A very bizarre local news story that took place in my hood.
All I can say is, thank god for friendly dogs. Amazing how the fates of so many people were decided by a good ol' gregarious pooch.
And whaddya make of Mr. travelling gun club? He gets a hankerin' to off some people, but folks in New Brunswick are too nice (see? it does pay to be nice!), so he loads up the car with rifles, knives and over 6,000 rounds of ammo, and heads down the road to Toronto, 'cos, y'know, they're all cold-hearted meanies in The Big Smoke. The bubble burst on that stereotype just in time!
Yes, lots of lessons to be learned here. Not the least of which is...
Guns don't kill people... because friendly dogs won't let them!
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Come Together
... And speaking of father's day, the offspring of two famous rock fathers appear to be stepping out.
I dunno. Sean's looking a little too much like his dad there. The glasses. The beard. Boy, you're gonna carry that weight.
So, Mick was after Yoko? What was that all about?
I dunno. Sean's looking a little too much like his dad there. The glasses. The beard. Boy, you're gonna carry that weight.
So, Mick was after Yoko? What was that all about?
Grasping The Obvious
Each morning on the way to work, part of my transit takes me from Kennedy subway station on the RT into Scarborough Town Centre, where around the terminal, two or three large buildings are under construction, condos probably. On one site, I always take note of the signs halfway up the towers on the two large construction cranes.
On one crane, the sign says: Crane 1.
On the other, the sign says: Crane 2.
Now, I can well understand the need to label the cranes. If, say, you're given the task of taking something up to one of the crane operators, the foreman can say, "take this to Crane 1". And since both cranes look fairly similar, and it can get a bit disorienting on a construction site, it's useful to have that distinction, that label. And it makes more sense than calling them by non-numerical names, like Betty or Dave. Names can be easily forgotten.
But I wonder about the necessity of labelling them *CRANE* 1 and *CRANE* 2. Is there perhaps a danger some worker will confuse them with, say, BROOM 1 and 2, or SHOVEL 1 and 2?
I think perhaps labelling these monster cranes with signs that say simply "1" and "2" would suffice; the word "crane" on the sign being somewhat superfluous, methinks.
Yes, these are the kinds of things I think about when I'm half awake in the morning and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.
On one crane, the sign says: Crane 1.
On the other, the sign says: Crane 2.
Now, I can well understand the need to label the cranes. If, say, you're given the task of taking something up to one of the crane operators, the foreman can say, "take this to Crane 1". And since both cranes look fairly similar, and it can get a bit disorienting on a construction site, it's useful to have that distinction, that label. And it makes more sense than calling them by non-numerical names, like Betty or Dave. Names can be easily forgotten.
But I wonder about the necessity of labelling them *CRANE* 1 and *CRANE* 2. Is there perhaps a danger some worker will confuse them with, say, BROOM 1 and 2, or SHOVEL 1 and 2?
I think perhaps labelling these monster cranes with signs that say simply "1" and "2" would suffice; the word "crane" on the sign being somewhat superfluous, methinks.
Yes, these are the kinds of things I think about when I'm half awake in the morning and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Mary
A photo of a family. I think this would be somewhere around 1924 or 1925. These are the Grants, sitting in front of the farmhouse "down home" in Millview, P.E.I.
Eleven kids. Now there remains only one: Doreen. The baby. My mother.
She phoned me Tuesday night, and right from the greeting I knew, betrayed by the slight rasp in her voice (from being tired and from talking to too many people), that Aunt Mary had died. Mary was Mom's last remaining sibling; her last sister.
I can't say it came as a surprise. Mary was 90, and she had been going downhill rather steadily over the past couple of years. Pretty frail already, she had been hit by a malfunctioning automatic door at a supermarket, and had broken her hip. Then some time later, in her room at the senior's residence just up the street from my parents' house, she had taken a fall. She wasn't using her walker, as she was supposed to do, and she took a dizzy spell and fell to the floor, putting her in the hospital.
I visited her there when I was home last summer, and she barely made an impression under the bedcovers, just skin over bones. When I said goodbye, I glanced back from the doorway, and I remember thinking it might be the last time I see her. Turns out it was. But she held out for quite a while. She would take bad spells, and they would fear the worst, then she would bounce back. She said she wanted to make it to 100! But a few weeks ago, she suffered a mild heart attack, and that was the beginning of the end.
My sister Anne, a nurse, happened to be home visiting from LA, and she was with her when she died. My mom had been doing yeoman's duty over the last 10 years or so, looking after Mary and taking her around town, running errands for her. Mom is almost 80 (hard to believe!), and I know it's taken its toll on her. I could hear the weariness in her voice, but maybe now she'll be able to relax a little more. No more worries for Mary.
Mary MacInnis. She and Uncle John (deceased 15 years ago) had no children of their own, so they took special interest in their many nieces and nephews. They lived in the States for many years, in the Boston area where her brother Frank and sister Ethel had also relocated, and then for their latter years they wintered in Florida and came home to P.E.I. in the summers. They lived in a little cottage in Bedeque, just past Summerside, my hometown. We spent quite a bit of time out there in the summers when I was growing up. Their cottage had a large patch of lawn that ran up to a cliffside, not many trees to speak of, pretty open, and then there was a set of creaky wooden stairs that led down to the shore. They were on the Dunk river (The Dunk!), and there was a fairly decent beach for swimming. A bit stony, but the water was usually nice. The water is always warmer on the south side of the Island.
Yep, many summers spent out at Mary and John's cottage. And it was a cottage, not a house. A little, quaint, cosy, cottage. Screen door, porch, kettle, mac-tac-ed cupboards, moths. At nights we'd play cards at the kitchen table--Kings in the Corner, Crazy Eights--while Uncle John constantly patrolled for mosquitoes, fly-swatter in hand. "Cheesus Mary, they're bigger this year than effer." To look at him, Uncle John was the gruffest man ever created, but once he laughed, there was no one jollier. I loved going outside there at night. The darkness would envelope you, feeling dangerous (how far is that cliff?) but strangely safe. The warm wind blowing the tall grass, the salt in the air, the sound of the waves on the shore, sounds from across the way seeming so near. The stars.
