There are some faceless crazies around here.
Last week Brittany and I were doing some work in the booth when the phone rang. When she answered I watched her face go from amusement to slack-jaw horror. She held the phone out to me and I could hear a middle-aged man screaming this:
"…I don't want to hear anymore fucking black people, in their black fucking places, with their black fucking problems. I don't give a shit about these fucking black people…"
He said something else about taking initiative in the music we aired, before abruptly hanging-up.
Brittany realized that the guy was complaining about a Rihanna song that we had just played. Regardless, she was aghast.
Me, I was more bemused. I had previously been lambasted by a faceless cow who had a go at me by demanding point-blank over the phone, "Where's Bobby?"
"Sorry, she's not working here anymore."
"Oh, that's what's wrong with the radio." Before abruptly hanging-up, and leaving me fuming over this passive-aggressive blind-siding.
No, for me this bigoted-tirade raised a whole raft of questions, like: How do I physically identify this guy in the world so that I can soak him with bear mace? Does he lick his kids with that tongue? And, more importantly, what kind of degenerate, sitting at home listening to the radio, hears one song that works him into such a mindless frenzy that he calls the station and screams about what he perceives to be a personal affront?
It's bloody weird on so many levels.
Wouldn't you change the station? Wouldn't you realize that the songlist has to appeal to a lot of people; not just your throwback, toothless, self?
I mean, I don't even disagree with sentiment. I too am sick and tired of black people carrying on about their men who be doggin', and their "shawty", in high-pitched warbling voices that can't seem to sustain one single note.
Why, just last Friday I committed a radio sin (which I will never, ever, do again). I waited for Mariah Carey (Who, by the way, is about as black as Rihanna. But hey, they all look the same anyway, right?) to reach one of her famous long drawn-out wailing emotion-ridden caterwauls–
–and abruptly killed the song. I said, "Well, that's enough of that.", by way of apology.
Sort of an ambush, I guess. And it was incredibly wrong, hypocritical, and irresponsible of me. It felt great, but it was wrong. The point is, I do get it.
But I also get that I'm sick of white men who lack fiber and then record their voice-tracks while sitting on the toilet, and white women who seem to always want to fight in their songs. I'm sick of the Canadian rock scene. Faber Drive, Stereos, Marianas Trench, Simple Plan. . . They should all be made to battle to the death in a gladiator's arena. The remaining survivors will then have to face Nickleback armed only with Michael Bolton haircuts.
I will say this about contemporary pop music, the black, as usual, is far better than the white. End of story.
Just one other thing about life in Powell River. These people are getting wacky about Halloween. I've counted two pumpkin-carving contests, four dances, and two stage-shows. Some people just down the road from me have decked out their lawn like the Haunted House in Disney World, only more haunt, less Disney. Yesterday the town was overrun by packs of adolescents in full zombie regalia. It's all very pagan for a place that sports about seven or eight packed churches every Sunday.
It has occurred to me, though, that Powell Riverites get goofy about any holiday event. Which means maybe, just maybe, they're all as bored as I am. Any chance to party and they swoop down like pigeons at a bread-crumb convention.
I have seen only one other culture act this way; The Smurfs.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
the *sigh* club
When I was in White Rock two weekends ago for Doug's funebration (funeral/celebration) I met a lot of BC natives. Many of those people had been to Powell River and the reviews were excellent. They talked about the beauty of Powell River, the thriving art culture, the affordable living, and the abundant hiking trails. They talked about its environmental friendliness, the kindness of the people, and the quietness of the community.
In one particular conversation a woman in her mid-fourties was delighted that I was living there. She said, "Oh, how nice! There's so much to do there."
I waited, interested.
She went on to say that you can go to Lund, a fishing hamlet at the north end of the city limits, or go to Saltery Bay, at the south end.
I said, "Okay, then what?"
She was taken aback.
Perhaps it's the generation gap. Perhaps at her age going to some place qualifies as doing something. I suppose, by definition, by going someplace you are doing something. For me, going to a new place is "doing something", but then it quickly becomes "looking at something". And then, before you know it, you're back to square one, because "looking at something" and "doing nothing" become virtually synonymous after a certain amount of time.
That's what I'm faced with here at the moment. What do I do when I'm not working?
Sure, I'll go Kayaking when the season comes. I'll definitely go hiking too. I'll probably join the boxing club, and maybe I'll even take up curling.
Last weekend I went to one of the junior hockey games. As usual my foreigness became evident when I sat in the wrong bleachers. It took me well into the second period to realize that if you support the local team you sit behind your team's bench. I just sat where it was less crowded.
So there you go, I did something.
The thing is, the kayaking, the curling, the boxing club, and the hiking are stuff I normally wouldn't do. They have become things I will do for lack of anything else to do. Activities by default.
The other reason I'm not filled with glee and excitement about doing these things is that's it's so structured. The great thing about bars, and parties, is the random element. The fact that you never know what's going to happen. You add alcohol to the mix and ensuing silliness can make for a great evening –or a miserable one, either way it's interesting.
So the question is really, what do I want to do?
Well, I like socializing with good people. I like getting blitzed on the weekend. I like eating a good meal. I like seeing a good movie. And, yes, I like doing nothing. However doing nothing– like getting blitzed, eating, and watching films –is generally better with other actual humans.
The problem is that there's a large vacuous space where all the people my age should be. And, of course, the only people left that are my age have done that aggravating North American thing and are now knee deep in baby shit.
Not that I know the first place to meet people anyway. It's definitely not the pubs, they seemed to be filled with people either singing folk songs along with the folk band, or outright degenerates.
