Friday, April 17, 2015

An Open Letter To Ms. E, aka, Ellen Etchingham

So here it is, third day into playoff season, and I'm already digging my trenches for a prolonged social media flame-war over violence in hockey. I'm an enlightened, sensitive sort: no place for it on the ice, sez I. Now there are some who say I don't know balls from pucks, so I work myself up into high dudgeon, begin composing a response to the tune of, "Look, Herr Troglodyte: hockey is an evolving sport. If you don't believe me, just consult the eminently wise and super-informed Ms. E., over at her pro blog. Link to follow:"

My reaction?

Followed by an hour of frantic searching for cached sites of those postings. Alas, such were not to be found. It seems you have been reduced to a Twitter feed, and the occasional spirited exchange with ... Colby Cosh? Say it ain't so!

I mean, not the Colby Cosh part -- he's a blowhard, enjoys a good tussle, so hey: go, E., go. And I am grateful for the archival trove you and Google have left intact. But the stuff you wrote for The Score was primo material, E. Most of it transcended -- way transcended -- the immediate concerns of embroiled hockey fans watching from the stands and sucking on their sweater-sleeves. It had djenn-yoo-wine historical perspective, the heat of true love and the cold steel of informed conviction. It had snap and vigour, and to casually-engaged readers it connected like a hay-maker to the chops. Responses were either wild and foolish swings from the punch-drunk, or the "No mas" of the wiser combatant -- there was no third way.

We need that material, E. -- now more than ever. Surely your agent has worked out a deal with Random-Penguin? Or, failing that, couldn't you assign some minion to format these pieces for self-published glory? I, for one, commit to purchasing a copy for the reference libraries of every household in my extended family. That's, uh ... fifteen copies -- plus another dozen (no, make that fifteen, for an even thirty -- to begin with, of course), to inflict on unsuspecting newcomers.

Please, E., for the love of hockey -- re-release that material.

You're our only hope.

Sincerely -- W.P.

Friday, April 10, 2015

A Walk Among The Tombstones

This isn't the sort of review that would ruin my initial viewing of any movie, but it does contain mild spoilers, so consider yourself warned.

I recently watched the duration of A Walk Among The Tombstones, despite the fact that it relies, heavily, on two tropes that usually qualify a movie for immediate ejection: female mutilation, and child endangerment.

Admittedly, its use of those tropes also heightened my emotional investment in the narrative. These were bad guys I really, really wanted to see "get theirs." And I was fairly confident they would, because the movie is based on a Lawrence Block novel, and though Block can be gritty and grim, he's not one to indulge in tragic conclusions.

In fact, Block was another reason why I kept watching. I've read a few of his books -- he's a deft pulper, an estimable hack. If you've been reading me for any length of time you know those are qualities I generally admire. But Block's never quite become a habit for me, because his heroes can read as so damn tough -- often too damn tough to relate to. This could be a problem in a movie like Tombstones, because once the people start talking, they're speaking vintage Block dialogue.

Enter the third reason I watched this movie to the end: Liam Neeson. When Neeson's "Matt Scudder" corners a pervy suspect, who wonders why bad things keep happening to him, Scudder simply says, "You're a weirdo." On the page, that reads as cold. But Neeson's delivery, while blunt, contains just the faintest trace of empathy, if not sympathy. It's enough to get the suspect to disclose a key revelation -- and enough to keep me watching, because I'm becoming increasingly invested in Neeson's character.

Things end where we expect them to in a movie like this -- very violently. It's not a cartoonish Taken sort of violence, either, but rather the more genuinely physical violence that Neeson displayed in Rob Roy.

Which, now that I think of it, is probably the movie that launched Neeson's improbable career as the single most convincing action star to hit the screen since Clint Eastwood.

Thursday, April 09, 2015

Closer to Ringette Closure

Easter Saturday. The elder girl took off with her mother to check in on Nana. The younger was ensconced in her room, attending to homework.

The perfect opportunity for Yours Truly to slip downstairs, get the laundry going, and engage in a little cathartic blubbering.
Gentlemen, retrieve your hankies.
I tossed the elder's ringette jerseys and equipment -- everything but the skates -- into the washer, hit "power," then sat and watched the cycle begin. And, yes, there were a few tears, some whuffling sobs, but nothing close to the head-in-hands-go-to-pieces episode I'd anticipated.

