He weighed all of 21 pounds -- less than he had as a year-old toddler -- and stood about 37 inches tall, the average height for a boy half his age. Experts have testified he was chronically starved, over a period of months and perhaps years, such that he was not only wasted but stunted." Christine Blatchford "Toronto Globe And Mail" Friday October 7th 2005

The grandparents of this child had been given custody of all their grandchildren three years ago when their mother had been declared unfit. Jeffrey and one of his sisters were kept locked in a bedroom at all times with no blankets, beds or toys. They weren't allowed access to toilets and were barely fed. If these people were considered fit to be given custody of the children, I hate to think of what life was like with mother.

What kind of world do we live in when this can be allowed to happen? Where the hell were the people from Children's Aid who are supposed to supervise custodial arrangements for all children taken from their parents? A six-year-old boy was slowly starved to death by his grandparents and nobody noticed anything was wrong with the kid?

If this wasn't enough to make swallowing my morning coffee impossible and ruining my appetite for breakfast, this next lovely little piece finished the job. An eleven-year-old girl committed suicide because she could think of no reason to go on living.

Kathleen Beardy live in Winnipeg's tough, primarily poor native, north end. The week before she took her life, last Saturday, both of her parents were arrested, leaving her in the care of her seventeen-year-old sister. Not only did she have to witness both of her parents being dragged out of her house in handcuffs, it appears as if Winnipeg's finest were overly enthusiastic in their treatment of Mr. Beardy during the arrest.

It also now appears that there was no justification for the actual arrests. Pictures of Mr. Beardy show all the skin has been removed from his kneecaps and abrasions on his upper body. He also complains of headaches, and pains in his knees and legs. If this wasn't bad enough for a child to witness, there has also been the treatment she has been receiving form neighbourhood bullies.

She seems to have been a constant target of teasing and victimization, enduring taunts and hazing. But the worst occurred just before her death. She had bought herself a puppy for $2.00. Her happiness was changed to misery when the local bullies stole it from her and told her they were going to sell it. She hung herself with the dog's leash by looping it over a tree branch and jumping off a junk pile.

What was going through this young person's unhappy mind that could have driven her to such an act? A family picture reproduced in the article shows a young, glasses wearing girl, with an ear-to-ear grin. She looks like any typical eleven-year-old girl. Not a care in the world.

" "We would never have thought it of Kathleen. She was always so good and so lively and she never seemed to have any problems. Maybe we just didn't know what was going on inside." Grandmother, Mary Sinclair "Globe And Mail" Friday October 7th/05
Everybody says the same things, don't they, after a suicide? Hell it even sounds just like what the neighbours say when they find out they were living next door to a serial killer. "He always seemed so nice." "We didn't know that he kept eleven year olds chained to his fridge" "We thought the screaming was his television" Nobody knows anything do they?

Why is that? Why does nobody ever suspect a thing? Whether it's a young girl who commits suicide or a young boy being starved to death, nobody knows anything about what's going on until it's after the fact. Or even if they do, as in the case of the six-year-old boy, they don't think it's there place to get involved.

What The Fuck Is Wrong With People? They have no problem with whispering behind people's backs about what they think they're up to: "Did you hear that so and so beats his wife and kids?" But heaven forbid they do anything about it. I don't want to get involved should be the mantra for this fucking age.

The, it's not my business excuse is such bullshit. If you were being robbed and beaten wouldn't you hope somebody who noticed might call the cops? Why not do the same? It's not as if you even have to give your name anymore, most places have anonymous tip lines just for that reason.

Most people are so much happier being scandalized after the fact, and then they can sit around and gossip about it to their heart's content. The people across the street from me would complain about the drug dealer living below them, how he stole from everyone, and kept them up all hours of the night. Not once did anybody complain to their landlord let along the cops, in fact they would happily buy stuff from him they knew to be stolen property.

The two news stories I've talked about are not only sad and disturbing because of what happened, but also for the implications they have about our society at large. We're all so wrapped up in our own little worlds that we never even notice what's going on right beside us. Even when we do very few of us are moved to do anything about it.

I'm beginning to be looked on as a troublemaker in my neighbourhood because I won't sit idly by and let shit happen. Not that I'm worried about what they think of me, but I find it amazing that trying to make your neighbourhood a little more human and caring gets you labelled as a nuisance.

That's such a sad indictment of our world; caring for the well being of others has become a negative thing to do. What a pity.


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October 06, 2005

It took me a while

It took me a while but I finally managed to wade through the four volumes of Tad Williams' Otherland series. Tracking down the second and third volumes took most of the effort as they weren't in my local library and not on the shelves of first hand bookstores, so it meant checking back with second hand stores on a regular basis in the hopes that a copy would show up. But now that I've read the quartet, City Of Golden Shadow, River Of Blue Fire, Mountain Of Black Glass and Sea Of Silver Light, I'm left with a couple of unanswered whys.

The first why is sort of two parts; why was thing written in the first place, and why did it have to be so long? The second why has more to do with me than the quality of the books, as it is why did I keep reading the things? I even spent money on them that could have been put to far better use.

Sometimes after reading a book I'm left feeling what was the point in writing the damn thing. Okay sure there is a story and characters and they do stuff, but for what purpose? Is there a reason for it all? True, works of fiction don't have to have a point, they can just be riveting stories, intense character studies, or thrilling plot lines, but those in turn become the point of writing the book.

