They Are the (Moustache) Champions

A few posts back, I speculated on the decline of the moustache in contemporary pop culture (NB- I also used the spelling "stash" at that time, but I have since decided to switch to the mose continental "'stache"). While George Clooney has not yet responded to my plea to be the 'stache's saviour in 2006, it seems that a vibrant international moustache community does exist these days. I learned this from a recent visit to the World Beard and Moustache Championships website, which is devoted to the biennial event of that name. Interestingly, Germany dominates the global arena of beard and moustache competition, both in the number of gold medals won and the number of world championships hosted. Categories in which moustache-wearers may compete include: Natural, English, Freestyle, Handlebar, Imperial, and then my personal favourites, the Dali and the Fu Manchu. Partial and Full Beard categories are also open to competitors. No Canadian champs emerged from the 2005 competition, however Americans can be proud of Toot (Toot!) Joslin's golden victory in the Sideburns category. With a little extra 'stache training, I think Jack Layton could do Canada proud at the 2007 championships. At any rate, it looks like the 'stache is going strong, despite its current lack of supporters among Hollywood stars. Its day is going to come, though, believe me--the 'stache will rise again.

T.G.F.E.S. (Thank God For Elvis Stojko)

So far, 2006 has been a banner year for figure skating on television. But now that the Olympics and the Worlds are over, Skating with Celebrities has wrapped, and ABC Family is no longer running The Cutting Edge 2: Going for the Gold on a 24-hour loop (OK, they never did that. It just felt like it because of its utter and complete inferiority to the original...more on that another time) , I figured the skating TV boom had gone bust. Fortunately, the WE network came to rescue, churning out another figure skating-themed "reality" tv competition, Skating's Next Star. Phew. That was a close one. Thanks WE! I now forgive you for all those years of painfully mopey Felicity reruns.

So I've only seen two episodes so far and I'm still unclear on what exactly the contestants are competing for. Perhaps a lead part in the next production of "Dora the Explorer on Ice," or some such equivalent. Unlike Skating with Celebrities, the show does not feature the element of danger that comes from strapping skates onto frighteningly uncoordinated former sitcom/pop stars. But Skating's Next Star makes things hazardous enough for its bright-eyed hopefuls by having them skate on makeshift ice pads the size of your parents' rec room. Watching to see who will fly off the rink is one of the viewing pleasures the show has to offer.

Another bright spot is the tactful, good-humoured presence of former World Champion (and Richmond Hill, Ontario native, I should add--props to the York Region!), Elvis Stojko. On numerous occasions, Elvis saves Skating's Next Star from being too cringeworthy to handle. Exhibit A: One hapless lad accidentally kicked himself in the head or something while performing an ill-fated spin in the first episode. As if this wasn't mortifying enough, when he finished, judges Rudy Galindo and Oksana Grishuk laughed uncontrollably at him. Like, they couldn't regain their composure for at least a minute and a half. The poor dude had to just stand there with the camera on him the whole time. Thank God for Elvis. A true Canadian, he kept a straight face, showed concern, and asked the guy if he was OK (I would say that I hope he gave Rudy and Oksana a talking to afterwards, but that actually wouldn't be a very Canadian thing to do).

Though its production values may be low, its level of overall awkwardness high and its purpose ambiguous, I am going to tune in to at least a couple more episodes of Skating's Next Star. Maybe it's out of my sentimental Stojko attachment, or my fear that another figure skating show might not be in the works to follow it up. I can only hope that some tv executives somewhere are going to try and develop a "reality" gymnastics show along the same lines. Because every loves to see athletes get a second chance, especially when its a reeeal long shot (ie. in sports where they would usually be gathering dust by the age of 19). What's Mary Lou Retton doing these days, anyway? Oooh, and Mitch Gaylord! It'd be great! Someone tell the WE people! Anything to keep those Felicity reruns at bay.

Why, Vivi, Why?