This was likely her final season of organized ringette. There's an outside chance she'll sign up again in the fall and play with some variation of the team she knows and enjoys. Were that to occur, I could envision getting lured back into the coaching staff. But a number of girls are moving on to higher ed, international travel, or some combination of the two -- the new team would be a markedly different set of girls than the one she's grown up with, so I'm not expecting it to appeal. Another option: she could join an open team in a house league, just for the joy of the game.

There's also a guy in town who's formed his own ringette league, on behalf of his university student daughter. He's a solid character I've got a lot of admiration for, but man oh man -- that strikes me as just a bit extreme. I can't help wondering if, had he not been able to add just one other daughter in his otherwise uninterrupted brood of boys, he mightn't be devoting his off-hours to some other passion. Maybe not. In any case, I won't be following his example.

Memories like this one kick-spurred the tears.

More recent memories, however, kept the floodgates from opening.

This was partially due to an absolutely sensational Ottawa tournament we'd enjoyed three years earlier. In the penultimate game, the girls pulled off an entirely unexpected win that had all the cliched elements of a sports weepie -- facing off against a larger, more aggressive (French, even!) team strongly favoured to win; coming up from behind; still down by one goal with less than two minutes left in the game; a tying goal scored by the centre-sniper; winning goal, mere seconds from the end; and above all, a depth of character that surprised everyone, including the coaches. Back at the hotel, we lit for the pool -- coaches and parents nursed drinks by the side, the girls took over the water and horsed around, not like 15- or 16-year-olds, but like they were eight years younger.

We got clobbered the next day's game, but it didn't matter.

That lightning doesn't fit inside a bottle, of course. A subtle sense of diminishing returns was almost inevitable, really. And it was helped along by growing evidence of other coaches and managers cooking circumstances to give their teams an edge -- including one idiot who swapped in a bunch of A-players, but kept the regular names on the game roster (had anyone been injured in that game, he'd have been sued into oblivion, because league insurance quite reasonably does not cover falsified rosters). Close it all off with a final tournament on the other side of the city, organized so ineptly as to suggest malign intent (cause for brooding meditation, as we painfully navigated rush hour traffic -- twice -- on Thursday, and the hours between bracketed games in the morning and evening of Good Friday(!)) and I was frankly relieved to be doing laundry while the play-offs took place 150 km to the west.

Besides, I'd been coveting my daughter's newer, lighter, more compact hockey bag for the last two years. It's daddy-o's now, heh heh!

So thanks for the bag, kiddo. And thanks for the memories. Your passion for this sport pulled me into experiences I'd never dreamed of exploring -- or enjoying -- as deeply as I did. I am one blessed dad.

I am a blessed man -- period.
To wit.
Oh, hey -- where'd that hankie go?

Wednesday, April 01, 2015


I pulled on my boots and hit the asphalt. A quarter mile out of town, a black RAV ahead of me slowed down and came to a stop. It was O__, the retired teacher. She rolled down the window.

“You walking, now?”

“Trying to get back into the habit.”

“Well, watch out for the turkeys.”

“It’s a small town, O__; you’ll bump into them sooner or later.”

“Smart ass. I’m talking about wild turkeys. Keep heading west, you’ll see ‘em.”


“Maybe take a stick with you. Or just tell ‘em another dumb joke. That might get ‘em running.” She made a point of peeling off, and I resumed my walk.

Fifteen minutes later, I spotted the birds. They’d left the ditch for a field of levelled corn. They didn’t look dangerous to me, but they were certainly large enough to pose a threat, were they of a mind to.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Rattling In My Brain Pan: The Nostalgia Circuit

I've been reminiscing with Joel how, back in '77 between viewings of Star Wars, I'd mull over the little visual garnishes George Lucas and Ralph McQuarrie lavished on that movie. Like this turrety thing -- I don't think it had more than 15 seconds of screen-time, but that was more than enough to spin the wheels of a 12-year-old's imagination throughout the weeks and months that buffered visits to the cinema in the shabby end of town. What the heck was that thing? Why was one Storm Trooper in white, the other in black? Were the black Storm Troopers even more bad-ass than the regulars? Etc.

