I think it's high time music industry bigwigs rediscovered a rare and much underappreciated genre: the pop male vocalist duet. Pop duets in general flourished in the 1980s, which was also the period in which the pop male vocalist duet reached its zenith, with the release of the two most undisputedly awesome pop male vocalist duets of all time:
To All the Girls I've Loved Before - Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias
The Girl is Mine - Michael ("I'm a lover, not a fighter") Jackson and Paul McCartney
Let's just take a moment, shall we, and bask in the glory of those two masterpieces.
OK, moving on--it's time for the pop male vocalist duet to make its triumphant return on the contemporary music scene. For those studly male pop stars out there keen to take the plunge, I will disclose to you the secret of pop male vocalist duet success: the more incongruous the duet pairing, the higher the Grammy-winning potential. Here's a few couplings that I think might just have the makings for pop male vocalist duet magic:
Justin Timberlake and Clay Aiken
Bono and Axl Rose
Ricky Martin and Toby Keith
Usher and Kid Rock
You get the idea. It's a one-way ticket to solid gold.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Just messin' with ya, eh!
Above: The classic rabbit-duck optical illusion
Below: The Canadian version
What do you see?
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Submit to IKEA
Last weekend, I went through a rite of passage that I'd been putting off ever since crossing the twentysomething threshold quite some time ago: I made my first trip to Ikea. I wasn't particularly insecure about my status as an Ikea virgin. In fact, I was quite content that way. But a need arose (cheap but not entirely ungodly window coverings) and I'll be darned if Ikea wasn't the most logical place to fulfill it. Or so it seemed.
Once I realized I needed to go to Ikea, I couldn't fight my anti-Ikea feeling anymore. You could say I'd forgotten what I was fighting for. At any rate, let the record show that my capitulation was not the result of peer pressure from any Ikea-slut friends. I went willingly, and of my own accord. And in true yuppie fashion, I drove my car. Because you never know what gigantic, unwieldy boxes you might end up bringing home from Ikea, once it gets its seductive, Swedish modern claws into you.
The parking lot alone was enough to start me questioning the decency of humanity. The entrance was congested with kindergarteners and over-eager parents, lining up in front of a large sign that stated that the wait for entry to the kids' play area was 30 minutes. Shuddering, I looked at the nearest store map and tried to locate the "textiles" section. I soon realized, with horror, that Ikea is modeled on the Honest Ed's floor plan: one entrance, one exit, and miles of non-negotiable, retail rat maze in between. Except no gefilte fish here.
Like many of my generation before me, I surrendered to Ikea's will and began trekking through the various showrooms. Not surprisingly, many people had apparently given up on shopping altogether and were instead taking up residence in the rooms: reading the fake books on the shelves, putting their feet up, noshing on meatballs and lingonberry sauce. Most surreal of all were the various young, attractive couples wandering the floor together hand-in-hand, pausing here at a "Hensvik" bookcase, there at a set of "Lisbet" pot holders, and staring into each other's eyes dreamily. I had a bizarre thought: Ikea stroll as foreplay? Whatever gets you through the night/TV & media solutions section, I suppose.
I hustled my way downstairs, eventually arriving at the curtain display I'd been seeking. I took some time to browse and was pleasantly surprised to find something close to what I'd been looking for. Positive feeling towards Ikea started to wash over me. Maybe I shouldn't have hurried through the showrooms, I thought. Maybe there was more, so much more, that Ikea could offer me.
But then I happened to glance across the aisle to where a cute, earnest couple stood locked in battle over a bin of "Ekvator" curtain rings. The loving looks I'd seen them exchanging before had completely disappeared; now, their voices were escalating in ever-sharper tones, their body-language increasingly confrontational (eg. demonstrative wielding of the "Lill" curtain rods). And then it became clear to me. Ikea may seem like it can help you. It might seem like your friend. But eventually, Ikea will break you. It turns children against parents, friends against friends, and lovers against lovers. So be forewarned. I got out, with my sanity and my relationship intact. But I was lucky. And I'm not going back a second time.
But if I do, I'm taking the subway.
