Write of Passage Number Eight

She's about four or five, fly-away fine blond hair, dressed in a pink snowsuit and black boots. Maybe that's why she's restless; it's a relatively warm day for early March here in Hades and there's no snow on the sidewalks. She keeps climbing on to the bus seat and trying to stand up. Her mother, in increasing exasperation, hauls her down and threatens to take her to the front seats, "where the babies go". The little girl is undaunted, talking non-stop as her mother holds firmly on to her with one hand and checks her cell phone with the other. Big brother is in the very back, keeping his distance and dignity at age six or so, pretending not to be with them. (I remember doing the same while traveling with my mother and sister, staring fixedly out the window and cringing in embarrassment.)

A young man moves from his seat further front and sits across from us. He's wearing a red clown nose and a GG mustache grows from the corners of his mouth. There are juggling balls almost spilling from the pocket of his old fashioned patterned coat and a half-eaten banana in his hand. I'd seen him juggling at our bus stop, but we were busy talking with our neighbour and I'd barely noticed him. The little girl stops fidgeting and leans forward in interest:

"Are you a clown?"
GG Mustache puts his hand to his ear and says gently with just a touch of a Québecois accent, "I can only hear you if you talk in a soft voice."
The little girl leans further forward and asks quietly: "Are you a clown?"
"I don't know. Do I look like one?"
"You've got a red nose. Is your real nose behind it?"
"Do you know anyone with two noses? How would I blow them both? Would you like to borrow one of my juggling balls?"

She takes it and fingers it absent-mindedly, still intent on his nose. She's careful to keep her voice low. The mischievous, self-absorbed smile is replaced with a genuine engaged expression and she is relaxed. She's grown up two years, right in front of our eyes: "I think your real nose is behind the red nose."
"Do you think so?"
"Can I see your real nose?"
"Well, I don't know about that..."
The girl's mother is preparing to get up, and the little girl passes the juggling ball back before he can ask for it.
"What do you say?" prompts the mum.
The little girl looks a little confused, then breathes "Thank-you," as big brother, still holding himself aloof, follows his family off the bus.
Monsieur GG Mustache has quickly slid his hand across his face. When she looks back to see him smiling goodbye under his real nose, she glows and waves.

Yet another blogger nattering on about the Oscars...

This will have to be quick, as elder daughter will soon rouse herself from her Saturday slumber and turf me off the computer, supposedly for scholarly reasons...

I should mention, in case it has passed unnoticed, that I am participating in my third NaBloPoMo. After accepting its challenge to blog every day of the months of February and September 2009, I am tackling my longest month to date. Wish me luck.

We are already plotting the purchase of fatty snack foods to accompany our viewing of the 82nd Academy Awards. Okay, let's face it; the Oscars get less surprising each year -- we don't even get the delicious fashion disasters of old because all the stars consult with experts beforehand.

Yet, each year, I feel somehow compelled to view a least some of the nominees. I think it helps me to judge the appropriate moment to hurl said fatty snacks at the screen when a less worthy candidate gets handed the gold naked guy.

In brief, Sandra Bullock will win for best actress. This is because, for all the hyperbole, these awards are like a high school popularity contest and everybody likes her. For the record, I think Meryl Streep should win, based unscientifically and unfairly on the three Best Actress performances I've actually seen (also saw Carey Milligan in An Education and Helen Mirren in The Last Station). I managed to see Streep in Julie and Julia, and she was bloody amazing. Yes, I know she gets nominated nearly every year, but I think she's only actually won once.

Jeff Bridges will win for best actor. Again, I've managed to see two of the performances in this category, that of Colin Firth in A Single Man, and George Clooney in Up in the Air . Clooney was very good (as basically himself, as far as I can tell) and Firth, damn it, should get it. He won't.