The creative relationship between Lucas and McQuarrie was long and productive (longer and more productive, alas, than George's marriage to Marcia, who was almost certainly his best editor), and did more to get bums in seats for the increasingly dismal sequels that followed. In hindsight, the movie trailers that preceded these dud spectacles are finally the most potent distillation of what the Lucas/McQuarrie collaboration did best: suggest something fabulous up ahead. Once the lines got filled in with plot and exposition, the magic disappeared.

Which leads me to this week's discovery, via Boing Boing, of this fan's hand-drawn Star Wars animation short.
With fab poster!
Artist Paul Johnson produces a stunning mash-up of '80s anime and Star Wars, which, with its attention to detail and its absence of wooden dialog, perfectly captures what's been missing from this movie franchise: the suggestion, and formative exploration, of unplumbed depths and drama.

Matters Star Trek: over at Grantland Dave Schilling wonders if Idris Elba mightn't save Star Trek 3 from self-destructing -- a question that strikes me as so wrong-headed, I hardly know where to begin addressing it. Look, Elba is a beautiful man and terrific actor -- but so is Benedict Cumberbatch, and his best efforts did little to save the second movie from its compound defects. The most accomplished actor in the world can't take a dud role and pull an entire movie up by its bootstraps. And if you think Elba is the exception to the rule, just watch his thankless turn in Prometheus.
"I'll let my flaming little buddy here do all the emoting."
I've changed my tune somewhat on this business of "saving" Star Trek (as I am prone to do). We have a bold new look, and a brave new timeline -- now's the time to launch a corresponding television series, focusing perhaps on the crew of the USS Defiant, or some other Constitution-class starship, so that personnel from the Enterprise can drop by for the occasional tie-in episode. Because doncha know: Star Trek has been, and always will be, a concept that works best as television.

Admiral Archer is ready for his close-up.
And finally, UHF -- the only Weird Al Yankovic feature-length movie ever made, turns 25 this year. The AV Club provides an epic (and how!) oral history of the film. I found it all engaging, but if it's too much for the casual reader, just skim to the (dependably entertaining) Emo Philips bits. Example:

Interviewer: How did [real-life shops teacher Joe Earley] feel about your portrayal of his . . . name?

Philips: Well, you know, how would Alexander Graham Bell have felt if he had met Don Ameche? I'm assuming very flattered.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Culling and Mulling

This weekend we move my mother-in-law from her three-bedroom apartment, into a single room at the retirement home across town. Her destination is a lovely facility on the riverbank, with a robust culture of kinship and care. It's a good move -- which is not to say it is an easy one.

Our house has taken aboard some items, including several large boxes of family pictures. My wife will sort through them in the weeks ahead. Most of these photos are fated for the curb, and the keepers will be arranged in a book my mother-in-law can leaf through at her ease.

So many typical family shots, with the subject's face at the dead-centre of the frame. Rookie mistake -- even though my father-in-law, the usual camera wielder, did indeed have an aesthete's eye. He painted canvases, and he knew how a picture ought to be framed. But when it's a shot of your grandchild, you don't do the mathematics of what makes a good composition. You put the kid's face in the centre, right where his or her being resides in your own heart.

These boxes and boxes of photos, just a shard of the legacy of the woman who provided the template of how to mother daughters. Hold their hair when they puke into the toilet, clean their faces with a cool wet washcloth; you may be an introvert, but go jump in with both feet when the nine-year-old needs a song-and-dance partner for the music festival; pour tea, and listen to the inevitable adolescent stories of heartbreak and misunderstanding, etc.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Musical Maundering

I don't need to say it, but I will: I'm still listening to a lot of Devin Townsend.* One of the benefits of discovering and getting excited by someone so prolific is encountering the early stuff for the first time.

"Say, girls: have you seen the Casualties of Cool CD? Girls?"

I've tried to draw out and savour this joy by restricting myself to a "new" album every six weeks or so. Unfortunately for me, DT's management just yanked the bulk of his earliest material from eMusic. And, frankly, that's also unfortunate for Townsend & Co. The pattern I'd fallen into was downloading an old album of his, getting hooked, then ordering the CD so I could add it to my wall of plastic and grok on the art, etc. That's a double stream of cash that has now been reduced to a single. Perhaps I should thank him.

