This is NOT a pub crawl
Okay, maybe a little. I prefer to think of it as a “leisurely cocktail walk“.
I have been blessed with many things in this life; a good cocktail bar was not one of them. Don’t get me wrong. I still love the Squarerigger Pub, my “local” (Crystal and Scott pour a mean “dirty”), and I will still go to pretty much any venue to see/hear good music but I wanted a cocktail bar, somewhere hip and cool and ridiculously overpriced. So last night, I started holding auditions.
5:30 pm – The Squarerigger Pub, 150-1425 Marine Drive, West Vancouver.
Beer. A pitcher of Sleemans Original $9.99. $13 after tax and 16% tip.
I like the Rigger. Anyone who knows me knows I spend most of my time out here. It’s a great place to watch a game and the downstairs section is just itchin’ to host your party. I recommend coming down during the day for a cup of coffee and annoying the manager, Scott, while he tries to get some work done. It’s my new favourite thing.
7:30 pm – George Ultra Lounge, 1137 Hamilton Street, Vancouver.
Aviation: Beefeater gin, maraschino liqueur and fresh lemon juice, served up and finished with violet liqueur. $11. $15 after tax and a 22% tip.
Essentially a Mike’s Hard Lemonade made with Gin. It is simple but good. It was also my server’s favourite.
I have no idea what an Ultra lounge is but whatever it is, I have a sneaking suspicion that George is it. The lighting is at the perfect setting for apres-business or pre-sex. Take your pick. The staff are all beautiful (women and men) and clad in black. It’s definitely Yaletown in here. As I continue to sip my cocktail (apparently in places like this, sipping is appropriate – not a lot of beerpong going on in here), it actually gets better. My heartburn doesn’t but that’s not the cocktail’s fault. The lovely Alexandra brings me my bill and I am off. I am coming back to be sure. George also gets an extra point because it is a chip shot away from my lawyer’s office. Always handy.
8:10pm – The Morrissey Pub, 1227 Granville Street, Vancouver.
Classic “dirty” martini. $12.05.
1516 beer. $5.50 (after tax)
$25 after tax and a 31% tip (and a free beer).
This one was a bit of a cheater. I’ve been here before and really quite like it. It really isn’t a cocktail place either. But that doesn’t stop them from serving some of the best martinis I’ve ever had. According to the bartender, they are more of a “beer and scotch” type place. And they’re pure rock and roll. You’re going to find more lip piercings and plaid in here than you would suits and Italian shoes. The stereo sounds like my iPod and the bartender is a slightly shorter, bearded version of Graham Myrfield in appearance and attitude. This is a good thing. I get the impression that a lot of the customers have forgotten more about Vancouver’s music scene than I’ll ever know and I have to stifle a sigh as the two lovely young ladies beside me drink Jameson’s with beer chasers… Honey, I’m home!
9:45ish pm – The Keefer Bar, 135 Keefer Street, Vancouver.
I don’t know. I just said “Dealer’s Choice” and got this: Famous Grouse scotch, sweet vermouth, artichoke vermouth, maraschino liqueur, with Peychauds and Angustura bitters. $12.50 after tax. $15 with 20% tip.
Now THIS is a cocktail. Plus service with a smile.
Now, for starters, the Keefer Bar is small. It’s cozy and great, but it’s small. If you plan on going there, go early. I meant to be there around 9:30 but the bartender at the Morrissey Pub queered the deal by comping me a beer. So I pour myself in at around 9:45ish and the place is packed. The burlesque show starts at 10. There is one empty stool at the bar. I asked if it’s being used and the woman kindly responds that she’s pretty sure it is but she’s not sure by who.
The MC takes to the stage. She cracks wise and plays some tunes to get the crowd primed. Lola Frost does her routine to Mancini’s “Pink Panther”. It’s killer. I think this is the third time I’ve seen Lola perform. The other two times, she was dancing with Villainy Loveless (as “The Switchblade Sisters”) as part of Shiloh Lindsey’s stage show. There was a routine with a wind-up doll that made me happy in all the right places. Good times. Great hootch and pasties? How can you go wrong? After the set, the woman I spoke to about the stool earlier comes over and tells me the stool is free. I thank her but tell her I’m quite enjoying being in everyone’s way. It was standing room only and the ladies on stage deserved it. So did the Wee Keefer for that matter. I chase my nameless-but-awesome cocktail with a Blue Buck lager and hit the streets once more.
11:05pm – Bus.
11:20pm – The Squarerigger Pub, 150-1425 Marine Drive, West Vancouver.
Beer. Sleemans Original. $6.15 with tax and 15% tip.
So I’m back at The Rigger for about five minutes when the wild & wonderful Miss Lori Roberge comes rumbling in. After surviving her harrowing drive across North America, she has returned to Vancouver only to have someone swipe her glasses. So if you know someone who frequents Darby’s Pub (2001 Macdonald Street, Vancouver) who suddenly has a new pair of glasses that look like these:
Kick some ass WITHOUT breaking the frames and let me know.
All in all it was a fun night. I’ll let y’all know when the next round of auditions is being held and we can go for a “leisurely cocktail walk” together.
UNISON Music Fest – Night #2
After the way Gonch Messiah polished off Friday night, I knew Saturday would be insane.
The room filled quicker; the familiar faces were everywhere; it was insane.
The evening started with Mark & John (from The Get Down) playing a wonderful set that too many people didn’t see. This is why you come early to shows people.
Next up, JP & The Black Sheep got the room spinning with a high energy set.
Filling the middle slot for the evening was I’m Not Frank. At this point, I officially lost count how many bands Jon Fredriksen and Hamish Thomson play in together.
As Upper Levels took the stage, you could feel the room buzz. I’d spoken with all of them earlier and they were nervous. Nervous that they should have rehearsed more. Nervous that they just couldn’t cut it any more. Nervous. My response? “Fuck you. You’re Upper Levels.”
Ian Fergusen, sound man from The Sandy Cove introduced them. And then it started, the audio mindfuck that was, is, and always will be Upper Levels… all cranked to 11, of course. I snapped some hurried pics of the first bar of the first song because I wasn’t going to spend this set snapping pics. No sir. The time machine had cranked up to full power. Stephen Hawking says you can’t go back. I’m sorry sir, but you’re wrong. Almost two decades disappeared in an instant. Gone. Washed away by music that hasn’t aged a day. They just opened the bottle and it poured out from where they had left it.
Hamish Thomson has never made a bad decision about music. Until now. Whatever possessed him to ask a reeling, long-winded drunk to introduce them is beyond me. However, I was flattered by the request and graciously accepted.
In my introduction, I said that even with all the years I’d known them and all the years I’d been writing, I was still at a loss to describe Big Tall Garden. I still am.
They simply are the best. Even that isn’t good enough for them.
