Q, You and I!

I listen to a lot of CBC radio. A whole lot.

It's on while I work. It's on while I cook. It remains on for the dog when I leave. And the dog and I have noticed something.

'Q', the morning Ahts n' Culcha gabfest, hosted by Jian Ghomeshi, can be really annoying. And it really shouldn't be. After all, by virtue of its being the only daytime show of its kind on radio, it's attractive to anyone with a book, movie, album or idea to flog. So the show gets some real heavy hitters as guests. People any other show in Canadian - or North American, for that matter - broadcasting would kill for. There's live music in studio and pretty good regular 'sidebar' features.

The pace is snappy and the topics far-ranging. So why does it occasionally make me criiiiinge?

Then, one day it all became blindingly clear. I was driving to a meeting with a colleague. With CBC on the radio, of course. By way of nothing much at all, this colleague turned to me and said, "I can't listen to Q anymore."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Ghomeshi."

And I guess that's it. Well, not all of it. Because he's a pretty good interviewer. He's obviously smart, catholic in his tastes and reasonably well briefed by his producers and story whatsits. So he appears to be informed, engaged and engaging. Aside from the tortured opening 'essay' that always ends in some cute rhyme with 'Q", there shouldn't be an issue.

But there is.

It's the injection of Himself into seemingly every bloody story, guest and item. Here's an example: Some time just before or just after the inauguration of Barack Obama as preznit of the U.S., the opening bit was, as you might expect, about the significance of the event. Except it wasn't. It was about some tangential chance meeting Jian Ghomeshi once had with the then-senator. So it was about himself and his proximity to history and greatness. That's how it came across anyway.

Now there's no doubt that there was no shortage of pundiotic loggorhea about the big event. So a fresh take would have been great. And appreciated. But the 'Q' take, via its host, was about...its host. The more you listen to the show, the more you notice that it's not merely an occasional thing. Sadly, once twigged to this phenomenon, I find myself hearing the self-reflexive musings of the host's adventures at The Spoke Club or something rather than the Very Interesting Guest or topic.

So, I hereby motion that, until this grave matter of National Importance is remedied, CBC change the name of 'Q' to the more accurate 'I'. Meanwhile, we (me and the dog) will still be listening.

Post Billy Bob Update-y Thing-a-ma-jig:

I have to say, Mr. Ghomeshi's handling of musician and hobby-ist actor Billy-Bob Thornton was really quite remarkable. He was calm. cool and unflinching. I think that most of us, (well, all of me), when faced with such a confounding and sphincterous prescence would reach across the desk with hands in full-throttle-grip screaming "You're only famous as an actor and besides The Sadies do this kind of music way, way better".

So, yeah, full props.

Fear, Uncertainty, Doubt (1)

Anyone who has taken a look at the posts in this tiny, insignificant outpost of the digi-sphere may have noticed posts tagged with 'FUD'. Allow me to explain.

Aside from my semi-regular brain dumps here, the real intention of this space is to accumulate notes. Those notes, when sufficiently accumulated, will be compiled in a 'text' of some sort. Its ultimate form is, as yet, undetermined.

See what I'm saying? There's an insane, possibly futile mission here, a larger project. It's not as ambitious as, say, wiping the Liberal Party of Canada from the political landscape in latter day re-creation of the Punic Wars. But it does have its own humble scope. I'm just figuring it out as I go.

So the intention is to have these bigger themes - kind of chapter heads - and little subsets therein. For instance, 'RGB', 'ABC' and 'Mother, Virgin, Whore (MVW, for short)' are chapter heads. The fact that secret-ish, shadowy organizations like CIA, KGB and NSA have nice, little, three-initial names is a subset of 'ABC'.

'Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt' - or FUD - is one of those bigger themes.

FUD is used in both marketing and politics. And especially when the two come together. For the marketer, it could be as simple as the suggestion that the wrong toothpaste can lead to diminished social status. For the politician, it's usually grimmer: "Vote for my opponent and the terrorists will win." The purpose of its employ is always to keep your citizens - or consumers - on their heels such that every purchase or voting decision is filtered through a cloud of FUD.

Come Monday, when our pro-rogued parliament returns, the FUD will come fast and thick. It's already out there in the form of puerile radio ads brought to you by your friendly government. And in the wake of 'Regime Change' down south, those on the losing end have re-fueled their own FUD machine and sallied forth.

So, here at TTCIT, FUD is part of the Magic Number Way of Seeing the World®. And , as Bill O'Reilly might say in his vaguely menacing, McCarth-ese "We'll be watching".

Pictures are Nice (1)

Jem's Memory, 2007














Occasionally, I make pictures. This is one. It's worth a thousand words. At least, I could justify that quantity of artspeak trying to explain it.

Avenge me, son.