The American news media have, as usual, been recently devoting copious amounts of coverage to a story that, in a sane world, would barely register 30 seconds in a fourth grader's current events presentation. The particular story of which I write is that of Vivi the Whippet, the enigmatic show dog who tore down the tarmac at JFK Airport a couple of weeks ago moments before boarding the plane that would have transported her back to her California home.

Now, I have always been an animal lover and in my life I've experienced my own share of heartache over lost pets. The sight of a hand-drawn "Lost Dog" or "Lost Cat" poster, with the requisite family pet photo, on the bulletin board at my local grocery store brings me to tears if I stare at it for too long. So don't think I'm a callous and horrible person for questioning whether the search for Vivi should continue. I mean, I watched The Incredible Journey more than a few times as a kid and it seems to me that if a pet wants to come home, it will try to get there. When that's not possible, it will at least allow itself to be brought home by those who want to help it. But Vivi doesn't seem to want to be helped. And this has been one hell of a tough pill to take for the throngs of people who have joined the search for Vivi.

A recent L.A. Times article included the following quote from Bobbi Giordano, an animal rescue worker from Queens, on the emotional toll that the suspense of the hunt has taken on its participants: "It's like alcoholism....You just have to find out where, when, why. It's an obsession now. I don't think it has to do with the breed, or that it's a famous dog or anything. I don't even think it's the money anymore. I think it's just the love." Some, like Oklahoma pet detective Karen Goin, worry that the mean streets of New York may be too tough for the coddled California canine. Goin told the Times: "She's displaced, and has no bonds to anybody here....I've lived in cities, and I can assure you: New York was very different to me, and I'm a human."

It's a bizarre case of the hunter hunted, with people leaving out large hunks of cooked meat and other treats in the hopes that the troubled pooch can be lured back to captivity. The monetary reward that has recently been offered for Vivi has drawn some pragmatic Queens residents to the search who might not otherwise volunteer to wrangle a $15,000 whippet. Witness the following anecdote from the Times:

"Posters throughout the area advertise a $5,000 reward, which has brought another wave of searchers onto the scene. Among them is Vinny Chieffo, a cake delivery man, who has been scanning wooded areas after his shift ends at 3:30 a.m. Chieffo said his 14-year-old son wants to go to camp this summer, but the family could not afford it. The whippet seemed to offer an answer. "I mean, I like dogs. I'd really like to see this person get her dog back," said Chieffo, 48. "But I really need the money.""

Now that's a news headline I'd like to see: "Whippet Windfall Gives Deserving Queens Youth a First Chance at Summer Camp." It's so Dickensian, or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Unfortunately, the longer Vivi is at large, the more likely she will revert to being completely feral. I've heard most whippets live on the edge of feral-ity (?) all their lives. Maybe Vivi wants it this way. Who knows--she may turn up at a rehab clinic in Palm Springs a couple months from now, unkempt, apologetic, and ready to talk to Oprah about the whole experience. Or maybe she'll spend the rest of her life in the mountains of Idaho, her life interrupted only occasionally by fleeting reminiscences of her high-flying past.

Vivi is the veritable Patty Hearst of lost pets. The future may hold few explanations as to the reasons for her escape from civilized society. In the meantime, maybe her owners could learn to love another pet--this time one from the local humane society that has been waiting all its life to run towards a home, not away from one. I'm getting choked up just thinking about it. Jeez, no more pet blogs. It's just too damn hard. Why, Vivi, why?

