In Blotto Voce

      Just a few brief things as 2003 draws to a much-welcome close. I can't say it's been a very good year, and I certainly can't say there's been much memorable in the life of Doctor J; it's mostly been a lot of the same-ole same-ole, though I guess it's worth noting that 2003 did see the creation of this blog which, altogether surprisingly, at year's end had received over 3,200 hits, about 3,000 more than I ever expected. (Note: this blog does not count my own visits to check up on things.) So, who knew? And who ever imagined that I, of all people, would ever bother establishing a consistent presence on the web? Certainly not most of the people I know. In the words of Henry James, "And there we are--."

      This morning say the finishing, or relative finishing, of long-needed clean-up of my living quarters which, in point of fact, are more office-like than residential. Books upon books upon books staring down at me, reminding me all too well, of all the things I could and probably should be doing, in one critical, creative, or academic form or another. So much for roads not (yet) taken.

      Yes, it's been a productive morning, because I also managed to suffer through the mind-blowingly stupid (pronounce "stooooo-pid") The Cradle Of Life. Sexy as she may be, Angelina Jolie's curvatures are not enough to redeem this pile of cinematic turd, with enough idiocies and continuity errors to arouse the grouses of even the most mentally-addled eleven year-old. Oh, there's blood in the water, and just because Jolie puched the shark in the face (!) and rode him for a bit, the shark swims away from the blood tracks? Oh no, methinks not. That's just an example. The coincidences in the movie (particularly in the action sequences) make the ones Victor Hugo used to invoke seem entirely plausible. This turkey makes Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom look like a brilliant version of the sequel. Call the film Around The World In Eight Melees, with Passepartout suddenly a Scottish rogue (despite having the Irish name "Sheridan") desperately trying to seem like a bulkier Colin Farrell. Don't get me wrong, I'm willing to suspend my disbelief to a degree, but this movie asks its viewers to leave their brains ensconced somewhere within Jolie's cleavage. That in itself might not be so bad, except that there are better views of that range elsewhere.

      Also, by the way, watched Finding Nemo. I have to say, I was thoroughly impressed, and that it's been quite a while since I watched a movie smiling as much as I was. And, yes, before anyone asks: the animation was superb. Pixar just continues to impress me with their visual virtuosity; the ocean, sometimes patently obvious in its animated state, sucks you in, and begins to seem stunningly real. Overall, the film is rousing and fun without becoming overly-sentimental (read in: cloying and pretentious), and it doesn't make the mistake of over-extending its welcome. I can definitely see how the film earned (key word: earned) such adoring reactions from moviegoers. This is something, I must confess, of a shock: I never thought I'd write of a movie featuring Ellen Degeneres with such praise. Who knew? I feel like I'm eating crow, but happily so.

      New Year's Eve looms, and there remains much to do today, though I have to admit to being exhausted already (it's just after 9am as I write this, but I've been up and at it since 2am). I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do for the evening, though it will likely be the same-old routine of dropping down to my oldest haunt just prior to the turning of the year and kicking away the past year with Beckhamesque fervour. Hopefully 2004 will offer a release from the rut. Nah, not likely, no matter what this says. After all, I remember reading that this was supposed to be a boom year. 'Tis to laugh.

      Something in me says that I should write something about 2003 in general, but, to be entirely frank, I can't be bothered. You'll all read it, if you haven't already, elsewhere-- the same ole stuff about Iraq, about the laughable turf-war for the Democratic party, the coronation of Paul Martin, Mad Cows, SARS, blah blah blah blah blah. I'm inclined to think at this point that my time is better spent on other things. Regardless, to those of you reading this, and especially to those of you who've been following this blog through its ramblings and one-liners over the past several months, Happy New Year. May 2004 be a year of cakes and ale. Cheers,

Dock Jay

Please, Pretty Please... With Whipped Cream On Top...

      It looks like Kylie Minogue could make one guy very happy, and not just in the obvious way. Kylie, if you read this article, call the lad up and arrange a date. Call it a public service. Call it a pity date. So much for so little. (And feel free to arrange a date with Doctor J, by the way: he can't stand your music, but he confesses that he thinks you've got a very, very lovely figure.;-) )

One Long Year With The Weight Of One Long Winter

      Ah, it's that time again, time for Dave Barry's Year In Review. The article is lengthy, but there's a lot of fun to be had. This blog particularly likes the description of the seismic activity in California.

Drowning By Numbers

      These poll results, from The Globe and Mail, are interesting, and I'm reproducing them here so I can make the occasional clipped or not-so-clipped remark (rendered in italics). The original article can be found here.

1% of Canadian men say driving a good car is more important than having good health. Doh.

2% of advertising and marketing executives offer employment to a job seeker after just one interview; 44 per cent require at least three interviews. Ridiculous. Remember when it used to be easier?

3% of Canadians say their mothers warned them to be wary of the opposite sex; 11 per cent said mom shared tips about keeping a partner satisfied in bed. No matter what, I'm not asking my mother ANYTHING about satisfying a partner, even if I were to succumb to getting involved in yet another ignominy-waiting-to-happen.

4% of men say they would search their partner's wallet or break into their e-mail account to search for signs of infidelity; 7 per cent of women say they would behave that way. 'The handkerchief! The handkerchief!'

5% of Canadians don't ever wear underwear. Ouch. Scrapy-scrapy.

6% of people would like to celebrate Canada Day by having sex on top of a Zamboni. Ewwwwww...A cure for frigidity?

7% of households have five or more pets. They're cheaper by the dozen. ;-)

8% of Canadian teenagers smoke marijuana daily. This sounds low. ~~High anxiety...~~

9% of business leaders believe French proficiency is "essentially worthless" in the corporate world. Dunno 'bout the corporate world. Has been utterly useless in my academic experience, to the point I've almost completely lost my French.

10% of Canadians with the national average household income of $58,000 consider themselves well-off; half of those earning $200,000 believe they are just getting by. The more you have, the more you think you need. Flurking yuppies.

11% of girls 15 to 17 had a major depressive episode in the previous year, compared with just 2 per cent of boys. But were they truly depressive, or were they overreactions?

12% of sexually active Canadians have had an affair with their best friend's partner. Six per cent have had sex with the boss. Not guilty, your honour. At least as of this writing.

13% of women spend more on a Christmas gift for their spouse than for others, whereas 31 per cent of men empty their wallets for their beloved. Only 1 per cent of Canadians spend the most on their father. Telling, isn't it? *tsk tsk*

14% of families live in common-law partnerships, double the 1981 rate. Perhaps because weddings now cost not only the same as the GDP of Rwanda, but they also cost 65% of one's soul when the divorce inevitably happens.

15% of Ontario students say they have driven within an hour of consuming two or more drinks. In 1977, that figure was 58 per cent. Not guilty, your honour. Have been ridden after two or more drink, but haven't driven.

16% of Canadian Muggles say the Harry Potter series of books should be banned from school libraries because they glorify witchcraft. Ignorant fools.

17% of drivers flirt with someone in another car. Not guilty, again, your honour.

18% of Canadians would rather be in the garden than spend intimate time with a spouse. Because plants won't tell you that you don't look at them like you used to.

19% say fatigue plagues them daily while 63 per cent say just an hour's extra sleep would help. The sleepiest Canadians are in British Columbia and the most alert in Quebec. I'd respond to this but I'm just too damned tired.

20% of Canadians are worried that they or someone in their family will lose a job; during the 1993 recession, this figure was 35 per cent. Interesting.

21% of vacationers say their idea of a swell summer vacation is to get in the car and drive; 6 per cent like nothing better than staying at home. I don't remember what a vacation is.

22% of Canadians think cosmetic surgery is a fine way to improve on what nature wrought. Oy vey.

23% of men smoke cigarettes daily, compared with 20 per cent of women. Quebeckers smoke more than other Canadians and British Columbians the least. Guilty, your honour.

24% of men wanted to get power tools this Christmas while 17 per cent of women wanted jewellery. Give me a power tool, and I'll likely insert it into an orifice of the donor.

25% of employees are now classified as "knowledge workers," compared with 14 per cent in 1971. What IS a 'knowledge worker'? Am I one? I have no idea.

26% of Canadians say they would never place their parents in a nursing home. Shameful. Don't we know we should shuffle the elderly away and ignore them forever, like putting a worn-out teddy bear into a closet? ;-) Just kidding.

27% of adults say they are currently dieting or at least trying to lose weight. DEFINITELY Not Guilty.

