This gem comes from "The Drake e_AKE," February Vol.010. It requires no further comment:
1. DRAKE SAYS
+DRAKE TURNS ON(E) ANNIVERSARY MONTH!
It's been kind of wild, hasn't it? It's been a year of, sigh, us laughing together at the bar, or watching crazy black and white films up on the roof sprawled on the mattresses under the sky, or being swept up in a performance as actors came dancing down the stairs, or just glimpsing musicians sitting chatting before their gigs. I guess no one can know me as intimately as you do - you've been inside every part of me. I have so much more I want to show you, so many more things i want to do with you .I want to watch you at the bar, sucking back Jack. I want to watch some poet breathing fire, some sweating guitarist tossing his mad hair, the way we've done all year. I probably didn't understand half the stuff we saw down there, the videos, the performances, the machines that talked and jerked, the musicians, the authors - you probably understood all of it, knowing you - Thanks for helping me be what I am.
XXX DRAKE (ps - thanks to russel smith for penning this piece).
Please visit out happenings page to check out our anniversary programming: http://www.thedrakehotel.ca/happenigs.asp
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Sunday, January 23, 2005
But Somehow Not Surprised
* From the January 2005 issue of Toronto Life, specifically the David Macfarlane profile of David Miller (which Lynn Crosbie yesterday described as a "hot-oil massage"):
When the teachers and students of Lakefield voted for head boy, the results were by no means as predictable as they might seem to a retrospective observer now….. There were other candidates who appeared to have a more obvious claim to the position. But when the tally was made, Miller had won overwhelmingly."We were all somehow surprised," recalls his friend and former classmate Nick Lewis, now a Toronto investment banker, "but somehow not surprised."
Toronto Life employs many talented editors. How did that unquote slip past every last one of them?
* Remember last year, when Robert Fulford attacked Edward Greenspon’s Saturday ramblings? ("Greenspon’s ‘Letter from the Editor,’ which appears in a prominent position on Page Two, may be the most spectacular example in current Canadian journalism of a bad idea badly executed…. Editorial problems may excite him … but they’re no fun to read about. They’re dreary, even for people in the business.") Well, Greenspon has been MIA from the Globe for the last two Saturdays. I was somehow surprised to see that Greenspon decided to retreat, but somehow not surprised.
* A more serious MIA is the entire Review & Books section of the Saturday Post. I was somehow surprised to learn about the latest cost-cutting measure, but somehow not surprised. I am disappointed, not only because books editor Liza Cooperman was doing a great job, but because this means the Globe now has even less reason to innovate within the dreary little pages of LevinLand.
* Two articles about Bright Eyes in less than a week from Carl Wilson in the Globe. Wilson has a phenomenally sharp mind and an excellent blog. The repurposing seemed strange, since Carl is not someone to fax in his column. Granted, the article in Seven was a preview of the Bright Eyes show, while yesterday’s column was a reconsideration of the indier-than-thou economy of indie rock. So the articles were different but yet fairly similar. Still, I was somehow surprised to see this happen, but somehow not surprised.
* This is good, I mean really good Walrus-bashing. As critical as I am of the magazine, I was somehow surprised to see this happen, but somehow not surprised.
When the teachers and students of Lakefield voted for head boy, the results were by no means as predictable as they might seem to a retrospective observer now….. There were other candidates who appeared to have a more obvious claim to the position. But when the tally was made, Miller had won overwhelmingly."We were all somehow surprised," recalls his friend and former classmate Nick Lewis, now a Toronto investment banker, "but somehow not surprised."
Toronto Life employs many talented editors. How did that unquote slip past every last one of them?
* Remember last year, when Robert Fulford attacked Edward Greenspon’s Saturday ramblings? ("Greenspon’s ‘Letter from the Editor,’ which appears in a prominent position on Page Two, may be the most spectacular example in current Canadian journalism of a bad idea badly executed…. Editorial problems may excite him … but they’re no fun to read about. They’re dreary, even for people in the business.") Well, Greenspon has been MIA from the Globe for the last two Saturdays. I was somehow surprised to see that Greenspon decided to retreat, but somehow not surprised.
* A more serious MIA is the entire Review & Books section of the Saturday Post. I was somehow surprised to learn about the latest cost-cutting measure, but somehow not surprised. I am disappointed, not only because books editor Liza Cooperman was doing a great job, but because this means the Globe now has even less reason to innovate within the dreary little pages of LevinLand.
* Two articles about Bright Eyes in less than a week from Carl Wilson in the Globe. Wilson has a phenomenally sharp mind and an excellent blog. The repurposing seemed strange, since Carl is not someone to fax in his column. Granted, the article in Seven was a preview of the Bright Eyes show, while yesterday’s column was a reconsideration of the indier-than-thou economy of indie rock. So the articles were different but yet fairly similar. Still, I was somehow surprised to see this happen, but somehow not surprised.
* This is good, I mean really good Walrus-bashing. As critical as I am of the magazine, I was somehow surprised to see this happen, but somehow not surprised.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Does This Help?
I’m holding in my hand issue #12 of Trucker magazine (Winter 2003). Flip to page 44 and you’ll find an entire page devoted to the anti-manifesto of the Dark Movement. ("Dark Movement is more than anyone can imagine, it has no definition, rather only questions that can be asked of it…") The highlight of this jumble of napkin prose is "you be cool man-dingo" and "the soup is in the pudding."
I’m telling you all this, however, because on that very same page (44), Steve Adams (a.k.a Ogi), the self-proclaimed leader of Dark Movement, proceeds to explain his fascination with Val Kilmer. And you guessed it, there are four different photos of Val Kilmer graffiti. (Trucker magazine was a Toronto publication that I was involved with, a kinda of Vice-meets-Might that disappeared an issue later with unlucky #13.)
To be honest, Trucker ran plenty of spoofs and satirical articles. This, however, represents the founding document, such that it is, regarding the whole Val Kilmer tagging thing in Toronto. (In other words, it is the closest we might get to the truth of the matter.) In the Trucker article, the movement was so nascent that putting paper photocopies of his head on walls had yet to develop.
