* Actually, I'll pass on seconds.
* I'm just returning calls. Otherwise, I'm off limits.
* I could really up my level of procrastination if I had a hammock.
* Yes, the smell of urine is much less pronounced.
* Holy shit, Strange Advance on vinyl. Could I be happier?!
Disturbing things said to me this weekend:
* Relax. (from the story editor in LA)
I've been sequestered, working on outlines for the CTV project, and a proposal for the Untitled Puppy Project (also, hours of preschooler television as research). Procrastination came in the form of the beach, the garden store, the omlettery. I even went so far as to watch "A.I.", which should be rereleased with another entire dvd to account for the use of the beanbags thrown at the bounty hunter during the pathetic Flesh Fair scene. Oh, no, wait, this was Spielberg. No explanation necessary.
One of the things I love about old vinyl is the introductory note found on the back of the jacket. I have one album entitled "Music for Dining" which deconstructs the meal and offers complementary music for each course:
...To start, an aperitif -- vermouth for the gentleman, and perhaps Madame would prefer that exotic cocktail of American origin, the dry martini. Whatever the drink, the maestro has prepared a frothy, utterly sippable arrangement of an old favorite, Diane...
It doesn't necessarily matter if the music is listenable so long as the notes are worthwhile. Today, I picked up the Chad Mitchell Trio "In Action" for these notes by Gil McKean. Here's the first half:
Down with folk singing! Up with Folksmanship!
There! I've said it and I'm not one whit ashamed. I know such statements fly in the very face of the achievements of the celebrated forty-seven-string-zither-player, Frab Lambkin of Pizzicato, Tennessee, but it is high time I had a go at a full-blown pronunciamento. Radio and TV are loosening up for free-wheeling comment and, by Jasper, it is about time that album notes exercised rights under the First Amendment.
I write this by candle-light in a lonely hotel room in Manhattan while the Boys are out of town and I know not whether they will censor it or not. They may not agree with me but I kind of think they'll let me have my say.
They had a bit of censoring themselves. In their first Kapp album there was a clinical little tableau entitled Lizzie Borden. It was about this maiden in the title role who indulged in vivisection in her own home among her loved ones.
Many vigilantes considered it highly inflammatory to adolescents and wished to banish it in the public weal. Its banning from the airwaves spread like wildfire, and somehow so did its popularity.
Same thing happened with an item in their second Kapp album, a latter-day cantata called, with great succinctness, The John Birch Society. What's with these guys? They some kind of radicals or something?
They more certainly are if, by radical, you mean different, far-out, outre, hip and like that. And, in fine, "radical" may mean simply "different". In the folk milieu to be different is not in the least easy.
It is getting so that everybody's Aunt Hortense buys a guitar, enlists a couple of chicks she's never seen before, and voila!, she's got an authentic folk sister song act. The woods are full of folk singers and getting fuller. Even Time Magazine, the bible of the lay bourgeois, has devoted a cover story to the art, and that's about as full as you can get. I say down with folk singing, the great homogenizer of our day, and up with folksmanship -- the art of having guts enough to be different and to protest and be authentic and to have fun. In other words, up with the Chad Mitchell Trio!
All right -- what's so different about the Chad Mitchell Trio? The easiest and most logical cop-out is to say, listen to the album!
The conundrum with using a horoscope site from the UK is the time zone difference, as Cainer will often post tomorrow's forecasts by 5 pm my time. This can often work in my favour by giving me an indication of what vague thing might happen to me within the next 24 hours. But when I don't pay attention to the date, it works against me. Case in point:
Yesterday, I created a stir in the late afternoon. I attempted to smooth out the situation, then checked Cainer. "Having briefly drawn breath today, you will soon realise that you have an obligation to step forward bravely and stir up some very necessary trouble," he said. Though I'm not sure the trouble I caused was "necessary", I felt somehow better when I could point at my screen and justify that this was all beyond my control. I then drank myself to sleep on peppermint Schnapps with the hopes of waking up to a better day.
Eager to see what new and beautiful forecast awaited me, I rushed to Cainer this morning. "Having briefly drawn breath today, you will soon realise that you have an obligation to step forward bravely and stir up some very necessary trouble," he said. Damn.
