Easy E and I Have Something in Common!

"Cops don't like me. So I don't like cops."

Clarence Boddicker, RoboCop (1987)

Lock up the innocents, for I am on the rampage, a man whose heart pumps immoral desire to all parts of my body, craving illicit thrills and causing mayhem on the streets of Calgary. I exaggerate, of course, but this appears to be what several constables of the Calgary Police Service must think when they see me walking down the street. I've been stopped by the police at least seven times since the mid-2000s; almost every incident occurred in the downtown core or beltline. The latest incident occurred recently on a rainy day, as I was accosted by a rain-slicked police officer for doing nothing so egregious as waiting for a city bus under a concrete overhang at my local Starbucks. My crime? Loitering. I, J Alary, a man with stylish-yet-affordable glasses, keen fashion sense (always with my faithful Chucks), yet incomplete without my umbrella (having forgotten it at work), was accused of loitering, an act so heinous as to be performed by teenage hooligans and unsavoury Canada Blood Services volunteers. Apparently the officer, unhappy with his waterlogged beat assignment, decided that I was to be taught a valuable lesson and dissuade me from loitering at the Starbucks, so that the good people could access their SUVs and BMWs as they picked up their extra hot soy lattes. Thank goodness the Calgary Police helped steer me from a life of crime and gave me the opportunity to wash my sins away, not with a ticket, but with a stern warning.

Of course the irony of my loitering habit is that mere feet away from the Starbucks sits a bus-stop bench that's routinely occupied by people who spend hours of their day loitering. I don't like the word "loitering"--it sounds negative and really, who gives a damn if somebody is standing or sitting, bothering no one (well, except the cops and frustrated shop owners who feel loiterers scare away business)? I could happily laugh off the incident as an example of a perturbed cop having a bad day, but it's simply the latest sparring match between yours truly and the Calgary Police Service.

Seven years ago, I was walking to catch a bus, late for work, and as I walked past the now-demolished Penny Lane Mall, a cop stopped to ask me where I was going. "I'm going to work," I replied, looking annoyed and clearly anxious to catch a bus. "Are you in a hurry?" "Yes, I'm late for work and need to catch my bus." After a series of banal questions (but ones that I'm sure ascertained whether or not I was a fugitive), I was excused and went to work. As I sat on the bus, I pondered what had led the police officer to stop me. Perhaps I matched a physical description of an escaped convict, a known arsonist or murderer? Did my glasses throw off the cop?

My brushes with cops continued: I had witnessed a car accident several months later and was sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser, filling out a witness report, one of the officers repeatedly asking me if I had ever been arrested for a crime. I found it to be an unnecessary and insulting question: are helpful citizens often criminals? In Sunalta, paranoid police, wary of nocturnal pedestrians, often stopped me in the middle of my evening strolls to ask me what I was doing. Apparently enjoying an evening constitution in an inner-city residential area is met with suspicion: thieves must routinely mark houses for burglary by walking through a neighbourhood. Even walking with a friend, to attend a birthday party at Mikey's Juke Joint, prompted a patrolling police van to cruise alongside us for several blocks, watching us for criminal shenanigans.

I must confess that I do inhale sharply and my body stiffens whenever I see a police vehicle, so perhaps because of my past encounters with the men in blue, I'm encouraging a confrontation; it certainly doesn't help that when I'm walking alone, often with my headphones and iPod, my body language and facial expression create a shield against unwanted conversation, likely attracting the attention of law enforcement. I won't start wearing silly grins on my face and skip along the pavement, singing along to Madonna's "Express Yourself".* I should try to lighten the fuck up and maybe the fuzz will leave me alone. If you see me on the street and I don't see you immediately, feel free to say hello and ask me where I've put my blood-stained axe and maybe I'll try to wear a less homicidal expression.












*Disclaimer: yes, sadly, I have that song on my iPod, but I assure you that I have a great deal of classic and 90s punk to counter the Material Girl, an object of my affection for many years.

Why is there no "e" in Tumblr?

I'm not a very tech-savvy person. I don't know how to use a home computer to its fullest potential, whether it's the use of Excel spreadsheets or storing digital photographs taken with my "cinematic eye". On the internet, there are sites that are tremendously popular, like Twitter, but I just don't have the interest in maintaining my "tweets". Once I thought it would be a fascinating experience to limit one's thoughts on a particular subject matter to a prescribed set of characters, but I quickly gave up because I have nothing profound to express in 140 characters or less and don't wish to telegraph my daily rituals. Yes, many well-known people (politicians, actors, writers, cupcake bakers and pointless celebrities) have Twitter accounts and are followed by thousands of people who yearn for any insight into an individual's daily minutiae. Facebook, which I enjoy, (mostly because it is highly addictive, but also because it does provide a modicum of contact with actual friends and acquaintances without being overbearing or time consuming), is also a forum where people can proudly display their status updates, hoping for numerous replies, craving some form of attention in an otherwise anonymous cyber realm (do people still use "cyber", or is it more of a quaint relic from the 90s, like "information superhighway" and "surfing the 'net"?).