28% of vacationers say parasailing behind a boat is their idea of a wild and crazy thing to do on holidays; 24 per cent of Quebeckers fantasize about tearing up their return tickets. A wild and crazy thing to do on holidays? Holidays? Holidays? Errr, what are those?

29% of people with a computer and television in the same room visited the website of a program they watched; 11 per cent bought on-line a product featured in a TV show or an advertisement. Okay, I've been to the odd website, but never bought anything. Mind you, I still don't trust exchanging financial info over the web.

30% of Ontarians say they or a family member have had trouble finding a family doctor. He's on the golf course, telling his buddies about that person he fleeced last week for an MRI.

31% of men say they have had sex in a car; only 14 per cent of women admit to this. No comment.

32% of Canadians agree with the statement that "fast-food restaurants offer enough low-fat nutritious choices for children." Oy vey.

33% of employees don't use up all their allotted holiday time. What? Holiday time? What is this poll's obsession with holidays?

34% of Canadians support closing national borders in the event of an infectious-disease epidemic if it's ordered by the World Heath Organization; 27 per cent say they wouldn't wait for the WHO to weigh in. Duh.

35% of adults would rather start the day with a passionate romantic encounter than a hot breakfast but, sadly, 61 per cent think of their stomachs first. This blog gets neither.

36% of people looking to sell their houses want to buy a smaller place. Can't even think about this.

37% of Canadians oppose legalized euthanasia, compared with 49 per cent who support it. The 49 per cent can opt to invoke the notwithstanding clause to euthanise their opposition.

38% of teenaged girls are physically inactive, compared with 24 per cent of boys. Pardon my lethargy...

39% of women say beauty comes from personality while 21 per cent says it's confidence; only 3 per cent cite physical characteristics. Somewhat comforting, though, sadly, most people confuse arrogance with confidence.

40% of women with breast implants have asked to have them removed because of complications. Ah, just like divorce.

41% of twentysomethings still live with their parents, a 20-point increase over 1981. No comment.

42% of Canadians say their houses are well organized. Again, no comment.

43% of Canadians have faked an orgasm; Canadians have sex on average 119 times a year, way behind Hungarians, who led the globe with 152 encounters annually, but well ahead of the under-sexed in Singapore (92 times). Oh, boy, do I miss being average.

44% of Alberta employees remain in contact with work while on vacation by checking telephone or e-mail messages. The national average is 36 per cent. Fools.

45% of Canadian women say the best way to connect with someone is by shaking his or her hand; 41 per cent prefer to hug. Hugs over handshakes any day, at least from women. ;-)

46% of doctors are in an advanced phase of burnout, characterized by emotional exhaustion, cynicism and feelings of ineffectiveness in their work. I will say nothing, I will say nothing...

47% of adults are overweight and 15 per cent are considered obese. Sounds a bit low.

48% of those over the age of 55 say they find advertisements relevant, compared with 64 per cent of people 18 to 24. *Incredulous head shaking*

49% of Canadians who set a budget for Christmas shopping spend more than they intend; 40 per cent of all shoppers expect to start the new year with a balance on their credit cards. Hence my previous Xmas rants, in part anyway...

50% of Canadian companies say they have been defrauded in the past two years. Doh!

51% of male workers eat lunch at their desks, compared with 42 per cent of women. The habit is most evident in British Columbia. What's lunch?

52% of Canadians feel it's acceptable to use pirated computer software; indeed, 40 per cent of business software programs in Canada last year were illegal copies. No comment.

53% of Canadians say they don't feel guilty about taking time out to doing nothing at all; 29 per cent feel shameful about goofing off. Nothing comes from nothing.

54% of Canadians support same-sex marriages. These aren't the numbers I've heard of late, but this blog would like to reaffirm its support for the idea of Erniage.

55% of older Canadians say downloading music from the Internet is theft; 31 per cent of those 12 to 24 share that view. This blog knows a lot of thieves. Scoundrels! ;-)

56% of problem gamblers tried unsuccessfully to shake their addiction to video lottery terminals in the past year; 18 per cent say they considered suicide. At least waste it on alcohol...

57% of Canadian employers have instituted policies to regulate the time their workers spend on the Internet, compared with 33 per cent three years ago. Because this blog knows full well how much time some people will spend surfing...

58% of university graduates in Canada are female, compared with 52 per cent a decade ago. We few, we happy few / We band of brothers...

59% of women say the colour black dominates their wardrobe. Not surprising.

60% of Canadians say they don't have enough fun in their lives. This one certainly doesn't.

61% of beer drinkers say, if stranded on a deserted island, they would want to have beer along more than anything else. Only 3 per cent of the 500 respondents say they would want a woman (one guy specified Rita MacNeil). Beer or a woman... Now THAT's a tough one. Sure, you can't get romantic with a beer, but at least it wouldn't ask you constantly if it looks fat in its glass.

62% of high-school graduates go on to college or university. Too high, way too high. Trust me on this one. Hence the glut of mediocrity.

63% of shoppers try to find out if a product they want to buy is made in Canada. The patriot in me agrees with this. The consumer in me doesn't give a shite.

64% of Ontario women eat at least five servings of fruit or vegetables daily; for men, the figure is 55 per cent. I'm nowhere close on this one.

65% of Canadians sleep either in the nude or in their underwear. No comment.

66% of Canadians receive at least one unwanted gift during the holidays, but a third of those people keep it anyway. Oh yes.

67% of Canadians feel guilty about calling in sick no matter how ill they feel. Haven't called in sick in some time. But always did feel guilty when I did. How Protestant.

68% of Canadian companies say they don't offer Christmas bonuses and that any extra pay is tied to performance. My employer doesn't do squat for Christmas. Not even a polite thank you.

69% of Ontarians believe that "some French" should be mandatory in elementary and high school, compared with 54 per cent of western Canadians. I do think some should be mandatory, that way people can know what it's like to have something and then lose it, much like their virginities.

70% of Canadians support the proposal for a national identification card with fingerprinting or eye-scanning. Meh.

71% of men say they are sexually active, compared with 53 per cent of women. Always on active duty, but all too often on sentry duty.

72% of employees say they would rather get bonus money than have their boss throw a Christmas party. Of course.

73% of executives say they are more focused when interviewing job applicants in the first hours of the day. The chances of getting hired in the afternoon are slim -- only 4 per cent favoured the 3-to-5 p.m. slot. Last interview I had was in the afternoon, and I got that job, rather surprisingly.

74% of Albertans believe they are in very good health, compared with 59 per cent of Atlantic Canadians. It's all in the beef.

75% of married Canadians consider their spouse their best friend; 41 per cent admit, however, to keeping secrets from them. Should be that way.

76% of Canadians have skinny-dipped at some point and only 3 per cent say they did it alone. Kinda. The water was freakin' COOOOOOOLD....

77% of Canadians say they avoid pirated software because it might damage their computers. Oh, I long for the days when computer security was only a concern for companies. Thank ye, Monsieur Gates.

78% of drivers say they would stop and help another driver stuck in snow or ice. Not a driver, but yes, I'd more than likely help were I one.

79% of Canadians believe money is being laundered in this country to finance terrorist activities abroad. But of course... But they only get 75 cents for their dollar, all in coins.

80% of Ontario school boards have placed video-surveillance cameras in schools. Big Brother Is Watching You!

81% of Canadians believe in God, but only 47 per cent think it's important to belong to a religious group. This agnostic doesn't know what to believe.

82% of drivers belt out songs in their cars. Again, not a driver, and not much of a singer. I consider it a public duty to keep myself from committing the crime against humanity that is me singing.

83% of British Columbians say they have "enough" fun in their lives; 93 per cent believe that having fun will lead to a healthy, successful life. This blog doesn't have anywhere near enough fun. At least not recently. Mine is a most humourous melancholy.

84% of Canadians correctly identified unsafe sex practices as a prime method of HIV transmission; 6 per cent cited kissing and 2 per cent mosquito bites. Again, oy vey.

85% of pet owners believe their pet shows concern when they are sick. Mine do. Or did.

86% of Canadians prefer a pen or pencil to a laptop or other electronic note-taking device. Newtons are stupid. And this blog prefers the old Columbo approach.

87% of gays, lesbians and bisexuals have used on-line personal advertisements. This straight person has nothing to advertise. This blog is more 'garage sale' material.