Re: The Company issue trackpants which read "Dancer" on the derriere.
Dear Sirs/Mesdames,
Should you require a second run on the Company issue trackpants, you might want to reconsider the font of choice, in particular, the serif "c". I clearly misread the ass of the girl entering your studio today, and, though dainty, one's booty should not advertise any potential DANGER, even after a questionable meal.
An altogether fine substitute would be "No Junk in this Trunk".
I've been feeling guilty about this one aspect of New York: travelling with a brilliant photographer and relying, on the sly, on her to capture the moment. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Damn, how can any other weekend compare?
More and more, my dog's behaviour is starting to mirror my own. Or vice-versa. There are the sympathetic rashes, the finicky macrobiotic diet, the patchy hair loss. The pandering to groups of men playing basketball. We are infrequent barkers, though I've noticed a new development since moving to the unsociable yuppie neighbourhood: my dog, when feeling as though he's lacking in his quota of butt-sniffing interaction, will bark at random dogs from across the street. There is little-to-no chance of him actually crossing the street and meeting the other dog; it's more of a desperate plea: hey, you noticed me and I noticed you so I'm acknowledging the fact that we've noticed each other by yapping like an idiot.
I did the same sort of thing last night. I didn't yap like an idiot though. In fact, no words were spoken. Just the sly hand-off of information as Nicky and I headed out of the bar in search of ahi tuna sandwiches.
1. Day of return:
Begin with the immediates: toothpaste, toothbrush, nicorette, rogaine. All else can wait until the morning. Note that your soap has left a distinct flavour of soapiness on your still-wet toothbrush. Curse your lack of travel-friendly plastic containers for said items. Consider travelling without toothbrush in the future and using a stick in Kalahari bushman style.
2. Day One:
While standing under the warm spray of your morning shower, turn your thoughts to the remaining toiletries still nestled deep within the larger suitcase. Run, soaking and naked, through your apartment to retrieve. Be sure to go through three pairs of socks as you continuously step in wet places on the carpet throughout the morning.
3. Day Two:
Remove dirty laundry and place in laundry bin. Open carry-on bag, stare at contents, close bag. Hours later, reopen bag, remove CDs and stack in CD holder – place in order according to record label. That feels better.
4. Day Three:
Move larger suitcase out of the path to the front door. Unpack goat’s cheese, head cheese, goat and goat’s head. Toss all jackets on the chair next to the closet, placing them that much closer to their final destination. Reread the inflight magazines you stole from various airplanes.
5. Day Four:
Awake from mad hangover by next door neighbours banging on the front door demanding their suitcases. Argue for a moment about the "hands off" policy on items from their storage locker in the basement. Dump the remaining contents of the suitcases onto the living room floor. Unpacking complete!
Dad: so do you want to catch a flick on Sunday?
Me: sure, but it'll have to be a matinee because the Oscars™ are on Sunday night.
Dad: you watch those?
Me: of course, in preparation for when I'm there.
Dad: hmmm. It's good to have a dream. And I could be your date. But then again, if they only give you two tickets, you'll probably take your husband.
Me: Now who's dreaming?
I get into a room. The door closes. I watch a film and eat bad chicken. After five hours, the air takes on the stench of sixty bodies processing said bad chicken. The door opens. I’m on the wrong side of the country.
I could bitch about the snow, but it’s warmer here than it was on St. Laurent the night Karim became friends with the sidewalk. I could bitch about the fact that my computer is not hooked up, not even plugged in, but frankly, it’s allowing me to be down on the 4th floor, and has become the excuse for my slow jog to catch up with the backlog of work. It’s not all dregs: sushi, flirtations, hours of taped television left with a sweet note at my back door. I couldn’t wait, though, to get to sleep.
The differences: here – I can’t wait to get to sleep. There – I couldn’t wait to wake up. It’s a startling revelation when the waking world holds more promise and potential than your dreams. There’s a whole load of things that I’m carrying about in my brain that I can’t put into words, not because I can’t articulate, but because it’s private, okay. In summation: disappointment, frustration, relief.