Unfortunately, Trucker is no longer online, but I can throw a PDF of the page in question onto biggeworld.com if anyone wants proof I’m adding signal, not more noise to l'affair Kilmer. Bored reporters looking for the final word on the Kilmer business might want to give Daniel Borins a ring. Borins was one of the members of Trucker's design team, and the co-conspirator behind the infamous Art System. Ogi/Steve Adams was tightly connected to Art System and Borins championed the Dark Movement, as its empty pomo posturing was sympatico with his particular worldview.
(And yeah, I was busy for the last many weeks with school. I still am. Sorry for the silence. But don’t worry, Russell. You’re up next in the queue.)
I’m telling you all this, however, because on that very same page (44), Steve Adams (a.k.a Ogi), the self-proclaimed leader of Dark Movement, proceeds to explain his fascination with Val Kilmer. And you guessed it, there are four different photos of Val Kilmer graffiti. (Trucker magazine was a Toronto publication that I was involved with, a kinda of Vice-meets-Might that disappeared an issue later with unlucky #13.)
To be honest, Trucker ran plenty of spoofs and satirical articles. This, however, represents the founding document, such that it is, regarding the whole Val Kilmer tagging thing in Toronto. (In other words, it is the closest we might get to the truth of the matter.) In the Trucker article, the movement was so nascent that putting paper photocopies of his head on walls had yet to develop.
Unfortunately, Trucker is no longer online, but I can throw a PDF of the page in question onto biggeworld.com if anyone wants proof I’m adding signal, not more noise to l'affair Kilmer. Bored reporters looking for the final word on the Kilmer business might want to give Daniel Borins a ring. Borins was one of the members of Trucker's design team, and the co-conspirator behind the infamous Art System. Ogi/Steve Adams was tightly connected to Art System and Borins championed the Dark Movement, as its empty pomo posturing was sympatico with his particular worldview.
(And yeah, I was busy for the last many weeks with school. I still am. Sorry for the silence. But don’t worry, Russell. You’re up next in the queue.)
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Whoops, Wrong One
Daniel Richler, as you might already have heard, is moving to England. That is a shame. At the risk of relating everything to a television cartoon, the first thing I thought of was this:
Deprogrammer: Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, your son has clearly been brainwashed by the evil and charismatic Mr. Burns.
Marge: Are you sure you can get him back for us?
Deprogrammer: Absolutely. I'm the one who successfully deprogrammed Jane Fonda, you know.
Marge: What about Peter Fonda?
Deprogrammer: Oh, that was a heartbreaker. But I did get Paul McCartney out of Wings.
Homer: You idiot! He was the most talented one.
In other news, Michael Kinsley, ex of Slate, wrote in the Los Angeles Times (where he is an editor) about his idea for CNN: "Cease-Fire" instead of Crossfire. But world where nobody is nobody else’s monkey might be too much to ask, methinks.
I’m sure I’m the 97th person to think of this, but isn’t the word TORSO a great way to parody TORO magazine? Then I stuck TORSO into google. Nevermind.
Finally, I began with a Richler, so it seems only fair to conclude with one. My good close personal friend Noah recently had an article in
Now weekly?
A seasoned veteran like Richler does not strike me as Now material. But even stranger than Noah slumming around in a poorly paying alt-weekly is the fact that his article defending the Walrus refers extensively to a Robert Fulford article that ran in the July issue of Toronto Life. Noah’s article was published at the end of October. For those without a calendar handy, that was four months ago.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this article was his final dispatch for the Toronto Star books section. Richler was a replacement columnist for Philip Marchand during the spring and summer, and it strikes me that Richler’s final column would have synchronized with Fulford’s Toronto Life article about how the Walrus is tuskless. Did Richler get his Toronto Star column spiked for blatant toadying and conflict of interest (i.e. Noah has been published by the Walrus and not Toronto Life?) We may never know. But I was thinking that if blogger Christopher Allbritton can raise money so as to fly to Iraq to cover the war, why can’t the Toronto blogosphere try and scrape up enough money to send Noah to the UK? The only, er, problem is that with finances being as they are, we might only be able to buy him a one-way ticket.
Deprogrammer: Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, your son has clearly been brainwashed by the evil and charismatic Mr. Burns.
Marge: Are you sure you can get him back for us?
Deprogrammer: Absolutely. I'm the one who successfully deprogrammed Jane Fonda, you know.
Marge: What about Peter Fonda?
Deprogrammer: Oh, that was a heartbreaker. But I did get Paul McCartney out of Wings.
Homer: You idiot! He was the most talented one.
In other news, Michael Kinsley, ex of Slate, wrote in the Los Angeles Times (where he is an editor) about his idea for CNN: "Cease-Fire" instead of Crossfire. But world where nobody is nobody else’s monkey might be too much to ask, methinks.
I’m sure I’m the 97th person to think of this, but isn’t the word TORSO a great way to parody TORO magazine? Then I stuck TORSO into google. Nevermind.
Finally, I began with a Richler, so it seems only fair to conclude with one. My good close personal friend Noah recently had an article in
Now weekly?
A seasoned veteran like Richler does not strike me as Now material. But even stranger than Noah slumming around in a poorly paying alt-weekly is the fact that his article defending the Walrus refers extensively to a Robert Fulford article that ran in the July issue of Toronto Life. Noah’s article was published at the end of October. For those without a calendar handy, that was four months ago.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this article was his final dispatch for the Toronto Star books section. Richler was a replacement columnist for Philip Marchand during the spring and summer, and it strikes me that Richler’s final column would have synchronized with Fulford’s Toronto Life article about how the Walrus is tuskless. Did Richler get his Toronto Star column spiked for blatant toadying and conflict of interest (i.e. Noah has been published by the Walrus and not Toronto Life?) We may never know. But I was thinking that if blogger Christopher Allbritton can raise money so as to fly to Iraq to cover the war, why can’t the Toronto blogosphere try and scrape up enough money to send Noah to the UK? The only, er, problem is that with finances being as they are, we might only be able to buy him a one-way ticket.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Ken Alexander Fires Himself
This, from Masthead magazine (September 30):
Churn continues at The Walrus
TORONTO—Walrus deputy editor Sarmishta Subramanian and senior editor Lisa Rundle will be leaving the general-interest monthly at week’s end. Only creative director Antonio De Luca and associate editor/head of research Joshua Knelman remain of the original editorial team assembled by founding editor David Berlin and publisher Ken Alexander.