The author sets out to create a character study, or an exploration of style if he or she are exceptionally post modern. But there's usually a point to the whole exercise. In Otherland I missed the point entirely.

The plot is quite simple really. Children around the world are falling prey to a mysterious coma like disease, somehow contracted while surfing the net. A sinister cabal of corporate leaders throughout the world are creating for themselves the means to live forever in artificial reality by recreating themselves as living parts of an organic operating system that controls a massive artificial reality. They are somehow utilizing the brains of the children to make the operating system function.

A small group of people from the outside the cabal find out about the plot and get hacked into the special system in order to try and find a cure for the people who have fallen into a coma. The four books deal with their attempts to get into the system, their adventures while there, and finding a resolution to the problems created by the simulated world.

One major problem for me was the fact that basic elements of this book had been done before and better by other authors. The whole idea of travelling a river through multiple worlds smacked of Philip Jose Farmer's Riverworld series, while the live net concept has been done by many an author prior to this, with to my mind anyway, the best one being He, She, and It by Marge Piercy.

Doing something that has been done before is not a crime, but it places the author under the obligation to come up with something marginally original enough that you don't find yourself automatically thinking of the previous works. In that Mr. Williams was unsuccessful as I was continually reminded of Mr. Farmer's work (which I have not read in about twenty years) during his descriptions of the different worlds that his characters passed through.

Although his virtual world was more elaborate than Ms Percey's it lacked the earlier work's ability to convey something of the excitement this sort of experience should generate. In each situation the Net was taken for granted as a place where you could have full body access, and was considered an everyday sort of thing, but I just didn't sense the same enthusiasm for the subject from Mr. Williams as I had in its predecessor. Perhaps it is his fascination with the technical details that alienated me, but there were too many times when it felt like reading a manual.

In cases where the plot isn't effective an author can save him or herself through the characters they create. If they are people we care about or can identify with, what they do is of less importance. Here again I found Mr. Williams lacking. He has four volumes with which to develop his characters as they go through a long journey, but they are all pretty much the same at the end as they were in the beginning.

It seems that he was content with providing us with types rather than characters. There is the noble savage in the form of a bushman, the strong black woman, the old white businessman intent on ruling the world, the sociopath killer and so on. They all have specific purposes to play that fit into their cliché, and there are only so many times that you can here the bushman talk about the interconnectedness of Cat's Cradle, the operating system and the universe without wanting to gag.

Now you may be asking yourself if he thought so poorly of this series why in hell's name did you read the whole thing. Simple really, I'm an optimist and I kept hoping it would get better. After the first book, which basically got everyone into the virtual world and separated from each other I still had hopes that it could develop into something more interesting now that we were into the virtual reality.

Once I finished the second book it became a matter of stubbornness on my part. I'd already invested so much time into the damn thing, I was going to read it if it killed me. Probably not the best reasons for reading anything, and not guaranteed to make you think favourably of it either.

I feel sort of bad for writing this negative review, it's obvious Tad Williams put a lot of work into these books, what with researching various time periods of history, computers, and the stories of the San bushmen. Unfortunately good research does not a good novel guarantee. Otherland ended up reminding me of those mini-series they used to make in the seventies for television, where their reach exceeded their capabilities, and they ended up serving up large helpings of tedium.

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October 05, 2005

Proving once again that I

Proving once again that I have less sense than the average person I've persuaded myself that it would be fun to get involved with National Novel Writing Month. Yep I'm going to try and crank out 50,000 words in the span of a month. That works out to be around 1400 per day or about 60 words per hour, or 1 word per minute. Wow one whole minute to think up a new word: how hard can this be?

Yeah I know that's not how it's going to work, no matter how hard I try to look at it that way. Although, since the only person who's actually got to read the thing is me, there's nothing preventing it from being gibberish. Or one could simply do a hell of a lot of cutting and pasting, and quote from a million different stories you like and…might as well just type the letter x 50,000 times if you're going to do that and call it an experiment in existential minimalism: or a really long algebraic equation.
NaNoWriMo
NaNoWriMo, which is how they refer to themselves, was the brainchild of one Chris Baty a few years back. He thought it would be a hoot to see if he could use the Internet to get a few people across the U.S. involved in something as outlandish as attempting to plunk down 50,000 words on paper in the span of thirty days. Little did he know how many nut jobs like myself actually would want to do this psychosis causing exercise.

Now of course the National in the title has been rendered obsolete, (heck how else could a beady-eyed Canadian like myself be taking part otherwise) with participants from around the world. They've even managed to turn it into a fundraising project where by they solicit donations from which they build libraries in Cambodia. To this day they have successfully built three libraries in rural Cambodia bringing books to people who would most likely not have had access otherwise. (You don't have to participate in the insanity to contribute, and you don't have to contribute to participate.)

So why would anyone do this form of masochistic torture willingly? It's not just a few loonies either, were talking projected numbers of 55,000 participants for this year's event/marathon. I can't speak for anyone else so I'll try to speak for myself. Perhaps getting a peak under my hood will help explain this form of mass hysteria.

This is good, I can't think of one sane reason for doing the contest. It does not bode well for my success that I just sat here staring at the screen for two minutes completely blank. Good lord what have I gotten myself into. O.K. I can back out, not complete the required 50,000 and nobody will know, except me and the other 54,999 participants who see my name up on the tally board stuck at zero words on November 30th.

