... Yule.
Gift Buyin'
Card Writing'
Cookie Bakin'
List Makin'
Premise Pitchin'
Party Plannin'
Hips Groovin'
Box Wrappin'
Wine Swillin'
Candy Eatin'
Fake Workin'
Too Much Laughin'
Candle Blowin'
Menu Settin'
House Cleanin'
Date Settin'
Movie Watchin'
Concert Goin'
I know. I'm exhausted just thinking about all the fun I'm having this month.
I'm happily stressed out and we're not even halfway to Christmas!
Let's chill for a second though. Okay?
Ah, yes, thank you. I needed that. I'm back. Okay. Ready? Yup. Let's GO!
Tree Decoratin'
Wreath Makin'
Carol Singin'
Love, Actually Watchin'
Merry Merry Y'all!
Y is for Yule.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
W is for …
… Wicked.
Wicked, of course, is a word whose meaning has evolved somewhat over the years. Traditionalists like me poo-poo modern definition flip flops of our vocabulary, where bad now means good and, well, wicked can mean awesome.
Wicked is synonymous with awesome in only one specifically defined way: when we're talking about the musical. The musical Wicked is simply one of the most wicked awesome things you'll see on stage and if you don't know what I'm talking about, I suggest you fly yourself to New York City this instant and prove me right.
I've seen Wicked far too many times to mention. I've fallen in love with Idina Menzel. I often wonder if tiny powerhouse Kristin Chenoweth shops in the children's section for her clothes. But mostly, I listen to the soundtrack, full of emotional gut wrenching songs that speak to the misfit in all of us.
So when I hear the word wicked. I think of Wicked. I think this is pretty wicked.
A song is truly great if it works outside the context it was written in. Don't doubt Defying Gravity for a nanosecond. Listen to Idina, singing at our own Koerner Hall, in November of 2011. It's okay if you cry. I always do.
I know, wicked.
W is for … Wicked.
Wicked, of course, is a word whose meaning has evolved somewhat over the years. Traditionalists like me poo-poo modern definition flip flops of our vocabulary, where bad now means good and, well, wicked can mean awesome.
Wicked is synonymous with awesome in only one specifically defined way: when we're talking about the musical. The musical Wicked is simply one of the most wicked awesome things you'll see on stage and if you don't know what I'm talking about, I suggest you fly yourself to New York City this instant and prove me right.
I've seen Wicked far too many times to mention. I've fallen in love with Idina Menzel. I often wonder if tiny powerhouse Kristin Chenoweth shops in the children's section for her clothes. But mostly, I listen to the soundtrack, full of emotional gut wrenching songs that speak to the misfit in all of us.
So when I hear the word wicked. I think of Wicked. I think this is pretty wicked.
A song is truly great if it works outside the context it was written in. Don't doubt Defying Gravity for a nanosecond. Listen to Idina, singing at our own Koerner Hall, in November of 2011. It's okay if you cry. I always do.
I know, wicked.
W is for … Wicked.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
V is for ...
... Verklempt.
Verklempt is a Yiddish word that means "overcome with emotion". I love these old languages, full of singular words, rich with meaning that would take English 18 sentences to explain (because, really, 'overcome with emotion' doesn't really cut it). Greek is full of these, too, as I'm sure most languages born of a people who FEEL first are. We need more words to convey the intricacies of how we feel, don't we?
In any event, I spent the better part of my past weekend verklempt. I hate this time of year so much. I long for a time when I'll be marginally melancholy and properly nostalgic, wistful in my memories as I brush aside a lone tear from my face, whilst (as you can see, proper nostalgia calls for the use of 'whilst') smiling at a happy memory. Well, better luck next year. This year, we had some anger. And sadness. And a complete inability to actually speak. And some hopelessness. Good times.
I have some Class-A friends who try to take my mind off things and what better way, what better place, than the movies - I can transport myself to anyplace when I'm at the movies. I can be anyone when I'm at the movies. I don't want to be me right now. I want to be in a frilly romantic comedy right now. I want to see About Time.
You know this one, maybe? Richard Curtis - writer, screenwriter of some of the best RomComs in the history of mankind! Director AND Writer of THE best RomCom in the Galaxy! - wrote and directed it, Rachel McAdams, Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy are all in it. This had confection of the highest order written all over it. Add an enormous chemical filled beverage, an obscene amount of popcorn & a Superfriend and we've got the makings of a most glorious in-denial afternoon. Or so you would think.
About Time isn't a RomCom people. Sure, there's a love story and it's cute & charming but the real love story here took me by complete surprise: you see, we have time travel and a Dad that dies and a son that has to choose about moving forward in his own real life or being able to go back in time to visit his Dad. I am leaving out many details but too bad, the details are not the point. The point is, this was by far THE WORST MOVIE CHOICE FOR ME ON SATURDAY NOVEMBER 9TH. So, there I was, centre / centre in the theatre sob crying like no tomorrow, overcome with emotion, completely and utterly verklempt. A mess, as they say. Poor CF. CF who NEVER cries at movies not only shed a ton of a few tears of her own but also had me to worry about.
After I composed myself and embarked on my ride home, where there was of course more crying, I realized quite quickly that this wasn't actually the worst movie choice ever. It was, by fluky misguided accident, actually the best. Is there anything more magically nostalgic than being able to travel back in time to moments that made you so happy and relive them, somehow, again? To say all those things you wanted to say but didn't have the guts to? To hug someone one last time? To share in a laugh or hear them shout? To just be with them? Where would I go? What would I do? Taking the awning down from our back deck, rope burned hands and all, for sure. Putting up the Christmas lights, holding steady that ridiculous ladder, absolutely. Pouring a cup of coffee and silently reading the paper, side glancing as we listened to my Mom and brother drone on and on on Sunday morning, hell yes. Maybe not the 2-3 days we went without talking to each other when we'd had a fight, we don't need to go back to our stubbornness, do we? No, but most definitely the marathon games of Gin Rummy, though, oh yes, please. Take me back to there.
That's why I'm going to watch About Time every year on November 9th, and I'm going to let Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy do all the things I wish I could do, if my life was a Richard Curtis movie. And, hopefully, I'll calmly brush aside a few tears as I laugh to myself thinking about all these magical moments that I wish I could have back, just for one sweet second. Hey, wait. I'm doing that right now. And I am verklempt once again - with a heart full of love. Thank you, Richard Curtis. Thank you, CF. Thank you, Dad.
V is for ... Verklempt.
Verklempt is a Yiddish word that means "overcome with emotion". I love these old languages, full of singular words, rich with meaning that would take English 18 sentences to explain (because, really, 'overcome with emotion' doesn't really cut it). Greek is full of these, too, as I'm sure most languages born of a people who FEEL first are. We need more words to convey the intricacies of how we feel, don't we?
In any event, I spent the better part of my past weekend verklempt. I hate this time of year so much. I long for a time when I'll be marginally melancholy and properly nostalgic, wistful in my memories as I brush aside a lone tear from my face, whilst (as you can see, proper nostalgia calls for the use of 'whilst') smiling at a happy memory. Well, better luck next year. This year, we had some anger. And sadness. And a complete inability to actually speak. And some hopelessness. Good times.
I have some Class-A friends who try to take my mind off things and what better way, what better place, than the movies - I can transport myself to anyplace when I'm at the movies. I can be anyone when I'm at the movies. I don't want to be me right now. I want to be in a frilly romantic comedy right now. I want to see About Time.
You know this one, maybe? Richard Curtis - writer, screenwriter of some of the best RomComs in the history of mankind! Director AND Writer of THE best RomCom in the Galaxy! - wrote and directed it, Rachel McAdams, Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy are all in it. This had confection of the highest order written all over it. Add an enormous chemical filled beverage, an obscene amount of popcorn & a Superfriend and we've got the makings of a most glorious in-denial afternoon. Or so you would think.
About Time isn't a RomCom people. Sure, there's a love story and it's cute & charming but the real love story here took me by complete surprise: you see, we have time travel and a Dad that dies and a son that has to choose about moving forward in his own real life or being able to go back in time to visit his Dad. I am leaving out many details but too bad, the details are not the point. The point is, this was by far THE WORST MOVIE CHOICE FOR ME ON SATURDAY NOVEMBER 9TH. So, there I was, centre / centre in the theatre sob crying like no tomorrow, overcome with emotion, completely and utterly verklempt. A mess, as they say. Poor CF. CF who NEVER cries at movies not only shed a ton of a few tears of her own but also had me to worry about.
After I composed myself and embarked on my ride home, where there was of course more crying, I realized quite quickly that this wasn't actually the worst movie choice ever. It was, by fluky misguided accident, actually the best. Is there anything more magically nostalgic than being able to travel back in time to moments that made you so happy and relive them, somehow, again? To say all those things you wanted to say but didn't have the guts to? To hug someone one last time? To share in a laugh or hear them shout? To just be with them? Where would I go? What would I do? Taking the awning down from our back deck, rope burned hands and all, for sure. Putting up the Christmas lights, holding steady that ridiculous ladder, absolutely. Pouring a cup of coffee and silently reading the paper, side glancing as we listened to my Mom and brother drone on and on on Sunday morning, hell yes. Maybe not the 2-3 days we went without talking to each other when we'd had a fight, we don't need to go back to our stubbornness, do we? No, but most definitely the marathon games of Gin Rummy, though, oh yes, please. Take me back to there.
That's why I'm going to watch About Time every year on November 9th, and I'm going to let Big Brother Weasley & my old man crush Bill Nighy do all the things I wish I could do, if my life was a Richard Curtis movie. And, hopefully, I'll calmly brush aside a few tears as I laugh to myself thinking about all these magical moments that I wish I could have back, just for one sweet second. Hey, wait. I'm doing that right now. And I am verklempt once again - with a heart full of love. Thank you, Richard Curtis. Thank you, CF. Thank you, Dad.
V is for ... Verklempt.
Monday, November 4, 2013
U is for ...
…. UGG.
A shame, really, that a word, or rather a sound, which many associate with defeat and resignation makes me so utterly happy.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
What must be about 20 years ago I broke a bank I didn't have and bought a pair of Ugg slippers. A dumb, frivolous purchase that I regretted for as long as it took UPS to deliver them to my door and put them on my feet.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
It's not normal, really. The sheer comfort I get from these, now some 20 year old, slippers. This says about as much about these slippers as you need to know. For a person who throws or gives away most of everything, I will not let these slippers go. They are tattered. Torn. Ripped. Wrecked. They are perfect.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
I open my door, literally kick off my shoes and slide my tortured souls into these babies. And, just like that, I am wrapped in a cozy blanket drinking hot chocolate being serenaded by Bono. I have, on more than one occasion, left my house with them on, only noticing that something was amiss when I reached my lobby. At least I noticed.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Sometimes I think I should just get a new pair - I mean, these guys are ratty and now, after all these years, about 2 sizes too big. They're rather embarrassing. And I'm sure full of weirdo germs. ? But how can I? What would I do with these ones? The garbage is no place for my slippers. I'd donate them, but who would be worthy of them (and, more realistically - that would be gross)? So, they stay. On my feet. Waiting for me every night. Like reliable slippers should.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Maybe it's strange, to have such a connection to a pair of slippers. I'm not 90. Perhaps it's weird, to be so comforted by something so warm & fuzzy. I'm not 5. But I'm definitely somewhere in between. Somewhere in between being young and silly and completely fancy - free and old and crotchety and somewhat out to lunch. So, take comfort in my slippers I will. Get new ones, I won't. Stop talking like Yoda, oh, fine.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
U is for …. Ugg.
A shame, really, that a word, or rather a sound, which many associate with defeat and resignation makes me so utterly happy.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
What must be about 20 years ago I broke a bank I didn't have and bought a pair of Ugg slippers. A dumb, frivolous purchase that I regretted for as long as it took UPS to deliver them to my door and put them on my feet.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
It's not normal, really. The sheer comfort I get from these, now some 20 year old, slippers. This says about as much about these slippers as you need to know. For a person who throws or gives away most of everything, I will not let these slippers go. They are tattered. Torn. Ripped. Wrecked. They are perfect.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
I open my door, literally kick off my shoes and slide my tortured souls into these babies. And, just like that, I am wrapped in a cozy blanket drinking hot chocolate being serenaded by Bono. I have, on more than one occasion, left my house with them on, only noticing that something was amiss when I reached my lobby. At least I noticed.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Sometimes I think I should just get a new pair - I mean, these guys are ratty and now, after all these years, about 2 sizes too big. They're rather embarrassing. And I'm sure full of weirdo germs. ? But how can I? What would I do with these ones? The garbage is no place for my slippers. I'd donate them, but who would be worthy of them (and, more realistically - that would be gross)? So, they stay. On my feet. Waiting for me every night. Like reliable slippers should.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
Maybe it's strange, to have such a connection to a pair of slippers. I'm not 90. Perhaps it's weird, to be so comforted by something so warm & fuzzy. I'm not 5. But I'm definitely somewhere in between. Somewhere in between being young and silly and completely fancy - free and old and crotchety and somewhat out to lunch. So, take comfort in my slippers I will. Get new ones, I won't. Stop talking like Yoda, oh, fine.
Ugg. My Uggs. Oh, my dear sweet Uggs.
U is for …. Ugg.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
TIFF 2013 - With a Little Help From My Friends - Volume 3
And now, the REST and the ROUND UP ...
The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Him and Her - James McAvoy, Jessica Chastain
Ready? This was my number one. Why? Because it was original and charming and sad and full of love. And that fucker hope. I am a big sap. But I'm also a big sap with a real weakness for story, and in The Disappearance, we get two - two sides of a story. James and Jessica play Connor and Eleanor a married couple torn apart by tragedy, and this film takes us on each of their journeys during this period of separation. Two complete films, telling the same story from their two perspectives. Each version, each film, is complete in and of itself - they are shot differently, lit differently. And depending on who is remembering, spoken differently and characters dressed differently. This is so real - you can remember the most important parts of your life in what you feel is a complete and perfect memory, and when you retell this memory to someone who lived it with you, they look at you as if you're bonkers, 'no, you didn't say that, and were wearing this. it totally wasn't raining. i didn't ask you, you told me.' - and at times the film was so intimate it felt like we were intruding. I think your feelings on the film could differ depending on whose story you see first - we got his, some screenings got hers. Having dissected this ad nauseam with my fellow TIFF'ers, we think 'his' is the way to go. For sure. It will be curious to see how this will be released - at over three hours it's not exactly standard movie fare, but releasing two individual movies would take away from the brilliant originality of what we saw. I'll leave those questions to the big wigs (happy to report that Uncle Harvey bought it!) and implore you to see this. Outstanding performances, killer soundtrack, real feelings and a fresh take on a common theme. What's not to love?
"I have only one heart in this body, have mercy on me." Slay. Me. James. McAvoy.
August: Osage County - Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Chris Cooper, Ewan McGregor
To say I'm having a rough time at work lately would be the understatement of the year. Every day feels like I'm wading in marshland with marble slabs in my boots as I'm holding a dull machete trying to fight my way to the other side. Yes, I am prone to melodrama but seriously work blows in exactly that way. So when my boss invited me to the pre-party and Gala screening of TIFF's hottest ticket (that we were shut out of buying tickets for) I wasn't all "oh my gosh, yes of course I'd LOVE to thank you so much for thinking of me" typical styles. I was all, like, "okay, sure" on the outside and completely "fuck, YEAH, you should invite me to that but that's not making anything better" on the insides. This subtext did not ruin my night at all - in fact, I think it added to it. August tells the story of an utterly dysfunctional family who live with secrets and anger and guilt and meanness. So. Much. Meanness. All right, fine. Not exactly what's happening at the office, but there's a huge theme of dissatisfaction going on which is completely resonating with me right now. Tracy Letts adapted his Pulitzer Prize winning play, and no surprise the writing is sharp and biting. It's uproarious and uncomfortable. We laugh and we cringe. The acting is absurd. Absolutely absurd. I suppose when you're playing opposite Meryl Streep you must bring your A- game and I'm almost surprised Julia could and did. They were both riveting, portraying mother and daughter in exactly the kind of mother / daughter relationship you must have only in nightmares or horror movies. This is a powerhouse cast and an absolutely powerhouse film.
