Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sticking it in My Ear
A couple of articles from the Guardian made me feel not so much nostalgic as old. I received my first Walkman back in 1980 as a parting gift from some of my work friends prior to heading up to Montreal for a year of fun, frustration, and changing career plans. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I ever received and, at least at that time, one of the most expensive. $179!! And that was in 1980 US dollars which, these days, translates to enough to buy one of those mortgage loan cast-off houses.
Recording one's music for the playlists of those days took days, not minutes like the wet-behind-the-ears MP3ers. Yeah...and we walked uphill through 5 feet of snow in May to school as well. Those were the days when women were women and men wore mullets...which meant we were almost women. A selection of Guardian's reader's inclusions on their playlists had not one band I'd put on my cassettes. On the list I saw not one mention of Little Feat (w/ Lowell George), Springsteen, Hound Dog Taylor, or ZZ Top. Most of the dates listed were when I'd abandoned the Walkman and gone on to the Discman. I kept the Walkman around for a while, almost like a museum piece or a faded baseball card. It had worked when I packed it in some old socks in a drawer. A few years later, when I pulled it out just to test out the sound, like a rejected girlfriend, it chewed up a few tapes before buying the ghost.
More so than the innumerable eardrum shaking concerts I'd gone to, I'm sure the Walkman and then the Discman helped me down the road to (eventual, I'm sure) deafness. Both almost got me killed when I went skiing with them, as I took too well to the combination of sound and schuss and ignored Black Diamond signs, or worse, Black Diamond skiers. But I do not miss those black buds riding on and in my ear disintegrating my hearing while disintegrating themselves into their baser elements, leaving my ears coated with coal dust.
Nowadays, I protest vaguely at the iPod/MP3 sound quality and the long term damage of short term musical attention all the time wondering if all of this started going downhill with Mr. Sony's introduction of his clicky Walkman.
Labels: Canada, Gadgets, Manly Advice, r
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Theory of Ice & Walrus
For those of you who have followed the mysterious Ms. E on A Theory of Ice and were wondering if she had put herself on an iceberg to float away into oblivion, be happy! She is writing again and she is doing so on a larger stage.
The Walrus offers her take on Team Canada's Olympic Hockey Gold.
A choice passage:
"And that’s the beauty of the Big Game, because the laws of probability might allow for any number of feasible outcomes, but in the end, in this only universe, this best of all possible worlds, only one thing happens. It is the single greatest moment of existential freedom a player can face, a point where he ceases to be whatever he otherwise is, whatever he inevitably will be over the eighty games of a season or the 600 games of a career, and is nothing greater or lesser than what he can accomplish in sixty minutes."
Sports matter because they give us metaphors for life, miniaturized scenarios stripped down to the bare essentials. Half of life is la longue duree, the things we do repeatedly, our habits, our jobs, our homes, our families, the things and people and places that recur again and again. That is the part of life where we practice, and grow, and struggle, and eventually become what we are. But the other half is the singular chances, the days unlike any other, the moments. The interviews, the dates, the tests, the accidents — these are life’s elimination series. Those events are not less real or momentous because they don’t give us the time to show the true depths and dimensions of our character. When the Big Game happens in real life, we don’t call it unrepresentative, we just call it unfair. And it is.
Let's hope she sends her academic career into the Sin Bin and get on with the life she was made for.
The best living writer on hockey. Seriously.
The Walrus offers her take on Team Canada's Olympic Hockey Gold.
A choice passage:
"And that’s the beauty of the Big Game, because the laws of probability might allow for any number of feasible outcomes, but in the end, in this only universe, this best of all possible worlds, only one thing happens. It is the single greatest moment of existential freedom a player can face, a point where he ceases to be whatever he otherwise is, whatever he inevitably will be over the eighty games of a season or the 600 games of a career, and is nothing greater or lesser than what he can accomplish in sixty minutes."
Sports matter because they give us metaphors for life, miniaturized scenarios stripped down to the bare essentials. Half of life is la longue duree, the things we do repeatedly, our habits, our jobs, our homes, our families, the things and people and places that recur again and again. That is the part of life where we practice, and grow, and struggle, and eventually become what we are. But the other half is the singular chances, the days unlike any other, the moments. The interviews, the dates, the tests, the accidents — these are life’s elimination series. Those events are not less real or momentous because they don’t give us the time to show the true depths and dimensions of our character. When the Big Game happens in real life, we don’t call it unrepresentative, we just call it unfair. And it is.
