tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89510724966020007702024-02-18T19:35:02.358-08:00The Bowie ProjectAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-4695034222389639732016-01-23T15:34:00.001-08:002016-01-25T16:02:58.154-08:00I'mma take you home... take your passport and shoes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s Sunday. I’m home alone and I cannot
for the life of me figure out where the smell of roses is coming from. Besides
being the dead of winter, there are no roses in the house, and I don’t wear
perfume. The dead poinsettia from this recently departed Christmas has gone
crunchy, dropping its leaves and petals to the table. That must be it. I give
it a sniff. It smells like a void. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In case I’m about to have some kind of
seizure, I google “sudden smell of roses in the air” and roll my eyes at the
results. I try to ignore it and go on with my day, but the aroma is
overpowering and distracting. I have to get out of here. So I go for a walk.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The newly fallen snow is pretty. It won’t
last long, with all the unseasonably mild weather we’ve been having. As I step
away and further away from my house, I realize that the floral smell seems to
be getting even stronger. With it, a sadness pours into me from the bottom up.
My legs start to feel sort of heavy, my stomach feels like there’s a 20 lb rock
in it, and then oh… what’s this heartsick feeling all about? My head hangs
low, like I’m unable to bear the weight of it on my neck. </span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I could just fall to the snowy ground, lay my head down among the snow-covered remains of lifeless stems
in the flowerbed before me, and bury myself in a fluffy white blanket. </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Except… hang on. Not all of the flowers are
dead. They should be, this time of year. But curiously, one remains in bloom.
Black, but supple, with a strange aura surrounding it. This must be the source
of the smell. But how…?</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The flower seems to have called me here,
and I’m sort of questioning reality, wondering if I’m in some kind of dream.
I’m not. Dreams don’t feel like this. </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Answering the flower’s call, I bend down to
take a whiff of the pungent aroma. And suddenly I’m falling </span><i style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">with rattling speed.</i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> At least I think
I’m falling, but it’s hard to tell when you’re surrounded by abyssal blackness.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The falling motion suddenly stops. I don’t
hit bottom, I don’t feel any surface beneath my feet or around me – it’s like
I’m dangling, suspended by an invisible rope. Millions, billions, trillions of
shapes are floating around me. There’s something very special about these
objects. They seem to exist in more than three dimensions… dimensions that I
can’t describe. I can't see these other dimensions, but I know they're there. And without even touching the objects, I can feel them.
They’re soft like kitten fur, cold like ice, hot like fire, and hard like
steel. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I can hear them, too. Whispers, musical
notes, explosions, and giggles, all layered over one another. Words in all of
earth’s languages, and some that sound completely alien. You’d think it would
all produce an overwhelming cacophony of sounds, images, feelings… but it
doesn’t. It’s like there is some kind of underlying rhythm or story that ties
them all together in a way that makes sense.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The shapes -- what I now understand to be
ideas, concepts, pieces of inspiration, thoughts and memories of everyone who
has ever lived in the past, present and future –- move around the infinite space
in layers, forming pictures... even entire scenes that are
recognizable to me. But their movement is constant and the pictures are
fleeting, like clouds in fast forward motion.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I reach out to touch them, but the gentlest
tap forces them away. In my attempt to catch one of the objects, I seem to
have accidentally torn a hole in the layer of space surrounding me. <i>Ain’t that just like me. </i>I feel an awful
sense of regret, like I’ve gone and mutilated an essential piece of the
universe. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I wonder if I’ve permanently damaged this place. I wonder if people
on earth are suddenly forgetting treasured memories, or are now experiencing
collective creative block due to my carelessness.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then I see a hand reach through the hole.
The hand tears the hole open even further, and I can see there are more layers
in behind, a whole other world of beautiful shapes, sounds, words, and
feelings. I reach in and pull myself through the gash. The membrane is so thin
it’s like moving through air. On the other side of the membrane I see a
familiar face. All my fear and regret washes away as the face smiles at me, and
now it is not only the face that is familiar, but I feel like I’ve been here
before, somehow.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Not deliberately, of course. I fleetingly
remember it from my dreams, but also from my waking life… there is a familiar
sense of purpose, of drive, of something that isn’t quite me but is still mine,
steering me to a place I was always supposed to go. I remember that feeling. It
lit me on fire once, and I let it take me to its fated conclusion. And when it
left me, I cried, and begged for it to come back.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A shape… a concept, suddenly presents
itself to me. Automatically I reach out to grab it, but then I pull back,
remembering that this place is delicate and easily injured. </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The scene before me dissipates and
everything goes dark… that is, my vision, my hearing, my thoughts, all turn to
nothingness.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I wake up on the snowy flowerbed next to
the city street, staring at the swirling sky above me. Something tells me I
need to get up, but I’m groggy and oddly comfortable here. But the longer I
lay, the more aware I become of the cold wetness seeping through my clothes.
With the intention of moving into a standing position, I look at my feet. I’m
suddenly aware of <i>skull designs upon my shoes</i>. They weren't always there, were they?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I check my phone for the time, and I’m
shocked to discover it’s Tuesday. </span><i style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">Where
the fuck did Monday go?</i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> I shake off my snowy blanket, rise to my feet and
hurry in the direction of home. The floral smell is gone, and I feel happier,
lighter on my feet. As I walk toward the light of the sun, a bluebird swoops
and glides </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;"></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">like he's doing some elaborate dance for his
own personal amusement. As he flies away, I notice that if I squint just the right amount, I can just make out
an orderly chaos of shapes swirling about in the wind.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*****</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Blackstar is a marvelous work of art. It
really is. As a whole, it takes the best things about everything Bowie did
throughout his career, and smooshes them together into something that
encapsulates him as an artist.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This album took me to a different place from what I
was expecting. And I'm glad about that. Because two weeks ago I was not exactly
in the happiest of moods, as you can imagine, when the news broke that Bowie
had moved on from the physical world. I had a lot of thoughts and feelings
swirling around, and the words to express them didn't exist.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Of course, I was looking forward to
listening to <i>Blackstar</i>. I pre-ordered my vinyl copy back in November, and had
been anticipating it since it was announced. But then its context changed
entirely mere hours before I was about to embark on my <i>Blackstar</i> listening
journey. And while I was committed to giving it the same type of treatment I
gave to all of Bowie's other albums, I wasn't sure I would be able to transcend
the sadness I was feeling. The first few listens were rough, indeed. But when I
finally allowed the music to start to carry me away, as I had done with all his
previous albums, it took me someplace kind of miraculous.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But this is also where things get a bit
weirdly personal. I've been debating whether I should write about this, but I
need to get it out, because it's kind of bothering me. Bothering is maybe not
the right word... but okay, here it goes. I promise I'm not crazy.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpAzxAeEKvNh4BSCYqqViuXERyytnCyA3gR_RBQ-NgmGNHvB-f3xM0vGpINujq_oohqOsba9Fbe4O97hrPEz9r6Wo4MH4Rbx2-Q3_mXZ2GJ61TiG4fOI8BWb-orVm6GdG7XbACX_PE40/s1600/plaidstar+publishing2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpAzxAeEKvNh4BSCYqqViuXERyytnCyA3gR_RBQ-NgmGNHvB-f3xM0vGpINujq_oohqOsba9Fbe4O97hrPEz9r6Wo4MH4Rbx2-Q3_mXZ2GJ61TiG4fOI8BWb-orVm6GdG7XbACX_PE40/s200/plaidstar+publishing2.png" width="181" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A year ago, in January 2015, I designed
this. It's the self-publishing imprint for a book that I spent 18 months
writing, illustrating, and designing. It was self-published in print format in
April 2015. To me, it's an odd coincidence that at the same time, Bowie was working
on Blackstar, though at that time it had not yet been announced. I didn't know,
and could not have known that he was even working on another album.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I believe 100% that the similarity between
the two is a coincidence. Of course it is. It's even kind of funny. But there
is another layer to the story, and this is the layer that has informed the
journey on which this album has taken me.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The entire time I was working on my
Plaidstar Publishing project, I felt as if I wasn't completely in control of
it. That some unseen force had tied me up, duct taped my mouth, locked me in the proverbial trunk,
and had taken the proverbial wheel. I remember making decisions about character
names and the colours of the images. That was me, definitely. But in a way that
I can't explain, I just didn't feel like it was really me who was responsible
for the thing. From the concept, through writing, drawing, inking, designing
the book and then finally printing, some unknown force was driving me. I think
it's pretty safe to call that force inspiration.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Before this, inspiration always sort of
seemed like a fictional character to me. Just a word to express the concept of
creating something. But the feeling of possession that I experienced... that
must be what inspiration really is. It's unfair to give inspiration the credit
for good ideas while we take the blame for the bad ones. It didn't matter to inspiration
if the idea for the project was good or bad. It didn't matter to inspiration if
the words I wrote and the pictures I drew were good or bad. All that mattered
to inspiration was that the project got finished. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I was there, I remember the whole thing. I
remember the high moments of loving the character I had created so deeply as if
he was my own son. And I also remember the low moments where I laid in bed at
night in tears, believing that what I was creating was utter crap and should
never seen by anyone, ever. But there was never a moment where I thought I
wouldn't finish it. Not finishing it was not an option. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I finished the shit out of the project. At
every stage, when I didn't know how to do something, inspiration made me
figure out how to do it. And when the end had arrived, and the book was finally
printed (funded by yours truly -- sadly, inspiration doesn't pay for printing),
I held a copy of it in my hands and sobbed with an aching heart, because it was
over. Suddenly the force that had possessed me for 18 months and made me do
this thing was just gone. I'm now left with a finished project that I'm
immensely proud of, whether it's good or bad. But I can't take full
responsibility for it.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And it's to the source of that force -- inspiration
-- that Bowie's final album took me. Because it helped me to understand that
the place where inspiration comes from is the same place our energy goes when
we eventually shed our corporeal containers. You can call it Home, you can call it Heaven, you can call it
Tralfamadore. You can call it Quantum Universe Quadrant 56. I don't really have
a name for it. But we are all connected to it.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We go there in our dreams, and it comes to
us when we're not expecting it. But its ephemeral nature means we don't get to
hold on to it. At least not while we're here. Still this vast pool of energy...
particles... concepts is available to all of us. That thing you made, whether
it was a song, painting, a house, a meal, a business, a birthday card, a
software application, or a hand-knit sweater... Regardless of how it turned
out, if you felt compelled to make it, then it came from the same place as the
greatest things that were ever made.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Yes, it's a coincidence that I named my
publishing imprint Plaidstar when Bowie named his final album Blackstar, and that both feature an image of a single large star. But I
feel honoured to have been touched by the same force that made both things come
into existence. I'm heartened by that idea, and I feel like I have Bowie to thank for helping me find it.</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-69972786995943673912016-01-11T15:22:00.000-08:002016-01-11T15:22:02.438-08:00Ashes to ashes, stardust to stardust.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQDJUIL8IPB7yymrpb7ZgYIhRfRnEPi4NAAtLhlu64fYIez7y-XOwYhdRJniAPqKuXZmgyvHPw-4VgHZKqfLE5T13fcf1dzFpPnohcagGaxPUrGCBiYAHEowaq0PAt5UaaR47V5rNM9U/s1600/10603472_10153171636972665_6002491114876644288_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQDJUIL8IPB7yymrpb7ZgYIhRfRnEPi4NAAtLhlu64fYIez7y-XOwYhdRJniAPqKuXZmgyvHPw-4VgHZKqfLE5T13fcf1dzFpPnohcagGaxPUrGCBiYAHEowaq0PAt5UaaR47V5rNM9U/s320/10603472_10153171636972665_6002491114876644288_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hate that I'm writing this.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By now you've gotten the terrible and sad news about our hero, Mr. David Bowie. I've spent the day processing it with tear-stained cheeks, trying to corral my thoughts and find the right words. A lot of beautiful tributes have been paid today, and I in no way believe I have the ability to say how I feel as perfectly as has already been done.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I may have come late to the Bowie party, but that does not diminish the heartache and the heaviness that has taken me over today. I'm grateful to have shared the same planet with him, and to have been able to experience so much joy in the gifts he gave to us all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tonight, I'm thinking of his family and dearest friends and hoping they'll find peace. I'm thinking of the cast of Lazarus and the monumental task ahead of them, performing his songs this evening. And I'm feeling the loss myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I haven't yet begun listening to what is now the final installment of David Bowie's creative legacy. I had planned on starting that today, and giving it the same two weeks I gave to all of his other albums before writing about where it takes me. Obviously, we already know how this story ends. But I don't know how I will arrive at the inevitable ending, and so I intend to take this journey in the same way I did all the others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My first listening of Blackstar will be tonight at 9:25.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I look at my watch, it says 9:25, and I think, "Oh God, I'm still alive" - Time, </i>from<i> Aladdin Sane, </i>1973<i>.</i></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-72281283973241131582015-12-30T11:33:00.002-08:002016-01-23T16:18:46.484-08:00I've got drama, can't be stolen.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0dsu6SCVaGDs-3_K6zMzBJVVXyiBEzNIkelwoPuYnKi9Y1u1a_p0mtAxxhG5u-Igx8EJeYgNXIDNspy-EUHiEr7hJX-OeNJM4_1HcW_eB-7RIiEd6xsWWplUoPdh921tggdinM47Iqn4/s1600/LAZARUS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0dsu6SCVaGDs-3_K6zMzBJVVXyiBEzNIkelwoPuYnKi9Y1u1a_p0mtAxxhG5u-Igx8EJeYgNXIDNspy-EUHiEr7hJX-OeNJM4_1HcW_eB-7RIiEd6xsWWplUoPdh921tggdinM47Iqn4/s1600/LAZARUS.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Well hello! It's good to be back. It has been too long. I've been keeping busy with another music-based blogging project which I shall not say anything more about because it doesn't belong here. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Anyone who is following David Bowie news lately knows that we shall be having a new album from him in the new year, which is exciting, to say the least! And you are also probably aware of the New York Theatre Workshop's production of<i> Lazarus</i>, for which Bowie is largely responsible.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Well, I don't
want to brag but... yeah, I went to see it! I feel absolutely lucky that I
was able to get tickets for what was originally supposed to be the last day of
the show, before the extension was announced. And while any reason is a good
reason to visit New York City, I have to say, that this show made it probably
my most favourite trip to NYC ever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Now, December 27
from 2-4pm is quickly fading away into the past, so I need to write about this while
it is still fresh in my mind. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Written by
Bowie and Enda Walsh, the production incorporates songs from Bowie's established
musical catalogue as well as new songs written for the play that shall appear
on his forthcoming album </span><b><span lang="EN-US">★</span></b>(<span lang="EN-US"><i>Blackstar</i>). The songs are used in
<i>Lazarus</i> in a similar fashion to the film <i>Across the Universe</i>, in which Beatles'
songs are sung by the characters to convey the story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The story
is a future continuation of the life of Thomas Jerome Newton, from <i>The Man Who
Fell to Earth</i>. You may remember <a href="http://thebowieproject.blogspot.ca/p/screen.html" target="_blank">my write-up about that film</a>, which basically
has one of the saddest endings ever, leaving Newton trapped on Earth, alone and
suffering from alcohol and TV addiction whilst his family perishes in a drought
on his home planet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So it was
good to see him get a new, less depressing ending. But I'm getting ahead of
myself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">***SPOILER ALERT***<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The story
focuses on Newton in his drunken stupor, unaging and unable to die, as he pines
for his long lost love MaryLou while simultaneously wishing he could just go
home to the stars. A parade of characters punctuate his existence... some with
the intention of helping him, while others intend to help destroy him. Not all
of them are of the physical world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The show
begins with Mr. Newton (played by the lovely and talented Michael C. Hall of
<i>Dexter</i> and <i>Hedwig </i>fame) passed out on the floor of his apartment, a bottle of
gin within arm's reach. (On a theatrical production sidenote, he's already
laying there when you enter the theatre, so the show sort of begins from the
moment you walk in, before you even find your seat. It makes me wonder what
random bits of conversation Michael C. Hall has heard while laying there
waiting for the house to fill and the lights to go down).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Newton is
helped up by a young woman who is his newly hired personal assistant, Elly (Christin
Milioti). Elly is immensely dissatisfied with her unexciting, directionless
life, and finds herself attracted to Newton, to her husband's dismay. When she
discovers that Newton keeps a box of women's clothing under his bed, she
becomes obsessed with becoming the woman who once wore them, MaryLou. Singing <i>Changes</i>, she dons MaryLou's clothes, makes herself up in MaryLou's
image, and insists she be called by MaryLou's name. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She is consumed by madness,
addicted to the titillating joy of being someone else, while knowing in the
back of her mind that her behaviour is dangerous and destructive. Her husband
fights to keep her, while Newton recoils from her advances.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">While Elly
is transforming into MaryLou, a new person suddenly appears in Newton's life.
