Author Archive for Guttersnipe

29
Jun
09

The glove is off: Louise on the death of Michael Jackson

So there I was, minding my own business on, what was it, Thursday when Michael Jackson died? When what appeared in my inbox but a request for a radio interview with yours truly, about my thoughts on the death of the singer. What could I say? Being ever hungry for publicity of any kind, I said sure.

By coincidence, my ex Louise called that night. In fact I was talking to her when the email arrived. When I told her, she got super-excited. Nothing seems to get her going more than the possibility of me humliating myself on a public forum. She’s an avid reader of this blog, for example. And the other time or two I’ve done something for radio, she’s tuned in, and roundly critiqued every word.

So after I got off the phone with her the first time, she called back. This time she had suggestions of what to talk about:

Louise: Maybe you should copy someone else’s report. Don’t speak ill of the dead. Maybe you should practice. Record it first and then play the recording. They’ll be asking questions, “So, what do you think about his music?” and you’ll be saying “So anyway, I think that he was a very bright man, and he danced a lot.” So you’re answering the wrong question. Tape yourself in advance. That’s the dumbest thing ever. Try taping yourself and see what you sound like so then you can change it.

SC: Thanks for your confidence.

Louise: When you’re talking smile then it’ll sound like it’s coming out happy. I’m gonna say a sentence, I’m gonna say the sentence twice, and tell me if you can tell when I’m smiling, okay. “Do you know I joined a Scrabble tournament?” “Did you know I joined a Scrabble tournament?”

Me: First time you were smiling.

Louise: No. Fuck. You’re bad.

Me: Why would I be smiling? Michael Jackson died. What’re you, crazy?

Louise: Oh yeah, that’s right.

Me: Thanks for your advice!

Louise: Are you going to say it’s a blight to music-dom?

Me: Yes, that’s right.

Louise: But I joined a Scrabble tournament, did you know that?

About an hour later the producer of the segment calls and puts me on hold during a commercial. Then I’m talking to the show’s host, Jon McComb. (the reason they called me, though I don’t know where my email address came from or who suggested me, was probably because I’ve been writing “music journalism” for the last 100 years or so.) So I did the best I could, considering I’d already had a couple of glasses of wine, to string a few sentences together and make some sense of the whole thing. Mostly what the host kept coming back to was Jackson’s legacy—whether he would be remembered for his music or his other, less savoury proclivities (whatever they may have been).

To me, this is one of the least interesting aspects of the situation, mostly because, who the f*** knows? it’s impossible to say how history will judge him or, at this point, what new horrible facts about his life we might discover (and even then, those will probably only be the tip of the iceberg thanks to all those non-disclosure agreements). What interested me more is the idea of communal mourning, and how we now have all these social networking methods to connect on this front.

But that never came up, and I did the best with the questions I was thrown. No sooner had my five-minute segement ended then the phone rang.

Louise: [Imitating me] ‘I just don’t think we’ll ever know the true Michael Jackson. Look at Elvis Presley. Will we ever really know? Will we ever know the real Michael Jackson? I don’t know, you know. Who knows Michael Jackson. Maybe, who knows, you know.’ [lets out a loud, ear-shattering guffaw] No I’m kidding, I’m just bugging you. It’s better than last time.I wouldn’t have known how to answer some of those questions boy. Then I thought, “Louise look, you don’t know about that kind of music, so of course how could you know.” So I was trying to think positive thoughts at you so you would be able to answer them because I was really stymied at some of that.

Me: Like what?

Louise: At the beginning, one of those beginning ones. Did he say something about how Michael Jackson has affected the music industry? Or your life?

Me: Yeah, my life.

Louise: Well, nothing. I don’t really like Michael Jackson really, actually.

Me: You would have been a bad person to go to.

