Today is the first day of the last year of my 20s. Up until a month or two ago, I hadn't put any thought into milestone birthdays since my 19th, which was all about the promise of a new era of drinking and clubbing (a la Last Days of Disco - sans the clap) . Not surprisingly, I've had heavier issues on my mind leading up to my 29th.
I'm extremely fortunate in that the really important stuff in my life -- relationships with family and friends who I love more than anything -- is going just fine. There's just this little, tiny thorn in my side called "Lack of Career Fulfillment" that's really starting to drive me nuts. The enlightened side of me (grossly undeveloped as it is) wants to ignore it. You aren't what you do, so why should what you do matter? I've tried to burn that mantra into my psyche, but so far, it's just not working. I've grown up believing one's career is a huge part of one's identity. To which enlightened me counters, "Identity is an illusion!" Maybe so, but it keeps me awake at night.
So, my goal this year is to figure out what to do with my life. I'll write updates here and we'll see where I am this time next year. Maybe I'll find some answers, or maybe I'll develop my enlightened side to the point that I won't care about answers anymore. Either way, it's going to be heavy, man. I'm glad I have cake in the fridge.
Showing posts with label I've Gotta Be Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I've Gotta Be Me. Show all posts
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Growing Up Grunge, Part 1
I recently completed my third round of revisions on my third screenplay - my life's obsession since the summer of 2007 - and for the first time it feels like the end is in sight. At the same time, I'm at the very beginning of a brand new story. I've got the concept down, but the characters are just shadows at this stage. The more I work on it, the more I'll come to know.
Right now, one thing that's for certain is that the characters I'm writing will be my age, and given that, the question that I'm pondering tonight is, what are the lasting after-effects of growing up grunge?
I started junior high in 1991, the year that Nirvana's Nevermind and Pearl Jam's Ten exploded into the mainstream, causing a paradigm shift in rock'n'roll and pop culture as a whole. By the time I started high school in 1993, grunge was the mainstream. It defined my teenage generation, even though by about 1995, grunge was already starting to fade into the past, painfully superseded by the rise of Oasis, Dave Matthews and, eventually, Britney and the Backstreet Boys. It was around this time that I began to shun new music altogether and sought solace by fantasizing about what it would have been like to go to high school ten years earlier -- from grade 11 on, my music collection was almost exclusively devoted to New Order, the Smiths, the Cure, early U2 and the Psychedelic Furs. I don't know that I would be the 80s music fanatic that I am today if music hadn't been as goddamn awful as it was in my last two years of high school (notable exceptions: Radiohead, Nine Inch Nails and the Foo Fighters. Youngsters these days might accuse me of being downright delusional for claiming that the era that produced these brilliant bands was a dark time for the rock'n'roll business. But they didn't have to live through the horror that was Hootie).
So far I've been writing more about the end of grunge than the era of grunge itself. With respect to the latter, I could free associate about Doc Martens, thrift store shopping, mosh pits, greasy hair, flannel, Reality Bites, My So-Called Life, black eye-liner, heroin chic, rock star suicides and overdoses, Lollapalooza, Woodstock II, Queen Street west (to Bathurst -- one needed to go no further in those days), Kurt and Courtney, SPIN magazine, Pulp Fiction and the cult of Tarantino...the list of icons goes on and on. What I want to nail down is how having one's teen years roughly coincide with the duration of the 1990s affected us, how growing up over any other span of time would have felt very, very different, even if it overlapped the era that I'm writing about here. We started grade 7 in 1991 and turned 20 in 1999 -- my gut feeling is that our experience was somehow unique. Perhaps not coincidentally, there were next to no contemporaneous teen icons in the media during those years, save for our generation's patron saint, Angela Chase in My So-Called Life -- perhaps the first and last time that a major network cancelled an overwhelmingly popular teen show, for seemingly no other reason than that it was just too damn good for television. As far as teen movies go, there were really only two -- Dazed and Confused (1994), which was, ironically, about being a teen in the mid-1970s, and Clueless (1995), a cheeky, uber-unrealistic adapation of Jane Austen's Emma, directed by Fast Time at Ridgmont High's Amy Heckerling. Both were great films, but neither reflected the reality of high school in the 1990s. Beverly Hills, 90210 came before us, Dawson's Creek came after. We were the teens in between, and there is virtually no pop culture record of our existence. Maybe that's why I'm so determined to try to define it, to articulate it, to convince those who didn't live through it -- and maybe even some of those who did -- that it actually happened. To one degree or another, we grew up grunge. What that means is yet to be determined. But I'm pretty determined to figure it out.
Right now, one thing that's for certain is that the characters I'm writing will be my age, and given that, the question that I'm pondering tonight is, what are the lasting after-effects of growing up grunge?
I started junior high in 1991, the year that Nirvana's Nevermind and Pearl Jam's Ten exploded into the mainstream, causing a paradigm shift in rock'n'roll and pop culture as a whole. By the time I started high school in 1993, grunge was the mainstream. It defined my teenage generation, even though by about 1995, grunge was already starting to fade into the past, painfully superseded by the rise of Oasis, Dave Matthews and, eventually, Britney and the Backstreet Boys. It was around this time that I began to shun new music altogether and sought solace by fantasizing about what it would have been like to go to high school ten years earlier -- from grade 11 on, my music collection was almost exclusively devoted to New Order, the Smiths, the Cure, early U2 and the Psychedelic Furs. I don't know that I would be the 80s music fanatic that I am today if music hadn't been as goddamn awful as it was in my last two years of high school (notable exceptions: Radiohead, Nine Inch Nails and the Foo Fighters. Youngsters these days might accuse me of being downright delusional for claiming that the era that produced these brilliant bands was a dark time for the rock'n'roll business. But they didn't have to live through the horror that was Hootie).