Baron S. Cameron, thy name is vanity [and unemployed]
Dear Friends, It has come to my attention that having money and a legal source of income is somewhat of a necessity these days. To that end I have decided to promote and sell action figures. Please browse the catalogue below.
University Grad
Hair-brained Year-long Project #18284-F: The dress
Okay.
I have decided I am making a dress (not for me, thx).
I’ve always liked fashion. But I can’t sketch, stitch, cut, or sew.
I am starting from scratch. But with my library card, my passion for ridiculous ideas, and my mom’s sewing machine, I’m giving myself one year, 365 days, to design and make a dress. Why? Why the fuck not?
SWAN[K!] Song
When I was 15, I went to Europe with my parents. We took the “Grand Tour” and I found myself face to face with the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I also found myself in another of my bell-ringing arguments with my father. At the end of it all, stubborn and moody, I refused to climb the tower with the other tourists. A couple of years later, the tower was closed to the public for safety reasons and I had missed an opportunity that was truly once in a life time.
Twenty years later, I was at a sold out show at the Commodore. The Town Pants were having their first Boozapalooza to celebrate their 10 year anniversary as a band. I didn’t miss SWANK! that night; I kind of got so drunk that I forgot them. Unlike Pisa’s stone banana, however, it was an omission I could rectify.
Boozapalooza
The release party for Campfire Pslams remains the best album release party I have ever attended. The Railway club was filled with well wishing friends and partiers who got exactly what they came for. SWANK! played an acoustic set, followed by their friends singing karaoke versions of the songs from the new album (the karaoke disc came as an extra with the actual CD). The evening was capped off with SWANK! blowing the doors off the club in all their amplified glory.
SWANK! circa 1996
Why the nostalgia?
This Friday (Oct 1, 2010), SWANK! will play their final show. After 18 years of wearing out dancing shoes the world round, SWANK! are powering down the amps for the last time. They’ll be closing the second of the Sound Lounge Presents Concert Series with The Jardines and Jonathan Todd.
The Jardines will be playing with the full 8-person compliment on stage and Jonathan Todd, a stranger to me, who managed to wow the socks of Kirk Douglas recording at the Sound Lounge; not an easy task to be sure. It is destined to be an evening of Vancouver music legend.
In Ireland 2006
I lost my only chance to see Pisa from her leaning tower. I’ll be damned if I miss my last chance to see SWANK! perform as a band. For those of you who find this the first, last, and only chance to see SWANK!, do yourself a favour and head down to the Anza Club this Friday and write yourself into legend.
The Sound Lounge Presents
SWANK! w/
The Jardines & Jonathan Todd
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Anza Club
3 W 8th Ave
Vancouver, BC
(604) 876-7128
Tickets: $10
Repost: “Leave the Gun; Take the Cannoli”: The fun and foibles of live music
This entry was originally posted on the Baron S. Cameron Blog 13/11/2008. I was just giving it a read and thought I’d throw it back out there. BSC.
“Leave the gun; take the cannoli” is possibly the greatest throwaway line ever. Delivered beautifully by Richard S. Castellano, as the affable but deadly Peter Clemenza in The Godfather, I consider it to be one of the best lines in the history of American Cinema. But what does it mean, and, perhaps more importantly, why would I bring it up in an article about live music?
When Paulie, Vito Corleone’s ex-driver, is murdered, Clemenza and his cohorts don’t dwell on it. Paulie is never mentioned again except when Clemenza lets Sonny know that the job is done: “Paulie? You ain’t going to see him no more.” Essentially, the dirty work is behind them; they move on. The gun is the awfulness of the immediate past. The cannoli is the anticipation of a sweet future.
As a medium, live music can be as exciting as it gets. There is a thrill of instant creation, a rush. It may not easily liken itself to skydiving or bungee jumping, but there is still the anxious possibility of a moment of glory and, equally, of a mistake. Luckily for musicians, such mistakes are rarely physically fatal. The death of one’s career, however, is sometimes a very real possibility. Unlike NASCAR though, very few people attend live music shows just to see if someone fucks up; they go to see a performance. And, provided that the mistakes are small enough, people rarely notice them. It is usually the solo burden of the musicians who are often the only ones in the room who know that something has gone awry. They should never be too hard on themselves though. We, the audience, are waiting for the next note, and, perhaps more importantly, we are waiting for the musicians to supply it, which they won’t if they are dwelling on the note that didn’t quite make it.
It is physically impossible to play the same song twice performing live; humans are not exact enough to do it. Even if a song could be perfectly replicated, the live moment originally accompanying it would be gone. The art of creating is fleeting. The effect or result of the moment of creation can be recorded in some fashion (tape, canvas, ink) but the actual moment is gone forever. It is a point in a dynamic process that exists for an instant and is then disappears to whatever realm it was pulled from in the first place. Creation moves forward. Where we were is not as important as where we are going and this is why live music forgives our little mistakes: what’s done is done and rarely remembered as it actually happened. Humans are also pretty lousy recorders of history, especially when our passions are aroused. So unless the DAT’s rolling, don’t sweat it. This of course is not to say that a musician doesn’t need to try on the previous note, only to make it up to us with the next one – we’re talking about small mistakes here, not shoddy musicianship. Also, if you really can’t play, you’re doomed. “They suck” is a pronouncement more difficult to revise than “murderer” or “whore.” Changing a crowd’s mind is simple enough with some practice but getting a crowd out to see a band that “sucks” is nigh on impossible.
But the mistakes can be glorious too. Most scientific discoveries don’t happen with a “Eureka!” but with a “How the hell did that happen?” Take Radiohead’s “Creep” for example: the seemingly out of place guitar crunches before the chorus are, as guitarist, Ed O’Brien, explains, “the sound of Jonny [Greenwood] trying to fuck the song up.” In the final cut, however, it is Jonny Greenwood’s “fuck ups” that end up being the most memorable part of a very memorable song.
So here is wisdom: If you flub a note, don’t sweat it. We’re waiting for the next one. In short, “Leave the gun; take the cannoli.”
Design V. Documentation: “What Is Art?” and my problems with photography
Every society and culture that I am aware of, has garnered my awareness through their desire to be remembered. Those who want to disappear, persons or societies, often do so. But I believe that we can logically assume that most would like to leave some type of legacy or, at least, a dent in the wall somewhere to show they existed.
A classical studies professor I had at UBC once suggested the reason we have the ancient literature we do is because it was popular and mass produced thereby greatly increasing its chances of surviving the ages. Does this mean that our society will be thought of as a society of Dan Brown readers and Justin Bieber fans? Well, truth be told, we are a society of Dan Brown readers and Justin Bieber fans, but we are also much much more. Unfortunately, that “much much more” is rarely as well documented as the other. When was the last time you saw major media outlets spend a week discussing the latest tattoo acquired by the lead cellist in the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra?
So, my contribution to pot is documentation.
