Season of heat, fires, burns and beer. I've flip-flopped from road mode to family mode and had plenty to catch up on. Radio silence may happen as I wrestle the bigger cats to the ground. Life's hurdles have been a hair too high of late and they've come up to meet my crotch the last few times. I predict a season of joy to follow soon.
I seldom use this forum for "arts & entertainment picks and pans" but ... Tim Burton's "Big Fish" came along at the right time for me. Sometimes a movie doesn't have to be perfect in all dimensions. It just has to fit with your worldview at the right time. If any piece of art or entertainment ever came close to embodying the way I see the world this one would come the closest. Truth is not always based on "the facts". You can create it. Science is not as comforting as fiction. Go ask the Christians. There is a fontanel, a soft spot on the head. Science pokes it gently and opens the gate for a lot of “what we don’t know” to come rushing in. There are these new little facts that float like acorns on the calm unknowable sea. Somewhere in that cool, dark, deep blue ocean are all our reasons to live.
Things were moving too fast to define. It was a montage so neatly edited and cross-faded that he saw it all as one event. He had glazed over in all faculties. His first taste of ice cream became his first kiss and that became a car accident he had forgotten. They found his watch jammed in the back door of the station wagon. His shoulder blade had broken the seat back. He had clenched the shift lever so hard on impact that he had torn it from the bell housing. The details were all there. The smell of Garry Oak leaves burning. The feel of a live salmon in his hands. Icicles along his eyelids as he carved a J turn away from the net on an outdoor rink in a town with “Orange” in its name. The purple head of his first daughter appearing from the womb in the instant before she opened her mouth and cried. The images were speeding up now and beginning to appear in silhouette: eating a dog biscuit with the dog. The banana seat coming up to meet his nuts after clearing four nervous friends lying under the plywood jump, the most humid moment he’d ever felt as he walked out from the air conditioning of Narita airport and the smell of the small sandalwood box he kept his loose change in. It was funny that no experiences involving marijuana even showed up. Irony was not lost on him even in such dire circumstances.
He snapped back to the mortal plane and realized his circumstances were indeed dire. You took these types of jobs knowing they were demeaning but in no way dangerous. The Poncho’s Chicken people had not said anything other than, “it can get a little hot in the suit”. He figured he could handle a little sweat if it was just a four-hour call. He was told by the assistant regional promotions manager that under no circumstances was he to remove the giant chicken head in front of the kids. There had been a lawsuit last year involving a family who sued for psychological damages when their 5 year-old daughter watched Poncho the chicken take his head off for a smoke break. Every “Poncho” also had to sign a form that guaranteed they would never speak while wearing the costume. He had donned the suit in the administration office of the arena and hopped out into the concourse without much thought other than to his duties. Remain perky, keep on the move, cover the bleachers, mezzanine, outside the gates, work the concessions, use your unique physical talents whenever possible. It had gone pretty well by hour three. Becoming accustomed to his view through the red mesh screen in Poncho’s beak and the oversized padded feet that covered his street shoes he was able to pull off the odd cartwheel when open space presented itself. His love of children had waned in the first hour. If they did believe he was an enormous disproportioned chicken then things were OK. It was the slightly older kids who got in his face. Poking, prodding and cursing they tested the cushioning of the costume. “You stupid fuckin’ chicken”. “Hey Poncho are you a gay chicken?” In reality the foam and feathers that filled out the costume provide little or no protection. It hurt to bite his tongue the whole time.
The hockey game had been over for twenty-five minutes and he walked slowly back to the administration office across the cold polished concrete expanse of level 1. There was no peripheral vision so he wouldn’t have been able to see them hiding behind concrete pillars to his left and right. The first blow was a boot to the ass. He whirled and stared down a 12-year-old boy in Red Dragon skater garb. The boy’s legs were apart to steady him, his dukes were up, his smile was crooked and wide and a mischievous glint flashed through the fringe of bleached hair that fell from under the ball cap to skirt his eyes. All the boy would have seen was that giant red guileless smiling beak and huge happy oval eyes welcoming him to another shot. “How ‘bout a drumstick you shithead chicken?” the boy chirped. It was then that the mascot’s legs were pulled out from under him from behind. As his giant head hit the concrete he felt the weight on his back and struggled to turn over. Managing to twist face up he grabbed for his knees and tried to assume the fetal position he knew was necessary to survive a swarming. He could see smallish fists and arms and legs through the red mesh like so many flailing tree branches coming down to meet him all over. Somehow he was not a real person. The costume had made him a practice target for cartoon violence. Was the illusion created that he could survive any incident like Wil E. Coyote or Tom & Jerry? The mesh was ripped away in one deft motion and lightning struck his temple.
Things were moving too fast to define. It was a montage so neatly edited and cross-faded that he saw it all as one event. He had glazed over in all faculties. His first taste of ice cream became his first kiss and that became a car accident he had forgotten.
Important answer to the most pressing question. The debut "Northey Valenzuela" CD entitled "Northey Valenzuela" (aka: National Park, Frequent Flyer, Vanilla Sanchez, Sonic Soul Implosion). Will be ready for purchase through "maplemusic.com" in a few weeks. No lie. It will be in stores after that. Its really good so you should buy more than one copy.