Louise: Yeah, because I wouldn’t have known what to say, because he’s such a loser. I like the way you kept saying, “Back in the day,” so you kept clarifying it was back at that time. ‘Cos back at that time he was really big, I guess. It kind of, then it helped say, well today he’s a jerkoff, so that was good, in a round about way. And I liked the way you got in that bit about when records were records, they were real tangibles. And the guy understood what you were staying. He wasn’t like a goof. I would’ve let that slide but he laughed.

Me: I had more to say about—

Louise: Well you should have said it because you sure said the same sentence over again like a loop! “You know, I mean, you know you know–”

Me: Well, he was asking the same question over and over again–He was trying to get in something about Michael Jackson’s private life. I don’t know if he did what he was accused of doing.

Louise: That’s what I was wondering, that’s what I was going to say. I lost track of the interview because I was trying to tape it on my mom’s voicemail so I missed bits of it. All I could do, I kept hearing you say, “Well you know, I mean, you know”, and I thought maybe he kept on asking the same question.

Anyway, I’m afraid that’s all I recorded of our conversation. But there’s nothing like doing something in public and having your ex call up with a point-by-point critique. Thanks, Louise!

14
Jun
09

Newsflash: the Internet is great for hookups

What’s a guy (or girl) to do in the modern age of dating? Especially if he/she doesn’t have a computer?

Yes, such specimens exist. Specifically, I’m talking about a friend of mine who, over the years, has steadfastedly refused to join the technology revolution.

Which is fine, up to a point. I mean, whatever his reasons—maybe he’s worried he’ll have too much easy access to porn, or online bingo—he’s still living in a mostly analog world. He doesn’t have a cellphone, either. I almost have to grudgingly admire him for this.

Almost. Because, the guy’s single—and the Internet is probably the single greatest matchmaker ever invented. Without it, you’re left to use other means of trying to get a date.

For instance, this computerless mook, whom I’ll call Dale, joined a friend and I at the bar of a lounge-y restaurant the other night. My friend and I had been talking to a couple of other people sitting at the bar, including a girl I’ve know for years, whom I’ll refer to as G. She’s a yoga instructor, which may have some bearing on the story I’m about to tell.

Anyway, I guess at some point Dale and G got into a conversation that Dale quite enjoyed. So the next day, yesterday, I get a phone call. It’s Dale, pumping me for info re: G.

Not that I blame him. G. is a very attractive girl, not to mention someone who knows her way around a yoga mat. But she’d been sitting with a guy at the bar, and later they had been joined by another male friend. So this girl is not hurting for male companionship. Unless you’re Brad Pitt or Zach Galifianakis, or have something special to offer—like disinterest, say—you’re probably going to be standing in a very long line. And everyone else in that line is going to have email access and a Facebook profile.

I didn’t go into any of this with Dale, though. He already knew he was at a disadvantage vis-a-vis the computer thing; as we were saying goodbye, G. had said something about getting in touch via Facebook. Dale didn’t say anything. “What could I have said? I don’t have a computer?”

So I answered his questions—is she single, where does she work (!)—as best I could. After all, I’d been that guy, awkwardly calling up a friend or acquaintance after failing to get a number from a friend of theirs. But I also have enough experience to know that something good rarely comes of putting yourself in that kind of near-desperate situation.

But there was no point in going into any of this with Dale. I also knew from experience I’d just be wasting my breath. So I told him what I could—that the last time I’d seen her she’d been with a boyfriend, that she used to work at a yoga studio downtown (as if a guy whose idea of exercise is watching the Canucks lose is going to take a yoga class). Clearly, he was looking for a way to get in touch with her that didn’t involve a computer, but I wasn’t about to offer up a phone number, even if I had it. But, I reminded him, she had said she was going to be at such-and-such a concert, why didn’t he come to that?

“But by then a week’s gone by, and it’s just a joke,” he said.

I sighed. There’s just no reasoning with some people. Still, if the computers ever take over the planet, he might have the last laugh.

08
Jun
09

Weekend

UNICEF. How long has this organization been around for? It’s like the McDonalds of charities. Everyone has a UNICEF memory, from Hallowe’en. But what is UNICEF today?

