Archive for the 'Shawn' Category

11
Nov

Quantum of something

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First, the good news. Daniel Craig’s back, as is Dame Judi Dench, who seems to have an expanded role—the relationship between the rogue agent and the head of MI6 is the truest in the film, if you don’t count that between Bond and his gun. Olga Kurylenko is as stunning a Bond girl as we’ve seen in ages. The dude from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly makes a great, if pasty, villain (at last, the Bond franchise is waking up to the real enemy threatening world peace: the French!). The chase set-pieces are as action-packed and breathless as in Casino Royale, the theme song (by Jack White of the White Stripes, with Alicia Keyes duetting) is kind of catchy, and there’s a reference to one of the most famous scenes from any Bond film. The scene doesn’t quite work, but is kind of interesting in a postmodern kind of way. (For those of us who care about such things, it leads to all those pesky questions no one asks at a Bond film–namely, what universe is this happening in? Certainly not one where anyone has seen Goldfinger.)

The bad news: Quantum of Solace doesn’t have the shock of the new that Casino Royale did. The plot, such as it is, seems to simply be all the annoying scenes required to lead up to the action. Bond’s supposed motivation, to avenge the death of his love Vesper Lynd (dead at the end of CR) would work a lot better if she didn’t have a such a silly name. Solace’s plot is, at times, confusing (something about water and dictatorships), trusty CIA agent and Bond pal Felix Leiter (Jeffrey Wright) has the same fixed expression of disdain in every scene, and some of the more annoying tropes from old Bond films seem to be sneaking into this franchise reboot—the terrible puns (”A dead end,” Bond tells M after dispatching a lead) and the completely unbelievable stunts (Bond jumping out of an airplane without a parachute, and surviving by glomming onto Olga). And where Casino had some kind of cool spy stuff, such as Bond’s distracting the hotel staff while he scans the security camera tapes searching for his man, Quantum is basically straight-up action. The thing is, the Bourne franchise beats Bond at its own game by having great action AND cool spy stuff (like that scene in the third Bourne flick where our hero drops a cell phone into the reporter’s pocket to tell him where to meet).

Quantum of Solace is a decent enough Bond film, I s’pose, but leaves me worried that another Moonraker, with Craig as Bond in space, might be on the horizon.

11
Nov

Pate faux pas

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Party Saturday night. Friends of the Texas Twister. French. Jenny and Simon—his birthday. I asked how old, but the Twister didn’t know. Certainly in his twenties. In other words, a situation fraught with possible age-related anxieties, phobias and paranoia. However, I could overcome it; simply have a good time, meet people, don’t worry about it. Drink lots, and fast. Try to avoid references to anything pop culture prior to 1990. To these people, Nirvana is classic rock, John Hughes is Orson Welles, and ‘Saved by the Bell’ is a cultural touchstone.

Anyway, the night arrives, I dress casually but not too casually, we bring a bottle of wine (did I mention they’re French?). Everyone’s drinking wine, there’s a great spread of food (quiches, cheese wrapped in zucchini, pate). I’m doing my end holding up various conversations, even going out of my way to meet people, chatting about France and whatever, when I’m helping myself to another cornichon when all of a sudden this guy comes up to me and says, “Boy, I’m glad you’re here. I thought I was going to be the oldest person at this party!”

We left shortly after.

06
Nov

My thoughts on Obama (because everybody else is)

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Oprah was asked to describe her feelings today, on CNN, at news of Obama’s victory. Thank God, because Oprah doesn’t get enough air time to describe her feelings.

Pardon the cynical tone. But what a lot of all these talking heads crowing about history being made and the dawning of a new age of aquarius, let’s look at the dark side of this here presidential election.

First of all, it’s going to put 90 per cent of all punk, nu-metal and hardcore groups out of business. Without a failed rightwing dictatorship to rail against, what’s left? Big-box department stores? Violence in video games?  America’s angry, sleeve-tattooed, youth will have to go into video game design.

Late-night talk show hosts are f****, too. Because, while I’m sure the Obama gov’t is going to have its share of follies, foul-ups, and gaffes, it’s not going to be anything like what we have been treated to on a 24-7 basis for the last eight years. Love him or hate him, Bush –with his sincerely wrinkled forehead, how-did-i-get-this-job smirk—was great entertainment. Unless Obama turns out to have a secret agenda to wipe-out little kittens and Australia, it’s going to be a love-in after he takes office.