This, from a August 3, 1999, Salon interview with the front man of GBV:
Q: There was reportedly an article in The Onion a long time ago making light of your penchant for firing band members -- something along the lines of "Bob Pollard Fires Himself."
A: I've talked about that with the band before. Like, I'd fire myself and let them continue without me. That would be funny. You know how you see these bands like the Grass Roots come and play and there's only one guy left, like the drummer?
Now, back to the Masthead article about the Walrus churn:
"I was hardly blindsided by this," said Alexander of these most recent departures, indicating that he’s been asserting his vision for the magazine since taking over as de factor editor in June, making the magazine "edgier, more provocative, more about conversations that people are having, more topical." As for the ego clash between the pros and the rookie, Alexander said: "I think it also fair to say that there’s a view that the only person who can possibly direct or edit a magazine is a person who comes from the professional editorial core. I do not come from that core."
Finally, my response:
Kent: What do you say to the accusation that your group has been causing more crimes than it's been preventing?
Homer: [amused] Oh, Kent, I'd be lying if I said my men weren't committing crimes.
Kent: [pause] Well, touche.
Churn continues at The Walrus
TORONTO—Walrus deputy editor Sarmishta Subramanian and senior editor Lisa Rundle will be leaving the general-interest monthly at week’s end. Only creative director Antonio De Luca and associate editor/head of research Joshua Knelman remain of the original editorial team assembled by founding editor David Berlin and publisher Ken Alexander.
This, from a August 3, 1999, Salon interview with the front man of GBV:
Q: There was reportedly an article in The Onion a long time ago making light of your penchant for firing band members -- something along the lines of "Bob Pollard Fires Himself."
A: I've talked about that with the band before. Like, I'd fire myself and let them continue without me. That would be funny. You know how you see these bands like the Grass Roots come and play and there's only one guy left, like the drummer?
Now, back to the Masthead article about the Walrus churn:
"I was hardly blindsided by this," said Alexander of these most recent departures, indicating that he’s been asserting his vision for the magazine since taking over as de factor editor in June, making the magazine "edgier, more provocative, more about conversations that people are having, more topical." As for the ego clash between the pros and the rookie, Alexander said: "I think it also fair to say that there’s a view that the only person who can possibly direct or edit a magazine is a person who comes from the professional editorial core. I do not come from that core."
Finally, my response:
Kent: What do you say to the accusation that your group has been causing more crimes than it's been preventing?
Homer: [amused] Oh, Kent, I'd be lying if I said my men weren't committing crimes.
Kent: [pause] Well, touche.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Talkin’ CanLit
Here is David Gilmour, in the Saturday (September 18) Globe reviewing the new book Mysteries by Robert McGill:
There are only two people who really care about a book review, the critic who wants to sound smart and the writer who doesn't want to be wounded in a public forum. Understandable, on both sides. For the rest of the people, let's be candid, it's essentially fish wrap, albeit interesting fish wrap.
It is also true, I think, that for a young Canadian writer, there is no review more affecting, perhaps ever, than the review of his first novel in The Globe and Mail. Other papers can say what they like, The Globe is the review of record, and writers know it.
Essay Question: In his recent book review, David Gilmour contends that "there is no review more affecting, perhaps ever, than the review of his first novel in The Globe and Mail." Do you agree or disagree? Provide evidence for your opinion, and wherever possible, show your work. Use the back of this blog if more space is required.
On a somewhat related note, here is a sole sentence from Prairie Fire’s recent "please subscribe" letter:
The literary magazine is the nursery of contemporary Canadian writing.
Lest you think me a snit for selecting this sentence, it was both italicized and printed in red ink in the letter. It’s not entrapment when I select a sentence that was already highlighted. Clearly, the folks at Prairie Fire were proud of that turn of phrase. As such, I’m going to put that phrase on a T-shirt posthaste. I mean, here it is again:
The literary magazine is the nursery of contemporary Canadian writing.
The next time anyone asks about the role of literary journals in the CanLit ecosystem, I want you to answer:
The literary magazine is the nursery of contemporary Canadian writing.
I’ve heard lit-journals described as a "farm team," but never a nursery. Who, then, are the parents of Canadian contemporary writing? And why are they so abusive and neglectful?
There are only two people who really care about a book review, the critic who wants to sound smart and the writer who doesn't want to be wounded in a public forum. Understandable, on both sides. For the rest of the people, let's be candid, it's essentially fish wrap, albeit interesting fish wrap.
It is also true, I think, that for a young Canadian writer, there is no review more affecting, perhaps ever, than the review of his first novel in The Globe and Mail. Other papers can say what they like, The Globe is the review of record, and writers know it.
Essay Question: In his recent book review, David Gilmour contends that "there is no review more affecting, perhaps ever, than the review of his first novel in The Globe and Mail." Do you agree or disagree? Provide evidence for your opinion, and wherever possible, show your work. Use the back of this blog if more space is required.
On a somewhat related note, here is a sole sentence from Prairie Fire’s recent "please subscribe" letter:
The literary magazine is the nursery of contemporary Canadian writing.
Lest you think me a snit for selecting this sentence, it was both italicized and printed in red ink in the letter. It’s not entrapment when I select a sentence that was already highlighted. Clearly, the folks at Prairie Fire were proud of that turn of phrase. As such, I’m going to put that phrase on a T-shirt posthaste. I mean, here it is again:
The literary magazine is the nursery of contemporary Canadian writing.
The next time anyone asks about the role of literary journals in the CanLit ecosystem, I want you to answer:
The literary magazine is the nursery of contemporary Canadian writing.
I’ve heard lit-journals described as a "farm team," but never a nursery. Who, then, are the parents of Canadian contemporary writing? And why are they so abusive and neglectful?