IMG_8542

Publicist Marnie Wilson of artzbiz mans the decks at Unite With Art.

Well, the organization is concentrating its efforts on children in Africa with HIV/AIDS. That was the reason for the fundraiser Wednesday night, Unite With Art. A silent and live auction, with some live musical entertainment and food from a select group of Vancouver restaurants, the whole thing was held in the Storyeum building.

Which is a story in itself—the Storyeum was  a museum dedicated to BC history, and took up a vast amount of space in heavily-touristed area Gastown. However, the makers failed to take into account that BC history is, well, boring. And now the building, 40,000 sq. ft. or something, and in a prime location, is more or less vacant, and has been for a couple of years, awaiting new tenants.)

Anyway. So, Unite With Art. I went with a friend who’d recently broken up with his girlfriend, so he was definitely interested in meeting some new people. To his credit, he did—he circulated with the best of them. I hung out, after gorging myself on morsels from local restaurants like the Reef, So.Cial and Nubuwith, the event’s publicists. The art itself was a varied assortment, from abstract paintings to photographs, by local and international artists.

Art

Art

Thursday was Punk Rock Nite. I went and saw Rancid and Rise Against in an arena. Rancid was great, and so was the hospitality suite which, I have to admit, is really the only reason I went. I know, my punk rock cred’s completely shattered at this point. Sigh.

Do you ever work yourself into a tizzy about something, only to be disappointed? That’s what happened Friday, when I went to see a Scottish indie-pop band, Camera Obscura, at the Commodore. I loved the new record top-to-bottom (including the title, My Maudlin Career) but the live show was ho-hum. A friend in the audience, who had seen the band the last time it had come through town,  said she’d even seen the singer (Tracyanne) shooting dirty looks at the guitarist (Kevin). Just a rumour, though.

The best things about the evening were the opening band, Agent Ribbons, an all-girl trio from Sacramento playing Southern Gothic folk/rock… IMG_8660

and the electric guitar player dude standing in the doorway of a Granville Street store. Dude basically had a captive audience of people filing past as they left the Commodore, because the sidewalks are fenced in because the road is closed. (The city is constructing an underground train line from the airport to downtown in time for the 2010 Olympics.) He looked a little goofy like Jerry Lewis or Jim Carrey, but the weird thing was, he really rocked it on a James Brown tune.

Last night at a party I could hear myself telling the story about how I’d got my cat, Max. I knew then it was time to go but I still kept talking.

Today, checked out the Rembrandt/Vermeer exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery. What a rip! Only one (maybe two) paintings by Rembrandt and only one by Vermeer! The rest were second-stage (Dutch) Lollapallooza types. I call foul on marketing. However, the exhibit Apartment Ought is pretty cool. If you’re in Vancouver, you’ve got to check this out: it’s a six-level structure-in-a-structure (the VAG) where each level is an artist’s rendition of interior home design for the last 60 years. That is, the first level is decorated ’50s style, the second ’60s, etc, right up to the minimalist, cold ’90s. Quite a feast for the eyes, especialliy if you long for the shag-carpet-in-the-bathroom look. And who doesn’t?

03
Jun
09

Zurich photo essay pt II

IMG_8406When: Thursday night, May 21

Where: Bierhalle Wolf

Why: I loved the name of this place. We were coming home from somewhere, maybe dinner after looking at a place for the Twister in the Langstrasse area. (This was the day she’d lost her key; see previous entry “For a good time in Zurich…”) Probably a little drunk, at least drunk enough to duck our heads into this tourist trap. A few days before, I’d seen someone onstage playing an alphorn, which is like a Swiss didgeridoo.

IMG_8422When: Friday May 22

Where: Zurich street corner

Why: These giant plantholders, each customized by a different artist, were popping up all over the city. I liked this one because of the eyeball, and the American underground comix influence. Nerd alert!

IMG_8462When: Saturday May 23

Where: somewhere in Switzerland

Why: We wanted to get out of town so we took the train to Montreux. Naturally, we got on the wrong train at some point, and missed part of the scenic route. This is the part we didn’t miss.