Snakes on a Plane

Albeit belated, I thought it was about time I wrote an entry on Snakes on a Plane, the much ballyhooed, Samuel L. Jackson vehicle due out this August that has snowballed into the biggest blogfest of '06 (N.B.--I don't really understand why the film isn't titled Snakes on the Plane. Why the indefinite article? WHY?) Just in case anyone who happens upon this has not heard of "SOAP," or perused a sample of the mountains of fan artwork devoted to it, I thought I would pass on a couple of links. The very premise of this movie (summed up entirely in its title, true to Hollywood-high-concept-on-crack form) is just too hilarious. My personal favourite contributions to the web frenzy over SOAP include this great cartoon as well as the riff on "McArthur Park" that can be found among the fan posters on this site (you'll need to scroll down a few to see it). More fan posters created specifically around a "Snakes... fill-in-the-blank-rhymes-with-plane" format can be found here. Be forewarned that some are highly offensive due to their racist and/or homophobic content. But most are just plain wacky; the ones I like best are "Snakes Who Look the Same," "Snakes Who Shift Blame," "Snakes Who Like Train," "Snakes and Elaine" (as in Benes) and the Gretzky homage, "Snakes Used by Wayne."

It doesn't really matter what the actual SOAP movie ends up being like; the multitude of parodies it has spurred are by far more entertaining than many Hollywood films end up being these days. The next logical step for high concept moviemaking is to just do away with the films themselves. Apparently, to generate a pop culture phenomenon, all you need is a kick-ass title, a trailer, a poster, and Samuel L. Jackson. Emperor's new clothes, indeed.

I will say that I find the idea of actually being on a plane with snakes absolutely terrifying.
If it ever happened to me, I guess I'd just tuck my feet up onto my seat. That'd show those snakes. And I hope it wouldn't be on a long flight, because hell if I'm getting up to go to the bathroom if there's snakes on the plane. Hmmm--this is starting to sound more uncomfortable than terrifying. Maybe I could deal with snakes on a plane after all. But let's hope it never comes to that.

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.

Operation "Give 'R"

Canadians and Americans do a lot of things differently. Football. Health care. Same-sex marriage. The pronunciation of "foyer." The list goes on. Being a Canadian, I tend to like our way of doing things better. Sometimes I think that I should use the time that I am spending living in the U.S. to help promote the "Canadian way." But where to start? Americans have been doing things their own way for a hell of a long time now, and they don't generally have a track record of being open to foreigners' suggestions for change. So I've decided to start small. All I'm asking is that Americans try substituting one simple Canadian phrase for its lower-grade American equivalent. This move can be represented with the following equation:

"Git 'Er Done" (U.S.) = "Give 'R" (CAN)

It's that easy.

Of course, I don't expect most Americans to be easily persuaded on this straight off the bat. So here's a few reasons why one should substitute "Give 'R" for "Git 'Er Done":

1. Fewer syllables.
2. Because of 1, can be compressed into a single word/grunt more easily.
3. Fits better on a t-shirt/tank top/gimme cap.
4. Sounds more like encouragement, less like a command (hence its essential Canadianness).
5. Scientifically proven to make your buddy push your truck out of the mud up to 10 times
faster when shouted repeatedly.
6. Larry the Cable Guy: Health Inspector is going to tank at the box office--why should your
cred go down with it?

Make the switch today! I guarantee you won't be disappointed. And just for being so open-minded to Canadian ways, I'll throw in another favourite Eastern Ontario phrase that can be used interchangeably with "Give 'R": "Kick 'R Down Hard!" (KHDH)

I don't expect a revolution overnight. But that's OK--if Americans have the patience for "trickle-down" economics, I'm sure I can wait a while for this. Just go on and give 'r, boys and let the Canadian invasion begin!

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

Oh Cousin Larry...

As I look out my apartment window this grey and snowy March afternoon, I find myself searching for a little inspiration to get me through the last few weeks of slush and slop that stand between now and spring. Next to Lionel Richie songs, one of the best places to find inspiration that I've found is 80s sitcom theme song lyrics. I think the most heart-lifting of them all is "Nothing's Gonna Stop Me Now" (not to be confused with the equally praiseworthy 1987 Starship chart-topper "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now"), the theme from everyone's favourite "assimilating to American ways is fun!" sitcom, Perfect Strangers. The next time you're feeling down, just think of that lovable Balki Bartokomous, emerging triumphant from the relentless spin of the revolving door that is a metaphor for the chaos of our lives. Forge ahead, brave souls! And may the story of your life also begin with a sweeping aerial shot of the Chicago skyline. You think it matters you don't live in Chicago? In the ambiguously-accented words of the eminent Balki: "Don't be ridiculous!"