Blood Ties - Clive Owen, Billy Crudup, Marion Cottilard, James Caan
Oh my god, where do I start. The story here is nothing original - two brothers caught on opposite sides of the law dealing with family history and inner demons. Whatever. At the hands of director (and co-screenwriter) Guillaume Canet, Blood Ties was clumsy, unfocused and boring. I do believe there were four movies being filmed here and my gal Marion had an accent for each one of them. I'm not sure how this happened - we know she's a solid actress, but she was terrible here. My hunch is that the Guillaume (her HUSBAND!) sort of assumes she knows what to do and lets her sort of find her own way OR she tunes him out like most wives do with their husbands. Either way, if they ever break up (which I really hope they don't because holy shit they are HOT together) this will be why. I'm sad for Clive, as I adore him and want him to be in better movies. I want him to be a better actor. But I think, really, I just want him to be in movies where he is not sporting a moustache.
Tom at the Farm - Xavier Dolan
Xavier Dolan is something of a sensation. A 24 year old writer / actor / director from Quebec who has written / acted in / directed five critically acclaimed films. Each film is completely different, yet possesses a signature Dolan style of mood and atmosphere. If he wasn't so adorable, you'd absolutely hate him. Tom at the Farm is the creepy, sinister tale of a young man who meets his deceased lover's family for the first time. Some of them are not aware of their son's sexual orientation and this secret plays to great tension as ... things happen. Dun. Dun. Dun. I think this film was let down by its overblown score which basically told me when I was supposed to be scared. I can see how some would feel that's helpful, but I was good on my own - I am pretty damn sure I know when I need to be scared. I really find this music pandering really annoying - it's no different in my mind to an actor breaking the 4th wall and saying "hey, he's behind the door grab your armrest NOW!!" But don't let this dissuade you from a view - Tom was a solid creepy thriller.
The Right Kind of Wrong - Ryan Kwanten, Will Sasso, Catherine O'Hara
Ah, the Rom Com. Has there been a genre more butchered than the Rom Com? NO! Is it hard to make a Rom Com? Not if you follow the rules! The Right Kind of Wrong was a classic - rule following - paint by numbers Rom Com. And it worked. Our perfect lovers meet cute? CHECK! Quirky best friend? CHECK! Unsuitable partner for one of leads? CHECK! Grand gestures? CHECK? Period of separation? CHECK! Montage? Oh. Crap. No montage. But you see where I'm going, right. This film wasn't all that original or earth shattering. It won't be critically acclaimed or award winning. I don't care. It was fun and I laughed and I routed for Ryan Kwanten's Leo right until the last scene. All your movies don't need to be serious and thought provoking. It's okay. It really, really is. Added bonus: this film was shot in Banff. Guys. We live in a beautiful country. If you see this film and don't fall in love with it, at least you can say you fell in love with Alberta.
Mandela - Idris Elba, Naomie Harris
Flawless. This is pretty much all you need to know about this one. It was perfect. Telling the story of Nelson Mandela basically from his time as a Johannesburg lawyer, to his inauguration as South Africa's first democratically elected President, Mandela never lets us down, and never loses us. It has a distinct point of view, but doesn't shove it down our throats. It was perfectly scored. We learn things about Mandela that we may not have known - he wasn't perfect, few people are. I'm not sure if this film meant more to me because I've just come back from South Africa, where they are still dealing with many of the issues and injustices laid out in the film, or not. It's an amazing feeling, though, to have been in Mandela's cell at Robben Island and walk through the lime quarry where he spent his days, and then to see this all play out on film. The resolve and personal will to stand up for something so ardently is simply astounding to me. I'm not sure how Idris Elba got into this part - the pressure to portray a real life, almost mythical, hero must have been immeasurable, but he did it. The voice, the cadence, the walk, the resonance was all there. I'm worried that people will think he made it look too easy - Idris is one of these chameleon actors (kinda hard when you're over 6 ft tall and play simmer - angry type of dudes) who melt into their roles. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm completely obsessed with him. I hope after seeing Mandela you will be too. Not just in Idris, but also in the beautiful and complex country of South Africa.
Dom Hemingway - Jude Law, Richard E. Grant
When a movie opens with "my cock is splendid" you know you're in for some wild fun. Loved this one. Jude plays an ex-con just released from prison who is trying to figure out what's next. He's got anger issues and daughter issues and, well, lots of issues. He doesn't have speaking issues, though, because everything coming out of Dom's mouth is fucking hilarious. This is the kind of film you could imagine Guy Ritchie making if Guy Ritchie hadn't turned into such a hack. But, really, who needs Guy Ritchie when you have Richard Shepard, who wrote and directed this romp. We all know that Jude is a very, very pretty man and what I love about him as an actor is that he rarely plays to his looks. Keep making 'em like this, Jude, and save the pretty boy stuff for GQ, okay?
Lucky Them - Toni Collette, Thomas Haden Church
Disappointing! SO disappointing! This one felt stale. Like it should have been released in the 80s. And I'm saying this as a person who loves the 80s. Thomas was fantastic, Toni was fine but I didn't buy any of this. I'm not going to trouble you with the lame-o plot. And I'm going to give you a spoiler: the best part of this movie was the cameo by a non-Claire's Accessories- wearing Johnny Depp. Sorry. But, really, don't bother.
Bad Words - Jason Bateman, Kathryn Hahn, Allison Janney
Oh my Lord, Jason Bateman! In his directorial debut, no less! Playing a bitter, biting and angry man who finds a loophole in the rules and competes in a Spelling Bee to exact revenge, Jason will make you cringe. Continuously. But you will laugh so hard. So. Hard. Loved this. The spoken words here are not for the faint of heart, but with stellar performances and kick ass humour this is absolutely one to be seen. And did I mention it all takes place at a Spelling Bee? Perfection!
Paradise - Andres Almeida, Daniela Rincon
Produced by those 2 hot dudes from Y Tu Mama Tambien, this film tells the story of childhood sweethearts who uncover a rift in their relationship when they both embark on a weight loss program but only one sees any tangible success. The film had its sweet moments, and deals with the issues of body image, acceptance, change and insecurity quite delicately. My Mom thought it was "okay".
The Lunchbox - Irrfan Khan
This film was a last minute addition to our film schedule, and it was really the perfect way to end the Fest. That the film was written and directed by my pal Jess' pal, Ritesh Batra, who she met at NYU was a complete surprise, and I only found this out when we met Jess, also by surprise, in line. Ritesh took this movie to Cannes, it was picked up and is now making its way through the Film Fest circuit and charming audiences along the way. Quite the dream come true, no? The film is indeed a charming romantic not - quite - comedy about a relationship of affection that is drawn out in the most innocent way - anonymous letters. Remember those?! It's a soft little story, almost fable - like, and absolutely recommendable! And Mom liked it too!
-
Oh man ... there we have it. 19 films (+ one talk) over the 10 day Fest. I feel like a bit of a slacker! And a bit of an insane-o. While this was my least attended TIFF in years, I'll make a grand pronouncement and say that film for film it was my best - even with those 3 clunkers. There were deep ones, light ones, disturbing ones, feel good ones. We dealt with themes of freedom, perseverance, love, isolation and redemption. I hit for the cycle in terms of seeing the most buzzed about films, but also saw a few hidden gems that I hope resonate with others the way they did with me (I'm looking at you, Eleanor Rigby!).I can't wait to see how these films are discussed and viewed when they are released - some just weeks away.
So after this overwhelmingly successful TIFF schedule and two killer vacations - neither of which I spent more than maybe a nanosecond participating in the planning of, I think it's fair to say that I should take a back seat on the planning process going forward and just rely on that Little Help From My Friends. Huh. Maybe. I sure am out of practice. Maybe time to plan a party, me thinks. Surely my friends can help with that.
Here's a little lost gem from my newfound gem - yes, Eleanor Rigby. Again.
The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Him and Her - James McAvoy, Jessica Chastain
Ready? This was my number one. Why? Because it was original and charming and sad and full of love. And that fucker hope. I am a big sap. But I'm also a big sap with a real weakness for story, and in The Disappearance, we get two - two sides of a story. James and Jessica play Connor and Eleanor a married couple torn apart by tragedy, and this film takes us on each of their journeys during this period of separation. Two complete films, telling the same story from their two perspectives. Each version, each film, is complete in and of itself - they are shot differently, lit differently. And depending on who is remembering, spoken differently and characters dressed differently. This is so real - you can remember the most important parts of your life in what you feel is a complete and perfect memory, and when you retell this memory to someone who lived it with you, they look at you as if you're bonkers, 'no, you didn't say that, and were wearing this. it totally wasn't raining. i didn't ask you, you told me.' - and at times the film was so intimate it felt like we were intruding. I think your feelings on the film could differ depending on whose story you see first - we got his, some screenings got hers. Having dissected this ad nauseam with my fellow TIFF'ers, we think 'his' is the way to go. For sure. It will be curious to see how this will be released - at over three hours it's not exactly standard movie fare, but releasing two individual movies would take away from the brilliant originality of what we saw. I'll leave those questions to the big wigs (happy to report that Uncle Harvey bought it!) and implore you to see this. Outstanding performances, killer soundtrack, real feelings and a fresh take on a common theme. What's not to love?
"I have only one heart in this body, have mercy on me." Slay. Me. James. McAvoy.
August: Osage County - Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Chris Cooper, Ewan McGregor
To say I'm having a rough time at work lately would be the understatement of the year. Every day feels like I'm wading in marshland with marble slabs in my boots as I'm holding a dull machete trying to fight my way to the other side. Yes, I am prone to melodrama but seriously work blows in exactly that way. So when my boss invited me to the pre-party and Gala screening of TIFF's hottest ticket (that we were shut out of buying tickets for) I wasn't all "oh my gosh, yes of course I'd LOVE to thank you so much for thinking of me" typical styles. I was all, like, "okay, sure" on the outside and completely "fuck, YEAH, you should invite me to that but that's not making anything better" on the insides. This subtext did not ruin my night at all - in fact, I think it added to it. August tells the story of an utterly dysfunctional family who live with secrets and anger and guilt and meanness. So. Much. Meanness. All right, fine. Not exactly what's happening at the office, but there's a huge theme of dissatisfaction going on which is completely resonating with me right now. Tracy Letts adapted his Pulitzer Prize winning play, and no surprise the writing is sharp and biting. It's uproarious and uncomfortable. We laugh and we cringe. The acting is absurd. Absolutely absurd. I suppose when you're playing opposite Meryl Streep you must bring your A- game and I'm almost surprised Julia could and did. They were both riveting, portraying mother and daughter in exactly the kind of mother / daughter relationship you must have only in nightmares or horror movies. This is a powerhouse cast and an absolutely powerhouse film.
Blood Ties - Clive Owen, Billy Crudup, Marion Cottilard, James Caan
Oh my god, where do I start. The story here is nothing original - two brothers caught on opposite sides of the law dealing with family history and inner demons. Whatever. At the hands of director (and co-screenwriter) Guillaume Canet, Blood Ties was clumsy, unfocused and boring. I do believe there were four movies being filmed here and my gal Marion had an accent for each one of them. I'm not sure how this happened - we know she's a solid actress, but she was terrible here. My hunch is that the Guillaume (her HUSBAND!) sort of assumes she knows what to do and lets her sort of find her own way OR she tunes him out like most wives do with their husbands. Either way, if they ever break up (which I really hope they don't because holy shit they are HOT together) this will be why. I'm sad for Clive, as I adore him and want him to be in better movies. I want him to be a better actor. But I think, really, I just want him to be in movies where he is not sporting a moustache.
Tom at the Farm - Xavier Dolan
Xavier Dolan is something of a sensation. A 24 year old writer / actor / director from Quebec who has written / acted in / directed five critically acclaimed films. Each film is completely different, yet possesses a signature Dolan style of mood and atmosphere. If he wasn't so adorable, you'd absolutely hate him. Tom at the Farm is the creepy, sinister tale of a young man who meets his deceased lover's family for the first time. Some of them are not aware of their son's sexual orientation and this secret plays to great tension as ... things happen. Dun. Dun. Dun. I think this film was let down by its overblown score which basically told me when I was supposed to be scared. I can see how some would feel that's helpful, but I was good on my own - I am pretty damn sure I know when I need to be scared. I really find this music pandering really annoying - it's no different in my mind to an actor breaking the 4th wall and saying "hey, he's behind the door grab your armrest NOW!!" But don't let this dissuade you from a view - Tom was a solid creepy thriller.
The Right Kind of Wrong - Ryan Kwanten, Will Sasso, Catherine O'Hara
Ah, the Rom Com. Has there been a genre more butchered than the Rom Com? NO! Is it hard to make a Rom Com? Not if you follow the rules! The Right Kind of Wrong was a classic - rule following - paint by numbers Rom Com. And it worked. Our perfect lovers meet cute? CHECK! Quirky best friend? CHECK! Unsuitable partner for one of leads? CHECK! Grand gestures? CHECK? Period of separation? CHECK! Montage? Oh. Crap. No montage. But you see where I'm going, right. This film wasn't all that original or earth shattering. It won't be critically acclaimed or award winning. I don't care. It was fun and I laughed and I routed for Ryan Kwanten's Leo right until the last scene. All your movies don't need to be serious and thought provoking. It's okay. It really, really is. Added bonus: this film was shot in Banff. Guys. We live in a beautiful country. If you see this film and don't fall in love with it, at least you can say you fell in love with Alberta.
Mandela - Idris Elba, Naomie Harris
Flawless. This is pretty much all you need to know about this one. It was perfect. Telling the story of Nelson Mandela basically from his time as a Johannesburg lawyer, to his inauguration as South Africa's first democratically elected President, Mandela never lets us down, and never loses us. It has a distinct point of view, but doesn't shove it down our throats. It was perfectly scored. We learn things about Mandela that we may not have known - he wasn't perfect, few people are. I'm not sure if this film meant more to me because I've just come back from South Africa, where they are still dealing with many of the issues and injustices laid out in the film, or not. It's an amazing feeling, though, to have been in Mandela's cell at Robben Island and walk through the lime quarry where he spent his days, and then to see this all play out on film. The resolve and personal will to stand up for something so ardently is simply astounding to me. I'm not sure how Idris Elba got into this part - the pressure to portray a real life, almost mythical, hero must have been immeasurable, but he did it. The voice, the cadence, the walk, the resonance was all there. I'm worried that people will think he made it look too easy - Idris is one of these chameleon actors (kinda hard when you're over 6 ft tall and play simmer - angry type of dudes) who melt into their roles. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm completely obsessed with him. I hope after seeing Mandela you will be too. Not just in Idris, but also in the beautiful and complex country of South Africa.
Dom Hemingway - Jude Law, Richard E. Grant
When a movie opens with "my cock is splendid" you know you're in for some wild fun. Loved this one. Jude plays an ex-con just released from prison who is trying to figure out what's next. He's got anger issues and daughter issues and, well, lots of issues. He doesn't have speaking issues, though, because everything coming out of Dom's mouth is fucking hilarious. This is the kind of film you could imagine Guy Ritchie making if Guy Ritchie hadn't turned into such a hack. But, really, who needs Guy Ritchie when you have Richard Shepard, who wrote and directed this romp. We all know that Jude is a very, very pretty man and what I love about him as an actor is that he rarely plays to his looks. Keep making 'em like this, Jude, and save the pretty boy stuff for GQ, okay?
Lucky Them - Toni Collette, Thomas Haden Church
Disappointing! SO disappointing! This one felt stale. Like it should have been released in the 80s. And I'm saying this as a person who loves the 80s. Thomas was fantastic, Toni was fine but I didn't buy any of this. I'm not going to trouble you with the lame-o plot. And I'm going to give you a spoiler: the best part of this movie was the cameo by a non-Claire's Accessories- wearing Johnny Depp. Sorry. But, really, don't bother.