IMG_8480

When: Saturday night

Where: Montreux

Why: Beats me. That is, it beats me why there’s a statue of Queen singer Freddie Mercury anywhere, never mind Montreux. But there it is. We will rock you.

IMG_8483When: Sunday morning, May 24

Where: the terrace of our Montreux hotel

Why: nice hotel, great breakfast, but what a view; Lake Geneva in all its glory, in perfect weather. Beautiful.

IMG_8504When: Monday May 25, a.m.

Where: the view from the Twister’s tiny apartment

Why: Feeling sentimental, sniff sniff, as it was my last day. This is the view I enjoyed often over the 10 days; that’s a grocery store, Migros, by the way. During the day, people sit on benches outside. Luggage on the cobblestones in the morning is noisy. This was a party street, so there was lots of drunken shouting at all hours of the night. I loved it.

28
May
09

Zurich: photo essay pt. 1

IMG_8295Place: Zurich, Niederdorfstrasse and Muhlegasse

Time: First night (May 14)

Why: This area, where I was staying with the Twister, is pretty touristy. Tons of restaurants, cafes, bars, stores, and strip clubs. Consequently, it’s pretty noisy. Someone told me that travel professionals (train employees, for instance) stay in the area since it’s near the main train station. This would account for the early morning rumbling of luggage rolling over the cobblestone streets. Also, for the empty beer bottles strewn about.

Place: a beer gardenIMG_8304

Time: Saturday afternoon, May 15

Why: It was a beautiful day so the Texas Twister thought she’d take us to a beer garden in Zurich she’d been to. Well, it took much wandering around—”I feel it’s this way”—before we found it. The afternoon was perfect. I was going to upload a pic of myself lying in the grass, but I decided to spare you all the sight of my bare hairy chest.

IMG_8328Place: a fourth floor apartment in the Langstrasse area

Time: noon-ish (Zurich time) Tuesday May 19

Why: The Twister was at work, so my assignment was to check out this apartment for rent (she’s paying an exorbitant amount of money to live in a shoebox). When I arrived there were already two people, nurses, waiting, and four more people showed up. The Zurich rental market is pretty competitive—even for a fourth-floor walk-up with a shower in the kitchen. You can’t tell from the pic, but that’s where this little unit is located. Not a common occurence in Swiss apartments, I was assured.

IMG_8338Place: Baden

Time: Wednesday afternoon

Why: I went to visit the Twister in the town where she works, Baden, about a half-hour east of Zurich. After lunch I wondered around the town centre, where there were several of these customized (fibreglass?) hearts. They reminded me of the hippy-dippy painted Orca whales Vancouver invested in a couple of years ago. Before I left Zurich, a whole bunch of oversize plant pots popped up around town, all of them customized by different artists as well.

IMG_8346Place: Baden

Time: later that same afternoon

Why: the walk along the river was fantastic—better, it turns out, than my ultimate destination: the thermal baths. Sure, the water was natural (from deep within the earth!?) and warm, but I shared the pool with a bunch of retirees. Speaking in German. Wondering, no doubt, what the hell I was doing there.

IMG_8372Place: Basel

Time: early evening, Wednesday, May 20

Why: In Baden, the Twister and I met up with her friend Emma, and we took the train out east to another smallish town, Basel, where we drank wine on the river. It was a real gathering place for the young urban Basel professionals and art crowd; one guy bragged about how his girlfriend’s band had just opened for Depeche Mode. Something I would prefer to keep to myself, but that’s me.

IMG_8384Place: a building near the river, Basel

Time: early evening

Why: While the Twister socialized with Emma and Emma’s boyfriend Simon, I wandered off and heard music, a live band, coming from nearby. I followed my ears into an open doorway and up three flights of stairs to a rooftop party; students from the nearby university were celebrating, uhm, being students, I guess. The band playing, Elephant Anthony, didn’t sound half-bad—basic rock, maybe a little prog-y— and though local, sang in English. I only caught three songs before I realized I should be getting back to the crew—too late, I was already in trouble!