88% of Canadians are happy in their current jobs, although one in 10 employees hates the boss. Getting ahead by sucking up to the boss was considered unsuitable by 78 per cent. I don't suck up. I hate my employer, but generally like my job. The people I usually work under, though, are quite good.

89% of Canadians believe that their country provides a better quality of life than the United States does. Yes.

90% of Canadians say their chief financial goal is to pay down debt. Yes.

91% of Canadians say they trust pharmacists while only 9 per cent trust national politicians. No comment.

92% of women 35 to 49 years old agree with the statement that they are "happy with who you are inside and out." But what about men?

93% of adults want compulsory physical education in schools, and 61 per cent said junk food should be banned from schools. Of course, 16 per cent of these parents don't worry much about their own personal health and eat and drink whatever they want. Oh, how I used to hate gym class...

94% of barbecue owners cooked hamburgers last summer, compared with 2 per cent who slapped artichokes on the grill. Artichokes?!?!? How healthy.... Ew.

95% of Canadians feel safe in their homes at night, but half the population believes there are too few police patrolling their neighbourhoods. So they can have safe sex?

96% of schoolchildren have used a computer. Students in rural areas were more likely to use them at school while urban kids used them at home. Oh, I remember the days before computers. Seems so long ago...

97% of people say they plan to retire by the age of 65. I'll likely be working long after I'm in the ground.

98% of recent immigrants did not apply to emigrate to any other country than Canada; 91 per cent intend to settle permanently in this country. Canada: The World's Second Choice!

99% of lawyers have Internet capabilities in their offices. (Polls haven't determined whether the remaining 1 per cent have moved beyond quill pens.) This blog suspects it's mostly used to chat online with overweight men pretending to be sixteen year-old girls.

100% of questions not asked by pollsters aren't answered Oh, a stab at wit. Sorry, you missed the chest.

Oy, vox populi.

No Gain, No Pain

      This blog is SOOOOOOOOOOOO glad it doesn't have even to think about this sort of thing. *smug grin* Oh, genetics... Sweet, sweet metabolism from hell...

A Gesture At Proper Nomenclature

      This blog would like to nominate a word in response to this headline's question: a**ho$e*. Oops, am I being antagonistic? Err, yeah. Also, the term is "Bramptoids," to make the proper correlation between "humanoids" and "haemorrhoids."

Oy

      Boys, let us gather and weep into our respective beers. Hell is not far afield.

Requiescat In Pace

      To another fine actor fallen.

Who The Hell Do You Think You Are?: Silly, Silly Quizzes

Oh, how appropriate....

Congratulations!! You're a shot of some good old
hard liquor!


What Drink Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

As is this:

You are William Shakespeare


Which Famous English Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

And this too:

You are most like T.S. Eliot.


Which poet from the 20th century are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hilarious. Unfortunately, on last, there was no Wallace Stevens option. But Eliot, gee, whoda thunk it? ;-)

And, no, don't ask me why I'm doing these silly quizzes. I'm now officially in brain-dead mode.

Swann's Take

      Ah, My Favorite Year was on the tube today. The movie is a constant delight, and I couldn't help but wonder if Johnny Depp, in playing Captain Jack in Pirates of the Caribbean, was borrowing more than a bit from Peter O'Toole's brilliant performance as Allan Swann, the glorious bon vivant star of old pirate movies. Some of the movie's lines are terrific (see below), and rewatching it today was like running into an old friend. If you've not seen it, do.

[Alan Swann pours himself a drink.]
Benjy Stone: Mr. Swann, I was supposed to watch you, remember?
Swann: Good. Watch this.
[Drinks.]
Swann: [Pouring another drink.] Want to see it again?
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[An obviously drunken Swann meets the writing staff.]
Sy: He's plastered!
Alan Swann: So are some of the finest erections in Europe.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Handing Benjy a glass.]
Alan Swann: Stone, you can watch me or you can join me. One of them is more fun.
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Alan Swann: Are you still in the fight game?
Rookie Carroca: In a way. I married Benjy's mother.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Benjy Stone: I think I'm going to be unwell.
Alan Swann: Ladies are unwell, Stone. Gentlemen vomit.
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[Alan Swann has blundered into the wrong restroom]
Lil: This is for ladies only!
Alan Swann: [unzipping fly] So is *this*, ma'am, but every now and then I have to run a little water through it.
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Benjy Stone: Catherine, Jews know two things: suffering, and where to find great Chinese food.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
K.C.: I mean, what do you want from me?
Benjy Stone: Sex!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alan Swann: Damn you! I'm not an actor, I'm a movie star!
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[Benjy Stone and a very drunken Alan Swann are up on a roof as Swann attempts to shimmy down the side of the building]
Benjy Stone: Let's *not* do this - it's too dangerous!
Alan Swann: Nonsense! It worked perfectly well in "A Slight Case of Divorce"!
Benjy Stone: That was a movie! This is real life!
Alan Swann: What is the difference?
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Sy: California? You can't write comedy in California! It's not depressing enough!
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Swann: What's in a name? A rose by any other name would wither and die.

If more people sported even an ounce of Swann's panache, the world would be a much more fun place to live. :-)

On The Fine Art Of Foot-Stomping

      This article might be subtitled "Inventions of the Post Turtle." See also this.

See, They Return, And Bring Us With Them

      Looking at such lists at the end of every year, I am always a bit saddened by the depth of loss in any given year, but am also saddened by how many of the passages I'd not heard about. From this year's list, I'm addled that I'd not heard of the deaths of Dame Wendy Hiller (the original film Eliza Doolittle), Rachel Kempson (wife of the late Sir Michael Redgrave, and mother of Lynn, Vanessa, and Corin), Leon Uris (recalling Cletus from The Simpsons: "Nothin' cracks a turtle like Leon Uris"), Benny Carter (the great jazz saxophonist), John Schlesinger (director of Midnight Cowboy and The Falcon and The Snowman), Alan Dugan (American poet), Gordon Jump (Mr. Carlson from WKRP In Cincinnati and the second Maytag Repairman), Jack Elam (he of the manic-eyed codger in countless westerns), and Michael Kamen (composer and arranger of countless movie scores, including the Lethal Weapon movies). How did I not hear about these, especially Dame Wendy and Leon? It says something, I think, about the gracelessness of the North American media. Rest in peace, all.

Diverged In A Yellow Wood

      This blog thinks that this can only be a good thing. Reading this article, though, I'm reclined to a few brief thoughts: how much I miss Mordecai; how much indeed times have changed since 1988; and how adroitly Robert Fulford can write about an issue without actually coming to an argument.

Nevermind...

      Oh, ho.... This is more than a bit familiar. Oh, very familiar indeed. *shakes head*

      (And if you say you don't see yourself, or some former self, in this article, this blog offers these words: "Yeah, right.")

Air Assaults

      New York Governor Michael Pataki's pre-Christmas pardoning of Lenny Bruce for long-forgotten obscenity charges may have seemed like a 'too-little, too-late' pat on the head, rather like the apologies governments occasionally issue after wildy-reactionary gestures. But this blog would like posit this article for your consideration, because it seems to me the central question raised by this article is provocative, and reminds that the sword of satire is always double-edged, and that the wielder of that sword is often guilty of that which he satirizes. Bruce's commentaries may indeed have been brilliant, but he was as guilty as his satirical targets of burning enemies at long-distances without seeing the consequences of his aired assaults. As Lear's Fool knew full well, it may be necessary to jest that the king's crown is made of eggshells, but trespass lightly, for there always remains the possibility of the dragon issuing its wrath.

      This blog isn't attacking Bruce, nor is it defending the obscenity charges laid against him all those years ago (mainly because Bruce suggested that Jackie Kennedy wasn't trying to protect JFK after the shots rang out, but that she was just trying to get the hell out of the firing line, seen then as a gesture of profound bad taste which allowed those that had grudges against Bruce to retalliate against him from a position of supposed justification). But the Fool knows the dangers of his task, and accepts as part of his duty that retribution is always a possible response. And Bruce no doubt knew it. As the song goes, it's all in the game. So, please, respect, admire, or whatever Lenny Bruce, but let's not sanctify him, as most recent articles have; to record him into history as a kind of patron saint of political satire is to brace him with a crown from another set of eggshells.

An Example To Prove That Stoning Should Be A Legal Punishment In Canada

      Such heresy is unforgivable.