Let's hope she sends her academic career into the Sin Bin and get on with the life she was made for.
The best living writer on hockey. Seriously.
Labels: 2010 Vancouver Olympics, Blogs, Canada, Hockey
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Bears, a Convoluted Theory
While strolling around Morain Lake just outside of the villages of Banff and Lake Louise, we came across a side path seriously guarded by an intense and fit Canada Park Warden (am I inventing this position? She had a uniform, badge, and hat so I'll go with that title). Next to her was this sign. 
Standing off to one side was a group of hikers, three in total, loudly discussing their hopefully-soon trek up the trail into the woods. The written rule in Canada's national parks is that hikers have to comprise a minimum group of 4 prior to heading off onto the ursine trails. Due to time constraints and a group-fear fueled by our self-delusion that we exuded odors of edibility, the eight of us, though large enough by a factor of two to take on these bear trails, opted to not head up the tasty human morsel trail.
That didn't prevent yours truly, in bear-thought mode since we came out West, to start inventing scenarios as to how the Canadian National Park service came up with the ideal number of Four. I'm sure the Chinese National Park Service would have opted for another number as Four is not the number one would want to be grouped in when hiking in China's national forests. Although, the bears there are not close to Grizzly size and pandas (yes...they are not bears) would not be mistaking hikers for shoots of bamboo. So, Four. Was it a trial and error situation wherein groups of one, two, three, and four were sent up various Grizzly Bear infested mountains and then interviewed when (and if) they came back as to the grizzliness of their Grizzly encounters? Were the weights, sex, and tastiness of the hikers taken into consideration for the group size? What, as Mr. Gaffigan opines, were their thespian skills? And the Group of Four? Does this ideal group size mean minimal attacks or NO attacks/encounters? What if someone in the group was feeling particularly frisky, adventurous, or demented?
Before we headed off into the Canadian wilds, I hope we would have asked for some published test results or at least some smelly carcass we could haul with us to dump as soon as a bear approached. Save for one short bear sighting form the safety of a ton and a half car, our vacation was filled with the giddy anticipation of spotting (and then running/playing dead/talking softly/other tricks allegedly know to work) a bear. We maintained a minimal bear quorum of five, cheating on the long side of things. Our conversations were loud, thorny topic-ed, and packed with laughter, all human cacaphony guaranteed to run off any wildlife. Except for magpies and crows, 2 animals sounding similar shrill calls to ourselves.
All through our vacation, whenever we were on the trails, even when chances of bear encounters were nil, I was humming this little ditty (Quicksilver Messenger Service's "Bears"). One never knows when a well-hummed lyric could sooth the savage beast and my East Coast Sensibilities (or lack of sensibility, as opined by several Montanans) inclined me to hum. Loudly. And with a cowbell. Din-din is on the way and it'll be singin'.
Quicksilver Messenger Service: "Bears" lyrics-
"Quicksilver Messenger Service - Bears Lyrics:
(Crazy Laughter)
When walking between the lines and the squares,
Be careful that you don't step on the bears.
(snorting)
There are bears on the stairs, often in pairs,
And they're very hard to get along with.
(sniff, Sniff Sniff)
There are bears in the gutter, so be careful not to utter,
A sound that will disturb.
(burp)
There's something about honey, makes a bear kinda funny,
especially when it's time to eat.
(Sniffs.... SHHHH.....
There's a bear
(crazy Laughter"
Standing off to one side was a group of hikers, three in total, loudly discussing their hopefully-soon trek up the trail into the woods. The written rule in Canada's national parks is that hikers have to comprise a minimum group of 4 prior to heading off onto the ursine trails. Due to time constraints and a group-fear fueled by our self-delusion that we exuded odors of edibility, the eight of us, though large enough by a factor of two to take on these bear trails, opted to not head up the tasty human morsel trail.That didn't prevent yours truly, in bear-thought mode since we came out West, to start inventing scenarios as to how the Canadian National Park service came up with the ideal number of Four. I'm sure the Chinese National Park Service would have opted for another number as Four is not the number one would want to be grouped in when hiking in China's national forests. Although, the bears there are not close to Grizzly size and pandas (yes...they are not bears) would not be mistaking hikers for shoots of bamboo. So, Four. Was it a trial and error situation wherein groups of one, two, three, and four were sent up various Grizzly Bear infested mountains and then interviewed when (and if) they came back as to the grizzliness of their Grizzly encounters? Were the weights, sex, and tastiness of the hikers taken into consideration for the group size? What, as Mr. Gaffigan opines, were their thespian skills? And the Group of Four? Does this ideal group size mean minimal attacks or NO attacks/encounters? What if someone in the group was feeling particularly frisky, adventurous, or demented?