The Academy, in its desire to reel in more television viewers and commercial revenue, has nominated 10 films this year, including some more popular ones. I have seen four of them, and have no desire whatsoever to see the rest: An Education is well-made, but not particularly memorable; A Serious Man is memorable and as weird as all blazes (in a good way); Up is an instant classic and should win the Animated Film category (a category in which, of course, given younger daughter, we have seen four out the five nominations). The film I keep thinking about and which I'd really like to win is Up in the Air: strong performances, strong writing. It won't. It's a head-to-head between The Hurt Locker and (gawd help us) Avatar.

I've managed to see one blessed Foreign Film nomination this year (which is one better than last year). If The White Ribbon wins, however, I'll be mightily pleased. It was remarkable, and another film that haunted me for a long time after viewing.

For me, the most exciting category this year will be Best Animated Short Film. This is because (sound the trumpets) I have actually seen all five nominations! Younger and I saw A Matter of Loaf and Death (the latest Wallace and Gromit outing) last autumn at the Ottawa Animation Festival, and The Flick Filosopher (gawd love 'er) has posted links to the other four nominees at her always controversial and entertaining blog. Hurry on over there and have a look. We adore and worship Wallace and Gromit at this house, but I'm rooting for Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty, a twisted offering from Ireland which combines beautifully detailed computer animation with more traditional animation. The Lady and the Reaper (La Dama y la Muerte) (from Spain) will probably win; it's produced by Antonio Banderas, for gawd's sake, and as I've said, Oscar Night is nothing if not a popularity contest. (Actually, I'm fine with La Dame winning, too; it's very well done.)

Gotta go; our Norton Update is acting up -- it may be time for our weekly computer virus attack...

You know, this doesn't help my invisibility issues at all....

The Resident Fan Boy asked me to meet him for lunch today. He says it's somewhat of a feather in one's cap to meet one's spouse for lunch. I assume this is because this is a rare occurrence in Ottawa, where one's spouse is, no doubt, busy drafting motions, or making presentations. Not his spouse, of course, which is why I'd be free.

He suggested a new eatery in the Byward Market where we could feast on entrées served on tiny plates, and drink free-trade coffees with our "creamsicle crèmes brulées". So, at the appointed time, I arrived at his building which, being a government institution, has heavy security. I phoned up to his office, was greeted joyfully, and took my seat in the recess by the door, waiting for him to come down from his office.

In record time, he appeared and approached the security guards, waving a bank card which he'd found on the floor of the cafeteria that morning. An attractive blond lady came through the door, and he smiled at her in a startled way and handed her the card. As I rose to put on my coat, she turned and walked out the door, and my husband fell into step with her chatting genially. I stood and watched as the blond headed left toward Rideau Street and my husband strode off down Sussex Drive.

It'll come to him, I thought. I wonder how long it will take?

It's Don Knotts!

Some time ago, I posted some of my favourite literal videos. Of course, there are many more delights available at YouTube. Today I would like to draw your attention to some "misheard lyrics" videos. I trust we've all heard of mondegreens? My personal favourite comes from the Deep Purple classic "Smoke on the Water": Slow talkin' Walter, the fire engine guy... About fifteen years ago, a group in Victoria did an entire song based on this mondegreen. It was an enormous improvement over the original lyrics, but I suspect Deep Purple didn't think so (or, more likely, their record company or music publishers). I've searched the internet high and low, to no avail.

However, I can offer you some of my favourite YouTube "misheard lyrics". These, like literal videos, are very, very difficult to do well. The granddaddy of them all (or so I surmise, as she's been heavily and inadequately copied) is Kewen's take on Wish Master by Nightwish. I'd never heard of this song, which isn't to my tastes, but this video is so good-naturedly funny that knowledge of the song or group isn't necessary. I haul this one out on my worse days. It invariably makes me feel better:

Next, a song I know very well, so maybe you won't find this as funny. Here's Wreznor's take on Mott the Hoople's version of David Bowie's All the Dudes:

The last two I first viewed at Rob Saunder's Eine Kleine Nichtmusik. When Rob isn't battling injustice, he's posting loopy videos. This one is a mishearing of O Fortuna from Carmina Burana. I'm rather sorry that my late father-in-law couldn't have seen this. He belonged to the Victoria Choral Society and complained at length about having to sing Carmina Burana every other year. Although, as a rather Edwardian Anglican clergyman, he might have taken issue with some of the references:
And he definitely wouldn't have appreciated this little number, which reeled me in as a regular reader of Rob's blog:However,the Resident Fan Boy, being a Preacher's Kid of the "Gladly the Cross-eyed Bear" variety, enjoyed this immensely.