Some of the things that I love about Montreal: I will know the exact moment when the Pope dies. Cretons. Cheesy guys with bowler hats and trenchcoats and pencil-thin moustaches at the Cremazie metro (I was going to American Apparel). Second-hand smoking. Basha rice. Jake Brown, still doing naked shows. While I don't love the fact that Jake Brown gets naked, it's nice to see that some things never change.
My favourite Czech goulash place is no more, replaced by shish taouks. It didn't matter how long I went between bowls, the guy who ran the place always remembered me from my grad school days, back when a five dollar bowl of soup was my sole meal for the day. His laugh was cacophanous enough to drive away customers. If you could block out the laugh long enough to get in one bite of cheese pastry, you were sold. But now he's gone, no forwarding address, just grumbling shwarma folk.
Around the corner, two rubbies came to fisticuffs against the gates of the church out back of Concordia. Too tired and malnourished to actually throw blows, they waltzed on the pavement while passers-by stopped and cheered them on. One guy: "This isn't a fight, I want to see punching like Mike Tyson."
The magic, though, is waning. It seems to have died down since Wednesday night, when it turned out that the camera man filming the band at Casa de Popollo was working on the same CBC late-night initiative as the ex. Not to worry, I'll drop him an email today.
Tonight: Trail of Dead? An hour from now: empanadas. Ten minutes from now: St. Denis. Immediatement: cafe au lait.
I'm wondering if it's possible to go through decompression with a belly full of empanadas. Epinards et poulet, but never together. Though glad to be in Montreal, it feels like a potential five-day nap before flying home, and I've never taken this city that way before. As the place to relax and regroup. It's always been about scattering to the corners. Whirling dervish. That sort of thing.
Every mile clocked away from Manhattan made me more grief-stricken, to the point where the Rabbi across the aisle put down his Torah and kept glancing over his glasses with a look of concern. There's something beautiful about the anonimity of peasant travel, how you can meltdown in a Greyhound and people will give you the space to do so. I strolled the streets of Albany. I exhaled in Plattsburg. Had I chosen different CDs, perhaps it would have been more triumphant emotions. Two Squat CDs (annie's, m's) and PJ Harvey were on heavy rotation until I crossed the border, then I switched to Destroyer. New country, new emotions. Or rather, old country, older and safer emotions.
The impact of those few days becomes a turning point, a touchstone. Like standing on a corner at midnight, desperately trying to reach the Canary Islands on the payphone just because of running into mutual acquaintances. Or squirrels in stereo in Prospect Park. There, we saw a treehugger pressed firmly to the trunk of a maple. I said: there's this thing I read, or maybe it was in a film. You have a secret, and you find a tree and whisper it into a knot. Gets the weight of the secret off your conscience, and you know a tree won't tell anyone. Todd said: that one might.
Or the brilliant pink gumball that oscillated the length of the subway car as the pregnant teenager sauntered up and down asking for money for a bed at the Salvation Army. Or Liane and the guy across from us both lip balming at the exact same time.
Or the thrift store conversation about the deli at 2nd and 10th, the perfect resonnance of a Queens accent. Later, hours later, as my bus pulled out of Port Authority, I grabbed for a CD and found that Liane had slipped two photos into my bag. The one of a delivery truck ("Follow this Truck to the Best Chopped Liver in New York") was for the deli at 2nd and 10th.
It's impossible to miss the magic of these connections. PJ Harvey in my ears, singing "bird of paradise" as the bus slips past a store of the same name in upstate New York. Life is about showing up. Being at the right place at the right time, a comedian on one side of you with a dollar burning a hole in his pocket, daring you to rush the stage and plant a firm one on the troupe member under the kissing booth. And your best mate on the other side, cheering you on.
I'm trying to resist mass consumerism -- I walked through Century 21 without a single consideration. But how could I resist the personalized "My dog is gimpy" painting from Dutch Benendez.
No circus, at least not anything formally stated as a circus. Just unagi, lager, and the best damn accent I've heard in years.