She's a nameless angelic girl on the verge of womanhood, and it turns out that
only he can see her. A vivid version of<i> The Man Who Sold the World</i> sung by
Newton hints that she's not the first person to appear in his mind. She soon
learns that while she doesn't know who she is, her purpose is to help Newton,
to save him, somehow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The girl
and Newton become close -- she resembles his long dead daughter, and the girl
becomes a daughter-figure for him as she tries to figure out how she is going
to fulfill her destiny to save him. One day it comes to her: she shall build
him a spaceship and send him back to the stars. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The girl is
the embodiment of hope. She gives Newton something to look forward to, even if
he's not entirely sure she is capable of building a rocket ship that will send
him home. After all, he tried that once himself. The hope that she brings is
palpable, but we soon learn that once her mission is complete, that she will
disappear from his life, and the thought of that brings Newton despair. It's
inevitable, because she is actually a dead girl, caught between two worlds,
taken before her time. Her name is Marley, and she too must find her way home.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And because
all things exist in relativity, the hope that Marley provides is battled by the
hope-stealing force that is the character of Valentine. Valentine is a charismatic
psychopath, a man who charms everyone he meets into letting him in, so that he
can take whatever joy, whatever hope, whatever love, whatever happiness they have.
He feeds on it, like a dementor. Valentine is an interesting character in that
he seems to exist in more than one dimension. He's here on earth as much as he
is in Newton's head. He is the only other person who can see Marley. And his
goal is burst Newton's bubble as violently and as diabolically as he can.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Eventually,
Elly realizes the damage she is doing by taking on the persona of MaryLou, and
while the thought of going back to her normal, joyless life pains her, she
changes back into her t-shirt and jeans, and goes home to her husband.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Marley,
meanwhile, begins building Newton's ship. She constructs the vessel out of
white tape on the floor of his apartment, just large enough to contain his
corporeal being. I have to say, this was my favourite moment of the play, the
moment where it all fell into place. It took everything I had to not cry out. I
do believe I sighed aloud.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Enter
Valentine to take it all away. The stage is flooded with a sea of black
balloons which are violently stabbed to death by the chorus, leaving behind a
mass grave of lifeless black balloon corpses on the stage. Valentine reveals
that it's time for Marley to go, and to do that, Newton must kill her. Since
Marley is already physically dead, he must kill her in his mind so that she can
move on to her final resting place, wherever that may be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Newton
fights this, of course. How could he possibly kill the girl who has given him
hope, who has become like a daughter to him? Marley tells him it's okay, it's
what he must do for both of their sakes. A fight between Newton and a
knife-wielding Valentine ensues, and eventually, Newton succumbs to Valentine's
strength, and the knife pierces Marley's body. A pool of white blood floods the
stage from beneath her body. Newton is overcome with grief as she bleeds out in
front of him. But she wakes out of her deathly slumber long enough for the two
of them to exchange a good-bye song together (<i>"Heroes"</i>).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The ensuing
interlude is a playful dad-and-daughter moment, the two of them slip 'n'
sliding across the floor through the white liquid, swimming like dolphins, as
it were. If Marley building the rocket ship is my favourite moment, this is a
close second. With that, Marley's mission is complete and she vanishes from
Newton's mind, and he is now able to crawl into his spaceship, bound for his
home in the stars. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Lazarus</i>
exceeded all of my expectations. Of course I expected it to sound great. That
was never in question. Using Bowie's music to tell the story of a character he
once played himself? Just brilliant. But that music didn't just appear out of
nowhere from offstage speakers, no. It was played live by a band that was
situated on the back part of the stage, behind windows that allowed us to watch
the music being played. Top that off with epically beautiful performances of
the songs sung by the cast. I knew Michael C. Hall could sing... but Sophia Anne
Caruso in the role of Marley? That girl is going to go places. I want to hear
her sing ALL THE TIME.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But that
wasn't all. It was also visually stunning. The entire stage area was used as a
projector screen, displaying a collage of imagery on and off throughout the
show. A large vertically oriented flat screen TV in the middle of the stage
acts as another character, kind of. It's where we get glimpses of MaryLou. It
shows the state of Newton's TV-addled mind. It provides an entry and exit point
for disembodied characters. It interacts with the corporeal characters on the
stage in the most brilliant way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">If I was worried
about any aspect of the show, it was the story. A live-action, theatrical
sequel to a cult sci-fi film already adapted from a novel... that's a
challenging endeavour, and not necessarily a recipe for success. And while it
was definitely not a narrative in the traditional sense, I was relieved to find
that the characters were created with care and dimension. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The story is abstract,
definitely, but it is told with wit, humour, and tenderness. Any fan of surrealist and abstract expressionist
art will appreciate the symbolic elements of the production. Often ambiguous
and totally surreal, the story is counter-balanced by some endearingly
on-the-nose moments. What does any of it mean? Like any piece of art, that's
sort of on you to decide.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And while
the temptation to explain Newton's voyage back to space as suicide is strong,
that remains a sensitive subject for me and an ending I don't want to accept. And so I have decided to go with a literal interpretation
of that moment... for this play was a kind of weirdly beautiful magic, and there is nothing more magical than travelling to the stars in a spaceship constructed of white tape by an ephemeral angel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here is a
list of the songs performed, excluding the new songs written specifically for
the play:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>It's
No Game (Part 1)</i> - from <i>Scary Monsters and Super Creeps</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></i><span lang="EN-US"><i>This
is Not America</i> - from the soundtrack to the movie <i>The Falcon and the Snowman</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>The
Man Who Sold the World</i> - from <i>The Man Who Sold the World</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"><i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>Love
is Lost </i>- from <i>The Next Day</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>Changes</i>
- from <i>Hunky Dory</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>Where
Are We Now?</i> - from <i>The Next Day</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></i><span lang="EN-US"><i>Absolute
Beginners</i> - from the soundtrack to the movie <i>Absolute Beginners</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></i><span lang="EN-US"><i>Dirty
Boys</i> - from <i>The Next Day</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></i><span lang="EN-US"><i>Life
on Mars?</i> - from <i>Hunky Dory</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>All
the Young Dudes</i> - recorded by Mott the Hoople<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>Sound
and Vision</i> - from <i>Low</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>Always
Crashing in the Same Car</i> - from <i>Low</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></i><span lang="EN-US"><i>Valentine's
Day</i> - from <i>The Next Day</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"> <i>
</i></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><i>"Heroes"</i>
- from <i>"Heroes"<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: black; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The song <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_3mEWx2e_8" target="_blank">Lazarus</a></i>, from the forthcoming album <i>Blackstar</i> was also performed, as well as a few other new ones. This list will be updated when I find out what they are called.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">End
transmission.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">PS - Unbeknownst to me, my husband went and swiped some black balloon bits off the stage for me. Best husband ever!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDdywyuUTKM-cLqco0Ei5t7VenhAvLpQiv70VXXmT0RQqg7iKpVorIIGPFZg9Qnwg__cqFtd4lR5Kg4-uV9zaSwsYc-v2I19zNi3ULZowhNN_wfbSd6VpQDML-9maicUuTd50mQYLrvg/s1600/laz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDdywyuUTKM-cLqco0Ei5t7VenhAvLpQiv70VXXmT0RQqg7iKpVorIIGPFZg9Qnwg__cqFtd4lR5Kg4-uV9zaSwsYc-v2I19zNi3ULZowhNN_wfbSd6VpQDML-9maicUuTd50mQYLrvg/s400/laz.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-83956681310733041332015-02-07T10:49:00.002-08:002015-02-07T12:00:24.593-08:00And the next day, and the next, and another day.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbtKYbVQWV4xjDthO8qDz2-umGtW4F69O3fEqqz4w1FaJhiD_4yl0H8uP_bEG1D7tj0d9HfJ4-StoPDSXJo7dzixj9YAI58pCXDG3T_qkRn69UuCgauqQzFG0yjGgPY8pNoOwephbzpc/s1600/David_Bowie_-_The_Next_Day.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbtKYbVQWV4xjDthO8qDz2-umGtW4F69O3fEqqz4w1FaJhiD_4yl0H8uP_bEG1D7tj0d9HfJ4-StoPDSXJo7dzixj9YAI58pCXDG3T_qkRn69UuCgauqQzFG0yjGgPY8pNoOwephbzpc/s1600/David_Bowie_-_The_Next_Day.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm in a movie theatre. Thankfully, I seem to have appeared
here at the end of the long run of commercials. The theatre is well packed with
popcorn-munching spectators, their eyes all trained up at the screen. I wonder
if they all made a conscious choice to be here today, or if they suddenly
appeared here, like me. Regardless, we all know the drill. All hush up as the
movie begins.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've got an empty seat on either side of me, no one sitting
directly in front of me, and a full bag of hot popcorn in my lap. I've found
myself in some pretty strange adventures throughout this journey, so I'm quite
happy to sit back and watch the story unfold before my eyes this time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The movie opens with a split screen. Not a technique that
gets used a lot in modern filmmaking. Both sides of the split show only a
close-up of a face. The man on the left is crying. He's older, maybe in his
70's. He's thin and disheveled and not looking particularly well. Behind him,
darkness with a blue flickering light off to one side... television light. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The crying woman on the right is about the same age, but her
appearance is stunningly beautiful. Her tears shine brightly as they fall from her eyes. Behind
her, golden light. Flashes of light illuminate her face from different
directions intermittently and then all at once, in random bursts... camera
flashes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The camera pulls back on both sides of the split
simultaneously. He's alone in the living room of a modest looking but unkempt house,
sitting still as a statue except for the tears that roll down his lined cheeks.
There is no sound coming from the TV at which he gazes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the other side of the screen, the camera pulls back to
reveal that she's standing amid a sea of people, all as beautiful as she is, all
dressed in sparkling finery of the highest quality. Her glowing golden curls
match her shimmering golden gown. Her red lips match the red carpet. The camera
flashes continue unabated, and she appears numb, blind, and paralyzed in the
frenzy that surrounds her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What connects these two people?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QWtsV50_-p4" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The split screen widens from the middle, pushing the crying
woman out of the way, showing us more of the crying man. Flash back. A small boy
is running to school. The bell is ringing and he's late... again. As he enters
his classroom, the teacher looks at him with a disapproval that is soft and
gentle around the edges. The boy takes his seat, and we can see how much
smaller he is compared to the other children. The desks all have hand-drawn
nameplates on them. The nameplate on the small boy's desk says Valentine.
Valentine is the runt of his class.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Everyone calls him Val for short. Val gets bullied in the
way you expect a boy who is smaller than the rest to be bullied. He knows he's
small and he avoids getting into scrapes. He prefers to get by on his charm.
The girls like him, though they won't admit it. He tries hard and his teachers
are sympathetic to him. He has a few friends, but his status in life seems
secure: he's not going to amount to much. But Val has other plans.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/S4R8HTIgHUU" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Val eventually goes on to high school, and chooses a
different school from his primary school classmates. In his freshman year, Val
decides to drop the sweet, charming runt act. The girls are nice to him, but no
girl wants to date a boy who is smaller than she is. Val realizes that he can't
do much about his height, but he can make himself strong. Lucky for Val, he
puts on muscle easily, and he's a fast and agile runner. He spends his spare
time working out and training, and he makes the football team as a running halfback.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Val's popularity reveals a bit of a dark streak, however. He
falls in with a crowd of misfits from a neighbouring rival school. He begins
living a strange double life. By day, Val is a much-lauded member of his high school
football team, popular with just about everyone, making everyone proud. By
night, he smokes dope, smashes mailboxes, and eggs houses with the greasy-haired
loser kids from the other school. Somehow, he manages to keep both lives
completely separate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the age of 16, Val has managed to get a few dates under
his belt (if you know what I mean) but has yet to have a serious relationship.