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Quoting the Wisdom of Others
Clive Thompson, in the May/June 2004 issue of This magazine, talking about stump speeches versus lab coats:
I started my career as a political writer, but soon realized that politics wasn’t a game of progress. On the contrary, human history is pretty much just the same grim cycle over and over: A group of people gain power, then use it to screw over everyone else. Rinse and repeat. Open today’s paper and you’ll see stories of Paul Martin’s graft, or tax cuts for the rich, or First Nations bands wrestling over ancient land claim. Go back 3,000 years and you’ll find hieroglyphs describing essentially the same things.
This is not to disparage political activism; the sheer intractability of injustice is why we have a moral imperative to fight it. But when I started writing about science, I felt, for the first time in a long while, an unusual emotion: optimism.
Russell Smith, in today’s Globe (September 16/04), on Canadian magazines and the healthcare debate:
The September issue of Saturday Night magazine decided it would capitalize on this frenzy of excitement by putting out a cover almost as boring – I mean almost as relevant – as any grey-on-grey Walrus cover, showing a grey-haired, grey-faced doctor in a grey tie in a grey room. This makes me feel distinctly strange: If someone has consciously and soberly calculated that such an image is going to light up the jaded eyes of Canadian newsstand browsers, then I am even less of a Canadian than I thought. I must be weird.
[…]
Who are these magazines for? Recent poli-sci grads eager for jobs at the CBC? High-school Canadian Studies teachers, who use them to torture trapped youth on sunny days? Or just other Canadian magazine writers?
And I hear that The Walrus itself, not to be outdone in the race for the Dullest Worthy Endeavour prize at the next National Magazine Awards, is itself feverishly preparing a blockbuster of an article on the state of health care in this country. I can’t wait to see the shades of grey they use in their cover art. I guess they’re hoping to use a piece on health care to bring down the dangerously high levels of reader adrenaline brought on by the other entertaining articles on trade tariffs and parliamentary subcommittees.
By the way, The Globe will no longer allow you to access columnists on their website for free, so I might have to retire my interest in Smith commentary for the immediate future. On a related note, as this Wired article points out, paid access and registration-required tactics work to disappear a publication from the Internet. Without links to articles there is no resulting discussion in the blog ecosystem and thus little to no traffic around the marketplace of ideas. But that’s a whole other post.
Now, Carl Hiaasen on hurricane journalism (Miami Herald, September 6):
* What you should wear: Always choose the flimsiest rain jacket available, to visually dramatize the effect of strong winds. All foul-weather gear should be brightly colored in the event you're swept out to sea or sucked down a drainage culvert, and someone actually goes searching for you.
* What you should televise: The first rule of hurricane coverage is that every broadcast must begin with palm trees bending in the wind. Never mind that the puniest summer squall can send a coconut palm into convulsions, your producer will demand this meaningless shot.
And finally, as for Toronto Life being sued for $2.1 million by Conrad Black, I like the magazine (full disclosure: I write for it often) and I wish the publication the best of success in fighting this stupid lawsuit. However, I must say that the Robert Mason Lee article at the centre of the suit was an unreadable piece of drek. Horrible, horrible writing that should have been deleted at birth. A class-action lawsuit organized by Toronto Life subscribers, demanding some money back for wasting their time with such an unfunny piece of "satire" would be reasonable; Conrad Black suing for defamation is ridiculous.
I started my career as a political writer, but soon realized that politics wasn’t a game of progress. On the contrary, human history is pretty much just the same grim cycle over and over: A group of people gain power, then use it to screw over everyone else. Rinse and repeat. Open today’s paper and you’ll see stories of Paul Martin’s graft, or tax cuts for the rich, or First Nations bands wrestling over ancient land claim. Go back 3,000 years and you’ll find hieroglyphs describing essentially the same things.
This is not to disparage political activism; the sheer intractability of injustice is why we have a moral imperative to fight it. But when I started writing about science, I felt, for the first time in a long while, an unusual emotion: optimism.
Russell Smith, in today’s Globe (September 16/04), on Canadian magazines and the healthcare debate:
The September issue of Saturday Night magazine decided it would capitalize on this frenzy of excitement by putting out a cover almost as boring – I mean almost as relevant – as any grey-on-grey Walrus cover, showing a grey-haired, grey-faced doctor in a grey tie in a grey room. This makes me feel distinctly strange: If someone has consciously and soberly calculated that such an image is going to light up the jaded eyes of Canadian newsstand browsers, then I am even less of a Canadian than I thought. I must be weird.
[…]
Who are these magazines for? Recent poli-sci grads eager for jobs at the CBC? High-school Canadian Studies teachers, who use them to torture trapped youth on sunny days? Or just other Canadian magazine writers?
And I hear that The Walrus itself, not to be outdone in the race for the Dullest Worthy Endeavour prize at the next National Magazine Awards, is itself feverishly preparing a blockbuster of an article on the state of health care in this country. I can’t wait to see the shades of grey they use in their cover art. I guess they’re hoping to use a piece on health care to bring down the dangerously high levels of reader adrenaline brought on by the other entertaining articles on trade tariffs and parliamentary subcommittees.
By the way, The Globe will no longer allow you to access columnists on their website for free, so I might have to retire my interest in Smith commentary for the immediate future. On a related note, as this Wired article points out, paid access and registration-required tactics work to disappear a publication from the Internet. Without links to articles there is no resulting discussion in the blog ecosystem and thus little to no traffic around the marketplace of ideas. But that’s a whole other post.
Now, Carl Hiaasen on hurricane journalism (Miami Herald, September 6):
* What you should wear: Always choose the flimsiest rain jacket available, to visually dramatize the effect of strong winds. All foul-weather gear should be brightly colored in the event you're swept out to sea or sucked down a drainage culvert, and someone actually goes searching for you.
* What you should televise: The first rule of hurricane coverage is that every broadcast must begin with palm trees bending in the wind. Never mind that the puniest summer squall can send a coconut palm into convulsions, your producer will demand this meaningless shot.
