From the opening ceremonies: The Industrial Revolution created mass poverty which forced people to eat coal and that rotted their teeth so the UK gov't had to invent free dental care
From watching NBC coverage: The Olympics is a series of athletic events in which a bunch of American compete ... and there are some other people who hang around too
From watching CBC coverage: It's not the medals that count, but the effort but gosh wouldn't a medal be oh so wonderful. To the point that we will claim a medal for Canada any way we can, even if the athlete in question is not Canadian. Oh look, this Korean athlete's grandfather once looked at a picture of a Newfoundland moose ... he must be Canadian!
The Olympics is all about the pure celebration of athletic achievement ... as long as it can be measured. Here are some of the many ways we measure and qualify the beauty and sanctity of human striving:
1) Medals. You are nothing at all if you don't win a medal. Really, it's all about (as it often is) gold. If you don't get the gold then you weren't trying hard enough or you didn't train hard enough of someone else cheated. There are other medals but really they don't mean much. Unless you are a Canadian. Bronze, I think, is the colour of Canada
2) Whining. This should be an official Olympic event. It's an athletic form of a very high order. Athletes whine, coaches whine, the media whines, governments whine ... Oh it's all about all these countries competing together .. long as we get that gold. Then we whine
The podium at the end of the games for Whining will be very crowded.
3) How many ways can you hide the fact that it's all about money. This is another important and complex Olympic event. How to disguisse the fact that these games only exist to generate profit it a essentially a martial art; think ninjas. There are so many "official" products of the Olympic games I think there are more corporations than countries participating. Some athletes are registering official complaints that they can't wear the logos of their sponsors as they compete .. Crap how on earth can they make money on this without the proper TV exposure.
No one even blinks that these amateur athletes have sponsors
Other random stuff I'm learning:
Make up. The Olympics is all about make up, at least for female gymnasts. Apparently a girl can't keep her balance on that thin beam without eye shadow and glitter in her hair. I learned that make up was important while watching a girl compete and the commentator informed me: "It's all in here eyes isn't it, she's put on a colour that matches her leotard .."
Equality. Some Official High Seated Doofus of the Olympics celebrated that fact that for the first time, every participating country has sent at least one female athlete. Yay. Equality, everyone's coming around. No one has questioned how these women were selected, how much choice they were given, why they have male "handlers" whose job seems to be to glare at any other male who may glance their way, how the woman is being presented by her home nation (often as a whore, for doing what men are clearly only meant to do) or what happens when the woman returns home. Or whether any female from these countries will ever enjoy this privilidge in her own country. Yay. Equality.
Numbers. Yup, it's all about the numbers. How fast, how high, how heavy .. how many medals. And how many events. This may be another unlisted Olympic event: How many events can we shoe horn into 2 weeks. There are a ridiculous number of events at the Olympics. Still, I think they've missed a few.
So, some events that could have been in the Olympics:
1) Coupon cutting. An athletic endeavour that tests your physical prowess (dude, that scissor work ain't easy); your strategy (do you cut coupons for 100 mini size tubes of toothpaste or 70 jumbo size)
2) Cat bowling. Not cats throwing balls, don't be silly. I mean bowling with cats. I'd suggest going with a Persian, they have lots of fur and should ball up nicely. Replace traditional pins with mice, a cat may enjoy knocking over a mouse
3) Boxing. I know we already have boxing in the Olympics but I don't mean pugilism. I mean seeing how quickly a homeless person can make himself a house out of a cardboard box. After London is heavily indebted from hosting these games and private companies claim all the new venues for basically nothing, this kind of boxing may become a much needed and practised athletic endeavour
4) Waving. Waving is big at the Olympics. Just count how many times people wave. Athletes wave tot he crowd, to the camera, to each other. People in the stands wave to the athletes and to the cameras. Coaches wave to the judges ... with a special one finger wave it would seem
Gosh, so little time so much to learn. Let me get back to it. Then I need to work out. Thirty reps of whining followed by a vigorous low impact waving session
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
IS THAT A SULTAN IN YOUR TENT ...