He's nominated for Homecoming King at the prom, but he has zero interest in the
buxom, air-headed cheerleader who will likely be crowned Queen (been there, done
that, fears her teeth). He attends the dance solo, expected to put in an
appearance. He's got plans to get drunk and partake in some mischief with the
St. Joe's boys later.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then he meets Sophie. She's slightly shorter than Val -- five
foot nothing to his five foot two. Immediately drawn in by his broad, charming
smile, Sophie -- not from this school, or the rival school either -- exuberates
a quality that you don't often see among the masses of regular folk. She seems
to have an inherent glow about her... a star quality.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like a magnet pulling them together, Val and Sophie spend
the evening getting to know each other, inside and out. He's absent for his
homecoming coronation, choosing instead to lay with Sophie on the top of a car
in the parking lot behind the school, gazing at the stars in each others' eyes.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kF2gDYTZzL8" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sophie is from the country. She's spending the weekend with
her cousin Christie who goes to Val's school. She doesn't get to come to the
big city often, and her cousin invited her to the dance as a "girl
date", which she happily accepted, because she adores dressing up in fancy
attire and getting her hair done up. She's going to be an actress one day, and
plans to own an opulent collection of award show gowns and jewels.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back in the gym-turned-dance hall, Christie spies her dear
cousin with Val, and she takes her aside to offer a warning: Val seems sweet,
but he's got a dark side. He thinks no one knows that he hangs out with the bad
boys from the Catholic school around the corner, but everyone whispers about it
behind his back. He wants everyone to think he's good, but he's really a bad
boy, Christie tells her. But this information only heightens Sophie's attraction
to Val.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sophie goes back to the country, but she and Val keep in
touch until the summer, when she decides to move to the big city to be with
him, and also to pursue her dream of becoming a movie star.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sophie has focused her studies on the arts, namely drama. She
has always played the female lead in the annual school play. In the big city,
she's begun auditioning for theatre companies, and her inherent star quality
does not go unnoticed. Sophie explodes into the local acting community, and
finds herself being approached by theatre and film directors. She's not just a
pretty face after all... the girl has talent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With Sophie becoming the talk of the town, Val begins to
find himself somewhat playing second fiddle to her. With high school graduation
looming, Val is thinking about his future. He's not likely to become a
professional football player -- he's just too small. He's neglected his studies
and his grades are proof of that. Val reveals to Sophie that he's thinking of
joining the military. She is, of course, not in favour of this, and tells him
so on no uncertain terms. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8OGE8Yo9C2Q" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To keep her happy, Val applies to college, but his heart's
not in it. He's done with school, he decides, and he tosses away his acceptance
letters without even opening them. Sophie is so busy with her acting career
that she barely notices him anymore anyway. He serves as arm candy for her at
the opening of her wildly successful indie film, but the spotlight is all on
her, and Val feels like she's stolen something from him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Despite her protests, he enlists in the armed forces anyway.
At the age of 17, Val breaks up with Sophie and leaves for boot camp, and then
immediately ships off on his first tour to the Middle East. Sophie appears
devastated by the break up, but she's a good actress, and Val's not convinced
that she'll really miss him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At first, Val feels satisfied with his decision. He feels at
home as a soldier, exercising his physical prowess through sanctioned violence.
But as the days wear on, he begins to feel that something is not quite right
inside. Barely a man, the hard, cool exterior that he has spent so much time
cultivating as a boy, begins to crack. His initial excitement has worn away to
fear and dread.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And something else... he misses Sophie. Val remembers the
girl before she realized her dreams of fame and stardom, and he pines for her.
He wonders if she misses him too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If Sophie misses Val, she's hiding it in the deepest
recesses of her heart. Her latest movie is being touted as an Oscar contender,
and she and her co-star, Lev Moritz, are rumoured to be up for best actress and
best supporting actor as a result of their steamy on-screen chemistry in the
film. Of course, that chemistry comes from a real-life source. Sophie and Lev
are the hottest couple in Hollywood, where they've just bought a multi-million
dollar abode together. Tonight, they adorn the red carpet, arm in arm, sparkling
and shining and beaming like two golden balls of light fallen to earth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gH7dMBcg-gE" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(Note: the opening number in this video is the song <i>Plan</i>, also from <i>The Next Day</i>)</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Val would know this if he was plugged in to pop culture, but
he's too busy shooting people and running for his life. After a particularly
bloody day that has debilitated and maimed his squad, Val settles in for a
night of much needed sleep.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He doesn't talk much about his life before the army. His
squad members could be forgiven for thinking that Val was born all grown up,
wearing camo and brandishing a rifle. As the rest of the squad joins Val in
their makeshift home for the night, one of them reveals that he no longer has a
reason for living. He just heard that his movie star crush, Sophie Jensen, is
engaged to that fake Hollywood cad, Lev Moritz. She could do so much better.
She has, Val thinks, and rolls over to nurse his aching heart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The years have passed and Val has dutifully continued his
military service in tours across the Middle East and Africa. He's seen some
things. So far removed from his old life as a high school football star and arm
candy to a rising movie star, Val doesn't know who he is anymore, and his world
view has become dark, cynical, and packed with nightmarish realities.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hope arrives in the form of a Christian missionary named
Jackie. She's working in the small African village where Val is currently
stationed. For the first time in years, Val begins to feel something other than
the daily fear, dread, and anxiety he has come to know. Jackie's there to
convert the locals to Christianity, which Val thinks is ridiculous. But her
sunny cheerfulness and optimism make Val feel all a flutter, like a little boy
chasing butterflies in a vast green field.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He visits Jackie just to see her smile. She offers him an
ear and a shoulder, but he refuses to talk. He just wants to be near her.
Eventually, Val's innocent fascination turns to lust, however, and his attempts
to get Jackie to sleep with him lead her to distance herself from him. She's
not that kind of girl.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Val probably should have availed himself of the body parts
Jackie did offer him - the ear and shoulder, namely - for the body parts she
has withheld leave him deeper in despair than he was before they met. No longer
able to focus on the task at hand, Val makes a poor decision on his next
mission, rushing in too early and getting him severely injured. He is sent home
with an honourable discharge for medical reasons, having won no particular
medals or awards to speak of.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Val returns to his homeland, broken all over, inside and
out. Ravaged by war, and with no other discernible skills or education, he
takes a series of odd jobs to try and earn his living. His recently acquired
short temper takes the wheel often, and when he douses a customer in hot coffee
at the Starbucks where he works, he is immediately let go from the job and
arrested for assault. The charges are dropped when the victim learns that Val
has recently returned from military service -- her own father suffers from
PTSD.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But Val is unable to find more work after the incident, and
he eventually finds himself living a meager existence on social assistance,
lonely and forgotten.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Decades pass. Val thinks of Sophie, and in his mentally
broken state, believes that she is his only true friend in the world, that she
misses him as much as he misses her. She's trapped in a world from which she
can't emerge, just like he is. They belong together, he knows it. But Val's attempts
to contact Sophie, who has achieved a level of stardom so great that she has
become untouchable and unknowable except to those within her tight inner
circle, go unanswered. It's not her fault, he thinks. They're keeping us apart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's not stalking if it's true love. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Restraining orders follow. But Val knows that it's only her
people, her handlers who are keeping them apart. He's a man of limited means,
but Sophie can break free. One day, she will. She'll escape her captors and
she'll find Val and they'll elevate each other to the very heights of
admiration by all. Until then, he vows to stay connected to her by watching her
on TV and monitoring her online social media presence. He's forbidden from
contacting her, but no one can stop him from lurking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the evening of Val's 70th birthday, he is glued to the TV,
as usual. It's Oscar night. Sophie has long since divorced Lev and has been
involved in a number of relationships, but has kept them private -- a difficult
feat for someone in the public realm. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sophie has had a long and varied career, lauded as one of
the best and most talented actresses of her time. She has no plans to retire,
and this year she is up for Best Actress, yet again, for a career defining
role. She has the satisfaction of knowing that she is a living legend, and will
take the title of legend with her when she goes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sophie steps out of the limousine, gold shoes gracing the
red carpet, the long gown cascading around her as she smiles for the cameras,
beaming and waving to her colleagues and fans. She looks right into the camera
and blows a kiss, which Val leans forward and accepts from the darkness of his
living room. That was for me! His heart expands with golden sunshine and tears
of joy well up in his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, a commotion ensues on the red carpet. A long-established jewelry
designer exclaims that the opulent bib necklace constructed of gold and
diamonds around Sophie's neck went missing decades ago -- last worn by Sophie
herself to another awards ceremony. A file photo of Sophie wearing the jewels
has been located, and an expert declares that it is, in fact, the same necklace.
A record of its disappearance was made, but Sophie was cleared of the charges
after a series of burglaries occurred in Beverly Hills.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8Y9HSy9uU9s" width="420"></iframe></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So many years ago. Sophie didn't think anyone would
remember. The necklace was the right piece for this occasion, this dress. She
had to wear it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The world watches with slack-jawed shock and awe as a police
officer places handcuffs on Sophie's elegant wrists. Cameras continue rolling
and flashing, and for a moment, she looks right into the camera as tears of
regret fall from her stunning, sparkling eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>The Next Day</i> is such a great album. Of its' 18 songs, there
is only one that I don't dig (and I didn't include it in this story because it
just didn't fit). Some of them have this "Dance Cave" vibe about them
(back in the mid 00's when I used to go dancing beneath Lee's Palace in
Toronto, some of these songs could easily have been in the mix, had they
existed at that time). The writing and the singing is just as strong and
chills-inducing as ever. I have really enjoyed spending my time with this
album.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I took a little extra time with it, for a few reasons.
First, like I said, the album has 18 songs on it. Two weeks was just not enough
time to fully absorb it. Second, I went to New York City last weekend, and had
too much fun to be worried about meeting my regular two-week posting schedule.
Finally, Bowie fans waited 10 years for this album. So taking a bit of extra
time with it seemed only fair.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Admittedly, there might also be one more reason. Since <i>The Next
Day</i> is Bowie's last official album of all new songs, I've reached what you may
want to call the official end of this project. Of course, that may not be true
at all. I hope to be back with more adventures in the near future, but that
depends on the man himself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whether Bowie graces us with future albums or not, I'm not
willing to say that this is the full-stop end of The Bowie Project. I achieved
my initially stated goal -- to listen to all of his studio albums. But there are
a lot of things I've missed along the way... collaborations with other artists,
films I've yet to see, and little bits and pieces from across the decades that
aren't full albums but are worthy of mentioning (<i>Sue... {Or in a Season in Crime}</i> for example). I expect to be back... just
maybe not at regular intervals.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Until then, I hope you've enjoyed this journey as much as I
have! It has certainly transported me to some fun places, some dark places, and some utterly confusing places </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">-- all of them worthy adventures. I can honestly say that my life is better for having done this project.
I've been inspired in so many ways to be more creative in my own life, and to embrace the idea of putting new things out into the world for others to enjoy. Thank you,
David Bowie! I'm so glad I finally took the opportunity to get to know you.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-86318733199878622592015-01-18T19:54:00.000-08:002015-01-18T20:24:59.853-08:00Feed me no lies (I don't know about you).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5zawPage3scWgjhneXrP_yrsTFmBTc7q7tiW2HAxbIKbvrq90vZhZ7fgZUbcuHtQM0m1a3e5MS73SBjagfWRYekSQIAZaG9O4aT7i6SlDUnkvxsAvPeEPbq76ap2TDtkAkO5FkT6Fuo/s1600/David_Bowie_-_Reality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5zawPage3scWgjhneXrP_yrsTFmBTc7q7tiW2HAxbIKbvrq90vZhZ7fgZUbcuHtQM0m1a3e5MS73SBjagfWRYekSQIAZaG9O4aT7i6SlDUnkvxsAvPeEPbq76ap2TDtkAkO5FkT6Fuo/s1600/David_Bowie_-_Reality.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm on Facebook, drafting my latest status. It's
going to comprise the following elements: Sunday, mild weather, hot chocolate,
and listening to records, and it's going to be accompanied by a picture of my
new record shelf, which sadly looks less populated than I thought it would with
all my records on it. I'm a little uncertain of posting evidence of my less
than spectacular record collection. I often think about what people think my
life is like versus how it really is, based on how I carefully craft my online
persona. I'm proud of my creation, I think. To look at my photos, you wouldn't
think I'm a day over 25. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/7NorNUMoewQ?list=RD7NorNUMoewQ" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I try not to whine too much in my statuses. I
like to check in when I'm at museums and galleries, or out with friends at swanky
joints. I try to avoid posting too many pictures of meals, but I do post pics
of drinks, whether we're talking a $4 domestic beer or a $12 cocktail inspired
by a Stanley Kubrick film. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I respect my
audience enough to edit my posts if I make a grammatical or spelling error.
Maybe most people wouldn't notice, but for the few who would, I abhor the idea
of disappointing them with English language fails.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yeah, I
get jealous of people who post about their travels, even though I've done my
own fair share, and they usually go to Cuban or Dominican resorts and I can
think of a million other places I'd rather be than those. There's that meme
that keeps going around about comparing everyone else's highlight reel to your
cutting room floor, or something like that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've spent
a good 20 minutes editing and rewriting my status, and I'm finally about to hit
"Post" when I get careless and instead of hitting "Enter" I
hit a random assortment of keys on my laptop.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But instead
of having to delete some extra keystrokes on the screen, or having to manually
restart my frozen computer, I'm the one who freezes up. My hands are resting on
the keyboard, and all I can do is watch with horror as the flesh converts into
scripts of code. The code conversion quickly moves up my arms, and I see that
the code is now getting sucked into the monitor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My head is
the last to transport, and I travel through a space odyssey warp of light and
colours and shapes and sounds and characters until I finally arrive on the
other side... inside the web.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It looks
nothing like I thought it would. I kind of expected there to be green matrixy
code oozing down the walls. But nope. I'm kind of still in my living room, but
the walls flicker with the images of my Facebook feed updating in real time.