I've been told that if I want to meet people I should join clubs. Essentially, I'll have to pretend to be interested enough in some club to join it, and then be able to hold my own in a conversation about the brilliance of that particular club with it's members.
Or I could start my own club. Call it: 30-Something and Bored Shitless in Powell River, or Group of People That Are Amused by Huge Pick-Up Truck Tires. Membership would may be low, but hilarious.
Of course, how much excitement can I expect from a town that has a bus stop called "Grief Point", which is about 5 kilometers west from "Blubber Bay", which, in turn, is a short water-taxi ride to "Desolation Cove".
You know, I never thought I'd say this, but it would be a whole lot better to be able to share this experience with someone.
I suppose the implication of that statement is that I'm lonely. But, I'm not really. I know how loneliness feels, and this is not it.
Nope, I'm just bored.
I suppose I'll go for another fucking walk.
In one particular conversation a woman in her mid-fourties was delighted that I was living there. She said, "Oh, how nice! There's so much to do there."
I waited, interested.
She went on to say that you can go to Lund, a fishing hamlet at the north end of the city limits, or go to Saltery Bay, at the south end.
I said, "Okay, then what?"
She was taken aback.
Perhaps it's the generation gap. Perhaps at her age going to some place qualifies as doing something. I suppose, by definition, by going someplace you are doing something. For me, going to a new place is "doing something", but then it quickly becomes "looking at something". And then, before you know it, you're back to square one, because "looking at something" and "doing nothing" become virtually synonymous after a certain amount of time.
That's what I'm faced with here at the moment. What do I do when I'm not working?
Sure, I'll go Kayaking when the season comes. I'll definitely go hiking too. I'll probably join the boxing club, and maybe I'll even take up curling.
Last weekend I went to one of the junior hockey games. As usual my foreigness became evident when I sat in the wrong bleachers. It took me well into the second period to realize that if you support the local team you sit behind your team's bench. I just sat where it was less crowded.
So there you go, I did something.
The thing is, the kayaking, the curling, the boxing club, and the hiking are stuff I normally wouldn't do. They have become things I will do for lack of anything else to do. Activities by default.
The other reason I'm not filled with glee and excitement about doing these things is that's it's so structured. The great thing about bars, and parties, is the random element. The fact that you never know what's going to happen. You add alcohol to the mix and ensuing silliness can make for a great evening –or a miserable one, either way it's interesting.
So the question is really, what do I want to do?
Well, I like socializing with good people. I like getting blitzed on the weekend. I like eating a good meal. I like seeing a good movie. And, yes, I like doing nothing. However doing nothing– like getting blitzed, eating, and watching films –is generally better with other actual humans.
The problem is that there's a large vacuous space where all the people my age should be. And, of course, the only people left that are my age have done that aggravating North American thing and are now knee deep in baby shit.
Not that I know the first place to meet people anyway. It's definitely not the pubs, they seemed to be filled with people either singing folk songs along with the folk band, or outright degenerates.
I've been told that if I want to meet people I should join clubs. Essentially, I'll have to pretend to be interested enough in some club to join it, and then be able to hold my own in a conversation about the brilliance of that particular club with it's members.
Or I could start my own club. Call it: 30-Something and Bored Shitless in Powell River, or Group of People That Are Amused by Huge Pick-Up Truck Tires. Membership would may be low, but hilarious.
Of course, how much excitement can I expect from a town that has a bus stop called "Grief Point", which is about 5 kilometers west from "Blubber Bay", which, in turn, is a short water-taxi ride to "Desolation Cove".
You know, I never thought I'd say this, but it would be a whole lot better to be able to share this experience with someone.
I suppose the implication of that statement is that I'm lonely. But, I'm not really. I know how loneliness feels, and this is not it.
Nope, I'm just bored.
I suppose I'll go for another fucking walk.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
some wildlife
Alone on Thanksgiving and it's no sweat. I'm reminded of the heady days in Prague when I was alone on Thanksgivings, Christmases, and the occasional Birthdays.
I've got everything I need here: fast internet connection, a large hunk of ham, beer, and some of the finest cheeses I could get my hands on locally. Also a sack of locally grown potatoes.
As is tradition, the things I'm thankful for:
Aside from a knee that's wonky I'm in fairly good health. Although I went for a wander around town and quickly came to realize my cardio isn't all that great.
They view here is great, even standing in front of the clunky, yellow, pulp and paper mill which spans about a city block. Relatively speaking the thing is a behemoth.
I've got a pretty cool job, and my bosses are not twats.
I appear to be writing again.
According to Aubrey de Grey they'll have the means to make me immortal within my lifetime. Here's hoping it's not near the end of it.
I've still got my sense of humour, even if it isn't everybody else's…Actually especially because it isn't everybody else's.
Brittany King has arrived.
Brittany will be taking over the morning show. Hard to get a bead on how old she is –about my age, I guess. Regardless, she's going to be the new Assistant Program Director. Officially, starting on Tuesday, Sun FM will be staffed with a grand total of two people.
She showed up bright and early at 5.30 on Friday morning. I attempted to teach her everything I know over the course of my show but it's probably all moot. I'll still have the same duties, including: loading the news, loading the commercials, reconciling the logs, doing interviews, finding the music, merging the next day's show, and blah, blah, blah. It seems to make more sense that way since I've been doing it anyways, and these jobs tend need to get done near the end of the day, rather than the beginning.
Another thing to be thankful for: I no longer have to slog my ass out of bed a 5am. It takes me forever to wake-up (I refuse to drink coffee). You listen to my morning shows and you can hear the alertness creeping in over the course of the hours.
