Say It Ain't So, Kevbo

Oh, how the once-mighty have fallen. No, I'm not talking about Keith Richards' recent plummet from a coconut tree. I'm talking about the recent allegations pertaining to Kevin Costner's, er, indiscretions at a Scottish spa. I do not intend to devote this entry to the nature of these allegations (N.B.--This blog deals only in oblique references to smutty gossip; if you want the real deal, you'll have to Google elsewhere. I have standards to uphold). Rather, I thought I would take this unfortunate turn of alleged events as an opportunity to cast a look back at the golden era of Costner's stardom and pause for a few moments to wonder where the hell it went and why.

Some fifteen years ago, it seemed Costner's star image would collapse under the weight of its own over-exposure. The man was skyrocketing into ever higher echelons of fame at a seemingly unstoppable rate. Recall the path he blazed to glory between 1988 and 1991: Bull Durham (1988), Field of Dreams (1989), Dances with Wolves (1990--the Best Director award/Best Actor nomination combo was, in hindsight, a harbinger of the madness to come. We can thank Mel Gibson for what we now know about such omens), and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991). Women around the world between the ages of 24 and 65, including my grade 7 homeroom teacher, succumbed to schoolgirl-like Costner crushes. I remember watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves in class and not daring to question its relevance to French-Canadian fur trading routes. As far as my teacher was concerned, if it was Costner, it was kosher.

But then, then...Costner started engaging in some decision making that made us wonder whether he really wanted to hang on to the incomparable fame he had achieved or instead wished to see how quickly it would self-destruct. First, there was The Bodyguard (1992), a supremely odd and overblown picture in which Costner was entirely outshone by the soundtrack (never a good sign). Then, a couple of years later, we got to witness the now-mythical box-office disaster that was Waterworld (which, I actually went to see at the mall theatre with my friends--one of the lowest points of my moviegoing life). By the time The Postman came out in 1997, we knew Costner's days of superstardom were over.

To Costner's credit, it was a glorious, if perhaps overly earnest and oftentimes pretentious, ride. Now, it remains to be seen whether he will allow himself to be defeated by the dual Hollywood foes of scandal and age, or whether he will pull it out of the fire and turn both those foes to his advantage. Which is possible, if he can embrace those invaluable allies of fallen stars, camp and irony. I'd cite the John Travolta-Pulp Fiction precedent here, but, well, that hasn't panned out so good. Maybe Kevin Costner can make a lasting comeback. And hey Mr. C., if you do, make sure to write out clear instructions for Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt on how you managed it. Because in a few years, they're gonna need them (trust me on this one).

The Ifs and Ands of Butts

It's no secret that spring and summer are the more lascivious seasons of the fashion year. Bluntly put, it's time to hooch it up. Pack up the wool coats and sweater sets and pull out the halter tops and short-shorts. It's all good. Or is it?

There's one article of clothing that I'm not sure is passable even in this casual climate. You see them all year round, but they become particularly prevalent as temperatures rise and fashion inhibitions lower. We're talking about pants...pants with writing on the butt. Sassy, yes. A fashion risk? Definitely.

To establish my credibility (or lack of it, depending on how you look at it) on this issue, I will confess to owning two pairs of said pants. Although both are extremely comfortable and, I admit, quite sassy, I adhere to a strict protocol when it comes to their display. Call me neo-Victorian (you'd be the first to do so), but I've always maintained that you can't just walk around anywhere wearing pants that shout "Hey, look at my ass!" (just like you can't just shout "Hey, look at my ass!" anywhere; there's rules about that too--we'll save those for another time). I believe the wearing of these pants is sanctioned in the following locations: grocery store, gas station, laundromat, McDonald's, Target, video stores and neighbourhoods where you don't live. On the other hand, for reasons of taste and safety, these pants should not be donned under any circumstances in the following locations: work, libraries, schools, government buildings, police stations, courthouses, airports, bus depots, subway stations, restaurants where your food doesn't come on plastic trays and movie theaters.