Making Their Lists (But Not Checking Them Twice)

      Reading this and this, I'm reminded of the myopia that general skews such polls in favour of the contemporary (and primarily American) rather than the historical. Some key names are notably absent from the upper echelons where they belong: James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, Alec Guinness, Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Vivien Leigh, Peter O'Toole, Helen Hayes, Lillian Gish, Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Deborah Kerr, Orson Welles, James Mason, Ingrid Bergman, Marlon Brando, Ellen Burstyn, to name just a few. But Julia Roberts?!?!?! Ewan McGregor?!?!?! Of ALL-TIME?!?!?!? C'mon, the scales here are severely imbalanced. Yet another reason such polls are as worthless as a politician's morality.

Reach Out And Touch Faith

      Well, shocking as it may seem: this year Christmas was not horrible. Sure, most of the lead-up was, but thankfully this year a lot of the falsities were absent, and the mood in general was much more genial. So, all in all, I can't complain too much, especially since I spent much of the day watching television. Rewatching Miracle on 34th Street after so many years was genuinely refreshing, and it's amazing how well that film ages, because it didn't pander to the cloying tendencies of so many more typical Christmas movies. It's always fun watching Edmund Gwenn, still the perfect vision of Santa, and I was struck by how adorable Natalie Wood used to be as a child; she had that stern but flexible precociousness that makes the film ring entirely true. (I am, much as this may seem a surprise, not immune to good Christmas films, favourites of which include A Christmas Story, the Alistair Sim A Christmas Carol, and Bill Murray's hilarious but finally quite effective Scrooged). Call the experience restorative, in a way. After that: a long indulgence in the acquisition of Buffy the Vampire Season 3, a personal favourite season, mainly because of the presence of two favourite characters, the deliciously --and hilariously-- evil Mayor Wilkins (Harry Groener) and the lusciously villainous Faith (Eliza Dushku; oh, to reach out and touch... Never mind). Then a few hours for dinner with the extended family (long, but not excruciatingly long), and then a return home where, much to my own surprise, I managed to doze off in complete quiet and isolation. Quite nice, really.

      And I can't complain about my gifts this year which, contrary to my expectations based on experience, were thoughtful and appropriate: a new discman, the latest musical offerings from Johnny Cash and Norah Jones (which, for reasons I can't explain, I just never got around to buying), Finding Nemo on DVD, the typical assortment of clothes and candies and the like, and a lovely-looking chess set. So, all considered, very nice. I have Johnny playing as I write this, and American Recordings IV: The Man Comes Around (his last studio album per se) is a powerful and poignant album, and it truly does amaze me how well he can completely reinvent even the most disparate and otherwise identifiable songs with his own particular brand of stoic melancholy. Songs like "Bridge Over Troubled Water," "Hurt," "Personal Jesus" (of all songs!), "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," "Danny Boy," and "Desperado" all seem more fitting to Cash's baritone than they did in the hands and voices of their predecessant recorders. Magnificent, and, at times, bone-chilling.

      It's also worth noting that I'm struck by a commonality in my own musical tastes: I'd rather spare the musical pyrotechnics and lavishments and focus on the capacity for evocation via musical simplicity-- the voices I most think about now being the likes of Cash and Jones and Van Morrison and Ray Charles, all of whom convey more with vocal nuance than most could convey by shouting from the rafters. Any musician who can work with the simple things can then make the more complicated arrangements more truly meaningful when the time comes. Spare me the techno and the hip-hop and the sick and sickening world of music-gone-Britney. Give me depth and sincerity and meaning, and junk the bells and whistles that do little more than (try to) mask insubstantiality. Norah Jones, by voice alone, is far sexier to me than Christina Aguilera ever will be, undergarment parade et al; a smouldering voice outsexes the desperate gynecological exhibitionism of a maturely-moribund, musically-monotonous marvel of media-manufactured menstrua. (After all, we all know, we'll hear something about these divas once every twenty-eight days whether we need to or not, so the cycle of self-promotion can begin again.) I have a sneaking suspicion that Christina's next album will come complete with stirrups and a speculum so you, too, can join in on the intrauterine examination. The upside to this, though, is that perhaps then we'll find out where Osama Bin Laden has been hiding all this time. This article, by the way, is deeply disturbing.

      Anyway, I hope everyone reading me here had a good day yesterday. Zozo, if you see this in time, I'll ring you up later today. As for anyone else attending upon an email from me, all I can say is, forgive me, I'll get to you as soon as I can. Cheers and best, tout le monde.

The Calm Before The Storm

      "And so it begins..." (many possible origins, but here I'm thinking of Kosh from Babylon 5)

      Christmas Eve, as usual, was an exercise in cresting the waves of experience. It began normally enough, than descended into the abominably chest-tightening and spirit-sapping ritual of suffering the fools of shopping and the like. But, once done, once passed through like the 'very big fish' that Jonah survived, I settled down into Chester's for the ritual Christmas Eve pleasantries. This was rather like waiting for the air to come out of a too-inflated balloon; the stress and pressure needed to pass, but once through, I was, er, shall we say, floating through the air like the wee bit of empty plastic that I am. Suffice it to say that the imbibements stormed through, the alcoholic airs sufficiently strong to make even this wee bit of plastic cum laggardly galleon sail. (Best part: thanks to the likes of Kim and George and Michael and Joe, this 'celebrant' spent a mere twenty dollars while no doubt drinking close to seventy, perhaps eighty, dollars worth. That's what I call value. Worst part: getting re-hit upon by a woman I know full well to be neurotic and borderline psychotic; how typical. C'est la vie.) Considering this was done on absolutely no sleep the night before, it's lucky I wasn't falling shit-faced into the ground. It was, to repeat the marinary metaphor, clear sailing. (Yes, I'm jumping metaphors a lot here, but there we go.)

      It's morning now (hangover free!), and it's beautifully quiet. No one is stirring, except for the cat, who has been lavishly fed with both wet and dry food. I am coasting this relative quiet, listening to Bruce Hornsby's Harbor Lights (good drivin' music, as they say) and writing here and injecting myself with caffeine and nicotine. It is, dare I say, the calm, perhaps the joy, before the storm sets itself in motion and everything resolutely descends. But for the moment, I'm just groovin' along, enjoying the silence, or rather the domestic silence that allows me to enjoy my music and write this entry. There's a rough beauty to it all. Yes, it's all downhill from here, but one has to appreciate the better moments, and these now are those. The agony-aunting and so forth pends, but it's not here yet. And I love it. Shit, it begins. The domus is now stirring. But in a way I'm glad I've written all this, before the day wraps itself in an inky cloak. There was a small joy to be had this day, and I've recorded it here. Would only this period were extended.

      Mais, zut alors, the day must fare forward. And I'm reminded of an old dirty joke, told to me by Elsie Thorn, my beloved grade ten English teacher. "What did the hurricane say to the coconut tree?" "Hold on to your nuts, this is going to be more than your average blowjob." Crass for this supposedly sacred day? Perhaps. But no less true. Christmas, eeeagh, begins. But as much of a Noel coward as I am, I set myself into the thick. "Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!"

The Missing Shakespeare Poem

Received this today, and had to share it:

The following is from the Washington Post Style Invitational (weekly humor contest) that asks readers to submit "instructions" for something (anything), but written in the style of a famous person. The winning entry was:

The Hokey Pokey (as written by W. Shakespeare)

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within.
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Pokey,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heaven's yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely thou canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt.
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.

Serendipity!

      Another Google tidbit: go there and enter the search term "miserable failure" and tell Google you're feeling lucky. This blog assures you it had nothing to do with this. See also this page, a little too close to the truth.

"Not More Myrrh..."

      But, you must admit, he looks good for his age...

Ethical Dilemma

      This blog seriously wonders how many of you out there would have run for the hills with the speed of an African cheetah in this situation. Hell, this blog doesn't know what it would do. *Shrug*

Trimming The Fat, Christmas-Style

      Imagine Paul Martin reflecting on "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Very funny.

      See also this, Dave Barry's all-too-realistic revision of "Twas The Night Before Christmas." Sure, it's not especially meritorious verse, but... For some relief from the sappier glorifications of Christmas Eve.

The Year In Churlishness

      Ladies and gentlemen, we must fight, with all the ardour and passion we can muster, one of the great scourges of our time. Let us take arms against a sea of nonsensical prissiness, and by opposing end it.

      Oddly enough, while I was writing this post, I received this forwarded story from RK.