Hope you enjoy these. If you're having trouble, you could, uh, Google You-Tube...

Bullying = Humour?

A few months ago, an item appeared on the BBC News web site that gave me a start. It contained a quote from comedy writer Armando Iannucci, a response, in part, to the crackdown at BBC after Russell Brand's and Jonathan Ross's ill-advised prank phone call to Andrew Sachs: Jokes aren't true - they're lies, they're exaggerations, they're distortion, they're imbalance, they're having a go, they're bullying, they're insulting.

My startled reaction was to the notion that in order for something to be funny, there needs to be an element of bullying in it. Is this a British thing? I like British humour and I know it isn't all unkind, but it seems to me that British talk-shows, for example, take guest-baiting to surreal heights.

Or is this because I'm Canadian? Being an iPod neophyte, I am only just getting used to the wonderful world of podcasts. Naturally, one of my first subscriptions was to Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe. The very first podcast featured McLean waxing lyrically (as he does) on the subject of Stephen Leacock. McLean tells us: "In his prime, more people had heard of Stephen Leacock than had heard of Canada." He adds: "Affection and kindness were the cornerstones of Leacock's house of humour." At least I think that's what he added; I'm quoting from memory. The gist of the argument anyway, was that Leacock's humour was never biting, and that the humour of Mark Twain and EB White share similar qualities. (Actually, I'm not sure I agree with him about Twain.) I would add Bill Cosby, Ellen DeGeneres, and perhaps even Nichols and May to the list of comedians and comic writers who can poke fun without drawing blood.

Interestingly enough, none of these humourists seem to need four-letter words to be funny. I was almost as perplexed as I was about the BBC item when a comedian (I think it may have been Chris Rock) declared not long ago that you need swearing to be funny. Now, granted, there's nothing as unfunny as trying to figure out what is funny, but humour is based on an element of surprise, and a lot of stand-up comics today depend on the rapidly diminishing shock of profanity for a laugh. I would hesitantly suggest that if you need the swear words to make people laugh, uh, maybe you aren't that funny?

That said, I do laugh at potty-mouthed comedians, and I have giggled at the more bullying aspects of British humour. However, I don't laugh as hard as I do at say, the Marx Brothers or Steve Wright. I'm just saying that cruelty and swearing are not a vital part of humour, and it is possible to be witty and even hilarious, without a lingering aftertaste of sheepishness. Or is that just me?

Women who stare at dolts

Write of Passage Number Seven:

So the Transitway bus is pulling into the Bank Street stop, and I've taken my place with younger daughter in the line-up for the back door. Beyond us, the seats at the very rear of the bus are crammed with students, mostly from Algonquin College. There's a strange, tinny noise emitting somewhere in the crowd, and without thinking, I scan the seats in search of the source.

"What are you looking at?"
Startled, I meet the bright blue, rather dilated eyes of a curly-haired boy seated with a giggling girl.
"Stop staring at me!"
The line is moving off the bus. I, thankfully, have only time for an askant look: "I wasn't looking at you!"
"Yes, you were. Stop staring, bitch!"
"Oh cut it out," I say, helping younger daughter down to the pavement.
"*&%$# off!" he shouts as the doors close.

I lead younger daughter to our transfer, feeling rather like I've been slapped. I find myself wondering about better ways to respond, and whether the guy's girlfriend is at risk. If younger daughter is affected by the exchange, she isn't showing it.

That evening, I drop by the supermarket. Elder daughter is stationed behind the deli counter, but no one is about, so I wander up to say hello, giving her the quirkier details on some emails that have come in from her grandmother, before scuttling off to pick up a few necessaries.