So there's part of it. Testing myself against meeting a deadline. That's something I haven't done in years, not since I worked in theatre and you just had to have the show ready when the audience walked in. Even if the actors couldn't touch certain set pieces because the paint was still fresh it didn't matter; as long as the audience couldn't tell, you'd met your deadline.

It won't matter if I write my last word at 23:59 on the 30th of November. As long as the damn manuscript is into their word counter software by midnight I win. Win, yeah o.k. so a nice lefty like me still has a competitive bone in my body. Shit, yeah! You can't be a damn writer and not be competitive. Unfortunately you're usually competing against all your own self-doubts and inferiority complexes, but that's still competition.

So I want to challenge myself to go where no me has gone before, to visit uncharted vistas of my imagination and meet strange small fuzzy creatures. Or whatever characters I happen to create that will populate my bizarre worlds.

That's the other thing intriguing about this. What will pop out of my fevered brain? Have you ever done something called automatic writing? It's where you sit down, stare at a blank piece of paper and write down whatever pops into your head. They use it as a type of psychotherapy to help people get by emotional blocks and problems communicating.

This will be sort of like controlled automatic writing. It will have a plot and a story with characters doing things by themselves and to each other. It will be all the stuff they do and how they get from one end of the story to the other that will be the automatic writing bit.

There used to be an improvisational theatre game I would teach and play. Two actors would work together; they would be each given a character and a situation then they would be given conflicting motivations. Simple example of this would be a husband and wife at breakfast one day, husband wants to take day off work to spend time with wife; wife wants husband out of the house to meet her lover.

That's pretty much how I see this whole thing going writing wise. At the beginning of each chapter I'll take volunteers from the characters and see who wants to be in it, and than tell them what they have to do. After that I'll let the automatic writing take over and see what happens.

Did you notice the neat way I digressed from the topic of why I'm doing this? It was so neatly done that I didn't even notice until now…Oh dear that's not good. I could have a real good time killing somebody off and realize I need him three chapters down the road…Ah well I'll deal with that when the time comes.

Anyway automatic writing: It's supposed to free up your subconscious and make you more spontaneous and creative. So I'm hopping that I'll be able to achieve that state of mind. I mean there isn't exactly time to be meticulous in your word selection is there. A minute a word may sound like a lot, but that second hand sure can sweep by pretty quickly when you're trying to decide if that word sounds just right.

If I were a sensitive new age type of guy, which thankfully only happens on special occasions, I would say that it would be learning to trust your instincts. You can also call it gut reactions or a feeling. But that always reminds me of that real cheesy Wayne Newton number…I'll probably never have a "feeling" about anything ever again.
One reason I'm defiantly not doing this for is fame and fortune. Goodness me the chances of this being anything aside from unmitigated crap are pretty low. Beside from the fact that 50,000 words aren't enough for a novel these days, quality control is going to be a low priority. I'm sure after I've written the thing and ever have the nerve to go back and read it, I'll come across glaring snafus of continuity. (See the above dead guy who's needed three chapters latter; most publishers usually pick up on a character reappearing after you bumped them off. Of course you could make like the whole J. R. Ewing thing and say it was all a nightmare.)

What it really comes down to is that I think it's going to be a hell of a lot of fun. Yeah you heard me right fun. I love to write. Think of how many words I churn out a day posting to places like blogcritics and my own web log? That's got to be close to my 1400 a day rate right there. So all I've got to do is turn that into the equivalent of fiction each day (probably according to a lot of you out there that won't be too much of a stretch for me)

In fact, you lucky folk you, if you play your cards right you may just find yourselves the lucky recipients of my peerless prose on a daily basis. Wouldn't that be a treat for all of us? I'd enjoy the luxury of on the fly critique and commentary and you would… well let's leave that alone for now and see how the critiquing works out.

But I don't want to keep all this fun to myself. There must be oodles of budding novelists out there waiting for their big break. If you ever thought you had a novel in you waiting to be written what better opportunity do you have than the National Novel Writing Month to give it a go? At the very least you'll be able to cross one more thing off that list of stuff that you wanted to try before you died. You may even find out that you're a writer.

The truth is you'll never know until you try. So why not try?


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Finding silver linings in the

Finding silver linings in the clouds of most of today's top news stories sometimes takes a lot of work. Hell even finding reasons to be optimistic about day-to-day life is tough. But on occasion I've been able to come up with some consoling thoughts about things that either scare me or really piss me off. In an attempt to maybe lighten everyone's load I thought I would be generous enough to pass on two such calm inducing scenarios. Neither offers a quick resolution to either problem, but each gives a glimmer of hope for the future: a straw to clasp as your clutching your head in anguish.

You're lying in bed on a peaceful summer's evening, when all of a sudden a low bass vibration begins to rumble up through the floor, inducing momentary fears of earthquakes, until you remember you don't live in California. Your heart has only a momentary respite for calming, because in the moment that it took to understand that it wasn't an act of God, the vibration has turned into the sound of an augmented car stereo.

Gritting your teeth, and praying to whatever you believe in that your sternum won't collapse, you endure until it passes. The massive bass almost achieving brown line status (literally the low end frequency that causes the relaxation of the human bowel: better known as shitting oneself) overwhelms all other noise save for the persistent accompanying rattle of whatever vehicle is striving to contain the sound waves.

I can only think of two groups of individuals who would develop such insidious devices as massive subwoofers and mega bass amplifiers for use in automobiles. Obviously anybody with a stake in an auto body shop is going to love those things. There's only so much wear and tear any car's chassis can take. A friend who worked for a local shop told me they would have four or five of those cars in a week needing at least their doors re hung, because the vibrations had shaken them loose in the hinges sufficiently to prevent them closing properly.