End part I. I’ll get to part II—including the trip by train to Montreux—in the next couple of days.

27
May
09

Ups and downs on the Golden Pass

Back in Vancouver less than 24 hours and the Twister’s already calling to use my credit card. So much for “rebranding” herself, as she claims to be doing over there in Zurich.

Our goodbye, which happened at the main train station when I saw her off to work, was sad, as much as we infuriated each other over the last 10 days. And there was plenty of irritation to go around… for the Twister, I’m sure the highlight was Saturday afternoon. On our way to Montreux, in southwest Switzerland on Lake Geneva, via the scenic Golden Pass train route, we’d gotten on the wrong train, and we were trying to right ourselves. In a weird switch of gender roles, the Twister likes to figure things out herself (invariably leading to more confusion) while I, especially in a foreign country, like to ask questions. At any rate, she also hates my pronunciation of the few German words I attempt, and becomes acutely embarassed whenever I start asking questions.

So when we became uncertain which train to take next, she left me on the platform of a station. I was strictly forbidden from inquiring from any passing authorites or other passengers while she went in search of info. Of course, the minute she was out of sight I spied this weird pillar-like kiosk that said “information.” You don’t even talk to someone in person, you press a button and talk into a microphone. And that’s how she caught me, red-handed as it were, talking to a red pillar and trying to communicate with some Swiss train dude about which train to catch. She couldn’t have been angrier if she’d caught me with pictures of someone else’s crotch on my camera (see previous blog entry, Thanksgiving 2008).

IMG_8493

We got through that, but there were several more instances as we tried to navigate the Swiss train system. It was all worth it though for the night and half-day we spent in Montreux, a breathtakingly beautiful little lakeside town. The Golf Hotel was no great shakes as rooms go, but the breakfast (included) was a feast, and a terrace looked out on the water. For dinner we ate at a little Italian restaurant—pizza, again, it’s so good over there thanks to the Italian influence—and chatted with a local who recommended, for lunch the next day, the Palais Oriental. We stopped in for lunch—Greek tapas—on the restaurant’s terrace, then spent the rest of the day at each other’s throats navigating our way back to Zurich. All right, it wasn’t that bad, but it was a long (if sickengly scenic) journey, and we were exhausted by the time we arrived back in town. And like I mentioned, everything was fine by the next morning, and love and sorrow at parting had replaced our mutual desire to make the other’s head explode like in the movie Scanners.

Next: a pictorial essay on my Switzerland trip.

22
May
09

For a good time in Zurich…

It was some kind of holiday yesterday, though national or just city-wide I’m not sure. Also, no one seemed to be able to tell us what the holiday was about, outside of “some Christian thing.” Anyway, the upshot of all this being, the Texas Twister lost her key.

IMG_8295

To put it into context: there is one key that works both the building door and the apartment door, and it’s basically uncopy-able. So we have the one key between us and yesterday she was doing the laundry in the basement dungeon. She took the key with her and came back upstairs and then said she was going to get some breakfast. I said I’d be along in a bit and she left. A few minutes later, having finished whatever it was I was working on, I started getting ready to leave. Then I thought, the keys. She must have them. However, I know enough never to assume such things when it comes to the Twister, so I took a quick look around the apartment, even checked some coat pockets. Nothing. Okay then…

I found her sitting outside at a nearby “cucina” (lit. “kitchen”, meaning restaurant), where she’s having a coffee and waiting on some mussels. Hi, I say. You have the key, right?

