Reconvening With The Monks of Fall

I'm off to the Kawarthas to meet with my mates and slurp single malts. It's been 18 years and counting with this crew. The day someone scraped together the lucre for a bottle of Lagavulin was quite the revelation. Up to that point we'd been scruffy beer drinkers, who occasionally dipped into bourbon or blended whiskies that had a nose reminiscent of unleaded petrol.

But Lag! Oh! Oh my!!

I have cooled on Lag, since then. There's just too much contained in that tiny little glass. And it's bloody expensive. A bottle of Laphroaig is less than half the price, and its remove from Lag is not significant enough (to this aging palate, at least) to merit the expense. Last year our hurtin' Albertan introduced us to Bowmore Darkest, which was the hands-down highlight of the weekend. Not that different in price from Lag, but its pleasures were so much more nuanced than Lag's punch-in-the-gut.

But I ramble. I ramble because this year I have nothing to read to these jokers. I ramble because I have nothing more to say. So here's a picture of what I did on my summer vacation:



That's me, up in Northern Alberta. I pitched in with my brother in law and his friends to assemble a grain bin. The scene wasn't exactly raising the barn for Kelly McGillis (but then I'm not Harrison Ford -- and thank God for that!), but it was an incredibly satisfying day.

Alright, back on Monday. (Hey, Pattie -- we call ourselves The Nick Adams Society!)

Crossing That Fine Line Between Clever And Stupid -- In The Wrong Direction

"Dad, this music is kind of dumb." This was my older daughter's solemn pronouncement upon being exposed to ... The New Pornographers. And I had to agree with her. I don't know what the fuss over them is all about. To my ears, this group operates under the conviction that Men Without Hats left a musical legacy that should be extended the same way Green Day extended the Buzzcocks' -- a dubious proposition at best.

I bought TNP's critically lauded Electric Version, confident that so many critics singing from the same page must surely be right. I regretted my purchase the second I slipped the CD into the player. I played it a half-dozen times after that, hoping I'd change my mind. Nope.

That was the same summer I bought the White Stripes' Elephant. There was no denying Jack White's blues ability as a guitar player. As a lyricist, though ... well, I didn't understand what he was on about, and he had a prissy mode of delivery that didn't inspire me to dance so much as it inspired me to try the "rope-a-dope" (all the moreso after I caught wind of White's charming behavior). Tsk -- it's not good for a man my age to experience violent impulses while listening to music. The better tack is to just side with my daughter: this music is kind of dumb.

The problem for both these groups, as I see it, lies in the "kind of". I'd say the music and the lyrics aren't dumb enough. It is a fine line between clever and stupid, and these tossers are too clever by half. If you want to see my daughters get up and dance with abandon, throw on some Van Halen (David Lee Roth-era -- of course). Throw on some ABBA. Throw on some Scissor Sisters. Music that's cheerful, preening, and dumb dumb dumb -- that's what gets the feet moving.

That's what gets our family up from the dinner table and jumping around the kitchen.

Progress Report, Take 2

This darn formatting is trickier than I expected! The downside to self-publishing is you've got no-one to blame but yourself when you don't meet your own deadlines.

Cowtown Pattie wondered if there were illustrations. I said, no, nothing beyond the cover. Then I got to thinking. Then I got to thinking out loud. Now I'm happy to report that the talented and lovely Jessica D'Eall seems game to throw in some illustrations, too. She's also considering giving this blog-thang a try -- excelsior, say I!

My next (not-to-be-trifled-with) deadline: that classy little holiday we've come to know as Halloween!

Why We Blog

Picking up the meme as generated by Prairie Mary, and expanded by Darko, I'll give the theme of Why We Blog a light twist and articulate three instances of how blogging has added value to my life:

1) It's made me funnier. I won't vouch for any improvement in my personality, but my wife recently commented that my writing has become funnier since blogging.

2) I've been introduced to the best books, thanks to blogging. People have left some terrific, and decidely off-beat reading suggestions in the comments. I've also picked up a few unexpected literary treasures by following links to this blog and reading blogged reviews of books the mainstream press can't be bothered with.

3) It has expanded my conversational range. Again: where would we be without blogger comments? I've had no lack of thought (and even action) provoking dialogue with people who were absolute strangers just three years ago. When it comes to friendships, we do what we can with what we have -- and blogging has opened up the range of possibilities in personally beneficial ways.

So why do you blog?

Book Cover, Rough Sketch

Here's a rough sketch of the cover for my forthcoming book -- artistry courtesy of the talented and lovely Jessica D'Eall:

Walking, Early Fall

I've cautiously returned to my walking regime. My ankle seems to have returned to me.



The once gray fields now have a blanket of corn - this was the same field in April. Actually, this photo embodies some of my frustation with digital cameras: depth of field (heh) isn't a variable I can play with. Although, maybe I can - the camera has two-dozen settings I could experiment with, and the aperature might well be among them. Still, one year ago I would have taken a more visually pleasing shot with my trusty (clunky) old single lens reflex camera. This looks a little flat.

Here's a calendar-type shot of the old foundries:



We have a municipal election coming up. Looks like "Grant" took hold of the coveted intersection:



There's more, further up ahead, but that will have to wait for another posting.

A Lovely Day For Linking

Slate compares and contrasts the four(!) different national versions of television's The Office, here. I was aware of the British and the American versions, of course, and generally preferred the original over the US ... but darn it if Steve Carrell doesn't get under a person's skin!

Ah, Searchie -- how lovely are the feet of them that bring comfort and company to the elderly and infirm. Still, however fond I may be of the Vans, slouchy boots and FM pumps, the Crocs remain an aesthetic lapse in the eyes of this beholder (they remind me too much of the "jellies" of Cyndi Lauper's day).

But who am I to pass aesthetic judgement? It's almost Friday, and thank God The Tiki Bar Is Open!! "Donn Beach and Trader Vic, it turns out, were the Stanley and Livingstone of the mid-century American jungle, blazing a trail deep into the world of pop fantasy and artifice from which America has yet to fully emerge." This (via ALD) has got me singing John Hiatt's delirious ode to a rippin' good bender. Hiatt takes care to point out that he remains a recovering alcoholic:

I know a drink ain't no solution
Haven't had one in 17 years
But if the Tiki Bar was close tonight
Well, I might just disappear!

Readers are encouraged to purchase the track at the MP3 venue of their choice, and get drunk on the music.