And finally, as for Toronto Life being sued for $2.1 million by Conrad Black, I like the magazine (full disclosure: I write for it often) and I wish the publication the best of success in fighting this stupid lawsuit. However, I must say that the Robert Mason Lee article at the centre of the suit was an unreadable piece of drek. Horrible, horrible writing that should have been deleted at birth. A class-action lawsuit organized by Toronto Life subscribers, demanding some money back for wasting their time with such an unfunny piece of "satire" would be reasonable; Conrad Black suing for defamation is ridiculous.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Everything and Anything
I started my Masters in Communication and Culture yesterday, which means my postings will soon be littered with terms such as "recursive" and "hegemony." I mention this because I’m also not sure how often I’ll be able to post. Either more often (I hope) or less often (more likely). Right now, I think that one long post each week is more feasible than shorter posts updated more frequently. It means the material will be less topical, but provide more analysis. Or something. Anyway, enough jaw-boning:
* Over at Slate, Eric Weisbard spoke talks about the new album Blueberry Boat by the Fiery Furnaces:
Sometimes a new album has critics so dazzled that we're forced to recommend it before we're positive we even like it. The Fiery Furnaces' Blueberry Boat is that kind of work.
This is how buzz often gets incorrectly assigned. I prefer the opposite instance: of being forced to dismiss something before even hearing it or reading it. Toward that end, check out this bit of clairvoyance regarding the Globe’s new alt-weekly 7. As for my first impressions: 7 resembles Queue, the Vancouver Sun Thursday supplement, except worse somehow, because the Globe is involved. (This just in: I’m wrong. Here is Edward Greenspon in the September 11/04 Globe discussing the matter: "Going tabloid also provided an opportunity for our in-house designers to let their creative juices flow in making 7 both user-friendly and visually appealling." That is some arid juice, man. And check out the rebel sell in his next sentence: "We wanted to change the look radically because we were changing the content radically." To the barricades, comrade!)
Suggested slogan: Why Waste Your Money Reading a Free Alt-Weekly When 7 Costs Only A Dollar?
* I received a four-page sermon disguised as a subscription plea from the Walrus this week. I realize there is some kind of (dismal) science involved in writing direct mail, but four pages? I find two whiny pages is generally enough. Four went past "methinks he doth protest too much" and lurched into "methinks he doth be pathetic." The funny thing is that the subscription letter focuses on all the success the Walrus has received and lists all the ways in which the magazine has exceeded expectations (gold awards at the NMA, record number of subscribers, etc, etc) and how much good press it has received. But it seems to me that you diminish your confidence if you have to spend page after page describing how great you are. We’re great. Really. No really. Really, really, really, please subscribe to the Walrus. Please.
That said, the Walrus offered to send me an issue absolutely free, so I took them up on the offer. In a related note, I must regretfully admit that the October issue looks decent, save for this. Perhaps things are finally turning around.
* Check out betterlivingcentre courtesy of Marc Weisblott and company. Very thorough and savvy and updated constantly. They even have professional illustrations – I figure they’ll put me out of business within the month.
* The new issue of Saturday Night hit the stands on September 8. If I find the Walrus a touch boring, then how best to describe SN? How about this way:
Bart: Nothing you say can upset us. We're the MTV generation.
Lisa: We feel neither highs or lows.
Homer: Really? What's it like?
Lisa: Ehh. [shrugs]
Anyway, the September issue of Saturday Night (Ehh) contains a kind of article I see every once in awhile in Canadian magazines. It’s by Jay Teitel, who is a very gifted writer. It’s about cellphones and how they’ve "restored the lost art of the social call." In the fifth paragraph, he writes "Formal studies may not exist, but anecdotal evidence abounds." First off (Ehh), here is my new tip – stop reading the next time you see a sentence of this variety. The second thing (and this may seem contradictory) is that the article isn’t bad. In fact, if you judged only the quality of craft, it’s near flawless. The quality of thought is the problem -- the article can make no claim to referring to life outside the borders of the page. Take the article out of the life-support of the magazine however, visit a bar or a café and try and spin the same ideas about how the cellphone has altered the way in which we communicate (for the better, no less!) and the delicate lattice-work contained in a sentence like "The cellphone in its most extreme social-call incarnation functions like a modern astrolabe, fixing us in latitude and longitude at any given moment" melts like the word sugar it is. It would have been nice of Teitel to acknowledge that the resurrection of the social call has corresponded with the eradication of civility in public spaces. Or referred to this truly vexing existential problem first raised in Hermenaut:
Forget the brain tumor—did you know that whenever you use a cellular telephone you're destroying your own existence? Convenience dissolves contingency, and as the facts of your current state fade to insignificance you are melting! melting! Who knew you were so soluble?
Some articles try to change our mind about a certain issue using things like "statistics" or "facts," while others prefer to avoid such messy and inconvenient elements of rhetoric and instead impress us with baroque curlicues. It’s something that Saturday Night prides itself on. Hopefully the new editor will reconsider.
* The September/October issue of This contains a smart article by Arthur Johnson about how magazines that actually turn a decent profit in this country use interns as a money-saving device. This is certainly true, but I would have liked to see a reference to the seminal article "Internment Camp: The Intern Economy and the Culture Trust," by Jim Frederick, that first appeared in Baffler #9 (and again in Boob Jubilee, a Baffler anthology that appeared last year.) Frederick offered a devastating bit of class analysis in his piece:
Thanks to those who can afford to win the labor auction with the lowest possible price -- I’ll work for free!– those without outside (read "parental") support are forced to take tremendous real-dollar losses to stay competitive, or they are simply priced out of competition entirely. This ensures that the glamour industries remain the land of the rich and privileged, for they are the only people who can absorb a short-term loss to get an imagined long-term gain.
The Johnson article makes analogies between sweatshops and media interns (a fine idea) but it could have been a feature, instead of a one-pager.
And as much as I agree, a couple of things about being a po’ little intern. You can allow yourself to be exploited, or you can make the most of the situation. Back in the day, Derek Finkle, now the editor of Toro, convinced Toronto Life to create an internship program. A day after he started interning, he asked to cover the trial of Robert Baltovich. Finkle went on to write a cover story for Toronto Life on the topic, and later a book. Plenty of other interns in Canada have used the foot in the door to get promoted past the mailroom (Stuart Berman, the music editor at eye, was once an intern, and there are many other examples).