Everyone who is actively typing or posting images... I can see them behind the
scenes, editing their own typos, or not... choosing a photo, then deleting
it... Wow. This is the digital equivalent of watching all my friends and family
in the bathroom. I think I need to get out of here.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The floor
under my feet displays a browser. Tapping my foot in the browser search bar, an
electronic keyboard appears. I dance across the keyboard, typing characters
into the address field. Where shall I go? If I can go anywhere in the Internet
universe, where would I like to be? I know. My favourite place in the world. An
art gallery, any art gallery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whenever
I'm at a gallery, I get this daydream about moving in. Setting up my bedroom in
one of the modern art rooms, so that I can gaze upon works by Van Gogh or
Picasso or Kandinsky or Monet from the comfort of my bed. If I remember
correctly, Picasso's <i>Les Demoiselles d'Avignon</i> is part of MoMA's permanent
collection. I think I'll go there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Hk2hYnPo77M" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I waltz
along the floor to enter MoMA's URL and then foxtrot in the site's search bar
to find what I seek. And there I am, admiring Picasso's work. Outstanding. I'm
quite enjoying this trip into the digital world after all. It's like that
daydream I used to have as a kid, where I was living in a department store, and
after the store would close at night, I would jump on the beds and play with
all the toys and eat a bunch of candy, before falling asleep on a big comfy
couch in the furniture section.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sadly there
are some limitations in the virtual world. I can't just conjure up a bed next
to <i>Desmoiselles</i> or any other work of art for that matter. I still can only see
it the way it has been established virtually. Because of that, I'm the only one
here. Well, really I'm not. Thousands of people are visiting the site via their
computers, but I'm the only one inside the digital world, seeing things the
way no one else ever has.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then he
comes around the corner. The man whose name I never learn. He's about my age,
but has a lonely, dejected look about him. He has terrible posture, sad grey
eyes, downturned mouth, worry lines on his forehead, and a tripping sort of
gait, even across the smooth floor. He is absolutely startled to see me. He gasps
loudly and steps back, staring at me. Finally he stutters his way through the
words "What are you doing here?"<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"I
accidentally uploaded myself to the Internet", I tell him. I ask him what
he's doing here, and he tells me he made the choice over a decade ago. He found
life in the real world to be intolerable. Life on the Internet was far more
enjoyable, and he found himself spending all of his waking life in virtual
worlds anyway. He arrived via Second Life, having deliberately figured out how
to get in. He's been here ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/alUhbjoeVhU" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He hasn't
actually spoken face to face to a real person since he got here more than ten
years ago, he tells me as he stares at the floor. I ask him if anyone in the
real world might be missing him, but he assures me that's not the case.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I ask him
if he wouldn't mind showing me around the virtual world a bit, since he's
obviously familiar with the place, but he declines, telling me that he's on a
caper at the moment and really shouldn't have stopped to talk to me at all; now
he'll have to erase his browser history in order to delete me from his virtual
memory.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Using the
floor browser, he navigates himself away from me, leaving me on my own again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I really
could spend the rest of my life in here too, I think, but unlike the sad man, I
know I would be missed. I wish I had thought to ask him how to get home. And just
because I'm thinking about potentially being stuck here, suddenly it occurs to
me that I'm lonely. I really wish the sad man hadn't been so repelled by the
idea of hanging out with me. It sure would be nice to take this trip with
someone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/IjHdBwp3_70" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alas, it is
not to be. I suppose I could navigate to someplace with lots of
"people", but they wouldn't be real, they'd just be the coded
versions of themselves, their bodies and souls photoshopped to beyond
perfection. Liars, all of them. I begin to ache for home, to be back in the
tangible world where at least the coffee table I stubbed my toe on this morning
delivers some form of truth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And with
that, it occurs to me that I'm thirsty. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not
quite sure where I might find something to drink here, so I simply Google
"water" and scan my options. I find a Wikipedia entry which isn't of much
use, several articles about contaminated water which will obviously not do, and
a link to a water-themed amusement park, which promises to be chlorinated and
unpalatable,</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> filled with human detritus.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I try to
search virtual MoMA for the bathroom where I might find a fountain or a tap,
but of course, these things don't exist in MoMA's website.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/m25yxEpDi1E" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I decide to
Google "Lake Superior" - the largest source of fresh water in North
America. Even if it hasn't been purified, it'll wet my kidneys. I click on a
beautiful image of a sandy beach surrounded by deep blue water, and I'm
transported to the virtual location, relieved to find the lake water lapping
deliciously upon the shore. And even though it's winter in the real world, it's
nice and... not warm exactly, but comfortable in the virtual world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I dip my
cupped hands into the lake to take a sip, but suddenly I'm shocked to find that
instead of actual water, my hands contain a liquid form of code. Can I drink
code? I myself am now comprised of it, am I not? Will this quench my thirst?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oddly it does.
I assume that's how the sad man has been able to survive over here for so long.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My thirst
quenched, I feel a desire to lay on the beach and enjoy the serenity of this
peaceful place, but also conflicted with a need to see as much of the virtual
universe as possible. I have at my fingertips -- rather, my feet -- access to the
myriad places, people, and things I have always wanted to see and experience for
myself, but I assume I only have a limited amount of time in which to satisfy
my curiosity. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I do
have to work tomorrow...which presents the problem of how exactly do I get
home?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I turn
around to look at the forest behind me, I'm suddenly bombarded with ads, right
up in my face, whizzing through space and stopping mere inches from the end of
my nose. I stumble back a bit. The ads are for flights to "Home" -- several
offers at competing prices, from different companies. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NY0jxSb-hCI" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I consider
these options. I suppose I could navigate to my bank account online and buy one
of these flights. I have to admit, I'm kind of dying to look out the window and
see what it looks like traveling across the border between this virtual world
and the real world. But despite the competitive pricing, it's still way more
than I want to pay. At $174, 691.82, flying form "virtuality" to
reality is pretty damn expensive, and also sadly exceeds my bank account
balance and credit limit combined. There has got to be a better way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/K8B0MJVNZ7c" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly,
the clouds move in overhead, and it begins to rain. But this isn't just any
rain from just any cloud. I'm being showered with data and images... old files
and pictures are falling from the sky, littering the beach, hitting me on the
way down. Some of them are only a kilobyte or two, but others are much heavier
and hurt when they hit me, even leaving bruises. Not knowing what's in the
forest ahead of me, I decide to navigate
away from here.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I Google my
address and navigate to street view. Magically, I am transported to my house...
but something's wrong. I'm standing outside on the green grass of my front yard
by the tree swing, and it's a beautiful, warm sunshiny day... in the middle of
January. Then I realize that I'm still in the virtual world, standing outside
my virtual house. It's winter in the real world, but there is no snow here. I
have arrived here via the photo taken by Google Earth at some other point in
time, back in the past before I moved here. That's not my cat in the window or
my car in the driveway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sigh. Well at
least I'm no longer getting rained on by old files from the cloud. But there's not
a lot I can do here. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sit on the
swing for a moment and ponder my next move. I'm finding it a bit depressing
that I could literally go anywhere I want, and all I want to do is go home and
spend the rest of my Sunday evening in the comfort of my home, drinking hot
chocolate and listening to records, just like I said I was doing on Facebook. What
does it say about me that I feel like a liar that my current status doesn't
actually match my Facebook status?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/h3PHnLR_LWk" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And that's
when I realize that since I've uploaded myself to the Internet, the only way
I'm going to get home is by downloading myself back into the real world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I jump off
the swing and run out to the road. Thankfully it's a quiet street. I tap the
pavement with my foot and the browser appears. I tap the search box to bring up the virtual
keyboard. I dance clumsily across the keyboard, spelling out the address for my email provider.
I log in and compose an email to myself...no, wait... how can I download the
attachment if I'm not there? I change the recipient to Chad, and type the
subject "Open when you are home". I add myself as an attachment and
hit send. And I wait.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm bored
here on the swing, when there is so much else out there... and but I know that
if I move from this location, the attachment link might get broken, so I sigh
and continue swinging. Suddenly, I begin transforming into code once more, and
within seconds, I am home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dYQwIlLwIM8" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Chad leaps
out of his seat as I appear in the living room. His exclamation of "what
the fuck?!" is soon followed by a knowing look. This project has taken me
to some crazy places. Remember that time he pulled me out of the TV and saved
me from the zombies? There is no need to explain, so we settle down on the
couch and he starts <i>The Grand Budapest Hotel </i>over again from the beginning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not
entirely sure I know what to say about this album. There are a few warm spots,
but overall it left me a bit cold. Having said that, the appearance vs. reality
theme is evident throughout, and I started thinking about the realities that we
manufacture for ourselves on the Internet, the way we tell our friends and
loved ones half-truths about ourselves, the reality we would like them to
believe... that we ourselves would like to believe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yet, in
the choice between living in a virtual place where you can have anything you
want versus a real one where you can't, reality seems like the better of the
two.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I suppose
this album has put me into an introspective state, but the thoughts are not the
kinds of thoughts I want to put out there for all to see... and I'm sure
they're the kinds of thoughts no one wants to read. Self doubt and fear of
failure and giving way too many fucks about way too many things. So instead... </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-73921841661059713412015-01-03T14:43:00.002-08:002015-06-10T15:02:33.169-07:00Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>I believe in Beatles.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Waking...
waking... awake. I open my eyes to the crack of light invading the darkness of
my room. All is quiet. I can't remember what day it is, how old I am, or what
my current circumstances are. I'm in one of those odd, freaky moments when all
of your memories and experiences that make up your entire being are condensed
into one soupy timeless sea: morning.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But what's
different about this morning from other mornings, is that this is the morning
after the apocalypse. Well, that's not entirely true.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
apocalypse -- World War III -- happened some time ago. I'm not exactly sure how
long it's been, because it's hard to keep track of days when you're in and out
of sleep and your waking moments are spent reeling and replaying the moment it
all came crashing down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All I know
is that this morning, it feels like have finally woke up. Today I will get out of bed and
go have a look outside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not
really sure what I expect to find. I don't imagine many of us survived. I remember
seeing humans vaporize before my eyes as I watched from the cracks in the
rubble - the building that collapsed on top of me became my protective barrier
from that soundless, invisible wave. When the terror finally passed, I found
that nothing in me felt physically broken, and I managed to wriggle my way out of
the debris and find my way home, standing upright and untouched, waiting for me
like always.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I step
outside onto the front porch, things look much as they did... before. Just
lonelier.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I begin
walking in the direction of downtown. It'll take me all day to get there on
foot, but I have all day. I am irked by the surreal quiet of once-busy
neighbourhoods, with not even the song of a bird or the chatter of a squirrel
to break the silence. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The closer
I get to downtown, the more the damage from the war begins to appear. Now I'm
seeing the bombed out buildings, melted, twisted metal, jagged shards of glass,
brick pulverized nearly to dust. Thank goodness the wave took all the bodies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's a mild
winter day, with the sun beaming cheerfully in the blue sky, unaware that it's
warming what might now be a lost world. Kicking a crumbling piece of brick as
I continue my walk to the centre of it all, I begin to wonder if there is any
kind of cosmic reason I was spared. By the end of the war, every last sect of
every religion had a stake in it. Fight fire with fire, was the thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even the Athiests
got organized and fought their battles in the name of peace and a world free
from religion. The pacifists refused to go down fighting, and now they're gone
too. Where does that leave me? Am I still here because I'm <i>lucky</i>?
Or am I here because the only thing I ever believed in was the Beatles?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm
starting to fear that it may be impossible for me to find any other survivors. My
desire to commune with them, whoever and wherever they are, is strong. What
pulled me downtown today, I'm not quite sure. The scene here is how I left it,
all those days, weeks, months ago. But perhaps someone else managed to elude
the wave, trapped in the rubble. Maybe someone else got out too. But if they
did, they wouldn't have stayed here, would they?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hello? Is there anyone here?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Loneliness.
I haven't given myself a proper chance to feel it until now. When that feeling
would arise, I would simply pull the covers over my head and settle in to
another long sleep session. But I can't sleep forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is no
point to staying downtown. There is nothing here. I have to move on. My feet
begin to carry me away from the gut-wrenching demolition scene, while my heart
and mind find their way to the memory of <i>him</i>.
I didn't see the wave get him. He was out of my view. While I didn't see it get him, I know that it did, because he never came home. For a brief second, I
entertain the thought that he somehow
managed to escape the wave as I did, but instead of going home, went somewhere
else. Maybe he's out there. If only I knew for sure. If only I had some little
piece of him to help me keep him alive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Amusingly,
my feet have taken me to the train station. My brain was too busy wishing and
wondering to tell my ragged feet that no trains will be running today. I laugh
to myself for being so automatic. Before turning to head home, I take one last
walk onto the platform and look into the distance down the railway, where
translucent trains seem to flicker in and out of view. They are only the ghosts
of trains. As I turn to leave, a train miraculously pulls up to me, its aged operator hanging out the window. These hallucinations are starting to get
scarily vivid.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The operator
stops suddenly upon seeing me and thanks the heavens that he has finally found
another living person. His repeated praises to a higher power tell me that I
was wrong... I'm not here because of a lack of faith. I am just lucky after all. I
guess.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The old man
introduces himself as Malcolm, and like me, he's been looking for other
survivors. He woke up much sooner than I did, in fact he's counted 35 days
since he woke. But now he's given up on The City and has decided to head north,
since that's where the majority of the evacuees were heading. He also thinks
that the damage may be less severe up there. I confirm that I just came from
the north and while the damage is indeed less severe, there is not a soul in
sight. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Despite
having just come from that direction, I gladly hop onto Malcolm's train. It's
great to have found another survivor, even if he's a retired train operator
with rotten teeth, a loogie problem and residual Christian leanings -- the very
faith that got us into this mess, some would argue (if some were still here). But
under the circumstances, I'm not going to be too picky about making new
friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We make our
first stop at the amusement park on the very north end of The City. We
disembark from the train and agree to meet back here in one hour to report on
our findings, hopefully with more survivors to take with us on our journey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But my feet
are sore from today's monumental stroll to ground zero, and I don't feel much
like exploring. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I decide to
sit in a tilt-a-whirl style car in the shape of a little spaceship for a few
minutes' rest before exploring the rest of the park, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">which oddly looks frozen in time, like the rides could all just start running again with a snap of the fingers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Snap.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> The
tilt-a-whirl begins to move, making rusty clanking sounds as it begins to gain
speed.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I fall into a joyful reverie about that time we came here a million years ago - our first date.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> The spaceship car swings and twirls randomly as we ride together through
space. I don't remember the last time I smiled like this.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My reverie
is suddenly broken by the sound of a woman's scratchy voice. I'm sitting alone
and cold in a parked tilt-a-whirl car that isn't going anywhere, any time soon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Hey! Hey you! Are you really there?!</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> the voice screeches.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A woman in
her 50's with beautiful black hair, greying at the temples, comes running up to me. She jumps onto the platform with wide oceanic eyes and a wild energy I
was not expecting. She touches my arm and I tell her that I'm real.