Speaking of "grokking"...

The last artist to hit me the same way was Steven Wilson, via his original band Porcupine Tree. His new disc Hand. Cannot. Erase. is getting a fair bit of play, also. He's taken a morbid real-life story and used it to launch typically beautiful and haunting reveries exploring his usual concerns: the tension between privacy and isolation, connection/disconnection with would-be intimates, family anxieties -- the usual ball of wax-and-thorns.

It works -- splendidly, of course -- but I tend to return with more frequency to his Porcupine Tree stuff. Signify is still a record I can listen to from beginning to end, and experience the shivers as the final track ("Dark Matter") reaches its apogee. What can I say? My aural development is arrested and remains most pleased with Wilson's early metal-techno-prog hybrid.

Wait: that's not Townsend.

An early contender for the Spring Cleaning Soundtrack is So Delicious! by The Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band (homepage).

As big & damned as you can handle.

It's catchy, bluesy and boisterous stuff. Steven Horowitz (PhD) gave it a lot of thought -- possibly too much, but his ruminating certainly gave me a nudge in the right direction, and I've been enjoying the music ever since.

This sort of thing happens in Toronto, apparently.
*DTP's most recent is getting a lot of play, somewhat to my own surprise. It's a double-album, the first disc continuing in the vein of Epicloud, the second reprising the Ziltoid story-line. I listened to both, and initially preferred the first disc over the second. When I saw the band perform I was surprised by just how much material they chose from the Ziltoid disc -- and further delighted by its lavish technical virtuosity. I then bought the three-disc collection, and have been listening to the script-free version of Ziltoid ever since.

Sculpture in the top picture, "The Tree of koo-SANZH" (tree of cussing) by the younger, shared with permission.

Friday, March 06, 2015

Harrison Ford Shines Light On Leonard Nimoy

Harrison Ford's recent brush with the fella in the brite nightgown (I'm happy to hear he's safe, and wish him a speedy recovery) put into perspective a few of my feelings about the late Leonard Nimoy.

There was a moment in the late-70s, early-80s when Ford offered an aspirational image to a late-adolescent boy. As a Star Wars besotted teenager, I understood myself to be in league with the whiny-bossy, perpetually clueless Luke Skywalker. I also understood that Luke envied, admired and had a "Won't you be my older brother?" crush on Han Solo, because I had the self-same crush.

I took fashion cues from Ford's "Decker" in Blade Runner.

I look better in the neon-lit rain.
I knew Ridley Scott dressed him up, but Ford wore the clothes -- so I frequented Goodwill stores and scoured the bargain racks at the back of Le Chateau, taking my best stab at it.

I cheered when Ford strode across the silver screen again as Han Solo in the first movie entirely devoted to the role: Raiders of the Lost Ark. And for a few years following, if Ford was involved in a project, that fact alone was enough to generate interest.

But, after a while, that stopped being the case.

There were a number of reasons for my growing antipathy, and his public persona as someone who, at the very best of times, could be prickly and often worse certainly didn't help matters.

It's easy to understand and even sympathize with Ford's attitude -- shut up with the Star Wars, already. It's more difficult to understand where Leonard Nimoy's even-keeled equanimity came from.

"I don't need no stinkin' neon!"
Did Nimoy ever have a "get a life!" moment? It's possible, even probable. Still, it's telling that Shatner was the one who jumped at the chance to play it for (very nervous) laughs. In the same SNL skit, he also claims the show was "something I did as a lark." Again, coming from Shatner, it's convincing. Nimoy could never pull that off, because the truth was evident from the start: he took the show, and his role in it, very seriously.

He appeared to parlay that seriousness into a cautiously-tended respect toward the show's fans. No easy feat, that, but I think the fans reciprocated in kind. Nimoy's non-Trek related ventures could be pretty flaky at times -- endearingly so, because, hey, we're kind of a flaky bunch ourselves, aren't we? Then there was the rigorous conceptualism of his photography. The man's artistic yin-and-yang seemed just as dramatic as his signature role, and just as winning.