When she gets home after her shift, she says: "You really scared Jason."
Jason is apparently a sixteen-year-old from another high school who spends his shift asking elder daughter inappropriate questions. I've never met Jason and don't know what he looks like. There had been a young man further up the counter when I chatted with elder daughter, but I don't remember glancing at him.

"He said you were glaring at him, Mom."

Must've been the alignment of the planets. Or are all young men so much the centre of their own universes? Elder daughter gives notice a few days later.

Anthem is as anthem does

Another Saint David's Day, and as it's my first one with an iPod, I've uploaded a bunch of Welsh ditties, including Bryn Terfel blasting .

I can sing "Land of My Fathers" quite literally: my maternal grandfather came from a long line of Carmarthenshire blacksmiths; my maternal grandmother's grandfather was from Montgomeryshire, and various branches on my paternal side sprouted from Monmouthshire and Radnorshire. Way back when I was nine, our school choir used to warble a rarity: a patriotic Canadian song entitled "They All Call It Canada". It begins with a stirring intro: Side by side, and step by step, our fathers were marching along... It occurred to me, even at that young age, that this lyric didn't apply to me. I'm a first-generation Canadian and none of my fathers built a road to the future, with a spade and a smile and a song... Not in Canada, anyway.

This has the effect of making my patriotism for the land of my birth somewhat muted. I love Canada, but as King Lear's Cordelia put it, according to my bond. Up until these past two weeks, this hasn't made me an oddity; Canadian patriotism is traditionally an unaccustomed and rare beast, and we have tended to view the hand-over-heart stance of the Americans as being a wee bit histrionic. Until this past month.

The papers have been coated in photographs that seem to be entirely of red and white and gold. Even before Canada managed to haul in fourteen gold medals at the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, the ground-swell was building steadily.

Now, don't get me wrong. I think it's rather nifty that Canada did so well, ignoring the odium of "Owning the Podium" (which agency came up with that crap?). I was touched by the human triumphs and tragedies, but a bit put off by the purple prose which came close to the BBC's spouting at Diana's funeral for pure fulsomeness. And delightful as it is to see everyone united in pride and excitement, I am somewhat disturbed to see the story of an iceberg the size of Luxembourg breaking off Antarctica and the story of one of the biggest earthquakes in recorded history killing 700 Chileans (the last time I checked) being relegated to p. A12, even in The Globe and Mail.

Still, this morning CBC Radio ran the earthquake first and the Olympics second, so maybe our sense of proportion is returning. And lest you think I'm a total party-pooper, here's two rather endearing examples of Olympic-related patriotism, Canadian-style: The first is a flash-mob organized by imagine1day. Now, in the official video, you see the front rows of the flashmob, all very young, very pretty. But dammit, I love this amateur video which captures the crowd a few blocks back and features all shapes, sizes, ages, and coordinations.

The second needs some back-story. Not too long ago, I did a post about Canada's most notorious massacre. Alas, we've had some since then. One was at Dawson College in Montreal, about 3½ years ago. So I was particularly touched to see this:

So "yes" to pride, celebration, fun, healing. And compassion. Let's get back to it, shall we?

Why searching for lyrics online is a bad idea

...because it's a great way to get a virus. Something has "intruded" on my desktop, leaving other family members unscathed for some reason. We're getting a little man in. See you later. (I hope.)

Why channel-hopping is a bad idea

I really should only watch commercial-free television, at least when I'm alone with the set. This is because I can't resist flipping through the channels with my trusty remote while I wait for whatever I'm watching to return. I've been burned as a result, on three memorable occasions which left me fighting off disturbing images in my dreams and in my waking hours for days afterward. You'd think I'd learn.

There was the time about ten years ago when I stumbled on to a particularly vicious slasher film starring that noted thespian Corbin Bernson. As it was 4:30 on a Sunday afternoon, I was startled, horrified, and traumatized to catch a glimpse of a dentist using the tools of his trade to take revenge on a straying wife.