So far I've been writing more about the end of grunge than the era of grunge itself. With respect to the latter, I could free associate about Doc Martens, thrift store shopping, mosh pits, greasy hair, flannel, Reality Bites, My So-Called Life, black eye-liner, heroin chic, rock star suicides and overdoses, Lollapalooza, Woodstock II, Queen Street west (to Bathurst -- one needed to go no further in those days), Kurt and Courtney, SPIN magazine, Pulp Fiction and the cult of Tarantino...the list of icons goes on and on. What I want to nail down is how having one's teen years roughly coincide with the duration of the 1990s affected us, how growing up over any other span of time would have felt very, very different, even if it overlapped the era that I'm writing about here. We started grade 7 in 1991 and turned 20 in 1999 -- my gut feeling is that our experience was somehow unique. Perhaps not coincidentally, there were next to no contemporaneous teen icons in the media during those years, save for our generation's patron saint, Angela Chase in My So-Called Life -- perhaps the first and last time that a major network cancelled an overwhelmingly popular teen show, for seemingly no other reason than that it was just too damn good for television. As far as teen movies go, there were really only two -- Dazed and Confused (1994), which was, ironically, about being a teen in the mid-1970s, and Clueless (1995), a cheeky, uber-unrealistic adapation of Jane Austen's Emma, directed by Fast Time at Ridgmont High's Amy Heckerling. Both were great films, but neither reflected the reality of high school in the 1990s. Beverly Hills, 90210 came before us, Dawson's Creek came after. We were the teens in between, and there is virtually no pop culture record of our existence. Maybe that's why I'm so determined to try to define it, to articulate it, to convince those who didn't live through it -- and maybe even some of those who did -- that it actually happened. To one degree or another, we grew up grunge. What that means is yet to be determined. But I'm pretty determined to figure it out.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Coming Up Short, With Dignity
Well, no Sticky and Sweet Tour tickets for me. Not that I really thought I had much of a chance of getting a pair, especially considering the half-ass effort I put into getting tickets to just about any Ticketmaster gouge-a-palooza. In every instance, I try the conventional, "little people" avenues of touch-tone redial and Internet queuing for what I deem to be a reasonable period of time relative to the show in question. For Madonna, this was about four minutes (no, really). I figured my efforts were pretty futile from the start, but it's kind of like Rolling up the Rim and hoping for a Toyota Prius, or trying to Scratch and Save 75% off at the Bay -- you know the odds are stacked miles high against you, but even so, for a brief moment in time, anything's possible so you try anyhow.
I always pretty much suck at getting hold of tickets to hot concerts. Usually, apathy and frugality are the primary causes. There's also a certain loss of pride involved in many of the methods via which people successfully land impossible-to-find concert tickets, eg. camping out overnight on Yonge Street, reciting ridiculous radio jingles, calling up that ex-boyfriend who's dad's company has box seats at the ACC....the list goes on. But I can't go for that. No can do. My dignity is more precious. Hence the fact, this summer, I'll be more likely to be seeing Def Leppard in concert for the third time than prostrating myself for a chance to land Madonna tickets. It's all about holding your head up high, folks.
The fact that I won't be seeing Madonna in concert any time soon has not, however, dampened my deep affection for her music, so I will resume my Madonna Memories reflections next time. Until then, perhaps some of you reading this entry would like to offer up some of your own fond recollections relating to Madonna's music, movies, fashion statements, etc. Or concert tickets -- I'll take those too.
I always pretty much suck at getting hold of tickets to hot concerts. Usually, apathy and frugality are the primary causes. There's also a certain loss of pride involved in many of the methods via which people successfully land impossible-to-find concert tickets, eg. camping out overnight on Yonge Street, reciting ridiculous radio jingles, calling up that ex-boyfriend who's dad's company has box seats at the ACC....the list goes on. But I can't go for that. No can do. My dignity is more precious. Hence the fact, this summer, I'll be more likely to be seeing Def Leppard in concert for the third time than prostrating myself for a chance to land Madonna tickets. It's all about holding your head up high, folks.
The fact that I won't be seeing Madonna in concert any time soon has not, however, dampened my deep affection for her music, so I will resume my Madonna Memories reflections next time. Until then, perhaps some of you reading this entry would like to offer up some of your own fond recollections relating to Madonna's music, movies, fashion statements, etc. Or concert tickets -- I'll take those too.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Where do I begin?
We're almost halfway through the summer of '07 and it's been so long since I last posted, I don't even know where to start. So much to say, so much time...
Well, to kick things off, this has been a summer of happy Mondays thus far due to the return of Canadian Idol. While I have no clear-cut favourite yet, a la last year's Tyler Lewis, I have to say that this year's Top Ten is a pretty talented bunch. The judges have also been on the mark, by and large, and I think I may even be warming to Ben Mulroney after all these years (but he's no Seamus O'Regan).
In other news, I resisted the impulse to make a third trip to see Def Leppard in concert in Toronto, although I am pretty stoked that Poison is coming to town during the Ex (lighters at the ready everyone..."Ev'ry rose has its thorn..."). Scorpions, not so much.
I visited a couple of clubs in the Richmond-John vicinity for the first time in years and discovered that little has changed since my undergrad clubbing days except, well, I'm no longer an undergrad. I think the door guys carded me just to be nice. Thankfully, my cougar years (oh yes, there will be cougar years) are still well ahead of me, but methinks I'd better start making hay while the sun shines. Or while the pants fit. Whatever.
In terms of new music this summer, I'm all about Arcade Fire and the White Stripes right now. But, as usual, I'm spending most of my time digging up way-back tracks, which have lately included a lot of Van Halen (a nice mixture of David Lee Roth and Sammy Hagar classics -- I'm a non-denominational Van Halen fan) and Supremes. On the 1960s girl group front, I'm desperately seeking a copy of Shirley Matthews' 1964 hit "Big Town Boy" which is--shamefully--absent from iTunes. Yet another reason why Mac people aren't really as cool as they would have you believe.
On the movie front, I saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and loved it (way to bounce back from Goblet of Fire); I saw Knocked Up and nearly went into an apoplectic fit at the film's Reagan-era-esque moral conservatism. Not like I was surprised. Why do I do these things to myself?
I think that about wraps it up -- gotta get back to "The Hills" marathon on MTV. Some people listen to Amazon waterfalls or Brahms chamber music to get to sleep; I prefer immersing myself in the blissful vapidity that is "The Hills". Oh, and one more thing -- I read Erica Jong's "Fear of Flying" for the first time this summer and it was a life-changing experience. Not sure just yet in what respect the experience will prove to be life-changing, but something's gotta give. I can feel it. Or maybe I've just watched the opening credits of "The Hills" too many times. "The rest is still unwritten..."