When I think of Aunt Mary, I think of iced tea in the summer. She introduced me to iced tea. I'd always have a glass when we visited them. When I was a teenager, I developed a weird liking for it. I'd have to have a can of powdered Nestea mix in the house, and when I came in at night, I'd fix my traditional triple-decker peanut-butter and strawberry jam sandwich and mix a tall glass of iced tea. No ice. Then go downstairs and watch SNL or Friday Night Videos.
Mary was always a very generous soul, and very kind to me over the years. She'd send me a card and slip in a $20 or $10 bill, sometimes more. What a dear. And she'd be so pleased when she received my thank-you card. She was always telling people about her nephews and nieces.
Sad that she's gone. Sad for my mom, that of all those 11 kids, she's the only one left. I'm the youngest of her eight kids, and I guess maybe there'll come a day when I'm the last of our brood--if things unfold as they should. If I'm lucky. Lucky! heh.
It would be nice if I could fly down for Mary's funeral, but I just can't swing it. I know she would understand. "Oh, don't be crazy! God, no," she'd say. I think, in a way, we kind of said our goodbyes when I saw her in the hospital last summer.
But that's not how I'll remember her. I'll remember the cottage, the warm breeze, the kitchen table at night, the iced tea, the kindness.
Summer's here. I think I'll go have a glass of iced tea.
From left to right: Art, Vic, Anne, Ethel, Reta, Mary, Ruth, Doreen (the baby), Walter, Rose, "Pop" (Vince), "Mom" (Winnie, nee Brown), Frank.
Eleven kids. Now there remains only one: Doreen. The baby. My mother.
She phoned me Tuesday night, and right from the greeting I knew, betrayed by the slight rasp in her voice (from being tired and from talking to too many people), that Aunt Mary had died. Mary was Mom's last remaining sibling; her last sister.
I can't say it came as a surprise. Mary was 90, and she had been going downhill rather steadily over the past couple of years. Pretty frail already, she had been hit by a malfunctioning automatic door at a supermarket, and had broken her hip. Then some time later, in her room at the senior's residence just up the street from my parents' house, she had taken a fall. She wasn't using her walker, as she was supposed to do, and she took a dizzy spell and fell to the floor, putting her in the hospital.
I visited her there when I was home last summer, and she barely made an impression under the bedcovers, just skin over bones. When I said goodbye, I glanced back from the doorway, and I remember thinking it might be the last time I see her. Turns out it was. But she held out for quite a while. She would take bad spells, and they would fear the worst, then she would bounce back. She said she wanted to make it to 100! But a few weeks ago, she suffered a mild heart attack, and that was the beginning of the end.
My sister Anne, a nurse, happened to be home visiting from LA, and she was with her when she died. My mom had been doing yeoman's duty over the last 10 years or so, looking after Mary and taking her around town, running errands for her. Mom is almost 80 (hard to believe!), and I know it's taken its toll on her. I could hear the weariness in her voice, but maybe now she'll be able to relax a little more. No more worries for Mary.
Mary MacInnis. She and Uncle John (deceased 15 years ago) had no children of their own, so they took special interest in their many nieces and nephews. They lived in the States for many years, in the Boston area where her brother Frank and sister Ethel had also relocated, and then for their latter years they wintered in Florida and came home to P.E.I. in the summers. They lived in a little cottage in Bedeque, just past Summerside, my hometown. We spent quite a bit of time out there in the summers when I was growing up. Their cottage had a large patch of lawn that ran up to a cliffside, not many trees to speak of, pretty open, and then there was a set of creaky wooden stairs that led down to the shore. They were on the Dunk river (The Dunk!), and there was a fairly decent beach for swimming. A bit stony, but the water was usually nice. The water is always warmer on the south side of the Island.
Yep, many summers spent out at Mary and John's cottage. And it was a cottage, not a house. A little, quaint, cosy, cottage. Screen door, porch, kettle, mac-tac-ed cupboards, moths. At nights we'd play cards at the kitchen table--Kings in the Corner, Crazy Eights--while Uncle John constantly patrolled for mosquitoes, fly-swatter in hand. "Cheesus Mary, they're bigger this year than effer." To look at him, Uncle John was the gruffest man ever created, but once he laughed, there was no one jollier. I loved going outside there at night. The darkness would envelope you, feeling dangerous (how far is that cliff?) but strangely safe. The warm wind blowing the tall grass, the salt in the air, the sound of the waves on the shore, sounds from across the way seeming so near. The stars.
When I think of Aunt Mary, I think of iced tea in the summer. She introduced me to iced tea. I'd always have a glass when we visited them. When I was a teenager, I developed a weird liking for it. I'd have to have a can of powdered Nestea mix in the house, and when I came in at night, I'd fix my traditional triple-decker peanut-butter and strawberry jam sandwich and mix a tall glass of iced tea. No ice. Then go downstairs and watch SNL or Friday Night Videos.
Mary was always a very generous soul, and very kind to me over the years. She'd send me a card and slip in a $20 or $10 bill, sometimes more. What a dear. And she'd be so pleased when she received my thank-you card. She was always telling people about her nephews and nieces.
Sad that she's gone. Sad for my mom, that of all those 11 kids, she's the only one left. I'm the youngest of her eight kids, and I guess maybe there'll come a day when I'm the last of our brood--if things unfold as they should. If I'm lucky. Lucky! heh.
It would be nice if I could fly down for Mary's funeral, but I just can't swing it. I know she would understand. "Oh, don't be crazy! God, no," she'd say. I think, in a way, we kind of said our goodbyes when I saw her in the hospital last summer.