I review, promote, provide, and take pictures. But are the pictures art?
A lot of photojournalists have had their pictures declared “art”, won awards, etc… But are photographs always art? No. Where is the line? What is a good picture?
We (well anyone with a Facebook account) know what a bad picture looks like: over exposed, poorly framed, out of focus, poor use of subject… But what about a picture that is perfectly exposed, framed, focused, representing the subject as intended but the subject is a printing press you’re photographing for a technical manual? Is it art?
Another problem very evident in the world of Facebook and MySpace is the word “photographer”. I have owned cameras for over 20 years, but does the mere fact that I take pictures make me a photographer? According to a dictionary, yes. A quick glance through 99% of Facebook albums and the answer is “no”.
So let’s look at these:
Click me; I get bigger.
The Olympic torch bearer running through West Vancouver. I was prepared for him to arrive. I was able to run along side. I like this picture. If my flash had gone off, as I had intended it to, the picture would have been ruined. So… means, opportunity, and dumb luck. Am I a photographer yet?
Click me; I get bigger.
Serena Ryder, arguably the most famous person I have photographed. People see this pic and recognize her, see her. Is it well framed, exposed, focused? This was also the first time I was told by a stage manager that I had three songs to shoot before I had to pack it in. Other people were shooting pictures, flashes popping on their little palm cameras… The stage manager thought I was a professional: Three songs. No flash. Am I a photographer yet?
Click me; I get bigger.
Jeff Myrfield of The Stumbler’s Inn. I love to photograph these guys and have a lot more access to them than most. I like this pic. I was trying to take it. However, it is very dark. Jeff is backlit. To get this shot I needed to ramp up the ISO and got “noise”. I shot this with an f1.8 lens. If I had a lens with a bigger aperature, would this be a better photo? Could I have brought the ISO down and decreased the “noise”? As a non-professional, despite my desire, I can’t afford lenses that won’t eventually pay for themselves. Also, I’m asking a lot of questions about technical aspects of shooting. This time I had a plan, access, but wasn’t entirely sure if I was using my gear to the best of its abilities. Am I a photographer?
Click me; I get bigger.
Walking back from a live show, I stopped to take a picture of an escalator being repaired. As I turned, I saw this. Click. This picture led to this:
Click me; I get bigger.
This picture is an interesting one. It is the first time complete strangers have let me pose them so it is a step, for me personally, towards taking the kind of “people” pictures I’d like to. But this picture is also a big disappointment for me.
I shot it in black and white. I didn’t think to switch my camera back to standard. That graffiti is vivid and amazing. In this picture it is dull.
This picture isn’t in focus. I suck at manual focusing and the autofocus on my 50mm is sometimes worse. Plus, I’d been drinking, which is never conducive to focus… heh.
Here’s the thing. Could I have kept my subjects there while I changed lenses and reset my camera? A fun idea can become an imposition pretty quick sometimes.
Art cannot be dumb luck but dumb luck can contribute to art. Art is talent but cannot be restricted to only trained thought. Art is knowing your tools but not confined by them…
So what happens with a guy who just wants the world to know how cool his friends are and how much fun this city still has? I don’t know if I’m a photographer let alone an artist.
My Country ‘Tis of Thee: In the studio with Shiloh Lindsey
Somewhere in Nanton, AB, a cowboy is without his hat. I know where it is. Well, that is to say, I know who has it. And from what I’ve heard, she more than deserves it.
If you ever visit Nanton, you’ll find the Auditorium Hotel, “The Odd” to the locals. It is filled with stuffed animals (taxidermy, not Care Bears) and old logging and farm tools. It smells dusty along with the combined homey bar smells: spilled beer and cleaning products. Built in 1902, it supplies its patrons with “cozy rooms, [...] home-style meals, and regular live music.” On a Thursday night in 2009, Shiloh Lindsey was the live music. Towards the end of the night, a local cowboy apparently took exception to Lindsey’s urbanized cowboy hat and insisted she take his. The locals were shocked. His daughter could not believe her eyes. From what I understand, the act was analogous to Clint Eastwood handing over his Navy Colt to an up and coming gunslinger.
How do I know this? I asked.
Sitting in Kirk Douglas’ studio, Sound Lounge Productions, I ask Shiloh how her brand of Country Music was received in those places where you still find more cows than concrete. She answers with the story about a hat, its brim worn down in the spot where a real cowboy tipped it with his work-stained hands to countless passing ladies over the years.
It makes perfect sense to me. When Lindsey sings, she sucks you right in. There is an honesty in her songs that is absent from a lot of music today. This is not a deliberate attempt to fight against what Lindsey and Douglas refer to as “the machine,” that place where some music originates where there is “no real honesty.” I say that this isn’t deliberate in the same sense that breathing air into your lungs is deliberate; it just has to happen. Lindsey writes from a place where her music could not exist without its inherent honesty. Honesty is the quantum particle Lindsey’s music is built from.
We break to listen to a track from the new album. “Six 6ft Skids” is a piece of pure Concrete Country. Listening to the song, I am transported back to the night I first stumbled west down East Hastings after ingesting too much of too much. The lyrics relate a humorous story we can all understand even if the chorus, “Six 6ft skids,” is slightly cryptic. I ask Lindsey about the meaning of the chorus (pounded out in gang vocals by some of the local lads) and she smiles. If you didn’t already know, you never would. Suffice it to say, if you’ve ever worked in a liquor store, you’d get it. The song itself, feels a little disjointed after the first chorus, but as it settles on you, everything falls into place, literally. I ask Lindsey and Douglas about this and we start discussing how Shiloh “build[s] a song.”
For Shiloh, song writing is therapeutic and cathartic. It starts with “writing out some stuff,” progresses through the “talking and therapy” stage, and finishes with “a whole box of Kleenex” sitting empty in a corner of the studio. Despite having all the raw emotion of the average 14 year old’s first attempt at Emo poetry, Lindsey’s lyrics and music aren’t weepy or self-pitying. Other than the obvious difference in talent, Lindsey’s writing differs from overwrought, teenage angst partly because she’s not an angst-ridden teenager, but mostly because she doesn’t want you to feel sorry for her. She’s not looking to bring you down; she’s just telling you a story. If she hits a nerve it’s because all of us can place ourselves in her shoes, no matter what size we wear. This is the sign of a true songwriter: someone who pours so much emotion and honesty into a song that the song in turn draws an equal amount from the listener.
Listening to another track on the album, I am struck again by another component of Lindsey’s music: her delivery. I first heard it in “Whiskey and Rum” on her first album. Sometimes, she rambles. A lot of singers pain themselves to enunciate every damn word. When we’re upset or excited, we don’t break off into a pseudo-Shakespearean soliloquy; we ramble. She vocalizes emotion and it adds to your overall experience. All this is also part down of her stripped down approach to recording. “We wanted it raw,” is how she explains the mindset for recording her latest album. When you see her play live, how she could walk into a studio with anything but raw, is a mystery.