Good night. :)
Well, to kick things off, this has been a summer of happy Mondays thus far due to the return of Canadian Idol. While I have no clear-cut favourite yet, a la last year's Tyler Lewis, I have to say that this year's Top Ten is a pretty talented bunch. The judges have also been on the mark, by and large, and I think I may even be warming to Ben Mulroney after all these years (but he's no Seamus O'Regan).
In other news, I resisted the impulse to make a third trip to see Def Leppard in concert in Toronto, although I am pretty stoked that Poison is coming to town during the Ex (lighters at the ready everyone..."Ev'ry rose has its thorn..."). Scorpions, not so much.
I visited a couple of clubs in the Richmond-John vicinity for the first time in years and discovered that little has changed since my undergrad clubbing days except, well, I'm no longer an undergrad. I think the door guys carded me just to be nice. Thankfully, my cougar years (oh yes, there will be cougar years) are still well ahead of me, but methinks I'd better start making hay while the sun shines. Or while the pants fit. Whatever.
In terms of new music this summer, I'm all about Arcade Fire and the White Stripes right now. But, as usual, I'm spending most of my time digging up way-back tracks, which have lately included a lot of Van Halen (a nice mixture of David Lee Roth and Sammy Hagar classics -- I'm a non-denominational Van Halen fan) and Supremes. On the 1960s girl group front, I'm desperately seeking a copy of Shirley Matthews' 1964 hit "Big Town Boy" which is--shamefully--absent from iTunes. Yet another reason why Mac people aren't really as cool as they would have you believe.
On the movie front, I saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and loved it (way to bounce back from Goblet of Fire); I saw Knocked Up and nearly went into an apoplectic fit at the film's Reagan-era-esque moral conservatism. Not like I was surprised. Why do I do these things to myself?
I think that about wraps it up -- gotta get back to "The Hills" marathon on MTV. Some people listen to Amazon waterfalls or Brahms chamber music to get to sleep; I prefer immersing myself in the blissful vapidity that is "The Hills". Oh, and one more thing -- I read Erica Jong's "Fear of Flying" for the first time this summer and it was a life-changing experience. Not sure just yet in what respect the experience will prove to be life-changing, but something's gotta give. I can feel it. Or maybe I've just watched the opening credits of "The Hills" too many times. "The rest is still unwritten..."
Good night. :)
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Merry Christmas to Me
Yesterday I officially started my Christmas shopping, making the trek up to Bloor Street and the winter retail wonderland it holds. From the standpoint of finding gifts for loved ones, it didn't go too well (total gifts purchased = 1 book). From the standpoint of finding gifts for me, it went great--as evidenced by a trip to HMV that produced 2 new CDs by Charles Aznavour and Burt Bacharach (and Friends), respectively. With respect to the Charles Aznavour, I am proud to say that the album constitutes the first "World" music entry into my iTunes library. Brings the sophistication of the whole catalog up a notch, I think. Now, as regards the Burt Bacharach (and Friends), all I want to point out is the high concentration of freakin' awesome tunes we owe to this man. So, so great. Like, I think I'll be listening to Dionne Warwick's "Anyone Who Had a Heart" on continuous repeat for about the next three weeks. Followed by "Arthur's Theme" (yeah, baby). Followed by "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" (never can have enough Dionne Warwick). Then, round out the mix with a little Neil Diamond "Heartlight." Can I just say, I had no idea the easy listening section could be so much fun? Unfortunately, no one on my gift list shares my love of Burt Bacharach and Friends. Yet...
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Personal Kryptonite
I think if we stop to think about it for a moment, we can all come up with the components of our own personal kryptonite--one or more essential elements that could be used by your enemies to annoy, repel, or even (worst case scenario) destroy you, depending on how they are deployed. For example, "Welcome to the Jungle" was Manuel Noriega's personal kryptonite (N.B. - it's never a good idea to let the U.S. Marines know what your personal kryptonite is). The Wicked Witch of the West's personal kryptonite was water. Superman's personal kryptonite was...kryptonite.
So you get the idea. I recently arrived at the recipe for my own personal kryptonite. As this blog is vaguely anonymous, I feel I can safely reveal it here. For my friends reading this...well, I trust you all to refrain from abusing your new power. This is very, very potent stuff.
My personal kryptonite = Rachael Ray + Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine" + Anne Geddes photography
Put those three ingredients together and all my superpowers would be completely incapacitated.
So you get the idea. I recently arrived at the recipe for my own personal kryptonite. As this blog is vaguely anonymous, I feel I can safely reveal it here. For my friends reading this...well, I trust you all to refrain from abusing your new power. This is very, very potent stuff.
My personal kryptonite = Rachael Ray + Indigo Girls' "Closer to Fine" + Anne Geddes photography
Put those three ingredients together and all my superpowers would be completely incapacitated.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Mama, I'm Coming Home
(Actually, I've been home for over a week, but I just wanted to get a little Ozzy in there)
Yes, it's true--after five years living in the U.S., I have returned home to Toronto, the best city in the world. And I could not be happier, especially with all the traditional Torontonian activities I've been up to lately: biking to the Beaches, window shopping in Yorkville, going to the Ex, and walking down Yonge Street (which I will be doing much less of once the nostalgia wears off).
Sadly, the Ex was a bit of a disappointment, much like it was the last time I went eight years ago. I wish I could have seen it back in its heyday, before they tore down the Flyer and the Grandstand and before the Better Living building was converted into a giant casino. My biggest overall complaint was that there wasn't nearly enough livestock. That, and the carnies were too polite and well-groomed. But the Food Building still smelled the same (one whiff gives you your weekly dose of trans fat) and we did get to see a human cannonball, which was pretty awesome.
And while I did not get the TV unpacked in time to watch Canadian Idol this week, I am proud to report that my boy Tyler Lewis is still hanging in there and you can bet I'll be voting next week. Yes indeed, it is good to be back.