(Lyrics by Jesse Frederocl and Bennett Salvay, courtesy of www.stlyrics.com)

Sometimes the world looks perfect,
Nothing to rearrange.
Sometimes you get a feeling
Like you need some kind of change.
No matter what the odds are this time,
Nothing's going to stand in my way.
This flame in my heart,
And a long lost friend
Gives every dark street a light at the end.

Standing tall, on the wings of my dream.
Rise and fall, on the wings of my dream.

The rain and thunder
The wind and haze
I'm bound for better days.
It's my life and my dream,
Nothing's going to stop me now.

HELLO WISCONSIN!

"Stand in the place where you live...": a collection of some of the local signage on view on Madison's south and east sides.

My Vinyl: Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours"

Now that the great iPod iAge is upon us, I fear that the album may not have much of a lifespan left. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing; in 1950s and early 1960s, record sales were entirely singles-driven, which meant that you could spring for your 45 of "Monster Mash" without having to suffer through 14 additional tracks of dubious artistic merit that Bobby "Boris" Pickett never really wanted to cut in the first place. But sometime in the mid- to late 1960s, probably spurred in part by the seemingly cool, but frequently awkward and pretentious Beatles collaborations of the period, the album overtook the single as the prime currency of the music industry. Ideally, an album is more than the sum of its tracks. It has beautiful, sometimes controversial, cover art; it has personal, sometimes indecipherable, liner notes; it features a collection of songs that enter into conversation with one another, that resonate with and play off of one another; and, perhaps most important of all, an album has a production history, often sordid and laborious, the knowledge of which can give individual tracks a kind of weight and meaning that they would never carry on their own.

The album that I wish to pay homage to this evening is Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours." Its tracks hold up on their own as some of the best songwriting the 1970's had to offer, and Stevie Nicks' voice is exquisite as always. But it's the circumstances under which the band produced and toured "Rumours" that makes this album so fasincating and heart-rending to listen to. Whenever I hear "Go Your Own Way," I think of Stevie Nicks on tour, having to sing back-up to the song that Lindsey Buckingham wrote about her, while still in the midst of breaking up with him. And John McVie had to play bass on his ex-wife Christine's "You Make Loving Fun," a song she wrote about her new love. I can't think of another album that captures the moment a band emotionally imploded the way that "Rumours" did for Fleetwood Mac. And it sounds beautiful, that's the kicker--that they pulled off such flawless songs in the midst of utter dysfunction. So it is that for many years now I've been obsessed with the melodrama behind this masterpiece. It's just so...great.

The Van

Last night I returned from my trip to Vancouver, after a very Trains, Planes and Automobiles-esque travel day that involved a messed-up hotel alarm clock, a five-hour flight delay, a three-hour drive from Chicago, and a couple hundred iPod tunes. But the flight was safe and the trip was excellent. My last visit to the "city of glass" was at the age of 8 (my main memory of which was renting mountain bikes, then getting pooped on by birds in Stanley Park), so there was a lot for my narrowed, skeptical Torontonian eyes to take in. And I have to say, I loved what I saw. I read in my trusty Lonely Planet travel guide that one in eight Torontonians would gladly give up living in their city for a chance to start over in Vancouver. I'm not about to start talking that kind of crazy talk, but I would like to share some of the sights from my visit that struck me as quintessential Vancouver and contrast them with the more familiar sights of Hogtown:

The SkyTrain: The platform at Waterfront Station is so bright, airy and full of mountain-sweet air, it almost beats a weekend at the cottage. I saw a couple of teens get off the train carrying snowboards. So Vancouver! Toronto equivalent: Getting a brief glimpse of the sun at the Davisville or Old Mill TTC stations, riders bundling up for the winter sport that is waiting for your bus/streetcar transfer.