So, the Simpsons went 'Into the Wild' in a half-assed RV. Needless to say, this inevitably leads to Homer being pin-cushioned with trank darts. Before he drifts into dreamland, his last words are that ever-trope of mythology:

"Avenge me, son."

Whether fodder for crack comedy writers or bible-scale tragedians, those three words have launched countless tales. Happily, we are currently at the end of one.

The minty-fresh President of the United States signed a president-type paper today. It gives notice to that weird American outpost in Cuba. All the desperate orange-y men will have to leave chain-link-0-land and go elsewhere. One can only hope it's to a more humane place. Crawford, Texas, maybe? They can help clear the...sage...or whatever the hell it was that 43 was pushing around down there.

The other president-y thing signed today was that declaration of 'No More Torture, Thanks.' Bill O'Reilly's head may explode. He LOVED that 'enhanced interrogation' stuff. At least, when I could get through the spittle aimed at the camera as he blew hard, that's what it looked and sounded like. But whaddya expect from that guy?

Nah, you can't blame Bill. He's not really a journalist. And it's those punks that have some questions to answer. For instance, in the course of eight blighty years, not one of their number, to my knowledge, raised the following:

"Why would you authorize a practice that your own father, the Hero Pilot, might have been subjected to in WWII?"

After all, waterboarding has been recognized as torture for some time. As such it's been repudiated in the strongest language possible and further, prosecuted against. Yet...

The mythological pull of filial vengeance was stronger. And the will to persevere towards its icky conclusions - wherein senior and otherwise respected lawyers can put a primature on crushing the testicles of a child if 'The President says so'.

Nice work, fellas.

Conditions were created - and seemingly encouraged - such that low-hanging fruit - a few bad apples, if you will - can claim to be simply following orders and ably take the fall. Hannah Arendt - not that she was much for fun - would have a field day with that one.

The epic fail is over, thank the seven sisters. The era of stupid Roman vengeance is passed. And now that it is, Homer wakes up from his traqui-delic stupor.

"Thanks for the vengeance, son".

Creedence Clearwater Revival

The Rolling Stones are the World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band.

Now that that's out of the way, let's parse!

I'm not certain, but I don't think that there's been a more successful American singles band than Creedence. And. who vies for the best John voice in RnR - besides Lennon and Lydon - than that plaid-clad NoCal moptop? The multitudes shout: "NOBODY!"

Or "FOGERTY". (It's hard to tell when multitudes shout).

I've worn out five copies of 'Cosmo's Factory' in several formats (anyone who has a nice digital copy, please let me know).

Stu Cook's moustache. Doug Clifford's beard. Tom Fogerty's 'Blueprint-for-the-Eagles'-do. JF's flannel. Every follicle and thread is audible in that recording. Forgive the Exer-cycles! Just listen to "Ramble Tamble". It's proto-Mogwai. It's incipient Television. It's so great.

Oh, the summer days spent in a certain Swede's basement listening to CCR. And then, moving on. hearing a band from the PNW called Green River. Soon, the flannel was flying everywhere.

Well, here's to the PNW. Here's to the Sonics, Billy Childish and Speedy Motorcycles. Here's to Frosting On The Beater, Nevermind and Johnny Cash doing Soundgarden. Here's to the Dude abiding.

I love the Pacific NorthWest. It's where the first world meets the new. old, next world.

We've been - unknowingly - listening to the No-Cal, with-it. wisdom of '`Fortunate Son' for eight long years. It's time to re-evaluate the intent, if not the words, of that prescient, pre-punk rock classic.

After all, by all accounts, it's Revival time.

Yes, we can.

So, I don't want to be a wet blamket on the eve of 'The Day of Global Catharsis'®. And I totally get why there's a lot of excitement. I wish I shared the 'Hope'. But I think it's way too much to throw on the shoulders of this one guy. Of course, a lot of the elation has to do with the end of the 'All hat, no cattle' era. And I'm like the vast bulk of the world in that regard.

Still, much as one might like to think that eight years of of complete ass-hattery are just going to go *poof* are as deluded as the thankfully outgoing Commanduh in Chief. There's too much leftover crap. And to think that President Obama is going to put on his wellys, roll up his sleeves and muck out the sty on his own-some ought to reflect on the most memorable slogan of the campaign past.

'Yes, we can.', from an advertising perspective was pretty good. Break it down and it means 'Positive, collective ability.' Plus, I think it's essentially empty (A good thing in advertising sometimes). It's something to feel good about, but it doesn't really contain anything resembling a promise, a unique selling proposition, or a strong branding element. It's not, ''Yes, I can', or 'Yes, I will.'

What it does have is a signal of faith in the resilience of the American people to muck the thing out together . In other words, it's the Nike version of 'Ask not what your country can do for you...". It is, at its heart, a call to service, a happy face call to action on behalf of the ailing 'Greatest Nation Evah!®'.