Yes, it's true--after five years living in the U.S., I have returned home to Toronto, the best city in the world. And I could not be happier, especially with all the traditional Torontonian activities I've been up to lately: biking to the Beaches, window shopping in Yorkville, going to the Ex, and walking down Yonge Street (which I will be doing much less of once the nostalgia wears off).
Sadly, the Ex was a bit of a disappointment, much like it was the last time I went eight years ago. I wish I could have seen it back in its heyday, before they tore down the Flyer and the Grandstand and before the Better Living building was converted into a giant casino. My biggest overall complaint was that there wasn't nearly enough livestock. That, and the carnies were too polite and well-groomed. But the Food Building still smelled the same (one whiff gives you your weekly dose of trans fat) and we did get to see a human cannonball, which was pretty awesome.
And while I did not get the TV unpacked in time to watch Canadian Idol this week, I am proud to report that my boy Tyler Lewis is still hanging in there and you can bet I'll be voting next week. Yes indeed, it is good to be back.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Running Farrell
My trip to L.A. is now officially complete--I have been to a red-carpet movie premiere. Miami Vice premiered tonight at the Mann Village Theatre in Westwood and I simply could not pass up the opportunity to saunter down the street after dinner and snap some pictures of the divine Messrs. Farrell and Foxx.
Never having been to one of these gigs before, I wasn't exactly sure where the best vantage point for star-watching would be. I first stood on the street corner out in front of Stan's Donuts (where I've been three times in the past week) amidst a pack of professional autograph hounds who, quite frankly, frightened me just a bit. Some of them were kind of like the L.A. equivalent of Comic Book Store Guy from the Simpsons.
Fortunately, a security guard came along and offered to take a group of people to the red-carpet-side bleachers across the street. I opted to go along, which resulted in me gaining a clear view of the stars as they made their way down the press gauntlet.
Using my old-school 35mm point-and-shoot camera, I snapped photos of Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn, Tyrese, Victoria Rowell, Li Gong, Regina King, Pieter Jan Brugge (the film's producer), and, of course, Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell. I also took a nice shot of Philip Michael Thomas. Unfortunately, Don Johnson was nowhere to be seen.
All the actors looked every bit as attractive in person as they do on film. Which, of course, did not surprise me. All in all, this is probably one of the most aesthetically-pleasing trips I've ever taken. I'm going to have to ease myself back into reality slowly this weekend.
Never having been to one of these gigs before, I wasn't exactly sure where the best vantage point for star-watching would be. I first stood on the street corner out in front of Stan's Donuts (where I've been three times in the past week) amidst a pack of professional autograph hounds who, quite frankly, frightened me just a bit. Some of them were kind of like the L.A. equivalent of Comic Book Store Guy from the Simpsons.
Fortunately, a security guard came along and offered to take a group of people to the red-carpet-side bleachers across the street. I opted to go along, which resulted in me gaining a clear view of the stars as they made their way down the press gauntlet.
Using my old-school 35mm point-and-shoot camera, I snapped photos of Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn, Tyrese, Victoria Rowell, Li Gong, Regina King, Pieter Jan Brugge (the film's producer), and, of course, Jamie Foxx and Colin Farrell. I also took a nice shot of Philip Michael Thomas. Unfortunately, Don Johnson was nowhere to be seen.
All the actors looked every bit as attractive in person as they do on film. Which, of course, did not surprise me. All in all, this is probably one of the most aesthetically-pleasing trips I've ever taken. I'm going to have to ease myself back into reality slowly this weekend.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Fun, Fun, Fun
I spent the weekend playing tourist at various sites around L.A. and Santa Monica, some on the beaten path, some off. I did a lot of walking, got a lot of sun and had an awesome time. And yes, I rode the bus everywhere. Although I am now going to have to take back what I wrote in my last entry about the L.A. bus system being underused. It's actually pretty hoppin'. Still too many cars on the road, but the bright spot is that I have seen a lot of Toyota Priuses around town.
Saturday I took the bus to the north end of Koreatown and hopped on the subway up to Hollywood and Vine. Having only ever heard terrible things about Hollywood, I braced myself for the worst--however, I have to say it wasn't nearly as rough as I imagined it would be. Of course, I was there on a Saturday afternoon in peak tourist season. I'm sure it's no picnic at, say, 3 am on a Tuesday night. When I was there it wasn't so bad. It pretty much is what it is. Girls! Girls! Girls!--but not the Elvis Presley version. For my Torontonian readers, Hollywood Blvd. is a shade or two worse on the urban decay spectrum than the most decrepit blocks of Yonge Street. But the Walk of Fame is pretty awesome (except that you forget to look where you're going, which can get you into trouble). And I happened upon this fantastic movie collectibles shop at which I was able to pick up some lovely Rock Hudson production stills from 1952. Now that's what I call souvenir shopping.
If the tourist action at the Hollywood & Highland shopping centre (part of the complex that houses the Kodak Theatre) is any indication, Hollywood's darkest days are behind it. The mall is squeaky clean, upscale, and jam-packed with suburban families. Disney bought the El Capitan theatre across the street and has spruced it up as well. To anyone tempted to insert anti-corporatization grumbling here, can it already. If it's between pimps and Disney, I'll take Disney (and you can quote me on that).
After chowing down at Johnny Rocket's and taking a slew of requisite tourist photos, I journey back downtown to Union Station, which is an absolutely gorgeous building--an L.A. must-see, I believe. As is the Olvera Street marketplace, a fabulous oasis in downtown L.A. packed with vendors selling traditional Mexican goods. It was my first time visiting there and it's definitely one of my favourite places I've been in L.A. so far.
On Sunday I had to make a trip to the beach, so I bused it out to Venice. A totally crazy place, but another definite must-see. I watched both surfers and grafitti artists working hard at their respective pastimes, but was disappointed to find Muscle Beach more or less deserted. I suppose it was too hot to buff one's bod yesterday.
My favourite part about Venice is the Venice Canals Walkway, the network of sidewalks that you can take in and around all the positively stunning homes built on the existing canals. I kind of want one of those houses.
When I left Venice, I headed north to Ocean Park, the groovy southern Santa Monica neighborhood that is much quieter--and hipper, in my opinion--than the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica proper. The retail is soooo Californian: surf shops, yoga studios, organic tea shops, acupuncture clinics, and raw food cafes.