I have a friend who encountered Kim Cattrall when Sex & The City was in the ascendant, and Cattrall's star had gone super-nova. He surprised her by complimenting her work in Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. She, in turn, surprised him with story after story about what a mensch Nimoy had been on-set. For her, and now for my friend, and later for me, Nimoy was a surprisingly open, fundamentally decent guy -- the sort of person we'd like to be remembered as.

Anyway, the best piece I've read so far is Matt Zoller Seitz' careful parsing of Spock's (and Nimoy's) subversive Jewishness. Reading MZS, one does flinch somewhat at McCoy's "green-blooded hob-goblin" barbs, much the way we now flinch at Sinatra's on-stage "watermelon" joshing with Sammy Davis Jr. It's worthy thought-provocation, even if at times MZS's prognostications ("as if Wagner had momentarily been claimed for the chosen people") stretch credibility.

But then, what do I know? I am not Leonard Nimoy, a self-described "secular Jew."

I just aspire to be.

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

Changes To The Game

Sunday night's hockey game got off to a stellar start, for Yours Truly. After four scoreless years of playing with the same group of guys, I managed to get past the goalie twice, within the first ten minutes.

The first was the direct result of a terrific pass, from a guy who loves to play the game and not just launch a personal showboat every few minutes. I'd say it was almost impossible to fail that quality of pass, but the truth is I've messed up plenty of passes just like it. But not Sunday.

The second goal, however, occurred on one of my exceedingly rare break-aways. I doubt anyone, besides the goalie, was more surprised than I was to see the puck reach the back of the net.

After that, things deteriorated to my usual level of play. At one point I took the puck away from a guy -- he's a year or two older, an accomplished player who was, I imagine, a scrappy defence in his youth. Anyway, it clearly pissed him off to have someone who plays so pitifully make a monkey out of him. He got grabby and threw everything he had to get the puck back, or at least mess up my break. It was the latter, and we both wheezed off to our respective benches. I could tell, then, that I'd strained my lower back, and it would hurt a lot worse the next morning.

Then I stopped a slap-shot with my right shin.

So, yeah, I woke up in sad shape. As I made the morning coffee, I told my wife that playing poorly and having fun was preferable to playing well and getting hurt.

It's been a curious experience watching my game (slooooowly) improve. Right from the start, it was evident there was nowhere for me to go but up. The first few times I attempted a break-away, some young whipper-snapper would swan in from behind me, gently pluck the puck away from me and take the action to the other end of the rink. Eventually, that stopped -- not out of any personal resourcefulness I'd developed, but out of pity from the other guys. "Catch your breath, fellas, let 'im go. He just shoots at the goalie's chest, anyway."

So I concentrated on shooting where the goalie was not. That resulted in shots spectacularly wide of the net. But gradually I collected more and more ringers -- off either post, or the crossbar. It was only a matter of time before I hit net. Sunday night was the night.

I've improved in other aspects of play, also. No point exploring any of that any further, as it's been so incremental as to be unnoticeable to anyone but myself. But I do notice it, and it's one element that keeps me coming out on Sunday nights when the wood-stove and a dram of whisky ought to have the deeper appeal to a guy my age.

For most of the rest of the guys, these games are just the opposite: a determined fight against decline. Professional athletes die twice, but amateurs die thousands of times as the years wear on. Sunday night's goals, the clutch -- and the inevitable change-room drubbing that followed -- felt like an initiation into a rather morbid fraternity.

I'm not sure how I feel about that -- besides really, really sore, of course.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

Leonard Nimoy, 1931-2015

Dr. Hibbert: You do have friends, don't you?
Comic Book Guy: Well ... the Super-Friends.

It's curious to grieve a man who played a beloved role. I'm trying to sift through "what it all means," suspecting that someone somewhere has already done a better job of it. If I write it, I'll post; if I find it, I'll link. In the meantime, I am exceedingly grateful for this man who invested in and truly created one of the best super-friends a boy could possibly want.