My life seems to be running in concentric circles or something of that nature. Here's an example: four years ago, I came to New York to clear my head. I went to see Graham Swift read from "Last Orders" at the Union Square Barnes & Noble. Six months ago, I started this whole "things fall apart" endeavour while working on my three-day novel, a section of which -- the famous British novelist -- was loosely based on that reading at Barnes & Noble. A couple of weeks later, Liane was the photographer at a weekend thinktank, one of the guests of which was Graham Swift. She sent me a brilliant portrait of him for Christmas, which sits on my night table as a reminder of things to dream about. On my last night in Toronto, I went to see one of the nominated films, and one of the trailers was for "Last Orders". Then, yesterday, in a dopey daze of post-bus exhaustion, I met up with Todd (at his suggestion, which makes it that much cooler) at the Union Square Barnes & Noble. (Note: how cool is it when the accent comes through on the word "cool"?)
I'm still exhausted and unable to articulate how comforting this is. I had this stunning French sociology professor named Oscar during my undergrad years, I can't for the life of me remember what he taught, but over coffee he told me this: you will always be surrounded by the same people in your life because you are attracted to and attract the same types. Which isn't to say you carry your childhood friends all the way through your life, but that you keep meeting people and thinking, "damn, you remind me of..." or "I feel like I've known you all my life". I think it goes beyond people -- cities, experience, all these things reoccur and are refined until perhaps you reach a pure place. It's not so much an accumulation as life goes on but a distillation.
Which isn't to say I'm only looking to redo things until I get them right. Concentric. The widening gyre. Tonight: the circus!
The thing that I love about New York is that whole "go big or go home" schtick. Why, just now, the crazy guy in Union Square was yelling "I have four types of every disease known to man."
I'm stiff in a bad way. My so-called ingenious plan of arriving at the bus depot an hour early to ensure I got the three-seater in the back meant I had to share my urine-smelling area the whole way to Syracuse not with one other person, but two. Oh, and here's a word to the wise: when crossing borders, especially into the US, you should check your Altoids container for any illegal substances your pal in China may have left in there the last time he was in town, lest your innards turn to liquid when you decide to pop a mint just as the Immigration Officer asks you to step forward.
But wait...I saw Lloyd Robertson's desk! I walked right through the newsroom! Okay, NOW I'm ready to leave Toronto. (oh, and I think I just cracked a Toronto in-joke unintentionally).
I can live with the hair now that it's straight. And I can live with the small coincidences and run-ins, like spotting Bruce McDonald hailing a cab as Joe and I parked on College Street for coffee. Huh? Jetsetter was just in Vancouver on Saturday night at the Railway and though we'd worked together and spoken on the phone many a time, we'd never met face to face. A brief conversation was actually the introduction to his groupie's back as he stepped between us for the ultimate in NBA blocking. Only film people can be that rude without expecting to be punched in the mouth for it.
The man who cut my hair, be friend or foe, was separated by a single degree -- Reg, of course.
This is hard to describe, this sense I'm having lately. Akin to burning a photo onto emulsive paper by light pouring through a tiny pinprick in a sheet of looseleaf. Everything feels like it's pulling me open -- Lucky, the fake cat, the tables for one. The haircut, be it short or longterm, had to happen today. It was a necessary step in my current evolution. Girls, you know what I'm talking about.
Another perfect (snowy) day, another perfect meeting, then finding the perfect purse at the end of Queen Street, and flirtations with a perfect cafe boy. But then the day took a wrong turn when, coming out of a shop on Queen St., I saw a sedan back over a cat. I put one gloved hand to my mouth, and another extending out as though I could block the sight. "Oh, Christ," I said, and the guy next to me on the sidewalk started laughing. Ha fucking ha. Expect to see me on a "Bloopers" show sometime soon.
This disgruntlement is not stemming from the cat episode, which was quickly erased by a brief conversation with the owner of the Elvis Restaurant, but from the haircut I've just received. It could be salvaged, I hope. Worst case scenario -- I pack away my elastics and go back to the pixie cut and start growing it all out again. It's just frustrating to go into a hipster joint with a veritable tabula rasa of hair -- long, all one length -- and come out with something fucked up. I fight the curl in my hair and have for years, yet every hairdresser I've seen wants to "work with" the curl, so I inevitably come out looking poodlesque. Not happy. So not happy. Back to the hotel to see if I can still "work with" what I have left, or if it all has to come off.