Which gives me an idea: anyone wish to intern for The Bigge Idea?
* Over at Slate, Eric Weisbard spoke talks about the new album Blueberry Boat by the Fiery Furnaces:
Sometimes a new album has critics so dazzled that we're forced to recommend it before we're positive we even like it. The Fiery Furnaces' Blueberry Boat is that kind of work.
This is how buzz often gets incorrectly assigned. I prefer the opposite instance: of being forced to dismiss something before even hearing it or reading it. Toward that end, check out this bit of clairvoyance regarding the Globe’s new alt-weekly 7. As for my first impressions: 7 resembles Queue, the Vancouver Sun Thursday supplement, except worse somehow, because the Globe is involved. (This just in: I’m wrong. Here is Edward Greenspon in the September 11/04 Globe discussing the matter: "Going tabloid also provided an opportunity for our in-house designers to let their creative juices flow in making 7 both user-friendly and visually appealling." That is some arid juice, man. And check out the rebel sell in his next sentence: "We wanted to change the look radically because we were changing the content radically." To the barricades, comrade!)
Suggested slogan: Why Waste Your Money Reading a Free Alt-Weekly When 7 Costs Only A Dollar?
* I received a four-page sermon disguised as a subscription plea from the Walrus this week. I realize there is some kind of (dismal) science involved in writing direct mail, but four pages? I find two whiny pages is generally enough. Four went past "methinks he doth protest too much" and lurched into "methinks he doth be pathetic." The funny thing is that the subscription letter focuses on all the success the Walrus has received and lists all the ways in which the magazine has exceeded expectations (gold awards at the NMA, record number of subscribers, etc, etc) and how much good press it has received. But it seems to me that you diminish your confidence if you have to spend page after page describing how great you are. We’re great. Really. No really. Really, really, really, please subscribe to the Walrus. Please.
That said, the Walrus offered to send me an issue absolutely free, so I took them up on the offer. In a related note, I must regretfully admit that the October issue looks decent, save for this. Perhaps things are finally turning around.
* Check out betterlivingcentre courtesy of Marc Weisblott and company. Very thorough and savvy and updated constantly. They even have professional illustrations – I figure they’ll put me out of business within the month.
* The new issue of Saturday Night hit the stands on September 8. If I find the Walrus a touch boring, then how best to describe SN? How about this way:
Bart: Nothing you say can upset us. We're the MTV generation.
Lisa: We feel neither highs or lows.
Homer: Really? What's it like?
Lisa: Ehh. [shrugs]
Anyway, the September issue of Saturday Night (Ehh) contains a kind of article I see every once in awhile in Canadian magazines. It’s by Jay Teitel, who is a very gifted writer. It’s about cellphones and how they’ve "restored the lost art of the social call." In the fifth paragraph, he writes "Formal studies may not exist, but anecdotal evidence abounds." First off (Ehh), here is my new tip – stop reading the next time you see a sentence of this variety. The second thing (and this may seem contradictory) is that the article isn’t bad. In fact, if you judged only the quality of craft, it’s near flawless. The quality of thought is the problem -- the article can make no claim to referring to life outside the borders of the page. Take the article out of the life-support of the magazine however, visit a bar or a café and try and spin the same ideas about how the cellphone has altered the way in which we communicate (for the better, no less!) and the delicate lattice-work contained in a sentence like "The cellphone in its most extreme social-call incarnation functions like a modern astrolabe, fixing us in latitude and longitude at any given moment" melts like the word sugar it is. It would have been nice of Teitel to acknowledge that the resurrection of the social call has corresponded with the eradication of civility in public spaces. Or referred to this truly vexing existential problem first raised in Hermenaut:
Forget the brain tumor—did you know that whenever you use a cellular telephone you're destroying your own existence? Convenience dissolves contingency, and as the facts of your current state fade to insignificance you are melting! melting! Who knew you were so soluble?
Some articles try to change our mind about a certain issue using things like "statistics" or "facts," while others prefer to avoid such messy and inconvenient elements of rhetoric and instead impress us with baroque curlicues. It’s something that Saturday Night prides itself on. Hopefully the new editor will reconsider.
* The September/October issue of This contains a smart article by Arthur Johnson about how magazines that actually turn a decent profit in this country use interns as a money-saving device. This is certainly true, but I would have liked to see a reference to the seminal article "Internment Camp: The Intern Economy and the Culture Trust," by Jim Frederick, that first appeared in Baffler #9 (and again in Boob Jubilee, a Baffler anthology that appeared last year.) Frederick offered a devastating bit of class analysis in his piece:
Thanks to those who can afford to win the labor auction with the lowest possible price -- I’ll work for free!– those without outside (read "parental") support are forced to take tremendous real-dollar losses to stay competitive, or they are simply priced out of competition entirely. This ensures that the glamour industries remain the land of the rich and privileged, for they are the only people who can absorb a short-term loss to get an imagined long-term gain.
The Johnson article makes analogies between sweatshops and media interns (a fine idea) but it could have been a feature, instead of a one-pager.
And as much as I agree, a couple of things about being a po’ little intern. You can allow yourself to be exploited, or you can make the most of the situation. Back in the day, Derek Finkle, now the editor of Toro, convinced Toronto Life to create an internship program. A day after he started interning, he asked to cover the trial of Robert Baltovich. Finkle went on to write a cover story for Toronto Life on the topic, and later a book. Plenty of other interns in Canada have used the foot in the door to get promoted past the mailroom (Stuart Berman, the music editor at eye, was once an intern, and there are many other examples).
Which gives me an idea: anyone wish to intern for The Bigge Idea?