She looks in her big white bag, which she bought at the flea market last Saturday. No key. Still, I’m thinking, it’s probably in that bag somewhere—this kind of thing, where she can’t find something that she has on her, has happened before. We finish our coffee, go back to the apartment. Re-check the bag, both of us. No key. We decide to stake out the building, even though no one ever seems to come or go. She takes the first shift, and I go up the street for a glass of wine and some olives. I come back, she’s inside. (I have to call up to her second-floor suite from the cobblestone tourist bath outside, with people who are sitting at wooden tables outside the Migros Take Away watching, because, she told me when I first arrived, the doorbell doesn’t work. Last night she revealed this was a lie, that it does work, she just wants me to yell from down below like some kind of putz.) She’d rung all the bells and someone, “a little old Italian man,” had come down to let her in. “I should’ve asked him to let me into the [locked] laundry room.”

Because…

“I can’t find the keys anywhere in the apartment. I must’ve left them in the laundry room.”

So.

She’s already called the Swiss company that takes care of the building. They’re sending someone over to unlock the laundry room. She has to do some work she says so she’s going to go up the street to the bar that has wireless. Can I wait here in case they come? Oh sure, I say. What a sucker.

Dude shows up, doesn’t know a lick of English. The door to the laundry room, by the way, is unlocked—not sure if he’s just unlocked it now or if it had been unlocked the whole time. Anyway, I start looking for the key ring down there, but it’s nowhere in sight. There’s a pile of bedsheets she’s piled in a chair in the corner. I go through the pile. Nothing. Then Swiss handyman dude, mustached, 50-ish, stocky, goes through them. No keys. I’m babbling, “I don’t know where they could be, she does this all the time, the stories I could tell you, hahaha,” and he’s not understanding a word.

We go back upstairs to the apartment.

Swiss dude calls his boss. Boss gets on the phone with me, asks me what happened. Never mind that my presence here goes more or less unexplained, and I already fee like we must be breaking some weird Swiss rule by my being here (this apartment is run like a transitional hotel, with maids sent once a week), but now I have to try to explain. See, she went down to do laundry, and then came back up, and then went out, and and and… He says he’s going to get the handyman to leave me the extra key, and asks me to speak to the handyman again.

They speak in Swiss. Handyman laughs. Yeah, haha, stupid North Americans have locked themselves out of the building, yeah, no, the girl’s not here, it’s just some guy, yeah, what a sucker. Hahahahahaha…. hands me the phone back, dude on the line wants again to know what happened. Establishes that they weren’t stolen (“So you had them last night? And this morning?”) then pleads with me to let him know as soon as we find them. I hand the phone back, dude gives me the key, leaves. Five minutes later, the Twister shows up.

“Did they come?”

“Yep.” I show her the extra key. “They weren’t in the laundry room.”

“They weren’t?”

“Nope.”

She goes down to look in the laundry room herself, like there’s some secret nook or cranny she might have left it in. Comes back up, no key. “Where could it be?” she asks repeatedly, as though I’ve hidden it.

Finally I say the only thing I can think of, the one avenue we haven’t explored in depth, even though it was the first one that should have occurred because it seems so obvious but then, wouldn’t that be the first thing you’d think of, “Where else did I go?”

And so I say, “Well, did you go anywhere before the restaurant where we were at?”

“No,” she says. Pause. “Wait. There’s one other place I can look.” Leaves. Comes back five minutes later, waving the keys. Where were they, I asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

“The cafe.” What cafe? “The cafe I went to before the restaurant. I put my stuff down but then they said they were closed so I went to the other place. I guess I left my keys… “

For a good time, visit the Texas Twister in Zurich!

18
May
09

Dateline: Zurich

Zurich, Switzerland—It’s Monday, 9:30 a.m., but back home it’s 12:32 a.m. The time change screws you up, and not just your sleep-cycle—it’s played havoc with my internal email clock, which I didn’t even know I had. But now I get emails between 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. Zurich time, so there isn’t much point in checking them during the day.

But that’s just a consequence of crossing into a different time zone, and doesn’t really say anything about Zurich itself. One thing I can say, unequivocally, is that it’s freakin’ expensive. The other, that it’s pretty as a postcard, or a jigsaw puzzle scene.