The other night, in recognition of a certain celebration that will earn its own post later on, Collette decided to surprise me with a "dinner and a show" Now we have lived in this city a long time and of course we have not seen everything we have not been to every restaurant .. that would be impossible, like figuring out exactly what the big bang was or what the hell Dolly Parton puts in her hair.
Still, a dinner and a show ... Dinner is one thing and a show is another, we go to restaurants and we go to the theatre but rarely are the twain combined. Neither one of us are partial to the Dinner Theatre that populate the airport strip, not to be confused with the adult joints where you can get a cheap buffet and entertainment of an entirely different sort. I'm referring to the places where you can watch Adrienne Barbeau and Tom Wopat belt out the newly penned score to the musical version of Death of a Salesman, the Romantic Comedy.
The mystery was soon resolved as we made our way along Front Street towards St. Lawrence Market: Collette was taking me to The Sultan's Tent. This is a venerable institution in Toronto, it has been here in one location or another as long as I can remember; though I have never been.
I haven't had much Moroccan food; I am sure that in Toronto there are more authentic places to eat it but this seemed like a fine place to start. The restaurant oozes ambience: The large dining room is divided into smaller sections by wooden Arabic arches, there are lanterns and candles and we sat on a couch with so many pillows you could stack them to the Moon and call it the Canadian space program
Of course sometimes you can have too much ambience. In the candlelight reading the menu became a mystery in its own right. In the candlelight I wasn't sure if I was ordering hummus, a large military vehicle or something one should not buy in the presence of one's spouse.
Think about it
The food was fine. You order from a fixed menu with four courses. We had a few Moroccan style dishes, including a tomato based soup, frog legs, some sort of meat stuffed into phyllo and these little airy cookies that melted on your tongue.
There was also the ubiquitous mint tea which must be poured into your little glass from over the servers head. The waiters were quite proficient at this; I know if I attempted the same thing I would be screaming out words that were anything but Moroccan
As entertaining as the waiters were, they were not the show that is featured at Sultan's Tent. That show would involve a lovely young woman, veils, bells and a gyrating example of the female anatomy. That would all mean: Belly dancing
I've seen belly dancing before. I've actually seen quite a bit of it. In my previous incarnation as a wedding video dude I edited many receptions that featured belly dancing as the entertainment. For your typical white bread couple, the belly dancers were just that, an entertainment that you sat and watched. For the ethnic weddings the belly dancing was something different; the dancer did not just put on a show, she engaged the entire crowd by pulling people up on to the dance floor with her and bascially starting the party.
The same was true here. The dancer came out and did a couple of numbers on her own but she also encouraged customers to get up and dance with her. She was very good at teaching people some basic moves and by doing so, was able to break down any nervousness. She was able to encourage several women and a couple of guys to get up and dance with her.
She was quite good at her art, combining sensuality with lyricism with admirable athletic ability. I found myself watching the fluid motion of her hands and the precise placement of her feet as much I did the rest of her body
All in all it was a lovely night. After all these years Collette was able to find me something new to do which included food, wine, reclining on cushions and belly dancing. Dinner and a show indeed.
Still, a dinner and a show ... Dinner is one thing and a show is another, we go to restaurants and we go to the theatre but rarely are the twain combined. Neither one of us are partial to the Dinner Theatre that populate the airport strip, not to be confused with the adult joints where you can get a cheap buffet and entertainment of an entirely different sort. I'm referring to the places where you can watch Adrienne Barbeau and Tom Wopat belt out the newly penned score to the musical version of Death of a Salesman, the Romantic Comedy.
The mystery was soon resolved as we made our way along Front Street towards St. Lawrence Market: Collette was taking me to The Sultan's Tent. This is a venerable institution in Toronto, it has been here in one location or another as long as I can remember; though I have never been.