The next time Shiloh and I meet, we’re at The Five Point on Main Street. I known her for a few years, seen her live more times than I can count, and sat in with her working in the studio but this is the first time Shiloh and I have ever sat down and just talked about nothing. As the conversation, and beer, progresses, we share stories we’d never have expected.
Far be it for me to ever view Country Music from an existentialist’s point of view but I think I’m about to.
There have been moments in Shiloh’s life that were anything but happy. I won’t get into details as they really aren’t mine to share, but I will say the honesty and emotion in her music now have a genesis as far as I’m concerned. But rather than shy away from the stories of her past, she writes and records them for us. She doesn’t ask for your sympathy but just hands you a note for you to read and pocket.
I brought my camera today to take pictures for this article but don’t. Once you start chatting with Shiloh, you find you don’t really want to do anything else. We take a small tour of the neighbourhood, including a stop at her job, The Brewery Creek Liquor Store, where we restock for our travels. We end up back at her place, where we keep talking about everything and nothing. One of the boys formerly of No Horses is on his way over for rehearsal and I find myself taking pictures of everything, everything but Shiloh. She’s a beautiful young woman but conversation supersedes image until she finds a book of old poetry. It’s that book of old poetry, the one every writer has sitting around somewhere and is always embarrassed to find. She flips it open and starts reading. My shutter finally clicks. No posed picture could ever tell you who Shiloh Lindsey is but when I catch her flipping through a book of old poetry, she is just a human who loves life and words and has this amazing talent to share them with all of us.
The release of Shiloh’s new album, Western Violence and Brief Sensuality, is Thursday, June 10 at the ANZA Club (3 West 8th, Vancouver, BC).
Narcissistic Shrieks and Baseless Information
“Narcissistic shrieks and baseless information.” That’s how Tom Wolfe regards blogs. I tend to agree. It is interesting though, being a fan of Wolfe’s and his being a hero of mine is one of the reasons why I blog. Oh well. I have decided to start a new blog actually. Not anything too different, in fact it could be considered a subsidiary of this one, a little brother if you will. I like “narcissistic shrieks and baseless information” but don’t know if they really have a place on The Loudmouth Bear and what I am trying to do here on this blog. The new blog is on Google’s Blogspot service. I’ve titled it “Narcissistic Shrieks and Baseless Information”, of course. There’s nothing there now but I will keep you posted.
The Loudmouth Bear will continue as usual with stories about Vancouver and my life in it. The new blog will essentially be the new home for the “Straight From the Bear’s loud mouth” and “Cute Shit my friend says on Facebook chat”.
PCAHA Scholarship Awards
When a kid does something wrong, it’s news for days if not weeks. If they do something really bad, after week two of unending “coverage” we start seeing pieces about “What’s Wrong With Society?” and “Will Your Child Murder You Tonight?” If you’re lucky, they’ll tell you who is to blame for all this; chances are it’s video games or tv or music. What about when kids do something right?
Tonight, I find myself in the “Captain’s Club”, a lounge on the 2nd floor of GM Place. I’m here to take photos. Over the past 33 years, the Pacific Coast Amateur Hockey Association (PCAHA) has given away more than $380,000 to 687 players. I’m willing to bet the $10,250 they give away tonight that you have never heard a thing about it or the kids who win. Despite several invitations, no major news provider in the Lower Mainland has ever mentioned it, let alone attended. Even the power of the Vancouver Canucks, who present five scholarships, can’t sway the media to pay attention.
However, get one of these to kids to throw a brick through a window instead of excel in school (coach and referee sports, work with special needs children, be camp counselors, produce films about sustainability, raise money for Third World nations, volunteer for the Red Cross, save a school from closing (yeah, he did), tutor, play an instrument, volunteer with Big Brothers/Sisters, work at the Food Bank, bring Palestinian and Israeli children together (no, I am not making this up), act in school productions, write for the school paper, be on the Grad Committee and/or Student Council, raise $70,000 for cancer research, work at a Mexican orphanage, prepare and serve food in a soup kitchen) or play a damn good game of hockey on top of it all and it makes it to the papers.
The list above is a short cross section of the accomplishments of the winners tonight. The ceremony usually lasts about 30-45 minutes and is a generally tame affair. One year Brian Burke scared the hell out of some kid by yelling out, “Smile! They’re giving you money!” just as I was about to take the picture. Burke, for the record, stayed for the entire ceremony that night, despite his aides constantly tapping at watches. He even stayed afterward to take pictures and sign autographs for anyone who wanted them. He knew how important nights like this were. Small and quiet as the ceremony is, it’s special for the kids and parents (and coaches and teachers and principals) to know that there are rewards for hard honest work, and hockey.
Slate.com ran an article about positive peer pressure. Surround children with smart, achieving classmates and your child is likely to rise to the occasion. This makes perfect sense to me. So why do we rarely hear about the kids who do well? If children are our future, maybe it would be a good idea to remind them now and again that there is still a future worth having. Just a thought.
Lost in Translation: Not every burka is visible to the naked eye
We had some international guests last night at the open mic/jam. A 20-something Japanese couple joined us on the patio. She was beautifully clothed in a wide striped dress. He was an Asian hipster. They were chatty and fun. Her English was much better than his and we spoke most of the night. She even complimented me on my Japanese pronunciation. I’ve never studied Japanese but because of my father’s business connections, I learned how to be polite to Japanese speakers at a very young age.
My dad traveled to Japan quite frequently in the 80s and on one trip he acquired a painting by (I believe) Osawa Seiichiro. It depicts two pregnant women with no faces. My mother instantly hated it. At the time, I didn’t quite understand why. But I figured it out. She had an issue with the way some Japanese men treated women and the painting just gave it an image. I had never really though about it. We hear a lot these days about Muslim women and the hijab and burka. I’d never thought too much other cultures. Out of sight out of mind, I suppose.
Last night at the bar, I left the patio to pack up my stuff at the bar. The young woman I’d been talking with for most the evening came in to order a round of drinks and asked me what all “the men” were drinking. I told her she did have “to buy any drinks for those bums,” but she insisted because it was her duty to do so. It dawned on me then that she’d been filling the glasses all night, adjusting my chair every time I stood up or sat down.
I told her that I did not mean to insult her or her culture, but Western men open doors for women and should never walk in front of them. The idea of not walking behind a man almost frightened her. She told me, nervous and quiet, that she wasn’t “Japanese enough” when in Japan and never felt Canadian enough when here. I told her whenever she came to our pub and sat at our table, she was just our friend and didn’t have to serve anyone if she didn’t want to. She smiled, her dark eyes shining, but I am certain we will never see her again.
When we returned to the table, without the drinks, her boyfriend cast an accusing glance at us. His hipster charm wore off soon there after.