Two other issues to consider beyond appropriate locations for wearing words on your butt are: 1) whether men can or should do so and 2) are some words just inappropriate to wear on your butt? The answers:

1) No. Just...no.
2) Yes. Example: Thanks to Roots, you can wear "Canada" on your butt. Our nation's founders did not sit through 100-odd years of passive-aggressive subordinance to the British just so women could have this country's name plastered on their booties (or did they? Come to think of it, the fathers of Confederation probably would have been all over this idea)

Despite all the caveats involved, I will indeed be incorporating my letter-butt pants into my casual spring and summer wardrobe again this year. In fact, I may even buy a new pair. So long as one is aware of the risks involved, I think they can indeed be pulled off (pardon the pun) with happy results. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Hello Kitty, qu'est-ce que c'est?

I have a tendency to want to address deeply philosophical questions in this blog, such as the question that popped into my head as I sat down at my computer this evening:

How did Hello Kitty get her name?

Furthermore, is the name meant to signify:

1. First name "Hello," surname "Kitty" OR
2. First name "Kitty," surname "Hello" OR
3. A greeting that accompanies this cute little nameless cat everywhere?

With these burning semantic issues at stake, I felt it was my duty to turn to the great Wikipedia oracle for some answers. Here's what I was able to glean from its "Hello Kitty" entry:

"Hello Kitty was given an English name because British culture was popular with Japanese girls at the time of her creation. Kitty's name came from one of the cats that Alice kept in the book Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll."

I should have known that with a character this wacky, Lewis Carroll had to be involved somehow. But reading on, I found that Hello Kitty lore gets even trippier. For example:

"When Hello Kitty's boyfriend "Dear Daniel" was created in 1999, designers took his name from the 1971 film, Melody, which starred Mark Lester as a character called Daniel, and features songs by the Bee Gees."

The BeeGees? What?!

The final odd pieces of information I learned about Hello Kitty during my brief foray into her strange and wondrous history this evening is that, as of 2004, Hello Kitty has a pet cat named Charmmy Kitty (a gift from her father) and also a pet hamster named Sugar (a gift from Dear Daniel). A cat with a hamster? Well...OK. But a cat with a cat? Now we're talking crazy talk.

I've always been a Hello Kitty fan, but it seems to me that she's just one of those wonders of the universe that is better left uninvestigated. Because otherwise, it's all too complex. Whew.

Memories...in the Corners of My Mullet

OK, so mullets don't have corners (arguably). But according to the New York Times, Billy Ray Cyrus has penned a song for his new album entitled "I Want My Mullet Back." I'm thinking this tune should be turned into a multi-celeb charity caterwaul (along the lines of "We Are the World," you dig?) with the following participants joining Billy Ray:

Jaromir Jagr
Corey Feldman
Michael Bolton (he got Nicolette Sheridan back, why not the mullet?)
Dennis Miller
Florence Henderson
John Stamos
Joan Jett
Barry Melrose
Jerry Seinfeld
Richard Dean Anderson
Richard Marx
Pat Benatar
Randy Johnson
Zachary Ty Bryan ("Brad" from Home Improvement--if you're asking, Where is he now? , the
answer is: wishing he had his mullet back)

Any other suggestions?

P.S. - You must check out Florence Henderson's website (with sound on). That Mrs. B. is one groovy gal!

The Ex-Pat Playoff Experience

I am in the unfortunate situation of having to watch this year's Stanley Cup playoffs on American television. No Grapes, no Ron McLean, and, worst of all, no Bob Cole and Harry Neale (actually, worst of all is NO LEAFS. But we won't talk about that right now). I share Lost in Wisconsin's frustration with the quality of hockey commentary south of the border. Really, it's a wonder our American cousins keep coming back to this schlock. You'd think they'd demand better.

