Cosmic justice. That's the only way I can describe my turn of misfortune. What else could it be that prevents me from going to the Sloan show that I've been anticipating for weeks because of a raging fever? Shelling out $50 for two tickets doesn't really bother me, but to become gravely ill a mere two hours before showtime strikes me as some form of cosmic justice meted out by the universe. Was it something I said? Should I have given that homeless man some change instead of walking by, should I have complimented a co-worker for their diligence and hard work? Should I have picked up Amanda's litter last week instead of leaving it to blow onto the street? Perhaps I shall never know, but if Sloan announces a dissolution shortly after their tour, I'm going to be unimpressed. Justice served? Not bloody likely.

Amanda and I saw Scott Thompson's Scottastrophe, a comedy/Power Point presentation on Friday and it was quite funny. His anecdotes of guest-starring on Star Trek: Voyager and Touched By an Angel were standouts. Amanda had Scott autograph her newly-purchased Scottastrophe t-shirt and I simply shook his hand and thanked him for a good show. The rest of the weekend was spent running errands, cooking dinner, watching Thank You for Smoking (an amusing but slight "black" comedy), checking CFL and NHL highlights (Saskatchewan beats Montreal with a last-play field goal to secure a playoff spot!) and finishing the first season of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. And now you have my complete weekend itinerary.

Yeah, I passed over Scorsese's The Departed in order to see Trailer Park Boys before Thanksgiving dinner on Sunday. I'm told I should hand in my film aficionado card because of this unconscionable act. I'll see the much-ballyhooed film this weekend, though I also have to catch The Science of Sleep and Scott Thompson's comedy show on Friday.

Oh and about Trailer Park Boys: it's really quite funny and well-shot for 16mm. Series creator Mike Clattenburg has done a good job making a film that still respects its no-budget TV roots yet is visually interesting enough for the casual filmgoer and hardcore fan. The subtle references to other Canadian films and a tracking shot that pays hommage to Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange are great fun and clever too. I love Jim Lahey's "shit" rants and Ricky's malapropisms are always memorably stupid. And it's earned over $1.5 million in its first weekend, a record for a Canadian film (and no. 11 at the North American box office, no mere feat for a Canadian film on only 181 screens). Hopefully Trailer Park Boys can topple Bon Cop, Bad Cop as the highest-grossing Canadian film ever. Now that would be greasy!

Goodfellas and Good Burger, two films with little in common, yet both share the word "good" in their respective titles. I chatted to a co-worker today about Martin Scorsese's upcoming The Departed, a film both of us have been eagerly awaiting since the first trailer was shown online. A brief retrospection of his earlier masterpieces began and, as we praised Goodfellas, another co-worker exclaimed that "Good Burger is the shit." Not just shit, but the shit. We sat stunned, looked at each other for a moment and then burst with laughter. I explained that one film was a violent, complex history of a particular mob crew while the other was a Nickelodeon family film.
Nevertheless the co-worker, a likeable though somewhat young and naïve man, continued to praise Good Burger. I asked him to write me a two-page essay articulating just what exactly he finds so compelling about Good Burger, so perhaps he can convince me with an impassioned and witty review.

I can picture Martin Scorsese being interviewed by this earnest young lad and asked about the parallels between Goodfellas and Good Burger: an interview that ends abruptly with an angry Scorsese spitting on the clueless interviewer, cursing him in Italian.

I'm constantly amazed at the wealth of material I cull from my daily experiences at work for my writing.

James Muretich, former Calgary Herald music critic, died last week from brain cancer; he was only 54. Muretich was an excellent writer and a passionate critic who praised every music genre known to humanity, especially punk and the burgeoning "alternative" genre. I read the Herald everyday for most of the Nineties and his columns were always highlights. No mere feat in a time when I read NME, Melody Maker, Rolling Stone, Spin and the incomparable Ray Gun. Muretich helped turn me on to Pavement, especially after I read a glowing review of their Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain album.

He also championed Calgary's indie-rock scene of the Nineties, often reviewing albums and gigs by the Primrods, Field Day, Chixdiggit and Ms. Feist's own band, Placebo. This was in a glorious time when hipsters could check out bands at the Republik, Night Gallery and the Warehouse and there was no such thing as emo kids (don't get me started).

Of course most of Muretich's writings were done in a period when the Calgary Herald was a solid, if not spectacular, daily newspaper, not merely a cog in a newspaper machine. A sense of forboding ran through the Herald offices in 1996 when Conrad Black bought Southam Newspapers. Cutbacks were made, reporters were fired and allegations that Herald profits were used to fund Black's new national newspaper, The National Post. Consequently the Herald became less of a community paper and more of a collection of wire-service articles.

Despite corporate takeovers and an acrimonious newspaper strike in 1999-00, Muretich continued to review albums, interview local bands and promoted music feverishly. When he left the Herald in the early 00s, I stopped reading the paper regularly and if I ever need to be reminded of his vitality, I need only flip to today's Arts section and see a bland layout replete with uninteresting wire-service articles.

Thanks for giving everything you had for music and its aficionados, James. Rest easy.