I arrived Thursday, and promptly got lost on the way to the main train station, Zurich HB. The Twister had to come and get me—I’d gotten off at the wrong stop. Fortunately, she’s staying not far from the main station, in an area rife with cafes, bars, restaurants, shops, and, uhm, strip clubs. It’s cobblestoned streets were teeming with the arrival of the sun this past weekend, and if you love European culture—sitting outside with a drink and watching the people go by—this street (Niederdorfstrasse)  is definitely prime. It’s also close to the river, the Limmat.

However, the Twister’s place—which is above Splash, a clothing shop, and across from the Hotel Alexander and a grocery store called Migros—is tiny. The kitchen is practically unworkable, and there’s nowhere to put my suitcase. It’s a furnished transition place halfway between an apartment building and a hotel; there is no garbage bin outside, but someone comes in once a week (tomorrow, Tuesday) to clean. Depending on your food habits—I’d suggest staying away from fish, if there was any fish to buy here—you could have a pretty stinky area under the sink by the time someone picks up the garbage. For this, she’s paying New York City apartment prices—and that’s nothing, apparently.

Language is a problem. For one thing, I don’t know any German, and for another, the language they speak here is a bastardization, Swiss-German. The Twister’s no great shakes in the language department either; we got into a silly fight when she accused me of coming off like a linguistic expert. Every once in awhile I’ll try out a little Swiss-German on a poor store clerk or server, usually with comical results. At least, the Twister’s laughing.

We watched a movie the other night, with a title loosely translatable as The Swiss Maker. It’s about a couple of petty bureaucrats who have the power to grant citizenship, and four people who are trying to become Swiss. It’s a cute, comical ’70s movie that tweaks the nose of the powers-that-be and the more uptight echelons of Swiss society. The Twister’s stories of trying to assimilate, and all the bureaucratic hoops she’s had to jump through, show things haven’t improved for those seeking citizenship. Echoes from Home, the other Swiss movie we tried to watch, turned out (the Twister wasn’t sure what it was she was buying at the time) to be a documentary about contemporary, experimental yodelers. I’m not making this up.

The weather’s been unpredictable, sometimes cool and overcast, other times hot and humid and sunny; Saturday was gorgeous, and we walked along the river to a lakeside flea market followed by a delicious pizza near the water. Yesterday started out beautifully, and I went for a run along the river walk, but by the time we got to a park in Langstrasse the clouds had come out. We stopped for a glass of wine before coming home, and everywhere we went, people were watching a football (soccer) game. Tres European.

Friday and Saturday nights we went bar hopping, an expensive proposition, let me tell you. But there are so many around here, it’s hard to resist; one I’ve especially liked so far is called Corazon, which has a casual atmosphere with cushion-y chairs and benches, and serves big bottles of Chimay. Speaking of Belgian beer, yesterday we stumbled upon Beers of the World (at least, I think that’s its name) in the shopping concourse under the main train stration. I haven’t been that excited since I discovered the U.S. chain BevMo.

Today looks like another cloudy one. With the Twister at work, I’m gonna be spending a lot of time wondering from cafe to bar to cafe again. And I might have to visit Beers of the World again. It’s cheaper than going to Starbucks, that’s for sure.

12
May
09

Entertaining… at home in the sky

Last year’s Vancouver Bombay Sapphire promotion took place at Lumiere, one of the city’s tonier restaurants. For this year’s, the booze reps booked a night on the 58th floor of the city’s newest upscale hotel/residence, the Shangri-La.

The view was spectacular; after a mostly overcast day, the clouds dispersed, leaving the city to shine as the sun made its way to the horizon.

IMG_8278

Merlin Griffiths, the London-based “global brand ambassador” for Bombay, was back on mixing duties, showing us the proper way to make martinis (well, one way, anyway), and making ginger mint drinks and Sapphire Collins in the suite’s island kitchen, while servers brought out a steady supply of hors d’oeuvres. The theme was entertaining at home, specifically for guys who want to do more than break out the Pabst and Pringles when a date comes over, and food stylist/entertaining expert Murray Bancroft whipped up some food pairings, such as crostini with Parma ham and a dungeness crab topping, to go with the drinks. An even mix of male and female media reps—the usual suspects—watched attentively, trying not to think about the playoff game in Chicago between the Blackhawks and Vancouver’s beloved Canucks.