Monday, February 23, 2015

The 87th Academy Awards

I haven't seen so much as a single minute. I did, however, see about seven or eight minutes of the red carpet -- just long enough to catch this supremely awkward "family moment" between Melanie Griffith and daughter Dakota Johnson. The movie in question is Fifty Shades Of Gray, and it is a rare mother who would express enthusiasm for watching her daughter enact a too-tart-to-be-vanilla sexual-coming-of-age story. But then Griffith is a rare mother for having taken similar risks and roles back when she was her daughter's age, in Body Double and Something Wild. Has Ms. Johnson troubled herself with either of those movies, I wonder?
"Who's next?" Jeff Daniels, Something Wild
Mother and daughter fled the interviewer, and I the television, opting instead for my usual Sunday night old duffs' hockey game. The fire in the hearth was tempting, but resistible. Had I stayed, I'd likely have had too much wine, to counteract the gnawing existential dread spurred on by the glowing flat-screen. As it was, the evening yielded no goals, but two assists, and some accomplished defense, followed by a hot shower and a good night's sleep. More than reward enough.

Something else I haven't seen: American Sniper. I'm lukewarm-to-cool on most Clint Eastwood movies. The last movie of his I saw on the big screen was Unforgiven, and ever since then I've adopted a Wait-For-The-Video policy. But even sight unseen it's safe to say this latest flick is something of a phenom. In Michael Moore's words, it's bringing out The Passion Of The Christ crowd. Speaking of Moore, I'm generally lukewarm-to-cool on his agitprop, but he does give a good interview. As for Eastwood's movie, I figure any flick that gets people talking this much about what a movie does is a good thing, for everyone.

That last link (again) is from the Roger Ebert website, and man, do I ever miss him after last night. I would have loved to hear his reaction to Selma, and the Academy's non-reaction to it. Matt Zoller Seitz stands in for Roger and makes the case for Selma. True to form, however, the Academy instead awarded the movie about show-biz. For a peek behind the votes, here is one Academy member's brutally honest evaluation of the ballot.

But to close with Roger Ebert, every once in a while someone in the biz shows up on the site to plug their favorite Ebert piece. This is mine. He had other observations about his Calcutta trip, all worth reading (type "calcutta" into the site search engine). With the exception of, and just prior to, his illness and debilitation, his time at the Calcutta Film Festival changed his writing more than any other life event.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

On Hearing Jimmy Greene

And what did you come here to see?

A wilderness chorus
 hands joined
 voices lifted

     hearts scourged
       of expectation

An echo

The reed


    despite the silence:

Friday, February 13, 2015


I've got some words piled and filed, but they need a little more attention than I can give them right now (ringette tournament, doncha know). All apologies. I'll be back.

Friday, February 06, 2015

Guilty Pleasures: Yoda, Carnivàle

Mark Dery’s plea to “put the guilt back into guilty pleasures” is getting a lot of link-love, which I happily (and entirely without guilt) add to.

As I near the finishing line of my 50th year, I’m finding there are fewer and fewer pleasures that don’t come with at least some residual guilt. I’m running out of time. I always was, of course, but I’m also running lower on snap and vim and all the qualities one needs to get worthwhile things done. Is this really how I want to spend it?

For instance: I recently recommended, sight unseen, a novel about Yoda. Wow, do I ever regret that. I’m about two-thirds through it, and the book now hurts my eyes. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s definitely not Sean Stewart at his best. And that’s because it’s a Franchise Novel, and Stewart soars when he’s in his own defiantly non-franchise territory.

So now I’ve got this book I feel obligated to finish, even though I reflexively roll my eyes every time I encounter the name “Dooku,” and of course eye-rolling slows down the speed-reading, so the reading never gets done.

Maybe I'll just play Grim Fandango...
You want guilt? I’m guilty of recommending it, I feel guilty reading it -- guilt compounded by what I could be reading instead -- but will feel greater guilt if I don’t finish. What’s more, I’m hooked: I want to see how Stewart plays it out. I am even, yes, enjoying the book. Guilty pleasure.
"A second time? Sure you wanna do this, sport?"
The younger daughter was after me about Carniv├ále. That’s 24 episodes, which I’d already seen, so I’d be committing one more of my disappearing days to an enterprise I’d already given a “Welllll . . . better than meh” to. But I knew she’d dig it in a big way, so of course I finally queued it up.