I wound up finishing up my day's travels in downtown Santa Monica, at Ye Olde King's Head pub, a favourite spot from my last trip to L.A. because of its tasty British fare that reminds me of pubs back home in the old country (by which I mean Toronto).
A highly satisfying weekend of sun, surf (watching) and local colour--I think this city is working it's crazy magic on me. Good thing I'm headed back home soon.
Saturday I took the bus to the north end of Koreatown and hopped on the subway up to Hollywood and Vine. Having only ever heard terrible things about Hollywood, I braced myself for the worst--however, I have to say it wasn't nearly as rough as I imagined it would be. Of course, I was there on a Saturday afternoon in peak tourist season. I'm sure it's no picnic at, say, 3 am on a Tuesday night. When I was there it wasn't so bad. It pretty much is what it is. Girls! Girls! Girls!--but not the Elvis Presley version. For my Torontonian readers, Hollywood Blvd. is a shade or two worse on the urban decay spectrum than the most decrepit blocks of Yonge Street. But the Walk of Fame is pretty awesome (except that you forget to look where you're going, which can get you into trouble). And I happened upon this fantastic movie collectibles shop at which I was able to pick up some lovely Rock Hudson production stills from 1952. Now that's what I call souvenir shopping.
If the tourist action at the Hollywood & Highland shopping centre (part of the complex that houses the Kodak Theatre) is any indication, Hollywood's darkest days are behind it. The mall is squeaky clean, upscale, and jam-packed with suburban families. Disney bought the El Capitan theatre across the street and has spruced it up as well. To anyone tempted to insert anti-corporatization grumbling here, can it already. If it's between pimps and Disney, I'll take Disney (and you can quote me on that).
After chowing down at Johnny Rocket's and taking a slew of requisite tourist photos, I journey back downtown to Union Station, which is an absolutely gorgeous building--an L.A. must-see, I believe. As is the Olvera Street marketplace, a fabulous oasis in downtown L.A. packed with vendors selling traditional Mexican goods. It was my first time visiting there and it's definitely one of my favourite places I've been in L.A. so far.
On Sunday I had to make a trip to the beach, so I bused it out to Venice. A totally crazy place, but another definite must-see. I watched both surfers and grafitti artists working hard at their respective pastimes, but was disappointed to find Muscle Beach more or less deserted. I suppose it was too hot to buff one's bod yesterday.
My favourite part about Venice is the Venice Canals Walkway, the network of sidewalks that you can take in and around all the positively stunning homes built on the existing canals. I kind of want one of those houses.
When I left Venice, I headed north to Ocean Park, the groovy southern Santa Monica neighborhood that is much quieter--and hipper, in my opinion--than the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica proper. The retail is soooo Californian: surf shops, yoga studios, organic tea shops, acupuncture clinics, and raw food cafes.
I wound up finishing up my day's travels in downtown Santa Monica, at Ye Olde King's Head pub, a favourite spot from my last trip to L.A. because of its tasty British fare that reminds me of pubs back home in the old country (by which I mean Toronto).
A highly satisfying weekend of sun, surf (watching) and local colour--I think this city is working it's crazy magic on me. Good thing I'm headed back home soon.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Get On the Bus
I feel that I am now fully assimilated into Angeleno culture after making many, many trips on L.A.'s great yet sorely underused bus system today. Over the course of almost twelve hours, I got on and off buses in Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Westwood, Brentwood and Santa Monica today. A couple were packed. One was empty save for me for a while. I met some very friendly people and got to take in lots of the cityscape. For example, I am now extremely familiar with the corner of Wilshire Blvd. and Veteran Avenue that I sat at for about fifteen minutes or more today, watching the traffic crawl towards the 405 freeway entrance. As many times as I've sat on the DVP in rush hour, I can honestly say I've never seen traffic move that slowly before.
The insanely bizarre thing about L.A. is, its residents think traffic like that is completely normal. They willingly sit through it every single day. I watched car after car creep by carrying only one person, a driver chatting animatedly on his/her cell phone and dealing pleasantly enough with the worst gridlock I've ever witnessed. C-r-a-z-y. I talked to a few Angelenos about their transportation situation today. One man had had his car totalled six months ago, decided to try out the bus for a change, and is happy with the switch. He says the subway's great too--I'm going to try that out on the weekend. Another couple of guys I talked to said they couldn't imagine taking the bus at all--they wouldn't even know which bus to take to get from where they lived to work each day. They thought I was properly nuts for even trying.
This seems to be the normal response from city natives when I tell them about my bus travels. I was told I was crazy for trying to take the bus from Westwood to Hollywood, but that worked out just fine today. Granted, I missed the stop where I had to transfer and ended up arriving at my destination about half an hour later than I'd planned, but fortunately, I'd left early. That's the thing about getting around in L.A.--if you have time to spare and can adopt a sort of Zen-like attitude towards the sometimes Herculean effort it takes to get from point A to point B, it's not so bad.
While L.A. makes me appreciate cabs, the TTC (yes, even the Queen streetcar at rush hour), and the possibility of walking anywhere, I can't say it hasn't started to grow on me in its own crazy way. No matter how frustrating the situation on the ground is, you can always look up and see a sunny, bright blue sky above, a palm tree or two, and sometimes, as was the case for me this morning, HOLLYWOOD beckoning to you in the distance. And that's pretty damn cool, if you ask me.
The insanely bizarre thing about L.A. is, its residents think traffic like that is completely normal. They willingly sit through it every single day. I watched car after car creep by carrying only one person, a driver chatting animatedly on his/her cell phone and dealing pleasantly enough with the worst gridlock I've ever witnessed. C-r-a-z-y. I talked to a few Angelenos about their transportation situation today. One man had had his car totalled six months ago, decided to try out the bus for a change, and is happy with the switch. He says the subway's great too--I'm going to try that out on the weekend. Another couple of guys I talked to said they couldn't imagine taking the bus at all--they wouldn't even know which bus to take to get from where they lived to work each day. They thought I was properly nuts for even trying.