Border Towns: Myth v. Fact when it came to my passport[s]
Someone once told me that the United States doesn’t recognize dual citizenship between the US and Canada. That didn’t sound right to me. Guess what… it wasn’t. The United States most certainly recognizes dual citizenship between our two countries. You only run into problems if, when you became a citizen of Canada, you meant to renounce your US citizenship. For myself, I didn’t. In fact, becoming a Canadian citizen was a passive act for me. While I sat (or stood) doing whatever it was I was doing on my 24th birthday, I became a Canadian citizen.
I was born in the US – Greenwich, CT to be exact. I have often joked that having been born in Greenwich and raised in West Vancouver, BC, my snob pedigree is perfect. Both my parents are Canadian (born and raised in the Kootenays) so I was considered a Canadian citizen born abroad. Because I lived in Canada when I reached the age of 24, I became a full Canadian citizen.
When I applied for my Canadian passport, I needed a guarantor’s signature, and those of two references. For my US passport, I just needed my birth certificate (stamped with the seal of the issuing State) and picture ID. I used my Canadian passport. Which leads me to myth number two: The US won’t allow you to carry two passports.
BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Thanks for playing.
The woman at the US Consulate in Vancouver told me that when arriving in the US, arrive as an American. When arriving in Canada, arrive as a Canadian. That’s two passports kiddies. Surprised me too.
Lastly, though it pains me to say it, these idiot Tea Partiers might actually have something with this smaller government thing. It took two and a half weeks for my Canadian passport to show up and about two hours to apply for it. My US passport took me less than 45 minutes to apply for and arrived a week and a day later. Of course, when it comes to government, if the US can figure out healthcare and education for its (our?) citizens I’d be willing to wait another ten days for my passport.
Granville Pt. 2: fashion
I’ve always been interested in people’s sense of style. This is just a sampling of the people who walked past in the hour or so I was sitting on Granville. I once heard that if you sit in one spot for long enough, the entire world will pass you by. Really quite boring when you think about it. Heh.
Enough about f*cking Avatar already…
The year I was born, three great things were brought into this world: me, The Godfather, and Atari Pong. Thirty-seven years later, people still watch The Godfather, people still love me, but not a whole lot of people are still playing Pong. Thirty-seven years ago, Pong was the shit, the highmark of videogaming. Today it is an obselete joke, admired only by retro-fanatics and garage sale enthusiasts.
Enter Avatar.
Sigourney Weaver feels that James Cameron didn’t win the Oscar this year because he had a penis. She told a Brazilian publication that, “Jim didn’t have breasts, and I think that was the reason. He should have taken home that Oscar.” I sincerely doubt that such a commanding actress as Weaver would ever suffer from penis envy. Cameron on the other hand sucks and gets the lifeblood for his scripts from others so it is entirely possible that he does have breast envy.
Weaver then goes on to compare Avatar to Ben-Hur: “In the past, Avatar would have won because they loved to hand out awards to big productions, like Ben-Hur. Today it’s fashionable to give the Oscar to a small movie that nobody saw.” Well, it’s 51 years later and people still watch Ben-Hur.
Avatar and its stunning production values are not the future of moviemaking. It is the future of videogaming. Hurt Locker won the Oscar because it is a well-written and well-acted film. Like The Godfather and Ben-Hur, good movies will never go out of style; cool, movies on the other hand, disappear into gimmickry pretty damn quick. The remake of Clash of the Titans and Alice in Wonderland have proved that already, much quicker than I would have anticipated. A bad movie in 3-D is still a bad movie in 3-D.
Dances With Ferngully may have grossed an obscene US$2,712,444,933 compared to Hurt Locker’s pittance of US$42,079,220 but Hurt Locker will stand the test of time. Good stories always do. Speaking of good stories, track down a copy of “Call Me Joe”. If you liked Avatar, I’m certain you’ll love it. It’s a science fiction story by about exploring the surface of Jupiter using remotely controlled artificial life-forms. It focuses on the feelings of the disabled man who operates the artificial body. Sound familiar? Fifty-two years after it was written, people are still reading it. Well, we all know James Cameron has.
A little lesson in advertising
Lets pretend for a moment that while sitting on your couch, you accidentally spill beer into your bowl of Hawkin’s Cheezies at the same instant that your Clapper shorts out, giving you and your Cheezie slurry one hell of a jolt. When you regain consciousness, to your surprise, you’ve discovered a cure for cancer. So what? No one knows. You could have the greatest product in the world but if the public isn’t aware of it they can’t/won’t buy it.
I read an article on Slate.com today that included a picture of an Obama supporter in the midst of a Tea Party rally, holding a sign that read, “All These People Are Idiots.” This seems to be the only place we see pictures of Obama supporters anymore. You see, content people are boring. They don’t make for good news; whereas, a group of overweight, undereducated malcontents waving ”Don’t Tread on Me” flags and screaming about communsim make for good media coverage. Start whipping bricks through the window of a Democrat’s constituency office and you’re sure to be the lead at 11 o’clock. There has been a lot of talk this week about Ann Coulter’s trip to Canada. Yes, our Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees us the freedom of speech and expression but how many people have actually read the Charter?
A society like Canada is built on two political philosophies: natural rights and utilitarianism. Proponents of natural rights believe that as humans we have the right do to pretty much whatever we damn well please. This is an interesting notion, always linked to the belief that humans will always work in the best interest of themselves and other humans. Doesn’t work (the “and other humans” part). Utilitarianism is the belief that what is good for the greatest number of people rules the day. This is how societies maintian themselves.
If you actually read all of the Charter, instead of just quoting the good bits that seem to give you the right to do whatever you damn well please you’d find this at the very beginning:
“Whereas Canada is founded upon principles that recognize the supremacy of God and the rule of law [...]” (emphasis mine).
Right after that introduction you find this little piece of legal literature:
“The Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms guarantees the rights and freedoms set out in it subject only to such reasonable limits prescribed by law as can be demonstrably justified in a free and democratic society” (emphasis mine).
Your rights end where laws protecting society start.
So, back to Ann Coulter and advertising.
What Ann Coulter spews from that evil little mouth of hers is “speech.” Some of it is Hate Speech, which, in Canada, is illegal. So Ann, please quit complaining that your rights have been infringed upon. Every Canadian’s rights are infringed upon to protect society as a whole. It is the paradox of a “free” society. In order to have the freedoms we enjoy we must relinquish our sovereignty to those who would safeguard it. This is, very basically, the Social Contract.
To Coulter’s more vocal detractors? You shut up too. Ann Coulter is not stupid, nor is she an idiot. Coulter is a bully, but a bully with a book deal. The more you shout, the more books she sells. She knows it and if you’re half a brilliant as you think you are, you’d know it too. You don’t have to keep a constant vigil to figure out what she’s doing now, or who she’s offending. She’ll let you know herself. I guarantee it.