Wouldn't you know it, I enjoyed it more this second time around? The first time I'd been completely ignorant of avatar folklore. Now that I was all caught up and knew where everything was heading, I had no impatience with the leisurely pace Knauf & Co. took exploring the various characters at play in the carnival, much of which contributed absolutely nothing of significance to the developing story arc of two avatars fated to confront each other. 

It's just fartin' around, exploration for exploration's sake. And why not? A carnival with supernatural goings-on, travelling through the dust-bowl of the '30s has fabulous potential for writerly breadth, depth and texture -- keeping the storyline too lean and mean would be a crying shame.

Ironically, the material that now struck me as overindulgent was run as an integral element of the second season. The writers were keen to cultivate Jonesy's sweet-natured cluelessness around women for greater viewer empathy, the better to maximise the emotional pay-off of the season's conclusion. I get it, but man oh man: as the travails of his love-life played from one episode to the next, I found myself restlessly wondering what the Siamese Twins or the Lizard Man were up to.

"I'm an interesting guy: why no storyline for me?"
Just to compound my time-expenditure, I returned to the AV Club’s episode-by-episode breakdown, and discovered this two-part interview with creator Daniel Knauf. It’s curious to hear him talk about where he’d hoped to go with the concept. “Five Years Later” strikes me as quite a promising launching point, but of course there is a barrier that keeps it grounded: HBO has the rights locked-down. Knauf says they received death-threats when they shut down the show. Well then, c’mon, HBO: release the rights so Knauf can pen his novel/comic book/what-have-you. Truly, all will be forgiven.

Anyway. Twenty-four hours, spent with my wife and kid. All pleasure, no guilt. Next?

Friday, January 30, 2015

Rattling In My Brain-Pan

I’m sadly short on inspiration. Normally that would propel me out the door and off for a walk. But the view outside my window . . .

. . . is discouraging. Sunshine is welcome, of course, but bright sunshine over a fresh blanket of snow means only one thing: it is very, very cold outside.

I’ll force myself out later. If something brilliant occurs to me, I’ll come back and share. In the meantime, here are some links to material that’s been rattling around my brain-pan.

“The player is not what this is about. It’s about the files” -- Neil Young being Neil Young.

I am a reluctant iPod user, not a fan. But even so, Neil’s lost me on this particular venture, because his claims are baffling.

It is about the files, yes. There are bajillions of inferior-sounding mp3s in circulation, and the m4a files Apple sells on iTunes are of varying quality. Neil is selling FLAC files, and those can indeed sound pleasantly fat.

But c’mon: Neil’s 20 years older than I am, and he’s been playing rock concerts since before I was born. His ears must be in worse shape. Give me the CD and I daresay I could rip an mp3 that is indistinguishable from the FLAC.

The problem for audiophiles of a certain age is not the file format, it is the mastering or remastering that went into the file. And there is a tonne of older material, including Neil’s, that could stand remastering. The big bad record companies all know this, btw. Hence the recent, spanky offerings of old Beatles and Led Zeppelin discs. RUSH is putting a little spit and polish on their back catalog. Say, where’s the shined-up Steely Dan?

Neil Young, RUSH . . . Canadian-bred acts that have stubbornly followed their own muses and stuck to their own unique creative code.

"Record? With Nickelback? Do I have to wear pants?"
“I went to LA and I wrote with a team that produced all the Nickleback stuff . . . And I hate it in such a way that it is hard for me to quantify.” Hm. Seems Devin Townsend is cut of similar cloth. Here is his account of what went down.

Speaking of RUSH, drummer Neal Peart doesn’t give many interviews, but he sat down with CBC’s Shelagh Rogers to discuss his latest book, over here. It is a short, reliably erudite and lovely exchange.

And speaking of Led Zeppelin, I recently posted this passage from Stephen Davis’ LZ-’75: The Lost Chronicle of Led Zeppelin’s 1975 American Tour. The entire book, like this passage, is terrifically evocative of that particular time. Also, not a little eerie -- as befits the subject, and the era.

Finally: a writer yaks about writing -- nothing new, but Jeff VanderMeer's account of writing three novels in a year is a surprisingly trippy read, suggesting (to me, at any rate) that the books themselves are worth a look.