Once I realized I needed to go to Ikea, I couldn't fight my anti-Ikea feeling anymore. You could say I'd forgotten what I was fighting for. At any rate, let the record show that my capitulation was not the result of peer pressure from any Ikea-slut friends. I went willingly, and of my own accord. And in true yuppie fashion, I drove my car. Because you never know what gigantic, unwieldy boxes you might end up bringing home from Ikea, once it gets its seductive, Swedish modern claws into you.
The parking lot alone was enough to start me questioning the decency of humanity. The entrance was congested with kindergarteners and over-eager parents, lining up in front of a large sign that stated that the wait for entry to the kids' play area was 30 minutes. Shuddering, I looked at the nearest store map and tried to locate the "textiles" section. I soon realized, with horror, that Ikea is modeled on the Honest Ed's floor plan: one entrance, one exit, and miles of non-negotiable, retail rat maze in between. Except no gefilte fish here.
Like many of my generation before me, I surrendered to Ikea's will and began trekking through the various showrooms. Not surprisingly, many people had apparently given up on shopping altogether and were instead taking up residence in the rooms: reading the fake books on the shelves, putting their feet up, noshing on meatballs and lingonberry sauce. Most surreal of all were the various young, attractive couples wandering the floor together hand-in-hand, pausing here at a "Hensvik" bookcase, there at a set of "Lisbet" pot holders, and staring into each other's eyes dreamily. I had a bizarre thought: Ikea stroll as foreplay? Whatever gets you through the night/TV & media solutions section, I suppose.
I hustled my way downstairs, eventually arriving at the curtain display I'd been seeking. I took some time to browse and was pleasantly surprised to find something close to what I'd been looking for. Positive feeling towards Ikea started to wash over me. Maybe I shouldn't have hurried through the showrooms, I thought. Maybe there was more, so much more, that Ikea could offer me.
But then I happened to glance across the aisle to where a cute, earnest couple stood locked in battle over a bin of "Ekvator" curtain rings. The loving looks I'd seen them exchanging before had completely disappeared; now, their voices were escalating in ever-sharper tones, their body-language increasingly confrontational (eg. demonstrative wielding of the "Lill" curtain rods). And then it became clear to me. Ikea may seem like it can help you. It might seem like your friend. But eventually, Ikea will break you. It turns children against parents, friends against friends, and lovers against lovers. So be forewarned. I got out, with my sanity and my relationship intact. But I was lucky. And I'm not going back a second time.
But if I do, I'm taking the subway.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Our home and native...stuff
While civic duty dictates that I should be reading up on candidates in the upcoming Toronto municipal elections, I've come across a far more interesting democratic process in which to participate, and that is CBC's The Greatest Canadian Invention. 50 candidates have been selected, and you can vote on your favourite on the show's website. The results will air in early January 2007.
Here's a brief list of some of my preferred nominees:
1. The CPR mannequin: Not only integral to life-saving instruction, but also to making the swimming classes of one's youth a hell of a lot less awkward.
2. The fog horn: One of the greatest sounds ever, second only to the "Dixie" car horn.
3. The synthesizer: Need I say more?
There are also some inventions that could arguably be nominated as teams, such as:
1. The retractable beer carton handle and the Ski-Doo
2. The Wonderbra and the zipper
3. Poutine and the Bloody Caesar (OK, that one's pushing it)
Even if you don't get around to voting, be sure to check out the TV ads that the CBC is currently running to promote the show. They feature Margaret Atwood stating that the greatest Canadian invention is the caulking gun. Rad.
Here's a brief list of some of my preferred nominees:
1. The CPR mannequin: Not only integral to life-saving instruction, but also to making the swimming classes of one's youth a hell of a lot less awkward.
2. The fog horn: One of the greatest sounds ever, second only to the "Dixie" car horn.
3. The synthesizer: Need I say more?
There are also some inventions that could arguably be nominated as teams, such as:
1. The retractable beer carton handle and the Ski-Doo
2. The Wonderbra and the zipper
3. Poutine and the Bloody Caesar (OK, that one's pushing it)
Even if you don't get around to voting, be sure to check out the TV ads that the CBC is currently running to promote the show. They feature Margaret Atwood stating that the greatest Canadian invention is the caulking gun. Rad.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Tickle Me Emo
What with tomorrow marking back-to-school for another crop of teenage freaks and geeks, the weekend news was peppered with a charming array of head-wagging, fist-shaking "Kids these days" types of articles. One of the most interesting of these was an article that appeared in the Toronto Sun this past Sunday on the definition of emo culture.