Two hours of sleep, a 30 minute flight from Gander Newfoundland to St. Johns on Labrador Air and then... a two hour layover. We grabbed a cab and went into town and up Signal Hill. The vista was spectacular. There we were standing on the prow of the continent. Cape Spear, just off to one side, is the easternmost tip of North America. Vancouver was twice as far away as Ireland. This was the place Marconi sat to receive the first wireless message in history. I'm back in the airport using their wireless network. Sleep deprivation is mind altering. It is best to combine it with geographic and historic schizophrenia if you want psychedelic results. The triple Americano guzzled down on Water Street is really helping now.
Last night we played in Grand Falls with Shaye, Gob, Simple Plan, Crush and Bryan Adams. The all day backstage party in the sun with fellow musicians may have taken its toll on our set but it was well worth it.
I don't know what has curtailed my output more than just living in the moment. I have a few things bubbling up through the road haze so maybe I'll put them down during a flight or a drive.
I've put up a whack of Eric Webster's photo's in the "Found on Road" gallery. If you click on the last page (I think its #10) then 4 more pages will appear.
My new Reimer acosutic guitar is now featured at the end of the "Fetishism" gallery. You can see it in its many stages. Now that its complete it is a genuine work of playable art.
We arrive after a twilight cab ride through an unfamiliar town. From the hotel on the outskirts through the rural to the suburban -- no urban. Its Friday night at the megaplex, multi-cinema, mall annex trasheteria. Overly ornate navel rings hover over low rise, stretch-fit faded $200 jean/tights. Ball caps, baggy khaki shorts and frosted close-cropped hair over sport logo emblazoned T’s watch the pink tube tops arrive in gangs. Cell phones on belts, on ears, in purses in hands. Popcorn waft and pop syrup sweet overtones colour the cigarette wind at the entrance to the air-conditioned neon and light box cavern. Arcade beeps; crunches and whirs mask the lyrics of the hip-hop hits without obscuring the beat. Somewhere beyond the $11.25 swipe of a hologram encrypted Visa and a horse track turnstile is Cinema 2 out of 10. Somewhere beyond the 20 minutes of 2 dimensional onscreen Hollywood trivia questions and accompanying teen top 40 are the 20 minutes of car, candy, sport drink, bank, and clothing commercials. Somewhere beyond the 15 minutes of upcoming trailers for action, innuendo and pot joke movies you would never even watch on an airplane are the opening credits for “Fahrenheit 911”. The shit culture preamble to this movie is there to underscore its power. You are about to escape the middleman after climbing over the immense wall of crap he has piled in front of you. This is a movie best seen in the company of strangers. Your friends are going to react the way you do. There is nothing redeeming in this. To watch someone previously unaware become enlightened makes the pain of such a movie seem bearable. A movie like this can send you so far into yourself that you need others around to say a word or two. These words are life preservers thrown overboard to you in the cold water and in the dark. Anything. A dirty joke. Someone asking for the time. You need any words. Rats are leaving through the cracks in our western guilt complex. Sexuality moves to cannibalism. Powerlessness turns to surrender and consumption rather than anger and action. We watched the movie. We consumed oil products just to get here and get home again.
We are Canadians who cannot vote in America. We are Canadians who sometimes use our citizenship as a shield against our own silent complicity. Sure we refused to be part of the “coalition of the willing” but we are a willing economic annex. When times get tough we sell another piece of ourselves to stay afloat. The music we make, that is allowed to be played in the megaplex, is once again a pale imitation of things that happen elsewhere. Caught behind the middlemen in our nervous and neutered music business. The Molson Corporation has a lock on our Canada Day celebrations. The Molson aesthetic represents us outside our borders. Even those too young to drink are wearing red, white and blue “I AM Canadian” T-shirts. Red, White and Blue. The brewery colours impose themselves on a red and white flag. Shit beer.
The morning before seeing “Fahrenheit 911” I marched in the Canada Day Parade in North Vancouver with my sons. I was dragging a hockey bag full of candy and wearing a too small North Vancouver Minor Hockey jersey as the kids from the hockey clubs danced around and handed out candy to spectators along the route. The float in front of us featured a soul band from the local music school playing Sly & Stevie Wonder tunes. Classic cars. The Police motorcycle team. Restaurant mascots.
The three of us got up plenty early to line up for the pancake breakfast. I was happy. A pancake breakfast is the prime catalyst igniting a sense of community. It’s my dad’s favourite thing. I love my dad. It was sunny and I was eating pancakes with kids, strangers, nieghbours, veterans, Kinsmen, army cadets, and a high school band. A fresh wind whipped through the tent and sent napkins, cups and syrup stained paper plates off down the grassy boulevard. We laughed, grabbed our plates, and watched two hundred flags stand up and ripple straight sideways. We could see the ocean. Balance this all against foreign oil wars and lost children in the bombing of Baghdad. Balance this against the polarization of the north and the south and the rich and the poor. Even drinking this fair trade coffee from the Kinsmen thermos doesn’t guarantee the farmer gets paid. The Costa Rican co-op manager, however, drives a Mercedes. Intercepted by the middleman. Your vote goes through the middleman. Vote in accordance with your beliefs or vote to block. Either way a party is attached. The party tells their candidates what buzz phrase to use and that’s all you get. The corporate family. All good ideas intercepted and pasteurized by the middleman. “What kind of Canada do you want”? The good guys take a greater share of the popular vote and lose by a wide margin. You’re back behind the middleman. You can understand the motivations of the vigilante as well as you understand the motivations of the conservative. Continue on as planned or change the plans for everyone. For the duration of “Fahrenheit 911” you are buying direct. It feels good to break through even if what is revealed is impossible to reconcile.