And spare a tear for the gasbags on CNN. Sure, Lou “War on the Middle Class” Dobbs will be beating the same drum until every last illegal Mexican, Cuban and Norwegian has been deported, and Anderson Cooper will never be out of a job, but the pundits whose bread and butter has been a Machiavellian administration are going to have a lot less to soundbite each other about.

Nonfiction writers with a political axe to grind are SOL, too. Books about Bush, his policies, and his cronies has grown into its own mini-industry. You can’t walk into a bookstore without seeing a table piled high with serious-looking tomes purporting to tell the real story about Iraq. Actually, the Bush presidency might be the gift that keeps on giving, and it could be awhile before the craze dies down…

Okay, I’m running out of steam with this idea. A few observations, as a Canadian, specifically Vancouver, observer on the election. First, I thought it looked pretty funny at the gym about 4:30 p.m. yesterday (PST) at the gym, when everyone was craning their necks to look at the TVs mounted over the cardio equipment as the returns started coming in. I was expecting the Texas Twister to check out the action at a local brewpub, where American expats were said to be gathering to watch the bloodbath, but she ended up at our local pub instead while I watched a movie with my cousin. Appropriately, it was Tropic Thunder, which is pretty American, both intentionally and not. By the time she came home the news was in, and we went looking for a place to have a drink. However, all three places we tried in the neighbourhood had their sets tuned to poker (which, I guess, followed the hockey game), so disgusted we just came home. Maybe that’s the dark side of an Obama presidency… now, there’s really not much reason to stay in Canada.

Lou Dobbs, watch out.

31
Oct

How gay am I; a Madonna concert review (BC Place Stadium Oct. 30 2008)

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“Don’t let me buy a $40 T-shirt,” I instructed my young concert-going companion. “No matter what I say.”

Ashley and I were passing one of the merchandise displays at last night’s Vancouver Madonna concert. 55,000 people, it was estimated, passed through the doors of B.C. Place Stadium, the bloated carbuncle downtown that hosts football games, car shows and home reno displays.

I’d already successfully scored tickets, and in a way that almost makes me believe in that whole “The Secret” faux-losophy. It happened thus: as the concert date came closer and closer, I got increasingly more desperate. However, I did not want to actually pay for a ticket (on principle, more than anything), so I put the message out to the universe: I loaded up my Facebook page with the request, and wrote a plea in the twice-weekly newspaper I write for. “Please send us to Madonna!!!!!!” I wrote, followed by my offer: the services of various of my colleagues as well as a ride to the airport and a free plug in the paper for a ticket. (Ethical? Hell, yes!)

By some miracle, my plea was heard, or rather, read. Google alerted Viveca M. Woods, who heads an agency out of Connecticut called TicketNetwork.com (www.ticketnetwork.com), to my dilemma. Viveca, who is “a secondary ticket seller,”  pulled a string, and voila! Just a few hours before show time, too.

Maybe at this point you’re wondering, “Why? Why does he want to see Madonna so bad?”

What can I say, except: I can still remember the first time I ever heard or saw her, the “Burnin’ Up” video on a cable-access music video show; I still have my patchouli-scented vinyl copy of Like a Prayer; for a certain demographic, she IS pop culture.

Anyway, to skip ahead to the show… after cleaning and scrubbing myself, and donning a paisley dress shirt I was ready to rock. I met up with my plus one, Ashley (the Texas Twister, worried she would fade like she did at last week’s brilliant Neil Young concert, begged off) at a restaurant not far from B.C. Place. Energy and anticipation in the room was high–the waitresses were dressed in Madonna , or at least ’80s garb, and one dude was going from table-to-table asking if people were going to the show and, regardless of their answer, hugging them.

A wreathe of swarming humanity filled the outer shell of the stadium, lining up for lemonade, Madonna T-shirts and programs, and B.C. Place’s infamous $6 hot dogs. We fought our way through the masses to our section, located parallel to the stage and in the nosebleeds. Suzanne and Curtis, who had driven the 10 or so hours from Calgary, engaged us in conversation, and it wasn’t long before they were telling us how great it is to be parents, blah blah blah. However, their breeder propaganda was offset by the fact that they left half an hour into the show. They claimed it was the vertigo, but I’m sure it had something to do with parenthood.