All I wanted to say was, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year"

I ran it past my legal department (as per standard operating procedures), and this is what came back!!!

From me ("the wishor") to you ("the wishee") please accept without obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, politically correct, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the summer/winter solstice holiday as the case may be, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all.

I wish you a financially successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2004, but with due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures or sects, and having regard to the race, creed, colour, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform or sexual preference of the wishee.

By accepting this greeting you are bound by these terms that:-

This greeting is subject to further clarification or withdrawal.

This greeting is freely transferable provided that no alteration shall be made to the original greeting and that the proprietary rights of the wishor are acknowledged.

This greeting implies no promise by the wishor to actually implement any of the wishes.

This greeting may not be enforceable in certain jurisdictions and/or the restrictions herein may not be binding upon certain wishees in certain jurisdictions and is revocable at the sole discretion of the wishor.

This greeting is warranted to perform as reasonably may be expected within the usual application of good tidings, for a period of one year or until the issuance of a subsequent holiday greeting, whichever comes first.

The wishor warrants this greeting only for the limited replacement of this wish or issuance of a new wish at the sole discretion of the wishor. Any references in this greeting to "The Lord", "Father Christmas", "Our Saviour", "Rudolph the red nosed reindeer" or any other festive figures, whether actual or fictitious, dead or alive, shall not imply any endorsement by or from them in respect of this greeting, and all proprietary rights in any referenced third party names and images are hereby acknowledged.

This greeting is made under Federal Law.

Have a good one anyway!!!

Ah, a wish for all seasons... Oh, and by the way, I'd also posit that people give this article a gander. This blog agrees with assessment that "The real clash of civilizations isn't between West and East, or modernity and barbarity, or Judeo-Christians and militant Islamists. It's between people with a sense of humour and the pompous potentates, cork-stopped zealots, po-faced bureaucrats and self-appointed saviours who infest the world, for whom every smile is suspect and every joke a threat." Methinks we have way too many prickly, humourless people protesting too much. Steel thyself with humour, and walk through life, as much as possible, with tongue firmly in cheek. Please.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe...

      Oh. My. Gawd.

Saddam and the Hilton

      This article from The National Post reminds this blog of that classic moment in Jerzy Kozinski's Being There when Chauncy, delightfully oblvious to the sexual overtures of a woman obsessed with him, sits happily focused on Johnny Carson, and says "I like to watch," the results to which are nothing less than hilarious.

What Goes Around...

      Upon learning of this, this blog wondered if Canada should now treat American beef as the American goverment treated Canadian beef not too long ago? No, no, no, 'tis the season.... It's not do unto other as they've done to you, but treat others as you would like them to treat you... Ah... But pardon me a brief Nelson moment: Hen-heh! (And yes, this blog is being elliptical... Damn, it's happening again... Literate people shouldn't lean on ellipses... Oh... Oh hell...)

      Addendum: Looks like we've decided to treat the Americans better than they treated us.

Thanks, But No Thanks

      Some of the names mentioned here are no surprise, but several are. It helps to explain, though, why some major figures (like Graham Greene, Trevor Howard, Albert Finney, and John le Carre) were never knighted.

Will Not All The Perfumes Of Arabia?

      This blog is no supporter of Sheila Copps, but it also finds the Marinite attempts to purge the party of supporters of now-ousted Jean Chretien utterly insidious. It's looking like soon the bloody entire Liberal party will be a murder of Martinites (or would it be a gaggle?), a collect of cronies and acolytes. And we thought Chretien had authoritarian tendencies... *rolls eyes* Chairman Mao would approve. The apparent Martin credo: If at all possible, don't merely dump your opponents to the backbenches: turf them from parliament altogether. I can imagine Martin and his advisers walking about Parliament Hill scraping madly at the palms of the hands desperately trying to get all of the blood of the deposed off their hands. Who knew the old man had so much blood in him?

      (By the way, why is Martin's team trying so hard to persuade Copps into a patronage appointment? Because, if she decides, as she seems to have decided, to run for the nomination again, the race for the Liberal nomination will be a proverbial long, hard slog for Martinite Valeri. Copps has a surprisingly large and loyal constituency. If she does win the nomination, and then the seat in the next election, she could likely prove to be the terrier perpetually scrapping at the PM's heels. And it seems Martin will not brook the kind of internal snickering and second-guessing which brought him to power. Why should the PM have a citizenry when he can have minions?)

The Waste Planned

      Although some of emendations here are clever, this blog can only come to a strange surmise, that its own porn-classic emendations were indeed much funnier. *needlessly cocky head shake*

      (Please pardon this blog's temporary indulgence in smugness. It will pass.)

      By the way, this blog would posit for the Globe's challenge The Rape of the Flock, the exorbitant extortion of cash for utterly extraneous things that will supposedly make our lives better. Yes, Microsoft, I'm talkin' 'bout YOU. (And, ironically enough, I could also be talking to the Pope. Hmmm....) The title of this entry is also offered to describe the Enron fiasco.

Barry Christmas, And A Happy New Football

      From the desk of Dave Barry: this and this. This blog's favourite bits: from the former, the "magic" police helicopter; from the latter, the description of Bob Seger's "passion of a man who has a rabid shrew in his undershorts" and the ever-so lurid wink-wink around a certain commercial image. Good fun. Jesters do oft prove prophets.

      (By the way, this blog really likes the design of the IHT site. Nice format, very clear, very quick, and minimal advertising.)

Out Of The Mouths of Babes

      The delights below have been culled-- nay, mercilessly lifted-- from the recently-established blog of Doc J's friend, mentor and senior partner in literary and libational crime, the great RK, sometimes affectionately described by Dr J as "that old white-bearded Satan," but probably more fittingly described here as il miglior fabbro. (The blog's title, by the way, is from T.S. Eliot's East Coker.) Ah, the precious, unassailable precociousness of youth...

A little girl was talking to her teacher about whales. The teacher said it was physically impossible for a whale to swallow a human because even though it was a very large mammal, its throat was very small. The little girl stated that Jonah was swallowed by a whale. Irritated, the teacher reiterated that a whale could not swallow a human; it was physically impossible. The little girl said, "When I get to heaven I will ask Jonah." The teacher asked, " What if Jonah went to hell?" The little girl replied, "Then you ask him."

A Kindergarten teacher was observing her classroom of children while they were drawing. She would occasionally walk around to see each child's work. As she got to one little girl who was working diligently, she asked what the drawing was. The girl replied, "I'm drawing God." The teacher paused and said, "But no one knows what God looks like." Without missing a beat, or looking up from her drawing, the girl replied, "They will in a minute."

A Sunday school teacher was discussing the Ten Commandments with her five and six year olds. After explaining the commandment to "honour" thy Father and thy Mother, she asked, "Is there a commandment that teaches us how to treat our brothers and sisters?" Without missing a beat one little boy (the oldest of family) answered, "Thou shall not kill."

One day a little girl was sitting and watching her mother do the dishes at the kitchen sink. She suddenly noticed that her mother had several strands of white hair sticking out in contrast on her brunette head. She looked at her mother and inquisitively asked, "Why are some of your hairs white, Mom?" Her mother replied, "Well, every time that you do something wrong and make me cry or unhappy, one of my hairs turns white." The little girl thought about this revelation for a while and then said, "Momma, how come ALL of grandma's hairs are white?"

The children had all been photographed, and the teacher was trying to persuade them each to buy a copy of the group picture. "Just think how nice it will be to look at it when you are all grown up and say, 'There's Jennifer, she's a lawyer,' or 'That's Michael, he's a doctor.' A small voice at the back of the room rang out, "And there's the teacher, she's dead. "

A teacher was giving a lesson on the circulation of the blood. Trying to make the matter clearer, she said, "Now, class, if I stood on my head, the blood, as you know, would run into it, and I would turn red in the face.." "Yes," the class said. "Then why is it that while I am standing upright in the ordinary position the blood doesn't run into my feet?" A little fellow shouted, "Cause your feet ain't empty."

The children were lined up in the cafeteria of a Catholic elementary school for lunch. At the head of the table was a large pile of apples. The nun made a note, and posted on the apple tray: "Take only ONE. God is watching." Moving further along the lunch line, at the other end of the table was a large pile of chocolate chip cookies. A child had written a note, "Take all you want. God is watching the apples."