To my mind, emo is a relatively new-fangled cultural phenomenon. I'm familiar with Eno (as in Brian, or "Bubbly bubbly") and enamoured of E.L.O. (more on that later), but emo...it just sounded to me like yet another cool-kid thing that I was destined not to understand. From the scant research that I have thus far conducted into the topic, I have gleaned that to be "emo" is to possess a flair for the melodramatic, shrewd thrift-store shopping savvy, and an iPod packed with songs recorded by bands with names that sound like titles of sappy teen romance novels (eg. "Further Seems Forever," "Funeral For a Friend," "Matchbook Romance").
After taking a brief look into what I might be missing with respect to emo, I've decided that its particular cultural niche would be better filled by a revival of 1970s rock opera. Personally, I think that when it comes to music, "emotional hardcore" is more satisfyingly associated with the rockin' yet plaintive overtures of Meat Loaf, E.L.O., or some deep cuts from the Xanadu soundtrack. Pair that with a roller rink and some Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and you've got yourself one over-the-top, heart-swelling experience. If kids these days could only appreciate that, well, we'd have nothing to worry about.
To my mind, emo is a relatively new-fangled cultural phenomenon. I'm familiar with Eno (as in Brian, or "Bubbly bubbly") and enamoured of E.L.O. (more on that later), but emo...it just sounded to me like yet another cool-kid thing that I was destined not to understand. From the scant research that I have thus far conducted into the topic, I have gleaned that to be "emo" is to possess a flair for the melodramatic, shrewd thrift-store shopping savvy, and an iPod packed with songs recorded by bands with names that sound like titles of sappy teen romance novels (eg. "Further Seems Forever," "Funeral For a Friend," "Matchbook Romance").
After taking a brief look into what I might be missing with respect to emo, I've decided that its particular cultural niche would be better filled by a revival of 1970s rock opera. Personally, I think that when it comes to music, "emotional hardcore" is more satisfyingly associated with the rockin' yet plaintive overtures of Meat Loaf, E.L.O., or some deep cuts from the Xanadu soundtrack. Pair that with a roller rink and some Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and you've got yourself one over-the-top, heart-swelling experience. If kids these days could only appreciate that, well, we'd have nothing to worry about.
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.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
That's Hot?
So I heard the new Paris Hilton song the other day. And...I don't hate it.
This is not a good sign.
This is not a good sign.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Vice Patrol
With Miami Vice receiving its big-screen revival this summer, I thought I would take a moment to spotlight an oft-overlooked echelon of the Miami Vice franchise: the fantabulous music careers of Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas.
I'll start with P.M.T. (not to be confused with "P.Y.T.", or any other Michael Jackson-penned acronym), whose music, as it happens, is a rare and expensive commodity these days. For example, a copy of his 1988 album Somebody will run you $69.99 on Amazon.com. Perhaps Thomas himself purchased all but two existing copies of the album--that's the only way to explain this phenomenon. Copies of his 1985 breakout album, Living the Book of My Life, are even harder to track down. Apparently he got hold of all of those.
(P.M.T. F.Y.I.: Thomas's pre-Miami Vice screen credits include playing the role of 'Stix' in Sparkle (1976, opposite Irene Cara, I should add) and the role of 'Purvis Mapes' in Mr. Ricco (1975, not to be confused, of course, with Uncle Rico).
Don Johnson fared somewhat better with his musical escapades, as those of you who hold fond memories of his 1986 rockfest Heartbeat will attest. Anyone doubting Johnson's crooner cred need look no further for proof of his success than his duet with Barbra Streisand, "Till I Loved You." You think Streisand duets grow on trees? Nuh-uh. (OK, so they were dating at the time. Streisand flings aren't easy to come by either).
If there's anyone who's not too cheesed out to read any further at this point, might I direct you to this snazzy Don Johnson fan discography. Note the particularly precious tank top/Vans combo he's got going on. 80ss fashion icon, folks. OK, I'm stopping now. I promise.
I'll start with P.M.T. (not to be confused with "P.Y.T.", or any other Michael Jackson-penned acronym), whose music, as it happens, is a rare and expensive commodity these days. For example, a copy of his 1988 album Somebody will run you $69.99 on Amazon.com. Perhaps Thomas himself purchased all but two existing copies of the album--that's the only way to explain this phenomenon. Copies of his 1985 breakout album, Living the Book of My Life, are even harder to track down. Apparently he got hold of all of those.