Bad Words - Jason Bateman, Kathryn Hahn, Allison Janney
Oh my Lord, Jason Bateman! In his directorial debut, no less! Playing a bitter, biting and angry man who finds a loophole in the rules and competes in a Spelling Bee to exact revenge, Jason will make you cringe. Continuously. But you will laugh so hard. So. Hard. Loved this. The spoken words here are not for the faint of heart, but with stellar performances and kick ass humour this is absolutely one to be seen. And did I mention it all takes place at a Spelling Bee? Perfection!
Paradise - Andres Almeida, Daniela Rincon
Produced by those 2 hot dudes from Y Tu Mama Tambien, this film tells the story of childhood sweethearts who uncover a rift in their relationship when they both embark on a weight loss program but only one sees any tangible success. The film had its sweet moments, and deals with the issues of body image, acceptance, change and insecurity quite delicately. My Mom thought it was "okay".
The Lunchbox - Irrfan Khan
This film was a last minute addition to our film schedule, and it was really the perfect way to end the Fest. That the film was written and directed by my pal Jess' pal, Ritesh Batra, who she met at NYU was a complete surprise, and I only found this out when we met Jess, also by surprise, in line. Ritesh took this movie to Cannes, it was picked up and is now making its way through the Film Fest circuit and charming audiences along the way. Quite the dream come true, no? The film is indeed a charming romantic not - quite - comedy about a relationship of affection that is drawn out in the most innocent way - anonymous letters. Remember those?! It's a soft little story, almost fable - like, and absolutely recommendable! And Mom liked it too!
-
Oh man ... there we have it. 19 films (+ one talk) over the 10 day Fest. I feel like a bit of a slacker! And a bit of an insane-o. While this was my least attended TIFF in years, I'll make a grand pronouncement and say that film for film it was my best - even with those 3 clunkers. There were deep ones, light ones, disturbing ones, feel good ones. We dealt with themes of freedom, perseverance, love, isolation and redemption. I hit for the cycle in terms of seeing the most buzzed about films, but also saw a few hidden gems that I hope resonate with others the way they did with me (I'm looking at you, Eleanor Rigby!).I can't wait to see how these films are discussed and viewed when they are released - some just weeks away.
So after this overwhelmingly successful TIFF schedule and two killer vacations - neither of which I spent more than maybe a nanosecond participating in the planning of, I think it's fair to say that I should take a back seat on the planning process going forward and just rely on that Little Help From My Friends. Huh. Maybe. I sure am out of practice. Maybe time to plan a party, me thinks. Surely my friends can help with that.
Here's a little lost gem from my newfound gem - yes, Eleanor Rigby. Again.
Monday, September 9, 2013
TIFF 2013 - With a Little Help From My Friends - Volume 2
Well, all right. Here we are, not even halfway in and I'm already completely bagged. This is what happens when you are completely insane and think it's feasible to work a full time job (no days off for this poor lass), see 22 films and maintain some semblance of normal life. From all accounts thus far, the normal life and "work" the full time job will have to take a back seat. Not really a big surprise - priorities, right?
I'm thinking, though, that perhaps my feelings of exhaustion aren't really due to the physical, but actually the emotional. I've seen so many heartwrenching films in these past few days, they have left me somewhat numb, worse still, they are all based on real life events so you can't pass the stories off as 'well, yeah, that sucks but it could never really happen', because all this stuff did. Note for next year: more comedies!
In the interest of my own sanity, I'm going to pump out my reviews out as I can rather than post daily this year. It's too much, lovebugs! It's just TOO MUCH!
12 Years A Slave - Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender, Benedict Cumberbatch, Lupita Nyong'o
Perhaps the most buzzed about film coming to TIFF this year, we knew 12 Years wasn't going to be easy. At the hands of Steve McQueen, this historical drama depicting the most stunning 12 years in the life of Solomon Northrup, a free man living his life in Saratoga, New York deceptively kidnapped and sold into slavery in the mid 1800's, is brutal and hard to watch and cringe worthy and awful. And absolutely one of the best films I've seen at TIFF. The topic of slavery is rarely dealt with in American cinema (ironic that two films on the topic have been released in short time), perhaps for fear of not being respectful or maybe more so of not wanting to bring up the past. This was a disgusting time in American history - selling deeds of ownership on human beings, whippings, hangings, the list of humiliations goes on and on - why drudge? But we have to. We have to know what was done to make sure it's not done again. To know that it's over and it was wrong and now things are markedly different. There is no better person to bring these themes to the screen than director McQueen. He holds uncomfortable subject matter in such a fine balance that as an audience you are at once repulsed and yet are eager to see, learn and know more. He did it in Hunger, in Shame and now 12 Years. With all stories of human suffering, we need to feel a hope even within the most deep pits of despair and for this we turn to Chiwetel Ejiofor, playing Northrup (and Platt, the name he was given when he was sold). This performance was measured, tight and raw. We felt his rage, his grief, his sorrow - but always within that, a small sliver of maybe. Maybe this is not the end. Joining Chiwetel in groundbreaking performances are Michael Fassbender, McQueen's partner in crime who seems to get better and better in every role he's in. Here, playing a vile slave owner, he is a bastard of the highest order and it's magnetic. In a surprise, Sarah Poulson is equally diabolical as his wife torturing and taunting Lupita Nyong'o's Patsy with such inner glee you really see the meaning of the word evil.
The entire cast was on hand at the Q&A,and this is why I love TIFF. A team of collaborators on stage, proudly talking about their work and taking questions from a raptured audience. McQueen spoke of the distinction between an artist and an actor - stressing that here, everyone on screen was an artist. We all agreed.
Parkland - Paul Giammati, Billy Bob Thorton
You win some, you lose some. This one goes decidedly in the loss column. Detailing the stories of real life people who witnessed and were involved in the Kennedy assasination seems like a new twist on a very well trodden story. Unfortunately, this film left like a Grade 12 history project. It lacked focus and was full of head shaking scenes, melodramatic music and flat acting. The only bright spots were Jacki Weaver and James Badge Dale playing Lee Harvey Oswald's mother and brother respectively.
The Railway Man - Colin Firth, Nicole Kidman
This is a beautiful, yet harrowing, story of suffering and forgiveness. Colin plays real life Eric Lomax, a man caught in a Japanese POW camp during WW2. He is mercilessly tortured during his time there, and is plagued with this torment for most of his adult life. It is through the love of his wife, Patsy, played with perfect resolve and sympathy by Nicole, that he is able to overcome these inner demons and finally live his true life. The film deals with the worst and best of humanity. It is richly shot, well scored and brilliantly acted - Colin & Nicole, we know, are incredible but the young Jeremy Irvine, equally shines playing the young Eric. On hand at the Q&A are the principle cast, director, writer and also Patsy Lomax. Sadly, Eric Lomax died in 1992 and was not able to see the final film. Director Jonathan Tepiltzsky remarked that it was okay - there was nothing in this film that Eric did not know. He lived it.
Labor Day - Kate Winslet, Josh Brolin
Adapted for the screen and directed by Jason Reitman, this was a unique love story about two very different lost souls looking for a fresh start. The film is somewhat of a departure for Jason as it isn't biting or wry. It's real and emotional, and with patience very rewarding. Apparently, Jason waited a year for Kate to be available to play the depressed Adele and good on him for doing so - she was really stellar as was Josh. We learn at the Q&A that he makes a damn good pie. Like, we really needed more?! Come. On.
Dallas Buyers Club - Matthew McConaughey, Jared Leto, Jennifer Garner
Another real life story here, this one based on the life of Ron Woodroof. A hard nosed homophobe bull rider who contracts AIDS and sets up an elaborate drug smuggling enterprise to get him - and his fellow AIDS sufferers - much needed unapproved and therefore unavailable medications to treat the disease. Overall, the film dragged a bit but it was saved by the stellar performances of Matthew & Jared. These past few years have seen Matthew transform his career from 'that romantic comedy guy' to a solid actor taking chances. Good for him. He's the real deal, and in this performance maintains a perfect balance between Ron's complete asshole ways and his unrelenting drive to do what's right. Jared gives good girl as Matthew's surprising partner in crime. You'll be hearing more about this one come award season to be sure.
Philomena - Steve Coogan, Judi Dench
Enough of the real life sad stories! My god, this one was tough. Uber talented Steve Coogan adapted this story, and stars alongside the remarkable Judi. The film is a heartbreaking account of a mother looking for the son she gave up for adoption. The circumstances surrounding this adoption are controversial at best, and Philomena is roadblocked at every turn. With the help of Steve's journalist Martin, she finds the answers she is looking. The themes of loss and forgiveness are all dealt with amidst the hypocrisis and questions surrouding faith and the Catholic church. This film could easily have gone the way of a melodramatic movie of the week, but with expert writing and acting it never, ever does. Kudos to Steve Coogan for a terrific screenplay, which provided well placed humour along with the heartbreak.
In Conversation With .. Spike Jonze
So. This was disappointing. I think when you conduct an interview you should have an actual person who knows how to interview actually conducting the interview. It may have seemed like a good idea to have fellow director Kelly Reichardt chat with Spike, but considering she didn't prepare any questions and could barely finish a sentence or thought, um, maybe not. Spike is an interesting guy. I wanted to know more about him and his choices. I'll have to wait for his bio.
Gravity - Sandra Bullock, George Clooney
WOW. I've never seen a film like this before. It was beautiful. And terrifying. Sandra was incredible. It was a marvel of technology without feeling like a CGI project. We were all with her on this incredible journey. I'm going to leave this as is. There's much to say, but I wish for all to experience this fresh and raw - the story is simple and it's best for it to unfold naturally, without much forethought. I will say that the Q&A was perfection. Sandra is lovely. Just lovely - spending a solid 45 minutes before the screening signing autographs and taking photos is not something all stars do, especially ones of her calibre, but she did and she's stunning and kind and gracious. And wears incredible shoes. And she thanked me for coming. No joke. Anyway, when she told us that when she won her Oscar she left completely unworthy and she vowed to spend the rest of her career earning that Oscar, you believe her. You love her. You love her more. And just when you think it can't get better, real life Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield literally jumps the stage all rock star styles to answer a question directed at him (was all that space stuff real looking?). God. I love TIFF.
So, what have you guys been doing?
I'm thinking, though, that perhaps my feelings of exhaustion aren't really due to the physical, but actually the emotional. I've seen so many heartwrenching films in these past few days, they have left me somewhat numb, worse still, they are all based on real life events so you can't pass the stories off as 'well, yeah, that sucks but it could never really happen', because all this stuff did. Note for next year: more comedies!
In the interest of my own sanity, I'm going to pump out my reviews out as I can rather than post daily this year. It's too much, lovebugs! It's just TOO MUCH!
12 Years A Slave - Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender, Benedict Cumberbatch, Lupita Nyong'o
Perhaps the most buzzed about film coming to TIFF this year, we knew 12 Years wasn't going to be easy. At the hands of Steve McQueen, this historical drama depicting the most stunning 12 years in the life of Solomon Northrup, a free man living his life in Saratoga, New York deceptively kidnapped and sold into slavery in the mid 1800's, is brutal and hard to watch and cringe worthy and awful. And absolutely one of the best films I've seen at TIFF. The topic of slavery is rarely dealt with in American cinema (ironic that two films on the topic have been released in short time), perhaps for fear of not being respectful or maybe more so of not wanting to bring up the past. This was a disgusting time in American history - selling deeds of ownership on human beings, whippings, hangings, the list of humiliations goes on and on - why drudge? But we have to. We have to know what was done to make sure it's not done again. To know that it's over and it was wrong and now things are markedly different. There is no better person to bring these themes to the screen than director McQueen. He holds uncomfortable subject matter in such a fine balance that as an audience you are at once repulsed and yet are eager to see, learn and know more. He did it in Hunger, in Shame and now 12 Years. With all stories of human suffering, we need to feel a hope even within the most deep pits of despair and for this we turn to Chiwetel Ejiofor, playing Northrup (and Platt, the name he was given when he was sold). This performance was measured, tight and raw. We felt his rage, his grief, his sorrow - but always within that, a small sliver of maybe. Maybe this is not the end. Joining Chiwetel in groundbreaking performances are Michael Fassbender, McQueen's partner in crime who seems to get better and better in every role he's in. Here, playing a vile slave owner, he is a bastard of the highest order and it's magnetic. In a surprise, Sarah Poulson is equally diabolical as his wife torturing and taunting Lupita Nyong'o's Patsy with such inner glee you really see the meaning of the word evil.
The entire cast was on hand at the Q&A,and this is why I love TIFF. A team of collaborators on stage, proudly talking about their work and taking questions from a raptured audience. McQueen spoke of the distinction between an artist and an actor - stressing that here, everyone on screen was an artist. We all agreed.
Parkland - Paul Giammati, Billy Bob Thorton
You win some, you lose some. This one goes decidedly in the loss column. Detailing the stories of real life people who witnessed and were involved in the Kennedy assasination seems like a new twist on a very well trodden story. Unfortunately, this film left like a Grade 12 history project. It lacked focus and was full of head shaking scenes, melodramatic music and flat acting. The only bright spots were Jacki Weaver and James Badge Dale playing Lee Harvey Oswald's mother and brother respectively.
The Railway Man - Colin Firth, Nicole Kidman
This is a beautiful, yet harrowing, story of suffering and forgiveness. Colin plays real life Eric Lomax, a man caught in a Japanese POW camp during WW2. He is mercilessly tortured during his time there, and is plagued with this torment for most of his adult life. It is through the love of his wife, Patsy, played with perfect resolve and sympathy by Nicole, that he is able to overcome these inner demons and finally live his true life. The film deals with the worst and best of humanity. It is richly shot, well scored and brilliantly acted - Colin & Nicole, we know, are incredible but the young Jeremy Irvine, equally shines playing the young Eric. On hand at the Q&A are the principle cast, director, writer and also Patsy Lomax. Sadly, Eric Lomax died in 1992 and was not able to see the final film. Director Jonathan Tepiltzsky remarked that it was okay - there was nothing in this film that Eric did not know. He lived it.
Labor Day - Kate Winslet, Josh Brolin
Adapted for the screen and directed by Jason Reitman, this was a unique love story about two very different lost souls looking for a fresh start. The film is somewhat of a departure for Jason as it isn't biting or wry. It's real and emotional, and with patience very rewarding. Apparently, Jason waited a year for Kate to be available to play the depressed Adele and good on him for doing so - she was really stellar as was Josh. We learn at the Q&A that he makes a damn good pie. Like, we really needed more?! Come. On.
Dallas Buyers Club - Matthew McConaughey, Jared Leto, Jennifer Garner
Another real life story here, this one based on the life of Ron Woodroof. A hard nosed homophobe bull rider who contracts AIDS and sets up an elaborate drug smuggling enterprise to get him - and his fellow AIDS sufferers - much needed unapproved and therefore unavailable medications to treat the disease. Overall, the film dragged a bit but it was saved by the stellar performances of Matthew & Jared. These past few years have seen Matthew transform his career from 'that romantic comedy guy' to a solid actor taking chances. Good for him. He's the real deal, and in this performance maintains a perfect balance between Ron's complete asshole ways and his unrelenting drive to do what's right. Jared gives good girl as Matthew's surprising partner in crime. You'll be hearing more about this one come award season to be sure.
Philomena - Steve Coogan, Judi Dench
Enough of the real life sad stories! My god, this one was tough. Uber talented Steve Coogan adapted this story, and stars alongside the remarkable Judi. The film is a heartbreaking account of a mother looking for the son she gave up for adoption. The circumstances surrounding this adoption are controversial at best, and Philomena is roadblocked at every turn. With the help of Steve's journalist Martin, she finds the answers she is looking. The themes of loss and forgiveness are all dealt with amidst the hypocrisis and questions surrouding faith and the Catholic church. This film could easily have gone the way of a melodramatic movie of the week, but with expert writing and acting it never, ever does. Kudos to Steve Coogan for a terrific screenplay, which provided well placed humour along with the heartbreak.