When I'm at my most satirical and humorously twisted: in other words pushed beyond the limits of rational thought I speculate on the possibility that these devices were invented as a means of revenge for hundreds of years of repression by African Americans. One only needs to notice the predominance of young white males in baseball caps who drive these machines, and this begins to make some sort of insidious sense.

What better way to exact revenge than to create machines that render the users incapable of rational thought and most likely procreation. I can't begin to imagine what that level of sound and vibration is doing to those young men's sperm count, but can you honestly see any microorganism surviving that onslaught?

The brilliance of the scheme is in its appeal to male testosterone: bigger and louder is better. Who has more of the hormone to burn than young males living in white suburban repressed society? What more fitting vengeance for cultural appropriation than to be rendered impotent by what you've stolen?

My own personal silver lining is tied into the loss of procreative abilities. Every time I hear one go by now, aside from wishing for a bazooka to blow them up on the offbeat, is the realization that they will never breed. Theses people will not reproduce, which given the gene pool most of them sprung from, increase the chances of survival for the rest of us enormously.

I have had thoughts along similar lines when it comes to the newly announced Florida gun laws. The so called "stand your ground" law which allows Floridians to use violence as a first choice not a last resort in a dispute. Instead of trying to defuse a situation, or attempting to walk away, you can now stand your ground and open fire in a situation you construe as threatening, and still plead self defence.

This right already existed at home for the people of Florida (woe to the idiot Mormon or Jehovah Witness who knocked on anyone's door) but now its been extended to include anywhere they have a right to be. You know, the sidewalk, the road, the supermarket, bars, etc. The only time they are not allowed to meet "force with force" is when confronted by an officer of the law.

I have a vision of the first time somebody cuts another person off in traffic, of an all out street war ensuing. First it will be the initial participants opening fire, road rage is very threatening, drivers coming on the scene will be forced to enter into the fray as the bullets fly and they come under fire. What could be more menacing than being in a fire zone?

As more cars turn up at the scene more people will feel threatened, more weapons will be drawn and a full-scale firefight will ensue. Of course pedestrians will feel the need to stand their ground and will search for strategic places from which to return fire, or offer cover to their loved ones as they attempt to scurry home with their groceries.

Given the state of mind most people are in these days: hair trigger anger caused by the high cost of fuel, (a shoot out at a gas station is a lovely scenario to contemplate isn't it?) paranoia about terrorists, the stress of work, and the fear of being shot on the drive to work, we ought to be seeing at least one of these shoot outs a day before long.

It's going to take a while for people to understand how much freedom this new act gives them, but once they understand, no threat will pass unchallenged, no challenge un answered, and no answer unsupported by covering fire.

Of course this will be a big shot in the arm for various sectors of the economy The big three will soon be able to add custom options of armour plating and bullet proof glass alongside air conditioning for cars destined for the Florida market. The makers of flak jackets should see the value of their businesses go through the roof, and it will create a whole new category of car and personal insurance.

Aside from the NRA and arms manufacturers my guess is it's hard for a lot of people to see a silver lining in these circumstances. Well it's glaringly obvious to me: hopefully all the gun nuts will move to Florida and end up killing each other. The variety of circumstances where people will now feel able to pull a weapon out and begin blasting away are as myriad as there are things that you have to do in a day.

Any time two humans come into contact with each other on the street these days the chances of one them feeling threatened are quite high. If in even fifty percent of these circumstances someone draws a gun there is the reality of a fatality being the result. How long could it take before we see an appreciative drop in their numbers?

Remember it only takes one person to begin an incident, and than it should spread like wildfire, ripples of threat permeating through the crowd in the mall until it looks like downtown Beirut at the height of the civil war. If nothing else this law should at least eliminate the Republican plurality in the state, ensuring that in the next presidential election it goes Democrat.

I know the news always seems so dreary and depressing. Everyday it gets harder and harder to find positives in a world full of war, drought, pestilence, and famine. But if you look hard enough, and from the right twisted perspective, you can give yourself some faint glimmers of hope. Of course hope, like anything else, is in the eye of the beholder.


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October 04, 2005

I've often wondered what


I've often wondered what ever happened to all those people I use to know who would go on "tour" and following The Grateful Dead all around North America, after Jerry Garcia died. How long did some of them stay out there, aimless and lost, wandering the highways and byways of North America….

On another long stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere a V. W. minibus crested the horizon as it reached the top of a small hill. It was trundling along as only a minibus can when it has no particular destination in mind, maintaining a steady pace, but not looking like it's in any great hurry.

As it nosed its way down into the valley, caused by the road swerving to avoid the mountains, anybody seeing it would have noticed that it had seen better days. Since the only observers were a couple of cacti and a lazy roadrunner, neither of whom seem to be all that interested, the fact that it's predominant colour was rust didn't come up in conversation.

In fact their presence would have been completely ignored save for the bus wheezing to a stop alongside on of the aforementioned cacti. It sat there; motor ticking, as the driver side door opened. A cloud of smoke billowed out, if smoke that crawled on the ground could be referred to as billowing, followed shortly after by a figure on two legs.

The creature had hair that hung in matted clumps, at one time they may have been dreadlocks, from its head and walked with stooped shuffling gait. The overall dungarees that covered it bagged and billowed around the skinny frame, and underneath the bib could be seen a bare and skinny hairless chest.