But that's not how I'll remember her. I'll remember the cottage, the warm breeze, the kitchen table at night, the iced tea, the kindness.
Summer's here. I think I'll go have a glass of iced tea.
Monday, June 14, 2004
About The Last Night
Gotta be off to bed soon, but some quick notes about the final night of NxNE before I turn in.
The last night of the festival started off great. Caught a wonderful set at The Rivoli by Vancouver Island troubadour/cyclist Jeremy Fisher. He had come highly recommended by my friend Howard, who had written Jeremy up in his online column a while back. I worked my way to the very front of the standing, capacity crowd to find Howard and wife Beverly boogying on down to this young man's music, at least as far as one can boogie down to folk music with an acoustic guitar and harmonica -- but you can, and they weren't the only ones.
It was a great performance. This young guy really does have an old soul. The hair and the voice and the music certainly do bring to mind a young Dylan, or John Prine, but I also detected a bit of Paul Simon's touch in some of his phrasing and singing. He's playing tomorrow night at Holy Joe's, an even smaller room with vintage couches for pews. If I don't walk out of there with a copy of his CD, it'll be only because they've sold out. You can hear some clips of his songs here.
Then we zipped up to the Tranzac Club to see someone I had written up: Joe Fournier. Joe performed up on the 17-foot high stage (at least it seems that high) of the old Legion-like Aussie-Kiwi club, accompanied only by a young guy on bass. Wasn't sure what to expect, since I didn't know what kind of a live performer he was, but he was great. Such a clever songwriter, sometimes outright humourous. But each song is grounded in a solid kernel of an idea, and I really respect that kind of songwriting. Like, you're driving along the road into town, and you see someome has spray-painted a marriage proposal on the overpass, and you wonder what happened, when was it written, did she say yes, where are they now? And then you have a song called "Susan Will You Marry Me Love Jake". You can hear some clips of Joe's song's here.
It was nice to be able to get a chance to chat with Joe afterwards. He's been doing pretty well over in Europe, spending several months a year playing there. They love rootsy music and country music in Europe. I think it's a cyclicle backlash to all of that Euro-pop and electro machine music that they've been pumping out over the past 20 years or so. Anyway, seems that my write-up of Joe has been getting lots of mileage over there, with people pulling quotes for posters and other kinds of promotional devices, so that makes me feel good that I was able to help further the cause of some music that I think is worthy.
Ideally, I would have loved to go see the Trews' 12am, 2-hour set at the Rivoli. But there was no way in hell we were going to get back in there. When I left there after Jeremy Fisher's show, at 10 o'clock, the lineup was already half way down the block. Probably as many people in line as would fit in the room. So instead, the plan was to see the Golden Dogs' 10pm set at the El Mo. But when we got there, they were already at capacity. So the fall-back was to see Raising The Fawn at Healey's. They started the night by receiving a $3,000 cheque as the Galaxy Rising Stars award winners. Not a bad way to start your set. They were quite interesting. Kind of moody, atmospheric rock. The singer/guitarist has a bit of a Jeff Buckley thing. Good pipes.
Then it was off to the Horseshoe for Ian Blurton's latest rock incarnation, C'mon, a power, hard-rock trio with a banshee vixen bass player. They were loud and raucous and they rocked the place. I wasn't sure if I was in the mood for a hard rock set, but they just overpowered me. Good way to end the festival.
Too bad I missed White Cowbell Oklahoma at the El Mo. From what I hear (see the comments from the preceeding post), they gave new meaning to "Free Bird".
G'night!
The last night of the festival started off great. Caught a wonderful set at The Rivoli by Vancouver Island troubadour/cyclist Jeremy Fisher. He had come highly recommended by my friend Howard, who had written Jeremy up in his online column a while back. I worked my way to the very front of the standing, capacity crowd to find Howard and wife Beverly boogying on down to this young man's music, at least as far as one can boogie down to folk music with an acoustic guitar and harmonica -- but you can, and they weren't the only ones.
It was a great performance. This young guy really does have an old soul. The hair and the voice and the music certainly do bring to mind a young Dylan, or John Prine, but I also detected a bit of Paul Simon's touch in some of his phrasing and singing. He's playing tomorrow night at Holy Joe's, an even smaller room with vintage couches for pews. If I don't walk out of there with a copy of his CD, it'll be only because they've sold out. You can hear some clips of his songs here.
Then we zipped up to the Tranzac Club to see someone I had written up: Joe Fournier. Joe performed up on the 17-foot high stage (at least it seems that high) of the old Legion-like Aussie-Kiwi club, accompanied only by a young guy on bass. Wasn't sure what to expect, since I didn't know what kind of a live performer he was, but he was great. Such a clever songwriter, sometimes outright humourous. But each song is grounded in a solid kernel of an idea, and I really respect that kind of songwriting. Like, you're driving along the road into town, and you see someome has spray-painted a marriage proposal on the overpass, and you wonder what happened, when was it written, did she say yes, where are they now? And then you have a song called "Susan Will You Marry Me Love Jake". You can hear some clips of Joe's song's here.
It was nice to be able to get a chance to chat with Joe afterwards. He's been doing pretty well over in Europe, spending several months a year playing there. They love rootsy music and country music in Europe. I think it's a cyclicle backlash to all of that Euro-pop and electro machine music that they've been pumping out over the past 20 years or so. Anyway, seems that my write-up of Joe has been getting lots of mileage over there, with people pulling quotes for posters and other kinds of promotional devices, so that makes me feel good that I was able to help further the cause of some music that I think is worthy.