She seems nice and very driven. Which is good, because she can take over a lot of the imaging and promotional sides of things. It also frees me up to do a bit more production which is what I enjoy doing.
She waves at everybody that drives by, which worries me, because I haven't been doing that. I haven't particularly noticed anybody waving at me as I drive around in the gay-mobile, and of all the cars in Powell River you would wave at, the gay-mobile is it.
Six in the morning we were standing outside and she waved at a guy in a pick up truck driving by. She says, "That guy looked really happy."
A pause.
I say, "I think there's a lot of meth going on around here."
Silence.
I say, "I'm not saying that guy is on meth, I've just seen some people walking around with crazy looks on their faces."
I have no idea why I'm telling her this.
Later on she asked me where I was from. I said, Ottawa. She said, "Oh, a city boy." I was thrown for an instant. Yeah, I guess Ottawa could be considered a city. I told her, "It’s not really a city, more of a huge suburb."
I wandered around yesterday and took some pictures. I've loaded them into facebook today and had a look at them. Christ, they really look rural. You almost expect to see tumbleweed rolling by with Ennio Morricone whistling in the background.
I did an interview with Mike Gerard the other day. He's the Powell River Conservation Officer. He want to get the word out that the bears are going to be hanging around town. It turns out that hibernation season is coming and they want to fatten up, so they head into town looking for food, usually in people's garbage's.
The way he told it, it was almost like, "So don't be surprised if you run into a couple at the pub. They tend to get a little wasted, so don’t startle them. And definitely don't make fun of their mothers."
He suggested freezing your garbage and keeping it in the basement, so you don’t attract the bears. I wondered if Mike was married.
I had another conversation with Janet Alred– a late-thirties lady who is involved in numerous organizations around here –about bears. The conversation started about hiking, and that I should explore a lot more and hike in the local wilderness. I agreed wholeheartedly. But then asked, "But what about the bears?"
She said, "Just make a lot of noise. It's not the bears you have to watch out for," She looked me dead in the eye, a strange look coming over her face, "it's the cougars. They'll get you."
An awkward pause, then I said, "Erm, is that a double-entendre?"
Whether it was, or not, she had a story. She told me about this family that went for hike in along the Willingdon Beach trail. It follows the coast North up to the general vicinity of my neighbourhood. She said they were skipping (well probably not *skipping*, it just sounds better in a woody-travel-story) when they started to hear some rustling in the bushes. They realized they were being followed.
Janet says, "Now, with bears, if they're following you, it may be just curiosity, or making sure you clear away from their hang-out. With cougars, when they follow you, it's because they want to eat you."
She went on to tell me that this family started hustling away, at which point I interrupted, "Wait, you're not supposed to run away, right? Because then you look like prey." She agreed and dropped a couple more tidbits: You always make eye-contact with a bear while backing away slowly. You never make eye-contact with a cougar. From what I gathered, if you ran into a cougar you wouldn't be able to make eye-contact anyway because your head would be between your legs trying to kiss your ass goodbye.
It turns out the family got away. The weren't that far form civilization and they called a friend to come meet them half-way. Regardless, the cougar probably found some other young men to stalk (damn, I told myself I wouldn’t go there).
Then Janet says, "Yeah, you should definitely go hiking."
I've got everything I need here: fast internet connection, a large hunk of ham, beer, and some of the finest cheeses I could get my hands on locally. Also a sack of locally grown potatoes.
As is tradition, the things I'm thankful for:
Aside from a knee that's wonky I'm in fairly good health. Although I went for a wander around town and quickly came to realize my cardio isn't all that great.
They view here is great, even standing in front of the clunky, yellow, pulp and paper mill which spans about a city block. Relatively speaking the thing is a behemoth.
I've got a pretty cool job, and my bosses are not twats.
I appear to be writing again.
According to Aubrey de Grey they'll have the means to make me immortal within my lifetime. Here's hoping it's not near the end of it.
I've still got my sense of humour, even if it isn't everybody else's…Actually especially because it isn't everybody else's.
Brittany King has arrived.
Brittany will be taking over the morning show. Hard to get a bead on how old she is –about my age, I guess. Regardless, she's going to be the new Assistant Program Director. Officially, starting on Tuesday, Sun FM will be staffed with a grand total of two people.
She showed up bright and early at 5.30 on Friday morning. I attempted to teach her everything I know over the course of my show but it's probably all moot. I'll still have the same duties, including: loading the news, loading the commercials, reconciling the logs, doing interviews, finding the music, merging the next day's show, and blah, blah, blah. It seems to make more sense that way since I've been doing it anyways, and these jobs tend need to get done near the end of the day, rather than the beginning.
Another thing to be thankful for: I no longer have to slog my ass out of bed a 5am. It takes me forever to wake-up (I refuse to drink coffee). You listen to my morning shows and you can hear the alertness creeping in over the course of the hours.
She seems nice and very driven. Which is good, because she can take over a lot of the imaging and promotional sides of things. It also frees me up to do a bit more production which is what I enjoy doing.
She waves at everybody that drives by, which worries me, because I haven't been doing that. I haven't particularly noticed anybody waving at me as I drive around in the gay-mobile, and of all the cars in Powell River you would wave at, the gay-mobile is it.
Six in the morning we were standing outside and she waved at a guy in a pick up truck driving by. She says, "That guy looked really happy."
A pause.
I say, "I think there's a lot of meth going on around here."
Silence.
I say, "I'm not saying that guy is on meth, I've just seen some people walking around with crazy looks on their faces."
I have no idea why I'm telling her this.