Demonstrating a serious lack of boundaries, she yanks me up from the car and
takes me into her arms, sobbing like I'm her long lost something-or-other and
she hasn't seen me in years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have to
admit, it's nice to be held by someone... anyone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Taking me
by the arm, she leads me to a little trailer parked nearby, emblazoned with the
words "Psychic Reader". There isn't much space inside the trailer,
but it's cozy. She offers me some trail mix, and suddenly I realize I can't
remember the last time I've eaten. I'm absolutely ravenous. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crunching
my way through her trail mix, all I can do is listen as Alice tells me she woke
up about a week ago. She's decided to stay put, because her connection to the
"other side" has gotten very strong since the apocalypse. Almost
everyone is over there now. She's getting messages front, left, and centre,
from souls who are searching for their loved ones on the other side but can't
find them. That's how she knew that she wasn't the only survivor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly,
Alice takes my hands and she tells me that my people are... here. In the
trailer? With us? I look around expecting to see translucent visions of my
family and friends, but I see nothing. Alice insists that they're all here.
They love me and they miss me. They tell me I'm going to be alright.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is all
feeling a bit hokey, and I think Alice is a bit out of her gourd. But then she
tells me the story of that weird Christmas Eve when I was 8. That one where my
sister and I had the chicken pox and we couldn't go visiting. The stove had
broken that evening, and was emitting fumes that made my eyes burn
and water. My grandfather came over to fix it, and made me a dancing snowman
puppet out of a piece of cardboard and some string. Then my dad came over and
was sad that he couldn't be there to watch us open our gifts in the morning, so
he took us aside and told us what our gifts were. Finally in bed, my uncle
came over and sang us the dirty Tarzan song while tucking us in and telling us we'd better fall asleep so that Santa could do his work.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is no
way Alice could know about that story, unless my family really was
communicating with her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm
overwhelmed with emotion. Apparently I've been quite wrong about a lot of
things. And it's comforting to know that in some way, everyone's still...
around. Suddenly it occurs to me that I need to go and meet Malcolm. But before
I leave, I ask Alice if she can ask my family a question for me.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Since our
souls clearly continue to exist after our bodies are no more, does that mean
there is a higher power?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alice goes
silent. She looks like she's concentrating hard. My knee is bouncing with
anticipation and impatience. Then, Alice opens her eyes and with a weak smile
tells me that no one over there knows the answer to that. None of them have met any kind of deity. Even on the
other side, people are fighting about whose god is the right god.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alice's sadness is overwhelming. I've taken
something away from her, I realize. I'm consumed with guilt at that
realization, and also because I've eaten pretty much all of her trail mix.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I try to
console Alice by telling her that here among the living, I know of one other
survivor. He drives a train that works and we're heading north in search of
others. I tell her that we would love to have her join us. But Alice declines.
She's not sure that what's left of humanity is the best cross section with
which to carry on. And it's not as if she doesn't have anyone to talk to.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I bid
farewell to Alice and head back toward the train. I start thinking about her
implication that what's left of humanity may not be the best and brightest that
our kind has to offer. But how could she know that? I may not be a rocket
scientist, but at this moment in time, that's not what we need. Well, fucked if
I know what we need. First we need to find each other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This album
is exactly what I needed right now. I know it took me to kind of a bleak place,
and I'm a bit sorry about that, but it's not completely devoid of hope. This
album expresses so many of my own current feelings. Now that I'm nearing
"the end" of this project, I'm retrospectively amazed at the serendipitous
way and the timing in which the albums have unfolded to me, with an accidental
relevance pretty much throughout.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Needless to
say, I think this is a fantastic album. <i>5:15 The Angels Have Gone</i> is like
healing medicine for my soul. It's a song that knows me - it knows where I've
been and it even knows where I'm going, even if I don't. Listening to it makes me realize that some art exists specifically for the times when we're lost. It is made to help people see their way out of the dark. When someone who has never met you makes something that
takes on special significance just for you, because of what you've experienced
and how you see the world, you see how art can give life meaning. This is how music saves people.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-7254478617403177952014-12-24T07:20:00.001-08:002014-12-24T11:27:33.257-08:00Peace on earth, can it be?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfePZiUE6SHiG_z9jTcYL6kiPWk-MTOtB5ucOg6CVZuyeaBns8EQgjVirntqDogO4JHzCT8b7CjGJQbwbHiXcfghpA3KJGHKsfhR8p-wW-SWzuYSH5mDjhQA_20EFUDCWipuWwLjcohyphenhyphenw/s1600/1.bowie-crosby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfePZiUE6SHiG_z9jTcYL6kiPWk-MTOtB5ucOg6CVZuyeaBns8EQgjVirntqDogO4JHzCT8b7CjGJQbwbHiXcfghpA3KJGHKsfhR8p-wW-SWzuYSH5mDjhQA_20EFUDCWipuWwLjcohyphenhyphenw/s1600/1.bowie-crosby.jpg" height="320" width="317" /></a></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm in St. John's, Newfoundland, enjoying some time off with my hubby's family. Yesterday as we were driving out to a town called Paradise, <i>Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy </i>came on the radio. I've heard it before, of course, and I have a case of the humbugs this year, yet it was kind of a magical moment, watching the hilly, wild scenery fly past the car window while listening to Bowie and Crosby banter on about Christmas traditions in their households. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I was with my own family tonight, we'd be having a dinner of homemade spaghetti and meatballs, and invite the aunts, uncles and cousins over for drinks and treats. They'd all stay quite late, and we'd play cards and watch <i>National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation</i> together. Then the aunts, uncles, and cousins would head home, and we'd open up our gifts Christmas Eve, so that we can all sleep in tomorrow morning. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This year, I'll be partaking of a different tradition. As I type this, my in-laws are out sourcing lobsters for tonight's Christmas Eve feast. When dinner is finished, we'll sit around the table and drink Lew's homemade blueberry wine and tell stories of Christmases past, with neighbours and family dropping in throughout the evening. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tomorrow morning, we'll open presents and then Chad and I will venture out into "the gut" of Quidi Vidi village, our flasks filled with Irish whiskey. We'll traipse through The Battery and hike up to the top of Signal Hill, overlooking the harbour. Our whiskey walks have become one of my favourite things -- our own little Christmas Day in St. John's tradition.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For now, it's time for coffee (I'm still recovering from Tibb's Eve). I'll be back soon with my <i>Heathen</i> journey, but today, I just want to wish you a very<b> Merry Christmas!</b></span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/DiXjbI3kRus" width="420"></iframe></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-793741821335986922014-12-15T21:04:00.003-08:002014-12-16T16:06:44.005-08:00I can't see the water for the tears in my eyes.<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGeJcZ_1JZZUvs6L-YwfyYltWjFXmvdaae9ofs4mthTcHgGOcShwx_44f_ch2W3uUisujYzfA0Z0_RKNc-mJ9uAOWjMKMl533VxluLjvp541MVzxJzPf4WXUC_Mt2WijhqaKKbacXms8/s1600/1Okv7RqUWbY0oH2B6nmzgSCHV4w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGeJcZ_1JZZUvs6L-YwfyYltWjFXmvdaae9ofs4mthTcHgGOcShwx_44f_ch2W3uUisujYzfA0Z0_RKNc-mJ9uAOWjMKMl533VxluLjvp541MVzxJzPf4WXUC_Mt2WijhqaKKbacXms8/s1600/1Okv7RqUWbY0oH2B6nmzgSCHV4w.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This post was supposed to be named "Down in space it's always 1982".</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was really excited about this one. But
here's the thing. I need to just throw it out. I started listening to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Toy</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in mid November. The first day I
started listening to it, Toronto had its first major snowfall of the season. Life felt airy
and sweet and Christmassy, with pine, cinnamon, and the tinkerbell giggles of
sweet little children on the wind. Combine that with the sounds of Bowie
covering his own early songs, singing about things he cared about when he was a
lad, I was filled with a kind of anticipatory holiday joy. <i>Toy</i> felt like an unexpected Christmas gift. It transported me to
Christmases from the past.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I
was going to write about that joyful journey through old Christmases. But now I
can't. Because something terrible happened while I was listening to this album.
Someone who is so much a part of all my past Christmases decided to take
himself out of the physical world.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And
now another Christmas is about to happen, and my dad is not going to be there.
The joyful journey upon which<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Toy<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>was taking me has come to an
abrupt end. I've been trying to get it back, but it's just gone. Sadly, I think
<i>Toy</i> may have become an emotional bookmark
for some of the worst pain I've ever endured. So I'm sorry. In order for me to
move on with this project, I just need to give you the album to listen to on
your own, with no magical, mystical interference from me. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So
here it is.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/eid2kD2CQMo" width="560"></iframe>
</div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>*****</b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Toy</i> was recorded in
2000-2001, but it was never released. It exists in the public realm because
someone leaked it onto the Internet in 2011. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-58815117666711400922014-12-07T09:38:00.001-08:002014-12-07T10:50:05.559-08:00All's well; twentieth century dies.<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZrQNnQEhkbaUdoR8BG5XzQALROqXyNqA2SqvwVu_nZJKv-_Hj8LNXyCaSF1uh47OeWgX6ar_1a1e3Y-yz_NhOYQbSc66tMELtZWPF4kZ4sryhXnZU_u9BgERAoqa1-rWs6bAbxA1t4g/s1600/collagebowie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZrQNnQEhkbaUdoR8BG5XzQALROqXyNqA2SqvwVu_nZJKv-_Hj8LNXyCaSF1uh47OeWgX6ar_1a1e3Y-yz_NhOYQbSc66tMELtZWPF4kZ4sryhXnZU_u9BgERAoqa1-rWs6bAbxA1t4g/s1600/collagebowie.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You may
have noticed that this blog went on a wee hiatus over the past few weeks. Or
maybe you haven't. Regardless. I had a life thing happen that demanded my full
attention. Can't exactly say it's over or done, but I am anxious to return to
some sort of normalcy, and this post is just the ticket to that, I think. There
will be no fantastic voyage or brilliant adventure today. Just a round-up of
the myriad miscellaneous "other" endeavours that Bowie got up to in
the 80's and 90's.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I apologize
in advance if my mind wanders as I write this. I'm sort of a space cadet at the
moment, with an approximate 10:1 ratio of zoning out versus time spent on earth.
Also, because you have access to Wikipedia and IMDb too, this post will feature
what I think are the highlights. Feel free to consult those sources yourself
for the exhaustive collection of works.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Broadway, baby<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbG4yUqIMMkeDEbbHYXmWs7eE3BaTS84TLIGrykeT33vLXlKHwus9cPfkY6yk-VXnbr-yi72RvydQQ9au3ER0FBirTkKQtf3XU8XDXAJtHc1Pn5k6h_DOATuK-Vsn0o58PKT9ZG0ccdA/s1600/80ElephantManposter.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbG4yUqIMMkeDEbbHYXmWs7eE3BaTS84TLIGrykeT33vLXlKHwus9cPfkY6yk-VXnbr-yi72RvydQQ9au3ER0FBirTkKQtf3XU8XDXAJtHc1Pn5k6h_DOATuK-Vsn0o58PKT9ZG0ccdA/s1600/80ElephantManposter.gif" height="320" width="202" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So by 1980,
David Bowie had pretty well established that he had a decent set of acting
chops. Mmm, chops. Wait... what? Oh yeah. Bowie took on the role of John
Merrick in the Broadway production of <i>The
Elephant Man</i>, and apparently nailed it, earning some high praise from
critics and audiences. The cool thing about Bernard Pomerance's play is that
the actor playing Merrick doesn't wear any makeup or prosthetics to illustrate his
disfigurement -- the audience is meant to imagine his appearance by the way in
which the actor moves and speaks, and by other characters' reactions to him.
That is a pretty avant garde approach to theatrics, which I think is probably
what attracted Bowie to the role.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XK0NOofUarQ" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It would
have been so cool to see him perform on a Broadway stage. Alas, I was but a
small child at the time. Luckily, the play has made it back to Broadway, and I'm
super excited to be heading to New York in January to see Bradley Cooper as John
Merrick! Mmm, Bradley Cooper... oh, shit. Sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Stop, collaborate and listen<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJswFONx5NuiSEuu68_CBEoaAzY8_bVqJqO_zatnL-yPGlSp1Q2jIjGFVAz_jeV8dMWIqiATacJWVFKQEhluy7PPBTxDoiO7oInOL71TFiuWlupCCA2Br8B8UisVZZNCpMs9GtyV4Qxog/s1600/Queen_Hot_Space.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJswFONx5NuiSEuu68_CBEoaAzY8_bVqJqO_zatnL-yPGlSp1Q2jIjGFVAz_jeV8dMWIqiATacJWVFKQEhluy7PPBTxDoiO7oInOL71TFiuWlupCCA2Br8B8UisVZZNCpMs9GtyV4Qxog/s1600/Queen_Hot_Space.png" /></a></div>
</div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For the
first time in his career, in the early 80's Bowie took a few years off from
recording his own music to focus on acting and collaborating with other
artists. The story goes that in 1981, he happened to be in the neighbourhood when
Queen were recording their album <i>Hot
Space</i>, and as a result ended up singing on a track that evolved from a
previous jam session with the band. That track came to be known as <i>Under Pressure.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/psYQMY69gLo" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah,
that's the official video, which is meh. So here is the live performance of the
song by Bowie and Annie Lennox at the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert in 1992,
which is way more awesome to behold.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/fCP2-Bfhy04" width="560"></iframe></div>
</div>
<o:p></o:p>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That same
year, songs from his Berlin period were used as the backdrop to the German film
C<i>hristiane F</i>., which I blogged about
<a href="http://thebowieproject.blogspot.ca/p/screen.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In 1982-83,
Bowie exercised his aforementioned acting chops in a BBC television production
of Bertolt Brecht's <i>Baal,</i> a vampire
movie called <i>The Hunger</i>, and a Japanese-American
film project entitled <i>Merry Christmas,
Mr. Lawrence</i>, which I have to say is probably my favourite of Bowie's film
roles that I've seen thus far.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All we need is music<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsP5OecajbVQse7VuQTWGCa6MaLWqXKn-KFWT2QMDGh3um2DL9LvLdxiSMOzn2V9q0lPd_DVgw8DOzF3iRXvnKldOQf8A5FERmvWaEhmRBcttgx9aKwDaui3XUXN-6FxHy06JG7R02tZ4/s1600/BowieJagger_DancingInTheStreet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsP5OecajbVQse7VuQTWGCa6MaLWqXKn-KFWT2QMDGh3um2DL9LvLdxiSMOzn2V9q0lPd_DVgw8DOzF3iRXvnKldOQf8A5FERmvWaEhmRBcttgx9aKwDaui3XUXN-6FxHy06JG7R02tZ4/s1600/BowieJagger_DancingInTheStreet.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This has
nothing to do with anything: I work with a girl who knows shockingly little
about pop culture. Like, she grew up in Toronto in the 80's and 90's and yet
just the other day found out that there is a song called <i>Dude Looks Like a Lady,</i> and that Led Zeppelin isn't the name of a
guy. Astonishing, right? So one day we were having a Skype conversation that
went thusly:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She: I'm
listening to a playlist on Songza called 80's and 90's Guilty Pleasures.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Me: That
sounds super fun!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She: It is!