I haven't had much Moroccan food; I am sure that in Toronto there are more authentic places to eat it but this seemed like a fine place to start. The restaurant oozes ambience: The large dining room is divided into smaller sections by wooden Arabic arches, there are lanterns and candles and we sat on a couch with so many pillows you could stack them to the Moon and call it the Canadian space program
Of course sometimes you can have too much ambience. In the candlelight reading the menu became a mystery in its own right. In the candlelight I wasn't sure if I was ordering hummus, a large military vehicle or something one should not buy in the presence of one's spouse.
Think about it
The food was fine. You order from a fixed menu with four courses. We had a few Moroccan style dishes, including a tomato based soup, frog legs, some sort of meat stuffed into phyllo and these little airy cookies that melted on your tongue.
There was also the ubiquitous mint tea which must be poured into your little glass from over the servers head. The waiters were quite proficient at this; I know if I attempted the same thing I would be screaming out words that were anything but Moroccan
As entertaining as the waiters were, they were not the show that is featured at Sultan's Tent. That show would involve a lovely young woman, veils, bells and a gyrating example of the female anatomy. That would all mean: Belly dancing
I've seen belly dancing before. I've actually seen quite a bit of it. In my previous incarnation as a wedding video dude I edited many receptions that featured belly dancing as the entertainment. For your typical white bread couple, the belly dancers were just that, an entertainment that you sat and watched. For the ethnic weddings the belly dancing was something different; the dancer did not just put on a show, she engaged the entire crowd by pulling people up on to the dance floor with her and bascially starting the party.
The same was true here. The dancer came out and did a couple of numbers on her own but she also encouraged customers to get up and dance with her. She was very good at teaching people some basic moves and by doing so, was able to break down any nervousness. She was able to encourage several women and a couple of guys to get up and dance with her.
She was quite good at her art, combining sensuality with lyricism with admirable athletic ability. I found myself watching the fluid motion of her hands and the precise placement of her feet as much I did the rest of her body
All in all it was a lovely night. After all these years Collette was able to find me something new to do which included food, wine, reclining on cushions and belly dancing. Dinner and a show indeed.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
LEMOINE POINT, KINGSTON ONTARIO
This is where you come to not be some place else.
This where you come to not be driving, working, thinking ... doing.
Quiet here: the first impression. Only quiet because you've left other sounds behind. The din of the city, the hum of your life. But not really quiet, not silent: Alive. With Sounds.
The sigh of wind through high grass. The susurrus of water against shore. The breathy laugh of the breeze in the leaves. The splash of the dog's legs as she moves through the water.
The wind really is like breath. You can hear it better here, you can feel it, somehow it's easier to draw that breath into your own lungs and hold it there, let it mix with your own air and when you exhale, your breath is different. You are different. The wind is part of you. You are part of the wind. You are quieted.
Water has its own language. Ancient, complex, a variety of accents. Oceans have their own dialect; slow and basso profundo and stately yet prone to sudden fits of anger. Rivers understand this dialect as they travel the world and they translate for the lakes that speak a rural patois; lively and quick and continually developing.
We understand these languages. We do. On a deep level an ancient level somewhere deep inside us. Lay down when it is very quiet and become very still and you will hear the echoes of the water language: It is the movement of the blood under your skin.
It is why we are drawn to water.
Water speaks in this place. And the wind in the fur of the dog and the sun on your bare shoulders and the dry whispering of the high grasses.
This is not we normally are. This is away. This is the real quiet.
It's why we come here.
The dog splashes through the water and pauses suddenly, one paw lifted; she raises her muzzle and puts her nose into the wind. Something sweeps through the fur on her face.
She closes her eyes.
And she smiles.
This where you come to not be driving, working, thinking ... doing.
Quiet here: the first impression. Only quiet because you've left other sounds behind. The din of the city, the hum of your life. But not really quiet, not silent: Alive. With Sounds.
The sigh of wind through high grass. The susurrus of water against shore. The breathy laugh of the breeze in the leaves. The splash of the dog's legs as she moves through the water.
The wind really is like breath. You can hear it better here, you can feel it, somehow it's easier to draw that breath into your own lungs and hold it there, let it mix with your own air and when you exhale, your breath is different. You are different. The wind is part of you. You are part of the wind. You are quieted.