Anyway, the show… well, it was filled with hits, a few misses (like, we really want to hear “Die Another Day”, Madonna!) and a Spanish interlude with what looked like real musicians with real instruments. But like I say, I was sitting pretty far away, so they might actually have been digital effects. One of the tunes was “La Isla Bonita”, which reminded me of an incident from earlier yesterday, at the office, when a co-worker and I were reading the upcoming concert’s setlist in the Province (aka The Daily Spoiler) newspaper. “La Isla Bonita,” he said, his lip curling in disgust. “I hate that song.”

“I love that song!” exclaimed Sandra, another co-worker, from across the office, at almost the same time. But that’s Madonna for you; the woman inspires extremes. Another low-point of the show was when, during a song, two male dancers came out in boxing outfits. I couldn’t help thinking hey, I didn’t go to all the trouble off offering up the services of my co-workers and putting my cushy media career on the line to watch these two dudes play-fight. One other thing; Madonna’s “serious” songs are like being preached to by the world’s shallowest person.

However, “Borderline”, with the big M. on electric guitar, rocked, and so did “Hangin’ Up”. By the time she reached “Ray of Light” I was busting the moves that have prompted several of the city’s rave promoters to have me banned from their events. On the way out, I couldn’t help myself, and Ashley couldn’t stop me—I loaded up my credit card with a bunch of Madonna crap. Not just a tour T-shirt, but also a concert poster, a shotglass, a fridge magnet, and a cat toy. (Okay, just kidding about the last, but how cool would that be?)

However, upon arriving home my excitement was dampened by the Texas Twister’s lack of enthusiasm, particularly towards the concert T. “I’m going out with a gay man,” she said, shaking her head.

It’s a good thing she didn’t see me during “Ray of Light”…

Next: Halloween as a desperate bachelor vs. Halloween as a smug boyfriend

27
Oct

the REAL sex & the city

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I just came from seeing Happy Go Lucky, the latest from British director Mike Leigh. And while I was watching it I couldn’t help thinking, “This is the movie Sex & the City should have been.” Okay, so they were absolutely two different things: a big-screen spinoff of thirty-something chicks living the high life in New York, scripted within an inch of its life (although you’d never know it from the script) and with a budget that could keep a woman’s shelter in business for a decade. Happy Go Lucky, on the other hand, is a low-budget, semi-improvised (I’m guessing, only because that’s the way he usually works), low-key indie about 20-something women getting by in modern London. But the movie is so true to its characters and single life–and I emphasize “single” here–that it leaves the Sex & the City movie’s heels stuck in a sewer grating.

Sally Hawkins plays Poppy, an elementary school teacher living with her friend/flatmate on the outskirts of London. The plot, such as it is, involves Poppy learning to drive. But, as in most of Leigh’s movies, this decision–which follows the theft of Poppy’s bike–is simply an opportunity to get to know the characters. Not just Poppy, but Scott, her very angry driving instructor; Suzy, her sullen sister; and a few others who inhabit her daily life. It’s marvelous to watch Hawkins, with her expressive, Shelly Duvall-like eyes and animated face, and impossible not to fall a little bit in love with the self-deprecating, life-loving Poppy. Without giving too much away, Happy Go Lucky has lots to say about being single, and falling in love. To paraphrase a quote from a critic that appears on the poster: “I left feeling deliriously happy.” You will, too.

Interestingly (or not), it’s the first matinee I’ve been to on my own in ages. I’d forgotten how much I loved matinees, though these days I don’t get out as much. The Texas Twister isn’t much of a movie-goer (unless it’s An American Tail). But, already intrigued as I was by the publicity pic of Hawkins smiling as Polly, looking like an access-cable weathergirl as she stands in front of a map of the world, I had to see it as soon as it opened. Also, I’ve never a movie by Leigh (Secrets & Lies, Naked, Career Girls) I haven’t liked, since the first one I saw: Life is Sweet, probably about 20-plus years ago.