(P.M.T. F.Y.I.: Thomas's pre-Miami Vice screen credits include playing the role of 'Stix' in Sparkle (1976, opposite Irene Cara, I should add) and the role of 'Purvis Mapes' in Mr. Ricco (1975, not to be confused, of course, with Uncle Rico).
Don Johnson fared somewhat better with his musical escapades, as those of you who hold fond memories of his 1986 rockfest Heartbeat will attest. Anyone doubting Johnson's crooner cred need look no further for proof of his success than his duet with Barbra Streisand, "Till I Loved You." You think Streisand duets grow on trees? Nuh-uh. (OK, so they were dating at the time. Streisand flings aren't easy to come by either).
If there's anyone who's not too cheesed out to read any further at this point, might I direct you to this snazzy Don Johnson fan discography. Note the particularly precious tank top/Vans combo he's got going on. 80ss fashion icon, folks. OK, I'm stopping now. I promise.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
The "Awww" Factor
As I've been residing stateside since the start of July, it's been a few weeks now since I last saw an episode of Canadian Idol. However, I've been keeping up with the results online and I'm happy to report that my favourite contestant in this year's competition, Tyler Lewis, is still burning it up in the Top 9.
Why do I think this kid should be the next Canadian Idol? First of all, he can sing. But more importantly, it's all about the "Awww" factor. Just check out these snippets from Tyler's brief bio on Idol's website and you'll see what I mean:
-He's 20 years old (Awww!)
-He's from Saskatchewan (Awww!)
-He would love to have the chance to see Bon Jovi or Guns 'n' Roses in concert (Awww! I guess that's pretty rare in rural Saskatchewan)
-His dream is to have a career like Bryan Adams (Awww!)
-He's a huge fan of both steak and potatoes and his belt buckle that sports a beer bottle opener (Awww! Cute and practical!)
-The song that best describes him? "Small Town, Big Dreams" (Awww!)
Plus, as I recall from the first episode on which Tyler appeared, he plays hockey and he can drive a tractor (Awww! and Awww!). If that's not a red-blooded Canadian boy, I don't know what is.
I realize that the "Awww" factor is not nearly as potent for the guys in the Canadian Idol audience (assuming there are any) as it is for the gals. However, if Don Cherry was a fan of the show (and hey, anything's possible), I'm certain he'd back Tyler all the way. This kid is the Dougie Gilmour of Idol crooning.
So my fellow countrymen and women, I exhort you to cast your votes for Tyler Lewis. It will put a feeling of gladness in your heart and you'll be doing Canada proud by selecting a talented Idol for its citizens. Plus, he's really really cute. Did I mention that already?
Monday, July 31, 2006
Pam Gets Rocked
Congratulations are in order for Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock, who threw one fabulous party in St. Tropez today to celebrate their not-quite-yet-legal marriage. In keeping with Canadian tradition, the bride wore a white string bikini. According to Pam's website, "Pics will be out soon, from inside the boat we took." Uh-oh. Pam + amorous husband + boat...
All the best to the happy couple, but let's hope they left the camcorder at home.
All the best to the happy couple, but let's hope they left the camcorder at home.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Studs With Studs: Discuss
Question: What is the status of the earring in men's fashion these days? Has there been some kind of edict on this in the past five or six years?
Previously worn exclusively by pirates and Ziggy Stardust, the earring became a must-have male accessory around the time I was in the sixth grade (ca. 1990). Made impossibly cool by the likes of the Fresh Prince, the New Kids on the Block, Marky Mark and David Silver (OK, not such a good example), ear-piercing was all the rage among pre-teen boys, taking over where the rat-tail haircut left off (props to Jordan Knight for carrying the rat-tail torch into the 1990s). Fathers everywhere were cursing the day their sons came home with that shiny new gold hoop earring in their left ear. To my recollection, the left ear was the only acceptable ear to get pierced at this time. Getting one's right ear pierce was to risk utter and complete social alienation--that is, until it started to be cool to have both ears pierced. Then all hell broke loose (eg. Dennis Rodman).