Later on she asked me where I was from. I said, Ottawa. She said, "Oh, a city boy." I was thrown for an instant. Yeah, I guess Ottawa could be considered a city. I told her, "It’s not really a city, more of a huge suburb."
I wandered around yesterday and took some pictures. I've loaded them into facebook today and had a look at them. Christ, they really look rural. You almost expect to see tumbleweed rolling by with Ennio Morricone whistling in the background.
I did an interview with Mike Gerard the other day. He's the Powell River Conservation Officer. He want to get the word out that the bears are going to be hanging around town. It turns out that hibernation season is coming and they want to fatten up, so they head into town looking for food, usually in people's garbage's.
The way he told it, it was almost like, "So don't be surprised if you run into a couple at the pub. They tend to get a little wasted, so don’t startle them. And definitely don't make fun of their mothers."
He suggested freezing your garbage and keeping it in the basement, so you don’t attract the bears. I wondered if Mike was married.
I had another conversation with Janet Alred– a late-thirties lady who is involved in numerous organizations around here –about bears. The conversation started about hiking, and that I should explore a lot more and hike in the local wilderness. I agreed wholeheartedly. But then asked, "But what about the bears?"
She said, "Just make a lot of noise. It's not the bears you have to watch out for," She looked me dead in the eye, a strange look coming over her face, "it's the cougars. They'll get you."
An awkward pause, then I said, "Erm, is that a double-entendre?"
Whether it was, or not, she had a story. She told me about this family that went for hike in along the Willingdon Beach trail. It follows the coast North up to the general vicinity of my neighbourhood. She said they were skipping (well probably not *skipping*, it just sounds better in a woody-travel-story) when they started to hear some rustling in the bushes. They realized they were being followed.
Janet says, "Now, with bears, if they're following you, it may be just curiosity, or making sure you clear away from their hang-out. With cougars, when they follow you, it's because they want to eat you."
She went on to tell me that this family started hustling away, at which point I interrupted, "Wait, you're not supposed to run away, right? Because then you look like prey." She agreed and dropped a couple more tidbits: You always make eye-contact with a bear while backing away slowly. You never make eye-contact with a cougar. From what I gathered, if you ran into a cougar you wouldn't be able to make eye-contact anyway because your head would be between your legs trying to kiss your ass goodbye.
It turns out the family got away. The weren't that far form civilization and they called a friend to come meet them half-way. Regardless, the cougar probably found some other young men to stalk (damn, I told myself I wouldn’t go there).
Then Janet says, "Yeah, you should definitely go hiking."
Saturday, October 10, 2009
your average early morning rant
So Saturday morning 5am I launch out of bed, my head crammed with anger that has since withered a bit. Regardless I hammer out this in one sitting...and then posted on Facebook:
If you think that there's nothing wrong with the Canadian entertainment industry you probably live in a post-communist eastern block country, because that is the only place I've seen where the contemporary mainstream music, television, and film industry is as terrible as Canada's. That being said, if you think there's nothing wrong with the Canadian entertainment industry you will be offended by this –my open letter to Canada which asks:
Why is Canadian-made entertainment so broodle, eh?
Evidence abounds of this. CBC is the big may-pole around which all Canadians dance and two-step. We skip and riverdance to folksy fiddle music around the thing while lauding it's virtues and the fact that it binds our great and impressive country together with cheer and swagger. And, in a lot of ways it does. CBC Radio is a pretty great thing. CBC Radio is a great source of news, intelligent commentary, humour, music, personalities, and interviews. CBC *Radio* really does keep Canada connected in the way the railway once did –as is so popular to say.
CBC Television, on the other hand…
You take out Hockey Night in Canada, and all the News shows, and you literally have tripe, idiotic, smarm which fails to be funny when it's a comedy, ends up being banal if it's a drama, and is just plain aggravating if it's anything else. Of course, if all you watch is CBC Television you'll think it's great.
You'll think Little Mosque on the Prairie is genius, "Hey, can you believe it? There are Muslims in Saskatchewan, and boy are they up to some silliness! Ha ha ha." It's almost as if all the other CBC shows are so heavily laden with white people they decided to lump all the minorities into one show and label them all wacky Muslims. Egyptian, Indian, Hispanic, whatever, they're all Allah fearing Muslims who are hilarious.
Or so the writers think. The show is just not funny. How do I know this? Because I've actually seen funny shows. They're out there. The show could be funny, but then you'd have to offend a lot of Muslims which would be very un-Canadian.
Another comedy: Corner Gas. Occasionally it will illicit a "huh", but those are few and far between. Besides does anyone watch that show for any other reason than to see the hot cop and the cute diner lady? That's the only reason I've lingered there. I've never stayed to long, though, because all that show does is make me miss canned laughter. And I hate canned laughter.
And do we really need two shows about loose women riding horses in the prairies? There are so many of them it's a wonder they don't run over hilarious Muslims more often. To the best of my knowledge Heartland appears to be about a young girl who gets into awkward teenage situations– usually to do with sex and arguing in barns –and then gets on her horse and rides around when she can't take it anymore.
Wild Roses, on the other hand, is about many adult women that get into awkward adult situations– usually to do with sex and arguing in barns –and then get on their horses and ride around when they can't take it anymore.
The plots in both shows are static, the writing is cliché-ridden (ha ha, get it? "ridden") and forced, and the acting makes you want to light your face on fire.
And why all the shows that take place in Prairies? Nothing happens in the prairies. We all know that, including the people in the Prairies. Who is CBC trying to fool?