Gather Ye Pundits, While Ye May

      For all ye Tolkienites, may I direct you, ever so gently, this way? Don't you just hate it when somebody dares to point out the obvious? ;-) See this too, another situation of thinking things through. This blog's favourite bit from last: ending such an article with "It all depends on what you're made of." Freudian writing or subliminal advertising? You decide.

      And this blog doesn't quite know what to say about this article, which may in part be true but which suggests to me a deficiency of good will on the author's part. This blog also imagines a few particular people wating to tell the author to get over it.

      For a good, sober review of our current media sensation, read this from The Guardian.

The Unbearable Tightness of Being

      Colour this blog impressed.

Clap On!

      Is this world sex-obsessed? Not even remotely.

Geflurkinstopple!

      This blog wonders if soon they will admit 'vagitarian' and 'assmuncher' into their dictionary. This blog now needs an espresso.

Would That I'd Said It First....

These words from Jaques, in Shakespeare's As You Like It:

I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

Ironically enough, this is a passage that I put on my student's mid-terms for analysis.

Brief Rhetorical Question

If there are chicken specials now associated with The Return of the King, shouldn't they be chicken a la king, or is that just too obvious? Hummanahummana.... This blog will now retreat to a smarter slumber and wait to be born.

(Forgive me, dear Yeatsians.)

"You'll Shoot Your Eye Out"

      Christie, in a comment to another entry on this blog, observed what I'm sure most of of you've observed: I am not in the 'spirit' of Christmas, or, rather, I'm not on quite the same train of optimistic thinking that everyone else in the Western World tends to ride. I'm not Scrooge, really, because I don't think there's anyone who knows me who'd say I'm ingenerous, or who'd say I believe in nothing. (I may invoke Scrooge and his words, but that should be expected: almost everything from me has a viscous layer of irony to it, and sometimes the matters of such irony are matters of degree rather than kind.) But I cannot deny it: I loathe the Christmas season. I can't remember a truly good Christmas, and don't honestly think I've ever had one. Oh, sure, I've been given gifts and had the odd good feeling, but THE DAY itself has not, at least in the length of my post-childhood memory (and I remember next to nothing of my childhood-- very, very little indeed prior to the age of ten), I can recall nothing that might redeem the holiday. The holiday, that is, with which I associate little more than tolerant suffering and financial waste. Such things happen when the day is always associated with putting up with people that think they know you asking entirely wrong questions about you (e.g., 'Are you still studying computers?' Er-- I never studied computers. Ever. And, by the way, we got in this bog of misconception same time, same bat-channel last year) and spending reams of cash on gifts that go unused, unappreciated, and which are as ceremonial as the Queen of England is to Canada. It's patience (i.e., patientia, meaning both 'to wait' and 'to suffer,' whence 'being patient' and 'the Doctor will finally fucking see yoou know') tested to its most logical extreme. It's also suppressing my basic desires, my natural instincts, to rip through the facetiousness of false and formal pretentions. There's a good reason that, as much as I possibly can, I spend Christmas day with the children and the animals (to the point I'm often assigned the day-long task of taking care of one or the other, to the point of being the free babysitter), who know very little of the world of masks and facades, and who still look at a crowd of people as something in which to rejoice. I both admire and adore their innocence. I wish I still had mine, or more of it than I do.

      Christmas, like my birthday, is something I dread. It's about necessary appearances, about formal exchanges, about appeasement: it's joyless. And, more often than not, it's wasteful. It's spending money on people that wouldn't say 'hi' to you on the street if they saw you. In short, it is, in my experience, more pretense (this blog apologizes in advance if that word, or cognates of it, occur like heathers upon a Scottish landscape) than anything. It's swallowing one's pride and one's identity and subsuming it to a cheap, super-commercialized project such that one can begin to feel dishonest. It's agonizing over gifts that you know full well will never be good enough, and will never find themselves a use. It's a fundamentally loveless experience. Or atleast it is for me, and, I know, for many others. How, I wonder, did the birth of a supposed saviour (depending on your religious stripe) become something so crass and ingenuine? How did we lose sight of the morality and the ethicality we really ought to observe on such a day become so practically corrupt? As if a gift, a token object bought because you were on someone's list, redeems absence and/or pretense. Regardless of your religious beliefs, the figure of Christ, the subject we supposedly commemorate, is supposed to be a figure of sincerity. I value sincerity intensely. I prize it, almost Diogenically, and yet we issue ourselves through insincerity on what should (at least for believers) be a truly thoughtful day. It's the excruciating fallacy, perhaps, of the intentionalist: I feel the same rancidity of spirit when I watch a PoCo version of The Tempest-- the issues of intent and context become moot points in the servitude of another programme. And the whole thing seems to me vile. (You'll be excuse if you posit, contrarily, Albany's words, that wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile.)

      The act of gift-giving at Christmas, beyond other issues (influenced by translating to then-Pagan cultures with their own concepts of the act of gift-giving) is supposed to be based on reverence (e.g., the gifts of the Magi) and adoration. It's also supposed to be about the inspiration of love and hope. And, gee, watching the endless CNN-like nauseum of Yuletide repetitions encourages me to profound considerations of these matters. *Rolls eyes* It's also supposed to be about epiphany and realization (check out, by the way, the origins of the word 'apocalypse'). It's A Wonderful Life is not a Christmas movie because it's set at Christmastime. It's a Christmas movie because it's about personal spiritual revelation, because it's about the discovery of the lives one touches and the ways one, indeed, makes a difference. And it's about the preciousness of those things. Somehow, they defeat all cynicism. (Factoid: It's A Wonderful Life was a bomb when it was released. Time made it a classic. Why? Because it spoke to larger issues. It wasn't about whether or not Jimmy Stewart committed suicide. It was potently and poignantly about the recovery of the human soul from despair, much like the supposed Jesus' life: in situation with death, with the fear of being forsaken, and maintaining and recovering belief for oneself and for the world.) And, yes, the holiday is about giving, not materially but substantially. The myths of Santa Claus (corporate as it is)/Saint Nicklaus/Sinter Klaus/etc. are resonant not so much for the visions of gifts under a tree and dreams of sugar-plum fairies, but because they're about giving with no real reason, with no pragmatic reason to gain. It is also about the spontaneous sensibility of enjoying the act, and the idea, of generousity, of a joyful paternal figure surprising us in the night and delighting us in the recovery of the day. It is also about believing in myths and ideas that our more realistic selves would qualify or rationalize or demystify. Christmas is supposed to be about the gleam in a child's eye on discovering the possibility of the impossible, and about the parent's fulfillment in knowing it weaved a little everyday magic. Where I just wrote "child," though feel free to read in otherwise: loved one, friend, whatever, and situate the other side of the ratio accordingly.

      Yes, perhaps I'm grossly idealistic and yet still grossly cynical. I'll not pretend otherwise. So, I hope everyone will understand my distaste for the saccharine callings of 'the season.' I'll go through the motions, and I'll do what I have to do with as much sincerity as I can muster-- and, to be frank, please understand that I'm pretty disillusioned by the occasion and by its perversion. I try, as much as I can to invest my own feelings in what I do at Christmas, but that becomes very hard to do when working on a commercially-hyped and historically-determined deadline. I try to give my best during the entire year, aspartane-free, as I can, and I try to show such matters of concern and appreciation and generousity and so forth when I'm most in the moment of actually feeling them, but because they're unoccasioned, they may seem less-ceremonial. But I guess, in the end, I detest 'the holiday' and its miserable infractions and insistences. And I more than certainly detest the vexatious mock-ritualism of Christmas shopping, the parodically-baroque dimensions of artificiality which are really pleas for approval and appeasement. I detest too the cloyingly sweet (and false) gesturism of the holidays. (Not to mention the previously mentioned hatred of shopping swarms and cultural agony-aunting.) Sorry if this sounds faux-Shakespearean, but I really do wonder what Falstaff would say about our current idea of Christmas. In some ways, he'd be very pleased, but in others, he'd I'm sure be shaking his head in bewilderment. He'd see pretense everywhere, and in part enjoy the lavishness of it all; the other part of him would recognize such things as scutcheonly abnegations of the obvious.