It seems to me that the dark ages of the male earring started when AARP members like Ed Bradley and Harrison Ford starting sporting studs. That, and the freaky-freaky stage get-ups of such music artists as Marilyn Manson and Trent Reznor started to make guys who wore earrings look about as bad-ass as Ward Cleaver (actually, I take that back--Ward Cleaver was pretty bad-ass on occasion).
In the three minutes I spent researching this post, I couldn't really find a clear answer on whether the male earring is still cool these days. What I did find was a 1998 Ebony article that cites examples of famous earring-wearers such as "trendsetting actor Malcolm-Jamal Warner" (aka Theo) to make the point that earrings are completely acceptable accessories for men.
The theologians among my readers (?) might be curious to learn that I found two articles that offer biblical answers to the question of whether men should wear earrings. This article makes the argument that men wearing earrings makes God angry. But this other article on the same subject is more wishy-washy. To be honest, I found both quite frightening.
So I will leave this question unanswered. Unlike bandannas, there is no clear right or wrong when it comes to earrings and men's fashion. I think the issue has to be painstakingly reviewed on a case-by-case basis. Now, the rat-tail, on the other hand--dudes need to bring that back.
Previously worn exclusively by pirates and Ziggy Stardust, the earring became a must-have male accessory around the time I was in the sixth grade (ca. 1990). Made impossibly cool by the likes of the Fresh Prince, the New Kids on the Block, Marky Mark and David Silver (OK, not such a good example), ear-piercing was all the rage among pre-teen boys, taking over where the rat-tail haircut left off (props to Jordan Knight for carrying the rat-tail torch into the 1990s). Fathers everywhere were cursing the day their sons came home with that shiny new gold hoop earring in their left ear. To my recollection, the left ear was the only acceptable ear to get pierced at this time. Getting one's right ear pierce was to risk utter and complete social alienation--that is, until it started to be cool to have both ears pierced. Then all hell broke loose (eg. Dennis Rodman).
It seems to me that the dark ages of the male earring started when AARP members like Ed Bradley and Harrison Ford starting sporting studs. That, and the freaky-freaky stage get-ups of such music artists as Marilyn Manson and Trent Reznor started to make guys who wore earrings look about as bad-ass as Ward Cleaver (actually, I take that back--Ward Cleaver was pretty bad-ass on occasion).
In the three minutes I spent researching this post, I couldn't really find a clear answer on whether the male earring is still cool these days. What I did find was a 1998 Ebony article that cites examples of famous earring-wearers such as "trendsetting actor Malcolm-Jamal Warner" (aka Theo) to make the point that earrings are completely acceptable accessories for men.
The theologians among my readers (?) might be curious to learn that I found two articles that offer biblical answers to the question of whether men should wear earrings. This article makes the argument that men wearing earrings makes God angry. But this other article on the same subject is more wishy-washy. To be honest, I found both quite frightening.
So I will leave this question unanswered. Unlike bandannas, there is no clear right or wrong when it comes to earrings and men's fashion. I think the issue has to be painstakingly reviewed on a case-by-case basis. Now, the rat-tail, on the other hand--dudes need to bring that back.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
You Go, Lance!
Today, former N'Sync member Lance Bass officially came out, making the following statement to the media:
“The thing is, I’m not ashamed — that’s the one thing I want to say. I don’t think it’s wrong, I’m not devastated going through this. I’m more liberated and happy than I’ve been my whole life. I’m just happy.”
You know, I never was much of an N'Sync fan, but this was one of the most heartwarming news stories I've heard all week. You go, Lance!
“The thing is, I’m not ashamed — that’s the one thing I want to say. I don’t think it’s wrong, I’m not devastated going through this. I’m more liberated and happy than I’ve been my whole life. I’m just happy.”
You know, I never was much of an N'Sync fan, but this was one of the most heartwarming news stories I've heard all week. You go, Lance!
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.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Studies in Skid Culture #3
So I've been kinda sorta neglecting my blog lately. To my tight-knit cadre of devoted readers, I apologize. Other writing projects, a testy dial-up internet connection, and the new season of Canadian Idol have all conspired to derail my once-regular ranting schedule. That, and I've been busy catching up on the local culture in my hometown, an entertaining, oftentimes scintillating, yet time-consuming task.