Rap Traxx Dee-Lite

Reminiscing about 680 CFTR the other day got me wondering where and how I might procure Rap Traxx albums. Produced by the prestigious PolyTel record label, Rap Traxx tapes were a must-have on the grade five party circuit. Mike Boon's blog (which is also packed with Canadian content) has an extraordinarily helpful list of the songs located on four Rap Traxx albums. I have many a fond memory of listening to hits from the original Rap Traxx like Tone Loc's "Wild Thing" (which, after being broadcast in class during lunch time, resulted in our school principal confiscating my classmate's tape), Rob Base and D.J. E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" (an old-school classic), and Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It" (which actually scandalized me when I was younger, but not as much as "Let's Talk About Sex"). Rap Traxx 2 has equal sentimental value, with such tunes as Young M.C.'s "Bust a Move" ("Dressed in yellow/She said hello/Come and sit next to me you fine fellow!"), Nenah Cherry's "Buffalo Stance," Tone Loc's "Funky Cold Medina," and Rob Base and D.J. EZ Rock's "Joy and Pain" (which was the first hip-hop song I can remember dancing to--it was in a friend's basement at an all-girl slumber party. Very street.)

Sadly, I never bought my own Rap Traxx tapes. It seemed like no matter whose house I went to, all my friends had them, so I invested in Madonna, Amy Grant, and Wilson Phillips tapes instead. Oh Rap Traxx tapes, why did I ever take you for granted? I've been keeping an eye out for them at garage sales and flea markets, but perhaps not surprisingly, they are difficult to come by. I mean, who in their right mind would sell off their Rap Traxx tapes? Oh well. I guess I'll just have to bust a move to Wilson Phillips instead. We create our own challenges in life, I suppose.

Soda Spectator (Vol. 1)

Dr. Pepper Diet Berries & Cream

Price: $1.99

Country: U.S.A.

Region: Northlake, Illinois

Issue: April 2006

First release. Screw cap. Deeply coloured, full bodied, this is a fairly rich diet pop, which is long on the palate, and finishes with slightly sticky aftertaste. Supple in texture, with notes of berries and overtones of cream. Diet Vanilla Coke-like in style. Very easy to drink! Excellent value. Drink through 2007.

Radio Ga-Ga

If, as those sage social commentators, the Buggles, told us back in 1979, video killed the radio star, then it is nothing short of miraculous that broadcast radio is showing any vital signs at all twenty-six years later. Cornered on two fronts by the onslaught of iTunes and ever-multiplying satellite radio stations, what remains of old-school AM/FM, dee-jayed radio is being forced to take its last stand. Given the quality of "programming" that most of these stations have had on offer over the past couple of decades, it's tough to make a case for broadcast radio's survival. What can they offer listeners that iTunes and satellite radio can't? Hmmm. Traffic reports and weather reports. Bland, ingratiating dee-jays who sling slogans, yak about contests, and re-hash Entertainment Tonight ad nauseum, but couldn't cough up an articulate opinion on music if their job depended on it (which, lucky for them, it doesn't). The syndicated sap of "Delilah." Oh yeah, and ads. But those aren't really so bad, in comparison.

I might not care about the fate of radio at all if it wasn't for two Toronto radio stations that have kept my faith in the broadcast medium alive over the past fifteen years. One is 102.1 The Edge, which, fortunately, is still going strong and strives to maintain its vital role in the city's alt-rock community. If you live outside of Toronto, you can check the station out via their website--a feature that is much-loved by many the ex-pat Torontonian.

The second station to which I wish to devote this paean to the dying art of broadcast radio is the dearly departed 680 CFTR. The station currently adheres to a news radio format, but many inhabitants of the GTA who came of age in the late 1980s and early 1990s have cherished memories of CFTR as the coolest pop station around. The fact that it was AM radio did not deter me and my friends from tuning in day and night (when, as any AM radio aficianado knows, the broadcast is accompanied by a charming high-pitched buzz kind of like communication intercepted from the alien mothership). To the best of my memory, the daily programming schedule went something like this:

Morning: The Jesse and Gene Show
The early morning shenanigans of Jesse and Gene provided junior highschoolers province-wide with any number of crude jokes and kick-ass comebacks to quote repeatedly to one another throughout the day. We also revered them for their virtuouso prank calling performances. Regular highlights included: Wreck-a-Wedding-Wednesdays, Spousal Arousal, Jesse and Gene's World Tour, Billy-Bob's Birthday Roundup (or was it Billy and Bobby's?), and, of course, the requisite call-in guest gags that involved getting dignitaries such as the Mayor or Gowan to say things like "There is no "f" in onion." Memorable songs included the Hamster song (to wit: "Hamster hamster, day or night/ hamster in a casserole is doin' it right/because they're nutritious/and oh so delicious/when they're in season/they taste pretty pleasin'"), and, after the 1993 federal election, "Bye Bye Campbell."