See Happy Go Lucky; see it with a friend. And, if you’re a woman who maybe didn’t feel completely satisfied by the bloated Sex & the City flick, see it with a few girlfriends. This is a move that really is worth its weight in Blahniks.

24
Oct

Ee ee ooh ah!

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“I think I like your ex-girlfriends more than I like you sometimes.”

“Well, feel free to date them.” Pause. “Everyone else has.”

The above exchange, between myself and the Texas Twister, occurred just a few minutes ago. It reminded me that I’ve always thought that, ideally, living together would be like a sitcom: snappy dialogue, bizarre situations, pet monkeys.

There’s really nothing sitcom-ish about living alone. Believe me, except for that time the monkey escaped, there wasn’t much funny about it.

My first roommate experience (family doesn’t count) was a blast, at least in memory. I was living with my best friend at the time, Dennis, and this crazy zaftig redhead, Michelle. One night Dennis and I came home from work and walked into the kitchen, where Michelle had been cooking.  ”What is that,” he asked, peering into the fry pan. “Veal cordoned off?”

“Haha,” you might say. But the timing was impeccable.

After Dennis and I moved into another suite, we found a new roommate for our three-bedroom. Freckly, curly-haired girl Hali was smoking and trying to quit, attending university but not really, and a heckuva card player. Life really did start to resemble an episode of Friends as the three of us started palling around with others living in the building. All you’d have to do is substitute a little Mexican joint called Carlos & Murphy’s for Central Perk. We even had a token gay friend.

My most sitcom-ish experience vis-a-vis living with other people had to have been in the house on the Eastside. The three-bedroom + basement bungalow was dilapidated and rundown, on a busy street in East Vancouver. Life was a frat-house cliche: beer empties stacked up in the kitchen, a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of the unfinished basement (where our band practiced, no less), parties with joke-y themes, a roommate who lived in the basement and peed in a giant apple juice jar, and emptied it once a week in the main-floor bathroom. You know the type.

But your thirties have to end sometime. Haha, kidding. I was still in my 20s when I got out of the grunge house and moved into a three-bedroom with Abi and Karen. After living with three guys, I had decided I was  ready to live with people for whom hygiene wasn’t just a rumour. Abi and Karen were a delight to live with; it ended when Abi moved out. Karen and I tried to find a replacement but nothing ever quite clicked, and that’s when I ended up moving out on my own. If it wasn’t for the medication, it would’ve ended a lot sooner; I call it my “failure-to-launch” decade.

But that was three years ago, and here I am, happily cohabitating with someone who gets my sense of humour, and vice versa. All we need is the pet monkey.

17
Oct

Sex. And politics.

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In case you haven’t noticed, this blog is coming to you from the Great White North–or, as we call it, Canada. And, if you’re American, you’re probably unaware we’ve just had a federal election to elect a prime minister. Actually, even if you’re Canadian, you might have missed it–for sheer boredom, you really can’t beat Canadian politics.

The same goes for Canadian news. Our morning news reports regularly carry stories about Tazer guns—those guns that deliver an electrical shock, thereby temporarily incapacitating their victim. These stories of Tazer abuse–usually by our friendly neighbourhood police department—fascinate the Texas Twister who is, of course, from Texas, where Tazer guns are probably regarded in the same category as water pistols or wet noodles. A double-barreled shotgun at a school, now that’s a story–or a baby left in the back of a car while mom shops at the mall.

Anyway, the sheer unsexiness of Canadian politics is brought into sharp relief by the crazy shenanigans going on south of the border. Boy, you Americans really show us up. Sarah Palin might be one of the scariest politicians in the world, but she’s also kind of hot. Our hottest politician is probably Justin Trudeau, the offspring of ’70s super-stud PM Pierre Trudeau (the dude whose wife had relations with Mick Jagger), who is kind of a Facebook generation dude. I had to cover the election of the Member of Parliament in my riding, and let me tell you, the aging lefties eating pizza at the Grove Pub was not exactly Saturday night at the Roxy.

Barack Obama, too, is kind of studly—certainly compared to that old croaker McCain. A Seattle cartoonist was passing through town a couple weeks ago, and he told a story about being on the McCain campaign bus—”You get up close to him, and you see all this makeup and all these cracks in his face, he looks like he’s put together, like Frankenstein,” he said of the Republican candidate.