IMG_8275IMG_8276

Though there’s nothing I enjoy more than taking shots at people who get swept up in hockey, especially those who plant little team flags on their vehicles, I have to admit I found myself watching the last 10 minutes of the game at Circa. A new restaurant & lounge on Granville (which, because of ongoing Canada Line construction, is looking more apocalyptic than ever), Circa is a 192-seat room, including a mezzanine area and “a private dining room edged in gold leaf and elaborate woodwork” (okay, I’m reading off the PR bumf here). The menu is based on a shared-plate theme, with an emphasis on local ingredients (mushrooms, salmon, tuna) and wines. The moment I walked in—last night was the grand opening—I was handed a sample of the pulled pork with poutine, and my pants exploded.

But even that, along with Absolut vodka drinks and pretty minglers in fuchsia dresses, wasn’t enough to distract hockey fans as the Blackhawks pounded their precious Canucks into submission. Oh well, at least I won’t have to listen to any more hockey pool drivel at the office.

We—including former wingman Wingy, who brought his phone co. rep (!) along, and who spent much of the evening wondering how he was going to get out to a suburb where his car was getting fixed as some sort of contra deal—ended up, as is often the case on nights like this, at Bin 941 on Davie. The gin and wine must’ve gone to my head by then, because I recall having a conversation  about God with a Ukrainian. And then I blacked out.

Okay, not really—more like passed out (at home, not at the Bin). Today I’m taking it easy and tomorrow, well, tomorrow I’m packing; Thursday night I’ll be in Zurich, singing “Reunited” with the Texas Twister. Can’t hardly wait!

Thanks to Almira Bardai and the folks at Jive Communications, Merlin Griffiths and Bacardi/Bombay Sapphire, and Ayesha Khan with Optimum for putting up with me.

10
May
09

Where have all the swingers gone?

Whatever happened to the swingin’ ’70s? The makers of a new documentary are glad you asked.

American Swing is about the infamous club Plato’s Retreat. From the late ’70s to the early ’80s, the Retreat flourished in New York City, catering to the under-catered-to swingers community. Run by one Larry Levenson, Plato’s became synonymous with New York’s flourishing underbelly, and helped make the city what it is, or at least was.

american_swing2

At least, that’s one of the arguments put forth in American Swing. Directors Mathew Kaufman and Jon Hart make a pretty good case, too, even as their doc remains fairly objective on the subject of swinging itself. Interviews with the people who were there, from writer Buck Henry and former mayor Ed Koch to the managers and participants, offer a snapshot of the pinnacle of late 20th century hedonism that couldn’t help but be temporary. In the end, it was taxes, drugs, and AIDS that doomed Plato’s Retreat.

But perhaps the real story belongs to Levenson himself. As the chief potentate (in more ways than one, apparently) of his little fiefdom of flesh, Levenson was a king—removed from his palace, he was a pauper. Without an identity —sex was, literally, his life—he ended up driving a cab, and died of a heart attack at the age of 60, more or less friendless and alone.

Told with archival footage from seemingly inside the club (including lots of flesh) and period talk shows with Levenson, as well as new interviews (Al Goldstein of Screw Magazine has to be one of the most entertaining, well-spoken interview subjects ever), American Swing is a riveting through-the-keyhole look at American life circa 1980, when it still seemed like the free love revolution would never catch up to us.

american_swing1

(American Swing is showing in Vancouver with DOXA, the Documentary Film Festival May 22-31. Check www.doxafestival.ca for showtimes.)




 

November 2009
M T W T F S S
« Jul    
 1
2345678
9101112131415
16171819202122
23242526272829
30  

Category Cloud

Archives

a