Midday: The top 12 at 12 was the highlight of the lunch hour, helmed, as I recall, by Tony Monaco.

After school: My beloved Tarzan Dan was the sole purveyor of tunes in this prime dee-jay slot. He was wacky and witty, loud but charming, and listening to his show was the best way to wind down after a long day in the eighth grade. By far, the hottest countdown of the day was Tarzan Dan's top 6 at 6, for which legions of teens called in to cast their votes for the likes of Bon Jovi, Wrex-n-Fx, Naughty By Nature, and Alanis (as pop princess, pre-"Jagged Little Pill").

Evening: As fond as I was of Tarzan Dan, I must confess that Cat Spencer was actually my favourite CFTR dee-jay. His domain was the top 10 at 10, which had a definite more suave and smooth night-time feel to it. He also refereed the numerous dedications that various of my lovesick/angst-ridden peers would call in over the course of the evening. And of course, Sunday night you had to tune in to Sex with Sue.

If 680 CFTR had any weaknesses as a pop station, it was its whoring out of Saturday morning programming to Rick Dees' syndicated top 40 countdown, and also the way in which "I Will Always Love You" was on half-hourly rotation throughout the entire fall and winter of 1992/1993. But these faults are slight and they do not hamper my nostalgia for 680 in the least. I loved that station with all my pre-teen heart and then some.

I still remember that devastating day it switched formats. Us loyal listeners were dumped out in the cold of a new and unfamiliar radio era. Some, like myself, tried to numb the pain by swallowing our pride and tuning in to rival station AM640 (now a talk radio station, but then the second-string pop radio station next to 680). After 640 folded as well, I meandered into the skid radio territory of Q107 for a while, which had the unfortunate side effect of me buying a Pink Floyd cassette. Finally, I came home to the Edge and I haven't budged since. Hopefully, even with the threats new technologies pose, at least one Toronto broadcast radio institution will stay alive in the years to come. At this point, I'm too fragile to handle another radio fatality.

My So-Called Wardrobe

I've been thinking a lot about fashion lately, mostly due to my having plowed through a massive issue of In Style magazine last week on the plane from Milwaukee to Toronto. Spring is a great season for closet cleaning, an activity which--for me, anyway--is laden with opportunities for nostalgic reflection.

Over the years, I've gotten better about not hanging on to each and every fashion artifact that has graced my wardrobe. That said, I will admit that it is possible, indeed probable, to find items in my closet that date back to my junior high and high school years. Most of these articles of clothing are things that I kept because they are simply iconic of that particular time in my life. A few key pieces include:

Notre Dame hooded sweatshirt (c. Grade 8) - When I purchased this shirt, I had never been to Notre Dame and hadn't really the faintest idea who the "Fighting Irish" were. U.S. college football wasn't exactly huge among rural Ontario junior high students, but anything with Notre Dame, Georgetown, Michigan or Duke on it was. After seeing Rudy, my attachment to that shirt became slightly more sentimental. But not much.

Kilt (c. Grade 9) - It is a little known fact that the kilt experienced a brief frenzy of popularity amongst high school girls approximately five years before Britney Spears' skanked it up in her "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)" video. I can't remember details about wearing mine, except that knee socks were involved. I think I still have those too.