Toronto is all about two things: comic books and candy. I'm resisting the temptation of buying everyone obscure action figures and fuzzy pez dispensers.
It's liberating to just dash into a city and not feel obligated to contact anyone. Stumbling about the streets without expectation of run-ins and having no agenda except the stumbling itself. For instance, at Lee's Palace last night, I never once turned towards the door to see who was coming in because it wasn't like I was going to know them anyway. There's a stunning unkemptness to the men here, all rosy cheeked and tortoise-shelled. And sure, there are people I could call, but for now, it's been nice just relying on email as my connection to friends, as well as my sense of self.
The meetings today were inspiring and eliminated any insecurities I may have had about where I am and what I'm doing. This is a strange city for me, this is only the second time I've been here, but it's always been about putting forward the most together version of myself and pulling off career miracles. It's about that, and comic books, and candy. Can't go wrong with a combination like that.
Toronto. Midnight or so. I didn't sign up for this type of cold -- Vancouver doesn't have "weather" other than rain. It's always room temperature. The flight was shockingly early in the morning, and frighteningly turbulent, but the Royal Tenenbaums was inflight and my stack of Squatness in my carry-on helped me forget the plummeting. That, and the 5 hour long anxiety attack about packing the wrong pair of pants. This is the problem with hanging my clothes up -- I packed what was on the floor, completely oblivious to the pants where they hung in my closet.
At the airport, there was the broken luggage, the Torontonians who pick up hockey sticks from the cumbersome baggage area, and the Towne Car driver who whisked me into the city in style. Back up...on the flight, there was also the March NyLon magazine, and a little review about a band from Manchester called Elbow. So, after cheese sandwiches and a long shower, I flipped through the local weekly and lo and behold, Elbow was playing tonight, three blocks down the street from my modest hotel. I've never gone to a show by myself before. Now I have. And it was well worth the venture into the cold.
The opening act was a tall Icelandic fellow named Lindy. As I watched him, some deep memory triggered in my brain -- wait, I've met this guy before, years ago, in Victoria. He used to play in a band with my ex's ex's brother. That's the way Victoria is. When he intro'd a song about living next to one of the members of the StopWatch gang, I knew for sure he was from the Saanich Penninsula. He came over to compliment my shirt. I bought his CD, and said "I remember you from Victoria" but of course couldn't remember the name of the ex's ex's brother. I think I scared him away. He was exceptionally tall.
It's easy to spot the girlfriends of British bands by their pointy shoes. Imagine what it would sound like if Bob Mould grew up in Manchester. That's Elbow. Off to sleep, but first, I've just noticed that there's a Sarah shwarma next door to this 24 hour internet cafe. This is the flavour of a thousand nights in Montreal, and I'm about to bring reminiscence to life.
Lat night started out slow, but ended with being woo'd by a cowboy from Pincher Creek named Lucky, and Mark rivalling the oft-mentioned fellow for the title of "cockboy". I guess that must have been in the spirit of close proximity to two out of the Three Teners (and perhaps they sing between bass and alto too). And let's not forget John Dryden, fresh from an 80s party, with Flock of Seagulls hair. But back to the wooing. What I forgot to say: "damn, you're a handsome man." What I forgot to do: leave any sort of contact information. I was so elated by the thought of being on vacation and flirting with Lucky that anything beyond that immediate moment was beyond my grasp. On to the rest of the vacation!!
Part I: I know nothing about Apolo Anton Ohno, especially whether or not he has a girlfriend.
Here's something you might not want to try.When you're not sleepy enough to remember that there's a super-important thing that you have to do in the morning, say like brushing your teeth, but you're too sleepy to actually get out of bed and pull the dusty toothbrush out of the chopstick slot in the cutlery tray and place it in the bathroom so you'll remember, don't twist an elastic band onto your finger as the signifier of the situation. It may seem like a good idea in your muddled sleepiness, but when you wake at 4 in the morning with an engorged throbbing finger that screams in pain, it could quite possibly be the stupidest idea you've had all day. And it's only 4 in the morning.