That cured me for a while, until 2006. Having been seduced by David Tennant (quick break for wishful thinking) into watching Doctor Who, I decided to check out Christopher Eccleston's episodes which CBC was re-running after midnight on Friday evenings. I don't know about your corner of the world, but Friday night in this corner of Ontario, which is in close proximity to the, shall we say, looser province of Québec, is Porn Night. Which, as a relative newcomer to Hades, I'd forgotten. Until I started flipping through the channels at the first commercial break: Lesseee...news...talk show....infomercial...YYEEEIIIKKESS!

See, I don't see myself as a rabid anti-porn crusader. I don't care for it; I don't think it's done any favours for how women are viewed in society, but I don't embark on letter-writing campaigns. However. I don't like being ambushed. Okay, maybe I need another word. Moving on...

You may have heard that Canada is hosting the Winter Olympics this year. If you're in Britain, your intrepid reporters have apparently been telling you that these are The Worst Olympics Ever. Well, maybe so. It's been less than a week, the Summer Olympics at Atlanta are heavy competition for the title, and I'm 3000 miles and three times zones away, so I wouldn't know. I would like to just gently say to the British media: Let's just wait until you're safely shot of the 2012 Olympics in London, shall we, boys? Just sayin'...

Anyway, we all know what the Olympics mean. Commercials. There are about fifteen let's-support-our-athletes-by-buying-this-crap ads in heavy rotation and we've been treated to them since last autumn. My fingers strayed inexorably to the remote....

Bad move, Persephone. On TV5, I was confronted by a rapid sequence of images of Nazis being hanged. By Americans, by Russians, by Poles... As you can imagine, the techniques varied in their efficiency. Frozen in horror, I failed to switch the channel before the documentary-makers felt it necessary to demonstrate why these fellows were being strung up. And I don't mean the stock footage of naked people being driven to ditches and shot, dazed prisoners staggering off freight trains en route to the gas chambers, or the bulldozers burying piles of bodies at Bergen-Belsen. You may want to skip the next paragraph.

A man in a laboratory coat is dispassionately flipping a naked girl. She's, I dunno, somewhere between six and nine. He's gripping her hips, and holding her out at arm's length in front of him, makes her body flick out like a whip, her head snapping back. Crying and crying, she hangs in the air with her knees drawn up to her chest and her back curved over. I couldn't bear to see what he would do next and flipped the channel, gasping for breath, leaning over my own knees.

I imagine, or least choose to imagine, that the makers of La Traque des Nazis (a documentary on longtime Nazi hunters Serge and Beate Klarsfeld) meant well. Why is it, then, that I feel this is feeding into yet another kind of porn? It seems to me that there is an appetite out there for footage of executions and tortures, ranging from those who get the glad-it's-not-me frisson to those who actually like watching this stuff. Does a documentary like this educate, or does it pander to such people? Does it stop such things from happening again, or does it provide (heaven help us) inspiration?

As for me, I've been sitting on those long bus-rides to and from younger daughter's school, gazing out at the bleak landscape and trying to chase away horror and despair with music. This was probably not the best week to get that Beautiful South CD out of the library (geez, talk about "bleak"), but there are songs on my iPod to make my heart lift for a while.

Here are a couple, if your heart needs lifting too. The first is a Great Big Sea standard, and happily, there's a classic 2006 music video by Almost Angst Free Productions (since we were talking about David Tennant and Christopher Eccleston, so why not drag Paul McCann, Tom Baker and Sylvester McCoy into it?): I've probably embedded this one before, but I don't care...

The other is brand new (to me). I was listening to CBC Radio Two yesterday morning while waiting at the bus stop and Bob Mackowycz said this one just makes him "melt". So he played it and I did some mean back-up singer moves in the fresh snow. Fortunately, the street was deserted. Although I did dance into the bus... Forty Days. Hmmn. Well, Lent began yesterday, so there you go. Giving up channel-hopping seems a worthy Lenten goal...