Coal Harbour/English Bay: I could not stop taking pictures of trees, mountains, boats, boats in front of mountains and trees, trees in front of mountains, etc. People were just walking their designer-clad terriers past this scenery as if it was nothing to gawk at--I guess it starts to seem normal after a while. Perhaps it even gets boring. Crazy! I was so struck by the seaside vistas that I sat on a log, watched the boats and hummed Gordon Lightfoot songs. Toronto equivalent: That's a tough one, as mountains and ocean are hard to compensate for. Kew Beach in August, with the sailboats barely visible on the hazy horizon of Lake Ontario, would have to be my pick. Just don't swim in the water. Or wade in it. Actually, just stay away from it altogether. That's what swimming pools and oceans are for.

Gastown: Cobblestone streets, quaint old brick buildings, Native art stores and western outfitters that got me hankering for my prospecting days. Toronto equivalent: Not being much of a Western outpost (except in the sense that it is west of Montreal), you can't really experience the same historical flavour in a Toronto neighbourhood. I guess your closest bet is the Distillery District. Alcohol played a strong part in the founding of both Toronto and Vancouver and residents continue to pay homage to this fact.

Other points of interest:

Yaletown: Snazzy retail, hipster restaurants, hot cars. Toronto equivalent: I think even an objective observer would say that Yaletown's offering of this particular combination of urban elements is modest in comparison to the ever-burgeoning King/Adelaide/Richmond entertainment district. Vancouver will get there, but well, we have more space to party. Sometimes a lack of mountains comes in handy.

Chinatown: Distinctly more old school than its Toronto counterpart. The neon signs are most excellent.

Robson Street: To a Torontonian, it's like Bloor Street and Yonge & Eg. all rolled into one, which is actually really convenient. Could we look into that?

Vancouver International Airport: It takes less than twenty minutes to get there from downtown and the drive takes you through gorgeous Kitsilano. No traffic jams on the 401, no endless maze of off-ramps to find your terminal. And inside, there's tranquil fountains and nature exhibits. The Toronto Zoo isn't near as relaxing.

So Vancouverites, all in all, you have a lovely city. I won't go into detail about the sights of Main and Hastings, which I also visited, except to note that even the most seemingly fortunate cities always have their own share of horrific social problems. That said, I've never seen anything like that area in any city I've been in Canada, the U.S. or the U.K. Hopefully it will only get better--I don't think it could possibly get worse.

Maybe it's true that one in eight Torontonians would be fickle enough to leave their home for snow-free winters and copious mountain views. I, however, I am going to have to side with the other seven crazy enough to choose heinous smog, DVP gridlock, cavernous subway stations, and having to commute to, rather than commune with, nature over West coast paradise. Why? It's just the best. That's it. It may not seem to add up, but...it does. Yes, I'm biased. But in Toronto, that's kind of par for the course.

Westward the Woman

My blog will be on a brief hiatus until next Monday, during which time I will be venturing "out West" to Vancouver. In the meantime, repeat this month's mantra as needed. I have one anecdote to report before I go, and that is that I found it highly amusing to discover that the same Gowan song, "Cosmetics," is featured in not one, but two episodes in the last season of Degrassi Junior High (the episodes are "Pa-Arty!", the one where Lucy throws a bash at her house while her parents are out, and the final graduation dance episode "Bye Bye Junior High"). I think it may have been the only song these kids ever partied up to (hey, it could be worse--it could have been Loverboy). To my American friends unfamiliar with the illustrious Gowan, he is a Canadian pop icon famed for such hits as the aforementioned "Cosmetics," as well as "Criminal Mind," "(You're A) Strange Animal," and "Moonlight Desires" (my personal favourite). Back in the pre-Chad Kroeger days of Canadian male vocalists, we were blessed with the more dulcet musical stylings brought to us by Gowan and his cohorts such as Gino Vannelli ("Hurts to Be in Love," "One More Sunset on L.A.," "Wild Horses") and Bruce Cockburn ("Lovers in a Dangerous Time," "Wondering Where the Lions Are," "Waiting for a Miracle"), not to mention pretty rocker boys Corey Hart and Bryan Adams. I distinctly remember having a CBC "Video Hits" cassette with Gowan's "Criminal Mind" on it--unfortunately, it disappeared after a party I hosted. Who would swipe a "Video Hits" cassette, I ask you? Then again, it was a pretty hot show. Every day after school, Dan Gallagher kept us on top of the pops. I think it's a good thing I'm headed back to the home and native land for a few days. When you start keening for Gowan and Dan Gallagher's Video Hits, you know you've been gone too long. "These moonlight desires haunt me, they haunt me, they haunt me..."

