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.

Amanda has suggested a new title for my book: Weltschmerz: All the People I Used to Know. It's a catchy title, but I'm not ready to start writing my autobiography just yet. And since I suffer from weltschmerz, is it not apropos that on the eve of a new year I reflect on my life and the people I used to know? I've managed to remove people from my social circle in the past, usually for very good reasons (all the usual negative elements that ruin friendships), but what about the people who just slipped away? My best friend moved to Vancouver to attend law school in the fall of 2004 and I never heard from her again. We had worked together on a literary magazine before she left and by the end of 2004, I had left the magazine and distanced myself from the literary scene--to this day I still haven't attended a single reading.

So had my best friend and I simply lost interest in our friendship? Maybe she grew weary of my volatile nature or maybe she became so busy with school and living in a new city that our friendship was forgotten. I of course could have tried to communicate, to say a simple hello in a brief e-mail, but I've done nothing of the sort. I've since gone on to improve my quality of life, to enjoy the pleasures of the moment despite our hectic and chaotic world. I've fought my weltschmerz and tried to make a stable life without being committed to the psychiatric ward. For 2007 I can only hope I keep improving my life and strive to become a better person (forget those oh-so-boring New Year's resolutions like going on a diet or going to the gymn more often).

I can only wish my friend Natalie the best in her future in law and congratulate her on the publication of her first book of poetry. Maybe I'll even find the courage to email her congratulations in the new year.

2006 has been a trying year for me, but I remain optimistic that 2007 will be an important year in my well-being and development, whether I'm living in Calgary, Vancouver or Edmonton.

After a thrilling come-from-behind victory over the Calgary Stampeders last week, my beloved Saskatchewan Roughriders were hammered 45-18 by the B.C. Lions in the CFL Western Final this afternoon. No Saskatchewan-themed Grey Cup party this year, but at least I can look forward to all the tasty snacks we enjoy on Grey Cup Sunday. As long as Amanda has pot, she can handle watching my lone sports indulgence with nary a complaint (of course the aforementioned snacks, such as pepperoni sticks, crackers, cheese and assorted vegetables, help soothe her pain).

I've encountered a lot of resistance from my fellow artsy colleagues concerning my interest in sports. Aren't there many writers who romanticize about baseball or hockey? So why not have a Canadian writer, who hails originally from Saskatchewan, enjoy Canadian football? Methinks it makes me not a jock or some other boorish stereotype, but merely a well-rounded individual who appreciates the aerial strategy and execution of Canadian football.

Thanks for a roller-coaster year, Riders. And if Danny Barrett doesn't return as head coach next season then I must tip my non-existent hat to the man who brought back playoff contention, respectability and excitement to the province of Saskatchewan. Thanks, Danny.

Go Riders in 2007!

Look pal, Miami Vice seasons 3 and 4 are being released on DVD in March! More Michael Mann greatness!

While I continue to gnash my teeth at the Conservative government's perpetual blunders (think lack of adequate greenhouse emissions legislation and breaking an election promise by announcing plans to tax income trusts), another strange, completely unimportant news item has tickled me to no end. It seems that the Calgary Stampeders, hosting the Saskatchewan Roughriders this weekend, have banned the Roughriders' mascot, Gainer the Gopher, from setting foot inside McMahon Stadium. This has infuriated the province of Saskatchewan, with MLAs condemning the action in the Saskatchewan legislature. Why such a fuss over a seven-foot tall gopher?

The Stampeders feel that "[our] fans have earned the right for us to be led on the field by our own mascot without competition from Gainer."

Give me a break! It's called poor sportsmanship. Gainer has made the same playoff travels to Vancouver and Edmonton with nary a threat, so I guess Calgary just isn't in the same class as those cities. The real reason to ban the Riders' mascot? Fan support. Calgary is home to an estimated 250, 000 ex-Saskies and the Roughriders are known for having the most passionate, loyal fans in the CFL. Calgary is well known to the rest of the country as having the finest sit-on-your-hands fans north of the 49th parallel (sorry, the Flames failed Stanley Cup run in '04 doesn't change anything). 12, 000 Riders fans at a Calgary game usually drowns out the rest of the Calgary fans, who make noise only when their team scores a touchdown. The Stampeders don't want Gainer whipping the Saskatchewan fans into a frenzy to cut down on crowd noise; it's that simple.

While the Roughriders don't fare well at McMahon Stadium, perhaps this gopher gaffe can rally the troops and they can beat one of the most arrogant, hated teams in the CFL. Go Riders!!

Now the affairs of the nation may continue...

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.

Get Smart is coming to DVD!

I received an email that one of the greatest TV series of all time (and one of the funniest) is being released on DVD in November! A lot of kids today would be cocking their heads like stunned cocker spaniels asking, "What's Get Smart?"