In Conversation With .. Spike Jonze
So. This was disappointing. I think when you conduct an interview you should have an actual person who knows how to interview actually conducting the interview. It may have seemed like a good idea to have fellow director Kelly Reichardt chat with Spike, but considering she didn't prepare any questions and could barely finish a sentence or thought, um, maybe not. Spike is an interesting guy. I wanted to know more about him and his choices. I'll have to wait for his bio.
Gravity - Sandra Bullock, George Clooney
WOW. I've never seen a film like this before. It was beautiful. And terrifying. Sandra was incredible. It was a marvel of technology without feeling like a CGI project. We were all with her on this incredible journey. I'm going to leave this as is. There's much to say, but I wish for all to experience this fresh and raw - the story is simple and it's best for it to unfold naturally, without much forethought. I will say that the Q&A was perfection. Sandra is lovely. Just lovely - spending a solid 45 minutes before the screening signing autographs and taking photos is not something all stars do, especially ones of her calibre, but she did and she's stunning and kind and gracious. And wears incredible shoes. And she thanked me for coming. No joke. Anyway, when she told us that when she won her Oscar she left completely unworthy and she vowed to spend the rest of her career earning that Oscar, you believe her. You love her. You love her more. And just when you think it can't get better, real life Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield literally jumps the stage all rock star styles to answer a question directed at him (was all that space stuff real looking?). God. I love TIFF.
So, what have you guys been doing?
Friday, September 6, 2013
TIFF 2013 - With a Little Help From My Friends - Volume 1
And here we are once again, celebrating the magic of movies in my hometown for a madcap twelve days.
It's TIFF!*
Most years - every year - actual TIFF planning begins in early summer when packages must be secured and hints & tidbits on what films may be coming to Toronto circulate. When the official schedule is released at the end of August, you only have about 3 days to get things in order and basically complete your TIFF Puzzle before tickets actually go on sale - sorting through hundreds of movies, making sure end / start times line up properly, and making it all work isn't easy. Julie, Cres & I certainly have things down to a fine science at this point - being determined quick studies and all - but this year the team was going in one down. I was out. Out for pretty much the entire month of August on an epic South African adventure (more to come on that after this adventure, okay?) which left me helpless in TIFF investigating / planning / helping. I left the girls with the following edict: "You know me. Do your best."
Well, do they ever. Did they ever.
And, again, I learn that it is simply not necessary to always drive. Just as I was handed a perfectly planned itinerary for my trip of a lifetime to South Africa, I returned in late August to a TIFF schedule that I couldn't have planned better myself. Of course I missed the fun of the actual planning - pouring over the hundreds of films, perfecting schedule gymnastics, planning dinners complete with laptops, iPads, pencils & erasers, all of it - but this just means I'll have to have more fun at the actual festival, right? I know for damn sure I can do that. I also know for damn sure that these friends of mine are, well, amazing. As a perfect example, I take you to my premiere film ...
Only Lovers Left Alive - Tilda Swinton, Tom Hiddleston
I mean, come on. It's TILDA! The girls are not into this film at all - or perhaps other films peaked their interest a bit more - but they knew, they KNEW I'd be all over it. I love these girls.
It's pretty safe to say that if Tilda wasn't in this movie I wouldn't have touched it with a ten foot pole. An epic love story - spanning centuries - between a pair of vampires who travel between the romantic cities of Tangiers and Detroit. No joke. Look, it's Jim Jarmusch. He's a weirdo. Tilda's a weirdo. Tom became a weirdo. Am I now a weirdo because I really, really loved this movie?
I loved Tilda playing the happy go lucky Eve to Tom's sullen Adam. I loved the hazy way this was shot. I loved the music, and the crisp one-liners that didn't at all seem out of place in this somewhat dark and sexy piece. Tilda & Tom, together, are a perfectly suited sexy sinewy couple - they fit. I got them. I felt them. We know Tilda can do it all (may I now mention that she's ALSO a fantastic dancer?!), but Tom was right there with her. Versatility in an actor never ceases to amaze me, and when you couple that with a full on commitment to character it packs a pretty powerful punch. These two pack it very hard. Fulfilling the mystique of her character, Tilda wasn't there last night but Jim, Tom and supporting cast Mia Wasikowska and Anton Yelchin - both supurb - were. Tom was delightful, as was Jim. Bring on the weirdos!
As always, we're off to a rip roaring start. Tonight, we're at 12 Years a Slave and Parkland. Did I mention that my girls managed to snag tickets to the festivals biggest buzz films? Did I mention I love my girls? Did I mention that you can never go wrong when you rely on A Little Help From Your Friends? It's true. So, so true.
*As usual, technology is messing with me. I'm having hardcore formatting issues with this stupid PC (like, why are you bolding my entire text you piece of sh&t?!). Content remains the same, it just looks like crap. I'm sorry.
It's TIFF!*
Most years - every year - actual TIFF planning begins in early summer when packages must be secured and hints & tidbits on what films may be coming to Toronto circulate. When the official schedule is released at the end of August, you only have about 3 days to get things in order and basically complete your TIFF Puzzle before tickets actually go on sale - sorting through hundreds of movies, making sure end / start times line up properly, and making it all work isn't easy. Julie, Cres & I certainly have things down to a fine science at this point - being determined quick studies and all - but this year the team was going in one down. I was out. Out for pretty much the entire month of August on an epic South African adventure (more to come on that after this adventure, okay?) which left me helpless in TIFF investigating / planning / helping. I left the girls with the following edict: "You know me. Do your best."
Well, do they ever. Did they ever.
And, again, I learn that it is simply not necessary to always drive. Just as I was handed a perfectly planned itinerary for my trip of a lifetime to South Africa, I returned in late August to a TIFF schedule that I couldn't have planned better myself. Of course I missed the fun of the actual planning - pouring over the hundreds of films, perfecting schedule gymnastics, planning dinners complete with laptops, iPads, pencils & erasers, all of it - but this just means I'll have to have more fun at the actual festival, right? I know for damn sure I can do that. I also know for damn sure that these friends of mine are, well, amazing. As a perfect example, I take you to my premiere film ...
Only Lovers Left Alive - Tilda Swinton, Tom Hiddleston
I mean, come on. It's TILDA! The girls are not into this film at all - or perhaps other films peaked their interest a bit more - but they knew, they KNEW I'd be all over it. I love these girls.
It's pretty safe to say that if Tilda wasn't in this movie I wouldn't have touched it with a ten foot pole. An epic love story - spanning centuries - between a pair of vampires who travel between the romantic cities of Tangiers and Detroit. No joke. Look, it's Jim Jarmusch. He's a weirdo. Tilda's a weirdo. Tom became a weirdo. Am I now a weirdo because I really, really loved this movie?
I loved Tilda playing the happy go lucky Eve to Tom's sullen Adam. I loved the hazy way this was shot. I loved the music, and the crisp one-liners that didn't at all seem out of place in this somewhat dark and sexy piece. Tilda & Tom, together, are a perfectly suited sexy sinewy couple - they fit. I got them. I felt them. We know Tilda can do it all (may I now mention that she's ALSO a fantastic dancer?!), but Tom was right there with her. Versatility in an actor never ceases to amaze me, and when you couple that with a full on commitment to character it packs a pretty powerful punch. These two pack it very hard. Fulfilling the mystique of her character, Tilda wasn't there last night but Jim, Tom and supporting cast Mia Wasikowska and Anton Yelchin - both supurb - were. Tom was delightful, as was Jim. Bring on the weirdos!
As always, we're off to a rip roaring start. Tonight, we're at 12 Years a Slave and Parkland. Did I mention that my girls managed to snag tickets to the festivals biggest buzz films? Did I mention I love my girls? Did I mention that you can never go wrong when you rely on A Little Help From Your Friends? It's true. So, so true.
*As usual, technology is messing with me. I'm having hardcore formatting issues with this stupid PC (like, why are you bolding my entire text you piece of sh&t?!). Content remains the same, it just looks like crap. I'm sorry.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
T is for ...
... Trip.
Oh yes, lovebugs. The big day is finally (almost) here. The day I embark on an adventure of epic proportions that, again, began with a simple sentence: "You must come with us." Well, who am I to (ever) say no?!
So, off I go to South Africa - a land, to me, of mystery and struggle and majesty and elephants. No joke. With apologies to Mr. Mandela, this is the first thing I think of when South Africa comes to mind. I hope to see many an elephant on my trip, along with ostriches and lions and zebras and giraffes and all those other exotic animals that I've only seen on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, storybooks and that pretty awesome fake-safari I took while in Disneyland a few years ago. Do you think this safari will be better than that?! Hehe.
I have no real idea what to expect. I'm looking over my itinery and my head is shaking, my eyes all buggy. We're doing what?! We're going where?! I had no hand in planning this trip at all. Imagine that. I'm away for three weeks on (one of) the most exotic vacations I've ever been on and the only things I did to get me there were win yet another friend lottery and book a plane ticket. You know, when I'm feeling a little down can y'all just remind me of this: That life, overall, is pretty damn great and if you look for ways it's not you're bound to find them SO STOP FUCKING LOOKING.
See you soon, lovebugs. Because guess where we're going in September? That's right - TIFF! Yet another amazing adventure that, this year, I will have no hand in planning. What's happening to me? I don't know. But I like it. Yes, yes I do.
T is for ... Trip.
Oh yes, lovebugs. The big day is finally (almost) here. The day I embark on an adventure of epic proportions that, again, began with a simple sentence: "You must come with us." Well, who am I to (ever) say no?!
So, off I go to South Africa - a land, to me, of mystery and struggle and majesty and elephants. No joke. With apologies to Mr. Mandela, this is the first thing I think of when South Africa comes to mind. I hope to see many an elephant on my trip, along with ostriches and lions and zebras and giraffes and all those other exotic animals that I've only seen on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, storybooks and that pretty awesome fake-safari I took while in Disneyland a few years ago. Do you think this safari will be better than that?! Hehe.
I have no real idea what to expect. I'm looking over my itinery and my head is shaking, my eyes all buggy. We're doing what?! We're going where?! I had no hand in planning this trip at all. Imagine that. I'm away for three weeks on (one of) the most exotic vacations I've ever been on and the only things I did to get me there were win yet another friend lottery and book a plane ticket. You know, when I'm feeling a little down can y'all just remind me of this: That life, overall, is pretty damn great and if you look for ways it's not you're bound to find them SO STOP FUCKING LOOKING.
See you soon, lovebugs. Because guess where we're going in September? That's right - TIFF! Yet another amazing adventure that, this year, I will have no hand in planning. What's happening to me? I don't know. But I like it. Yes, yes I do.
T is for ... Trip.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
S is for ...
.... Soundtrack.
About a year ago I received some rather horrible news from a close work friend and colleague of mine. There's no way to sugar coat it, so here goes: Non - Hodgkin's Lymphoma. A 42 year old solid guy with 2 young children and a darling wife was now facing life in a tailspin as protocols and plans were being set out for his treatment.
We all took it pretty hard at the office. For all the prolonged eyerolling I do about the Type-A personality dudes I'm charged with wrangling, my workmates are pretty all right. We've worked together so long and seen each other through the highs and lows of life that, at the risk of sounding corny, it's family - lite. Adding to this of course is the harsh reality of capital C Cancer. I mean, Jesus Christ, enough with this fucking disease already.
He was off for awhile. Calling and emailing to keep in touch, but also to keep his mind off that other thing. The attitude was unreal - upbeat, positive, cheering us up that all was going to be okay. After some months, chemo and, as he referred to it, his "Lex Luther do" - it was okay. He returned to us - slighter in stature but absolutely stronger willed.
A few months after that, then, when he came into my office to tell me that his routine check up had discovered a stubborn node which had not responded to treatment, I was was frozen. When he quietly broke the news to a few others, they, too, were frozen. There would be more chemo. There would be a stem cell transplant. More drugs. More pain. More tears. He was obviously deflated. And scared. It's difficult not to project your own past experience into things like this - after five and a half years I still can't really talk about everything that my Dad and family went through during his second round of chemo - it's just too painful, full of sadness and guilt and regret and anger - but I remember what happened when it was over: he died. I wanted things to be different this time, obviously, but what control did I have over anything. What could I do? Everyone at work felt the same way - we were devastated.
And this is sort of the thing. We all felt like we'd been punched in the stomach - how does this happen? Why does this happen? What is going to happen?! In my office, we're all a bunch of action oriented people - we DO, and if we can't do we tell you what YOU should DO. This is just the way things are around here. But what when you can't? When you can't DO anything? I work with a good many arrogant people but even they know (fine, me included) that we can't cure cancer. We can't make the drug they give you to fix your cancer less of a killer. We needed to find a way - in our own hearts and minds - to believe that he was going to be okay. Whether we sought this out through God or Buddha or that little leprechaun on the box of Lucky Charms, we had to find it somewhere but even this wasn't enough. Our inate instincts took over: we needed to DO something.
So when one of my sweet officemates came to me with an idea of a Feel Good Soundtrack, I was all over it. Everyone in the office was charged with providing me a list of two or three of their go-to feel good songs. Songs that got them out of funk, got them grooving, got them feeling good, got them thinking of better days. I was going to then take these songs, put them on an iPod Shuffle and hand it over. It wouldn't change anything, but it would take his mind off things when he was sitting in that big chair for hours upon hours. This was the best we could do. This was good.
The songs came in fast and furious, some more nostalgically personal - feel good, others straight up dance your funk out - feel good, a few bang your head against the wall to forget your not feel-good, but they all meant something to each of us in some way. I learned a little more about my office mates based on their selections, which was an added bonus. I learned that iTunes is awesome, I mean, did you know their selection of Japanese pop is simply astounding? I learned that regardless of how easy a project may seem to be, I will find a way to make it harder because technology never makes sense to me - I had download issues and hard drive issues but I wasn't deterred - this was happening. I was doing it. And, in perfect karma timing, my laptop competely busted the day after I finished. Crazy.
When it was all said and done, there was 4 days worth of music on this Shuffle. It sat in my office for weeks as we tried to schedule a visit but between his up / down energy levels, appointments and new medicine that made it painful for him to get out of bed and my summer of sick (sinusitus, bronchitis and overall too many germs to visit a guy with a non-existent immune system) this was proving impossible. I waived the white flag and couriered it off last week. A day later, I received a phone call and within two minutes we were both in tears. The email he sent to everyone a day after that had us all in tears.
There's much to be said about the power of music, but that's an obvious. There's much to be said about the crummy cards we're often dealt in life, but that's depressing. All I really want to say, and I realize I'm taking a very long time to say it, is that regardless of how powerless we feel, how hopeless things might be, how insurmountable our struggles are, we can always try. Try to do something. Try to make things better. Try to see life outside ourselves. Try to do something for someone that may not make sense to us, but will mean the world to them. We have to take care of each other. Our Feelgood Soundtrack is not going to cure his cancer. But if all it can do is take his mind off that fucking cancer - and let him know that our minds are never far from him - I think that's a good thing.
S is for Soundtrack.
Because he always feels good after hearing The Boss.
About a year ago I received some rather horrible news from a close work friend and colleague of mine. There's no way to sugar coat it, so here goes: Non - Hodgkin's Lymphoma. A 42 year old solid guy with 2 young children and a darling wife was now facing life in a tailspin as protocols and plans were being set out for his treatment.
We all took it pretty hard at the office. For all the prolonged eyerolling I do about the Type-A personality dudes I'm charged with wrangling, my workmates are pretty all right. We've worked together so long and seen each other through the highs and lows of life that, at the risk of sounding corny, it's family - lite. Adding to this of course is the harsh reality of capital C Cancer. I mean, Jesus Christ, enough with this fucking disease already.