This Month's Mantra

Say you, say me.
Say it for always.
That's the way it should be.

Say you, say me.
Say it together, nat'rally.

-Lionel Richie, 1985.

"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.

Studies in Skid Culture #2

Re: The Skids in the Hall 23/02/2006

I am adding this post to my newly begun collection of Internet references to skid culture:

Fries with Gravy: Metal Skids Unite!

Note that G'N'R is key. More to come...

Of Pop Grammatology

While writing yesterday's post, I was reminded of one of life's great mysteries (as opposed to Father Dowling's Mysteries) that I really really really wish someone could solve and that is this:

What the hell is up with song titles with embedded parentheses?

Examples:

I'll Be Loving You (Forever)
(You Got It) The Right Stuff
Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)
(I've Had) The Time of My Life
All Night Long (All Night)
(Everything I Do) I Do It For You
(Can't Live Without Your) Love and Affection
Get Up! (Before the Night Is Over)
(It's Just) The Way That You Love Me
My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)
Whoomp! (There It Is)
I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)
Sweat (A La La La La Long)

And the list (not to mention, the beat) goes on. Perhaps the part in parentheses is secondary, like if you were writing up the song in a magazine article or high school essay (eg. 300 words on "Why I Think Nelson Is The Awesomest") you could drop that part if there wasn't enough room to print it. This makes sense in some cases, but not in others (ie. "Whoomp").

I will say that in the instance of Meatloaf's "I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That), the parentheses actually make sense grammatically. If I'm not mistaken, words in parentheses should be either explanatory or qualifying (props to the Oxford Dictionary of Current English). The qualifying thing definitely explains the Meat Loaf song, and also "I'll Be Loving You (Forever)" (those New Kids weren't going to be tied down). But the rest, not so much. (It's Just) and (I've Had)? Which episode of Schoolhouse Rock were these people toking up to?

Whether arbitrary or artistic, the only people worse than pop music songwriters about deliberately reckless punctuation are deconstructivist theorists, but their thing tends to be more the "/" than parentheses. Maybe there's some kind of punctuation turf thing going on here, I don't know. But somehow, some way, I am going to (get to the bottom of this).

Jordan Knight: I'll Be Loving You (Forever)

I have never been able to explain how particular songs get stuck in my head at various points during the day and have ceased to be alarmed at the zany randomness of this phenomenon. So it was that around 10:15 am this morning I found the New Kids on the Block's "I'll Be Loving You (Forever)" looping incessantly through my mind. I actually haven't listened to this song nearly half as many times as most other women of my generation--not because I was not a consummate "New Kids" fan (had my life gone according to the master plan I devised at age nine, Jordan Knight and I would have now been happily married for approximately eight years, ten if the plan had involved getting married in Tennessee, which it didn't), but because I feared that by listening to my New Kids tapes too often, I might somehow damage them and suffer the horrible fate of never being able to listen to them again.