Hands reached up to push back the hair that fallen in front of glazed eyes that were set in the slightly grey tinged face of a person long deprived of healthy food and oxygen. A sudden fanatical gleam shone from some depths of those same eyes as they spotted the cacti.

"Far Fucking out." Tilting his head so that his scraggily beard was pointed back to his shoulder he called out. " Fucking cactuses …get out… maybe… you know… we can score some peyote or something…" With that he shuffled over to the nearest plant and began examining it for any hallucinogenic properties.

"Fuck you'd think they'd be labelled or something, I thought they were supposed to be buttons, the fucking thing doesn't even look like it owns a shirt, let alone the buttons for one." He shouted over his shoulder again. "Want to come out and help me? We could be standing in front of a whole lot of stone and not even know it."

The other passenger crawled out of the van. Almost twin to the first from overalls to vacant expression and glazed eyes, she differed in that she wore a t-shirt as an attempt at modesty beneath her overalls. A needless effort as her emaciated body was so thin that whatever breasts she may have once had, had wasted away to nothingness.

"Shit, it's so bright out here man" her voice was a harsh whine in the clear air of the dessert. "What do you want to bring me out here for anyway?"

"Peyote"

"Fuck where" Like him the mention of drugs brought a spark to previously dead eyes. She turned her head so violently in search of the promised drug, that she upset what ever centre of balance might have remained in her inner ear, and tumbled to the ground in a heap.

He leant down to help her up, and she climbed his arm mumbling under her breath, "awesome trip man, awesome, let's do some more" until she had regained her feet.

"No, no right in front of you… the cactus thing… that's where peyote come from. They like grow these little buttons somewhere on them … you've had peyote before… remember what they look like? It was at Red Rocks on the 92 tour…."

They stood, holding hands, staring at the cacti lost in their memories. Their faces relaxed into smiles, offering a brief glimpse of who they had been prior to what ever ravages they had experienced in the interim. A tear formed in her left eye; catching the sun it refracted light into a miniscule rainbow beyond either of their abilities to witness.

"That was a nice time wasn't it?" The whine was gone from her voice, replaced by the soft confused sound of a child whose seen her promised birthday party end in disaster when nobody she invited showed up. Her unoccupied hand reached out, as if to touch something, something that was no longer there and forever out of her reach.

"Oh fuck yeah did I ever get stoned…that guy, fuck was his name, you know the guy he had a… and a red thingy around his wrist…anyway he had some 'nitrus and was filling hefty bags with the shit. Holy shit, did that ever blow the back of your brain out and leave you flat on ground drooling…And then I did that window pane… you know the yellow stuff that you was like plastic and you could see through it and your hands kinda' turned yellow for a while even after you'd taken it. The cramps were fuckin' awful but after a while they went away and. …Fuck yeah that was a great time…."

His voice trailed away into the nothingness it had come from. It sounded just like so much noise sometimes these days to her. She let go of his hand and hunched herself deeper into her overalls, arms wrapped around her front as if struck by a sudden chill. Red Rocks had been thirteen years ago.

She stood watching him wander over to the closest cactus. It was holding both of its arms up in surrender, and she had a moment of complete empathy with the plant. "I know just how you feel" she said under her breath, "I know just how you feel"

It had really all ended on August 9th three years after Red Rocks, yet they were still out here as if nothing had ever changed. They didn't even see many of the same faces anymore, or at least ones she could remember or distinguish. Standing here, looking at the endless desert with nothing but cacti and him searching for whatever, she felt an unanswerable loneliness sweep through her.

Thirteen years ago she had been nineteen her whole life ahead of her. Now she was thirty-two and almost half her life was gone. Her blood felt as dry as the desert sand that her bare feet and toes curled up in. She looked down to see the grains of sand moving through her toes; shifting unstable earth.

"I want to go home"

It was so quiet as to be almost inaudible. But it felt right. Louder this time, still louder the next and the next after that, until finally he looked up from where he was poking around at the cactus furthest away from her. "What did you say?"

"I want to go home. I want a home. I want something I can call home that's not a motel or on four wheels. I want the ground to stop moving under my feet, I want to put down roots and see what I can grow into."

She turned towards him, and began walking across the sand to where he stood with his hands cupped in supplication before his cactus. Nestled in the palms of two hands were five shrivelled brownish green button shaped objects. Each centre was marked with a tuft of white hairs: naturally occurring strychnine guaranteed to give you cramps and make you puke for what would seem like forever. Take peyote, puke and see God was what everyone said.

She looked from his hands up to his eyes. Slowly, clearly, enunciating each word as if spelling them out to a child: " I want to go home." She didn't say anything more. Just stood there looking him in the eyes. Eyes that looked back at her blankly: eyes that looked down at the shrivelled buttons in his hands hoping to see the answer he had found there moments ago.

But that was the answer to a question that wasn't going to be asked again by her. She reached out her hand and cupped his cheek, pulling his eyes back up until she could see them again. "I want to go home" Insistently this time, leaving no room for doubt as to her meaning.

She could feel his jaw muscles working against the skin of her hand, speaking the words under his breath; chewing them over like a cow and cud. When his eyes met hers he blinked, startled, as if surprised to see her standing in front of him. His cupped hands opened as he dropped his arms to his side and the buttons tumbled unheeded to the ground.