Water has its own language. Ancient, complex, a variety of accents. Oceans have their own dialect; slow and basso profundo and stately yet prone to sudden fits of anger. Rivers understand this dialect as they travel the world and they translate for the lakes that speak a rural patois; lively and quick and continually developing.
We understand these languages. We do. On a deep level an ancient level somewhere deep inside us. Lay down when it is very quiet and become very still and you will hear the echoes of the water language: It is the movement of the blood under your skin.
It is why we are drawn to water.
Water speaks in this place. And the wind in the fur of the dog and the sun on your bare shoulders and the dry whispering of the high grasses.
This is not we normally are. This is away. This is the real quiet.
It's why we come here.
The dog splashes through the water and pauses suddenly, one paw lifted; she raises her muzzle and puts her nose into the wind. Something sweeps through the fur on her face.
She closes her eyes.
And she smiles.
Friday, July 20, 2012
LONG JOHN AND RITA: AIN'T NUTHIN BUT THE BLUES
Joni Mitchell sang You don't know what you got till it's gone ...
And sometimes you don't know you've experienced something special until long after it's occurred. You may enjoy it at the time but the passage of time may grant the event something special.
Recently I was clawing through some old tapes that I'd shot (if there is a new tsunami in the next couple of days, well that may be on me, a lot of tapes fell over .. oops). Once upon a time I worked as a video production assistant and part of my duties involved logging tapes. Some habits that you carry through the years are good. Some habits are bad ... Apparently pruning your toe nails on a public bus with a machete is considered a bad habit.
At any rate, as I called in a Mt Everest team to rescue me from the mountain of tapes, I found one with a label that intrigued me: Harbourfront Blues Festival, 1996. Once upon a time here in the Republic of Toronto, the city used to hold a free blues festival down at the waterfront. The venue has since changed but Collette and I saw many great musicians there; Magic Slim, Big Bill Morganfield (Muddy Water's son), Zakiya Hooker (John Lee's Daughter), Lucky Peterson and many more.
The venue is an outdoor amphitheatre with the harbour at your back, a lovely place to watch some blues. This particular concert in July featured local band Fathead, guitar legend Duke Robilard and two of our favorite musicians: Toronto singer/songwriter Rita Chiarelli
and British blues/soul legend Long John Baldry.
I'd seen Baldry before but if my memory is correct (and my memory is prefect ..um .. what was I saying) this was the first time I'd seen Rita. Or second time. Whatever. In the intervening years Collette and I have seen Rita many times.
We would see John only one other time; it was at Jeff Healy's original bar on Bathurst Street and it was the year that John would die. Ironically, and bitterly, Jeff has also since left us.
During this concert each performer did a solo set then they played together for one song, or two songs at the same time ... you'll get the drift. They were not unknown to each other. In the year of this concert John would record Rita's song Midnight in Berlin.
I'm not sure how many times they actually played together. John lived in a Canada a long time, mostly on the west coast and Rita is a Toronto girl. But they're blues players and we all know how the blues players do like to ramble a bit.
Lord-dee.
At any rate, this was a special performance from two players who not only love and understand the blues but can flat out play. During John's long career he travelled from blues to soul to pop to rock. Rita has worked in blues, in rock and even recorded an album of traditional Italian music. But on stage together, along with Rita's long time sideman Papa John King, it was clear what music they would play.
I thought I'd share it with you. In addition to the incredible playing, at the beginning of the song you will see a small sample of Baldry's famous, or infamous, skills as a raconteur.
A note about the video. This was 1996 people; there was still brown in my beard, Gigs was still our dog and there was something used by videographers called video tape. I shot this on S-VHS-C, which is compact S-VHS at the back of an outdoor theatre with the Toronto harbour at my back.
It's not perfect, suck it up.
And enjoy what has become, something very special.
And sometimes you don't know you've experienced something special until long after it's occurred. You may enjoy it at the time but the passage of time may grant the event something special.