Unfairly lumped together with all those "gimick" sitcoms from the 60s (nostalgic crap like Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, The Munsters, My Favourite Martian, Gilligan's Island, etc.), Get Smart was a sly, witty comedy from the minds of Mel Brooks and Buck Henry (the guys who gave the world The Producers and The Graduate). It parodied the spy craze of the early 60s and satirized American politics and culture in an underhanded style that never insulted even the most clueless TV viewer. Every week Maxwell Smart, an inept secret agent and his beautiful, intelligent partner, Agent 99, fight to save the world from the clutches of KAOS, the International Organization of Evil (a Delaware Corporation for tax purposes). Most spy shows didn't deal with union issues or budget cutbacks or fashionable evening wear for today's female spies. Or have episodes titled "Tequila Mockingbird".

And don't get me started on the Cone of Silence, Hymie the Robot, Fang, Max's asthmatic canine partner, Siegfried or cherry-flavoured suicide pills ("Go ahead, they're not habit-forming.").

Fuck Austin Powers, Maxwell Smart is the original 60s spy with mucho mojo!

I should have reread some of my earlier posts: my how I've crucified Calgary lately! Okay, I've packed away the vitriol with a label that reads, DO NOT OPEN UNTIL DOOMSDAY (trivia note: guess which classic 60s TV series I stole that from?), so now I can focus on positive aspects in my life.

Like my writing. I've been fortunate to have had articles, interviews and reviews published in print and online, so now I'm going back to my shelved novel manuscript and reaching into the dark to find my narrative voice again. Writing is the one constant in my life that gives me immeasurable joy and utter frustration (often at the same time). I've spent the summer eating bad foods (like chicken wings at the Regal Beagle and those amazing hot dogs at Tubby Dog!), viewing popcorn films at the downtown multiplex and reading Batman and Superman comic books, so I'm dying for the intellectual challenges involved in creating a novel. Okay, smart guy, you've trashed other books in reviews in the past, so let's see you do better. Gulp. I hope I at least fail spectuacularly in my attempts to create a literary work people would actually want to read, let alone buy from a bookstore (even from Chapters).

So it's time for me to crack open some Herman Melville, Donald Barthelme and maybe some Kevin Canty to see how superior writers tackle prose fiction. But only after I finish the final season of Arrested Development...

When does a home cease becoming a home? That's a question I ask myself on a daily basis. I should clarify that it's not my actual apartment that distresses me (especially since the new curtains we bought at Urban Barn really brighten our living room), but the city I live in. I feel the love for Calgary is definitely gone. I could rant about escalating housing costs and rents, soulless condo towers replacing heritage buildings, the blind devotion to the provincial Conservatives, a lousy theatre scene (though One Yellow Rabbit is a standout), the tiresome "Fuck Edmonton because _______", but it's much more than that.

I'm tired of Calgary. There are good people, some swell, hip folks, good local music, an abundance of arthouse theatres, plenty of outdoor activities, but it's time for a change. I've grown up as a nomad, living in exotic locales such as Saskatoon, Edmonton, Winnipeg and Calgary, earning the "Has Lived in Every Prairie Province" award (I'd rather have the cash). I don't know what it's like to have lifelong friends or to have attended a high school reunion (I spent the last excruciating semester of Grade 12 in Calgary), but I have bumped into too many ex-girlfriends in downtown Calgary (always at my favourite drinking establishments, sigh). So many friends have fled Calgary in the late Nineties and my best friend left for Vancouver for law school two years ago (and never contacted me again--was it something I said?), so I'm thinking it's my time for an exodus.

Maybe I'll drink a six-pack of Pil and listen to Sebadoh in the dark...

The turbulence I experienced, as our plane approached Calgary, served as a physical manifestation of my feelings about returning to Cowtown. Ah Vancouver, a city of vibrant colours and people that thoroughly impressed us. While I was privileged to attend my first gay wedding, I enjoyed exploring a metropolitan mecca of activity: I was not bored for a moment! Even the temporary breakdown of the Skytrain from Burnaby (where we stayed) to downtown Vancouver didn't spoil my newfound love.

So many wonderful restaurants, bars and pubs, specialty stores (Amanda loves the Armani Exchange and Mac Pro stores), Stanley Park, Granville Market, the friggin' Pacific Ocean (where I frollicked, if for only a moment), an assortment of heritage buildings that were refurbished (are you listening Calgary?), cool contemporary architecture and lush, diverse trees, the kind that droop over the street just enough to block the sun's intrusive rays--such foliage not seen in Alberta!