She stepped away and watched his shoulders sag slightly forward as he drew in a long breathe. He released it with the air of a man who had been holding something in for too many years. He raised his head to the sky and slowly scanned the horizon line in all directions. When he looked back into her eyes his were brimming with tears that threatened to spill beyond their boundaries.

"It's over, isn't it?" was all he said.

"It ended years ago only we never noticed."

"I didn't want it to be"

"Neither did I"

"What do we do now?"

"I'm not sure. But something other than this"

He nodded slowly and reached out his hand to her. She took the offering in her hand, and then covered them both with her other one. Closing her eyes she could almost see them standing somewhere else together holding hands; somewhere where they were smiling small smiles of real happiness.

She opened her eyes and tried to find a reason to smile like that and almost succeeded. She sighed a small breath of a sigh and removed her covering hand. They began to walk back to the V. W. microbus, picking their feet up off the ground and ever so softly placing them back down again.

As he started the engine the stereo came back to life and the music was playing. He reached down to turn it off, but she stopped him with a smile. He looked at her for a second and smiled back. As the van drove away the words wafted back on their slipstream for the appreciative audience of spilled peyote buttons, cactus, and roadrunner:

"Trucking, I've got my chips cashed in….what a long strange trip it's been…" The Grateful Dead
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October 03, 2005

I was sitting thinking about

I was sitting thinking about writing a book review, I hadn't decided which, when the question: "Why do I read?" popped into my head. As I mulled it over I realized that my reasons for reading change as easily as the weather. I guess there is an easy overall answer, one that explains why I consider picking up a book a form of entertainment and do that instead of playing a video game or watching television, but no instance in particular is ever quite the same.

I also have noticed that my reasons for reading have changed as I've aged, and as my life has changed. As a kid I began reading at a very high level at a young age. I was only in grade one or two when I had out grown the children's section at my local library. I can remember the librarian giving me a reading test; having me read aloud from the book I had chosen to take out of the adult section, and my subsequent pride in being given an adult library card.

In those days I had little interest in fiction, I was too busy devouring books about wildlife and natural science. The first author I remember being avidly addicted to was Gerald Durrell, the younger brother of famed British novelist Lawrence Durrell. As a kid I had a limited breadth of interest; animals and more animals. Gerald Durrell's tales of animal collecting around the world and his attempts to open his own zoo were a perfect fit.

Of course as I grew my interest's did as well, and I was soon devouring almost anything that was put in front of me. The only thing that kept me remotely interested in schooling, all the way through two years of university, was the chance to keep reading new books and ideas. The problem was that by the time I reached nineteen I was starting to feel a little jaded.

Although it was far from the truth, I was beginning to feel like I had read everything there was to be read. It appeared that every book I was picking up was simply repeating something that someone else had already said. It didn't stop me from reading, but I found that I was drifting into what I call television reading: books that require little or no effort and are read to simply pass the time. I doubt I could recall a word of what I read from any of those books.

Thankfully an interest in words was rekindled by my career choice. One can't decide on a career as an actor and not like words. For me the fascination was the nuance and variety of meaning that could be read into any word, dependant on context and motivation. As an actor your job is to interpret the words another person has written, enabling a two dimensional character to spring to life.

A good actor will take the clues hidden in his or her dialogue and create a character that would speak that way. Hidden among sentences are motivation, temperament, and the very essence of the person you are supposed to be portraying. Plots develop out of the interweaving of the characters and the conflict in their motivation.

All this information has to be communicated to an audience through dialogue; there are no descriptive passages in a play that set the stage or provide background. Perhaps that is why play scripts are usually so deathly boring to read. Without the actors there is no action to grab our interest.

With my ear differently attuned I returned to reading listening for the clues that I had been trained to find in a script. Dialogue and the language the writer used were my yardsticks for judging the quality of what was written. I was reading for the pleasure of hearing the words working with each other to create a mood, an atmosphere, and letting the story take care of itself.

For a while this was enough to keep me satisfied with an author. As long as they gave an interesting "performance" nothing else mattered. However there is only so much of that style one can take, and there are very few authors who are capable of carrying it off. Too much of it comes across like "the idle picking of boils by a stable boy" (Virginia Woolf, proving that she can be as catty as the next person, commenting on James Joyce's Ulysses.)

I missed stories. I don't just mean adventures and such, but I wanted the characters I read about to be doing things. Falling in love, losing a job, climbing a mountain, or fighting dragons; it didn't matter which. But I also wanted real people, who weren't just the cut outs of television and film, and situations that progressed with a degree of logic, even if the circumstances were highly illogical and fantastic.

I'm still avoiding the question of why I read; all that I seem to be dealing with is what I look for in a book or from an author. I'll justify that by saying without a definition of what I want in a book I would be hard pressed to answer why it is I read in the first place.

What it really comes down is that when I read a work of fiction I want to be transported out of my own life. As the old saying goes nothing makes you forget your own troubles quicker than somebody else's. Well the same applies for fiction. A good author will create a reality that is so captivating that it enthrals you to such a state that you are able to forget your own existence.

This does not mean that I only read fantasy or science fiction, although they do seem to be the writers most capable of fulfilling my objective, any author worth their salt should be able accomplish the above description.

Nothing has changed as far as what I want in a novel or story. I still look for imaginative use of language, great dialogue, and interesting characters, but it all has to be combined to work within the context of a story. I read to be educated, enthralled and enlightened all at once.

Obviously reading is a passive form of entertainment, but unlike most television and film it requires active participation on the part of your brain. They still haven't come up with a way of being spoon fed literature, although I guess audio books are close. I read to keep my brain active and generating ideas. I want to be made to think, something that television doesn't do very often.