Ideally, I would have loved to go see the Trews' 12am, 2-hour set at the Rivoli. But there was no way in hell we were going to get back in there. When I left there after Jeremy Fisher's show, at 10 o'clock, the lineup was already half way down the block. Probably as many people in line as would fit in the room. So instead, the plan was to see the Golden Dogs' 10pm set at the El Mo. But when we got there, they were already at capacity. So the fall-back was to see Raising The Fawn at Healey's. They started the night by receiving a $3,000 cheque as the Galaxy Rising Stars award winners. Not a bad way to start your set. They were quite interesting. Kind of moody, atmospheric rock. The singer/guitarist has a bit of a Jeff Buckley thing. Good pipes.
Then it was off to the Horseshoe for Ian Blurton's latest rock incarnation, C'mon, a power, hard-rock trio with a banshee vixen bass player. They were loud and raucous and they rocked the place. I wasn't sure if I was in the mood for a hard rock set, but they just overpowered me. Good way to end the festival.
Too bad I missed White Cowbell Oklahoma at the El Mo. From what I hear (see the comments from the preceeding post), they gave new meaning to "Free Bird".
G'night!
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Dashed Plans & Detours
Well, last night at the festival didn't quite turn out as I had planned, but sometimes that's all right. I arrived at the Black Bull in time to catch the last few songs of Heather's set. The Black Bull is not a great venue for live music. A long room with a bar at one end, a pool table in the middle and then a section of booths leading up to the stage at the street end of the room. So if it's well-attended, people end up jammed into the aisle between the booths, and spilling out into the other areas, which are not spacious and are subject to a high cross-traffic of people trying to get to the restrooms and waitstaff ferrying food and drinks the other way out to the patio.
Not great sound (as Greg pointed out, the sound guy is situated behind and to the side of the stage monitors). Probably sounded good on stage, but it was pretty muddy out in the room. But Heather and company performed well, and were being filmed by someone, don't know who or why. Thought I saw one of the major Canadian label (Warners? Universal?) A&R guys sitting over to the side, enjoying the show and clapping enthusiastically. Not sure if it was the guy I think it was though.
From there I decided to head for the Reverb, an full hour ahead of Feist's set. I assumed it would be packed, and it might be prudent to get there early to make sure I got in. I assumed correctly. There was a pretty hefty line-up on the sidewalk. I waited for a while, amused by the couple in front of me who accosted the girl from the festival when she came down the line to check if there were people with festival badges, because they have priority over those of us with $22 wristbands. The guy was arguing with the festival girl, saying that there are people who get their badges for free, so why should they get in before people like him who "work hard" to pay the $22 for the wristband. The girl was explaining that badges are given priority because companies pay $300+ for the festival/conference badges, and they should therefore get in to festival gigs first. The guy didn't seem to understand that people don't get these badges for free -- well, maybe some people do; media and artists, perhaps -- but I know from first-hand experience, having had to fill out the application forms and requisition the cheques from work, that companies pay $300 for their employees to attend the conference/festival. The passes don't just fall out of the sky.
And it's pissed me off when I've had a badge in years past, and I show up at a festival gig, only to find that I have to line up with people who are just paying the one-off $10-$20 ticket price, and they could get in before me, when my employer has shelled out $300 up front for the badge. Only makes sense that people who pay that kind of money into the festival's coffers should get preference. I was going to explain it to Mr. Complainer, but I couldn't be bothered.
Anyway, it was looking like I wasn't going to get in to see Feist, so instead of wasting time standing in line, I bailed and went to the El Mo to see The Premiums (read my story on them for SOCAN here. They rocked quite righteously. The room was virtually empty before they started. I went up near the front to get a good look-see. When the first song was over, I turned around to find a mass of people had filled the space behind me. It was a good show.
From there, I scooted around the corner to see NYCsmoke at Rancho Relaxo. This guy is apparently a friend of Phillip Glass. But it was just him with a telecaster, tattooed arms (picture Mike Ness from Social Distortion) and a woman accompanying on cello. Interesting. Probably a good show under other circumstances, but the only place to stand was back by the bar, and there were too many people yapping back there. Pitfalls of festival shows.
So I cut out of there after a downed my pint of Rickard's Red. Tried the Oasis a few doors down where a band called Bakersfield was playing. Gotta be good with a name like that. It was four ultra-ordinary-looking guys, one with a backwards baseball cap, playing very straightforward but very uninspired roots rock. Nothing special was going to erupt from them anytime soon, so I hit the exit. I decided to follow my music festival Rule #1.
When all else fails, go to the Horseshoe.
"Special Guests" were slotted to play there. But I read somewhere that it was to be The Lowest Of The Low. Another of their special reunion gigs. What's this, the 14th special reunion gig in the last two years? For a band that's supposed to be broken up, they seem to be busier than a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.
But they are a good band, and it was not an unenjoyable way to end the night. Said hi to Alan Pigguns and saw a sweaty-headed Danny Michel trying to wedge his way to the bar to get a beer.
The streetcar ride home provided some amusement, with an old codger yelling obscenities at people on the street with his head stuck out the window ("take 'er home and get 'er into bed!"). A couple of young guys on the streetcar finally told him to shut up, and he threatened to take care of them, but didn't. Then he got off a few blocks before McCaul Street, mumbling to the driver about cleaning those kids' collective clocks. He was an old man, probably in his 60s at least, but he was at least 6'4" and rather hefty looking. He was carrying a cane that was too short to actually reach the ground, and when he got off the street car, he RAN across Queen Street to the north side! Didn't seem to need or use the cane at all.
When the streetcar reached McCaul, there was a bus-car incident blocking the tracks. We sat there for about 5 minutes, before the driver received instructions to detour north on McCaul, which fortunately has streetcar tracks, and take Dundas to get around the accident. So we turn north and start to lumber up McCaul. At the first stop, who should get back on again but the old man with the vestigial cane, who sat down in the same seat and picked up where he left off, periodically tossing comments at passersby, his head thrust fully out the window. I just had to chuckle.