Before we headed off into the Canadian wilds, I hope we would have asked for some published test results or at least some smelly carcass we could haul with us to dump as soon as a bear approached. Save for one short bear sighting form the safety of a ton and a half car, our vacation was filled with the giddy anticipation of spotting (and then running/playing dead/talking softly/other tricks allegedly know to work) a bear. We maintained a minimal bear quorum of five, cheating on the long side of things. Our conversations were loud, thorny topic-ed, and packed with laughter, all human cacaphony guaranteed to run off any wildlife. Except for magpies and crows, 2 animals sounding similar shrill calls to ourselves.
All through our vacation, whenever we were on the trails, even when chances of bear encounters were nil, I was humming this little ditty (Quicksilver Messenger Service's "Bears"). One never knows when a well-hummed lyric could sooth the savage beast and my East Coast Sensibilities (or lack of sensibility, as opined by several Montanans) inclined me to hum. Loudly. And with a cowbell. Din-din is on the way and it'll be singin'.
Quicksilver Messenger Service: "Bears" lyrics-
"Quicksilver Messenger Service - Bears Lyrics:
(Crazy Laughter)
When walking between the lines and the squares,
Be careful that you don't step on the bears.
(snorting)
There are bears on the stairs, often in pairs,
And they're very hard to get along with.
(sniff, Sniff Sniff)
There are bears in the gutter, so be careful not to utter,
A sound that will disturb.
(burp)
There's something about honey, makes a bear kinda funny,
especially when it's time to eat.
(Sniffs.... SHHHH.....
There's a bear
(crazy Laughter"
Labels: Canada, Food Issues, Turistas
Vacation Dilemnas
The curse of decision-making while at Lake Louise, Alberta.
Do you stay inside and enjoy the view while sipping a coffee and clinking your bone china cup,
or
do you brave the 65 degree F weather and sit on the outdoor patio and coif a brew or two, while birds flit from emptying tables to the webs of chair legs, picking at fine pastry droppings?
Hmmm??? Why not both?
(NB: Click on the pix to access the Flickr album of other pictures.)
Do you stay inside and enjoy the view while sipping a coffee and clinking your bone china cup,
ordo you brave the 65 degree F weather and sit on the outdoor patio and coif a brew or two, while birds flit from emptying tables to the webs of chair legs, picking at fine pastry droppings?
Hmmm??? Why not both?
(NB: Click on the pix to access the Flickr album of other pictures.)
Labels: Canada, Turistas, Vacations
Friday, August 28, 2009
Bring me to the Old People
Well, he might as well have used the word "Geezers". In the social niceties moment at the time, perhaps he'd forgotten the word. We, that group consisting of the Ever-Loving Wife, a truly fine Canadian couple we've been close friends with since the glaciers started pulling up their rocky skirts and retreated further north, and yours truly, were thoroughly enmeshed in enjoying ourselves on a patio with this view. We (same group as explained in that last paragraph of a sentence) had been accompanied by 3 of 4 of our children. Yes, lucky we (you get the picture!) four are to actually have kids who want to hang around on vacation with their parents. Although, vacationing in places like Banff, Lake Louise, and Flathead Lake, Montana would probably not be defined as difficult work for the young ones. The eight of us were hiking most every day, some were horseback riding, others were taking (excessive) amount of pictures, while still more were whetting whistles on appropriately mountain wildlife named beers. There was always activity; there was a semblance of youthful vigor exuded by our group.Or so I thought.
The We (yes, that foursome again) had parked ourselves with hot and cold beverages of equally soothing flow on a patio restaurant at Chateau Lake Louise, having finished another day of vibrancy (Yes, we vibrated all day. Up the trails, down the trails, across the trails. We were in full-fledged vibrancy. I have witnesses). We felt flushed with the stupidity of Youth. Nothing would burst our bubble.
My son, a grad student in the geo-sciences area, knows of age. Biologists, archaelogists and zoologists have nothing on him when it comes to familiarity with old things. Only astronomists and cosmologists could trump him when it comes to describing obtusely long spaces of time. So, when he, along with the other kinder, approached the maître d’ and inquired as to our whereabouts by posing the request, "Please, take us to the four old people", his old implied age of epic duration. We (yes,unbeknownst to us, miraculously and cruely transformed to four fossils) were still drunk in the full effect of the Fountain.