Why do I read? I read because it allows me to visit old friends, and make new ones. I can travel across the universe and around the block without leaving my house. I'm introduced to new ideas, and reminded of things that I've forgotten about. I read to learn about things I know nothing about and to challenge what I think I know.

I read because language fascinates me. The way that words form sentences, and thoughts; how paragraphs turn into chapters and ideas; and how chapters turn into stories that captivate and enthral. It still amazes me what can be communicated by simply stringing together a series of symbols on a page that on their own mean little or nothing.

Books have been my companions through the best and the worst times in my life. Quite frankly they have been a damn site more dependable than most humans I have known in terms of cheering me up, making me laugh and being available when I need them. They're not replacements for real human friendship, but they come awfully close on occasion.

In the end though, what it really comes down to is that I read because I love to. I could probably go on for pages coming up with reason after reason for why I read, but it will always come back to that simple fact. There's probably some deep psychological meaning behind my love of reading, but frankly I don't care.

Doing something because you love to do it is sometimes not the best reason, but in this case it will have to suffice.


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October 02, 2005

There used to be an

There used to be an unfortunate tendency, and perhaps there still is among less informed people, to lump world music into general geographical groupings. There was African, Indian, Caribbean, Latin, and so on. While this a thing of the past, we could easily fall into the next level of generalization, which would be to categorize music by nation. As if there were one sound alone that characterized a country.

Assumptions like these are made on our still limited exposure to the artists from these countries. As more and more artists come to our attention, it becomes obvious you can no more say that about acts from Senegal then you could from Great Britain or Canada. In an attempt to ensure this doesn't happen the company World Music Net has come up with a fine series of records, Introducing, that opens our ears to the variety that each country has to offer.

Daby Balde
One of their latest offerings is Introducing Daby Balde a singer songwriter from Senegal. Unlike his more famous contemporary Baaba Maal Daby Balde is from the southern part of Senegal and has been exposed to a different type of musical tradition. Balde was born in the city of Kolda, Fouladou, a part of Senegal cut off from the north, as it is crammed in between the countries of Gambia and Buinea-Bissau.

At the age of eleven he was already composing songs for a variety of traditional services. The only problem was that according to his family's status, nobility, it was not considered appropriate for him to pursue music as a career. In 1987 he moved to Gambia where he lived for six years establishing himself as a singer. It wasn't until 1994 that he obtained any level of recognition, and that was when he was named lead singer of his hometown of Kolda's orchestra.

Compared to other music of Senegal his sound is far more subdued, not that the rhythms aren't still infectious and danceable, but there is not the full out assault on the senses that one has come to associate with the dance music of West Africa. Most likely this is due to the instruments being played, and what we would consider a more folk like quality to his music.
Daby Balde Cover Art

The inclusion of violin and accordion in his band along with guitars and the traditional African stringed instrument Kora give his songs a less percussion driven sound. If anyone remembers the South African group Julaka from the eighties, or even the guitar-oriented work of Nigerian King Sunny Ade, it would give you an inclination as to what his sound resembles.

As with other musicians from this part of Africa, the impetus for creating music comes from the local tradition of singer historians/teachers who serve their communities through their maintenance of oral histories. Daby still performs specifically for traditional rituals and ceremonies in his home territory, and this colours the format of his commercial music.

Songs will focus on a specific theme he considers important; from simple teachings about making the most of your life through the telling of stories from the past, to describing the lives of African women, and songs exhorting people to support each other in their attempts to succeed for the sake of Africa, all of his songs are message driven. Singing in a variety of dialects, he tries to reach as many of the peoples of Senegal as possible, and provide an example of how it is possible for there to be unity between the disparate elements of tribal peoples.

Of course the majority of meanings are lost on our ears, as we don't understand the language he sings in, but the belief in the message comes through in the sincerity exuded by Daby's voice. Perhaps it's because he is only just being "discovered" but his sound is definitely rawer and less produced than other African musicians I've heard. It's this simplicity that pulls focus onto the lyrics and the singer, even in spite of our inability to comprehend the language.

The included booklet supplies good information about the artist, and nice précis of each song. The disc also contains an mpeg file; a video of the song "Mamadiyel" that can be watched by putting the disc into the CD drive of your computer, Mac. or PC. It can be opened with either Windows Media Player or Quick Time.

Introducing Daby Balde is an album that does more than introduce a new talent, it also increases our awareness of the variety of music that is being produced in Africa. Daby Balde's music suits this purpose ideally as he is a wonderful performer with passion and integrity. This CD is a wonderful addition to anybody's collection of popular music


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October 01, 2005

"Some of us are illegal,

"Some of us are illegal, and some are not wanted./Our work contracts out and we have to move on./Six hundred miles to that Mexican border,/They chase us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves." "Deportees" Woody Guthrie.

A little more then a month ago I opened a post on immigration with the above quote from "Deportees" by Woody Guthrie. In that post I offered up as a solution to our countries illegal immigration problem that we soften our restrictions on legal immigration and increase the penalties for employers caught hiring people not allowed to work in our respective countries.

In that post I also pointed out that Canada the United States are populated by primarily immigrants whose families have been here at most four hundred years. While that may seem like a lot to some of you, comparatively speaking to other countries it’s a mere blink of the eye. So where we get our rightful indignation about people coming to "our" countries is beyond my comprehension.