This seems to be the normal response from city natives when I tell them about my bus travels. I was told I was crazy for trying to take the bus from Westwood to Hollywood, but that worked out just fine today. Granted, I missed the stop where I had to transfer and ended up arriving at my destination about half an hour later than I'd planned, but fortunately, I'd left early. That's the thing about getting around in L.A.--if you have time to spare and can adopt a sort of Zen-like attitude towards the sometimes Herculean effort it takes to get from point A to point B, it's not so bad.
While L.A. makes me appreciate cabs, the TTC (yes, even the Queen streetcar at rush hour), and the possibility of walking anywhere, I can't say it hasn't started to grow on me in its own crazy way. No matter how frustrating the situation on the ground is, you can always look up and see a sunny, bright blue sky above, a palm tree or two, and sometimes, as was the case for me this morning, HOLLYWOOD beckoning to you in the distance. And that's pretty damn cool, if you ask me.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
The Fresh Princess of Bel Air
Having recently purchased new running shoes, I was excited to have the chance to break them in on my trip to L.A. on some sightseeing runs. So I ventured out for my first run this morning. I'm staying in Westwood village, right on the edge of the UCLA campus, so I figured that Bel Air would be a nifty running destination (originally I wanted to make it up to the Playboy Mansion, but then I realized it would be a touch too far--besides, isn't it more normal for women to run away from the Playboy Mansion than towards it?). I made my way on up north through the campus at a decent clip, feeling energized by the bright sun, blue skies, and deceptively invisible smog. Sure, there were a few hills...well, actually, running north in this part of town is pretty much all hills, all the time. Like, break-ass hills. Like there's a reason everybody around here is so crazy about yoga and pilates and all that jazz--it's because it's too damn hard to run anywhere. Particularly in Bel Air, which I found out has no sidewalks. I don't think residents venture outside the gates of their homes on foot. This morning, the only people on the road were me and legions of garden workers. I wondered if I might get thrown out by a security patrol for being on the street without a leaf blower in my hand.
An hour later and I was finally in sight of where I'd started, feeling very tired and keening for level ground. But the adventure was worth it. Bel Air, like most other locations in L.A., looks just as spectacular in real life as it does in the movies. What amazed me was that within a couple hundred feet of entering Bel Air off of Sunset Blvd., the noise of the traffic seemed to die away almost instantly and became replaced by the serene chirping of birds and hissing of garden sprinklers. The place isn't just a neighbourhood--I'm convinced it's a hermetically-sealed bubble.
An hour later and I was finally in sight of where I'd started, feeling very tired and keening for level ground. But the adventure was worth it. Bel Air, like most other locations in L.A., looks just as spectacular in real life as it does in the movies. What amazed me was that within a couple hundred feet of entering Bel Air off of Sunset Blvd., the noise of the traffic seemed to die away almost instantly and became replaced by the serene chirping of birds and hissing of garden sprinklers. The place isn't just a neighbourhood--I'm convinced it's a hermetically-sealed bubble.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
L.A. Stories
I have ventured once more out to the strange and marvellous world that is the west coast. I have two weeks ahead of me in Los Angeles, primarily shuttling around between Westwood, Beverly Hills, and anywhere else the Wilshire Blvd. bus can take me. Here are a few initial notes on my L.A. experiences over the past 24 hours:
You know you're on a plane to L.A. when a guy sitting in your row pulls out his screenplay for in-flight reading material. Good Lord--does it get any more L.A. than that? It was all pristine and crisp-cornered, with impressively shiny brass brads. I'm thinking, great, excellent, good for you--I mean, hey, I've got one of those kicking around myself--but it's soooo much less pretentious to just kick back with a vacuous magazine like the rest of your comrades in coach. You ain't gonna run into Jerry Bruckheimer at the back of the bus, buddy--better off snagging an FHM.
I actually saw people break into a car-fight today over entering/exiting a parking garage on La Cienega. I think that the car-fight might be an L.A.-specific phenomenon. It's like any other kind of fight, except the participants never get out of their cars; they just yell and gesture wildly as if they were within striking distance of their opponent. What happened was one car exited the parking garage at the same time another car was about to turn into it. They very nearly ran into each other--then both slammed on the brakes and started raising hell. I don't believe it had been resolved by the time I got to my bus-stop. They very well could still be out there.
Rodeo Drive actually sparkles. I think they use Crest Street Whitener (TM).
My cab driver yesterday told me he once gave Ashton Kutcher a lift before he was famous. Except the cabbie wasn't sure of Ashton Kutcher's name. He just said "You know--the guy who's with Demi Moore." Ooooh....SNAP!
More instalments are forthcoming (I'm hoping to write enough L.A. blogs that they can go into blog syndication).
You know you're on a plane to L.A. when a guy sitting in your row pulls out his screenplay for in-flight reading material. Good Lord--does it get any more L.A. than that? It was all pristine and crisp-cornered, with impressively shiny brass brads. I'm thinking, great, excellent, good for you--I mean, hey, I've got one of those kicking around myself--but it's soooo much less pretentious to just kick back with a vacuous magazine like the rest of your comrades in coach. You ain't gonna run into Jerry Bruckheimer at the back of the bus, buddy--better off snagging an FHM.
I actually saw people break into a car-fight today over entering/exiting a parking garage on La Cienega. I think that the car-fight might be an L.A.-specific phenomenon. It's like any other kind of fight, except the participants never get out of their cars; they just yell and gesture wildly as if they were within striking distance of their opponent. What happened was one car exited the parking garage at the same time another car was about to turn into it. They very nearly ran into each other--then both slammed on the brakes and started raising hell. I don't believe it had been resolved by the time I got to my bus-stop. They very well could still be out there.
Rodeo Drive actually sparkles. I think they use Crest Street Whitener (TM).
My cab driver yesterday told me he once gave Ashton Kutcher a lift before he was famous. Except the cabbie wasn't sure of Ashton Kutcher's name. He just said "You know--the guy who's with Demi Moore." Ooooh....SNAP!
More instalments are forthcoming (I'm hoping to write enough L.A. blogs that they can go into blog syndication).