He was off for awhile. Calling and emailing to keep in touch, but also to keep his mind off that other thing. The attitude was unreal - upbeat, positive, cheering us up that all was going to be okay. After some months, chemo and, as he referred to it, his "Lex Luther do" - it was okay. He returned to us - slighter in stature but absolutely stronger willed.
A few months after that, then, when he came into my office to tell me that his routine check up had discovered a stubborn node which had not responded to treatment, I was was frozen. When he quietly broke the news to a few others, they, too, were frozen. There would be more chemo. There would be a stem cell transplant. More drugs. More pain. More tears. He was obviously deflated. And scared. It's difficult not to project your own past experience into things like this - after five and a half years I still can't really talk about everything that my Dad and family went through during his second round of chemo - it's just too painful, full of sadness and guilt and regret and anger - but I remember what happened when it was over: he died. I wanted things to be different this time, obviously, but what control did I have over anything. What could I do? Everyone at work felt the same way - we were devastated.
And this is sort of the thing. We all felt like we'd been punched in the stomach - how does this happen? Why does this happen? What is going to happen?! In my office, we're all a bunch of action oriented people - we DO, and if we can't do we tell you what YOU should DO. This is just the way things are around here. But what when you can't? When you can't DO anything? I work with a good many arrogant people but even they know (fine, me included) that we can't cure cancer. We can't make the drug they give you to fix your cancer less of a killer. We needed to find a way - in our own hearts and minds - to believe that he was going to be okay. Whether we sought this out through God or Buddha or that little leprechaun on the box of Lucky Charms, we had to find it somewhere but even this wasn't enough. Our inate instincts took over: we needed to DO something.
So when one of my sweet officemates came to me with an idea of a Feel Good Soundtrack, I was all over it. Everyone in the office was charged with providing me a list of two or three of their go-to feel good songs. Songs that got them out of funk, got them grooving, got them feeling good, got them thinking of better days. I was going to then take these songs, put them on an iPod Shuffle and hand it over. It wouldn't change anything, but it would take his mind off things when he was sitting in that big chair for hours upon hours. This was the best we could do. This was good.
The songs came in fast and furious, some more nostalgically personal - feel good, others straight up dance your funk out - feel good, a few bang your head against the wall to forget your not feel-good, but they all meant something to each of us in some way. I learned a little more about my office mates based on their selections, which was an added bonus. I learned that iTunes is awesome, I mean, did you know their selection of Japanese pop is simply astounding? I learned that regardless of how easy a project may seem to be, I will find a way to make it harder because technology never makes sense to me - I had download issues and hard drive issues but I wasn't deterred - this was happening. I was doing it. And, in perfect karma timing, my laptop competely busted the day after I finished. Crazy.
When it was all said and done, there was 4 days worth of music on this Shuffle. It sat in my office for weeks as we tried to schedule a visit but between his up / down energy levels, appointments and new medicine that made it painful for him to get out of bed and my summer of sick (sinusitus, bronchitis and overall too many germs to visit a guy with a non-existent immune system) this was proving impossible. I waived the white flag and couriered it off last week. A day later, I received a phone call and within two minutes we were both in tears. The email he sent to everyone a day after that had us all in tears.
There's much to be said about the power of music, but that's an obvious. There's much to be said about the crummy cards we're often dealt in life, but that's depressing. All I really want to say, and I realize I'm taking a very long time to say it, is that regardless of how powerless we feel, how hopeless things might be, how insurmountable our struggles are, we can always try. Try to do something. Try to make things better. Try to see life outside ourselves. Try to do something for someone that may not make sense to us, but will mean the world to them. We have to take care of each other. Our Feelgood Soundtrack is not going to cure his cancer. But if all it can do is take his mind off that fucking cancer - and let him know that our minds are never far from him - I think that's a good thing.
S is for Soundtrack.
Because he always feels good after hearing The Boss.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
R is for ...
... Real.
It was bound to happen. Destined to end.
You know how it goes. You skip through life, blissfully unaware of the horrors of reality until one day this skipping just stops. Your former exuberate highs are now only depressing lows and the thing you once loved, sought out, needed, wanted and worked so fucking hard for is now just a symbol for the abject hatred formally reserved for Ticketmaster and Veganism.
I hate improv.
I hate how fucking hard it is. I hate that the process of trying to get better is sucking the life out of me. I talk too much. I rely on words too much. I push too hard in my scenes. Excuse me?!? YOU'VE JUST FUCKING DESCRIBED ME AS A PERSON! WHAT THE FUCK NOW?!?!
So last night, after yet another soul crushing class I decided to stick around for a little jam session, because I figured it would be valuable to actually observe some fun rather than try to create some fun that actually turned to shit. I stupidly put my name on the jam list and OF COURSE was called up on stage to play around with one my Improv heroes. So imagine. You've just basically had trouble playing, what, I don't know, Smoke on the Water on the guitar and before you know it Jimi Hendrix is calling you up for a jam session. Nice.
My improv hero is awesome. He does nothing, and is awesome. He works it, and is awesome. He's calm and intuitive and completely non-aggressive and so fucking quick and smart. I mean, really, no pressure. We were on a date. On a Zombie Walk. This is what happens in Improv. I have no idea what I was doing. Zombies were dying in front of us. Helicopters were warning us of the imminent Zombie Apocalypse. We managed to agree that, as a couple, Romeo & Juliet had a great little run. This is what happens in Improv. It was, by my own account, terrible. I'm not good with too much extra (at this point I'm not good with much of anything but I know for damn sure I can't handle scenes where there is too much action taking away from the who/what/where/why do we care of the main characters - I get too confused and have a hard time committing). It was too much extra. I felt like such a fail. After it's done of course you think of a million zillion different ways you could have played it, which is the worst thing you can do. As a great teach once yelled to one of my classmates "STOP TELLING ME WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO DO AND JUST FUCKING DO IT", as you can see, there are no do-overs in Improv.
So, what now? I have real questions: Am I thinking too hard? Am I stressing too much? Am I weighing myself down? Am I scared? What the fuck am I doing? With no real answers: Maybe. I guess so. Um Yeah? Huh? I don't know.
I've lost all sense of instinctual confidence. I've lost ALL confidence. What the fuck now? Am I supposed to quit before I get kicked out? Is it time to stop deluding myself? Am I to live my Improv life hugging the back wall? Is it back to cooking classes? Fuck, I don't know.
Shit just got real, yo.
R is for Real.
It was bound to happen. Destined to end.
You know how it goes. You skip through life, blissfully unaware of the horrors of reality until one day this skipping just stops. Your former exuberate highs are now only depressing lows and the thing you once loved, sought out, needed, wanted and worked so fucking hard for is now just a symbol for the abject hatred formally reserved for Ticketmaster and Veganism.
I hate improv.
I hate how fucking hard it is. I hate that the process of trying to get better is sucking the life out of me. I talk too much. I rely on words too much. I push too hard in my scenes. Excuse me?!? YOU'VE JUST FUCKING DESCRIBED ME AS A PERSON! WHAT THE FUCK NOW?!?!
So last night, after yet another soul crushing class I decided to stick around for a little jam session, because I figured it would be valuable to actually observe some fun rather than try to create some fun that actually turned to shit. I stupidly put my name on the jam list and OF COURSE was called up on stage to play around with one my Improv heroes. So imagine. You've just basically had trouble playing, what, I don't know, Smoke on the Water on the guitar and before you know it Jimi Hendrix is calling you up for a jam session. Nice.
My improv hero is awesome. He does nothing, and is awesome. He works it, and is awesome. He's calm and intuitive and completely non-aggressive and so fucking quick and smart. I mean, really, no pressure. We were on a date. On a Zombie Walk. This is what happens in Improv. I have no idea what I was doing. Zombies were dying in front of us. Helicopters were warning us of the imminent Zombie Apocalypse. We managed to agree that, as a couple, Romeo & Juliet had a great little run. This is what happens in Improv. It was, by my own account, terrible. I'm not good with too much extra (at this point I'm not good with much of anything but I know for damn sure I can't handle scenes where there is too much action taking away from the who/what/where/why do we care of the main characters - I get too confused and have a hard time committing). It was too much extra. I felt like such a fail. After it's done of course you think of a million zillion different ways you could have played it, which is the worst thing you can do. As a great teach once yelled to one of my classmates "STOP TELLING ME WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO DO AND JUST FUCKING DO IT", as you can see, there are no do-overs in Improv.
So, what now? I have real questions: Am I thinking too hard? Am I stressing too much? Am I weighing myself down? Am I scared? What the fuck am I doing? With no real answers: Maybe. I guess so. Um Yeah? Huh? I don't know.
I've lost all sense of instinctual confidence. I've lost ALL confidence. What the fuck now? Am I supposed to quit before I get kicked out? Is it time to stop deluding myself? Am I to live my Improv life hugging the back wall? Is it back to cooking classes? Fuck, I don't know.
Shit just got real, yo.
R is for Real.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Q is for ...
... Quake.
Life's full of little tremors. Little bumps of the oh wells, followed by some hard fought smiles and pick yourself ups and that's okay, some things aren't meant to be, but all in all, life is good. Tremors, if we take them as minor hiccups, can serve to focus the wandering, and wondering, mind. A mind easily taken on paths of now- pleasures.
Occasionally, though, these tremors become quakes. These quakes are seismic, and not because it takes more to move passed them, but because they are simply that cataclysmic, requiring more from us than just a nonchalant shrug and forceful step forward.
A Diagnosis. A Loss. A Truth. An End.
Quakes come in all shapes, but their size is not quite quantifiable. They are the size of our hearts & our hopes for they are reminders that we are human, but here for a short time. We try, we try so hard to be so much, but in the end, we are really nothing.
Tremors give you a glimmer of this truth. Quakes make this truth blinding.
Q is for Quake.
Life's full of little tremors. Little bumps of the oh wells, followed by some hard fought smiles and pick yourself ups and that's okay, some things aren't meant to be, but all in all, life is good. Tremors, if we take them as minor hiccups, can serve to focus the wandering, and wondering, mind. A mind easily taken on paths of now- pleasures.
Occasionally, though, these tremors become quakes. These quakes are seismic, and not because it takes more to move passed them, but because they are simply that cataclysmic, requiring more from us than just a nonchalant shrug and forceful step forward.
A Diagnosis. A Loss. A Truth. An End.
Quakes come in all shapes, but their size is not quite quantifiable. They are the size of our hearts & our hopes for they are reminders that we are human, but here for a short time. We try, we try so hard to be so much, but in the end, we are really nothing.
Tremors give you a glimmer of this truth. Quakes make this truth blinding.
Q is for Quake.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
P is for ...
... Possible.
It's Father's Day today.
I wish for all of you to give your Dads huge break-his-ribs hugs. And if that's not possible, chat him up on the phone. And if both those things are simply impossible, just think about all those times when you could and did. Then, laugh a bit and cry a bit and have a little moment when you wish the impossible was possible.
P is for Possible.
It's Father's Day today.
I wish for all of you to give your Dads huge break-his-ribs hugs. And if that's not possible, chat him up on the phone. And if both those things are simply impossible, just think about all those times when you could and did. Then, laugh a bit and cry a bit and have a little moment when you wish the impossible was possible.
P is for Possible.
Friday, May 31, 2013
O is for ...
... organize.
Let's get organized!
Ah, friends, can a battlecry be more inspiring?
We shall get together, work together, defeat our enemies together, figure it out together, clear our clutter together!
Ah, fine, border battles of yore have now been replaced by battles over closet space but you see where I'm going, right - we must get organized!
So, get organized I did. My organizational spasm had me living through clothes on my dining table, garbage bags in my den and an overall sense of overwhelmed and exasperated for about three weeks (I really dislike stop/start projects, but there was no choice!). I will confess that I'm not an unorganized person at all, everything is always neat and clean and in its' proper place - before / after photos of my closets & drawers, had I taken them, would have been completely undistinguishable - the issue for me was the actual possibility that my closets & drawers were going to combust or revolt in protest over their 'over-stuffed-ness'. That I was going to combust or revolt in protest of my 'over-squished-ness'. I simply have a ton of stuff. I keep things. I keep buying things. I don't have space for these things. Things like, every things, from clothes to towels to undergarments in every colour and sheets and trinkets and maps of foreign cities which I hope to go to again and of course need the same map I used before and random stationary and magazines with one great article that I will never reread to cables and instruction manuals and original boxes and years worth of Christmas Cards and the list goes on and on and on and on.
Ah, fuck, do you see the problem?! I'm a high end hoarder with compulsive buying disease!
I had to clear my place of the no longer useful and take an inventory of what was actually in these closets and drawers, so I could put my brain on notice: stop buying stuff! You don't need more stuff! I conducted a very trying self - interrogation with, um, myself during this process: How many sets of sheets does one person need - you only have one bed!!?! Are you REALLY going to refer to this instruction manual when your TV doesn't work?! How many pairs of pants that no longer fit do you need in your closet?! So, this box that your sunglasses came in, you're keeping it why?! I was not very sympathetic with me. Things were tossed, others donated, some recyled. In the end, I STILL HAVE A TON OF STUFF, but I'd like to think that now the ton of stuff I have is useful and necessary (yes, even my 14 white Tshirts because they are all different in their own special way). I hope not to have a minor melt down in six months time when I'm looking for a purse and discover a purse that I forgot I actually owned (true story. very embarrassing. but sort of like shopping without spending money?.). I hope to become the city's greatest philanthropist with all the money I now have because I'm not spending all my money ON STUFF. I hope to be more sensible (but not with shoes. this isn't a draconian regime of suffering and utter non-spending people.). Most of all, though, I hope to continue this trend of keeping what's important and discarding what's not, both on the insides and outsides of my overstuffed life.
Ah, for now I see, could this be what being organized is all about?
Let's get organized!
Ah, friends, can a battlecry be more inspiring?
We shall get together, work together, defeat our enemies together, figure it out together, clear our clutter together!
Ah, fine, border battles of yore have now been replaced by battles over closet space but you see where I'm going, right - we must get organized!
So, get organized I did. My organizational spasm had me living through clothes on my dining table, garbage bags in my den and an overall sense of overwhelmed and exasperated for about three weeks (I really dislike stop/start projects, but there was no choice!). I will confess that I'm not an unorganized person at all, everything is always neat and clean and in its' proper place - before / after photos of my closets & drawers, had I taken them, would have been completely undistinguishable - the issue for me was the actual possibility that my closets & drawers were going to combust or revolt in protest over their 'over-stuffed-ness'. That I was going to combust or revolt in protest of my 'over-squished-ness'. I simply have a ton of stuff. I keep things. I keep buying things. I don't have space for these things. Things like, every things, from clothes to towels to undergarments in every colour and sheets and trinkets and maps of foreign cities which I hope to go to again and of course need the same map I used before and random stationary and magazines with one great article that I will never reread to cables and instruction manuals and original boxes and years worth of Christmas Cards and the list goes on and on and on and on.
Ah, fuck, do you see the problem?! I'm a high end hoarder with compulsive buying disease!
I had to clear my place of the no longer useful and take an inventory of what was actually in these closets and drawers, so I could put my brain on notice: stop buying stuff! You don't need more stuff! I conducted a very trying self - interrogation with, um, myself during this process: How many sets of sheets does one person need - you only have one bed!!?! Are you REALLY going to refer to this instruction manual when your TV doesn't work?! How many pairs of pants that no longer fit do you need in your closet?! So, this box that your sunglasses came in, you're keeping it why?! I was not very sympathetic with me. Things were tossed, others donated, some recyled. In the end, I STILL HAVE A TON OF STUFF, but I'd like to think that now the ton of stuff I have is useful and necessary (yes, even my 14 white Tshirts because they are all different in their own special way). I hope not to have a minor melt down in six months time when I'm looking for a purse and discover a purse that I forgot I actually owned (true story. very embarrassing. but sort of like shopping without spending money?.). I hope to become the city's greatest philanthropist with all the money I now have because I'm not spending all my money ON STUFF. I hope to be more sensible (but not with shoes. this isn't a draconian regime of suffering and utter non-spending people.). Most of all, though, I hope to continue this trend of keeping what's important and discarding what's not, both on the insides and outsides of my overstuffed life.