Given the recent paranoia and xenophobia guiding the decision making process of most western governments these days, it's no surprise that most people's solution to illegal immigration is to build the walls around our countries higher (a la Israel) and pull up the drawbridge. Before anyone gets hot under the collar I should point out that is the prevalent attitude through Europe as well as North America, so I'm not picking on anyone in particular, yet. Although since European countries lack the land mass available in North America they have the excuse of worrying about overcrowding to fall back on.

In Canada our immigration policy is geared towards ensuring we only get those who are either guaranteed jobs, have money, or have family that are willing to sponsor them. We are no longer willing to take people on speculation as immigrants.

Of course they can apply as refugees, but since this involves offering some proof that their life is in jeopardy if they are to be returned to their home country, unless they are on a United Nation's list of designated refugee countries, their chances are slim. How often if your fleeing for your life do you manage to obtain paperwork like warrants for your arrest, or signed affidavits from your torturer.

These opinions aside, the problem of illegal immigration is very real, especially for the Border States in the southern U.S. With millions of people living in poverty either directly south of them in Mexico, or in Central and Northern South America, there is a never-ending supply of people desperate enough to try anything to improve their lot in life.

This includes paying out huge sums of money, or going into a form of indentured slavery, to a variety of unscrupulous people willing to pray on the misfortunes of others. Placing their lives in the hands of people who think of them as nothing more than cargo, they are packed into trucks, and sped across the desert at the dead of night in the hopes of outrunning border patrols and vanishing into the anonymity of big cities.

Here they live a kind of half live at the mercy of their "benefactors" who with a phone call could have them deported. They have traded abject poverty for a false hope and a dashed dream of prosperity. One nightmare is supplanted by another as they struggle to get by in an alien world, on subsistence wages and no hope of ever bettering themselves or their children.

Districts and counties throughout the Border States are struggling to find solutions to the problems these smuggling rings are causing in their areas. One such attempt is the The Southwest Conference on Illegal Immigration, Border Security and Crime. The conference is sponsored by the Maricopa County Attorney's Office (MCAO) and is open to law enforcement officials and the general public.

"The Southwest Conference on Illegal Immigration, Border Security and Crime will discuss the problems related to illegal immigration and public safety and other related concerns critical to the citizens of this region". Conference aims as cited in their brochure

The brochure goes on to list the topics of discussion for the conference: effects of illegal immigration on State and communities, effects of illegal immigration on public safety, improving border security, employer sanctions: what is to be done, and that great catch all category of, many more. I guess these topics make sense when one considers whose hosting the event, but I wonder what they actually have to do with Immigration policy.

The very title of the conference had filled me with misgivings, which increased when I read the topics for discussion. In fairness, I thought, the people organizing it are concerned with law enforcement, so their focus would be on the issues that most directly impact their office. It was only when I read through their list of highlighted speakers that I realized it was another attempt to sell the idea of fortress America to attendees.

From Congressman Tom Tancredo, pundit Mark Krikorian, and journalists John Leo, John Fund, and Stephen Moore to the minor speakers, they are all proponents of the less equals more school of immigration. True they have issued token invitations to two folks from dissenting camps, but they have yet to confirm. It will be interesting to see it they decide to show.

Looking through the supplied .pdf files at their web site, (see above) the brochure lists the credentials of each speaker, and it reads like a whose who of conservative think tanks and pundits. That would all be well and good if they didn't at another point say they were aiming at a fair and balanced presentation. When only two, of about twelve speakers even appear to speak from another perspective, there will be nothing wide ranging about the expression of ideas.

This conference appears to be a means of further legitimizing one specific agenda: increasing the isolation of America from the rest of the world. You may think that is quite the leap of logic to see that in a local conference dealing with the issue of border jumpers. When taken in context with the rest of the current administrations policies on Homeland Security, and measures restricting entry into the country based on place of origin, it becomes just another brick in the siege wall mentality.

There is no denying that illegal immigration is a series problem for the Border States. Measures must be taken to stem the flow, but the level of hysteria being propagated by government officials at all levels seems to far exceed the extent of the problem.

Smugglers in human cargo should be sent away for life, any business found hiring illegal workers should be fined into bankruptcy, no matter what excuses they offer, and those measures should be coupled with a more open door policy for economic immigrants. Our countries were populated by people coming here to better themselves and peruse the dream of escaping poverty after all, and what's wrong with that?

Instead of throwing ourselves into fits of hysteria about people "stealing jobs" that nobody else wants, maybe we should be looking at ways in which we can capitalize on a willing and able labour force. Designate areas where people are needed, and tell immigrants that's where they can go. If they are genuine in just wanting a chance to start fresh, they won't care.

Take for example the case of the Vietnamese boat people who came over in the seventies. They were settled in places completely foreign to most of them, hell Texas is foreign to most people let alone those from central Asia, (joking) and have just been grateful for the opportunity.

It's not going to matter how hard you crack down on illegal immigrants if you don't allow more people to enter. The conditions that cause people to risk so much for the chance to come to our supposed promised lands won't have changed, so they will keep trying. If there is hope of another option, a legal one, don't you think that most of them would rather go that route?

The Southwest Conference on Illegal Immigration, Border Security, and Crime will take place in Scottsdale Arizona at the Scottsdale Resort and Conference Centre from November 3rd to 5th 2005. You can register online at their Web site, where you can also find information about accommodation and transportation, or you can call Maricopa County Attorney’s Office at (602) 506-3536.

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