Recently I was clawing through some old tapes that I'd shot (if there is a new tsunami in the next couple of days, well that may be on me, a lot of tapes fell over .. oops). Once upon a time I worked as a video production assistant and part of my duties involved logging tapes. Some habits that you carry through the years are good. Some habits are bad ... Apparently pruning your toe nails on a public bus with a machete is considered a bad habit.
At any rate, as I called in a Mt Everest team to rescue me from the mountain of tapes, I found one with a label that intrigued me: Harbourfront Blues Festival, 1996. Once upon a time here in the Republic of Toronto, the city used to hold a free blues festival down at the waterfront. The venue has since changed but Collette and I saw many great musicians there; Magic Slim, Big Bill Morganfield (Muddy Water's son), Zakiya Hooker (John Lee's Daughter), Lucky Peterson and many more.
The venue is an outdoor amphitheatre with the harbour at your back, a lovely place to watch some blues. This particular concert in July featured local band Fathead, guitar legend Duke Robilard and two of our favorite musicians: Toronto singer/songwriter Rita Chiarelli
and British blues/soul legend Long John Baldry.
I'd seen Baldry before but if my memory is correct (and my memory is prefect ..um .. what was I saying) this was the first time I'd seen Rita. Or second time. Whatever. In the intervening years Collette and I have seen Rita many times.
We would see John only one other time; it was at Jeff Healy's original bar on Bathurst Street and it was the year that John would die. Ironically, and bitterly, Jeff has also since left us.
During this concert each performer did a solo set then they played together for one song, or two songs at the same time ... you'll get the drift. They were not unknown to each other. In the year of this concert John would record Rita's song Midnight in Berlin.
I'm not sure how many times they actually played together. John lived in a Canada a long time, mostly on the west coast and Rita is a Toronto girl. But they're blues players and we all know how the blues players do like to ramble a bit.
Lord-dee.
At any rate, this was a special performance from two players who not only love and understand the blues but can flat out play. During John's long career he travelled from blues to soul to pop to rock. Rita has worked in blues, in rock and even recorded an album of traditional Italian music. But on stage together, along with Rita's long time sideman Papa John King, it was clear what music they would play.
I thought I'd share it with you. In addition to the incredible playing, at the beginning of the song you will see a small sample of Baldry's famous, or infamous, skills as a raconteur.
A note about the video. This was 1996 people; there was still brown in my beard, Gigs was still our dog and there was something used by videographers called video tape. I shot this on S-VHS-C, which is compact S-VHS at the back of an outdoor theatre with the Toronto harbour at my back.
It's not perfect, suck it up.
And enjoy what has become, something very special.
Monday, July 2, 2012
I recently spent a couple of days in my hometown of Kingston, Ontario. This is a beautiful small city on Lake Ontario. It is blessed with many historical buildings and a downtown that in summer, is quite lively.
I decided to take a stroll on the waterfront with its parks, it's limestone buildings and its hundreds of year old fortifications. One always expects to see some wildlife here: Gulls, ducks, squirrels but I came upon a most peculiar creature.
Is this Kingston's lake monster? It was black and white like an Orca but much too small and far too hairy. It was comfortable in the water but it was apparently air breathing. What strange sort of sea creature/mammal was this.
I'll let you decide.
A note about the music. This is a song by Tab Benoit, cajun rock god. How is cajun music appropriate for this video? Well, it is southern Ontario ...
Shut up. Enjoy the video
I decided to take a stroll on the waterfront with its parks, it's limestone buildings and its hundreds of year old fortifications. One always expects to see some wildlife here: Gulls, ducks, squirrels but I came upon a most peculiar creature.
Is this Kingston's lake monster? It was black and white like an Orca but much too small and far too hairy. It was comfortable in the water but it was apparently air breathing. What strange sort of sea creature/mammal was this.
I'll let you decide.
A note about the music. This is a song by Tab Benoit, cajun rock god. How is cajun music appropriate for this video? Well, it is southern Ontario ...
Shut up. Enjoy the video
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