What Canada needs is a really good sex scandal—hell, even a mediocre sex scandal might shake us out of our doldrums. For, after an expense of something like $300 million bucks (Canadian currency, but still) we just elected almost exactly the same gov’t as before. Unfortunately, I don’t think our PM is up for anything approaching a Monica Lewinsky—on his campaign trail one of the photo ops was of him wearing a pale blue sweater and holding a kitten. This, friends, is Canada: animal-loving, unthreatening, and kind of silly. But at least we have Tazers.

12
Oct

The Game, revisited

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Periodically, my email inbox reminds me of my not-distant-enough past. To wit: emails from self-styled dating gurus, so-called spiritual “leaders” (this means YOU, David Deida!) and invitations to Bikram yoga retreats. For the most part, I chuckle to myself, hit “delete”, and go about my business.

Sometimes, though, I reflect on my time on the periphery of “the community,” as Neil Strauss dubbed it in The Game, and wonder what those dudes are up to, i.e., what new marketing schemes they’ve come up with. I got close enough to a number of the biggest names in “The Game” (and some latecomers) to smell the Drakkar Noir*; Zan Perrion, Dave M., Grant Adams, Brent Smith, Lance Mason… plus I’ve interviewed David Wygant (for this blog, and a column), and (God help me) even tried a couple of Ross Jeffries’ courses. I’m still not convinced any of these guys had more than confidence and a good marketing plan, but more to the point,  the only one I actually liked on a personal level, whom I thought was a good guy, was Zan. Now, I’m not saying a guy has to be likable (and we’re talking subjectively here) to learn from, but to resort to the political red herring: of all of them, who would I want to actually sit down and have a beer with?

For all my investigation (or, as I prefer, “research”) into their techniques, the only one I found to be effective, at least for me, was David Wygant’s, and his advice didn’t consist of much more than motivational talks to give me the balls to go up and talk to people*.

So I guess the question I ask myself, the question I can afford to ask myself now that I’m firmly and happily (gasp!) ensconced in a relationship, is: for all the hundreds, perhaps thousands (I don’t want to think about it!) I spent on phone coaching, Internet correspondence programs, conferences, books and Marc Jacobs cologne, did it help? Did I get even anything approaching my money’s worth? Would the outcome have been any different had I, say, used that money to buy original comic book art or a boat instead?

But maybe a better question is: did I enjoy the journey? I have to say, it was an adventure. I’m sure if I had been in a better place in my life, like Hawaii, I wouldn’t have had to resort to seeking help from total marketers, I mean strangers. I found myself in some exceedingly odd situations though–in a hotel room in San Francisco with top dating gurus/coaches, and the hotel security guard, who came to warn us to keep it down so the Hong Kong flight attendants across the hall could sleep; in Everett, just outside of Seattle, in a hotel room with the sex educator, attending a David Deida conference; at the Cactus Club watching Zan work his magic on the waitress. Also, there were those nights at Celebriteez, hanging with the guys from Lifestyle Transformations, and a couple of tantric sex classes conducted by Tanya… all it all, it was a pretty interesting experience. There were some lessons in human nature, too–you can be a successful dating guru, with money and women at your disposal, and still act like a total putz, at least on your email subscriber list. Not to mention any names, Mr. Speed Seduction.

Anyway, I’ve rambled on enough about this subject. I did learn a lot; I don’t regret a minute of it, only a few hundred dollars. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sell some stuff on Craigslist. A dog-eared copy of The Game, anyone?

*With apologies to my colleague Michael K., from whom I steal all my Drakkar Noir references.

**Girls.

05
Oct

Tricked!

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So one of the things about figuring out if a person is right for me has always been musical taste. I hate to say it, and I’m a lot better than I was in my younger days, but I’m a bit of a music snob—once, finding a Barenaked Ladies disc in a prospective date’s CD collection would have been enough to send me running the other way. Now I’d like to think I’ve moved beyond that, although I wouldn’t like to put it to the test. 