Various flannel shirts (c. Grade 9-12) - Here is the perfect example of how much teen fashion has changed in the past ten years or so. Today, a typical teen girl's outfit is comprised of skinny, low-rise jeans, visible candy-coloured thong, layered tight camisoles and a designer/knock-off designer handbag. Oh, and stiletto heels. But not so very long ago, we were pairing our father's flannel work shirts with t-shirts we wore in kindergarten and men's Levi's that were at least three sizes too big. Stains and/or rips provided extra appeal. Oh yeah--and going heavy on the black eyeliner was a must. Then, there was the requisite footwear...

Docs (c. Grade 12 - present) - What can I say? A classic's a classic. Mine are pretty standard-- 12-hole and black--but of course many variations exist. I used to think they went with everything, but I admit I've mellowed with age. Still, nothing else provides the same level of mosh-pit comfort.

Honorable mentions: Anything from Le Chateau (back in the day, it was kinda hippie, kinda slutty, always cool), Sex Pistols t-shirt, Converse sneakers, nylon Eddie Bauer backpacks, Swatch watches, silver rings (preferably at least one on each finger), my "Rachel" haircut.

Perhaps some of you who are reading this have fond memories of similar articles of clothing. Or perhaps there are other favourites you'd be willing to confess to/share? It's strange to think that some day, the 1990s fashion artifacts at the back of our closets will be "retro" and highly coveted by contemporary fashionistas. Of course, we must first be patient and sit through their requisite "painfully uncool" period as, for example, 80s styles went through while we were in high school. After that, I guarantee you'll be glad you kept your flannel and Soundgarden tees pressed and ready for revival.

Cottage Country

I'm headed to the cottage for a couple of days of relaxation on the shores of Georgian Bay. Even though May 2-4 weekend is still a few weeks off, I thought I would kick off cottage season early by citing three of my favourite cottage country tunes:

Bobcaygeon - The Tragically Hip
Lake Fever - The Tragically Hip

and, the quintessential...

Patio Lanterns - Kim Mitchell

The official soundtrack of cottage country life in Ontario is available 24-7 on Barrie's Rock 95. Be sure to make a trip to the Beer Store before kicking back on the deck and tuning in. And if you can't make it to cottage country this spring, you can live vicariously through the angst-ridden teens on Falcon Beach, Canadian television's answer to the O.C. (Newport Beach, Lake Winnipeg, what's the difference?).

The Ice Woman Runneth

I am loving the new running shades I got this spring. First of all, the way they are tinted makes me feel like I'm living in a Tony Scott movie, which provides extra workout adrenaline. Second, when I wear them, I look like I'm in a Tony Scott movie. More specifically, I look like Ice Man from Top Gun. That Ice Man--what a card! He sure kept Tom Cruise from getting on his high horse, didn't he? And talk about the right hair. If you ask me, that movie was all about the wrong character. It really was Ice Man's show. Anyway, I'm runnin' in the "Danger Zone" these days. Surprisingly enough, I have yet to download that song from iTunes to listen to while running in the Ice Man shades. I think that might be too much for me to handle right now. The shades are exciting enough.

My MTV: 8th and Ocean

MTV is making it awfully hard for me get my ass off the couch these days (actually, it's a futon, but I digress). I'm still harbouring an addiction to MADE, am swiftly developing an addiction to the new season of The Real World, and as of last week, have started catching a few episodes of 8th and Ocean. The prognosis is not good. Like my erstwhile favourite MTV "reality" drama, Laguna Beach, it features generic California scenery, insipid dialogue and painfully slow-paced action. I think I'm gonna be hooked.

I'm not much of an America's Next Top Model follower, so I can't really say whether fans of that show will find 8th and Ocean equally enticing to watch. A big plus for 8th and Ocean is its Tyra Banks-free format. While the MTV show lacks Top Model's explicit competition, it is well-endowed with the more subtle variety, such as the sparks that are about to fly between identical twins, Kelly and Sabrina. FYI, Sabrina's unfortunate acne outbreaks constitute the show's core dramatic conflict at the moment. She feels left behind because the other models' careers, particularly her sister's, are starting to take off, while she keeps being told to avoid the light of day until her face is fit to be seen in public (I just assumed this was par for the course if you live in California, model or not). Apparently, in the next episode Kelly expresses interest in breast "enhancement" surgery, which upsets the insecure Sabrina even more. It's like Sweet Valley High in some alternate Botox-infused universe. If that's not enough to get you watching, I don't know what will.