There was also a gaggle of easily confused foreign club girls who didn't know where they were going, only that they needed to get to Yonge Street. They were completely thrown when the streetcar had to detour. They looked like a bunch of young fawns who had suddenly lost their mother. But a scrawny, young East Indian guy bravely volunteered to steer them right, so everything was okay. He got off with them when we reached Yonge Street, ever the helpful guide. I think maybe he thought he might get a "reward". Who knows. Seems like anything's possible at 2:30 a.m. on the Queen streetcar.
"Will I see you tonight, on a downtown tram..."
Not great sound (as Greg pointed out, the sound guy is situated behind and to the side of the stage monitors). Probably sounded good on stage, but it was pretty muddy out in the room. But Heather and company performed well, and were being filmed by someone, don't know who or why. Thought I saw one of the major Canadian label (Warners? Universal?) A&R guys sitting over to the side, enjoying the show and clapping enthusiastically. Not sure if it was the guy I think it was though.
From there I decided to head for the Reverb, an full hour ahead of Feist's set. I assumed it would be packed, and it might be prudent to get there early to make sure I got in. I assumed correctly. There was a pretty hefty line-up on the sidewalk. I waited for a while, amused by the couple in front of me who accosted the girl from the festival when she came down the line to check if there were people with festival badges, because they have priority over those of us with $22 wristbands. The guy was arguing with the festival girl, saying that there are people who get their badges for free, so why should they get in before people like him who "work hard" to pay the $22 for the wristband. The girl was explaining that badges are given priority because companies pay $300+ for the festival/conference badges, and they should therefore get in to festival gigs first. The guy didn't seem to understand that people don't get these badges for free -- well, maybe some people do; media and artists, perhaps -- but I know from first-hand experience, having had to fill out the application forms and requisition the cheques from work, that companies pay $300 for their employees to attend the conference/festival. The passes don't just fall out of the sky.
And it's pissed me off when I've had a badge in years past, and I show up at a festival gig, only to find that I have to line up with people who are just paying the one-off $10-$20 ticket price, and they could get in before me, when my employer has shelled out $300 up front for the badge. Only makes sense that people who pay that kind of money into the festival's coffers should get preference. I was going to explain it to Mr. Complainer, but I couldn't be bothered.
Anyway, it was looking like I wasn't going to get in to see Feist, so instead of wasting time standing in line, I bailed and went to the El Mo to see The Premiums (read my story on them for SOCAN here. They rocked quite righteously. The room was virtually empty before they started. I went up near the front to get a good look-see. When the first song was over, I turned around to find a mass of people had filled the space behind me. It was a good show.
From there, I scooted around the corner to see NYCsmoke at Rancho Relaxo. This guy is apparently a friend of Phillip Glass. But it was just him with a telecaster, tattooed arms (picture Mike Ness from Social Distortion) and a woman accompanying on cello. Interesting. Probably a good show under other circumstances, but the only place to stand was back by the bar, and there were too many people yapping back there. Pitfalls of festival shows.
So I cut out of there after a downed my pint of Rickard's Red. Tried the Oasis a few doors down where a band called Bakersfield was playing. Gotta be good with a name like that. It was four ultra-ordinary-looking guys, one with a backwards baseball cap, playing very straightforward but very uninspired roots rock. Nothing special was going to erupt from them anytime soon, so I hit the exit. I decided to follow my music festival Rule #1.
When all else fails, go to the Horseshoe.
"Special Guests" were slotted to play there. But I read somewhere that it was to be The Lowest Of The Low. Another of their special reunion gigs. What's this, the 14th special reunion gig in the last two years? For a band that's supposed to be broken up, they seem to be busier than a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.
But they are a good band, and it was not an unenjoyable way to end the night. Said hi to Alan Pigguns and saw a sweaty-headed Danny Michel trying to wedge his way to the bar to get a beer.
The streetcar ride home provided some amusement, with an old codger yelling obscenities at people on the street with his head stuck out the window ("take 'er home and get 'er into bed!"). A couple of young guys on the streetcar finally told him to shut up, and he threatened to take care of them, but didn't. Then he got off a few blocks before McCaul Street, mumbling to the driver about cleaning those kids' collective clocks. He was an old man, probably in his 60s at least, but he was at least 6'4" and rather hefty looking. He was carrying a cane that was too short to actually reach the ground, and when he got off the street car, he RAN across Queen Street to the north side! Didn't seem to need or use the cane at all.
When the streetcar reached McCaul, there was a bus-car incident blocking the tracks. We sat there for about 5 minutes, before the driver received instructions to detour north on McCaul, which fortunately has streetcar tracks, and take Dundas to get around the accident. So we turn north and start to lumber up McCaul. At the first stop, who should get back on again but the old man with the vestigial cane, who sat down in the same seat and picked up where he left off, periodically tossing comments at passersby, his head thrust fully out the window. I just had to chuckle.
There was also a gaggle of easily confused foreign club girls who didn't know where they were going, only that they needed to get to Yonge Street. They were completely thrown when the streetcar had to detour. They looked like a bunch of young fawns who had suddenly lost their mother. But a scrawny, young East Indian guy bravely volunteered to steer them right, so everything was okay. He got off with them when we reached Yonge Street, ever the helpful guide. I think maybe he thought he might get a "reward". Who knows. Seems like anything's possible at 2:30 a.m. on the Queen streetcar.
"Will I see you tonight, on a downtown tram..."
Friday, June 11, 2004
Go North!
Yay! It's NxNE time! One of my favourite times of the year.
Last night was the first night of the music showcases. 400 bands spread around the downtown core of the city. I caught a splendid solo set by Winnipeg's Greg Macpherson, and had a chance to chat a bit afterwards and introduce myself (I had written him up in my Showcase page a few years ago). Then it was off to the Cameron House for Elliott Brood and Welcome Karma. The latter band fronted by a young guy who seemed as if it was the first time playing outside his parents' basement (I should have asked them, they were sitting next to me). Some awkwardness in his delivery, but there's potential there. A little over-serious, but he's young.