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Like Riding a Bicycle...Or Something
Since I haven't contributed to my blog in quite some time, I figured I should take some baby blog steps toward making a comeback. So I will devote this entry to mentioning one small recollection that made me laugh really hard today. I was thinking for a brief spell about cats and cars, and I suddenly remembered how, about fifteen years ago or so, you couldn't drive anywhere without seeing at least two or three cars with one of those crazy-ass stuffed Garfield cat-butts hanging out of the window/trunk. C'mon--you know you remember those things (maybe you owned one?). I'm not really sure why it was considered hilarious to have half a stuffed cat protruding from your car and those things got natty after being exposed to the elements for a couple of months. But people loved them! And now the very thought of them makes me laugh.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Analyze This
The other day, I was thinking about movie costumes. From a rather young age, two movie costumes in particular have been my very favourites:
1. The skin-tight, black leather (or is it pleather?) outfit that Sandy wears to impress Danny at the end of Grease, for the "You're the One That I Want" number. I'm still looking for a pair of black Candies sandals like the ones she has on in that scene (the shoes responsible for the sexiest cigarette stomp-out in cinema history).
2. The crazy one-piece halter top/mini-skirt outfit and (most importantly) thigh-high, spiked heel boots that Julia Roberts walks her Hollywood strip in at the beginning of Pretty Woman. I've had a weakness for stiletto-heel boots ever since (and now own two pairs--neither, regrettably, are thigh-high, however). Oddly, her outfit is different colours on the movie's poster (hot pink and black) than it is in the film (white and turquoise). But it's all about the boots, really.
What should we make of this? One might conjecture that repeated exposure to such vampy star costumes in my pre-teen years permanently corrupted my fashion sense. But these outfits are so...great. Like, doesn't everyone wish they could wear stuff like this every day? No? Oh. Never mind, then. I guess it's just me.
1. The skin-tight, black leather (or is it pleather?) outfit that Sandy wears to impress Danny at the end of Grease, for the "You're the One That I Want" number. I'm still looking for a pair of black Candies sandals like the ones she has on in that scene (the shoes responsible for the sexiest cigarette stomp-out in cinema history).
2. The crazy one-piece halter top/mini-skirt outfit and (most importantly) thigh-high, spiked heel boots that Julia Roberts walks her Hollywood strip in at the beginning of Pretty Woman. I've had a weakness for stiletto-heel boots ever since (and now own two pairs--neither, regrettably, are thigh-high, however). Oddly, her outfit is different colours on the movie's poster (hot pink and black) than it is in the film (white and turquoise). But it's all about the boots, really.
What should we make of this? One might conjecture that repeated exposure to such vampy star costumes in my pre-teen years permanently corrupted my fashion sense. But these outfits are so...great. Like, doesn't everyone wish they could wear stuff like this every day? No? Oh. Never mind, then. I guess it's just me.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Coffee Shop Confessional
I have a confession to make. By saying what I am about to say, I fully recognize that I am running the risk of alienating myself not only from my peers, but from my entire generation--which, the last time I checked, was Generation Y. Or maybe it's X to the power of three. I should consult Douglas Coupland on this, although I'm pretty sure that he too would shun me for what I am about to write here.
I don't like coffee shops.
Like, I really don't like them. I don't like patronizing them, writing in them, or socializing in them. What I particularly can't stand is loafing around in them, doing none of the above, just sitting around reading The New York Times as if I'm enjoying it and acting as though savouring the whole coffee shop experience is a valid pasttime unto itself (NB--I should say that I've actually never done this, but based on my observations of what people who like coffee shops do, it seems like a highly popular activity).
The thing is, I feel that I am completely and utterly alone in my anti-coffee shop sentiments. Sure, I tried to like them, back when I was 15, just like I tried to like Tori Amos music and wearing weird-smelling "vintage" clothing. But just like the other stuff, I found out soon enough that coffee shops just weren't me. Will this undeniable truth have a devastating impact on my career as a writer? Probably. Am I worried? Not enough to start haunting coffee shops, that's for sure.
Lest coffee shop fanatics read this and think that I am missing out, let me mention the coffee shop alternatives that I have found to be ultimately more satisfying in my post-teen years:
1. Timmie's: We're talking plastic chairs, fluorescent lighting, fast food-style service and flocks of friendly older folk fresh off the curling rink. It's about calling a "small" a "small" and a "large" a "large," the superiority of Timbits over tiramisu, and not feeling ashamed about reading the Sun sports section instead of Foucault. Not that I haven't been known to indulge in a little post-structuralist theory now and then--just not with my donuts, thanks.
2. Bars: You say chai latte, I say Courvoisier. Socializing need not be any less intellectually rigorous and almost always proves more entertaining in a bar or pub setting than at a coffee shop. The music is better (more AC/DC, less Jewel) and no one is going to be sitting there typing away at their laptop, making you feel guilty that you "forgot" to bring that file home from the office.
With these two viable alternatives to turn to, I've not really missed the coffee shop these past few years. I wonder why it even seemed like a good idea in the first place--I think So I Married An Axe Murderer made the whole coffee shop scene look like more fun than it actually is. So there's my confession. Needless to say, no coffee shops were frequented during the composition of this blog entry.
I don't like coffee shops.
Like, I really don't like them. I don't like patronizing them, writing in them, or socializing in them. What I particularly can't stand is loafing around in them, doing none of the above, just sitting around reading The New York Times as if I'm enjoying it and acting as though savouring the whole coffee shop experience is a valid pasttime unto itself (NB--I should say that I've actually never done this, but based on my observations of what people who like coffee shops do, it seems like a highly popular activity).
The thing is, I feel that I am completely and utterly alone in my anti-coffee shop sentiments. Sure, I tried to like them, back when I was 15, just like I tried to like Tori Amos music and wearing weird-smelling "vintage" clothing. But just like the other stuff, I found out soon enough that coffee shops just weren't me. Will this undeniable truth have a devastating impact on my career as a writer? Probably. Am I worried? Not enough to start haunting coffee shops, that's for sure.
Lest coffee shop fanatics read this and think that I am missing out, let me mention the coffee shop alternatives that I have found to be ultimately more satisfying in my post-teen years:
1. Timmie's: We're talking plastic chairs, fluorescent lighting, fast food-style service and flocks of friendly older folk fresh off the curling rink. It's about calling a "small" a "small" and a "large" a "large," the superiority of Timbits over tiramisu, and not feeling ashamed about reading the Sun sports section instead of Foucault. Not that I haven't been known to indulge in a little post-structuralist theory now and then--just not with my donuts, thanks.