Ah, for now I see, could this be what being organized is all about?
Thursday, May 9, 2013
N is for ...
... novel.
Whatcha reading lovebugs? Anything good? Anything juicy? Anything recommendable?
Me? I'm reading something very, very good. Not necessarily juicy. I am pretty sure it's not recommendable in an enjoyable read kind of way.
You see, The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green, is the story of a sixteen-year-old cancer patient named Hazel, who is forced by her parents to attend a support group, where she subsequently meets and falls in love with the seventeen-year-old Augustus Waters, an ex-basketball player and amputee.
With respect, this is no Harlequin romance.
The book came to me highly recommended with requisite disclaimers - it's not easy, but it's worth it; you will cry but you'll be fine - from someone whose on my same book train. That said, I didn't love The Night Circus (I'm sorry, E! I just wanted it to end!) but we can't hold this one flub against her. In truth, if E could stand the emotional weight of The Fault in Our Stars, I could too dammit! so here we are 150 pages in and I'm scared to go on.
I don't want to know how this story is going to play out because I'm thinking it's not good. Right now, I'm at a sweet spot. These kids are getting to know each other and they're so adorable in their insecurities and mutual crushing. They're doing all the cute things you do, regardless of how old you are, when you meet someone you like but are sort of scared to admit you like them. I want to freeze them right there forever. Hazel is far more pragmatic than I am - she knows this can't last. She's in tune to her own reality and is pushing Augustus away. NO! What are you doing you dumbdumb!? He really likes you!!
Adding to my reluctance in dealing with fictional realities, is the fact that I know this book is going to be a Stage 5 Weeper. I've already gotten a little misty. I have no issue with that at all (quite honestly, at this moment, I'd much rather cry over some fake people's love lives than my own pathetic one thank you very much), but as I do most of my reading on the subway these days I'm not looking forward to wailing on the TTC. While I try to balance. And not miss my stop. (Confession: I am the nerdy girl who reads library books on the subway - look, I pay taxes and want to get something tangible out of them! - and missed her stop a few times while reading and also reads while walking on occasion. Please don't point and laugh if you ever see me.) It's sort of embarrassing. But. You need to ride your shit out (Literally and Figuratively!) so I suppose I will cross that bridge when I come to it. You have been warned.
So that takes us back to the actual matter at hand. What will happen to Hazel & Augustus? I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! TELL ME! I mean, did we know what was going to happen to Dexter & Emma?! (Oh my God, I can't even.) Or Henry & Clare? Or Anyone & Anyone? I mean, really? Do you know what's going to happen to you?! How can we know unless we come to know? We need to go through it to live it and learn it. We need to see how it all plays out. That, lovebugs, is straight from my own personal handbook of Life Skills 202.
I came about my Life Skills Handbook completely accidentally, after someone told me something that was just so doomsday: "I fear the end before the beginning." I'm not going to go into the details of how this came about, suffice to say it wasn't pleasant and in the end, after some really good and some really bad he was completely right to fear the end because the end sucked large. Unfortunately, we didn't really have much of a middle, which made the end - in my mind anyway - even worse. It was all for nothing. I thought, then, and reaffirm now, that fearing the end before the beginning is actually an anti-life skill because where's the actual living? It's a massive holding pattern where you wait for someone to cajole or talk you into something while you resist and think. You are stuck. It is very hard being that other person. Resisting the urge to scream "Just fucking go for it!" Let's see how it plays out! We are not working off a script!" all the time. And that's when you're not walking on the eggshells of saying and doing something that may be construed as the wrong thing. Spoiler alert: I am not an eggshell type of person. Enter Life Skills 202, where We See How Things Play Out. In case you are wondering, there are only two levels in my Life Skills Handbook. Life Skills 101 is where you learn things like putting your pants on before your shoes. It's a work in progress.
So, here I am. At an impasse with The Fault in Our Stars because I don't want to see how things are going to play out. I am failing at my own handbook with fake people. Dear Lord. Get a grip, Olga, you little wimp. You're tougher than this. You're better than this. ALL THIS. AND THAT. Even amidst periods of monumental self - doubt and insecurity you know you were better than that (I only know this thanks to my boo). I'm trudging forward. And honest to God, Hazel better trudge too. We need to see how it all plays out - for Hazel & Augustus & Olga. It's not really a novel idea, lovebugs, it's just a life skill. ;)
N is for Novel.
Whatcha reading lovebugs? Anything good? Anything juicy? Anything recommendable?
Me? I'm reading something very, very good. Not necessarily juicy. I am pretty sure it's not recommendable in an enjoyable read kind of way.
You see, The Fault in Our Stars, written by John Green, is the story of a sixteen-year-old cancer patient named Hazel, who is forced by her parents to attend a support group, where she subsequently meets and falls in love with the seventeen-year-old Augustus Waters, an ex-basketball player and amputee.
With respect, this is no Harlequin romance.
The book came to me highly recommended with requisite disclaimers - it's not easy, but it's worth it; you will cry but you'll be fine - from someone whose on my same book train. That said, I didn't love The Night Circus (I'm sorry, E! I just wanted it to end!) but we can't hold this one flub against her. In truth, if E could stand the emotional weight of The Fault in Our Stars, I could too dammit! so here we are 150 pages in and I'm scared to go on.
I don't want to know how this story is going to play out because I'm thinking it's not good. Right now, I'm at a sweet spot. These kids are getting to know each other and they're so adorable in their insecurities and mutual crushing. They're doing all the cute things you do, regardless of how old you are, when you meet someone you like but are sort of scared to admit you like them. I want to freeze them right there forever. Hazel is far more pragmatic than I am - she knows this can't last. She's in tune to her own reality and is pushing Augustus away. NO! What are you doing you dumbdumb!? He really likes you!!
Adding to my reluctance in dealing with fictional realities, is the fact that I know this book is going to be a Stage 5 Weeper. I've already gotten a little misty. I have no issue with that at all (quite honestly, at this moment, I'd much rather cry over some fake people's love lives than my own pathetic one thank you very much), but as I do most of my reading on the subway these days I'm not looking forward to wailing on the TTC. While I try to balance. And not miss my stop. (Confession: I am the nerdy girl who reads library books on the subway - look, I pay taxes and want to get something tangible out of them! - and missed her stop a few times while reading and also reads while walking on occasion. Please don't point and laugh if you ever see me.) It's sort of embarrassing. But. You need to ride your shit out (Literally and Figuratively!) so I suppose I will cross that bridge when I come to it. You have been warned.
So that takes us back to the actual matter at hand. What will happen to Hazel & Augustus? I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! TELL ME! I mean, did we know what was going to happen to Dexter & Emma?! (Oh my God, I can't even.) Or Henry & Clare? Or Anyone & Anyone? I mean, really? Do you know what's going to happen to you?! How can we know unless we come to know? We need to go through it to live it and learn it. We need to see how it all plays out. That, lovebugs, is straight from my own personal handbook of Life Skills 202.
I came about my Life Skills Handbook completely accidentally, after someone told me something that was just so doomsday: "I fear the end before the beginning." I'm not going to go into the details of how this came about, suffice to say it wasn't pleasant and in the end, after some really good and some really bad he was completely right to fear the end because the end sucked large. Unfortunately, we didn't really have much of a middle, which made the end - in my mind anyway - even worse. It was all for nothing. I thought, then, and reaffirm now, that fearing the end before the beginning is actually an anti-life skill because where's the actual living? It's a massive holding pattern where you wait for someone to cajole or talk you into something while you resist and think. You are stuck. It is very hard being that other person. Resisting the urge to scream "Just fucking go for it!" Let's see how it plays out! We are not working off a script!" all the time. And that's when you're not walking on the eggshells of saying and doing something that may be construed as the wrong thing. Spoiler alert: I am not an eggshell type of person. Enter Life Skills 202, where We See How Things Play Out. In case you are wondering, there are only two levels in my Life Skills Handbook. Life Skills 101 is where you learn things like putting your pants on before your shoes. It's a work in progress.
So, here I am. At an impasse with The Fault in Our Stars because I don't want to see how things are going to play out. I am failing at my own handbook with fake people. Dear Lord. Get a grip, Olga, you little wimp. You're tougher than this. You're better than this. ALL THIS. AND THAT. Even amidst periods of monumental self - doubt and insecurity you know you were better than that (I only know this thanks to my boo). I'm trudging forward. And honest to God, Hazel better trudge too. We need to see how it all plays out - for Hazel & Augustus & Olga. It's not really a novel idea, lovebugs, it's just a life skill. ;)
N is for Novel.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
M is for ...
... Memory.
Not quite a year ago I was hit with some pretty crushing disappointment. While I somewhat remember what it felt like, I don't exactly because how can you? You can't live with that everyday, you have to let it go and move - sideways, that ways, anyways - ideally, you want to move forward but it really doesn't matter what ways - you just need to move.
Because I write about things now, I reopened my gift of instant recall to take me back to how I felt at that time. I wanted to relive my memory of how it felt to really FAIL. (http://curiousyetdelicious.blogspot.ca/2012/08/fail.html)
That was absolutely me. I was sad and disappointed and handled this sadness & disappointment in typical fashion: I cloaked it in defensive humour and tried to forget about it. In truth, my audition wasn't that great. I had so much to learn. So, I put my head down and went to work. I lost some confidence along the way, I also lost some of the fun. I didn't give up. I wondered what I was doing. I questioned my motives, my supposed talent and desire. I sulked. I almost quit. Many times. But I didn't give up. I liked this too much. And slowly, along the way, I sort of got my groove back.
Armed with words of wisdom and encouragement, the best of which was "Who gives a fuck, just do it." Last Thursday, I put myself in that room again. Facing that panel which this time was stacked with four previous teachers. I mean, really? The Ghosts of Christmas Past meets American Idol? All I really wanted was for the general consensus to be an overall "huh. she's getting better." Really. That was it. I'm serious! Acknowledgement of improvement is the Holy Grail of compliments for me! Worst case scenario, I didn't want them all to think "wow. she's really wasting her time." But you can't think of any of that when it's your turn. You need to check all your bullshit at the door, clear your head, trust your instincts and be THERE for your scene partner. Even if your scene partner decides to be a guy with Tourette's. (I'm sorry. This was mean and I was really pissed and quite frankly, dude, you are not auditioning for Juilliard. Tourette's is not an offer. You. Fucking. Jerk. Ah, that felt better.). You also have to come up with some ideas and show you can make that pan sizzle. In the end, I was happy. It wasn't perfect, but in the grand scheme of things I felt pretty good. Walking out of that room, I thought - no joke - okay, if I don't get it this time it's okay. I gave 'er.
Well, of course my little Improv Fairytale reaches its epic finale with me getting in. I got the call yesterday and when I hung up the phone I sat in my office and cried. I was laughing and crying and my awesome Con Grad co-worker who is now a kick ass broker on Bay Street almost jumped over my desk to congratulate me and and now I know exactly what it will feel like to have Jon Hamm propose to me - I was so fucking happy you have no idea. I'm still so fucking happy you have no idea. Why? Because it's a big deal? Well, yeah, I guess. But more so because I didn't let my big fail get me down. I didn't recoil into my cave of rejection, quit Improv and take up Zumba. I stuck with it and it paid off. It's the beginning of a long hard road of hard work, but it paid off. I have a start and the knowledge that sometimes things work out. Sometimes you get what you want. Even me. Sometimes even I get what I want. I don't want to forget how I felt last year, though. I want to savour the memory of failure so I can remind myself that it's not the end. It only means as much as we let it. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off and GO. Fucking GO.
M is for Memory.
Not quite a year ago I was hit with some pretty crushing disappointment. While I somewhat remember what it felt like, I don't exactly because how can you? You can't live with that everyday, you have to let it go and move - sideways, that ways, anyways - ideally, you want to move forward but it really doesn't matter what ways - you just need to move.
Because I write about things now, I reopened my gift of instant recall to take me back to how I felt at that time. I wanted to relive my memory of how it felt to really FAIL. (http://curiousyetdelicious.blogspot.ca/2012/08/fail.html)
That was absolutely me. I was sad and disappointed and handled this sadness & disappointment in typical fashion: I cloaked it in defensive humour and tried to forget about it. In truth, my audition wasn't that great. I had so much to learn. So, I put my head down and went to work. I lost some confidence along the way, I also lost some of the fun. I didn't give up. I wondered what I was doing. I questioned my motives, my supposed talent and desire. I sulked. I almost quit. Many times. But I didn't give up. I liked this too much. And slowly, along the way, I sort of got my groove back.
Armed with words of wisdom and encouragement, the best of which was "Who gives a fuck, just do it." Last Thursday, I put myself in that room again. Facing that panel which this time was stacked with four previous teachers. I mean, really? The Ghosts of Christmas Past meets American Idol? All I really wanted was for the general consensus to be an overall "huh. she's getting better." Really. That was it. I'm serious! Acknowledgement of improvement is the Holy Grail of compliments for me! Worst case scenario, I didn't want them all to think "wow. she's really wasting her time." But you can't think of any of that when it's your turn. You need to check all your bullshit at the door, clear your head, trust your instincts and be THERE for your scene partner. Even if your scene partner decides to be a guy with Tourette's. (I'm sorry. This was mean and I was really pissed and quite frankly, dude, you are not auditioning for Juilliard. Tourette's is not an offer. You. Fucking. Jerk. Ah, that felt better.). You also have to come up with some ideas and show you can make that pan sizzle. In the end, I was happy. It wasn't perfect, but in the grand scheme of things I felt pretty good. Walking out of that room, I thought - no joke - okay, if I don't get it this time it's okay. I gave 'er.
Well, of course my little Improv Fairytale reaches its epic finale with me getting in. I got the call yesterday and when I hung up the phone I sat in my office and cried. I was laughing and crying and my awesome Con Grad co-worker who is now a kick ass broker on Bay Street almost jumped over my desk to congratulate me and and now I know exactly what it will feel like to have Jon Hamm propose to me - I was so fucking happy you have no idea. I'm still so fucking happy you have no idea. Why? Because it's a big deal? Well, yeah, I guess. But more so because I didn't let my big fail get me down. I didn't recoil into my cave of rejection, quit Improv and take up Zumba. I stuck with it and it paid off. It's the beginning of a long hard road of hard work, but it paid off. I have a start and the knowledge that sometimes things work out. Sometimes you get what you want. Even me. Sometimes even I get what I want. I don't want to forget how I felt last year, though. I want to savour the memory of failure so I can remind myself that it's not the end. It only means as much as we let it. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off and GO. Fucking GO.
M is for Memory.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
L is for ...
... Landslide.
A couple nights ago I went to see Fleetwood Mac at the ACC. We all know that I love concerts and I'm not so much a snob that I only see bands in small intimate venues. Big, huge concerts in spacious arenas may not be ideal, but for big musicians with big music and big personas it's almost preferred. While I'd love to see Springsteen or U2 now play Massey Hall (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?!) there's something about their anthemic music and the way they work a crowd that calls for a big huge venue. It's an event and the challenge is in the connection: can one be made between performer and audience in a way that doesn't feel phoned in? If you're a pro and you care and you've got the tunes the answer is a resounding hell yes.
We all have 'a song'. That song that no matter where you are or what you're doing, when you hear it you just stop and listen. Your mind goes elsewhere - to that place the song reminds you of - and you're emotional and, well, of course, you cry. It's that song. This song can mean a million things to a million people - this meaning may not even be what the song is actually about - but for you, it speaks its particular story and you are lost within in. I think that's the power of a great song; its ability to transcend meaning and morph into what you take it to mean for you. I'm not an expert - and I certainly have no musical talent or even very good ears - but I can feel things and I can get emotional and Jesus Christ everytime I hear Landslide I just break down and cry. Sometimes it's sobcrying. Sometimes it's simple flow crying. But always, always, there are tears. It's my song.