Of course you have to give them credit because they are attempting to provide a bit of geographic balance by bringing in some of the Atlantic provinces in the way of Ron James. Ron James: the only man that makes me want to kick a midget in the head.
Here's a guy whose stand-up blatantly rips-off Hunter Stockton Thompson– who's not alive to defend himself anymore –blends in a little of "awe-shucks" facial expressions, spit-laden Dennis Miller verbosity, and Monty Python's silly walk with an Eastern brogue that borders on the retarded. There is nothing remotely funny about this guy. So what do they do? Give him his own show, of course.
I suppose I could crucify the Canadian audience for letting this travesty continue but I don't think they're to blame. I was once watching his stand-up on CBC when the camera suddenly panned to catch audience reaction. It settled on the beautiful girl in the crowd (as cameras often do) and she looked really pissed that she was there. I'm fairly sure that you don't go see stand-up to work yourself into a rage because you lost 15 minutes of your life to a Newfy jack-ass.
CBC is not alone in producing garbage either. One show comes to mind called The Listener. It's a show about a moody Corey Hart-looking twenty-something that can read minds only when it serves to further the plot. The makers of this show have skirted the conundrum of inherent redundancy in having a mind-reading lead character by making it so he can only read minds *some of the time*. That is to say, when someone killed somebody, or they want to shag another character. Look, Toronto has enough of a bad rep without making other Canadians believe the city is filled with people thinking lurid thoughts about homicide and sex.
Then again…
The show is a no-brainer, and the writing and characterization is not strong enough to up-hold the formulaic template they super-impose on every single episode. That being, Corey Hart hears the voice of someone dying/murdering/about to be murdering/raping then murdering so he wanders around Toronto only hearing the minds of people directly involved in the day's story-line. The police don't believe him (ah the age-old Dumb Cop Effect) so he solves the case on his own with the bitter law-enforcement trailing behind him like huskies chasing the sled. Everyone on the show is frowning, and the two female leads are so incredibly hot you stay tuned in for a couple more moments.
Television in Quebec is not much better. They have one style of show that I have only seen in Eastern European countries. It's hosted by a cocaine-addled middle-aged fat man who enthusiastically does an embarrassing group-dance routine with gorgeous models at the beginning of every show. He then un-hinges his guest musicians by having them play along with his own musicians who are in random places throughout the venue. Forget the drum cue, unless you know that the drummer is located on the upper-mezzanine behind the bar.
Another game show, again with gorgeous girls, features them asking skill-testing questions to the viewing audience over a bed of electronic music. They then jabber awkwardly for hours on end as the viewing audience refuses to call in with the correct answers.
Then there's the films. Hundreds are made apparently, but in my life-time I have only seen two good one's: Good Cop, Bon Cop, and The Crow. I eagerly saw Passchendaele because, not only was it a film from the Canadian perspective about the significant role that Canada played in WWII, but there appeared to be many guns and things blowing up. Hey, I'm easily amused, that should make my critique all the more significant.
Sadly, it turns out that the Canadian perspective is pretty much the American perspective with all the prowess of 1950s movie-making. That is to say, every word any character uttered sounded familiar because someone had already written it already. And not even recently. These lines were taken right out of every spaghetti western, and black-and-white war film ever made.
Admittedly, the bits with battle were pretty good.
I'll make this easy for you. I challenge anyone to go to here and find 3 exceptional films. There are 890 there. Just find three, and not the two I named already. Find one that has been critically acclaimed outside of Canada. And, keep in mind that even if you find some (I'm not going through the list myself, it's too aggravating) there are 890 there. I'm not asking you to find 100, which would be about 1 good film out of every 9 very-expensive-to-make piles of twaddle. Christ, even the States can do that.
Then there's music… I cringe as I begin writing this.
Every Nickleback song sounds the same. It's so true it has become a cliché. Think of Bryan Adams, Jann Arden, Celine Dion, The Northern Pikes (They Ain't Crap, They Just Seem that Way), Gowan, Colin James, Tom Cochrane, Avril Lavigne (Oops, I've Heard this Before), and hundreds of other Canadian artists who are in constant rotation on radio stations.
We hate them, if not all of them, at least most of them. They are unoriginal, uninspired, perpetrators of soul-less, meaningless drivel which exist only because the CRTC has created a competition-free range for the musically-disabled. We hate them because under CanCon we have listen to them, and they're rarely any good.
And that's important, we're talking mainstream here. So before you blast me for there being a lot of great Canadian music out there, I know. Trust me. Listen, the Guess Who (before CanCon) were awesome. Sadly we got to know Randy Bachmann a little too well, thanks to the CBC, and have come to realize that he is a twat. On the other hand I cheered when Moxy Fruvous broke up– they sounded to me like how mime looks –but was pleased with the Gian Gohmeshi acquisition the same venerable institution made.
The point is that we are constantly bamboozled by the same three chords being hollered by men who sound like they're passing un-husked lychee nuts out of their urethra. On our radio station we play Faber Drive. They sound no different from Finger 11, or The Stereos in that they make up for quality by drowning out bad singing by beating a guitar against a bass drum. Faber Drive, by the way, was discovered by, and signed to, Chad Kroeger's label. I don't know about you, but he may be a greater threat than H1N1.
And I won't even get into our writing, only to say that Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures has permanently jaded The Giller Prize for me. Stick to doctoring Vincent Lam, you witless jerk, at least that way you can heal the people that are injured by reading your terrible schlock.
I need you to tell me: what the hell is going?
Why is Canadian-made entertainment so broodle, eh?