The maître d’ nodded at my son's request, took a measured turn and step, and, without hesitation in his gait, guided the kiddies through the sea of grey, blue, and silver directly to our table. The Table of Old People.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Canada, Philly Says, "Yo! Thanks!"
For Game #4 of the NLCS, Philly gives you a pop on the shoulder for this guy.
The moment, explained.
Phillies 3 games
Dodgers 1 game
Only one to go
For the Biggest Show.
The moment, explained.
Phillies 3 games
Dodgers 1 game
Only one to go
For the Biggest Show.
Labels: Canada, The Sporting Thing
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Why we're different.
Aside from naming our last letter "Z" rather than "Zed" (rhyming with Ned as in Beatty), other more important differences distinguish us from our neighbours to the north (like using the "ou" where, here, an "o" will do).
Nationalized Health Care will most probably stay up north and not wander down below the 49th parallel. The life expectancy of 80.3 years up north v. our 77.8 years will stay up there as well. Child mortality of 6.4 per 1,000 live births will also stay with us as opposed to the lower 4.6 per thousand up in the cold country.
Value Added Tax (VAT), a national sales tax currently at 5%, is, thankfully, still only used up North. An aside here, the phrase for the combination of the VAT and the provincial tax is Harmonized Sales Tax. You've got to admit that the Canadian legislation has a sense of humour. Harmonized, indeed.
Today, as per Whisky Prajer's entry, British Columbia kicked in the provincial carbon tax. While I have no argument with the science of global warming, I do have one with the legislator/global warming combination. There's a stink to this type of nebulous taxing that reminds me of the argument in New Jersey for casino tax as supporting its senior citizens. The accounting of these benefits is murky, at best. And, if you are as I am, seeing and touching is certainly not believing. The Atlantic City of today does not carry over the verve, prosperity, and enjoyment of my youth. What was magical is now miserable.
So, hopefully the fog of the carbon tax will not become a reality here in the States. When (or should I say "If") the carbon tax issue is made clear, both in purpose and execution, I'll be first in line to hand over the extra money. 'Til then, let's see how it works out North of the Border.
Now, about that national health care thing.... How about we give that a whirl down here? It would be nice to gain those additional 2.5 years of life that the Canadians are enjoying right now.
Nationalized Health Care will most probably stay up north and not wander down below the 49th parallel. The life expectancy of 80.3 years up north v. our 77.8 years will stay up there as well. Child mortality of 6.4 per 1,000 live births will also stay with us as opposed to the lower 4.6 per thousand up in the cold country.
Value Added Tax (VAT), a national sales tax currently at 5%, is, thankfully, still only used up North. An aside here, the phrase for the combination of the VAT and the provincial tax is Harmonized Sales Tax. You've got to admit that the Canadian legislation has a sense of humour. Harmonized, indeed.
Today, as per Whisky Prajer's entry, British Columbia kicked in the provincial carbon tax. While I have no argument with the science of global warming, I do have one with the legislator/global warming combination. There's a stink to this type of nebulous taxing that reminds me of the argument in New Jersey for casino tax as supporting its senior citizens. The accounting of these benefits is murky, at best. And, if you are as I am, seeing and touching is certainly not believing. The Atlantic City of today does not carry over the verve, prosperity, and enjoyment of my youth. What was magical is now miserable.
So, hopefully the fog of the carbon tax will not become a reality here in the States. When (or should I say "If") the carbon tax issue is made clear, both in purpose and execution, I'll be first in line to hand over the extra money. 'Til then, let's see how it works out North of the Border.
Now, about that national health care thing.... How about we give that a whirl down here? It would be nice to gain those additional 2.5 years of life that the Canadians are enjoying right now.
Labels: Canada
Friday, January 11, 2008
Loonie Daze
As the Fed and the bearded Mr. Bernanke prepare to cut the Fed key interest rate by a half point, Countrywide Bank is set to be acquired by Bank of America. Oil is going to $100 a barrel within the month. Tata is acquiring Land Rover and Jaguar. Up is down and down is the dollar's direction.
Uncontrollable Aside Notice: I hate (!!!!) that Bank of Americaa behemoth name! You just know that this Bank of America naming thing is an excess of hubris that will bring them down like a flying gerbil.