Amanda and I have vowed to move to Vancouver when our lease is up (next August). The cost of living may be about the same as it is here in Calgary, but there is so much more to do. So here I am, stuck with the rednecks for another year, but now I have purpose, a plan in action. I now understand why many people have moved to Vancouver: to escape the dreariness of the Canadian Prairies!

We're off to Vancouver in less than twelve hours. It's been far too long since I last visited the coastal city, but a family wedding has given my girlfriend and I the perfect opportunity to have an extended vacation before school begins in September. I'm especially eager to flee Calgary, as the recent oil boom has soured my desire to live here. It's disheartening to see a city's soul sucked away all in the name of money: heritage buildings torn down, numerous apartment-style condo towers popping up everywhere, unique shops and restaurants chased out of the Beltline because of escalating rents, a lack of affordable housing ("Hey honey, let's buy a hovel for $400, 000!") or social services...oh, I really didn't mean to rant. I'm going on vacation!!

I'm looking forward to seeing the Pacific Ocean again--rocky mountains and prairie landscapes just don't cut it.

And smoke-free pubs!

I don't know about most men, but I love shopping for clothes. If I'm ever feeling depressed (more so than usual) trying on an assortment of shirts, sweaters, shoes and jeans will put me in a better mood. I can finally replace some faded, torn jeans, especially the pair I've been wearing since 2001 (I'm nostalgic about my millennial menswear).

Of course I pout and curse when I have to accompany my girlfriend when she goes shopping--hey, it's just not fun when you're not the centre of acquisitions.

I'm quite lazy at maintaining a blog apparently--how long has it been since my last entry, six weeks? Since my girlfriend is away in Edmonton getting drunk right now, I'm home alone with the cats, an episode of Kids in the Hall flickers in the background and it's a perfect time to write a new entry.

Movies. I'm not one for attending a lot of the summer blockbusters, but I've managed to see a few of them lately (thankfully not Pirates of the Caribbean--I just don't like pirates):

Superman Returns I'm a big fan of the first two Superman movies, so when I heard Bryan Singer was directing a new Superman movie, my curiosity was piqued. Some people were put off by the lack of action or the reverence to the first two Superman films, but I quite liked the new film. Brandon Routh is very impressive as both the Man of Steel and as Clark Kent, no easy task considering the late Christopher Reeve is worshipped by many. Kevin Spacey is reminiscent of Gene Hackman's oily Lex Luthor, but he's much more menacing, but I confess to disliking Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane. Maybe it's my love affair with 70s Margot Kidder (Black Christmas, Sisters, Reincarnation of Peter Proud and Superman, drool...), but Bosworth's Lane isn't brassy or bold enough to impress. I love the fact that Singer uses John Williams' original Superman theme, the finest score of all the superhero films. The Christ allegory is heavy-handed, but it was also heavy-handed in Richard Donner's Superman too. Yeah, some kids probably think Superman is dull compared to the flashier Marvel heroes, but just remember: Superman could kick Wolverine's ass all the way to Krypton.

Miami Vice I'm a Michael Mann fan. I have all his films on DVD (would Paramount finally release The Keep please?) and am patiently waiting for Miami Vice Season Three on DVD. Mann's films are some of the most visually sumptuous films you'll find of the past two decades. His mixture of cool cinematography, hip soundtracks and understated performances are personal trademarks. Mann's newfound love for digital video carries over from Collateral to his big-budget treatment of the 80s series.

Many people are disappointed that Miami Vice isn't tongue-in-cheek like Starsky and Hutch and some feel that the film bears no resemblance to the source material. Okay, let me address both contentions. I don't feel the movie should have been played as a farce. The TV series was remarkable because it employed a distinctive, cinematic look, unheard of for television back in the 80s. The only thing really laughable about Miami Vice is the fashions and hair styles. While I hope pastels and fluorescent clothes never come back, everything becomes dated eventually. People will snicker at early 21st Century fashions ten years from now, trust me. Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas? Not world-class thespians to be certain, but their casual acting styles suit the series' gritty and dark plots, so there's not much to mock (although Johnson's Crockett's various usages of "pal" can be humourous).

I think the film is very much like the series. Both versions show a cool, forboding visual look, minimalist acting, hip soundtrack, scary South American drug lords, a stoic Lt. Castillo and a very loose plot. Colin Farrell and Jamie Fox's Crockett and Tubbs go undercover to topple a Colombian drug lord, that's all there is in the way of plot, an execution of style over substance; all very much like an extended Miami Vice episode. Farrell's Crockett gets involved in a doomed relationship with Gong Li and that's exactly what Don Johnson suffered through all five seasons of Vice.

Michael Mann does a fine job transferring the key concepts of his series into a very stylish film. It's not Mann's best work by any means, but it's a delight to see him playing with Crockett and Tubbs in a big-budget film. It's style over substance once again, but it's far more entertaining than the usual summer fare.