I just finished listening to a song called <i>No
Rain</i> by this band Blind Melon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Me: I love
that song! But I'm surprised it's considered a guilty pleasure. I always thought that one was a classic that
stood the test of time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She: Yeah! Like
<i>Cotton Eye Joe</i>!</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She's not
fucking with me. I need to make that absolutely clear. That facepalm-worthy
conversation is just one among many in which I've learned that apparently Lionel
Richie is a reggae artist, there is a band called Fine Young Cannibals (gasp! noway!),
and the lyric "Ziggy played guitar" is from <i>Summer of '69</i> by Bryan Adams. Am I being smug? Okay maybe a little,
I admit it. But she tells me I know so much about music and I haven't the heart
to tell her I only know the stuff that everybody knows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway,
around the same time the <i>Cotton Eye Joe</i>
incident occurred,<b> <a href="http://perrypickuplines.tumblr.com/post/72816705884/i-replaced-the-audio-in-mick-jagger-and-david" style="text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">this</a> </b>was brought to my attention.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I'm
only showing you that because A) I have the concentration of a squirrel on meth
right now, and B) you're already familiar with the original. You've seen it,
right? Please tell me you've seen it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9G4jnaznUoQ" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Things that happened in 1986<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfBDPHmbEZTGDOVIdm1LXeEBXg-BhddTHZc0QqRbKZNJyEovik7Cwx98k-Z2YaEIUiRcpRc9j9jq8z7RmKrIl9MD6Z_AHfKP7CHVKQh92ehk4dX33doOUZRcd9Ye_XiioMyShBnboVlA/s1600/Absolute_beginners_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfBDPHmbEZTGDOVIdm1LXeEBXg-BhddTHZc0QqRbKZNJyEovik7Cwx98k-Z2YaEIUiRcpRc9j9jq8z7RmKrIl9MD6Z_AHfKP7CHVKQh92ehk4dX33doOUZRcd9Ye_XiioMyShBnboVlA/s1600/Absolute_beginners_poster.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Bowie had a
small role in the 1986 movie <i>Absolute Beginners</i>. It's a British rock
musical that apparently didn't do very well commercially. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Bowie plays an advertising executive named Vendice Partners.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I haven't seen it in
its entirety, but I did watch the clips showcasing Bowie's brief appearances,
and they are the reason why I have no intention of watching the rest of the
movie. But in case you want to satisfy your curiosity, here is his musical number.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hVYHI1T0PGo" width="420"></iframe></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of course,
1986 also gave us <i>Labyrinth</i> and its
Bowie-begotten soundtrack. I'm not going to discuss Labyrinth now, because I
already did that <a href="http://thebowieproject.blogspot.ca/p/screen.html" target="_blank">here</a>. Also, my cat is walking across the keyboard which makes
it really hard to type.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Acting chops, smothered in mint jelly<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAB81nScCK0BcAwNnVQ8U5ACzyJl_uMzUV9qs9Hbia1PMUPnzPO9yfMPpiCNL2OxLjqN5lasvqEFAdRQmCCEprRw0XL6fUvJNYP4_QabFRWQuztXP7vW6jiT9vWbkK8ibXW4Y7sCg86OY/s1600/FWWM_US_poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAB81nScCK0BcAwNnVQ8U5ACzyJl_uMzUV9qs9Hbia1PMUPnzPO9yfMPpiCNL2OxLjqN5lasvqEFAdRQmCCEprRw0XL6fUvJNYP4_QabFRWQuztXP7vW6jiT9vWbkK8ibXW4Y7sCg86OY/s1600/FWWM_US_poster.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm a bad
Bowie fan. No really, I am. While I've stayed the course musically, I've let my
Bowie film-watching fall by the wayside. I mean, I'm pretty sure I've seen <i>The Last Temptation of Christ </i>(1988), but
by "seen", what I mean is that it was on in the background on Easter
at a family gathering several years ago and
I wasn't really watching it. So it doesn't count. So I'm not just a bad Bowie
fan, I'm a bad movie fan, too. Lock me up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here he is
as Pontias Pilate:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/w5hvHu8gHUc" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You know
what else I haven't seen? <i>Fire Walk with
Me </i>(1992). Which also makes me a bad <i>Twin
Peaks fan.</i> Bowie played FBI Agent
Philip Jeffries, American accent and all. And yeah, this is a bizarre clip but that's okay because <b><i>Twin Peaks</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/vA1dpPLJkN4" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Trapped in the flipside<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MYUiZ_J5XhhxrTKnFXQ2bpOBM4a2YTpAPYW77hip1OKKsDuSRpu0OE3MJS4kG61o_694-2BA1d6l-iUR0aeiQ315MtRrSGC9CqluwiZbwQjz9NTrjeQFQRJd5IGSXcPPexaTbDOu7nw/s1600/Bowie_RealCoolWorld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MYUiZ_J5XhhxrTKnFXQ2bpOBM4a2YTpAPYW77hip1OKKsDuSRpu0OE3MJS4kG61o_694-2BA1d6l-iUR0aeiQ315MtRrSGC9CqluwiZbwQjz9NTrjeQFQRJd5IGSXcPPexaTbDOu7nw/s1600/Bowie_RealCoolWorld.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember
renting <i>Cool World</i> and watching it at
my boyfriend's house back in high school circa 1992. I also remember having
this completely unfounded expectation that it was going to be a super cool,
Brad Pitt-ified version of <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lq64MJKwElw" target="_blank">Kidd Video</a></i> (my favourite Saturday
morning cartoon when I was a youngling), and then it really wasn't like that at
all. So disappointing. Anyway, the song Bowie did for the movie's soundtrack
lives up to the first two words of its title. I love its <i>Black Tie, White Noise</i> period vibe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/LcLRR0ONyU0" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">***Several hours later***<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank the
stars I live in a world where there is a thing called the Internet which has a
thing called YouTube on it that lets you watch Saturday morning cartoons from
your childhood. Now<b><i> THAT </i></b>was a trip to the flipside. Where was I? Oh, right.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Andy Warhol doesn't like beer. WTF, Andy?<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp2ziaibXYkc-pfgxyu3f_gmEY4SXxKMc4WibQjXh-VM2bIwLgu_W6LGtr5iMX6dtV07XuKjhf7HefG0Dxy1t2XCyVN1lz5BoqtdYPKAv9nkEpvEKdHwObB68tKuxoBhvRGbqevTVa9o/s1600/Basquiatmovieposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp2ziaibXYkc-pfgxyu3f_gmEY4SXxKMc4WibQjXh-VM2bIwLgu_W6LGtr5iMX6dtV07XuKjhf7HefG0Dxy1t2XCyVN1lz5BoqtdYPKAv9nkEpvEKdHwObB68tKuxoBhvRGbqevTVa9o/s1600/Basquiatmovieposter.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I like Andy
Warhol. Maybe not so much as a person, but I sure dig his art. Everything I
know about Andy Warhol as a person I learned from watching shows in which other
people are playing him as a character. So really all I have to compare Bowie's
interpretation of him to is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GnY3KRxzg5g" target="_blank">Guy Pearce's interpretation in <i>Factory Girl</i></a>, and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcoPcMOt1nI" target="_blank">Tom Meeten's intepretation of him in NoelFielding's Luxury Comedy</a> (which, as
awesome as it is, probably doesn't count because he's a housekeeping Andy
Warhol robot). Bowie actually knew Warhol, so it's entirely possible that his interpretation in the 1996 film <i>Basquiat</i> (about the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat) is the most authentic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/DHkGu6e0R4I" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can you hear me, Major Tom? <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yes, I can hear you, Clem Fandango.</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Well,
darlings... I've spared just about all the energy and focus (what focus?) I have
for today. Major life-event triggered ADD is tolerable enough on the weekend
but tomorrow I go back to work. Fingers crossed this post has helped me to try
and get my brain back into thinking about non major life-event things. I'll try
to be back again in two weeks' time with a new twenty-first century Bowie
adventure. </span>So tune in next time: Same Strong Bad time, same Strong Bad
channel.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-307356950637119742014-11-15T16:59:00.002-08:002014-11-18T09:33:06.797-08:00I've got seven days to live my life.<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwctW3b2gBAdPgaHhLG1OifhgeL78HJACNZKF6GMWX5MsGhceO5tNbbe3M3dF_5zUVOFytySGy_a7-MMU3tX7Fvv6E3xdOKalr6FNHMtTcpHTZK_5WidmabrrG29cm1UxKycopZO_tR9k/s1600/Bowie_Hours.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwctW3b2gBAdPgaHhLG1OifhgeL78HJACNZKF6GMWX5MsGhceO5tNbbe3M3dF_5zUVOFytySGy_a7-MMU3tX7Fvv6E3xdOKalr6FNHMtTcpHTZK_5WidmabrrG29cm1UxKycopZO_tR9k/s1600/Bowie_Hours.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's a cold
evening. Winter is approaching, and with it, the end of another year - a year
that seems to have passed within a matter of hours, not days or months. They
say that the older you get, the faster the clock seems to tick. Here we are in
the eleventh hour of this day called 2014, and yet it doesn't seem so long ago
that I kissed midnight a frosty hello. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The year...
my life, in fact, has flickered by like an elusive dream, where moments meld
into one another almost nonsensically to form a memory that only fleetingly
tells the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/LxOd-TnOS6c" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I sit
contemplating the year and all that has happened, the plans that never
materialized into actions, and the unplanned events that took on a life of
their own, I feel the room growing colder. Frost appears on the windows, and
the cats huddle together for warmth on the cushion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I check the
thermostat, but oddly, the temperature reads a balmy 22 degrees Celsius (that's
nearly 72 Fahrenheit for anyone who swings that way). The room just keeps
getting colder and I dive onto the couch and wrap myself up in the fleece
blanket. What I wouldn't give for a fireplace right now! If it gets any colder,
I may have to burn something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As if on
cue, a fireball appears above me, hovering in the air between the walls of my
living room. I let out a high pitched shriek, and the cats are not having any
of this nonsense, so they scamper frantically up the stairs. I'd consider
making a run for it myself, if I wasn't sort of a deer caught in the headlights.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
fireball melts the frost on the windows and I realize that I'm no longer cold,
so I shed the blanket. Burning cyclically through a rainbow of hues in their
established order, and pulsating rhythmically, throwing a beam of light around
the room like a lighthouse, the pulsar
in my living room seems to be trying to manifest into some other kind of form.
The fireball goes supernova, and in the process I begin to feel myself being
pulled toward it, its gravity nearly ripping me apart as it draws me up and
in... <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I land bluntly on the floor with a thud. I
glare up in the fireball's direction to find that it has transformed into what
I can only describe as an angel. I don't believe in angels, so this is a bit
mind-blowing. But hovering before me is an ethereal, androgynous, human-like
figure displaying enormous glowing wings. As far as I know, there is nothing
else that fits the description, so angel it must be.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XMmTtjflKCM" width="420"></iframe>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" iframe="" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XMmTtjflKCM" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;" width="420"></span></span></div>
<o:p></o:p>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The angel
speaks. It's voice (yes, I'm calling him or her an "it") is like nothing I've ever heard before, like a cacophony of musical
instruments all playing at once, an orchestra of random notes in bizarre repetition.
And yet somehow, through this noise, I am able to understand the angel's
"words" perfectly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The angel
tells me that I'm being given the opportunity to go back to seven key decision
points in my life and make a different choice - go in the other direction to
see what might have been. After I've seen the alternative outcome of all seven decisions, I will be able to choose
which of those seven lives I want to stay in permanently, and live out the rest
of my life as though I had always made that decision.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Vn1BLg2KWVo" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This seems
to me like a power that shouldn't be placed in the hands of a fool such as
myself, but I decide that I would be an even bigger fool not to take the angel
up on this tantalizing, once in a lifetime offer. It is once in a lifetime, isn't
it? I don't suppose I can sleep on it and let it know in the morning? No, it
bellows with a dissonant clatter. I didn't think so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alright
then, let's do this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My heart
dislodges from its preferred location and begins to travel at near light-speed
throughout my body as I hurtle back in time with the angel to Thursday,
December 4, 1975, approximately 11:40 PM. This is the moment of my birth. Holy
fucking shit. I feel like a character from a Dickens novel. I
am present in the hospital room as my mother gives birth to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/z1MSgWeZqAU" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I turn to
the angel and tell it I shouldn't be here. This is one of those things I
shouldn't have the privilege of seeing. I can't watch. In that instant, the
angel and I are hurtling through time and space, and I'm watching my life
unfold before my eyes, from infancy to toddlerhood through kindergarten and
beyond, all in a matter of seconds until we stop again. I am 14 years old. I'm
watching myself tease my bangs sky high in my bedroom mirror, dousing my head
with too much hair spray. I'm wearing my burgundy and grey plaid St. Mary's uniform.
I have no idea how to apply makeup, and my iridescent green eye shadow screams
it loud and clear. This is the first of my key decision points.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not whether
to tease my bangs or wear amateurishly applied eye shadow. Those are small
things. And while certainly each decision causes our lives to split off into a
new direction, I'm hardly concerned with the outcomes of other hair and makeup
decisions. No, I know where this is going.</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">At nearly 39 years old, I'm still
terrified of getting on that school bus.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I always
thought my decision to leave St. Mary's was a good one. Yes, I ran away from my
tormentors, but I found a better, happier life in the public high school among
people who more like me. What's wrong with that?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Clearly the
angel has other ideas. What if, instead of running away to another school, I
stayed and faced the music. Owned up to and apologized for the deed that got me
shit-listed. Stood up for myself instead of hiding in the bathroom. Took charge
of the problem instead of letting myself become a victim. What would have
happened then?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As it turns
out, as I watch myself right the wrong and try to make amends, things actually
do get better. Not immediately, and it's certainly not the end of my bad times.