Most of my girlfriends have had pretty good taste—or should I say, tastes compatible with mine. Although my last GF had a little too much Depeche Mode downloaded onto her computer for my tastes. J, was big into the hip hop, and turned me on to some underground stuff that I quite like–MF Doom, for example, although I may only be into him because he uses lots of samples from old Fantastic Four cartoons, which appeals to the geek in me. 

J. was also a fan of my all-time favourite band*, and I remember the note she left after our first night together: along with her name and number, she’d written “[band's name]’s fan.” Not grammatically spectacular, but it did the trick—I took her to the see them when they came through town the next month, and things developed from there. 

Now with the Texas Twister–Trickster–it was this same band (now broken up) that somehow became part of her arsenal. See, she likes to use songs from her laptop playlist as wake-up calls. There was a whole week where we woke up to Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5″; lately it’s been Goldfrapp’s “Carnival Girl”. But not long after we started seeing each other, maybe a couple of weeks, the song we woke up to was, indeed, a song by my all-time favourite band. I looked at her and thought, “Ah, the one!” 

I would tell friends this and they’d say, “And she didn’t know how big a fan you were of the band?” To which I’d say, “No!”

Well, let’s just say, some people never learn. Yes, once again I underestimated the wiles of the fairer sex. Maybe I brought the band’s name up in conversation, or maybe she discovered a tell-tale sign around my pad–the autographed posters, extensive collection of memorabilia, the life-size cardboard cut-out of the members. Anyway, I learned tonight that she set the song  on purpose, because she knew I liked them! It was all part of her ploy!!

I know, many of you are shaking your heads, going, “Shawnster, Shawnster, Shawnster–how naive can you be?” And you’re absolutely right. And now I’m wondering: should I also believe that she was also a virgin?

*Guided by Voices. In fact, upon reading this, she said she should tell her friend Jeff about this blog entry. When I asked why, the Twister said she’d once told Jeff about me: “I finally got him to like me.” “How did you do that?” asked Jeff. “Oh, it was simple,” she said. “All it took was a Guided by Voices song.”

27
Sep

So she’s pretty much moved in…

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… which you can tell by the fact that, well, her stuff is everywhere.

And you know what, I kind of like it. I’ve even made a few compromises. For instance, the Gretchen Moll-autographed Bettie Page pic? I’ve taken it down. Likewise the Bettie Page fridge magnets and my Playboy Playmate 1977 Calendar (a v. important year in my adolescence), and I’ve put away my Pamela Anderson beer coasters. It must be love!

However, disagreements are rearing their ugly heads. For instance: what do you think the cut-off age is for having a lava lamp? The Texas Twister apparently thinks it doesn’t behoove someone of my advanced age and sophistication to have this ’60s relic. I don’t know, I think they’re quaint and kitschy but also kind of cool. I mean, at least I’m not ordering badger skulls off eBay like one friend of mine. Not just a badger skull, but also a skunk and a beaver. (I’m not making this up.) And his (live-in) girlfriend is 100 per cent supportive! Or so he claims. Why can’t I get a little understanding for my little old lava lamp, which I almost never even turn on? Does she hear me complaining about her black light Jimi Hendrix poster?

Okay, I made that last one up. I wish she had a black light Jimi Hendrix poster! Well, maybe not Hendrix, but something with sorcerers and hobbits and dragons.

To be fair, however, the Texas Twister is putting up with a few things… for example, the original art I have hanging on the walls. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say I do enjoy the odd comic book (”graphic novel” to you snobs), and my tastes in art reflect this, as well as my limited budget. And she seems to have no trouble with this. (Though she did draw the line at buying me, for my birthday, this lovely vinyl set of figures based on characters by the fabulous Jim Woodring: http://www.panikstoybox.com/pd-black-white-pupshaw-pushpaw-vinyl-figure-set-by-jim-woodring.cfm.) She’s also putting up with my vinyl Drinky Crow, Simpsons toys,

One of the things she puts up with

One of the things she puts up with

Another...

Another...

and the cats–which, in the case of the female, Minnie, seems to be a taxing proposition. But I think that might be the subject of another blog.

and another...

... and most terrifying of all, Minnie the cat.

... and most terrifying of all, Minnie the cat.

But then, look what I have to deal with--bobby pins in the tub!

But then, look what I have to deal with--bobby pins in the tub!

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