And that's as it should be. As John Ibbitson noted in his dispatch to today's Globe, tomorrow's the celebration. After that, though, it's time to get busy.

With what? Well, positive, collective ability, one hopes.

Elitist, socialist, seperatist.

I hate talking points.

You can smell them a mile away. It's this heady whiff of sulphur, ignorance and complicity. The sulphur comes from the stale, fetid air in the bunker from which they issue. The ignorance is due to the gas emanating from the duped and dutiful sheeple who regurgitate them on talk radio, newspaper comment boards and letters to the editor. Complicity? Well that's the perfumed scent of self-importance wafting from lazy journos who are only too glad to have some kind of 'inside track' that they can breathlessly sputter from their waning pedestals.

I kind of hate politics, too. Though I confess to being a bit of a junkie for the stuff. And, having worked on advertising for one or more of the major Canadian political parties, I've met a few of the purveyors of the sinister art of political communication. And over the last couple of months, since the prorogue-ation of our parliament, the talking points have been fast, thick and especially odious. The first out of the gate after our Prime Minister hid behind the robes of the Queen - our nominal head of state - in order to avoid a confidence vote which would have toppled the government were as predictable as they were loud.

Seeing that a governing coalition might be formed between the lefty NDP, the blandly centrist Liberals with the co-operation of the region-centric Bloc Quebecois, the government sent their very vocal supporters throughout the land, over the airwaves and into the web. Their message was as simple as it was false: This was a coup, It was a cabal. It was a gang of ELITISTS, SOCIALISTS AND SEPERATISTS.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

The argument may have been semi-valid had it been reasonably and calmly articulated, but it was shrieked with such hysterical, scripted vigour that it was soon exposed for what it was: self-serving bullsh*t and nonsense. The louder it was bellowed, the more Canadians had to look into it. And then, people started to talk. Soon enough, most sensible people had given themselves a little education in parliamentary democracy and probably came to the conclusion that, well, we may not like it, but it's perfectly legal under our system.

So the talking points from master to minion shifted. Now, it was a collective yawp of indignation from the sitting-around-waiting-to-be-told-what-to-be-outraged-about set. The new script, readily download-able from some place like 'MyCampaign.ca' was: "Undemocratic. Traitorous! Put this coalition thingy to vote!" This notwithstanding the fact that everywhere else in the civilized world, representative legislatures reach accords and form coalitions amongst themselves all the time. After the vote. Nobody, anywhere, votes for coalitions. They just happen .

And so with parliament set to resume in, oh, ten days, it's sad to note that a new set of talking points has lumbered upon the land. They're not as vile as those directed at the previous leader of the opposition, who was photoshopped into a grim facsimile of an autistic eel, quoted out of context and ridiculed as 'Celine'. However, this new script is no less vapid.

You see, the minty-fresh leader of the opposition comes from a prominent - aristocratic, even - family of eastern European descent, Since coming to Canada, the family has been distinguished by diplomatic and other national service. This new leader, Michael Ignatieff, is a writer, professor and television personality who, since leaving Canada after university, has done very well for himself in The USA and Great Britain. He was essentially acclaimed by his caucus after, erm, 'Celine', stepped down.

So the new talking points? Mark my words, Ignatieff will be demonized as a *gasp* foreigner. Not only that but he's...oh, my...an elitist. And Russian! And he's....sputter... unelected - he was...appointed! To really hit the ball out of the park let's call him, repeatedly and disdainfully....Count! And let's do it in a way that ambiguously suggests Dracula, the guy from Monte Christo and some Romanoff-esque consort of Rasputin. As usual, the ploy is to let him be defined by the unholy trinity of sulphur, ignorance and complicity before the Foreign, Elitist, Russian, Un-democratic Count has chance to define himself.

So, yeah, I hate talking points. Preferred script is a lousy substitute for healthy debate. Especially when said script advances nothing but the political interests of a particular party. Worse, the message in the script may even be counter to the best interests of the engaged partisans who disseminate it. However, if one is waiting to be told what to say, it's those very interests that ultimately become devalued and debased.

Mining, brining and shining.

Yeah, it's bad for your body. But, if you've ever cracked the spine of Tim Kurlansky's "Salt", you know it's pretty good for your imagination.

For instance, who knew Roman Soldiers, after a long day of crucifying, pillaging or merely enforcing the decrees of the emperor, got their wages in salt? From whence comes the root of our 'salary', 'soldier' and the fact that you're totally worth your salt. That was news to me, too. And let's not even get into Lot's wife. What a way to go.