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
From East to West and Back Again
I’m back from Vancouver after a two-week holiday. There I had to curtail my media consumption, but I’ve spent the last 24 hours getting caught up with all the big hits. Topping the charts this week is my good close personal friend Russell Smith with his August 26, 2004 column about Dick-Lit. According to Mr. Smith:
The American publishing industry has, over the past five years, attempted to come up with a masculine rival to the phenomenal "chick-lit" successes of Helen Fielding and Candace Bushnell and Sophie Kinsella and all the other writers whose books have bright pink covers. "Dick-lit" fits a familiar matrix: It takes the form of first-person memoir or first-person fiction, is set among striving young people in a large city (usually New York) and tells the story of a youngish man -- a man who is starting to feel not so young -- who works in the world of media, just like Bridget Jones.
[…]
The current style was probably initiated by Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, followed by the handbook for the genre, About a Boy. Recent copies include Rick Marin's Cad: Confessions of a Toxic Bachelor, Kyle Smith's Love Monkey and Scott Mebus's Booty Nomad.
Now I point you to an article in the Toronto Star, dated April 29, 2003 by Mike Dojc:
A new brand of literature has arisen to feed the 20-something guys' need to read. An antithesis to Chick Lit, this hot new typology has been dubbed Dick Lit by pundits and the British press.
[…]
Books like [Keith] Blanchard's and [Rick] Marin owe more to writers such as Nick Hornby (High Fidelity) or Chuck Barris (Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind), than any authors who follow more in the tradition of Wilt "the Stilt" Chamberlain's View From Above, in which he boasted to having bed 20,000 women.
[…]
Both genders need their fill of frivolity. In recent years, the male market has been underserved. One only has to walk into a bookstore and see shelf upon shelf of Bridget Jones Diary and Shopaholic clones as well as book club picks to ascertain the lack of light guy reads available.
Smith’s column is stronger, but Dojc’s article appeared one year and four months ago. Which is better? To paraphrase the FNC slogan: I excerpt. You decide. (However, the next person who decides to write a Dick-Lit trend piece might want to mention the brand new Dave Itzkoff book Lads: A Memoir of Manhood in which the former Maxim editor deconstructs the myths of the lad-scivious lifestyle, in the process discovering it empty, false and stupid. But, as always, my free advice is worth every penny.)
Otherwise:
* A great geek protest sign. If you don’t get it, it’s not your fault. You probably kiss members of the opposite sex or go outdoors.
* I’m sure I’m late to this one, but a waitress at a strip club is blogging during the RNC. According to the waitress, both Democrats and Republicans are horn-dogs, but only Conservatives are brave enough to demand both re-election and an erection during a convention.
* No one gives a backhanded compliment quite like Now weekly. And if you think that review was rough, try this classic chunk of snark.
The American publishing industry has, over the past five years, attempted to come up with a masculine rival to the phenomenal "chick-lit" successes of Helen Fielding and Candace Bushnell and Sophie Kinsella and all the other writers whose books have bright pink covers. "Dick-lit" fits a familiar matrix: It takes the form of first-person memoir or first-person fiction, is set among striving young people in a large city (usually New York) and tells the story of a youngish man -- a man who is starting to feel not so young -- who works in the world of media, just like Bridget Jones.
[…]
The current style was probably initiated by Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, followed by the handbook for the genre, About a Boy. Recent copies include Rick Marin's Cad: Confessions of a Toxic Bachelor, Kyle Smith's Love Monkey and Scott Mebus's Booty Nomad.
Now I point you to an article in the Toronto Star, dated April 29, 2003 by Mike Dojc:
A new brand of literature has arisen to feed the 20-something guys' need to read. An antithesis to Chick Lit, this hot new typology has been dubbed Dick Lit by pundits and the British press.
[…]
Books like [Keith] Blanchard's and [Rick] Marin owe more to writers such as Nick Hornby (High Fidelity) or Chuck Barris (Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind), than any authors who follow more in the tradition of Wilt "the Stilt" Chamberlain's View From Above, in which he boasted to having bed 20,000 women.
[…]
Both genders need their fill of frivolity. In recent years, the male market has been underserved. One only has to walk into a bookstore and see shelf upon shelf of Bridget Jones Diary and Shopaholic clones as well as book club picks to ascertain the lack of light guy reads available.
Smith’s column is stronger, but Dojc’s article appeared one year and four months ago. Which is better? To paraphrase the FNC slogan: I excerpt. You decide. (However, the next person who decides to write a Dick-Lit trend piece might want to mention the brand new Dave Itzkoff book Lads: A Memoir of Manhood in which the former Maxim editor deconstructs the myths of the lad-scivious lifestyle, in the process discovering it empty, false and stupid. But, as always, my free advice is worth every penny.)
Otherwise:
* A great geek protest sign. If you don’t get it, it’s not your fault. You probably kiss members of the opposite sex or go outdoors.
* I’m sure I’m late to this one, but a waitress at a strip club is blogging during the RNC. According to the waitress, both Democrats and Republicans are horn-dogs, but only Conservatives are brave enough to demand both re-election and an erection during a convention.
* No one gives a backhanded compliment quite like Now weekly. And if you think that review was rough, try this classic chunk of snark.
Monday, August 16, 2004
The Same, But Different
"Excuse me," said the stranger, to the shapely young woman walking through the park, "But how big are your tits? Like 34C?"
"Actually, they’re 36D," said the young woman.
"Wow. 36D. That’s amazing. Are you a stripper? Or a porn star?"
"No," she replied with a weary smile. "Actually, I’m a graphic designer."
"Cool. That’s cool," said the stranger. Suddenly there seemed to be no more conversational electricity. The question was answered, and in its wake, awkward silence. "Well, bye."
"Yeah, bye," said the woman, who continued walking through the park.
By now I’m sure most of you think I’ve lost my mind. But wait, please, the denouement is arriving in the next sentence. Rewrite the above conversation by replacing the inquiry about tits with a question about height.
"How tall are you?"
"I’m 6 foot 5."
"Wow. Six-foot-Five. That’s amazing. Are you a basketball player?"