So, in these troubled times, a chance to have a slight upturn of the mouth.
Uncontrollable Aside Notice: I hate (!!!!) that Bank of Americaa behemoth name! You just know that this Bank of America naming thing is an excess of hubris that will bring them down like a flying gerbil.
So, in these troubled times, a chance to have a slight upturn of the mouth.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
That Old Canada Rag
Lunch time at work usually means escaping to one of the 6-7 eateries in the area. Our lunch room is relatively puny in comparison with the amount of people who work here, so if you’re in need of quiet or escape, you must drive to another menu venue. Most days I cart along the NYT, WSJ, or some magazine or printouts from the daily postings of Michael Blowhard, Whisky Prajer, or Mr. Sgazzetti. God forbid I’m dining alone with no reading matter! Wasted time!Today was a most confusing day in the morning so I drove to an eatery sans paper. Luckily my vehicle, specifically the trunk area, is well-stocked with the important stuff, namely quarts of oil, liters of water, metric and inch socket sets, 2 complete changes of clothes, including shoes, a collapsible chair, 3 umbrellas, a blanket, enough maps to launch an expedition, and books. Paperbacks, really, which were duplicates of hardcover versions stored in the house. Please, don’t ask. It’s a long story; well, actually, it's a series of long stories.
So, as I was troving through the different bags in the trunk, I came upon Thin Ice, an engaging autobiography by Bruce McCall. I’d read this book about 8 years ago and I’ve picked it up on quite a few other occasions to re-read certain passages or chapters I’d "post-it"ed on my first run through. The first ¾ of the book is outstanding. My interest wavered through the last 60 or so pages as both the author and I lost our wind. But the first 120 pages or so? Absolutely devine. Bruce McCall of the Norfolk County, Ontario McCalls is quite funny and insightful as he illustrates his youthful days in Simcoe, Ontario, just over the border from the US of A., before he becomes a grown-up and ventures south to eventually wind up as a writer and illustrator for the New Yorker magazine.
If you’ll excuse me, here’s a lengthy excerpt from the book (all painstakingly typed by yours truly so throw me a bone by reading it through. Or, why don't you just print this out and go to lunch. Go on. You need the break.
"I grew up in a world where the average Canadian would rather be trampled by the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride than be found publicly admitting anything American to be superior, or even much good. Nobody, not even the most rabidly anti-American Canadian nationalist, could or would deny the economic and cultural facts of life that all but swamped our nation in Americana. But that didn’t mean Canadians had to like it. That would mean accepting and even liking Americans, and wait just a minute, eh? If the general attitude of Canadians toward their mighty neighbor to the south could be distilled into a single phrase, that phrase would probably be "Oh, shut up." The Americans talked too much, mainly about themselves. Their torrid love affair with their own history and legend exceeded-painfully the quasi-British Canadian idea of modesty and self-restraint. They were jammed permanently in extroverted high gear, confident to the brink of, if not over the edge of, arrogance; strident, take-charge, can-do----fatiguing. There was about the American style something, indeed plenty, that jarred the Canadian love of calm. Americans spent far too much of their vaunted energy out at the extremes of feeling. They were forever bursting in spasms of insufferable yahoo pride or all too publicly agonizing over their crises.
The patriotic Canadian should keep his distance, then. Snuggle in the warmth and safety of British institutions and customs and attitudes that have always underpinned Canadian life, lending it dignity and order, helping shield it from the obnoxious blowhards forever yelping and banging and partying, way past bedtime.
This was the view of the Americans I had breathed as part of the very air of Simcoe and Canada since infancy. Evidence that ours was a superior civilization was obvious, at least to us: We had the Imperial gallon, two-dollar bills, Mounties, the more scenic part of the Niagara Falls, grade thirteen in high school, a governor-general, Eskimos, three downs in football, the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens, our Deanna Durbin in Hollywood and our Max Aitken, Lord Beaverbrook, in London, and permanent private pipeline to Buckingham Palace.
And yet,
even by age eleven I was beginning to secretly backslide. I had begun to find myself privately questioning my faith and putting it to the test. I was beginning to wonder if, despite all the evidence, Canada was really so inherently superior and the way of the USA really so inherently intolerable. I was feeling the first pangs of envy arising from a strong and growing suspicion that not all that far away, over the border, the average eleven-year-old American kid was having lots more fun. From all appearances, indeed, being first in fun was part of the American boy’s birthright.