The reason so many products are so expensive is we help pay the bill for advertising them. There is no discernable difference in performance between a Puma, Nike, or Addidas shoe. The only difference is which one looks cooler in Maxim. Companies pay millions for this advertising. Stop giving it to Ann Coulter for free.
Rain
A long and practiced Existentialist, he stood in the rain. His jacket was inside and he felt nothing as the rain washed over and, eventually, through him. He was being tested. For years beyond number, he’d believed. Many had challenged him saying that he could not build a belief out of a denial. They had all missed the point. His beliefs were not built on a denial; they were built on a celebration, a celebration of life and its beauty, its horror.
As he stood in the rain he wanted to fold. He was very close. His strength had always come from not a belief, but his certainty that this was how it was.
One day, a beautiful young creature broke his wall, as only someone like her could. He went so far as to tattoo her, in abstract, on his chest, over his heart. She had awoken something in him and never laid a hand upon him.
This didn’t help the rain.
A lifetime of study and pursuit could not keep him from returning to a place in his mind, a word: fair.
There is no fair. There is no guiding light.
Only the wounded need something to lean on as they walk.
Again the rain.
His thoughts went to a child. First the one he lost, then the one suffering the pain and humiliation of sickness.
Who wants to live in a world where you must choose between arbitrary suffering or the machinations of a sick prankster, concerned only with His own glory?
I do.
I will.
Because I know that nature hates a vacuum. I know that nature fills the void. Take from me. Give to him.
I am one of those bastards the universe creates who cannot die under its rules. I fear not the darkness. Take that insane courage from me and feed it to him as strength. Give me the hurt. I can take it. Take it from him and give it to someone who volunteers as I do.
Rapists, murderers, pedophiles, they breathe the air. Take it from them to give to him. But if you are to stay arbitrary, let me volunteer. I can survive it. I will survive because my only true care is to live and live large. I will live small if it means that he just lives.
It is definitely time for me and this little monster to have it out.
It has sat, silent, for too long. I do believe it is now time for me to blow the dust off the machine and again take it to task. What will happen? Who the fuck knows or cares? It is not about outcomes. Now it is all about moments. Moments are all I have right now and, hopefully, if enough are strung together, I may get an outcome worth writing about.
Little victories, massive losses, and mail day
Little Victories:
My phone hates me and I am quickly learning to return the sentiment. There’s a little plastic strip that sits right beneath the battery and if it slips out of position, strange things start happening with my phone. Let’s see how out of position it gets when I overhand it, fastball style, into an oncoming dump truck.
Massive Losses:
I overheard my mom and her sister dicussing taking an old, dear family friend off of life support.
About 60kms north of Cranbrook you will find the Skookumchuck Pulp Mill, just to the west of Highway 93/95. The highway crosses the Kootenay River and for about 20 seconds you are driving through Springbrook, BC. About midway through Springbrook, a road meets the highway, Bradford Road. It was named for my grandfather, Baron Bradford. At the end of that road is a bridge. The bridge crosses Sheep Creek. At the end of the bridge is the B-E (B bar E), my family’s cattle ranch. The other day, my mother and aunt were discussing what to do with it, ie: selling it. Like a lot of things I just kind of thought it would always be there. No decisions yet but if we are forced to sell it (because no one in our family is able or willing to maintain it), it will be a lousy day.
We all have a “happiest place on Earth” and this is mine. Below is a postcard showing the ranch.
Any picture you’ve seen of me riding a horse or playing on tractor was taken at the ranch above. Here’s a picture of me holding the postcard above in the spot where the picture was taken. I haven’t lost the ranch yet but I have lost about 30lbs since this pic was taken!
Mail Day:
Ah, MAIL DAY!
You all know by now I’m like a little kid whenever I get mail. I’ve been a little moody as of late and today’s letter was just perfect. I did, however, make the mistake of starting to read it just as “In the Backseat” by Arcade Fire started playing on my stereo and I was reaching for a Kleenex before I was done.
Friends are awesome. Mail is awesome. Especially when they combine like this…
keeping positive.
The only thing worse than being sick is being dead - that and “Jersey Shore.” In an effort to keep my spirits high, I have decided to look at the upside and write about all the good things that come about as a result of the world famous, head cold. So, here is the silver lining that is slowly dripping out of my sinus cavity:
A) People don’t know what a sap you are: Because your eyes are watering so much, they can’t tell if you have a cold or if you just watched the episode of “Highway to Heaven” where the little girl with leukemia gets to swim with the dolphins after replacing her prosthetic legs that were lost in the horrible school bus crash caused by her family swerving off the road to miss Terry Fox running with a box of puppies.
B) Drugs: Nobody wants you to go to work and make them sick too so you get to sit at home watching the walls melt.
C) Better seats on the bus: These days one sneeze/snort combo and you’re riding in style with a whole section to yourself until another sick person gets on and your section kind of turns into a leper colony.
D) Lots of hot showers with no guilt: It was Mother Nature and her germs that did this to you so the bitch can suffer with you for a day.
E) Soup: Soup is awesome. Let’s all just admit this and move on.
F) Oprah: She’ll be gone soon. You better try to get in some “me” time while you can. See “A” above.
G) You have at least one day of bossing your roommates around: They’ll put up with you for one day because they want the same treatment when they get sick and one look at you and they know they will.
H) Cherry Halls: “Dissolve one tablet slowly in the mouth as required.” *Crunch* Next…
I) Pajamas: I have long been a supporter of the notion that one not get dressed should they not need to. Pajamas are the shit, even you have to have several pairs on call with all the joyous night sweating that goes on.
J) The Fever: Suckers all over the world shell out good cash for designer drugs to feel the way you do the night you have the fever. Fever dreams are so intense that being sick is almost worth it for that exact reason. Bon Voyage!
Relationship advice
I don’t ACTUALLY freak out
it’s fine until I start thinking and thinking about it
I’m actually insane
Sitting Inn: Band practice Stumblers style
To say that Alec Myrfield is a poet is not too much of a stretch. When he sings, he takes you through his stories with the all-knowing, backwoods voice of a hunting guide who, though he scares you shitless, you trust to bring you home alive. Tonight, I am sitting in, interloping, on one of The Stumblers Inn’s rehearsals. Al composes the beginnings of a song on his accoustic and “then it morphs into its own when it leaves the accoustic and the boys get their filthy mitts on it.” I’ve come to watch and listen to that happen.
