Oh heck, I can't resist this...

Anyone who spends any amount of time on the internet, but not long enough to keep up with the trends, needs a web site such as Know Your Meme. Not only does the site provide patient explanations of viral videos such as "Keyboard Cat", it also provides definitions of seemingly random expressions that turn up on other people's blogs. For example, I now know what Godwin's Law is.

The following gem is something among KYM's collection of illustrations for the internet concept of "Grammar Nazi". I take particular care not to wade into online batrachomyomachias, and have only been flamed twice: in 2001 and last week. (I don't know if I'll ever summon up the courage to go into detail on the latter, but it did result in Craig Murray's suggesting he might be well-endowed. No, seriously. Although he wasn't. Serious, I mean. I don't think. Oh, never mind. I'm trying to forget the whole embarrassing episode.) However, I have been witness many times to a comment thread spiraling into a fracas of personal insults (always between strangers, ironically enough) and four-letter words. For this reason alone, pressing the "comments" button at CBC.ca is not advisable. It only makes one despair for humanity.

So I should warn you that the following dust-up is full of oaths and cuss-words, if that sort of thing bothers you. It's an actual "discussion" in the comment field of a YouTube video, involving some guy from Switzerland and a gamer from the States, with odd eggings-on from someone of indeterminate nationality. What makes this priceless is that the thread has been dramatized by the team at DrShaym who freely admit that they have stolen this fabulous idea and also apologize for their rendition of a Swiss accent:


I can't say my life has been enriched by these discoveries, but it's a heckuvalotta fun, so I'm passing it on. May your internet interactions be free of trolls.

Love it or loathe it? (Not the Oscar telecast)

As expected, the Oscars were rather predictable with the possible exception of what's being described as a "Kanye moment" between two acceptors of the Oscar for best documentary short film. Other than that, the foreign film I wanted to win (The White Ribbon) didn't. The animated short I least wanted to win did. Pretty well no one won whom I wanted to win, but I was expecting that because there are few surprises at the Academy Awards. I had to be content with enjoying the fact that there were at least three awful evening gowns. (Thank-you, Charlize Theron.)

Of the ten nominated films, one, I would say, falls into the category of "films you either love or hate". I was actually rooting for Up in the Air which of course didn't win a single thing, but A Serious Man is the kind of film that neatly splits commenters at movie sites such as IMDb or Yahoo Movies into "love" or "loathe" camps. I am so glad I saw this film on DVD, because the DVD extras really helped. The film begins with a beautifully filmed, baffling folk tale set somewhere in Eastern Europe where an old man may be (but probably isn't) a dybbuk. (The DVD also contains a useful Yiddish glossary for those of us who are goyim.) An interview with the Coen brothers assures us that this story has nothing to do with the ensuing film. Imagine my relief.

Things only get odder as we enter into a nightmarish week in 1967 for a Jewish professor, where everything goes wrong and he blunders in a haze of bewilderment toward his son's bar mitzvah. Said son, a rather obnoxious boy of thirteen (is there any other kind?) attends the ceremony good and stoned and stumbles his way to the ritual appointment with the mysterious elderly rabbi who now refuses to see anyone but kids who have just been bar-mitzvah'ed. I can't embed the clip, but here 'tis.

I imagine people who hate this film (and there are a fair few) are bothered by the lack of a clear storyline. This is probably the same reason that so many people hate 2003's Elephant, a movie that follows about half a dozen students through the same ten minutes leading up to a Columbine-type school massacre:

It takes a while to realize that with the introduction of each new character (announced by their names appearing on the screen), we move back to about the same point in time. The camera falls in behind, and follows each student as he or she move through the endless halls of an American high school. (I remember the shock of traveling in the States when I was a teenager and seeing how enormous the high schools are there. They call them "campuses", like universities.) It's only when we meet the young shooters that we drop further back in time to see their strange detached manner while they plan to murder their peers. What's even more disturbing is that their detachment matches that of their future victims who move through the few minutes they have remaining of their lives with little genuine interaction with each other. I understand much of the dialogue was improvised, which may add to the isolation.

I watched this for the first time in the company of elder daughter who was still in elementary school at the time. This didn't do much to ease her jitters about high school, although I assured her that although this may reflect the atmosphere of a typical high school in the United States (and anyone with an experience of this may correct me if I'm wrong), it bears little resemblance to the Canadian high school experience, at least as I remember it. Now that she's about to graduate, I should ask her if I was right...

Other love-it-or-hate-it films? I see a great divergence of opinion about Happy-Go-Lucky, a film about which I blogged a little over a year ago. This was a charming (I thought) albeit rather plotless film following a few weeks in the life of an optimist. What makes this character interesting is that her cheerfulness can veer from charming to grating. Maybe this clip will give you an idea. (Warning - if you're expecting a sexy scene here, you'll be disappointed):
As I recall, Poppy's back problem is a very small episode in the movie, and we never see her physiotherapist again. The whole movie's kinda like that. I loved it.

A movie I didn't love was Moulin Rouge which I think may be the perfect example of a film you either love or hate. It irritated the blazes out of me, yet I know plenty of pleasant and perfectly intelligent people who adore this flick.

What do you think? Is there a movie you love that others can't stand? Or vice versa?

The last day of winter

A very wise old woman was fond of saying to me: "March has the first day of spring...but it doesn't have the last day of winter." And I do know better, as we move into the dying days (possibly weeks or months) of our tenth winter in Hades, strange El Nino season which saw rather a lot of our usual snow being sidetracked south and dumped on unsuspecting American cities. You can talk all you like about spring in Ottawa, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it affair in the best of times, but only deluded fools put out their bedding plants before the Victoria Day weekend in late May. You never know when a hibernal whim will dump snow in June. It's happened.Still, the Resident Fan Boy came home from church waxing lyrically about the beauty of the day, and as I was planning to gorge myself on tortilla chips while watching the Oscars, I decided to head out myself.

And by Ottawa standards, it was quite a lovely day. For March. I saw the hallmarks of pre-spring in this part of the world. The neighbourhood is lopsided. Yards on the north and east sides of the street are nearly snow-free, or sporting large, slug-shaped lumps of snow. The lawns on the south and west street-sides are still in winter's grip, as yet out of reach of the sun's lengthening rays. The filthy, grey mounds retreat to reveal lawn ornaments at odd angles, litter, and piles of doggy-do.But down by the Rideau River, streams of greenish water seem to flow against the current, as long gashes appear in the treacherous ice. (We seem to have had more than our usual falling-through-the-ice-and drownings out on the Ottawa River. Usually it's someone on a skidoo, but late month, two people had fatal accidents while driving trucks over the frozen river. Both were long-time residents who have been driving over the ice for years, but this year's ice was thinner and melted much sooner.)So I picked my way gingerly along the pathway on the bank, defiantly wearing street-shoes on the agar-like slush. A jogger, similarly-shod, loped past me with nary a slip.As I searched for somewhere less sloppy to stroll, I saw a young girl ahead, at the crest of the hill that leads down from the playground. She had a saucer slider and was taking advantage of what has to be the last weekend that any sort of tobogganing is possible. In fact, the Resident Fan Boy and I noticed less of a crowding in the buses and museums this weekend, possibly because many families are seizing the final opportunity to head for the ski-slopes.

Is it really the last winter weekend? Do I dare put the snow-boots and parkas in storage?Naaaah. Victoria Day is only, what, eleven weeks away?

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?