If you think that there's nothing wrong with the Canadian entertainment industry you probably live in a post-communist eastern block country, because that is the only place I've seen where the contemporary mainstream music, television, and film industry is as terrible as Canada's. That being said, if you think there's nothing wrong with the Canadian entertainment industry you will be offended by this –my open letter to Canada which asks:
Why is Canadian-made entertainment so broodle, eh?
Evidence abounds of this. CBC is the big may-pole around which all Canadians dance and two-step. We skip and riverdance to folksy fiddle music around the thing while lauding it's virtues and the fact that it binds our great and impressive country together with cheer and swagger. And, in a lot of ways it does. CBC Radio is a pretty great thing. CBC Radio is a great source of news, intelligent commentary, humour, music, personalities, and interviews. CBC *Radio* really does keep Canada connected in the way the railway once did –as is so popular to say.
CBC Television, on the other hand…
You take out Hockey Night in Canada, and all the News shows, and you literally have tripe, idiotic, smarm which fails to be funny when it's a comedy, ends up being banal if it's a drama, and is just plain aggravating if it's anything else. Of course, if all you watch is CBC Television you'll think it's great.
You'll think Little Mosque on the Prairie is genius, "Hey, can you believe it? There are Muslims in Saskatchewan, and boy are they up to some silliness! Ha ha ha." It's almost as if all the other CBC shows are so heavily laden with white people they decided to lump all the minorities into one show and label them all wacky Muslims. Egyptian, Indian, Hispanic, whatever, they're all Allah fearing Muslims who are hilarious.
Or so the writers think. The show is just not funny. How do I know this? Because I've actually seen funny shows. They're out there. The show could be funny, but then you'd have to offend a lot of Muslims which would be very un-Canadian.
Another comedy: Corner Gas. Occasionally it will illicit a "huh", but those are few and far between. Besides does anyone watch that show for any other reason than to see the hot cop and the cute diner lady? That's the only reason I've lingered there. I've never stayed to long, though, because all that show does is make me miss canned laughter. And I hate canned laughter.
And do we really need two shows about loose women riding horses in the prairies? There are so many of them it's a wonder they don't run over hilarious Muslims more often. To the best of my knowledge Heartland appears to be about a young girl who gets into awkward teenage situations– usually to do with sex and arguing in barns –and then gets on her horse and rides around when she can't take it anymore.
Wild Roses, on the other hand, is about many adult women that get into awkward adult situations– usually to do with sex and arguing in barns –and then get on their horses and ride around when they can't take it anymore.
The plots in both shows are static, the writing is cliché-ridden (ha ha, get it? "ridden") and forced, and the acting makes you want to light your face on fire.
And why all the shows that take place in Prairies? Nothing happens in the prairies. We all know that, including the people in the Prairies. Who is CBC trying to fool?
Of course you have to give them credit because they are attempting to provide a bit of geographic balance by bringing in some of the Atlantic provinces in the way of Ron James. Ron James: the only man that makes me want to kick a midget in the head.
Here's a guy whose stand-up blatantly rips-off Hunter Stockton Thompson– who's not alive to defend himself anymore –blends in a little of "awe-shucks" facial expressions, spit-laden Dennis Miller verbosity, and Monty Python's silly walk with an Eastern brogue that borders on the retarded. There is nothing remotely funny about this guy. So what do they do? Give him his own show, of course.
I suppose I could crucify the Canadian audience for letting this travesty continue but I don't think they're to blame. I was once watching his stand-up on CBC when the camera suddenly panned to catch audience reaction. It settled on the beautiful girl in the crowd (as cameras often do) and she looked really pissed that she was there. I'm fairly sure that you don't go see stand-up to work yourself into a rage because you lost 15 minutes of your life to a Newfy jack-ass.
CBC is not alone in producing garbage either. One show comes to mind called The Listener. It's a show about a moody Corey Hart-looking twenty-something that can read minds only when it serves to further the plot. The makers of this show have skirted the conundrum of inherent redundancy in having a mind-reading lead character by making it so he can only read minds *some of the time*. That is to say, when someone killed somebody, or they want to shag another character. Look, Toronto has enough of a bad rep without making other Canadians believe the city is filled with people thinking lurid thoughts about homicide and sex.
Then again…
The show is a no-brainer, and the writing and characterization is not strong enough to up-hold the formulaic template they super-impose on every single episode. That being, Corey Hart hears the voice of someone dying/murdering/about to be murdering/raping then murdering so he wanders around Toronto only hearing the minds of people directly involved in the day's story-line. The police don't believe him (ah the age-old Dumb Cop Effect) so he solves the case on his own with the bitter law-enforcement trailing behind him like huskies chasing the sled. Everyone on the show is frowning, and the two female leads are so incredibly hot you stay tuned in for a couple more moments.
Television in Quebec is not much better. They have one style of show that I have only seen in Eastern European countries. It's hosted by a cocaine-addled middle-aged fat man who enthusiastically does an embarrassing group-dance routine with gorgeous models at the beginning of every show. He then un-hinges his guest musicians by having them play along with his own musicians who are in random places throughout the venue. Forget the drum cue, unless you know that the drummer is located on the upper-mezzanine behind the bar.
Another game show, again with gorgeous girls, features them asking skill-testing questions to the viewing audience over a bed of electronic music. They then jabber awkwardly for hours on end as the viewing audience refuses to call in with the correct answers.
Then there's the films. Hundreds are made apparently, but in my life-time I have only seen two good one's: Good Cop, Bon Cop, and The Crow. I eagerly saw Passchendaele because, not only was it a film from the Canadian perspective about the significant role that Canada played in WWII, but there appeared to be many guns and things blowing up. Hey, I'm easily amused, that should make my critique all the more significant.