I'm sometimes concerned with how people will react to my public displays of crybaby, but generally my people are pretty good. Last year at Adele, C basically said that as long as I wasn't rolling on the floor in the fetal position she'd be fine. When I told my darling M before the Fleetwood concert that there would likely be tears, she took both my hands and said "and this is why I love you". I mean, how I keep winning the friend lottery is beyond me. In any case, two nights ago in a crowd of thousands, there was that connection of which I spoke - the tears flowed amidst the smiles, which is exactly what poignant memories should do. Memories evoked by song, whose meanings are whatever it is they are to you.
Here's Landslide. Go ahead, give it a little cry. I will always, always have tissues. Always.
L is for Landslide.
A couple nights ago I went to see Fleetwood Mac at the ACC. We all know that I love concerts and I'm not so much a snob that I only see bands in small intimate venues. Big, huge concerts in spacious arenas may not be ideal, but for big musicians with big music and big personas it's almost preferred. While I'd love to see Springsteen or U2 now play Massey Hall (CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?!) there's something about their anthemic music and the way they work a crowd that calls for a big huge venue. It's an event and the challenge is in the connection: can one be made between performer and audience in a way that doesn't feel phoned in? If you're a pro and you care and you've got the tunes the answer is a resounding hell yes.
We all have 'a song'. That song that no matter where you are or what you're doing, when you hear it you just stop and listen. Your mind goes elsewhere - to that place the song reminds you of - and you're emotional and, well, of course, you cry. It's that song. This song can mean a million things to a million people - this meaning may not even be what the song is actually about - but for you, it speaks its particular story and you are lost within in. I think that's the power of a great song; its ability to transcend meaning and morph into what you take it to mean for you. I'm not an expert - and I certainly have no musical talent or even very good ears - but I can feel things and I can get emotional and Jesus Christ everytime I hear Landslide I just break down and cry. Sometimes it's sobcrying. Sometimes it's simple flow crying. But always, always, there are tears. It's my song.
I'm sometimes concerned with how people will react to my public displays of crybaby, but generally my people are pretty good. Last year at Adele, C basically said that as long as I wasn't rolling on the floor in the fetal position she'd be fine. When I told my darling M before the Fleetwood concert that there would likely be tears, she took both my hands and said "and this is why I love you". I mean, how I keep winning the friend lottery is beyond me. In any case, two nights ago in a crowd of thousands, there was that connection of which I spoke - the tears flowed amidst the smiles, which is exactly what poignant memories should do. Memories evoked by song, whose meanings are whatever it is they are to you.
Here's Landslide. Go ahead, give it a little cry. I will always, always have tissues. Always.
L is for Landslide.
Friday, April 12, 2013
K is for ...
... Kingslayer.
Game of Thrones! (Spoiler alerts ahead.)
Do you love it or do you love it? I don't know many people that don't, but mind you I tend to hang with people that like all the same things I do so perhaps I am skewing my own data. In any event, Game of Thrones is gearing up for a stellar third season and I can't get enough. I'm coming at it new, never having read the books, by George R. R Martin, that the series is based on, and I started on it a bit late, tearing through Season One in about a week just before the Season Two premiere.
If I'm being honest, I did need a second take. I watched the Series Premiere and it confused the hell out of me. Everyone sort of looked the same. There were so many of them. It was always rather dark. Whose against who? I paid very close attention. I listened very carefully. I almost took notes. I thought I had it all figured out - who was who and all that, when in the last scene of this episode Jaime kisses Cersei and I'm like "WHAT?! How did I get them mixed up?! They are brother and sister! ???". I was mad I had lost the character set up - after all my concentration work - but in fact, Jaime and Cersei ARE brother and sister. That's Game of Thrones. Not since Flowers in the Attic has sibling incest been so mainstream! I thought I was punishing the show by not watching Season One 'live', but I was really punishing myself because like the show really cares.
Diving in fresh, nothing much changed - it's still super dark, everyone still looks the same (those beards! those cloaks!), those that don't look the same have similar sounding names (Tyrion, Tywin, what?!). As soon as I have someone down pat, they go off and get killed (I miss you, Gay King Renly!). I still don't know most of anyone's name and resort to "you know the guy in the cave married to that woman who had the smoke baby" descriptions. I'm only about 72% confident that I am following the story properly. But you know what? Who cares! As was proven in Episode One, Season One it's almost a waste of time to really, really know what's going on because BAM, just like that, it could all explode in an instant.
Any series that kills off its supposed main character in the first season has major balls. The sequence of Ned's beheading was one of the most brilliantly filmed scenes I've ever seen. It shocked you in more ways than one and put you on notice that anything could happen. And anything usually does. The storylines are accompanied by objects of fantasy - those glorious direwolves, scary smoke monsters, firebreathing dragons - but in the end it's the relationships between the characters and their attempts to find their place in the world that holds your attention. Tyrion's desire for fatherly acceptance, Jon Snow's desire for any type of acceptance, Robb's attempts to become his own man, Jaime's petulant sarcasm as he tries to break free of his notorious past - and that's just (some of) the boys! I want Arya to take over everything. I want Cersei to kill Joffrey (we know she's capable, having almost poisoned her other kid last season!) while Boobs (sorry, what is her name? Gay King Renly's widow?) watches! While I'm admittedly a bit tired of Mama Stark, I'm totally obsessed the Khalessi. So much so I often yell things like "WHERE ARE MY APPLES?" when I'm feeling a little lost but, alas, no one brings me any.
I have no idea what this season has in store for us - but, I hear from those that have read the books that I won't be happy. Well, okay, I can deal with that. I can deal with being shaken out of my television complacency by a show that takes chances and doesn't write plot points based on a popularity contest. I love the notion of throwing characters on screen that are far from perfect and do bad things without remorse - who want power simply for the sake of it and will bring anyone down who attempts to stop them. Of course it's cruel, cutting and ruthless but it's also brilliant storytelling, especially when we surprisingly find their pathos along the way. I personally can't wait to see how it all turns out. In a complete about turn of my own personality, I'm being patient with this one. I am NOT going to start ripping through the books! Not because I'm not curious, and not because I like waiting but because those books don't have that incredibly majestic theme song. Which, I'm quite comfortable falling in love with as it is likely the only sacred entity on this magnificent show.
K is for ... Kingslayer.
Game of Thrones! (Spoiler alerts ahead.)
Do you love it or do you love it? I don't know many people that don't, but mind you I tend to hang with people that like all the same things I do so perhaps I am skewing my own data. In any event, Game of Thrones is gearing up for a stellar third season and I can't get enough. I'm coming at it new, never having read the books, by George R. R Martin, that the series is based on, and I started on it a bit late, tearing through Season One in about a week just before the Season Two premiere.
If I'm being honest, I did need a second take. I watched the Series Premiere and it confused the hell out of me. Everyone sort of looked the same. There were so many of them. It was always rather dark. Whose against who? I paid very close attention. I listened very carefully. I almost took notes. I thought I had it all figured out - who was who and all that, when in the last scene of this episode Jaime kisses Cersei and I'm like "WHAT?! How did I get them mixed up?! They are brother and sister! ???". I was mad I had lost the character set up - after all my concentration work - but in fact, Jaime and Cersei ARE brother and sister. That's Game of Thrones. Not since Flowers in the Attic has sibling incest been so mainstream! I thought I was punishing the show by not watching Season One 'live', but I was really punishing myself because like the show really cares.
Diving in fresh, nothing much changed - it's still super dark, everyone still looks the same (those beards! those cloaks!), those that don't look the same have similar sounding names (Tyrion, Tywin, what?!). As soon as I have someone down pat, they go off and get killed (I miss you, Gay King Renly!). I still don't know most of anyone's name and resort to "you know the guy in the cave married to that woman who had the smoke baby" descriptions. I'm only about 72% confident that I am following the story properly. But you know what? Who cares! As was proven in Episode One, Season One it's almost a waste of time to really, really know what's going on because BAM, just like that, it could all explode in an instant.
Any series that kills off its supposed main character in the first season has major balls. The sequence of Ned's beheading was one of the most brilliantly filmed scenes I've ever seen. It shocked you in more ways than one and put you on notice that anything could happen. And anything usually does. The storylines are accompanied by objects of fantasy - those glorious direwolves, scary smoke monsters, firebreathing dragons - but in the end it's the relationships between the characters and their attempts to find their place in the world that holds your attention. Tyrion's desire for fatherly acceptance, Jon Snow's desire for any type of acceptance, Robb's attempts to become his own man, Jaime's petulant sarcasm as he tries to break free of his notorious past - and that's just (some of) the boys! I want Arya to take over everything. I want Cersei to kill Joffrey (we know she's capable, having almost poisoned her other kid last season!) while Boobs (sorry, what is her name? Gay King Renly's widow?) watches! While I'm admittedly a bit tired of Mama Stark, I'm totally obsessed the Khalessi. So much so I often yell things like "WHERE ARE MY APPLES?" when I'm feeling a little lost but, alas, no one brings me any.
I have no idea what this season has in store for us - but, I hear from those that have read the books that I won't be happy. Well, okay, I can deal with that. I can deal with being shaken out of my television complacency by a show that takes chances and doesn't write plot points based on a popularity contest. I love the notion of throwing characters on screen that are far from perfect and do bad things without remorse - who want power simply for the sake of it and will bring anyone down who attempts to stop them. Of course it's cruel, cutting and ruthless but it's also brilliant storytelling, especially when we surprisingly find their pathos along the way. I personally can't wait to see how it all turns out. In a complete about turn of my own personality, I'm being patient with this one. I am NOT going to start ripping through the books! Not because I'm not curious, and not because I like waiting but because those books don't have that incredibly majestic theme song. Which, I'm quite comfortable falling in love with as it is likely the only sacred entity on this magnificent show.
K is for ... Kingslayer.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
J is for ...
... Jerkface.
Remember back in the days when we were younger and dumber and couldn't say things like "dickhead" and "douchebag"? In those days we'd have to come up with equally awful epithets to bestow on the objects of our derision. Usually boys. Always boys.
Endowments like dummy, stupid moron, knucklehead and, my most favourite, jerkface.
Thinking on it now, the visual image of the word 'jerkface' is so strong it's hard to imagine anything but a complete recoil when uttered - it's the perfect Elaine Benes Dance Move + Gnarly Feet On Their Way to Naturalizer combination. It's ugly and assaulting from the inside out. It lets it be known - loud and proud - that dude, you are directly on your way to douchebag with a pit stop at dickhead. All you will be collecting along the way is scorn.
Nowadays, calling someone a jerkface doesn't seem so bad. It's a wholesome little "aw, shucks, golly, what a jerkface you are!", while cutely smushing ice cream in each other's faces fun time kind of thing. But no. Not for me, lovebugs. For me, jerkface is the first step on the road to dude-blivion.
Got that, Jerkface?*
J is for Jerkface.
*Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Or not.
Remember back in the days when we were younger and dumber and couldn't say things like "dickhead" and "douchebag"? In those days we'd have to come up with equally awful epithets to bestow on the objects of our derision. Usually boys. Always boys.
Endowments like dummy, stupid moron, knucklehead and, my most favourite, jerkface.
Thinking on it now, the visual image of the word 'jerkface' is so strong it's hard to imagine anything but a complete recoil when uttered - it's the perfect Elaine Benes Dance Move + Gnarly Feet On Their Way to Naturalizer combination. It's ugly and assaulting from the inside out. It lets it be known - loud and proud - that dude, you are directly on your way to douchebag with a pit stop at dickhead. All you will be collecting along the way is scorn.
Nowadays, calling someone a jerkface doesn't seem so bad. It's a wholesome little "aw, shucks, golly, what a jerkface you are!", while cutely smushing ice cream in each other's faces fun time kind of thing. But no. Not for me, lovebugs. For me, jerkface is the first step on the road to dude-blivion.
Got that, Jerkface?*
J is for Jerkface.
*Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Or not.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
I is for ...
... I'm back!
Well, I've never left but I did leave the Alphabet. I just sort of dumped it and now I want it back. I missed it. And you know what? The Alphabet is forgiving. The Alphabet took me back. It understood my need to chart other waters and realize what I was missing out on - The Alphabet is confident in itself. It didn't grovel or cry. It stood firm. It knew I was making a mistake of folly and waited, patiently, for me to do my thing and figure things out on my own. It knew I would come around. And I did. The Alphabet is one strong sucker. Can't say I would do the same thing. Not many would. But this Alphabet of mine? It's a keeper. I am excited to begin anew - just me & my Alphabet ... together until the end.
I is for I'm back.
Well, I've never left but I did leave the Alphabet. I just sort of dumped it and now I want it back. I missed it. And you know what? The Alphabet is forgiving. The Alphabet took me back. It understood my need to chart other waters and realize what I was missing out on - The Alphabet is confident in itself. It didn't grovel or cry. It stood firm. It knew I was making a mistake of folly and waited, patiently, for me to do my thing and figure things out on my own. It knew I would come around. And I did. The Alphabet is one strong sucker. Can't say I would do the same thing. Not many would. But this Alphabet of mine? It's a keeper. I am excited to begin anew - just me & my Alphabet ... together until the end.
I is for I'm back.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Adventures 2013 - Volume 4, So This Is What Happened - Part Two
Being outside your normal routine for a time soon has me feeling out of sorts. While I don't miss work, waking up at the crack of dawn or my laundry, I miss my patterns - my knowing that it's time for this or that. It's things as simple as the way my morning coffee guy confirms how I take my coffee everyday ("just milk, yeah?") which allow me to feel settled and calm. There's none of this on vacation, which I think is why I like to plan them to death - I need to insert my own sense of knowing into my adventures to instill that sense of calm.
This particular trip in that regard has been challenging. Aside from our hotels, one concert and one restaurant we have generally had no idea what we're doing. My natural inclination to freak out at this has waned substantially - we are being so well taken care of and I'm finding routine and pattern in people rather than things. Take for example The Glasses Family. We first happened on them at our hotel in Bilbao. Mom, Dad, Brother and Sister - tall, lean and blond, all but the sister with glasses. Andrea and I talked for hours about them. Does sister feel superior because she's the only one with perfect vision, or left out because she doesn't have glasses like everyone else? We saw them for breakfast at the hotel, for tea later in the afternoon and, much to our surprise, at the airport heading for Brussels. We gasped with glee as if it was a family reunion! THE GLASSES FAMILY! Going home to Brussels! With us! They had no idea who we were and I'm sure didn't give us a passing glance at any point during our random run - ins over the past couple of days, but that's the way it should be: no one should be watching professional people watchers! We're boring!
We lost The Glasses Family at the Brussels Airport (or, maybe, they finally lost us), but weren't sad for too long as we had another real-life family to meet: the Zadows!
My dear friend Matthew moved with his family to Brussels about six years ago. He's an opera singer and there's simply more work and training for him in & around Brussels - he's short train rides away from Antwerp, Paris, you name it. His wife, Maggie, is a teacher and their boys, Malcolm and Duncan are two of the most whip smart charmers you'd ever hope to lay your eyes on. We parachuted into their lives for two days and, again, let the natives take the lead.
The Zadows picked us up from our hotel in the late afternoon and we embarked on a stroll through the city that basically involved chocolate, beer, mussels, frites, gaufres a bit of history and plenty of laughs.
I often joke that I drink about two beers a year. Judging from my beer consumption in Brussels, I'm probably good for about a decade now - it's just that the beer doesn't taste like beer there. It tastes like delicious! Matthew did a great job choosing for my palate (black cherry!) and I wanted to try it all - light, strong, fruity, all of it! I'm a "when in Rome" type of person and Belgium is Beer. In fact, beer in Belgium is served in specific glasses and if the bar or restaurant does not have the right glass to serve what you ordered, they will either not serve it or apologize profusely. I can completely dig standards like that, so after many taste tests and very full bellies we head back to the hotel for much needed sleep and the anticipation of tomorrow.