The “boys“ are his brothers, Graham (bass/vocals) and Jeff (keyboards), and honourary Myrfield, Chuck Dupuis (drums). Chuck and Graham are starting a fire in the living room when I arrive. Graham’s house is within walking distance of Vancouver General which is a fact I find very comforting. It seems everytime I even think of the Myrfield brothers, I end up fucked three ways from Sunday and staggering down a street somewhere. Graham opens the door, still in his work clothes, a reminder that successful musicians in this city are a rare bird indeed, and welcomes me in with a smile that few can beat. He changes into something less “work” and crashes down on the couch. Looking at his bare arms, I get tattoo envy. I have three from local singer/songwriter, Val Grahams’ gun, and Graham’s arms sport much of her work as well. Graham and Al have more ink between them than the pages of the Oxford English Dictionary, including the word “Stumbler” written across their knuckles. Their arms, like The Stumblers Inn, are storytellers. We head downstairs to the basement when Jeff and Al arrive. Everybody takes their post, and Graham kicks off the night hammering at the piano keys. Jeff starts on the keyboards and Chuck keeps time.
The Stumblers Inn are returning to the studio soon to record their next album so the purpose of tonight’s session is to hammer out the notes and disagreements. I get the impression that a lot of the creative tension in the band resides between Al and Jeff. Jeff is an amazing keyboardist and quite possibly the most talented of the brothers musically. Graham shoots me a wink and a smile before telling Jeff the last take “fucking sucked,” a move designed to get under his brother’s skin. Jeff turns to face his brothers and when he sees Graham’s smirk, he can’t help smiling himself before getting back to business. Jeff wants the song in G, Al pushes for B flat, Graham doesn’t seem to care, and Chuck waits patiently, fully aware that his drums have nothing to do with the discussion.
Al’s raw songs are the starting point from which the band works. As the song moves between them, all The Stumblers add their piece. Jeff’s keyboards are probably what Ray Manzarek would have sounded like if he moonlighted doing the sound effects for 1970s Sci-Fi movies. I had the privalege of sitting in on a jam with Jeff the night before last year’s Green Mountain Music Festival in Nanaimo, and when that boy starts to play, he’s gone. I once described The Stumblers Inn as “Blue Rodeo tied to The Doors, soaked in whiskey and set gloriously ablaze in a marijuana patch.” Jeff’s carnivalesque keys certainly lend a Doors quality to the band, but when the four of them play together, it is pure Stumblers.
It is amazing to watch them work together. The bickering persists, but brothers will be brothers, and in the end it is for the best because all their needling about keys, changes, tempo, and arrangement produces a quality sound. I chime in with my two cents here and there and unwittingly open an old can of worms by bringing up the accordion. I ask Jeff if he can play one and I’m sure I see a slight wince. Uh oh. Al and Graham jump on Jeff with comments about accordions. Jeff fights back claiming that the one accordion they’d ever supplied him with was a piece of crap and completely unplayable. “Accordion-gate” quickly passes with smiles and laughs all around and I decide to keep my mouth shut from that point on.
As the evening moves on, I am reminded just why these musical ruffians are so dear to me. The music is top notch and contains both a darkness and sense of humour that many bands today are either too lazy or too inept to pull off. Graham is one of my favourite bass players in the city even if he does insist on wearing his band’s shirt on stage (heh) and he never seems to mind when I remind him (constantly) that I’m not-so-secretly in “like” with his wife. I’m glad he knows I’m kidding, because his hands are large enough to crush the life out of me with one snap of his fingers. As for hands, I’ve often remarked on how Al holds his guitar. Al is a very big boy, and god help you if you ever demean his kith and kin in his presence, but he holds his guitars with the heart and soul of a poet, even if he gives you a shot in the arm for saying so.
The Stumblers Inn play The ANZA Club (3 West 8th Ave, Vancouver) on Friday, March 5th, 2010. Tickets are $10 in advance and $15 at the door.
You can view their MySpace page HERE.
Did I mention I love mail?
Somewhere in New York, two women are laughing themselves silly. Maybe it’s because of the Valentine’s Day card – “I think the best time to get cards is a week or so after the holiday for which they are intended… It adds an element of surprise… Surprise!” – but I have a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with the other contents of the package. The drawing, poem, and letter were greatly appreciated but their service to our wonderful city did not go unnoticed. Seems they, like everyone else in the world, have perceived that Vancouver is having a little problem with the “Winter” part of our Winter Olympics. I love mail.
Really? (This post is NSFW)
I am seriously considering starting a new category called, “Only A University Student Could Be This Stupid.” A while back I blogged about an interview about tolerance I heard on CBC Radio. In this interview, a professor told of how he was shocked by a student saying that she would not lift a finger to stop the Nazis if she were a time traveller, not because of the “Butterfly Effect”, but because it wasn’t her place to comment on how other people (in this case the Nazis) ran their societies. She was “tolerant.” I remember very clearly when the professor said, “Only a university student would think that way.” Yesterday, I was commenting on a friend’s Facebook page. She had made a comment about Olympic protestors and then caught it from all sides, big surprise there. Her older sister and a friend were being particularly patronizing.
SISTER: I think you need to read a bit more before you can make any accusations. Maybe develop your understanding of “violence” instead of relying on what you saw or heard on CTV.
I couldn’t resist responding to that; so I did. I repsonded that I read a lot too and that I thought the protest was violent and that I had never actually seen any of CTV’s coverage. What I had seen were photographs by local photogs.
SISTER: “[R]ead a bit more” was directed at the term “violence,” looking at the difference between damage to property and an act against a human being…. Anarchist theory is about consensus. Yes we can question the actions of the black bloc, but at the end of the day it was only windows and now it’s time to move on.
I guess she didn’t actually mean “Read” but “Read stuff that will make you agree with me.” I pointed out that the Black Bloc assaulted journalists and police officers in the course of carrying out their duty. Were they property? This is a point no one cared to comment on after if was made. As for consenus, I asked if this was anything like democratic voting or the public agreeing that police officers should try and stop people who are breaking the law. What followed was classic.
SISTER’S FRIEND: Re: free speech, I guess you missed JS Mill. The movement does not pretend to totalize and reconcile the tactics of the movement. It certainly doesn’t consider pandering to the mainstream media to be tactically advantageous. It’s only defense against corporate media is the independent journalism of the movement, which is something, I’m sure, that any activist who knows the motives of canwest et al would read.
If the movement were considering efficient causes, it would vote for the NDP. But it is not, as I read it, interested in upholding the organism of law which it accurately perceives as a defense of the rich. It’s not just the parties that are inadequate, but government. This critique is not invalid if it is articulated as a problem. its exegesis is simply impossible here.
What movement doesn’t support an “efficient cause”? The “organism of law”? You mean a society with Law and Order? I could smell first year university on this idiot. Especially this: “Re: free speech, I guess you missed JS Mill.” Heh…
While John Stuart Mill did have a lot to say on the subject of free speech, as most philosophers do, he also had a little philosophy called Utilitarianism, the “greatest-happiness priciple.” Basically, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
Whoops. By quoting John Stuart Mill as an expert supporting his point he also opened the door for me to comment that J.S. Mill’s philosophy of Utilitarianism basically means “DTES suck it up; the majority of us are doing just fine at your expense.” In order words, he blew his own point.
