Batman: Interesting Or Merely Distracting?

"Hey, Dad," said the nine-year-old, "Mommy has a Batman comic book! And boy is it stupid!"

I chuckled nervously. Of course they were talking about my Batman comic book, purchased on impulse to see how Grant Morrison was carrying on. "Stupid how?" I asked, almost certain I already knew the answer.

Bingo: "There's girl superheroes, and they've all got underwear that slips right up their bum-cracks. See? Stupid!"

Actually, the girls in question were supervillains, but never mind. I thought I had put the offending book somewhere relatively safe, but my wife had noticed it and picked it up out of curiosity. And yes, the girls were indeed wearing outfits that would have hampered their attempts at hand-to-hand combat.

"Uh ... so what does Mommy think?"

"She can't stop reading it," reported the younger. "I had to say her name three times before she answered."

I heard a giggle in the other room. "It's true," she confirmed. "I haven't read a Batman comic since I was little. It's all very interesting."

Well ... it's getting there. "Very interesting" is a bit of a stretch, unless the last time you read Batman was when Neal Adams was in charge. As with earlier Morrison stories, I thought this month's issue was too short and lacking in continuity to be anything but superficially engaging. But the artwork is zippy, and even if it doesn't contribute what it should to continuity and emotional development, it has an undeniable distraction factor. But I don't think I'll be putting down the money for Morrison's collected works just yet.

Brian's Enemies

Poor Brian. The guy sure loved to live the life of 24 Sussex. Most of our Prime Ministers do (although I still wonder about Joe Clarke), but Brian really loved it. He was a big-deal power-broker business man, and those were the qualities he took to the PMO. Prime Minister of Canada was as big as it got for him -- not quite Jack Welch big, but still impressive in its way.

He left office with quite a tidy benefits package, but no-one seems too eager to remember his tenure with even the lightest patina of fondness. Lord knows it's difficult for me to generate much respect for him, even on those issues where it's due him. I haven't voted for any of the PMs who have served me, so I'm disinclined toward cheerful appraisal at the best of times. But I begrudged Brian the most. He seemed crass, arrogant, a pretender who got his way by spending enormous sums of money. Most damning of all, when he dropped dough there never seemed to be any benefit for the little guy. Couldn't figure out the "bread and circuses" equation, our Brian. He withheld the bread and figured we'd content ourselves with the circus of his ego.

That's my uneducated observer's take: informed spectators with a greater capacity for fairness can say otherwise, and may yet get the final word. I doubt Brian will ever have that honor, though. He can't seem to scrape the stink off his shoes, and in his case each shoe has its particular taint. On the left is Pierre Trudeau: clever, classy, seductive, a genius at spending other people's money, yet always game for public debate because he was unshakable in his rectitude. And on the right is Karlheinz Schreiber, a manipulative weasel with an eye for the nearest shortcut to his goal.

I'm not sure I quite ascribe to the notion that we choose our enemies, but Brian comes close to bearing it out. And with both nemeses, I wonder if he isn't fighting above his weight.

Norman Mailer

I once bumped into my uncle on the subway, back when I still lived in the city. He noticed the book I was carrying and asked me what I was reading. I was incredibly embarrassed to admit that, in fact, I was reading Barbary Shore by Norman Mailer.

So now Mailer's gone, and it's the end of an era and all that. But I hardly have to explain why reading Mailer was a rather gauche activity for someone of my generation. The guy was nutty, so much of what he fixated upon was repulsive, and his behavior was frequently of a piece with it all. But at the end of the subway ride even I had to admit that, even though I didn't like what he wrote, he knew how to pull a reader in.

Toronto The Beautiful

"Great: more liberal guilt" -- as spoken by Lisa Simpson, after she runs over another pedestrian in the incomparable video game The Simpsons: Hit & Run.

We drove into the city yesterday to celebrate my uncle's 65th birthday. That's right: "the city." I'm not talking about Vancouver, Halifax, Edmonton, Winnipeg or even Montreal or any of a dozen other fine Canadian candidates. I'm talking about The City. Toronto (duh).

Oh, how the rest of Canada loves to hate Toronto. The brilliant/idiot city that proclaimed its own "World Classiness" in the 90s. The national media center that determines the news, entertainment and sports for the rest of the country. The city where the cultural elite reside and deliver their churlish pronouncements between bites of crumpet and sips of tea. The home of the Maple Leafs -- and their fans.

Feel free to add to the list of grievances in the comments below. It's fun!

I doubt anyone hates Toronto more than Prime Minister Brian ... no, wait ... Mike ... hang on, it's on the tip of my tongue ... Stephen (yes!) Harper does. I'm not just referring to his unwavering "Quit asking Dad for money and go earn it fair and square like the rest of us!" response he keeps giving to our beleaguered mayor and premier. No, I'm working off a hunch, actually, because Harper pretty much grew up in Toronto, then moved to Alberta. And no-one hates Toronto more than someone who's moved from here to Alberta. You will never hear a transplanted Torontonian in Calgary say, "It's lovely here, but I have to be honest: I still miss Toronto!" Nope. The conversion from, "I once was Lost but now am Found" is more complete for these high-minded souls than any personal religious awakening is likely to be. Toronto is so foul, so wrong, so coddled and ignorant and arrogant and stupid. And yet it thinks it is the center of the universe, and drags the rest of the country down with it.