The bullies and I never become friends, and that is as it should be. But
eventually, the fear and the hate dissipate. I buckle down academically and my
grades improve. I don't graduate valedictorian or anything, but I graduate with
a greater sense of self esteem and far less anxiety about who likes or hates
me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well isn't
that something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/HO7FTtX73GE" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don't
get to admire the green grass for long. We are on the move again laterally
through space this time, and we wind up in my final year of high school - in
the timeline I actually lived. Like I said, once I escaped the misery of life
at St. Mary's, the remainder of my high school career went rather nicely. I made good friends, got good grades, participated
in the theatre department, and enjoyed school more or less. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then at the
very end of my graduating year, I went and wrote that stupid story for the city
newspaper about how my school looked like a cheese factory, and my reputation
tanked. It was supposed to be comical homage; instead, a student rebuttal in
the school newspaper made me a social pariah. All of my favourite teachers
turned on me. And instead of taking the opportunity to respond the way a real
journalist would, what did I do? Nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Angel, you
have given me a gift.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I watch
excitedly as 18-year-old me drafts a carefully worded response, clarifying my
original intention and pointing out all of the flaws in logic presented in the
student's rebuttal. I regain my status as a well-liked student just before
graduation, and my editor at the city newspaper is so impressed with my poise
and gumption that he offers me an ongoing feature gig while I'm at university
and then eventually a full time journalist role upon graduation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/OCns6moimZk" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As
promised, the angel takes me to other key decision points in my life... <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">...instead
of studying English at Laurentian, getting my Bachelor of Fine Arts at Brock,
leading me into a career as a graphic designer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">...instead
of moving out while my boyfriend was away on a family trip, waiting until he
returned to face him and tell him the truth, leaving him with grace instead of
cowardice, enabling us both to heal faster and stronger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/8haH-Z38TcA" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">...instead
of leaving my job at the library after one year to go backpacking, keeping my
job and working my way up to a librarian position, enabling me to take an even
bigger and better overseas adventure a few years later.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">...instead
of spending all my money on a plane ticket to Australia, catching the train
from Brussels to Berlin and finishing my European backpacking adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ENHI3c4APTs" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">...instead
of holding out for my current job, accepting the first one that was offered to
me at that teensy-weensy software startup.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally,
the angel and I fly through space and time to arrive back at the current
moment, here in my living room, mid-November, 2014. I have had the
spectacularly unique and singular chance to see how my life would change had I
made other decisions. Now I have one more key decision to make: which of those
decisions would I like to activate? Which of those versions of my life would I
like to be living right now?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/AQ7Nk_k2hlo" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is
perhaps the most difficult decision I've ever been asked to make. I've had so
many callings in life... artist, journalist, librarian. I've left some wonderful
loves behind. I have an incurable travel compulsion. And I've made my own bed,
on more than one occasion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wish I
had time to live them all. I still want to be an artist, a journalist, and a
librarian when I grow up. I still want to finish my European backpacking
adventure. I want to erase the damage I've done to good hearts. I want to
stand up for myself and show everyone I'm not a victim. I want forgive those
who have hurt me, giving me the strength to move beyond that pain.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Having the
chance now to live out one of those lives, I, ever the fool, tell the angel
that I think I will just stay where I am. I have lived the life I was always
supposed to live. I am who I am because of my mistakes, because of my choices,
because of my turn-on-a-dime adventures. I can't say I've no regrets, but my
regrets make me thankful for the blessings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And
besides, I'm a vindictive bitch. Suck it, mean girls from St. Mary's. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/2pIyTFynO-8" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can I just
say that I'm really not a vindictive bitch? I think the only act of retributive justice I ever committed
was when I was 8 years old and my bratty little cousin, whose family we were
sharing a house with at the time, went
into my room and ransacked my toy
closet, so I used my brand new birthday gift of painty markers to deface her
toys. I permanently lost my rights to those painty markers, but it was so worth
it. Every stroke I painted on her stuff filled me with an evil joy I've never experienced
since. I subsequently learned to control such impulses.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>'Hours...'</i> is
not my all-time favourite Bowie album. It's pretty alright. It has a few very
good songs on it. As a whole, its listenability improves dramatically if I skip
<i>Thursday's Child</i>. I'm so bummed about that song. Being an actual Thursday's
child, I had high hopes for it. With a different approach, it could have been so
good, but as it is, I think it's just terrible. Vocally, it sounds like it was
recorded after a long bad day of being caught in the rain and then exhibiting the
early symptoms of a vicious cold. And the nails-on-a-chalkboard backing vocals
make me want to stab myself in the ears. I think this may be my absolute most
despised Bowie song. Well, there was always going to be one, I suppose.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The album seems
to have done what it was supposed to do though... it took me on a voyage
through my life; it certainly sounds like that's what Bowie is doing himself. Don't
we all look back and pinpoint moments we wish we could change, make a different
choice, do over? I certainly have my share, as demonstrated in the above story,
which is based on true events and true dreams.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-47103925892858580472014-11-02T17:43:00.000-08:002014-11-02T18:09:40.092-08:00Nowhere. Shampoo. TV. Combat. Boyzone. Slim tie. Showdown. Can't stop.<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-ZYj4ZyIrhjLpEL6MHdBLxqtwLUYngUQKl1wivbRlnjdp3rFD0fDKWmWzgEk_mDFPrTdoZqGvsfgb49JXJptjaGnxxhzmRxaIq35IRAy-AgPxxAa_aP_dJJiHs9HxInGox2TamvSDLI/s1600/Earthling_(album).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-ZYj4ZyIrhjLpEL6MHdBLxqtwLUYngUQKl1wivbRlnjdp3rFD0fDKWmWzgEk_mDFPrTdoZqGvsfgb49JXJptjaGnxxhzmRxaIq35IRAy-AgPxxAa_aP_dJJiHs9HxInGox2TamvSDLI/s1600/Earthling_(album).jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm sitting
in a packed theatre. The show is already in progress, and I have no idea what
it is that I'm seeing on the stage. Just one man, two empty chairs, and a
microphone. Around me, the audience is laughing and clapping, telling me the
mood is light. So he's a stand-up comedian, perhaps?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then
suddenly, a spotlight is blinding me, shining right down on me, and the man on
stage is calling me up. I'm reluctant to
obey, having no knowledge of what was said in the minutes and seconds before I
was transported to this seat. I'm quite certain I didn't volunteer for
anything.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He calls me
again though, and informs us all that my seat number matches the number he's just
drawn from his coat pocket. The large monitor behind him shows the seat number
649 on a piece of paper in his hand. I barely have time to check my seat number
to make sure it's not some mistake before he sends beckons someone from
backstage to come and get me. In my pocket, feel a piece of paper that turns
out to be a ticket stub, with the seat number 649 printed on it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am guided
to the stage by the man's assistant, clutching my arm firmly in case I should
decide to flee; I would if I could.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I climb
the stairs to the stage, the man with my seat number in his hand points to one
of the two chairs which sit facing each other. I think I have a feeling where
this may be going, and I'm not one bit pleased. Perhaps I don't know enough
about hypnosis to make an informed judgment about it, and certainly if someone
claims to have been helped by it, then I'm happy for them. But for
entertainment purposes, I don't believe for a second that I'm capable of going
under. I won't give up the wheel without a fight - it's just my nature.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I
suppose I have nothing to worry about, and I relax as I take my seat. The man
with my number introduces me as The Person in Seat Number 649, everybody! and
the rest of the audience applauds my luck... or theirs. Finally, he asks me my
name and I tell him, which he relates to masses.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now
Shelley, have you ever been under hypnosis before? He asks. I simply say no, deciding
not to tell him about that time when an amateur practicing friend tried once
and failed to crack my resistance. He informs me that it'll be quick and
painless, that soon I'll be under, and he promises not to cause me to do
anything that might injure me physically. He says nothing about how I might
come out of this socially, however. Do I have his consent?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sure, I
tell him, obstinate in my belief that he will not be successful. Not that I
wish to embarrass him or anything, I simply am too in control of my mind to...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nowhere. Shampoo. TV. Combat. Boyzone. Slim
tie. Showdown. Can't stop.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/t2FUhqM85bM" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm sitting
on the stage in a chair facing a hypnotist who has just managed to lull me into
a trance. I'm here, but I'm not really here. I can't really describe it. I'm a
passenger inside my own mind, here for the ride, but not driving. I thought I'd
feel violated, angry. But I'm surprisingly okay with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
hypnotist tells the audience that he's going to scramble my thoughts and my
words - that what I'm saying will make perfect sense to me, but will sound
absurd to everyone else. He asks me to tell him a story - something from my
life, a recent event.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I begin to
tell him about the time I was dancing on a slippery floor at a friend's
Hallowe'en party, me in my Special Agent Dana Scully costume, and I slipped in
such a way that my feet slid in opposite directions and I did the splits
involuntarily, tearing the ligaments in my knee in the process, and then going
home with borrowed crutches. I hear the words coming out of my mouth and they
sound just as I've described it to you. But all the audience hears is:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Stinky weather, fat shaky hands, dopey morning doc, grumpy
gnomes. Big screen dolls, tits and
explosions, sleepytime, bashful but nude. Intergalactic, see me to be you. It's
all in the tablets, sneezy Bhutan. Mars happy nation, sit on my karma, Dame
meditation, take me away".</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/_9gc7AWzMoY" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The audience laughs and applauds, and I think to myself
"Yeah, I really hurt my knee, but I guess it was pretty funny the way it
happened".</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
hypnotist hushes the crowd and tells me that he is unscrambling my words. He
asks me to tell the story again and I do. This time, the right words come out
and in the right order. I'd be amazed if I wasn't, you know, incapable of
amazement with him steering my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next, the
hypnotist says that he's going to ask me to enter the place in my mind where my
memories stretch back to a previous life, or lives, however far back I can go.
He tells me to search that place and describe a memory - anything that comes to
me, whatever stands out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I tell him
about my life as a Tibetan peasant in the mid 1940's. I want to be better than
what I am, but my faith is shaky. I want to believe, but I don't. I try, but I
fail, repeatedly, at forcing myself to feel something other than my corporeal
self bumbling through the world. I cast off my possessions, only to regret it
and acquire new ones. The battle within me rages for the full extent of my life
on earth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/84RBZb8OxT0" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What the
hypnotist doesn't know is that I made it all up. I didn't really mean to. I
told him the story of my past life in earnest, because it felt true, all while
the memories seemed to come from some other place, not from inside my brain,
but from outside, like some unseen entity feeding them to me. I have no actual
recollection of any of the events I have just described.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dL23xQK_4Ks" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The hypnotist
is content to believe my story. Actually he seems quite pleased with himself.
But I can't tell him it's all lies, because he hasn't asked me. And even if he
did, he's got control, so I would only be able to tell him what he wants to
hear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
hypnotist knows how to structure his show. With my past life regression out of
the way, he decides to lighten the mood. He implores me to do perform a medley
of dances: first, a waltz. He may be sitting in the chair, but he's taking the
lead, and I follow dutifully, though I've never actually waltzed in my life.
Next, I'm doing a foxtrot, then a tango, all at the hypnotists command. For my
final number, he calls out the moves to a bizarre line dance, that he calls the
Dead Man's Walk. Without any kind of guidance on what the moves should look
like, I complete each "step" with a fluid grace:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gone, gone, gone spinning slack through reality</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Dance my way, falling up through the years</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Losing breath underwater well I'm gone, gone, gone</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Spinning slack through reality</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Dance my way, falling up through the years</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Losing breath underwater when I'm gone, gone, gone</i></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Spinning slack through reality</i></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span></i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/wOZrGHmMl4o" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
audience loves it. I sit back down and await further instructions. The
hypnotist addresses the audience and tells them that soon he will wake me. When
he does, I will be unable to recall anything that has happened here tonight. I
will lose the events of this evening to the part of my brain that holds
forgotten dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But before
he brings me back to consciousness, he has one more stunt for me. He asks me my
nationality, and I tell him I'm Canadian. He asks me if Canada has always been
my home and I tell him yes. Then he asks me if I like Americans, and I tell him
I do. He replies "Not anymore. You're afraid of them".<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/u7APmRkatEU" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And
suddenly, just like he said, I'm afraid of Americans. This room contains
hundreds of people, and any one of them could be American. My heart starts
beating like it's going to burst from my chest, and I feel cold. I have to get
out of here. What will they do to me if I stay?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With abject
terror, I leap down the stairs from the stage and sprint as fast as I can to
the door. The hypnotist calls out for the ushers to keep me contained, but it's
too late, I'm already through the door and out in the lobby, running faster and
faster as I realize that anyone around me could be American. I stop at the door
that leads to the street with the realization that it's not safe for me out
there. I tremble with fear and search the lobby for a quiet corner.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
hypnotist bursts through the theatre doors and finds me cowering in the corner.
As he approaches I tell him to stay back. How do I know he's not American?! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With the
word "stop", I become still. He tells me that on the count of five I
will wake from my trance and remember nothing that has happened since my seat
number was called. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And here I
am, back in the realm of the conscious, wondering what on earth I'm doing
sitting on the floor in the corner of the lobby. The hypnotist turns and walks
away from me without a word. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Confused, I leave the building.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">As I make
my way to the subway to go home, I find I have the sudden urge to dance. Not
just an urge, but a compulsion. I descend the stairs to the subway platform.
I'm the only one there... so </span>I dance my way, falling up through the
years, until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly, losing breath underwater
and I'm gone, gone, gone, spinning slack through reality.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Earthling</i> is a
super fun album and a much-needed pick-me-up from the disturbed darkness that
was <i>Outside</i>. I didn't find it
particularly profound, just a really cool fusion of several different kinds of
music, cleanly stitched together with Bowie's own unique thread.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm totally obsessed with <i>Looking for Satellites</i>. It actually does put me in kind of a
hypnotic state; I get totally lost in it, and when it's over I'm sad. The
repetition of the words <i><span lang="EN-US">Nowhere... Shampoo... TV... Combat... Boyzone... Slim tie...
Showdown... Can't stop... </span></i><span lang="EN-US">do something weird and wonderful to my brain, like I'm getting an
intra-cranial massage or something.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And <i>Seven
Years in Tibet</i>... come on. Way to bring the glam back in such an unexpected way.