      We lose life as we gain it, and, hopefully, what we lose is less than what we gain. And yet we should give as we gain, a kind of spiritually symbiotic economy. I wish I didn't feel the way I do, that I didn't carry on my back like Egyptian sacks of sand for the pyramids the notion of the bilious concept of being marshalled (or martialed?) into a larger thick. The great trick is getting past the loss-gain metaphor, that we're not simply playing morality as a kind of credit card, something we charge in the moment for payment later, to which we otherwise consign ourselves, lemming-like in our obedience to instinctual-stricture and general expectation. I'm not saying we all should, like Othello, wear our hearts upon our sleeves. But nor should we confuse an apparent (and temporary) atmosphere for ideal breathing space (from which, of course, we eventually seek resperiatory asylum; "to every heart / a love must come / but like a refugee," Mr. Cohen sagely reminds me).

      Christmas, or the idea of Christmas, is something that should be more than serving the familopolitical. It should, as I see it, enjoin us to our better selves, and not merely to our servient, and cash-plying, selves. The capacities to give, to love, to share, to wonder, to recover, to resee the world in sharpened hues, ought to be constant discoveries and rediscoveries of ourselves, and not merely patterned and dictated observances choreographed to a date. Let us rejoice in the beautiful and the entirely unnecessary. Let us rejoice in the victories of our better selves, and the pleasure and valour of the company of others. Let us appreciate them when we can and when we perceive them. And let us scuttle the vapidities of pretense and expectation. Let us love when we love, and not when we're supposed to heave falsely our hearts into our throats. Let us remember Cordelia's perfect words: "No cause, no cause." Let us possess the mania to sing in ideals and loves when we have nothing to gain. Let us sing all our devotions in darkness against the moonlight, proudly. Let us love that we do so.

      And bugger the rest.

      Sincerely: Merry Christmas, everyone. May your holidays, whatever your thelogical condition, be everything you hope them to be, and, genuinely, more. And I write this catechism, the last part anyway, for once, entirely irony-free, even if I may have just shot my eye out for such words. Perhaps this blog indeed is just a Red Rider BB Gun.

^~~ And keep me young / As I grow old....^~~ (Van Morrison)

      And, of course, two last words, hopefully now reunderstood: "Bah, Humbug." :-) And this blog promises that, aside from relevant funny article thereto related, this blog will make no future reference to, or comment upon, the ominously looming reality of holidays. My gift to all of you patient enough to read me here.

'A Natural Perspective / That Is And Is Not'

      How does one convey an exhausted rolling of one's eyes? Never mind. I think you catch my meaning.

Ho Ho Bloody Ho

      "I'm not an alcoholic," Jackie Gleason famously said. "I'm a drunkard. A drunkard doesn't like to go to meetings." See this for advice on partaking during the holiday season. This blog's favourite: "Drinking alone is a telltale sign that you know better than to put up with anybody's bullshit."

      And, also from The Onion, this is for CSM who will no doubt appreciate the proximities to academic reality.

Dalton McSquinty

      Is there any reason to respect this Norman Bates lookalike? Pretty soon, he'll lean on a pillar and Queen's Park will tumble about his feet like a Philistine temple, and he'll stand there and say, in a voice no less clipped that Bart Simpson's, "I didn't do it."

      This blog also realizes it probably seems like this blog is politically activist. It is, in fact, not, this blog being far too indifferent and finally too indolent. But watching McGuinty and Martin of late is jaw-droppingly spurnsome. Theirs are the politics of grand promises and self-abnegating renegging without even a single mea culpa. We're all used to politicians playing The Blame Game, but this is (not to put too fine a point on it) fucking ridiculous.

Mal a la Tete

      Mon dieu. Qu'est-ce qui se passe? Incroyable.

The Rest Is Dross

It's rare I find much to 'enjoy' in Ezra Pound (pompous, polymathic and pretentious ass that he was), but here's a rarity, from the Pisan Cantos, number LXXXI:

What thou lovest well remains,
                                          the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
                                          or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
      Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee...

Unfortunately, much of the rest of the canto is typical Poundian blather and diatribe, but.... one mines the gold from the dirt.

John, We'd Vote To Send You...

      Honest, we do. (Yes, this blog harbours a deep and not-so-secret desire to sing like Sam Cooke.) Considering NASA's recent track record, this might ensure there won't be a Look Who's Talking 4 or Saturday Night Refevered.

*Shrug*

      Only a year or so to go until I get caught up. Ah, c'est la vicera. See also this. And see this too, which this blog wishes to add one mild adjoinder: although there is an extent to which the series is a "Celtic" fantasy, anyone in the know realizes that Tolkien's greater influences were the Icelandic (the 'eddas') and Scandinavian sagas and, of course, Beowulf (Sam and Frodo being photo-negatives of Beowulf and Wiglaf, and Mount Doom itself a geologic Grendel).

      By the way, there are actually a few (no doubt very lonely) nay-sayers to the film here and here. This blog posts these because, goodness knows, you will have no trouble finding the raves.

Canadian Bacon

      It looks like Salter's petered. It's unfortunate to see something go down like this.

Bolingbroke Responds

      Why does stuff like this remind this blog of productions like I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change (something every man knows all too well). The enmity 'tween past and present is abundantly clear. (Or, what was the discrepancy, slightly larger than Wyoming, between what was said and what is done.)

If Only Jimmy Had Seen This In Time

      Ahem.

Sleeping With The Enemy

      He scotch'd the snake, he didn't kill it.... There is something sotten in the state of Denmark.

      (Catch up on your Shakespeare, my people. ;-) )

Drainage Problems

      Nice jugs.

Leader Writers Say The Darndest Things

      Voici, par example.

God Bless Us Everyone

      Max Pointy, er-- Rex Murphy has an interesting assessment of the capture of Saddam Hussein. By the way, is it in bad taste to note that, looking so dissheveled, Saddam really need a Ba'ath? Natch.

Brrrr

      Joy! We actually get two months free from the constant Survivor speculations-- until we're resubmerged in the eel-infested waters of Survivor All-Stars (a contradiction in terms: are any of these people 'stars'? how many do you remember? *shrug*). This blog would like to pitch an idea to CBS: Survivor Antarctica. The contestants: Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, Charles Manson, Margaret Thatcher, Robert Mugabe, Brian Mulroney, Katharine Harris, Donald Rumsfeld, Margaret Atwood, Mike Harris, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera (no Survivor would be complete without the token bimbos), the Dalai Lama (again, we need a sacrificial lamb), Puff Daddy (or P. Diddy or whatever his current name is), Oprah Winfrey and Keanu Reeves. This blog is convinced this would make great viewing.

The Lord Of The Ringlings

      Oh, so nobly missionary... *shakes head* "Hey, hey, kids, it's me, Kristy the Klown!"

A True Method-ist

      You have to respect an actor committed to his craft. Or marvel at the silliness of it.

^~~The Cat Came Back / Just The Other Day^~~

      This gives new meaning to the phrase 'pussy-whipped.'

      See also this. Gee, it's pussy galore today....

Pour Vous...

      What do you get the man that has everything?

      (With thanks to the Department of Extremely Bad Taste.)

Yojimbo

This blog always thought samurai movies were at the, er, cutting edge (well, really, the subtext of this article is anything quasi-Japanese-inflected and swordish), but this blog also seriously wonders how you can write a piece like this and not mention Akira Kurosawa? Samurai flicks always were a slice above the rest. ;-)       This blog should also speculate that all of this is really an enlarged interest in the tradition of swordplay on film more than it is, per se, an interest in the samurai themselves as film devices, figures, or tropes. I can't help but wonder if, in these times of advanced pyrotechnics in the real world, from car bombs to JDAMs, there's a current longing for the intimacy and instruction of blade-to-blade combat. Especially in a world bemoaning terrorism and a surplus of 'democracy' in the arena of killing, the idea that killing should be kept in the hands of the specialists rings a little more soundly. Or maybe people are rediscovering that swordplay is just infinitely cooler (and more cinematic) than random, flashy explosions and endless discharges of bullets.       See also this piece from Japan Today, a sharp rebuke to the ridiculous imperiousness of The Last Samurai. Of course it takes an American to teach samurai about what it means to be samurai. Only an American can teach us who we really are. *smacks head very, very hard* This blog would like to offer its sincerest apologies to the ghost of Toshiro Mifune. Tatsuya Nakadai, where are you?

Christmas In The Air

      Can we say 'idiotic, bullshit study'? I knew you could....

Terrorist Update

      Now the bastards are using humorists. (This blog really, really, really, really wants to see this man included in the debates next year. "Boogers of Mass Destruction" has a glorious ring to it.)

Two Words

      Holy shit.

Come Running

      Was it the weather? Please, please, won't you tell us what this snub is all aboot?