To say I'm excited about going to Bruges is a massive understatement. I AM SO EXCITED TO GO TO BRUGES! The town has held a magical place in my mind well before the amazing 2008 film In Bruges, starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleason. Of course there's a small worry it won't live up to my expectations, but I calm myself down knowing that even if that happens there will be chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
We're picked up from the hotel by just the boys as Maggie is tutoring, and embark on our 40 minute train ride to Bruges. As we arrive, the weather is foggy, gray and almost mystical. It's as if we are on set of our own murder mystery movie.
Made complete with a 90s soundtrack:
And swans in love:
The day continues with whimsy just like this. Cobblestone streets, horse drawn carriages, boat rides, chocolate shops upon chocolate shops, beer, frites and a climb up the Belfry.
Bruges is a ridiculously charming place. The type of place that seems to only exist in movies or Disneyland. We now know that's not true - ridiculous charm exists in Belgium and its name is Bruges. We're off now, to the Zadows for dinner.
Ah, a comfortable sofa, neverending glasses of champagne, delicious food and glorious company. Did we mention Shaggy on the sound system? Why not! Everything rolls when you're open to it and I couldn't have imagined a more perfect final night.
And so, a trip that began with a casual sentence over dinner has come to an end and I can't say that my delays in posting about it weren't due to the fact I'm still in denial - I miss Alex and Raul and Uri and Adrian and Matthew and Maggie and Malcolm and Duncan and The Glasses Family and our anger management cab driver and laughing with Andrea everyday and eating loads of chocolate and pinxtos and drinking bottles of vodka with a squirt of lemon juice and beer. I miss drinking beer! I miss singing Debbie Gibson. I miss my holiday. And that's why we need them. To shake us up and out of our normal day - our routines - to see life fresh and new, when we're there and also when we're home. To make us fuller and richer in experience, so we can see that our ways aren't the only ways - it's a big world out there lovebugs, and it's up to us to explore it.
This particular trip in that regard has been challenging. Aside from our hotels, one concert and one restaurant we have generally had no idea what we're doing. My natural inclination to freak out at this has waned substantially - we are being so well taken care of and I'm finding routine and pattern in people rather than things. Take for example The Glasses Family. We first happened on them at our hotel in Bilbao. Mom, Dad, Brother and Sister - tall, lean and blond, all but the sister with glasses. Andrea and I talked for hours about them. Does sister feel superior because she's the only one with perfect vision, or left out because she doesn't have glasses like everyone else? We saw them for breakfast at the hotel, for tea later in the afternoon and, much to our surprise, at the airport heading for Brussels. We gasped with glee as if it was a family reunion! THE GLASSES FAMILY! Going home to Brussels! With us! They had no idea who we were and I'm sure didn't give us a passing glance at any point during our random run - ins over the past couple of days, but that's the way it should be: no one should be watching professional people watchers! We're boring!
We lost The Glasses Family at the Brussels Airport (or, maybe, they finally lost us), but weren't sad for too long as we had another real-life family to meet: the Zadows!
My dear friend Matthew moved with his family to Brussels about six years ago. He's an opera singer and there's simply more work and training for him in & around Brussels - he's short train rides away from Antwerp, Paris, you name it. His wife, Maggie, is a teacher and their boys, Malcolm and Duncan are two of the most whip smart charmers you'd ever hope to lay your eyes on. We parachuted into their lives for two days and, again, let the natives take the lead.
The Zadows picked us up from our hotel in the late afternoon and we embarked on a stroll through the city that basically involved chocolate, beer, mussels, frites, gaufres a bit of history and plenty of laughs.
I often joke that I drink about two beers a year. Judging from my beer consumption in Brussels, I'm probably good for about a decade now - it's just that the beer doesn't taste like beer there. It tastes like delicious! Matthew did a great job choosing for my palate (black cherry!) and I wanted to try it all - light, strong, fruity, all of it! I'm a "when in Rome" type of person and Belgium is Beer. In fact, beer in Belgium is served in specific glasses and if the bar or restaurant does not have the right glass to serve what you ordered, they will either not serve it or apologize profusely. I can completely dig standards like that, so after many taste tests and very full bellies we head back to the hotel for much needed sleep and the anticipation of tomorrow.
To say I'm excited about going to Bruges is a massive understatement. I AM SO EXCITED TO GO TO BRUGES! The town has held a magical place in my mind well before the amazing 2008 film In Bruges, starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleason. Of course there's a small worry it won't live up to my expectations, but I calm myself down knowing that even if that happens there will be chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
We're picked up from the hotel by just the boys as Maggie is tutoring, and embark on our 40 minute train ride to Bruges. As we arrive, the weather is foggy, gray and almost mystical. It's as if we are on set of our own murder mystery movie.
Made complete with a 90s soundtrack:
And swans in love:
The day continues with whimsy just like this. Cobblestone streets, horse drawn carriages, boat rides, chocolate shops upon chocolate shops, beer, frites and a climb up the Belfry.
Bruges is a ridiculously charming place. The type of place that seems to only exist in movies or Disneyland. We now know that's not true - ridiculous charm exists in Belgium and its name is Bruges. We're off now, to the Zadows for dinner.
Ah, a comfortable sofa, neverending glasses of champagne, delicious food and glorious company. Did we mention Shaggy on the sound system? Why not! Everything rolls when you're open to it and I couldn't have imagined a more perfect final night.
And so, a trip that began with a casual sentence over dinner has come to an end and I can't say that my delays in posting about it weren't due to the fact I'm still in denial - I miss Alex and Raul and Uri and Adrian and Matthew and Maggie and Malcolm and Duncan and The Glasses Family and our anger management cab driver and laughing with Andrea everyday and eating loads of chocolate and pinxtos and drinking bottles of vodka with a squirt of lemon juice and beer. I miss drinking beer! I miss singing Debbie Gibson. I miss my holiday. And that's why we need them. To shake us up and out of our normal day - our routines - to see life fresh and new, when we're there and also when we're home. To make us fuller and richer in experience, so we can see that our ways aren't the only ways - it's a big world out there lovebugs, and it's up to us to explore it.
Let's Go!
Monday, March 11, 2013
Adventures 2013 - Volume 4, So This Is What Happened - Part One
After a teary goodbye, Andrea and I hop on DE BUS, DE BUS, DE BUS (nevermind all non-San Sebastianites) for our ride to Bilbao.
Arriving in the city we have to slum it and do everything ourselves. Like hail a cab. And check in. We are not used to self-service vacations! Our boys have spoiled us hard!
Our home for the next two nights is the Hotel Miro, which is conveniently located right across the street from the Guggenheim. The location obviously can't be beat and we suppose the European chic decor and full on complimentary breakfast will be adequate enough for our newly honed Maria Cristina luxury palates. Our first goal upon check in is to get a map as we'll actually need one here.
After a bit of downtime and freshening up, we take to the streets (well, the street) and hit the Guggenheim (The Goog). Our plan for tonight is simple: take copious amounts of photos of The Goog outdoors, eat something, drink a little and head to a concert.
The outer facade of The Goog is an iconic image of architectural wizardry. You look at it in photos and wonder how it's possible. I stared at it up close and wondered the same thing. Steel curved so delicately, without a brick to be seen, it takes conventions of traditional building and turns them topsy turvy. The museum is set back from the street in perfect proportion (unlike our own ROM) so we are able to take it in from afar in perspective, slowly walking closer to gain full appreciation of the intricacies of this gorgeous building.
We wet our appetites just enough literally and figuratively but can only look after one at the moment - food! The inside of The Goog will have to wait until tomorrow. After a quick pit stop of (by this point boringly delicious) beer and pintxos we're off again for our evening's main event.
I find it's always a treat to see a known performer in a foreign city. It somehow makes the world a little smaller knowing that people are humming and singing the same tune miles and oceans away from you, and here you are, with them, humming and singing together. Through the all knowing power of the Internet, we learned Glen Hansard was performing in Bilbao while we were there - a perfect must do. For those not familiar, Glen Hansard is an Irish songwriter who gained notoriety in the early 2000's for the movie Once. He, along with his songwriting partner, Marketa Irglova, wrote much of the music for the movie and also starred in it. The hallmark song from the film, "Falling Slowly", won the duo an Academy Award and the film has now been staged on Broadway to high praise and many Tonys. In truth, I think Glen's a bit of a dick. He didn't have many positive things to say about the Broadway adaptation until it was a critical and box office smash and in the ultimate dick-move of all time, he cut off poor Marketa during their Oscar acceptance speech before she had a chance to say anything. Are you kidding me?! Can you even imagine?! I would have clocked the guy with my Oscar right then and there OR said nothing and sulked about it very passive - aggressively for eons afterwards. (What do you think? Probably B, right?). It all turned out okay for Marketa, though, because Jon Stewart, hosting that year, felt so badly for her that HE CALLED HER BACK ONSTAGE AFTER THE COMMERCIAL BREAK, allowing her to say a few words of thanks! Do you love that? This is unheard of! Marketa & Glen aren't together anymore (surprise!) and Jon Stewart has taken his rightful place in my heart as love of my life. Anyway, Glen's playing in Bilbao at the Cafe Antzokia, a small room within a larger cultural complex, full of character and old world charm which means that if it wasn't in a European city it would be a little dumpy. That said, it's a very small, intimate venue perfectly suited for a guy and his guitar.
For all my thoughts of dick-Glen, I will say he's a raw performer. The concert was simply amazing - Glen killed it for 3 hours, introducing each song with Irish flair and humour. He even came right into the crowd and balcony with his guitar, cheering us all on in sing-a-long. It was clear he was having just as much fun as we all were. I have been known to hold a grudge and that Oscar faux-pas will not be forgotten by me, but I will put this one down in the books as one of the best shows I've ever seen. I'm fair like that.
It's late now, concert over - our eyes are teary and hearts full. My feet, however, have had it. I made a really stupid shoe selection when getting ready and after a city walk plus 5 hours of concert standing, I am officially raising the white flag. Even though we could get back to the hotel within 20 minutes by foot, I can't do it - we need a cab. In most large metropolitan centres this isn't much of a challenge, but for some reason at this time of night (morning) in Bilbao we are having a really hard time. I'm almost ready to walk home in my socks but Andrea saves the day, flags one down and off we go, but not without an adventure of another sort. We get in the cab, shut the doors and our cab driver begins to yell at us. We can't figure out why - because he's yelling in Spanish - but slowly manage to figure out that he's yelling because he feels we shut the doors too hard. This, of course, is hysterical - dude, look at us: Do you really think we can break your car?! We spent the next 10 minutes laughing and thinking of ways not to anger him further upon drop off - do we leave the doors open? ask our concierge for cotton batting to protect the delicate frame of this precious automobile? In the end, we were as gentle as possible and laughed all the way upstairs, Amazon women that we are. This was the best Valentine's Day I've had in years.
Friday morning came a little too quickly, and it wasn't necessarily welcome. It seems the weather has finally gotten the best of us - Andrea hasn't slept, I'm feeling out of sorts. We decide to partake in the hotel's breakfast spread, Andrea will come back to sleep, I'll meander and we'll regroup later for The Goog. After breakfast, we come back to the room, me for only a pit stop which turned into a two hour nap. I finally wake and manage to get myself all the way to the hotel bar for loads of tea and book reading. After a few more hours, we make it to The Goog. Aren't vacations grand?
Admittedly I'm not much of an art connoisseur. I suppose I like what I like but I'm not really sure what that is - I like sketches and watercolours and sculpture and photography but I don't really get the 'modern' stuff. Installations of rocks? Damien Hirst? Jackson Pollack? I just don't know - it seems a bit too self congratulatory for me, like 'look at how deep and intellectual I am that I can see meaning and symbolism in a red dot'. Take me to the Monets please! Because of this, the inside of The Goog didn't really do it for me which is totally fine because when the building that houses your art is art itself, you take care of art-neophytes like myself. Thank you, Goog!
As we're wandering around trying to make sense of it all we see a sign. No, no - an actual sign. The sign details information of something called 'Guggenheim After Dark', an after hours party held at The Goog with real 'put the needle on the record' DJs and drinks and dancing. It's happening tonight. What are the chances? We're in! This is a perfect happy accident situation that can only happen on vacation maybe once a decade (Two years ago, U2 was playing a concert in Athens the day my ship was literally sailing to Turkey. Is it still missing the boat when you didn't want to be on that boat? In any event, I know from bad vacation luck.) It also helped that we had nothing on the agenda aside from 'let's eat and listen to live music' (note to self: it's okay not to plan everything! bad things won't happen!).
Armed with the prospect of yet another fantastic night, we venture off to our most favourite thing: the funicular! Two cities, two funiculars, two wild and crazy girls ready for adventure and photo ops. Love, Love, Love. At 0.95 euros a piece the Bilbao funicular is the deal of the trip - the breathtaking views of city were expected, the roller figure skating practice, was not.
High atop the Artxanda Mountain, we gained a lovely perspective of the city. Bilbao is rather small in comparison to other European cities of its stature, and in fact is actually the 10th largest city in Spain with a population of 360,000. I suppose the notoriety of The Goog had vaulted it in my own mind to something larger which is often the case when you read, talk, imagine something. The new and old part of the city is separated by the Nervion River and a full walk along this path (which we will do in short order) only takes about 20 minutes. It's on the mountain that I become fully amazed at the power of my new camera's zoom - I'm certain I could have taken these photos of The Goog from Portugal, the zoom is that amazing!
The roller figure skating practice, in our opinion, lacked flair and requisite jumping. With a language barrier to deal with, we decide to let the fellas figure it out for themselves - and hopefully before it's too late! - and we walk back to the hotel on the shoreline path and then the Gran Via, aka The Main Drag. We poke into some shops and stop for some delicious hot cocoa before tucking in for a much needed nap.
Our evening at The Goog was one of those nights we'll never forget. At least we better not considering I deleted all our photos. You see, there are a few things you should NEVER do when getting home very, very late after drinking many, many drinks. Tops on that list for me is anything to do with technology. You can get into all sorts of trouble this way. We may not be able to look nostalgically at how awesome we looked that night (very), or how nutty we were sneaking photos in non-photo areas (Very) or how completely cool the whole thing was (VERY) but if we make a vow to talk about it as much as possible we will never forget it! Sadly, the Goog After Dark, will have to actually be that way.
We did learn definitively that night that no one makes a mixed cocktail like the Spaniards. Wine and beer is extremely inexpensive in Spain (much like most of Europe) but spirits are not. And they are not because one solitary vodka con limone is actually half a bottle of vodka with some lemon pop and two ice cubes. How efficient! I tried to replicate this when back home and almost gave Andrea alcohol poisoning. Oh well, some things are just better on vacation. Armed with the fortitude that only this amount of vodka can provide, Andrea struck up a conversation with a lonely lovely- looking fellow who turned out to be a self-possessed jerk. Some things don't change on vacation ( This is a story best saved for in person as it involves accents and attitude. Please remind me to tell you!). We danced and laughed and people watched and stumbled back to the hotel, conveniently located ACROSS THE STREET.
With respect to Dinos After Dark, or whatever the ROM is calling their similar event (which, ironically, I could also stumble home from), you are no Goog. Maybe because Toronto is no Bilbao, or because no one in Spain has an attitude. I'm actually coming to think that the attitude of which I speak doesn't exist anywhere else but Toronto. Everyone seems too cool for school at home - there is a seriousness to fun in Toronto which is absurd. It smacks of effort. Not caring to the point of overwrought indifference is, ironically, caring too much. In Spain, where we met the coolest guys in the world who unapologetically rock out to Debbie Gibson, we saw first hand what it's like to just do what makes you happy and take whoever wants to go along for the ride. I am always ready for that ride, my friends.
After deleting the photos (I feel less bad about it if I say it matter of factly, but seriously, I am a moron when left unattended and I DO feel really, really terrible about it) we need to hit the sack, for tomorrow ... we venture to Belgium!
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