Despite my cautious listening habits, I did become intensely familiar with the entire New Kids canon. While I would not be likely to defend the artistic merit of many of their songs now that my pre-teen obsession with them is long past, I stand by the quality of Knight's solid interpretation of 1970s soul ballad style. His cover of the Delfonics' "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time)" (a deep cut on the "Step By Step" album) is bang-on as far as vocal stylings go--the only problem is the late 1980s pop slickness of its instrumentals sadly pales in comparison to the rich, melodramatic strings of the original (which I intend to put on my turntable as soon as I complete this blog--damn, that's a good song).

The point is, however, that it is one of the gross injustices of the American music industry that Jordan Knight's singing career had to go down on the same ship as the rest of the members of New Kids on the Block. Thankfully, Donnie Wahlberg's acting career was somewhat salvaged, due to the near-miraculous comeback from early 1990s cheesedom pulled off by his younger brother. It hardly seems fair that a guy who went by "Markie Mark," hung out with the "Funky Bunch," churned out C + C Music Factory rip-offs and got famous on the gimmick of dropping trou with abandon now has an A-list movie career, while the very talented, and much classier, Jordan Knight is stuck playing this evening at the Blue Chip Casino in Michigan City, Indiana.

It seems to me that in certain situations, there should be a statute of limitations on boy band excesses. I would like to cite the Justin Timberlake precedent and argue that Jordan Knight has repaid his debt to popular culture and deserves to be redeemed. The guy can really sing--which is more than can be said for most pop idols, past or present. If you have any doubts, I can lend you my pristine New Kids cassette collection. Then again, I'd rather not. Just take my word for it. Oh yeah--and he's still pretty cute too.

The Skids in the Hall

At my high school, one of the most well-defined, and most populous, demographic groups was the "skids." Thinking back, it is clear to me that calling someone a "skid" was a highly offensive thing to do. I don't really know where the phrase comes from, but it is pretty obvious that it must be in some way derived from "skid row" and thus laden with derogatory class connotations. But I don't remember the "skids" being defined entirely according to class. And if you were a skid, it wasn't really an insult to be called one; skids frequently referred to themselves as such. All this does not exonerate the wrongness of the term--if any skids happen to be reading this blog, please take this as an open apology for any injury our collective use of this term caused you. That said, the origins and definition of the term itself deserve further exploration.

Strangely, the meaning that "skid" took on in my high school's vernacular are not easily located in dictionaries or even websites devoted to Canadian slang. Evidently, "skid" is a narrowly regional term, but I believe that the individuals to whom this term refers are far more ubiquitous. The fictional characters that most accurately capture the skid persona are Wayne Campbell and Garth Algar--no coincidence I'm sure, as Mike Myers must have known a few skids growing up in Scarborough, Ontario. To my memory, identifying characteristics of skids include the following:

Music tastes: Heavy metal (eg. Warrant, Motley Crue, Metallica), occasionally country

Dress code-Guys: Ripped jeans, metal band/beer t-shirts under plaid flannel long-sleeve shirt, wallet chain, frayed baseball cap with beer/agricultural product logo, tattoos

Dress code-Chix: Skin tight jeans, tall boots, cleavage-baring tops, large hoop earrings, leather bomber jackets, tattoos

Hair-Guys: Mullet

Hair-Chix: Mullet or big and long (a la Pam Anderson)

Vehicles: Trucks, ski-doos (snowmobiles), or most commonly, truck carrying ski-doo in back

Beverages: Two-four

TV Programs: Pro wrestling, Baywatch, Cops

Leisure activities: Smoking, ski-dooing, field/pit parties, fornicating, fighting, vandalism

Celebrity mentors-Guys: McKenzie Brothers, Axl Rose

Celebrity mentors-Chix: Pamela Anderson, Lita Ford

What I want to know is, if there were/are individuals who more or less matched this profile at your high school, did/do they call themselves "skids"? If not, how are they designated? And if you yourself were a skid, did you wear the label with pride, or did you deeply resent it? The time has come for some serious inter/intra-skid dialogue, so crank some Ozzy, crack open some brews, pull up a seat by the bonfire and let it all out.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Bond Fan's Scorn

There is a lot of anger out there in the world, but little did I know until today how much of that anger can be attributed to the hordes of James Bond fans who are getting ready to boycott Casino Royale because of how un-Bondworthy they believe Daniel Craig (the new Bond) to be. An entire movement is mobilizing against the poor bloke on www.craignotbond.com. Sample withering criticisms include:

"the bottom of the barrel"

"skinny, craggy and wholly unimpressive" (craggy Craig! Sorry, it had to be done)

"extraordinarily less handsome and charismatic than any one of the men who played Bond"

And...