Obviously asking about height and asking about the size of someone’s tits is viewed differently in our society, but as someone who is tall, after awhile the question is equally annoying. Last week, two different people asked me how tall I was. I ignored both of them. The first time, I overheard a teenage girl whisper to her friend "Ask him how tall he is" as I was walking through a local park. Because of this advance warning, I ignored the girl when she said, "Excuse me." I kept right on walking, after repeated attempts of "Excuse me." Steps before I was out of earshot, in desperation, the girl yelled, "How tall are you?"
The second time was a day later, when some guy on the sidewalk asked me how tall I was. I continued walking as well. To his credit, he did not persist.
You see, I’m over 30, which means I have gone through this song and dance about my height for at least 10 years, which is roughly when I stopped growing. Unless you are a cute little old lady, or a kindly old man, I will not humour your requests for information about my height. The seniors I treat like gold, let me assure you.
(I think, back in May, I promised more love, less bitterness and I’m doing my best to deliver. Just don’t ask me how tall I am, if that’s OK…)
Some quick hits:
* A novel in 88 blog postings: www.roommatefromhell.com
* My suburbia article is finally on newsstands. (And, er, online.) Descant, the literary journal in which the article appears, had a launch on Wednesday at the Victory Café in Toronto. The turn-out was pretty decent, and, even better, as a reader, I received a cellophane-wrapped goody bag of organic vegetables. Drink tickets are more traditional, I suppose, but not very memorable. I will never forget receiving two ears of corn, a pair of apricots, a bunch of cherries, and one tomato for doing a reading.
* At a party on Thursday I was delighted to learn that the cab drivers waiting outside the Via Rail station are always stupid jerks. I thought it was only me – upon returning from an ultra-pleasant month in Montreal, I was jolted back to the arrhythmic rudeness (as opposed to the elegant rudeness of New York, for example) of Toronto within five minutes of stepping off the train platform. The details are dull, but the end result was my valve became immediately and severely irritated. Turns out the same thing happened to my friend Dave recently. I write this bile despite it being taxi appreciation week or day or hour or something today or yesterday or something. (On a related note, it’s clearly tourist season here in the center of the universe. I find it strange that people visit here of their own volition, yet I don’t wish to discourage anyone from innervating our economy. Although, when I recently overheard an American whigger on a cellphone telling a friend that "There was no ghetto downtown. Anywhere" I had to give pause.)
* Recent Onion A/V Club interview with Triumph, discussing how to beg before J.Lo: "I tried to play up how pathetic I was, which is not too hard if you're a 42-year-old guy crouched on your knees in the aisle of an awards show with a puppet on your hand. You do evoke sympathy."
* Smart article by Gord McLaughlin in this week’s eye about the dangers of being critical about the business of the dramatic arts in Canada. The shock ending is memorable and well executed.
"Actually, they’re 36D," said the young woman.
"Wow. 36D. That’s amazing. Are you a stripper? Or a porn star?"
"No," she replied with a weary smile. "Actually, I’m a graphic designer."
"Cool. That’s cool," said the stranger. Suddenly there seemed to be no more conversational electricity. The question was answered, and in its wake, awkward silence. "Well, bye."
"Yeah, bye," said the woman, who continued walking through the park.
By now I’m sure most of you think I’ve lost my mind. But wait, please, the denouement is arriving in the next sentence. Rewrite the above conversation by replacing the inquiry about tits with a question about height.
"How tall are you?"
"I’m 6 foot 5."
"Wow. Six-foot-Five. That’s amazing. Are you a basketball player?"
Obviously asking about height and asking about the size of someone’s tits is viewed differently in our society, but as someone who is tall, after awhile the question is equally annoying. Last week, two different people asked me how tall I was. I ignored both of them. The first time, I overheard a teenage girl whisper to her friend "Ask him how tall he is" as I was walking through a local park. Because of this advance warning, I ignored the girl when she said, "Excuse me." I kept right on walking, after repeated attempts of "Excuse me." Steps before I was out of earshot, in desperation, the girl yelled, "How tall are you?"
The second time was a day later, when some guy on the sidewalk asked me how tall I was. I continued walking as well. To his credit, he did not persist.
You see, I’m over 30, which means I have gone through this song and dance about my height for at least 10 years, which is roughly when I stopped growing. Unless you are a cute little old lady, or a kindly old man, I will not humour your requests for information about my height. The seniors I treat like gold, let me assure you.
(I think, back in May, I promised more love, less bitterness and I’m doing my best to deliver. Just don’t ask me how tall I am, if that’s OK…)
Some quick hits:
* A novel in 88 blog postings: www.roommatefromhell.com
* My suburbia article is finally on newsstands. (And, er, online.) Descant, the literary journal in which the article appears, had a launch on Wednesday at the Victory Café in Toronto. The turn-out was pretty decent, and, even better, as a reader, I received a cellophane-wrapped goody bag of organic vegetables. Drink tickets are more traditional, I suppose, but not very memorable. I will never forget receiving two ears of corn, a pair of apricots, a bunch of cherries, and one tomato for doing a reading.
* At a party on Thursday I was delighted to learn that the cab drivers waiting outside the Via Rail station are always stupid jerks. I thought it was only me – upon returning from an ultra-pleasant month in Montreal, I was jolted back to the arrhythmic rudeness (as opposed to the elegant rudeness of New York, for example) of Toronto within five minutes of stepping off the train platform. The details are dull, but the end result was my valve became immediately and severely irritated. Turns out the same thing happened to my friend Dave recently. I write this bile despite it being taxi appreciation week or day or hour or something today or yesterday or something. (On a related note, it’s clearly tourist season here in the center of the universe. I find it strange that people visit here of their own volition, yet I don’t wish to discourage anyone from innervating our economy. Although, when I recently overheard an American whigger on a cellphone telling a friend that "There was no ghetto downtown. Anywhere" I had to give pause.)
* Recent Onion A/V Club interview with Triumph, discussing how to beg before J.Lo: "I tried to play up how pathetic I was, which is not too hard if you're a 42-year-old guy crouched on your knees in the aisle of an awards show with a puppet on your hand. You do evoke sympathy."
* Smart article by Gord McLaughlin in this week’s eye about the dangers of being critical about the business of the dramatic arts in Canada. The shock ending is memorable and well executed.
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