I was dying to know who this moron was so I took a glance at his Facebook page. Turns out he’s a fan of Sasha Grey. J.S. Mill was also a supporter of the rights of women so I asked my new friend this: How does a teenage girl being gangbanged and humiliated by 8 men her father’s age then being ejaculated on by same represent the rights of women or freedom from the exploitation of corporate media?
He accused me of making an ad hominen, which I most certainly had after making my comments. I’d suggested he drop the “pseudo-academic buzzwords” by the time he reached fourth year or his profs would eat him alive. He didn’t answer my question. So I wrote this: I just knew you would say [it was an ad hominem]… How about begging the question, answering everything but the question put before you?
Let’s try this again: How does a teenage girl being gangbanged and humiliated by 8 men her father’s age then being ejaculated on by same represent the rights of women or freedom from the exploitation of corporate media?
~or~ Why would you quote a source that actually harmed your argument unless you were ignorant of his full body of work?
He answered, but then quickly deleted his answer. How do I know this? Because it’s Facebook and a flea can’t fart in Madagascar without 10,000 notifications being sent. When I got to the “chat”, the sister was back and speaking in his stead.
SISTER: [O]ne more thing then let’s end this because I think after Baron’s last comment the argument has gone fucking nowhere. I’m also a fan of Sasha Grey, in fact I was before P. The reason why we are fans is because she’s probably the most articulate and critically minded porn star out there, making her pretty fucking fan worthy to me. Baron you should not reduce her to her image.
Now I would argue that the argument was going “fucking nowhere” because he refused to answer my questions but ”The most articulate and critically minded porn star”? Really?
It is not me you need to worry about as far as reducing her to “her image.” Let’s look at that “image”, shall we?
Now, of the 7 men in this room and more specifically the three fucking her, slapping her, and flipping her around like a meaty blow-up doll, how many are thinking about her “articulate and critical” mind? How many men watching this are? How many young women who may see Grey on Oprah being all coy and “smart” and talking about “freedom” and all the money she makes are? Interestingly enough, the file above is “image15″.
Ask Jennie Ketcham about the glamourous life of a porn star.
Sasha Grey may be “articulate” but her image is what everyone sees. The sister would have us believe that taking your child to see a man juggle chainsaws without explaining the danger is okay. People with their noses buried in theory with little or no practical experience to back it up can be very dangerous. Only a university student could be this stupid.
George Stroumboulopoulos: The Truth on TV
Since there’s been television sets to complain about, parents have been warning their children that they “can’t believe everything [they] see on TV!” I would agree that this is very often the case, but when it comes to George Stroumboulopoulos, I’ve decided he can be trusted.
*This next bit is going to read like a second introduction and I’m pretty sure it is.
It irritates me when people talk about hating people they have never met. You can hate Lady Gaga’s music all you want or hate Charlie Sheen’s lifestyle, but you really can’t hate a person you don’t know. So whenever I hear people talk that way about George Stroumboulopoulos (which is rare but it does happen), I feel the need to defend him, having met him three times now.
The first time I met Stroumboulopoulos was in April of 2007. I was in Toronto to visit my sister and do the usual Toronto stuff: The Hockey Hall of Fame, The CN Tower, and the Allied Beauty Association’s convention and trade show (Yes, there’s a whole different story there.).
I also made plans to go to a taping of The Hour. It was really my main reason for going, next to seeing my sister, of course.
It was Tuesday, April 3, 2007 and his in-studio guests were James Bartleman, then the 27th Lieutenant-Governor of Ontario and Neil Sedaka; if you don’t already know who he is (shame on you), I won’t bother having to explain. But it wasn’t his interview style or the the guests that got me. It was how he dealt with the audience. During one of the breaks he started talking with someone in the crowd about hockey goaltenders. The conversation lasted the whole break. The floor manager gave him the 30 second sign. Stroumboulopoulos acknowledged it and kept talking with the audience member. At the 20 second warning, he began walking backwards to his chair, never breaking eye contact or conversation with the audience member. At 10 seconds, he was sitting in his chair still conversing with the audience member until he put his finger up for a pause, said, “Just a second”, then turned to the camera, “My next guest…”
After the show he stayed to meet every person who stayed to meet him.
The second time I attended a taping was November 30, 2009. His guests that day were Patrick Trahan, a motorcyclist from the Dakar Rally (who almost killed my friends and I when he arrived on his bike at the CBC, bumped into a cab, then lurched up onto the sidewalk), and Shawn Ashmore, the actor. My sister, her boyfriend, my friend Lori, and I sat front row. It was cool. At the time, I was doing my own interview show online and had a picture of Stroumboulopoulos out of sight, down by my knee. If an interview was going a little awry, I’d look down and think, “What would George do?” He signed the picture for me that day.
I hate Metrotown. I hate everything about Metrotown. In fact, the last time I was there was for this, five or six years ago:
Now hanging around all day making snide remarks about Canadian Idol is a great way to spend your day in the mall. Standing in line? Not so much. This past Saturday, Metrotown played host to a CBC Live event. I went to check it out. One “Lucky Facebook Winner” was given 20 or so minutes to ask Stroumboulopoulos questions, interview him. One of the questions was “Why the CBC?” Stroumboulopoulos responded that he didn’t even return their call the first time. It wasn’t until it dawned on him that there were no investors, no bottom line, at the CBC that he wanted to go work there. The CBC existed to program for a nation, not make investors rich. I decided to stay afterward to see if I could get signed posters for a couple of friends.
After almost two hours, and tweets like, “If I don’t get a @strombo poster b/c the line was too long, next person to walk by with a Heartland poster is getting punched on her 14yr old tit!”, I finally got a chance to meet him again, shake his hand, and get a couple of personalized autographs for my friends. Standing in line makes you punchy, I know, but I really wasn’t worried. Just as I figured, he stayed. While the Dragon’s Den guy was long gone with the cast of The Republic of Doyle, Stroumboulopoulos, “George” as he always introduces himself, was still chatting wildly with the first two people in line.
He is the real deal, Truth on TV. If you don’t like his show, fine. But if you’re going to slam him, shake his hand and look him in the eye before you do. It’s not being star struck either. Stroumboulopoulos is no star; he’s Canada’s boyfriend.
January 31, 2011 | Categories: Art, Fellatio, and Other Heady Subjects, Straight from The Bear's loud mouth (insane ramblings disguised as social commentary), The Loudmouth Bear Reviews (books, music, movies), [re]Discovering Vancouver | Tags: 15 minutes, Baron S. Cameron, British Columbia, Canada, contrarian, fame, George Stroumboulopoulos, humour, loud mouth, loudmouth bear, photography, Vancouver, west vancouver, writing | 18 Comments »