"a round 0 out of 10, a number that surely matches his moon-faced countenance!"

Ouch. Not since the debut of America's Next Top Model has such a sweltering blow been dealt to the age-old happy-fuzzy axiom "It's what's on the inside that counts." Apparently Bond is in the eye of the beholder. If the anti-Craig movement wins the day and forces Eon/MGM/Sony to re-open the casting call for the next instalment in the series, I believe they should look no further than Colin Farrell to re-vamp Bond for the next decade of the new millenium. Farrell shares many qualities with the current International Bond Standard (IBS), that being Sean Connery (no arguments accepted, challenges may be forwarded to the International Bond Tribunal in the Hague): both speak with sexy brogues, both are tall, dark and handsome, and both definitely have a way with the ladies. Farrell's casting would necessitate that a few small changes be made to the classic Bond persona: the vodka martini, shaken not stirred would be replaced by pints of Guinness, 007's suave, sophisticated Bondspeak would be infused with copious profanity, and he may become embroiled in more than a few pesky sex tape scandals. But having Farrell as the new Bond would re-vitalize the screen hero's image and perhaps do worlds of good for Anglo-Irish relations. And, I have no doubt, should the Bond fanatics behind the current backlash against Daniel Craig decide to attack Farrell, they would likely get as good as they gave, and then some. So there's my vote for who the new Bond should be. In the meantime, can someone give this Daniel Craig guy a hug? He has feelings too. After all, it's not easy being Bond...

Where's My Stash?

Much like the cropped mesh tank top, the mullet and tiger-striped Zubas pants, it seems like the moustache (or "stash," as it's colloquially termed) has become obsolescent from men's fashion. While we may not question the rightness of the former items' expulsion from the hip male's style lexicon, I believe the stash is a more complicated case and as such is deserving of a moment's reflection. Without a doubt, in its heyday, the well-groomed stash was a symbol of swashbuckling virility. Cases in point: Chuck Norris, Tom Berenger, Rob Reiner, Barney Miller, Mr. Kotter, Lionel Richie, Lanny McDonald, Larry Csonka...the list goes on. Of course, the ultimate Stash belonged to Tom Selleck as Magnum, P.I. (N.B.--I never really understood why Richard Dean Anderson didn't follow his lead where the stash was concerned, as it would have been particularly cool for MacGyver to have been able to pull the odd toothpick or safety pin out of his stash in a hairy situation). I believe the death knell for the stash sounded that fateful day in 2001 the world's other eminent stash icon, Alex Trebek, chose to lose his. True, he grew it back, and other prominent stashes, such as those sported by Prince and Victor on the Young and the Restless have never left us. But it seems to me that unless one sports an authentic, vintage stash (ie. one that dates back to circa 1987), one cannot now have a stash whose glory is not tainted by the trappings of post-modern irony (incidentally, "moustache" and "pastiche" sound a lot alike). Could the stash one day rise again? If so, who should be its saviour? Bono? (no--he has enough on his plate already) Prime Minister Stephen Harper? Simon Cowell? George Clooney? Hold the phone--there's an idea. Is there anything George Clooney can't do, really? He even gave the stash a trial run in O Brother, Where Art Thou? (and as I recall, it was pretty stash-tastic). Alright, I hereby leave it to George Clooney to single-handedly resurrect the stash to its former glory. If he could only manage to simultaneously banish the soul patch in the process, all would be right with the world.