I suspect that Kurlansky moved on from his other great book, the amazing 'Cod', to salt from the fact that the fish was salted for preservation. Maybe not, but that's the way I'd move from one subject to the next: "Okay, I'm done with Cod. So what do I do next? Cod was pretty successful, so maybe I should do something cod-related. Hmm...cod...cod...salt cod...that's it! Salt."

Anyway, as it happens, there are three ways to get your salt. You can mine it. So you spend another day in the salt mines to earn your salary. You can get it from brine, usually by boiling. Or you can do it my favourite way. Just let some sea water dry in the bright mediterranean sunshine. Nice work if you can get it.

Gandhi did his Dandi March to the sea, a protest against the inflated taxes the colonial British we're levying for salt. Kind of a non-violent Kerala Salt Party. He defied the `British Salt Law' by going to the Arabian Sea, basically drying some water and 'making salt'. And that's how that got started. Indian emancipation, I mean.

I love the fact that we can speak salaciously with our salty tongues. That ol' Crusty Mcgee, who sailed the seven seas is an 'Old Salt'. Oh, and if, like me, you loves you some Aerosmith, a little time with 'Uncle Salty, from 'Toys in the Attic' will treat you rrrright.

NaCl - it rocks. It's edible rock. But don't eat too much, or you'll keel. And then, like the Egyptians, you might even by corpsed in the stuff, only to be grimly, but elatedly, dug up by future archaeologists.

Clap. Clap-clap.

Ron Asheton, 2nd from R

Sad to hear about Ron Asheton's passing. The original wizard of motor-city-heavy rawk noize passed away earlier this week at age 60.

I was just listening to 'Tight Pants' by the Stooges. Their signature clap sound - one clap then two in quick succession- splashing out of the mix, surfing the chaos of the band's bang-klang, Iggy's sexually frustrated howls careening off R's buzzsaw fret torture perfectly. It reminded me of the primal power of three chords, and the fact that this was probably done in the late sixties as utopias were crashing down in places like Altamont, the Spahn Ranch and Vietnam. A decade was dying and the Stooges wouldn't let it go gently. But rather rage, rage, rage.

There isn't a kid with a loud guitar out there who doesn't owe Mr. Asheton something.

Yes, it is!

Maybe you can call it a manifesto.

I remember when I first heard De La Soul's reprise of this amazing tune. The floodgates of childhood memory opened. Back in the day, idealistic, media-savvy ex-hippies must have actually thought the teevee could be good for you. How else to explain stuff like the Children's Television Workshop, Electric Company, Zoom and this. All of which beat the, er, hell out of 'Davey and Goliath'.

For those of a certain vintage, "Schoolhouse Rock" was a good excuse to watch TV after school. It was vaguely nutritious. Of course, we were oblivious to the fact that it was conceived and produced by advertising guys. But it's a testament to the effectiveness of good communication that this one has stuck with me.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

RPS. The sport of, if not kings, then everyone else. A game of simple probabilities (33 1/3 - more on that later) that needs less equipment than soccer. The game that even a triple amputee - provided one hand remains - can play. And win. It's a dispute settlement mechanism: "I saw the gold first." "No, I did."

So you throw a set. Or the best two of three.

Rocks beat scissors. Scissors cut paper. Paper smothers rock. The elegance of it is breathtaking.

And yet, there's strategy. Within the simple construct, myriad variables exist: like gender, speed or...PSYCHE!s. It's universal (I think it's called "One, two, three" in Southeast Asia).

It's the active genius of play.

One, two, three, THROW!

One, Two, Three...

This is the first post here. So, it kind of makes sense to lay out what the Sam Hill will be posted here on a semi-regular basis. Primarily, I want to look at cultural signposts and touchstones that, in my view, have had influence - due or not - on (Western) Culture. In my observation, these things come in groups of threes. Why write about it? Well, mostly because I doubt any other fool is doing it.

Now, I'm no high-falutin' smarty-pants perfesser or anything, so I don't expect I'll be keying anything along the lines of the following:

"The Foucauld-ian (vs. Barth-ian) view, via Bentham, of a pan-opticonic surveillance existence would imply...".

As one can see, I can't even fake that high-minded bafflegab.

So, instead, I expect to write about stuff like area codes (mine's 416), RGB (the primary colour set of broadcast television), "Yes we can" and "Just do it". The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. Three chords. The three notes in a triad. Information, knowledge and wisdom. Why so many of my favourite 'important' writers have triple-barelled names (step right up F. Scott Fitzgerald and David Foster Wallace). Primary colours. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Pythagorean geometry. Oh, and the primacy of food, sex and shelter.

You know, regular stuff. Plus sidelong leaps into things I like, such as cinematography, the 1970's and large dogs.

And anything any sad lost soul who stumbles upon this outland might add will be graciously acknowledged and muchly appreciated

With these tremendous efforts, I hope to firmly establish that a little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing.

Onwards!