Anyhow, here I was at this lovely party in the city, meeting so many lovely people and having lovely conversations. Near the end I was speaking with a neighbor, who reluctantly admitted that, yes, he'd been born in Toronto and was living here at the moment. But he'd worked some years in the Maritimes, and that had opened his eyes to how loathsome Toronto's existence was to the rest of the country.

I conceded the point, insofar as it concerned the Leafs. And I admitted that at times I felt homesick for the prairies. And I asserted that smaller cities like Winnipeg and Halifax were more productive arts and cultural hothouses than Toronto is, because artists can afford to starve there (correction: they actually live quite comfortably). "But," I said, "I loved living in Toronto. I miss living in Toronto. And I wouldn't hesitate to move back to Toronto."

Just to make one particular point about the city: it's a beautiful city to walk through. For a stretch of years I used to work at Yonge & Bloor. At various times I lived within a 20, 40 and 60 minutes' walk. I didn't mind the time spent, because I loved to look around. Just looking at the peaks of houses was an aesthetic treat. But there was also the yards, the windows, the shops, the handmade signs .... Toronto is a beautiful city. Montreal probably edges it out somewhat in that category, but just by an accentegue. Toronto is beautiful.

If only they could swap hockey teams with Ottawa...

Intuition Proven Wrong. Again.

I had friends who, when they were a couple, asked themselves which of the beloved A.A. Milne characters they best embodied. "Oh, that's easy: you're Pooh!" "And you'd be Piglet, in a cinch!" My approach to the exercise wasn't quite so flattering. I would have loved to be categorized as an Eeyore, but the truth was more bitter. I was a Rabbit.

I put a cheerful face on my everyday public dealings, but find I have to combat a tendency toward fretfulness. It's a different creature from its cousin "gloom." A friend once asked me what my "gut feeling" was regarding a certain circumstance. I told him, but was quick to add, "My gut feelings are disproved every time I get out of the car and close the garage door."

I have reservations about Martin Seligman's Learned Optimism. So far as self-help books go, this one has been only moderately successful in helping me help myself. But while I may not yet be an "optimist," I have at least learned to question the most pessimistic of my fretful impulses.

Giving The Gift of Unconsciousness

It's my younger daughter's ninth birthday, today. "Did you see the toy her sister bought for her?" asked my lovely wife.

"No," said I. "What'd she get?"

"Aquadots," said my wife."Name ring a bell?"

"Mm. Kind of. Not sure why, though."

"Then read this."

Good thing we kept the receipt.

Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Raising Sand

These last few weeks, whenever I pay my daily visit to eMusic I get confronted with their flashy banner for Eric Clapton's downloadable memoirs. “A ROCK & ROLL GOD,” it proclaims, scrolling up to a picture of the young Slowhand and his Strat, settling on the image just long enough for the viewer to recognize him before scrolling to the rest of the message, “SHREDS HIS PEDESTAL.”

It catches my eye, but boy does it bug me. “Shreds his pedestal”? If we're using rock & roll metaphors, and we assert (wrongly) that Clapton's “shredding the guitar” is what got him to that pedestal, shouldn't we assume that “shredding his pedestal” is meant to elevate him someplace higher?

More to the point, I'm still enough of my mother's son to bristle at the term “rock & roll god.” She raised me to take the Ten Commandments seriously, especially the first. And even if I bypass my impulse toward reverence, the concept of a rock & roll god seems anachronistic. In the last 20 years, has anyone used the term without tongue in cheek? The recent spate of “reality based” rock celeb vehicles demonstrate that, with the right script, these jokers can still inspire amusement. But as for glory, laud and honor, well . . . when the music's over it really is best if we, to quote one late “rock & roll god,” turn out the lights.

Having said all that, it is difficult for me to attribute mere humanity to any of the Led Zeppelin crew, particularly Robert Plant. The music, the over-indulgence, the stupidity and even a tally of their most addled performances is of such a mythic scale, it all seems to blend seamlessly into something considerably larger than life. Especially the music. Especially the music. When, three minutes into “I Can't Quit You Babe” Robert Plant emits his guttural, primal...

“Whuuu-uh-uh-uuuuaaaaaawaaaaAAAAAWW!”

... we're witness to a sound we can all identify with, but only he can make.

In the years since Zep retired, that sound is essentially what Robert Plant has brought to each of his solo projects. Plant has always demonstrated a remarkable range, but his choice of material tends to capitalize on his pipes, which even in his advanced years can deliver volume, volume, volume. So I permitted myself some amusement when I saw he was releasing — sorry: co-releasing — an album with the ethereally-voiced bluegrass artist Alison Krauss, called Raising Sand.

According to this Amazon promo clip, the three chief personalities involved entered the studio scared spitless. It's easy to see why. Plant, Krauss and producer T Bone Burnett are music visionaries with very distinct takes on their chosen genres. Perhaps I presume, but I think Burnett and the band provided the sonic space for Plant and Krauss to play in. Burnett keeps the reverb high and the overall sound swampy, letting the bass or the higher range peek out from time to time, only to retreat when the voices return. Plant responds by keeping his voice hushed, without losing any of his character. Krauss, in turn, locates her ability to swing, and the result is aural magic.

I do Krauss an injustice by focusing on Plant. She is exceedingly gifted, but the fact is she is still young and has a lifetime of musical exploration ahead of her. Plant is facing the final curtain. And in this album, for the first time in his life, he evokes a yearning, touching, finite humanity. This could well be my favorite album of the year.