Reminders were as plentiful as the comparisons that inevitably followed. American kids got whistles, rings, glittering prizes in their cereal boxes; all we got was cereal. They could goggle at page after page of color comics---"Prince Valiant", "The Katzenjammer Kids", "Smokey Stover"---in their Sunday papers; we didn’t even get Sunday papers. The comic book, that archetypal American expressive form---splashy, loud, rowdy, and manic, boiling with superheroes and super-villains, a TNT charge to the boyish imagination---had only a pallid, pathetic Canadian counterpart. The few Canadian comic books were black-and-white, vapid, and hopelessly wholesome. American kids, as I vicariously feasted along with them via the comic-book ads, guzzled Royal Crown Cola, rode balloon-tired Schwinn bikes with sirens and headlights or deluxe coaster wagons or futuristic scooters. They shot pearl-handled ca guns drawn from tooled-leather holsters or Daisy (It'll shoot your eye out) air rifles, wore aviator goggles, flew gasoline-powered model airplanes. American kids even had their own exclusive boys' mail-order department store in the form of the Johnson & Smith catalog. Rushed to your front door C.O.D. from Racine, Wisconsin—-ventriloquism kits, genuine onyx signet rings, whoopee cushions, treasures Made in the USA.
But not for me; not for Canadians. In the fine-print legalese, in the radio announcer’s dream-smashing disclaimer, four words would serve to keep every son of the Maple Leaf empty-handed and brokenhearted, with his nose pressed enviously to the glass that separated him from the delirious ongoing American carnival of plenty and fun: "Not Available in Canada." "
(from Thin Ice, pp 7-8)
Labels: Books, Canada, New Yorker
Thursday, March 02, 2006
McGarrigled
Stopping at one corner, I was head-dinged by an audio cassette. A snowball would have been expected as the temptation to hurl one would have halted at least one person's trek. Even a wave of churned snow lapping over from the street as the snow plows steamed by would not have been as big of a surprise. But a cassette, complete with a box? Not a usual snow incident suspect. After rubbing the pate and checking for blood, I bent over to see what had hit me. I brushed the snow off the little plastic container and then did a 360 spin in search of the thrower. I cocked my arm back in search of a target. The blowing snow provided a curtain of escape for the thrower...if there ever was one. I was walking past the Musical Arts building of McGill at the time. It could simply have been the strong wind blowing tunes in my general direction. (Or it could have been the fine throwing arm of the spirit of Kate McGarrigle who had attended McGill University to study engineering in the 1960's while her sister, Anna, studied painting at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Montreal.)
This was my introduction to the
McGarrigle Sisters, the haunting singer-songwriters of Province Quebec. The cassette-upside-the-head was their 1976 first album simply titled Kate & Anna McGarrigle.Heartbreak Song # 8 will not be from this album, but from their 1990 release,Heartbeats Accellerating.
I Eat Dinner (When the Hunger's Gone) is a study in minimalism. An economy of description for this sinking-into-the-abyss song.
Kate McGarrigle starts with:
I eat dinner at the kitchen table
(End of the day, usual time for the only family get-together when the day’s happenings can be shared and bantered about)
With my daughter who is thirteen (implying an imminent departure (by Martha Wainwright) when she’s fully of age and then I'll be completely...alone)
We eat leftovers and mashed potatoes
(never thought of mashed potatoes as The Lonely Vegetable, until this song)
No more candlelight
(Ouch!)
No more romance
(Twist the knife)
No more small talk
(Not even a crumb of human kindness)
When the hunger's gone
(Tone is set. Can't get lower, right?)
Never thought than I'd end up this way
I who loved the sparks
Never thought my hair'd be turning to grey
It used to be so dark
So dark
Instrumentation is minimal with Kate's spare voice a strong instrument by itself, going through you with the chill of Les Suetes. If you ever find yoursefl too happy for your own good, put this cd on and the earth will quickly come crashing down on you.
Note Bene:
Her son, Rufus Wainwright , born out of her joint venture with Loudon Wainwright III, did a little re-writing of the song when he performed it, specifically in the first section, making "I Eat Dinner" even sadder than his mother had intended.
"I eat dinner at the kitchen table
By the light that switches on
I eat leftovers with mashed potatoes
No more candlelight, no more romance, no more small talk
When the hunger's gone"
He doesn't even bother with the presence of another person. Misery of Oneness.
(This is #8 of Ten Heartbreakers as memed by Whisky Prajer)
Labels: Canada, Memes, Recording Reviews