Persephone versus the twenty-first century

We're nearly ten years into the new century (yes, nearly - the century began January 1st, 2001 for those of you who can't count), and somehow, I feel I'm failing to get the hang of it.

Take last weekend. On Saturday, we went to see the Boston Ballet on its very first trip to Ottawa. This was a mixed shorts evening, unusual for Ottawa which, being The Nation's Capital, usually gets full-length ballets. This is a pity, because an evening of shorter pieces usually gives you a much better idea of the range of the company. The range of this company was considerable, featuring the usual Balanchine offering (a stage full of ballerinas with one lone male to carry them about), two modern pieces, a Fokine and a Nijinsky.

The Nijinsky was, of course, L'après-midi d'un faune with the costumes pretty well exactly the same as when Nijinsky and his lot scandalized Paris in 1912. Debussy. Dancers dancing like two dimensional figures on a Greek vase. Win.

We got another taste of post-Victorian eroticism in Le Spectre de la Rose, Michael Fokine's romantic mini-ballet of a girl returning from a ball and having a rather hot dream about the rose she's brought home. Win.

My favourite was ein von viel, actually a Canadian piece choreographed by Toronto's Sabrina Matthews, set to Bach with two male dancers “fugue-ing” along with the magnificent pianist on the stage, echoing each other’s movements, then freezing as the pianist turned the page for the next movement. The audience wanted to clap after each movement, but I sat on my hands and applauded hard at the end. I don't know if that was right, but it was how I felt. Big win.

The other modern piece was Brake the Eyes by Boston Ballet's resident choreographer Jorma Elo, really odd and rather nightmarish with Mozart and soundscapes, plus the mutterings and giggles of the lead ballerina. I couldn’t tell if her voice-track had been pre-recorded or if somehow she was miked, as the light fixtures changed with each movement, highlighting the tension and muscles of the bare legs. I thought it was pretty cool.

Twentieth century: three (even though I'm not that crazy about Balanchine)
Twenty-first century: two.

Then, on Sunday, as if to contrast with what we'd seen Saturday, we were confronted with...The Grammies...

I think I made it through the first four overwrought overproduced extravaganzas before I finally reached for the clicker.
We had Lady Gaga. ('Nuff said.)
We had Green Day with the cast of (wait for it) their Broadway show. (Hunh?)
We had Beyoncé, complete with gladiator garb; trademark cross-over runway strut, belting out one of her songs meshed with, inexplicably, Alanis Morrissette's "You Oughta Know".

Then, most baffling of all, Pink (whose lyrics are usually quite literate) stripped down to a strategically wound bandage, threaded herself in a sling, and while dangling below a circle of three spread-eagled acrobats in gold bikinis and body paint and high above the audience, turned herself into a spinning human sprinkler head in six-inch heels. Oh, for Pete's sake, Pink. Get off my lawn. What I wanna know (aside from "Why???") is how the people below felt about getting their expensive evening wear and leather jackets sploshed with what appeared to be a helluva lot of water. Also, how Pink returned to a no-doubt very wet platform and didn't fall on her butt.

Faced with a prospect of Michael Jackson and Céline Dion in 3D, country singers ripping off the Alex Parsons Project, Taylor Swift, and hip-hop and rappers, I searched for something else to watch, feeling very old.

Twenty-first century: zero.
Persephone: zero.

On the bright side, I'm getting the hang of my new iPod, finally figuring out this week how to download podcasts. It took several more days to learn how to actually get them on to my iPod, but let's just rejoice in the moment, okay? I've been listening to CBC Radio Two on the hour's return bus journey after delivering younger daughter to school. I've been rather startled to discover that I rather like what I've heard of a Somalian-Canadian rapper K'naan. This week, I was listening happily to a song of his called "Fatima" which, during the first verses, sounds like a wry ditty about a lost adolescent love:
Fatima,
What did the Young Man say
Before he stole you away....

As the song continues, a sadder story emerges and my heart sank. Fatima didn't go away willingly:

Persephone: one
Twenty-first century: ?