Recently a friend posted on Facebook that made reference to something known as "tumblr" (or the more officious "Tumblr"). I didn't know what that was, though I believe I have heard the term before. I consulted the internet, that veritable repository of instant gratification, and I discovered that Tumblr actually means "tumbleblog", which is apparently a micro-blog, likely that intermediate platform between tweeting and blogging. I haven't come across a Tumblr account, so I still don't really understand what a micro-blog looks like or what its function is: is it for people who don't have the energy to commit to a "full" blog, but want more substance than what a tweet can provide? Lecherous man though I am, I equate "tumblr" with "tumble", in which two people enjoy the close proximity of their bodies in centrifugal motion, so I'm afraid I can't take Tumblr seriously.

Calgary Night Train (With Apologies to Martin Amis)

I absolutely adore taking the late-night train on Friday evenings. I work at a busy chain bookstore every Friday night and I'm very keen on taking the LRT, not because I marvel at the sleek, efficient German engineering, or the soothing hum and gentle rocking of the train cars, but because of the inordinate display of human neuroses (alcohol-induced or otherwise). In each car, linked by emotional triumphs and despairs, exists a theatre of the absurd, bizarre and depraved, a stage lit by crackling, unforgiving fluorescence and an audience of people who would rather be anywhere else.

I realize taking the late-night train (and by "late-night", I'm describing the Calgary mindset being that everything should be closed down and people tucked snugly into their beds by midnight) can be a frightening and often dangerous situation for many people; I, however, feel confident--or stupid--enough to handle any unusual altercation, so I'm never self-conscious about dealing potentially with nocturnal psychopaths. Sometimes it's wise to ignore some of the drunken shenanigans that occur on the train: loud, obnoxious meatheads can never be reasoned with or remonstrated without police assistance (Although I do question why so many Calgary drunks like to attempt phony British accents--is it a misguided ploy to attract the attention of sober female riders who will submit to sexual congress because of the mistaken belief that said drunken lout is tolerable only because he has a funny accent? Trust me, it never works.). Ignore the drunks who gesticulate wildly and treat the train car as their personal gymnastic set because they're of interest only to professional anthropologists--they also impede the flow of genial and intelligent conversation one has with an accompanying  friend or co-worker.

I often write stories about eccentric people in seemingly mundane situations, so people watching, especially on the train, is quite valuable for research and inspiration. In one memorable train ride, Rob, a co-worker, and I quietly observed a solitary young man desperately trying to integrate himself into a raucous group of drunk, faux Britons. At first he sat alone, away from the drunk chorus, laughing at their moronic verbal utterances, but as the train shook and buckled, the young man, clad in ill-fitting winter coat, curly, greasy hair and thick-framed glasses, walked over and joined them. However, the drunks exited the train at the next stop, likely to continue their drunken carousing elsewhere, and the greasy-haired young man became solitary once again. Perhaps in frustration, the budding psychopath began to use the side banquettes as his personal ramming gear, kicking and jumping, uttering what can best be described as "quacking" sounds. Nonplussed, I found it difficult to talk as the duck calls continued (Rob, being no stranger to observing human folly, appeared completely unfazed).

At the conclusion of our ride, Rob and I bade each other farewell and I quickly realized that the quacking man was also taking my connecting bus, not only getting off at my stop, but also apparently living in my building, as he accessed the lobby doors with his own key. We shared an elevator (the young psychopath having ceased his quacking) and uncomfortable silence. It came to no surprise that he should live in the same apartment complex that houses drug-dealing Neo-Nazis, The Cowboy (a genial though perpetually drunk cowboy, who is always seen in his ranching apparel: neckerchief, hat, leather roping gloves and spurs--fucking spurs), Cat Lady and Moustapha, the sleepy cab driver who monopolizes the laundry machines.

Often night train rides are unremarkable; one can't expect eccentrics to perform every night. Sometimes cars are littered with sleepy shift workers, bored shoppers and nervous teens who try to act cool, but are inwardly dreading going home, having broken curfew yet again. No, it's the potential for unscripted drama that makes a train ride pleasurable: sometimes there is disappointment and sometimes there's the filthy homeless-looking guy (no judgments here) who yearns to join strangers' conversation, perched anxiously on his seat, pulling out empty bottles and cans from his oily backpack in order to brandish his laptop, as if to show the strangers that he too has tools to communicate and is sorely missing genuine human contact. Maybe the man pulled out his laptop to show us that we had wrongly assumed his social status, or maybe he was inspired enough to write a blog about his own experiences riding the night train.