Ellliot Brood is a three-piece led by banjo, with lo-fi open-tuned guitar and a drummer who uses a hard-shelled suitcase as a kick drum. They were okay, but there were at least three of their tunes that sounded like the same song. Singer needs to get some more range and be a little more imaginative with the melodies.
Capped off the night with Pete Elkas at midnight at the Rivoli. Set started late, and it was pretty good, but I was getting tired by that point, so I had to bail and head home.
Tonight, I'm off to see my friend Heather and her Company of Men at The Black Bull. Later, I'll check out former By Divine Right-er and sometime Broken Social Scenester [Leslie] Feist at the Reverb. Speaking of invading France, she's suddenly bigger there than a Charles DeGaul booger. And she's become the talk of the town here. I'll be able to say I remember her when she had a first name.
The rest of the time slots are a bit of a crap shoot, but hopefully I'll follow my nose to something interesting.
Last night was the first night of the music showcases. 400 bands spread around the downtown core of the city. I caught a splendid solo set by Winnipeg's Greg Macpherson, and had a chance to chat a bit afterwards and introduce myself (I had written him up in my Showcase page a few years ago). Then it was off to the Cameron House for Elliott Brood and Welcome Karma. The latter band fronted by a young guy who seemed as if it was the first time playing outside his parents' basement (I should have asked them, they were sitting next to me). Some awkwardness in his delivery, but there's potential there. A little over-serious, but he's young.
Ellliot Brood is a three-piece led by banjo, with lo-fi open-tuned guitar and a drummer who uses a hard-shelled suitcase as a kick drum. They were okay, but there were at least three of their tunes that sounded like the same song. Singer needs to get some more range and be a little more imaginative with the melodies.
Capped off the night with Pete Elkas at midnight at the Rivoli. Set started late, and it was pretty good, but I was getting tired by that point, so I had to bail and head home.
Tonight, I'm off to see my friend Heather and her Company of Men at The Black Bull. Later, I'll check out former By Divine Right-er and sometime Broken Social Scenester [Leslie] Feist at the Reverb. Speaking of invading France, she's suddenly bigger there than a Charles DeGaul booger. And she's become the talk of the town here. I'll be able to say I remember her when she had a first name.
The rest of the time slots are a bit of a crap shoot, but hopefully I'll follow my nose to something interesting.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Doors To The Past
Believe it or not, this is about the 60th anniversary of D-Day. But it starts with a pet peeve. Bear with me.
You're coming through a doorway in a public space--a mall or a subway station or a store--and you notice there's someone coming behind you. You stop and hold the door briefly for them, just to make it easier for them. You do it because it's common courtesy, so the door won't hit them in the face as it swings back. And people will generally extend their hand to take the door from you. Sort of like passing on the open door from one to the next. But some people seem to think you're holding the door for them so they can walk through without having to exert any effort of their own. No attempt to take the door from you. No hand extended. They just breeze on through, like they're royalty or something, and you're their doorman.
I don't like it when that happens. There have been a couple of times when I've actually let go of the door when I saw the person I was holding it for wasn't going to put their hand out to take it from me. It sure as hell surprised them, I'll tell you that. I just walked on.
I'm not proud of that. But it does make me smirk a little.
Of course, when you're coming through a door in a public space, it's sometimes hard to know at what point you should stop to hold the door for the person coming behind you, and at what point it's okay to let it go. It's a fine line sometimes, and generally my rule of thumb is that if they're far enough away that the door would close fully before they reach it, then it's okay to let it go.
Exceptions should be made, though, for people who have their hands full, maybe carrying several shopping bags, for instance, or a clumsy cache of groceries, or for people pushing baby strollers and/or with small children in tow. Of course, when it comes to these kinds of social etiquette rules, elderly people are generally always deserving of special treatment.
For instance, last week I was heading into the Spadina subway station after having dined at a nearby Indian restaurant with some friends. As I passed through the street-level entrance, I noticed there was an old man coming in from the sidewalk behind me. He was moving slowly, shuffling along, age having taken its toll on his body. Legs didn't move the way they used to, the way he wanted them to. He was a small, shrunken man, slightly stooped. Though he was sufficiently far enough behind me that I could have justifiably kept going, I stopped and held the door and waited for him to catch up to it. When he reached the door, he took it in hand, and thanked me in a quiet, weak voice, seeming somewhat surprised, looking up at me through large, thick glasses. I continued on my way, gliding through the automatic turnstile with a swipe of my metropass. He was still in the foyer, fumbling through a change purse or something, trying to find a token I suppose. Just another nondescript old man coping with the tiny everyday struggles that come with old age. I felt good about holding the door for him, giving the extra effort, but that was about as much as I could do.
Fast forward to today, June 6, 2004. The 60th anniversary of the D-Day landings on the beaches of Normandy in WWII. I was watching the extensive coverage on CBC, and I was struck again by this fact: that the old men and women we pass by on the sidewalks without a second thought, the ones we are sometimes impatient with as they take their tottering old time getting on and off busses, or as they take forever to coax the correct change out of their pockets and purses in the supermarket lineups--these could very well be the same people who 60 years ago were fighting their way up a beach in Normandy, praying that this wasn't the day they die; watching friends and fellow young people--for they would have been in their late-teens or twenties--lose their lives in the brutality of war around them; tending to the wounded, the mangled; living each day knowing with a certainty that even if they lived through this thing, they would not do so unscarred. Loss was a given. Loss on a large scale. It was never far away.
And they did it with a purpose. They did it for a reason. War is always chaotic and insane and brutal. But they knew why they were there. They understood why sacrifices were necessary. And they went willingly. There was an old word they used, that decimated generation. A word we don't hear much anymore: duty.
How long ago that was, and how easy it is for those of us from successive generations to be disconnected from that reality, the reality they lived through.