After taking in the dramatics of 8th and Ocean this evening, I paused to consider that models have gained a lot of exposure in the past decade. Back in my junior high and high school years, which, fortunately for my formative self, coincided with the golden age of the Supermodels, models were seen and not heard. We didn't have television shows that revealed Cindy Crawford binging on Ben & Jerry's at one a.m., Linda Evangelista stealing cans of Red Bull from Christy Turlington's tote bag, or Naomi Campbell padding around in badly-fitted pajama pants and a trucker hat. We never saw these women without make-up, for Pete's sake. And only rarely did we see them off the runway. But now it seems that everywhere in the media, models both old and new are letting it all hang out. Sometimes I kind of wish they'd pull it all back in because, well, most of these people are just not that entertaining once they step off the cover of Vogue. It's the old "don't sit too close at the ballet" thing.

I'm not really sure why I watch any of the copious model shows on tv in the first place. Unlike some women, I don't really relish the chance to catch models looking "ugly" (which, let's be honest here, they never do. They're models) or saying "stupid" things (they don't get paid the big bucks to solve the world's problems, folks--that's, what, the President's job or something?). Furthermore, I don't secretly idolize models or covet their lives (oh hell no--I love my freedom, my sense of self worth and my Cheetos too much to buy into that crazy-ass fantasy). I guess I watch these shows because the modelling industry, like Hollywood, is so incredibly surreal in its workings: extremely irrational, extraordinarily shallow, fickle, dirty, backstabbing and occasionally heartwarming. In other words, a perfect evening's entertainment!

On Failing My Nunavut Readership

I recently installed "SiteMeter" on this blog, a handy-dandy little web gadget that keeps track of when, where and how people are viewing this web page (if you're curious, you can check it out by clicking on the "SiteMeter" icon at the bottom of the sidebar). It's basically soft-core statistics porn, but the results are sometimes interesting. Like today, I learned that someone in Iqaluit (which is the capital of Nunavut, for those of you lacking in northern exposure) found my blog through Google by using the search terms "ski doo freestyle factory recalls". Thus far, the only place that ski-doos have cropped up in this blog is in my Skids in the Hall entry. Given the nature of his/her search, the anonymous Iqaluit surfer was no doubt disappointed with the content of my post. That doesn't trouble me so much as the thought that this person wanted to know whether their Ski Doo Freestyle is defective (perhaps dangerously) and my blog offered them no assistance in getting to the bottom of this (and having a potentially defective ski-doo is no laughing matter in Iqaluit).

So, on the remote chance that that reader ever visits this blog again, I apologize for my lack of expertise on ski-doo recalls. I hope that some other web page helped you solve your problem. If I could offer any advice, I would, but my Dad sold our ski-doo back in the mid-1980s. I don't even remember if it was a Freestyle. Really, I suppose Google is at fault here too, because it was their search engine that led this reader astray in the first place. But with a big corporate outfit like that, you're not going to get a sincere apology for wasting your time. Nope. It's just us insignificant web peons who have a heart for stuff like that.

I hope that I can overcome this incident among my Nunavut readership, however I would imagine bad word of mouth is the kiss of death for blogs in that place. Oh well. I can only hope that my first readers from the Yukon and the N.W.T. will have a more positive experience.

Karaoke Dreams

Goals are important in all aspects of life: careers, relationships, shoe shopping, breakdancing, and, of course, karaoke. It so happens that my life-long karoake dreams can be summed up in three songs:

1. Islands in the Stream - Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers
2. Whenever I Call You Friend - Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks
3. Don't Go Breaking My Heart - Elton John and Kiki Dee

Yes, all three are gloriously cheesy duets from the late 1970s-early 1980s. In my mind, performing any one of them would be the ultimate karaoke achievement. The trouble is, no one seems to share my vision. Sigh. Oh well. Some day, somewhere, my dream will be realized. I just have to believe.