2. Bars: You say chai latte, I say Courvoisier. Socializing need not be any less intellectually rigorous and almost always proves more entertaining in a bar or pub setting than at a coffee shop. The music is better (more AC/DC, less Jewel) and no one is going to be sitting there typing away at their laptop, making you feel guilty that you "forgot" to bring that file home from the office.
With these two viable alternatives to turn to, I've not really missed the coffee shop these past few years. I wonder why it even seemed like a good idea in the first place--I think So I Married An Axe Murderer made the whole coffee shop scene look like more fun than it actually is. So there's my confession. Needless to say, no coffee shops were frequented during the composition of this blog entry.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Go raibh maith agat!
Top Ten Things for Which I Give Thanks to the Irish:
1. My ancestors
2. Pre-Rattle and Hum U2 (OK, throw in Achtung Baby. And a few tracks from Zooropa.)
3. Sinead O'Connor
4. Daniel Day-Lewis
5. Jameson's Irish Whiskey
6. My first shot of Goldschlager
7. My first barfight (as witness, unrelated to #6)
8. Shamrock Shakes (not sure the Irish had anything to do with these, but they're goood)
9. Rudy (different Irish, but it's just so darn heartwarming!)
10. The Kennedys
1. My ancestors
2. Pre-Rattle and Hum U2 (OK, throw in Achtung Baby. And a few tracks from Zooropa.)
3. Sinead O'Connor
4. Daniel Day-Lewis
5. Jameson's Irish Whiskey
6. My first shot of Goldschlager
7. My first barfight (as witness, unrelated to #6)
8. Shamrock Shakes (not sure the Irish had anything to do with these, but they're goood)
9. Rudy (different Irish, but it's just so darn heartwarming!)
10. The Kennedys
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
"The Back Flip in the Long Program"
With the close of every Winter Olympics comes a difficult period of adjustment in which we must deal with the fact that we have become over-saturated with detailed knowledge about a wide variety of winter sports. It is not so much the over-saturation that is difficult, but rather the reality that the bulk of this knowledge is going to collect dust for another four years (by which time we will have, of course, forgotten it, and thus need to be saturated again--so perpetuating the cycle). In the spirit of milking our newfound, collective status as Winter Olympic Experts just a little longer, I thought I would dedicate this post to the explication of a beloved idiom that my friends and I developed a few years back while sitting in a pub and watching (what else?) an international figure skating competition. Here it is:
"back flip in the long program"
Origin: In women's figure skating, back flips are verboten. Not really sure why; if anyone has some insight into this, I'm curious. Quite possibly the issue is an aesthetic one. At any rate, if a female skater performs a back flip in international competition, she is disqualified. At one time, there was a French skater named Surya Bonali who always seemed to come up short in the medal department, but had a kick-ass back flip (bear with me here, the point is coming). I seem to recall that on the particular day my friends and I happened to be watching Bonali skate on television, she had a messy fall partway through her long program that would have put her out of medal contention. But she finished the program with a back flip and so was disqualified instead of having to face the indignity of placing fifth (or whatever it was).
Usage: "Back flip in the long program" can be used to describe any situation in which someone purposefully screws themselves over to avoid embarrassment/failure. It's like, you know you're going down anyway, so you compensate for your shortcomings by grabbing an alibi.
Painful personal example: Back in grade 8, I went to all the school dances, hoping that the boy I had a crush on would ask me to dance. But whenever the d.j. threw on a slow song (Stevie B.'s "Because I Love You (The Postman Song)"--aaahh! again, the parentheses!--still has some particularly bitter associations for me) , I wouldn't hang around the edges of the gym, waiting for the invitation to dance that I knew wasn't coming. Nosirree--I bolted out to the hall with my friends, where we made sarcastic comments about all the dorky people who were sentimental and sappy enough to actually dance to a slow song to begin with. A clear-cut case of back flip in the long program. Had I stayed in the gym, I, like Surya Bonali, would have only had to face my disappointment head-on. Better to disqualify one's self with flair.
So there you have it. I encourage you to go forth and use this turn of phrase whenever you believe it is apt. Just remember, if you actually pull too many back flips in the long program, you'll never make it to the podium. And yes, that can be construed as a sexual metaphor.
"back flip in the long program"
Origin: In women's figure skating, back flips are verboten. Not really sure why; if anyone has some insight into this, I'm curious. Quite possibly the issue is an aesthetic one. At any rate, if a female skater performs a back flip in international competition, she is disqualified. At one time, there was a French skater named Surya Bonali who always seemed to come up short in the medal department, but had a kick-ass back flip (bear with me here, the point is coming). I seem to recall that on the particular day my friends and I happened to be watching Bonali skate on television, she had a messy fall partway through her long program that would have put her out of medal contention. But she finished the program with a back flip and so was disqualified instead of having to face the indignity of placing fifth (or whatever it was).
Usage: "Back flip in the long program" can be used to describe any situation in which someone purposefully screws themselves over to avoid embarrassment/failure. It's like, you know you're going down anyway, so you compensate for your shortcomings by grabbing an alibi.
Painful personal example: Back in grade 8, I went to all the school dances, hoping that the boy I had a crush on would ask me to dance. But whenever the d.j. threw on a slow song (Stevie B.'s "Because I Love You (The Postman Song)"--aaahh! again, the parentheses!--still has some particularly bitter associations for me) , I wouldn't hang around the edges of the gym, waiting for the invitation to dance that I knew wasn't coming. Nosirree--I bolted out to the hall with my friends, where we made sarcastic comments about all the dorky people who were sentimental and sappy enough to actually dance to a slow song to begin with. A clear-cut case of back flip in the long program. Had I stayed in the gym, I, like Surya Bonali, would have only had to face my disappointment head-on. Better to disqualify one's self with flair.
So there you have it. I encourage you to go forth and use this turn of phrase whenever you believe it is apt. Just remember, if you actually pull too many back flips in the long program, you'll never make it to the podium. And yes, that can be construed as a sexual metaphor.
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