Today's ceremonies and commemorations were all very impressive and moving. The Queen attended the Canadian ceremonies at Juno Beach, where the Canadian forces landed on D-Day. She and our Governor General Adrienne Clarkson (a former TV journalist) and our Prime Minister Paul Martin spoke of the sacrifices made, and of Canada's role. But for me, the most moving image was that of the dozens of octogenarian Canadian veterans in their blue, sometimes red blazers and berets, medals dangling from their chests, marching down to Juno Beach, and then walking along the beach. Their beach. Some with canes, limping, moving as best they could on bad knees and hips and aching joints. Pushing through the years. Just like the old man from the subway. Maybe he was among them.
Some walked in clusters together; some off alone, contemplating the sand and the pleasant waves greeting the shore. One old man was carrying something in a small plastic bag. He ambled to the edge of the beach and, rearing back his arm as best he could, tossed it as far as his old arm would allow into the surf. A private memorial of some sort. Ashes of a since-fallen comrade perhaps?
But all were doing one thing: remembering. I saw one leaving the beach, stopping to wipe his face, tears lingering in the wrinkled folds.
What did they do on that day? Sardined into metal landing craft in the pre-dawn darkness, sick to their stomachs, scared as hell (as one veteran said, if anyone tells you they weren't scared, they weren't there). And then the craft jolts to a stop, the door splashes open, the first of the bullets come whizzing in, ricocheting off the hull. The sickening thud as metal hits flesh and bone.
ping ping zip thud thud ping thud thud...
And there's just one imperative: Run. Forward. Keep moving. Reach that wall. Don't stop.
Don't stop. Even as you step over the bodies of your buddies, sometimes your best friends, men you've spent the past three years training with. (Men! Most were barely beyond boyhood!). Don't stop.
Don't stop till you're wounded, they were told. One of the lessons of Dieppe.
Unimaginable what carnage they must have witnessed on that beach 60 years ago. And what bravery they found within themselves to do what they had to do.
Could we do that today? Despite what I've heard some people say, I think we would. For a just war. Sure, it was a different time, a different generation. But it was a different war. That was no Vietnam. That was no Iraq. It was a war fought in black and white. It was the free world responding to a mad man, a certifiably insane tyrant who was in control of a highly industrialized nation which he had moved to a war economy, built what was the most modern and powerful military machine of its day, and was using it, and his despotic control over his nation to conquer an entire continent and kill millions and millions of people, including some through systematic extermination. Horrible experiments on children. A political policy of dehumanization.
It's almost hard to believe when you think about it in those terms. It almost sounds like a script for a bad sci-fi comic book. A murderous mad man trying to take over the world! People my age and younger have grown up in a world where those events had already happened and were over and done with. A chapter in the history books. An abstraction. Happy days were here again, and we had never known when they had been suspended for a time.
But for those old men walking on Juno Beach, it was no abstraction. For an entire generation, it was their problem to deal with. And they dealt with it. They sacrificed. Their bodies. Their youth. Their lives.
They were willing to give everything in one supreme effort. Willing to give everything, and ready to lose everything. And many did. And because of their efforts, an evil was brought to an end.
Thank you for your efforts. Thank you for holding the door for us.
You're coming through a doorway in a public space--a mall or a subway station or a store--and you notice there's someone coming behind you. You stop and hold the door briefly for them, just to make it easier for them. You do it because it's common courtesy, so the door won't hit them in the face as it swings back. And people will generally extend their hand to take the door from you. Sort of like passing on the open door from one to the next. But some people seem to think you're holding the door for them so they can walk through without having to exert any effort of their own. No attempt to take the door from you. No hand extended. They just breeze on through, like they're royalty or something, and you're their doorman.
I don't like it when that happens. There have been a couple of times when I've actually let go of the door when I saw the person I was holding it for wasn't going to put their hand out to take it from me. It sure as hell surprised them, I'll tell you that. I just walked on.
I'm not proud of that. But it does make me smirk a little.
Of course, when you're coming through a door in a public space, it's sometimes hard to know at what point you should stop to hold the door for the person coming behind you, and at what point it's okay to let it go. It's a fine line sometimes, and generally my rule of thumb is that if they're far enough away that the door would close fully before they reach it, then it's okay to let it go.
Exceptions should be made, though, for people who have their hands full, maybe carrying several shopping bags, for instance, or a clumsy cache of groceries, or for people pushing baby strollers and/or with small children in tow. Of course, when it comes to these kinds of social etiquette rules, elderly people are generally always deserving of special treatment.
For instance, last week I was heading into the Spadina subway station after having dined at a nearby Indian restaurant with some friends. As I passed through the street-level entrance, I noticed there was an old man coming in from the sidewalk behind me. He was moving slowly, shuffling along, age having taken its toll on his body. Legs didn't move the way they used to, the way he wanted them to. He was a small, shrunken man, slightly stooped. Though he was sufficiently far enough behind me that I could have justifiably kept going, I stopped and held the door and waited for him to catch up to it. When he reached the door, he took it in hand, and thanked me in a quiet, weak voice, seeming somewhat surprised, looking up at me through large, thick glasses. I continued on my way, gliding through the automatic turnstile with a swipe of my metropass. He was still in the foyer, fumbling through a change purse or something, trying to find a token I suppose. Just another nondescript old man coping with the tiny everyday struggles that come with old age. I felt good about holding the door for him, giving the extra effort, but that was about as much as I could do.
Fast forward to today, June 6, 2004. The 60th anniversary of the D-Day landings on the beaches of Normandy in WWII. I was watching the extensive coverage on CBC, and I was struck again by this fact: that the old men and women we pass by on the sidewalks without a second thought, the ones we are sometimes impatient with as they take their tottering old time getting on and off busses, or as they take forever to coax the correct change out of their pockets and purses in the supermarket lineups--these could very well be the same people who 60 years ago were fighting their way up a beach in Normandy, praying that this wasn't the day they die; watching friends and fellow young people--for they would have been in their late-teens or twenties--lose their lives in the brutality of war around them; tending to the wounded, the mangled; living each day knowing with a certainty that even if they lived through this thing, they would not do so unscarred. Loss was a given. Loss on a large scale. It was never far away.