Sadly, it turns out that the Canadian perspective is pretty much the American perspective with all the prowess of 1950s movie-making. That is to say, every word any character uttered sounded familiar because someone had already written it already. And not even recently. These lines were taken right out of every spaghetti western, and black-and-white war film ever made.
Admittedly, the bits with battle were pretty good.
I'll make this easy for you. I challenge anyone to go to here and find 3 exceptional films. There are 890 there. Just find three, and not the two I named already. Find one that has been critically acclaimed outside of Canada. And, keep in mind that even if you find some (I'm not going through the list myself, it's too aggravating) there are 890 there. I'm not asking you to find 100, which would be about 1 good film out of every 9 very-expensive-to-make piles of twaddle. Christ, even the States can do that.
Then there's music… I cringe as I begin writing this.
Every Nickleback song sounds the same. It's so true it has become a cliché. Think of Bryan Adams, Jann Arden, Celine Dion, The Northern Pikes (They Ain't Crap, They Just Seem that Way), Gowan, Colin James, Tom Cochrane, Avril Lavigne (Oops, I've Heard this Before), and hundreds of other Canadian artists who are in constant rotation on radio stations.
We hate them, if not all of them, at least most of them. They are unoriginal, uninspired, perpetrators of soul-less, meaningless drivel which exist only because the CRTC has created a competition-free range for the musically-disabled. We hate them because under CanCon we have listen to them, and they're rarely any good.
And that's important, we're talking mainstream here. So before you blast me for there being a lot of great Canadian music out there, I know. Trust me. Listen, the Guess Who (before CanCon) were awesome. Sadly we got to know Randy Bachmann a little too well, thanks to the CBC, and have come to realize that he is a twat. On the other hand I cheered when Moxy Fruvous broke up– they sounded to me like how mime looks –but was pleased with the Gian Gohmeshi acquisition the same venerable institution made.
The point is that we are constantly bamboozled by the same three chords being hollered by men who sound like they're passing un-husked lychee nuts out of their urethra. On our radio station we play Faber Drive. They sound no different from Finger 11, or The Stereos in that they make up for quality by drowning out bad singing by beating a guitar against a bass drum. Faber Drive, by the way, was discovered by, and signed to, Chad Kroeger's label. I don't know about you, but he may be a greater threat than H1N1.
And I won't even get into our writing, only to say that Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures has permanently jaded The Giller Prize for me. Stick to doctoring Vincent Lam, you witless jerk, at least that way you can heal the people that are injured by reading your terrible schlock.
I need you to tell me: what the hell is going?
Why is Canadian-made entertainment so broodle, eh?
Monday, October 5, 2009
cliff-side deer-drop
An ability that an announcer must have is a complete dedication to the moment. They need to focus on the now so that the delivery is clear and smooth. It seems I need to work on this particular aspect of my announcing.
The big problem is ignoring the interior monologue I’m sometimes shouting at myself while I’m trying to speak on-air.
A few hours ago I was back-selling some songs, including Roxette. I looked online before I turned on the microphone and came to realize that Roxette had broken up in 2001 but were re-forming for a big tour which will kick off in Holland on the 23rd of this month –this is staggering news, I know.
Anyway, to myself, I thought, Ah! This is relevant to the listening demographic who love Roxette.
So I went on the air, “That was Lifehouse, Broken, on 95-7 Sun FM the energy of Powell River. Before that you heard Lenny Kravitz, and Roxette, It Must Have Been Love, “ I paused, “Hey a lot of people are wondering what happened to Roxette-“
And then the voice in my head started jabbering, Dude, who gives a crap what happened to Roxette?
“-well , ah, they’ve been quietly releasing albums-“
Why don’t you name some albums?
“-up until 2001-“
..Or don’t mention the albums, but definitely mention Marie’s brain tumor..
“...and it looks like after-“
Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor.
“ –eight years they’re, ah, getting back together to go on tour.”
Hey! Heeeeeeeey!
“The first concert for the newly reformed-“
Call them “Roxy”.
“-Roxy- um, I mean Roxette, sorry -will be in Antwerp on the 23rd of this month.”
Do NOT say it will be an “interesting” show. Any other word but “interesting”, please.
“ Wow, won’t that be an interesting-“
Aaargh!
“-show to see after all these years.”
Disaster! Get out, get out now! Just don’t say “a lot more great music on the way”. For the love of Christ, don’t say it!
“Well, stick around, a lot more great music on the way,”
I hate you.
I’m dealing with a rather unique problem in that every single day someone calls in and asks me where Bobby Fields is. Bobby Fields was the former morning show host. The kind of morning show host that has a little bicycle horn which she honked frequently on air; a horn that she meekly offered to me which I subsequebtly threw in the trash.
I’m not what you’d call a “horn honker”.
Regardless it seemed people loved her which makes me- the new guy -a shady pretender to the morning show. In a normal office environment, when you’re the new guy, your critics have faces. Not so in radio. My critics exist somewhere in the listening ether. This puts me at a significant disadvantage when trying to defend myself against not fulfilling all the giggling rowdiness that Bobby perpetuated.
Last week one woman called and, without introduction, demanded, “Where’s Bobby?”
“She’s not here anymore. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, that’s what’s wrong with the radio. I’ll be listening to Courtenay from now on.” Click, Bzzzzzzzzzz.
Notwithstanding the fact that by listening to Courtenay she’s actually listening to the parent radio station anyway, this threw me into a paroxysm of helpless rage. How do I defend against that? I wanted to ask her what needs improving, but this evil twat didn’t even give me that opportunity. She blasted me then hung-up.