A Cold Dark Cinder The Size Of A Walnut

      In the words of Homer Simpson: "It's so funny because it's so true! Haaa Haaa Haaa Haa!"

It Beggars All Description

      The Not-So-Good Doctor (a name I keep invoking in large part because a good friend, one of the first two people to call this blogger "Doctor J" and who constantly still greets me with the words, "Ah, the Good Doctor" -- and so I must ironize it at every opportunity) has decided that he will deliver a lecture on Antony and Cleopatra. I've taught the play once before, years ago, but I have a number of reasons for assuming the task. One of them, the most obvious, is that it's a challenge. A&C is a difficult play to teach well (especially in the short time frame of a week), and it's one of those plays-- along with The Tempest, Othello, and The Merchant of Venice-- that are too easily and too frequently corrupted by overly-political readings. It's also a play of very broad scope, and that in itself tends to engender confusion (and, in reality, student surrender). And then there's Cleopatra, perhaps Shakespeare's greatest female character (her only real competitors are Lady Macbeth, Rosalind, Imogen and Cordelia), and definitely his most complex. The tendency is either to super-mystify Cleopatra or to caricature her, and, as Northrop Frye would say, "this will not do." She has to be understood within her own dramatic context. Those that dare to figure her as a feminist icon (i.e., a woman with power who made use of that power in all of its possible manners) reduce her to politics. Those that figure her as an emotionally insincere Mata Hari reduce her as well. And those that characterize her merely as an emotionally unstable diva reduce her as well. The fact is, she is all of these things and none of these things. She is a character of containment and absence, a character of awareness and obliviousness at the same time, and this is, in part, why she's often either so difficult to understand to so easy to minimize. It's strange to think about 'getting a hold on' Cleopatra, because she is as elusive as an asp: hold her a moment, think you have her figured out, and she wriggles through your hands. She is a character more to behold than to be held. This is not just part of her mystery, it's also part of her identifiability. And it's in this context we have to understand the plaintiff Antony's attraction and fascination, and even the more comprehending and cynical Enobarbus' awkward appreciation. She is the constant theatricist, both predictable and not, and yet constantly magnetic. And part of my task, as I see it, is to make my students realize all of this complexity. I say 'complexity' and not 'paradoxicality': she is not a contradiction, because that would imply that she situates herself from an ethical position and then counteracts that. She is not entirely an enigma, either; she is, in many ways, the counter-Hamlet. It's an interesting fact that Cleopatra keeps associating herself with the elements in the play (fire, air, water, earth): she is the constant metaphor in the making, a something becoming something else, but so often shifting from one basic or knowable form into another.

      This also likely entails taking on some of the common current assumptions of Women's Studies departments. My reading of Cleopatra rejects many of the contemporary isms and theories, and restores to her her mythicality, performed or enacted or exaggerated as it may sometimes be. Is she sincere in her love for Antony? Well, yes and no. It is probably better put that she is not insincere. No wonder she's a figure of fixation: she cannot be fixed, in either the sexual or the situational senses of that word. She resists all theory, and can only be understood fully in her own terms. In this way, she resides with Hamlet and Falstaff and perhaps Lear. As much as glib characterizations may seem to spring ready to the hand (the melancholy Dane, the braggart glutton, the mad titan, the diva queen), they are nothing more than that, glib characterizations that are more inaccurate than they are accurate. She contains multitudes, and perhaps she does so with a kind of deliberate schizophrenia.

      In rereading the play, and thinking about it again with a lecture (i.e., a sustained, and improvised, delivery of an argument) in mind, I'm struck too by my admiration and appreciation of Enobarbus, who is part Falstaff and part Kent (among other things). His presence in the play is stronger than anyone else's, save for Cleopatra's, and he gets an awful lot of the play's best lines, including his lovely "Now he'll outstare the lightning" speech at the end of Act Three, a speech by the way that we might think of in relation to Dubya and his company:

Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious,
Is to be frighted out of fear; and in that mood
The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still,
A diminution in our captain's brain
Restores his heart: when valour preys on reason,
It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek
Some way to leave him.

"To be frighted out of fear." Indeed. This follows Antony's reckless, and ill-advised, decision to battle Caesar (Augustus) at sea. And there we have it in seven lines: the tension between romance and reason, between loyalty and betrayal, between practicality and idealism, between wisdom and belief. It also precurses Enobarbus' eventual regret that he does the 'smart' thing in abandoning Antony, and his eventual and prodigal return, a return that fetes only death, his own life become a rebel against his will. He is no mere Judas. He is the cynic who only wishes he could still believe, both in his best friend and in the idea of love itself. His death is brief but poignant.

      The problem with a play like A&C -- see, by the way, as a matter of contrast, John Dryden's revision of the story as All For Love-- is that it resists short explanation. As usual, thinking about this lecture reminds me that the task is not to say this and that, but to determine what not to say, merely for reasons of time and focus. I could probably lecture on the bloody play for weeks on end, constantly exposing nuances and new details: the tapestry is intricate and expansive. I'm reminded, too, that I'll have to deal with the thorny idea of love in the play, which is as metamorphic and yet eternizing as Cleopatra herself. "The idea of love." Oy. It addles the mind thinking how to address that issue, especially to a field of undergraduates. Worse, the prospect of me talking about the idea of love is rather like asking a Protestant about Catholicism. So, in my own way, I guess that I get to be Enobarbus without the death-scene (providing I am not taken down by a student in some attempted assassination cum silencing of my ramblings). Shite, I may just have given them an idea.... Doh!

      I'm also reminded that I haven't taught A&C in some time (five years), and that I have some very particular memories of it. I was so much older then, I'd like to think I'm younger than that now....

X Marks The Spot

      "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country..." Perhaps not...

Binge And Purge

      It's a brand new day in Canada, and reading this, it's no wonder Chretien fought so determinedly to stave off Martin. This blog can picture Paul Martin sporting a cowboy hat in caucus and instructing his colleagues, "You're either with us or against us." Sheila Copps and company are being as ruthlessly dispatched as Bushy, Bagot and Green.

Hip To Be Square

What kind of postmodernist are you!?
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Whether you harbor some vestige of modernist
morality or simply fail to see the irony in
Reality TV, one thing is clear. You are just
Not Postmodern.

      To which this blog writes: thank God. *whew* There was a time many, many moons ago when I thought postmodernity had something to it (though, I have to admit, it was always in the sense of appreciating the ludicrous and the nonsensical), but I outgrew it pretty quickly. Postmodernism tends toward juvenile and blathersome pretensions of chic intellectual fetishism (see too my previous post ranting against contemporary jargon). But, this blog assures, I do appreciate-- er, understand-- the irony of "Reality TV." Doctor J should also add that someone recently called him 'the mini Rupert,' which still causes incredulous head-shaking. By the way, should you do the quiz, be sure to check out all the possible results-- quite funny. Doctor J will now wear his unpostmodernism as a badge of honour. I am the counter-Foucauldian!

Sometimes, it is better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays...

      Ah, 'tis the season. Christmas looms on the horizon, and Doctor J is wrought with a sense of dread he thinks very much akin to the dread felt by those during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Ah, yes, waste and destruction lay ahead. As I said to a friend today, shopping is like a recantation: probably inevitable, but something definitely to be left until the last minute (Do not go gentle into that good mall / Rage, rage, against the dying of the fall!). It's also, sadly, a holiday more or less bereft of actual genrousity which is, as the Bard has said, more common in the breach than in the observance. It's really more about titting-for-tatting and social and familiar appeasements. Cynical? Me? No, definitely not. Okay, yes I am, and I bear it proudly. I am defiantly cynical in this regard. Thank goodness. Commodious, commercialized Christmas, from hell's still-beating heart, I stab at thee!

      Okay, perhaps I exaggerate. (Or perhaps not.) Christmas is a scutcheon, he writes, channelling Falstaff. It's time, alas, to begin dragging oneself to stores and shopping malls, to step into Thunderdome, environmentally ensconced by sickeningly saccharine seasonal songs and socially-clueless fellow shoppers scrambling for stocking stuffers with the ferocity of vultures swooping down on carrion. It's time to suppress all of my misanthropic tendencies and pretend, however failingly, this is the season of sweetness and light, of hugs and presents and egg-nog. 'Tis the season to be facetious, tra la la la la, la la de da. As I steel my condition for the shopping scene, I must remember to dig out my machete before I have to participate in a slaughter of Kurosawan proportions. Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!