Let's Bypass Summer and Go Straight to Fall

 My niece is finally asleep and my girlfriend Amanda is transfixed by the absurd sexual proclivities of the TLC cable channel, so after spending some time reading film critic Glenn Kenny's marvelous film blog (he's emblematic of the artistry that is film criticism), my thoughts drift to the awful-looking Kevin James film, Zookeeper, advertised on TV earlier today. I've never been a fan of the Summer blockbusters, the collection of multi-hyphenate genre films and crude comedies Hollywood churns out between May and August (though I'm not opposed to smart popcorn films like Inception or The Dark Knight and my love of DC Comics compels me to see Green Lantern), but when I saw the ad for James' Zookeeper, an unsavoury hybrid of Night at the Museum and James' 2009 opus Paul Blart: Mall Cop, I uttered a profane condemnation (along with an incredulous look I shared with Amanda).



 I can accept the creatively-bankrupt need for sequels, reboots and reimaginings to fill Hollywood coffers, but do moviegoers really buy into such lowbrow fare? Yes, of course they do and I'm sure that Zookeeper will be a financial boon, but while I gnash my teeth in frustration, I must remember that there's hope for moviegoers who seek out more ambitious cinematic fare. Yes, there are alternatives to Transformers 3 and The Hangover: Part II (do Roman numerals really make sequels classier than their standard numeric colleagues?), but you just have to look for them; they can be found in arthouses and sleepy, neglected urban multiplexes. Here are some upcoming films with artier expectations (some are for Summer, the rest will likely be in the Fall):



The Tree of Life (June 2011, Terence Malick) It just won the Palm d'Or at Cannes and received both applause and boos from the audience. Malick, a notoriously shy filmmaker, has only made five films in forty years (Badlands, Days of Heaven, The Thin Red Line, The New World being the others) and every one of them has been an unforgettable experience (Dear Warner, could you please release Badlands on blu-ray? Or give it to Criterion?). A film that polarizes film audiences is a very good thing.

Midnight in Paris (June 2011, Woody Allen) Woody Allen has had a tumultuous decade making films, receiving high praise for Match Point (2005) and Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008), but testing the resolve of even his most ardent admirers with Anything Else (2003), Melinda and Melinda (2004), Scoop (2006) and Whatever Works (2009). With a cast headlined by Owen Wilson (playing the onscreen Allen persona) and Canada's Lovely Rachel McAdams, early reviews suggest that this is one of his best films in a very long time.

Melancholia (August 2011, Lars von Trier) Poor Lars, he can't keep his mouth shut and his infamous eccentricities, like spouting nonsense in interviews, has often offended some cinemaphiles. His recent persona non grata status in Cannes will turn some people off his depiction of the end of the world, starring Kirsten Dunst and von Trier's Antichrist muse, Charlotte Gainsbourg. The average moviegoer would likely be offended by von Trier's antagonistic storytelling techniques anyway, so his cinematic status quo is maintained.

Everything Must Go (June 2011, Dan Rush) Raymond Carver was a master of the short story; Will Ferrell is a master of short comic sketches. I have absolutely no idea if this film will succeed or not, but I like the bold pairing!

Crazy, Stupid, Love (July 2011) From the screenwriters of the brilliant black comedy Bad Santa (2003) and the directors of I Love You, Philip Morris (2009) and starring Steve Carrell and Julianne Moore (!), this has the potential to be a good darkly comical film.

We Need to Talk About Kevin (Fall 2011, Lynne Ramsay) Those who fell in love with Ms. Ramsay's considerable filmmaking talent in Ratcatcher (1999) and Morvern Callar (2002) (based on one of my all-time favourite novels), have been waiting patiently for her to direct a new film. The wait is over and her assembled cast, the always-fantastic Tilda Swinton and John C. Reilly (refreshingly moving away from his current comedic success--not that I don't love Dr. Steve Brule--and back to his dramatic origins), punctuate a character study of a separated couple still reeling years after their son committed a killing spree.

The Skin That I Inhabit (Fall 2011, Pedro Almodovar) I've fallen a bit behind on Almodovar's work (I still haven't seen 2009's Broken Embraces), but hearing that this is his first horror film excites me greatly (his thriller Live Flesh (1997) was a masterful introduction to that genre). Almodovar has reunited with his onetime star Antonio Banderas and early images of the film remind me of the classic French psychological horror film Eyes Without a Face (1960), which is likely intentional.

A Dangerous Method (Fall 2011, David Cronenberg) It feels like it has been too long since Cronenberg unnerved moviegoers, so it's good to know that his latest film deals with the relationship between Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) and Sigmund Freud (current Cronenberg muse Viggo Mortenson) and a patient (Kiera Knightley) caught in the middle. A psychoanalytic sandwich, anyone?

Damsels in Distress (Fall 2011, Whit Stillman) Whit Stillman hasn't made a film since 1998's The Last Days of Disco, but his small cult of followers (myself included) are anxiously awaiting his latest examination of upper-class Manhattan ennui (and it has Greta Gerwig!).

Hugo Cabret (December 2011, Martin Scorsese) I think Scorsese is the greatest living filmmaker and if you don't agree with me, well, that's a problem. He's adapted a children's fantasy tale, so that should give his gangster-loving fans considerable pause.