Just in case you thought I was indulging in a bit of poetic license in my first entry on skid culture a couple months back, I have recently gathered much empirical evidence that the skid community is still indeed alive and well around these parts. For example, when I was walking out of Swiss Chalet last night after dinner, I witnessed a truckload of skids drive into the local Tim Horton's (conveniently located across the street from Swiss Chalet). True to form, the boys had a rusted-out Skidoo in the back of their pickup truck. In the middle of June. I kid you not. They were hollering unintelligbly but gleefully out the windows as they drove past, perhaps in anticipation of picking up a few limited-time-only strawberry tarts from Timmie's along with their double-doubles.
Sometimes this place is just too Canadian to be true. I have to say, it's great to be home.
Just in case you thought I was indulging in a bit of poetic license in my first entry on skid culture a couple months back, I have recently gathered much empirical evidence that the skid community is still indeed alive and well around these parts. For example, when I was walking out of Swiss Chalet last night after dinner, I witnessed a truckload of skids drive into the local Tim Horton's (conveniently located across the street from Swiss Chalet). True to form, the boys had a rusted-out Skidoo in the back of their pickup truck. In the middle of June. I kid you not. They were hollering unintelligbly but gleefully out the windows as they drove past, perhaps in anticipation of picking up a few limited-time-only strawberry tarts from Timmie's along with their double-doubles.
Sometimes this place is just too Canadian to be true. I have to say, it's great to be home.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Deja Retro
So I'm back home in Ontario for a couple of weeks--loving the new season of Canadian Idol, Seamus O'Reagan in the mornings, and easy access to Tim Horton's maple swirl doughnuts, but not so much the dial-up internet access that goes with my old rural stomping grounds. But I don't mind being patient with my connection tonight because I am enjoying a favourite Sunday night ritual of mine, 102.1 The Edge's Sunday night retro show. Back in the day, the broadcast was from Whiskey Saigon (a club which always sounded way more fun on the radio than it actually was), but has since switched venues to a favourite undergrad haunt of mine, The Velvet Underground. I have no idea what the Velvet is like these days, as it's been many moons since I hauled my black fishnet tights/Doc Martens-clad feet onto its dance floor. But it used to be a pretty good time (even though it never quite matched the Dance Cave).
For the record (and this should surprise no one who's read this blog before), I was into retro way before retro was cool. As a teenager in the mid-1990s, I made a serious effort to become a self-educated New Wave aficianado. While many of my peers were digging Dave Matthews, Alanis Morissette or (insert Sideshow Bob shudder), Hootie and the Blowfish, I was stocking my music library with ABC, Human League, Bowie, the Cure, Duran Duran, General Public, Howard Jones, Joy Division, New Order, Pet Shop Boys, the Psychedelic Furs, Simple Minds, the Smiths, Split Enz, the Talking Heads, Talk Talk, and the Violent Femmes. At the time, the Edge's Sunday night retro show was the only place you could hear any of this stuff on the radio. Now of course any adult contemporary/pop station worth its salt has some kind of cheeseball 80s request hour on its daily programming schedule. But the Edge is still the best place to hear consistently good 80s music in a retro show. I highly recommend tuning in--you won't be disappointed. Unless 80s New Wave/ska/punk music is just totally not up your alley. But how can that be possible?
For the record (and this should surprise no one who's read this blog before), I was into retro way before retro was cool. As a teenager in the mid-1990s, I made a serious effort to become a self-educated New Wave aficianado. While many of my peers were digging Dave Matthews, Alanis Morissette or (insert Sideshow Bob shudder), Hootie and the Blowfish, I was stocking my music library with ABC, Human League, Bowie, the Cure, Duran Duran, General Public, Howard Jones, Joy Division, New Order, Pet Shop Boys, the Psychedelic Furs, Simple Minds, the Smiths, Split Enz, the Talking Heads, Talk Talk, and the Violent Femmes. At the time, the Edge's Sunday night retro show was the only place you could hear any of this stuff on the radio. Now of course any adult contemporary/pop station worth its salt has some kind of cheeseball 80s request hour on its daily programming schedule. But the Edge is still the best place to hear consistently good 80s music in a retro show. I highly recommend tuning in--you won't be disappointed. Unless 80s New Wave/ska/punk music is just totally not up your alley. But how can that be possible?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)