The worse thing is that she knows who I am, but I don’t know who she is. It’s a small town we’re bound to run into each other.
To illustrate how small this town is, I’ll relate a story:
Last week someone called in to wish a little girl a happy birthday. As usual the guy was barely coherent as the words stumbled through his gapped and gnarled teeth. He said he was the girl’s step-father.
Moments later, jockeying for the chance to win a free birthday cake, a woman called in to wish the same girl a happy birthday. She said she was the girl’s mother. I told her that the girl’s step-father already called in. She said, “Oh, he’s not her step-father, he’s her uncle.”
I couldn’t help thinking, does he know that? Does the girl know that? Is this place so backwards and small that a little girl’s step-father can also be her uncle? And what’s his relation to you: cousin?
The little girl got her cake. I imagine the family will toss it in a blender and suck it up through a straw.
Sadly, my step-mom’s father died. Doug Baird. A man’s man and a real diamond. I loved that guy and I’ll miss him dearly. I went to Vancouver this weekend to celebrate- yes “celebrate”, he wanted it that way -his passing with about 80 of his friends and relations. Doug Baird flew bombers in World War II. Appropriately his favourite poem was this:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron,
RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941
I was honoured by being asked to read it aloud by Leslie. I read the shit out of the thing with all the speaking prowess I could muster. I read it for Doug, I hope he heard me.
The big problem is ignoring the interior monologue I’m sometimes shouting at myself while I’m trying to speak on-air.
A few hours ago I was back-selling some songs, including Roxette. I looked online before I turned on the microphone and came to realize that Roxette had broken up in 2001 but were re-forming for a big tour which will kick off in Holland on the 23rd of this month –this is staggering news, I know.
Anyway, to myself, I thought, Ah! This is relevant to the listening demographic who love Roxette.
So I went on the air, “That was Lifehouse, Broken, on 95-7 Sun FM the energy of Powell River. Before that you heard Lenny Kravitz, and Roxette, It Must Have Been Love, “ I paused, “Hey a lot of people are wondering what happened to Roxette-“
And then the voice in my head started jabbering, Dude, who gives a crap what happened to Roxette?
“-well , ah, they’ve been quietly releasing albums-“
Why don’t you name some albums?
“-up until 2001-“
..Or don’t mention the albums, but definitely mention Marie’s brain tumor..
“...and it looks like after-“
Brain tumor, brain tumor, brain tumor.
“ –eight years they’re, ah, getting back together to go on tour.”
Hey! Heeeeeeeey!
“The first concert for the newly reformed-“
Call them “Roxy”.
“-Roxy- um, I mean Roxette, sorry -will be in Antwerp on the 23rd of this month.”
Do NOT say it will be an “interesting” show. Any other word but “interesting”, please.
“ Wow, won’t that be an interesting-“
Aaargh!
“-show to see after all these years.”
Disaster! Get out, get out now! Just don’t say “a lot more great music on the way”. For the love of Christ, don’t say it!
“Well, stick around, a lot more great music on the way,”
I hate you.
I’m dealing with a rather unique problem in that every single day someone calls in and asks me where Bobby Fields is. Bobby Fields was the former morning show host. The kind of morning show host that has a little bicycle horn which she honked frequently on air; a horn that she meekly offered to me which I subsequebtly threw in the trash.
I’m not what you’d call a “horn honker”.
Regardless it seemed people loved her which makes me- the new guy -a shady pretender to the morning show. In a normal office environment, when you’re the new guy, your critics have faces. Not so in radio. My critics exist somewhere in the listening ether. This puts me at a significant disadvantage when trying to defend myself against not fulfilling all the giggling rowdiness that Bobby perpetuated.
Last week one woman called and, without introduction, demanded, “Where’s Bobby?”
“She’s not here anymore. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Oh, that’s what’s wrong with the radio. I’ll be listening to Courtenay from now on.” Click, Bzzzzzzzzzz.
Notwithstanding the fact that by listening to Courtenay she’s actually listening to the parent radio station anyway, this threw me into a paroxysm of helpless rage. How do I defend against that? I wanted to ask her what needs improving, but this evil twat didn’t even give me that opportunity. She blasted me then hung-up.
The worse thing is that she knows who I am, but I don’t know who she is. It’s a small town we’re bound to run into each other.
To illustrate how small this town is, I’ll relate a story:
Last week someone called in to wish a little girl a happy birthday. As usual the guy was barely coherent as the words stumbled through his gapped and gnarled teeth. He said he was the girl’s step-father.
Moments later, jockeying for the chance to win a free birthday cake, a woman called in to wish the same girl a happy birthday. She said she was the girl’s mother. I told her that the girl’s step-father already called in. She said, “Oh, he’s not her step-father, he’s her uncle.”
I couldn’t help thinking, does he know that? Does the girl know that? Is this place so backwards and small that a little girl’s step-father can also be her uncle? And what’s his relation to you: cousin?
The little girl got her cake. I imagine the family will toss it in a blender and suck it up through a straw.
Sadly, my step-mom’s father died. Doug Baird. A man’s man and a real diamond. I loved that guy and I’ll miss him dearly. I went to Vancouver this weekend to celebrate- yes “celebrate”, he wanted it that way -his passing with about 80 of his friends and relations. Doug Baird flew bombers in World War II. Appropriately his favourite poem was this:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron,
RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941
I was honoured by being asked to read it aloud by Leslie. I read the shit out of the thing with all the speaking prowess I could muster. I read it for Doug, I hope he heard me.
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