And they did it with a purpose. They did it for a reason. War is always chaotic and insane and brutal. But they knew why they were there. They understood why sacrifices were necessary. And they went willingly. There was an old word they used, that decimated generation. A word we don't hear much anymore: duty.
How long ago that was, and how easy it is for those of us from successive generations to be disconnected from that reality, the reality they lived through.
Today's ceremonies and commemorations were all very impressive and moving. The Queen attended the Canadian ceremonies at Juno Beach, where the Canadian forces landed on D-Day. She and our Governor General Adrienne Clarkson (a former TV journalist) and our Prime Minister Paul Martin spoke of the sacrifices made, and of Canada's role. But for me, the most moving image was that of the dozens of octogenarian Canadian veterans in their blue, sometimes red blazers and berets, medals dangling from their chests, marching down to Juno Beach, and then walking along the beach. Their beach. Some with canes, limping, moving as best they could on bad knees and hips and aching joints. Pushing through the years. Just like the old man from the subway. Maybe he was among them.
Some walked in clusters together; some off alone, contemplating the sand and the pleasant waves greeting the shore. One old man was carrying something in a small plastic bag. He ambled to the edge of the beach and, rearing back his arm as best he could, tossed it as far as his old arm would allow into the surf. A private memorial of some sort. Ashes of a since-fallen comrade perhaps?
But all were doing one thing: remembering. I saw one leaving the beach, stopping to wipe his face, tears lingering in the wrinkled folds.
What did they do on that day? Sardined into metal landing craft in the pre-dawn darkness, sick to their stomachs, scared as hell (as one veteran said, if anyone tells you they weren't scared, they weren't there). And then the craft jolts to a stop, the door splashes open, the first of the bullets come whizzing in, ricocheting off the hull. The sickening thud as metal hits flesh and bone.
ping ping zip thud thud ping thud thud...
And there's just one imperative: Run. Forward. Keep moving. Reach that wall. Don't stop.
Don't stop. Even as you step over the bodies of your buddies, sometimes your best friends, men you've spent the past three years training with. (Men! Most were barely beyond boyhood!). Don't stop.
Don't stop till you're wounded, they were told. One of the lessons of Dieppe.
Unimaginable what carnage they must have witnessed on that beach 60 years ago. And what bravery they found within themselves to do what they had to do.
Could we do that today? Despite what I've heard some people say, I think we would. For a just war. Sure, it was a different time, a different generation. But it was a different war. That was no Vietnam. That was no Iraq. It was a war fought in black and white. It was the free world responding to a mad man, a certifiably insane tyrant who was in control of a highly industrialized nation which he had moved to a war economy, built what was the most modern and powerful military machine of its day, and was using it, and his despotic control over his nation to conquer an entire continent and kill millions and millions of people, including some through systematic extermination. Horrible experiments on children. A political policy of dehumanization.
It's almost hard to believe when you think about it in those terms. It almost sounds like a script for a bad sci-fi comic book. A murderous mad man trying to take over the world! People my age and younger have grown up in a world where those events had already happened and were over and done with. A chapter in the history books. An abstraction. Happy days were here again, and we had never known when they had been suspended for a time.
But for those old men walking on Juno Beach, it was no abstraction. For an entire generation, it was their problem to deal with. And they dealt with it. They sacrificed. Their bodies. Their youth. Their lives.
They were willing to give everything in one supreme effort. Willing to give everything, and ready to lose everything. And many did. And because of their efforts, an evil was brought to an end.
Thank you for your efforts. Thank you for holding the door for us.
No Reply
I received no reply from Blogger about the comments issue, so I reinstalled the old comments from YACCS.
Much better.
Much better.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Have A Nice Cast
I just downloaded Nicecast. Looks pretty cool. Anyone been using it? Is it as easy as it looks? Will I be able to listen to my iTunes library while I'm at work?
Can I start Radio Jimbuck2?
Can I start Radio Jimbuck2?
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Blog-Jammed or Ode To Comment Sense
It's come to my attention that in order for folks to leave a comment on my blog, they must be Blogger users and sign in with a username and password. I didn't realize that when I switched from my previous comments provider. I just saw that Blogger comments gave an option in the set-up for "anyone can post", and I assumed that meant... ANYONE!
That's just stupid. Very unlike the spirit of what blogging should be. Blogger has made some nice improvements since being bought by Google, but this is dumb. I'm gonna look into this, and if Blogger won't allow unrestricted commenting, I'll try to switch back to my previous comments supplier.
On that score, if anyone has any comments providers they might recommend (I was using YACCS), drop me a line. Click on my name in the "posted by" line below to send me an email.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
In the meantime, here's some fun and interesting stuff from WFMU's Sites For Sore Eyes. I especially enjoyed the VELVET UNDERGROUND 3D DEATH CHASE. Never managed to make it to the Bar Mitzvah without getting stoned by those roving members of the VU. Hate when that happens.
Linger on...
That's just stupid. Very unlike the spirit of what blogging should be. Blogger has made some nice improvements since being bought by Google, but this is dumb. I'm gonna look into this, and if Blogger won't allow unrestricted commenting, I'll try to switch back to my previous comments supplier.
On that score, if anyone has any comments providers they might recommend (I was using YACCS), drop me a line. Click on my name in the "posted by" line below to send me an email.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
In the meantime, here's some fun and interesting stuff from WFMU's Sites For Sore Eyes. I especially enjoyed the VELVET UNDERGROUND 3D DEATH CHASE. Never managed to make it to the Bar Mitzvah without getting stoned by those roving members of the VU. Hate when that happens.
Linger on...
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