And <i>Dead Man Walking</i>, with its otherwordly "line dance" called out underneath the main chorus lines. This album has given me a few new favourites
for sure.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Upon the
first listen, I actually realized I've heard this album before - <i>I'm Afraid of Americans</i> on the radio,
for one. But I also remember hearing several of songs from <i>Earthling</i> in the dorm at my university. It was nice to sort of have
a wee little tingle of familiarity with it. I'm just glad that now I'm able to
appreciate it.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-58658913894137074242014-10-21T17:02:00.002-07:002014-10-21T17:12:40.927-07:00It was definitely murder — but was it art?<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Greetings Earthlings! Guess what I've started listening to... Ah, but no, I'm not quite ready to tell you about that just yet. I've barely come in from <i>Outside</i>. Which brings me to the reason I'm back again so soon. At this time I'm pleased to bring you a Bowie Project first: a Special Guest Post by my longtime friend and self-confessed music geek, Dave Miner. Dave and I agree that <i>Outside</i> deserves a little extra special treatment. So without further delay, give it up for Dave! </span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>It was definitely murder — but was it art? </b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Special Guest Post by Dave Miner (<a href="https://twitter.com/daveophonic" target="_blank">@daveophonic</a>)</i></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4RrmgdkdM5l2F9eEdhApYybHsdfuYBaXRW8BuaFXmdE-0wx0cz6SRohfbNLPfb1X-jeHO9dqpeUUM61hUqTU6jwtgYvRIyj8akvB0YTCSW33unGJK_qXQ1A7y7v-Y-70qirFJgeXqCdU/s1600/david-bowie-heart-filthy-lesson2-img.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4RrmgdkdM5l2F9eEdhApYybHsdfuYBaXRW8BuaFXmdE-0wx0cz6SRohfbNLPfb1X-jeHO9dqpeUUM61hUqTU6jwtgYvRIyj8akvB0YTCSW33unGJK_qXQ1A7y7v-Y-70qirFJgeXqCdU/s1600/david-bowie-heart-filthy-lesson2-img.jpg" height="320" width="311" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Please forgive me if this post is long and
self-indulgent. Given the topic, such structure might at least be
considered thematically appropriate.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I want to
tell you about David Bowie's "Outside", because I kind of want to tell
everybody about David Bowie's "Outside". It's a long-standing
favourite. It's one of my desert island discs. But it's also an
under-appreciated and divisive album - </span><a href="http://allmusic.com/album/outside-mw0000176850" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" target="_blank">Allmusic's tepid 3-star review</a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> hails it as Bowie's "most satisfying and adventurous album since Let's Dance", but also calls it "severely flawed", where standout tracks are
"buried under the weight of the mediocre material".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The album is seconds shy of the 75-minute mark. It flirts with the
abrasive textures of industrial music. It intersperses songs with
soundscapes and narrative interludes. It's a concept album that
explores art as murder, and is the first and only episode of a seemingly
abandoned trilogy. The story is therefore all setup and no payoff, and
plot details within the lyrics and liner notes are scant and cryptic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I
can understand why people wouldn't like this record, particularly from
the David Bowie who gave us "Young Americans" and "Life on Mars". Did
that audience want an industrial concept album from The Thin White
Duke? (Let me please be clear - I don't mean that in a dismissive "you
just don't get it, man" way.) This album was a risk, even if you listen
back and hear the seeds of it on "Black Tie, White Noise" or "Tin
Machine". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Bowie has always been one of my
very favourite artists. I love work from all his phases, from early
folkish jangle through Ziggy Stardust-era bombast, from the Berlin
trilogy through his electronic/industrial/jungle phase, and even through
to today. I suspect many of his fans appreciate his gift for
experimentation and reinvention. In that regard, I think the album can
be considered a tremendous success: this doesn't seem like a contrived
attempt by an established artist to reach a Gen-X audience or
experiment with trendy new sounds. There's an integrity to the album
that has kept me hooked from the first listen. I just happen to dig
nasty guitars and electronic textures. Mix in Bowie's vocals and
songwriting? Yes, please.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There were spans of months where I would listen to
the album, end-to-end, at least twice a day. I wanted to pull out its
secrets and solve its mysteries, and most of all, I wanted to lose
myself in those songs and sounds.</span><br />
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<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="im"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here's the background:</span></span><br />
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
full name is technically "1. Outside", but the rumoured followup
albums - "2. Contamination" and "3. Afrikaans" - never materialized.
However, an extra 20 hours of recording were evidently created during
the Outside sessions that could yield the building blocks necessary to
create the trilogy. I would love to think a project like that might
coincide with the album's upcoming 20th anniversary, but perhaps that's
just wishful thinking.</span></span><br />
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you're
interested in learning a bit more of how the record was created, I
recommend reading "A Year With Swollen Appendices: Brian Eno's Diary",
which talks a bit about his role in the project, and the strategies he
used to try and help the musicians get into a headspace to fully explore
this new creative direction. ("You are the disgruntled member of a
South African rock band. Play the notes that were suppressed.")</span></span><br />
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For
the completionists, there are also some bonus tracks available on
international versions of the album. I'm aware of "Nothing to be
Desired" and "Get Real", which you can check out here.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here's what I think I know about the story: Detective Professor
Nathan Adler is assigned to investigate the murder of 14-year-old Baby
Grace Blue, and rule if her death and the exhibition of her body is
legally acceptable as art. Leon Blank is accused of the murder, but may
have been manipulated by Ramona A. Stone, his ex-lover, while the real
killer (The Artist/Minotaur) continues his work. </span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now we begin. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
album commences with "<a href="http://youtu.be/5QT-bhFmeo0" target="_blank">Leon Takes Us Outside</a>", a soundscape where
fragments of dialog - years, months, dates - bubble up from waves of
synthesizer and Reeves Gabrels' meandering guitar. The bass drops, and
we segue perfectly into the title track.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/k43Ssf9BJMw" target="_blank">Outside</a>"
invites you into the album - it's a classic Bowie croon with gentle
harmonies and those perfect swells. I don't want to say it's a safe
song, but I think no Bowie fan of any vintage would have been surprised
to hear him release this song in 1995. Then "The Heart's Filthy Lesson"
hits, and everything changes.</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There were several points of pop-culture entry into this album.
"Hallo Spaceboy" may be better known from its <a href="http://youtu.be/cwdssHTfPJQ" target="_blank">Pet Shop Boys remix</a> than
for the original album cut. A version of "I Have Not Been to Oxford
Town" was covered for the soundtrack of Starship Troopers, Paul
Veroeven's 1997 adaptation of the Robert A. Heinlein novel. "I'm
Deranged" played over the credits of David Lynch's film "Lost Highway".
But I first heard the music of "Outside" during the closing credits of
Se7en, when "The Heart's Filthy Lesson" provided a perfect accompaniment to the
scratched text slithering down the screen in the wrong direction. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whereas
"Outside" sounded like updated Bowie, "Filthy Lesson" sounds like new
Bowie - jagged guitar lines streaking the skies above pulsing bass and a
insistent drum loop, creating a palpable air of menace. When the song
pauses to ask "Paddy - who's been wearing Miranda's clothes?", something
implies the answer will be terrible. A piano comes in not as orchestral
grandeur but as a blunt instrument, percussively slamming out
low-register runs. Even the instrumentation, we learn, will be warped
and perverted and used in ways we don't expect. Nothing is sacred. The
song seems to gasp for air before we lurch into the home stretch, with
Bowie's vocal majesty, concluding with the ominous admission: "Oh Paddy
- I think I've lost my way." The song fades out with the repeated
observation: "What a fantastic death abyss - tell the others." Is this a
reaction to the terrible exhibit of what is left of Baby Grace?</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We
then move into "<a href="http://youtu.be/Okg1UBdyvow" target="_blank">A Small Plot of Land</a>". Rapid cascades of piano notes
might distract from a steady two-note pattern in the background around
which the rest of the instruments collect and congeal as Bowie tells the
story of a poor soul who learns that "prayer can't travel so far these
days" - a haunting line that I think perfectly captures the
fin-de-siecle anxieties Bowie so deftly tapped on this album. Reeves
Gabrels' frantic solo on this album is one of my favourite things that
has ever been done with a guitar. The song builds and builds and builds
until you're almost claustrophobic, caught in the sheer density of
sound, and then it's time to meet Baby Grace Blue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/tQgblAqoK-g" target="_blank">Segue: Baby Grace [A Horrid Cassette]</a>" is the first of several
narrative sections, with each character voiced by Bowie with some
combination of processing to help the characters stand out. Bowie gives
a great pitch-shifted performance, tripping over words as Baby Grace
records what are possibly the final words of her short, unhappy life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/EHSe4N1tRQU" target="_blank">Hallo Spaceboy</a>" begins with an explosion, a lull, and then another explosion
of drums and guitars as we launch into the song proper. The song would
serve as a fitting soundtrack for a dance party at the end of
civilization, but its bombast stands in stark contrast to "<a href="http://youtu.be/P-KhzO01JRQ" target="_blank">The Motel</a>",
which follows. Sung from Leon's perspective, it's a slow, ethereal
dirge that muses "there is no hell like an old hell". Beautiful,
virtuosic piano runs build to a euphoric crescendo with titanic slashes
of electric guitar and a gentle fade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/nArLuubNjKs" target="_blank">I Have Not Been to Oxford Town</a>" bubbles and bounces, but the playful music
belies the grave lyrics: "Baby Grace was the victim. She was 14 years
of age. And the wheels are turning, turning, for the finger points at
me." Imprisoned, is Leon trying to establish an alibi? Prove his
innocence? Or trying to remember what happened in the first place?
"Outside" can be a frustrating puzzle, since most of the pieces are
missing, buried in unwritten chapters. With that in mind, it's almost
comforting that the characters themselves are confused and powerless,
which suggest's Leon's innocence. After all, we have yet to hear from
the Minotaur. And, as Leon runs down the ways in which he wishes his
life was different, we realize that we still have yet to meet the
mysterious Ramona A. Stone.</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/JKz_YJhQtzs" target="_blank">No Control</a>" seems
like a variation on the same theme, but presented with a driving, urgent
menace. Bewildered by the crimes he's investigating, Adler feels
powerless in the face of a deranged world. As I write this, I wonder if
the music tells us something else - simple and cheerful, "Oxford Town"
might underscore Leon as a hapless victim of a machination he doesn't
understand. He is powerless and wastes away while hoping somebody will
help him. Nathan gets it - he sees the horror and knows he must act,
yet feels powerless because he understands the scale of the madness he
faces, and the scope of challenging it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The theme of powerlessness continues with our second vignette, "<a href="http://youtu.be/pGbyfSOtQgI" target="_blank">Segue: Algeria Touchshriek</a>". Algeria is a seller of curiosities of seemingly
questionable legality. He is also a broken man, rejected by the world.
Desperate for company, he tells us he's considering leasing a room
above his store to another broken man. We don't hear from Algeria
again, but the next song is sung from the perspective of The
Artist/Minotaur, suggesting Algeria's lodger will be the worst possible
tenant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/-3XkNieTOzo" target="_blank">The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty)</a>" begins with a pleasant cycle of guitar, and a gentle vocal
refrain. "Turn and turn again", sings Bowie, which seems like an
innocuous lyrical confection, but the words are recast in the second
verse as Mintoaur tells us "The screw is a tightening atrocity; I shake
for the reeking flesh is as romantic as hell". It seems as though we've
found our killer, as he assembles his exhibition before calling it a
day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now, it's time for us to meet Ramona.
She delivers a short, seething rant, and although her connection to the
other characters is not quite clear, there's something in the way that
she says "We'll creep together, you and I" that suggests she is the axis
around which the entire affair turns. Ramona and her acoyltes then
sing "<a href="http://youtu.be/i4zNIafhQcM" target="_blank">I Am With Name</a>", which is more chant than song. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/Z3f1GEcYmj8" target="_blank">Wishful Beginnings</a>" shifts back to the Minotaur's perspective as he works,
apologizing to his victim all the while. The song is a modern dirge,
punctuated by slow, deliberate kick drums and a synthetic accent that
sounds eerily like a dead laugh. The arrangement is sparse and the low
end is crucial. Notice how the bass elements drop out in the middle,
and the strange catharsis when they come back in, repeating over and
over again. He stops apologizing. All that is left is the work. This
is the album at its darkest.</span></div>
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<div>
<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<a href="http://youtu.be/8i9nahfpuG0" target="_blank">We Prick You</a>" is sung from the perspective of the
Members of the Court of Justice; presumably we're at Leon's trial as
the administration tries to get the confession they want, seemingly by
any means necessary. Next is a <a href="http://youtu.be/39H8XyDWANk" target="_blank">segue from Nathan</a>, explaining how some
of the pieces fit together. "Oh wait," he says. "I"m getting ahead of
myself. Let me take you back to where it all began."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We
go back to The Minotaur for "</span><a href="http://youtu.be/RnROqy8NyaE" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" target="_blank">I'm Deranged</a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">", and a seeming
freely-associated stream-of-consciousness admission that may reveal
nothing about the killer except as a callback to Nathan's "No Control" -
Nathan is right, and the killer is completely insane.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Up
to now, the album may have been a dark, difficult listen, and I must
admit that it's at this point that I've almost completely lost the
plot. I'm only tentatively sure of the arc to this point, but I'm not
sure how to put the final songs in context. However, whether you're
invested in the narrative or not, the album concludes with two of my
absolute favourite Bowie songs ever. "</span><a href="http://youtu.be/pal2a7bZ25w" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" target="_blank">Thru' These Architects Eyes</a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">" is
sung from Leon's perspective, and it's tempting to explore the architect
metaphor. Has Leon been freed? Was Nathan able to convince the Court
of Justice that Leon was a pawn of Ramona? Is she the architect whose
designs Leon can now understand? Or is it possible that, now freed, he
can admit that he played a greater role in the fate of Baby Grace Blue
than his jailhouse prayers would have us believe?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Musically
speaking, I love this song, and if you've never taken a time to notice
how much a bass guitar can enrich a song, then I urge you to please pay
attention to Gail Ann Dorsey's brilliant playing here. Instead of
simply holding down the root notes of the chords, she contributes melody
after melody that support and enhance the song. Such elements are all
over this album, and are testament to the gifted musicians with whom
Bowie surrounds himself, but I find it's most evident here.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/5x0CtLwTs6o" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" target="_blank">Adler interjects with a segue</a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">
before the final song, revealing to us that evidently Ramona and Leon
were lovers, and that Ramona had broken off an engagement. Why? And
what is the significance? For the answer, we'll have to hope that the "Outside" project is resurrected.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The only hint
is the beautiful "</span><a href="http://youtu.be/WnCzvNfrbgo" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;" target="_blank">Strangers When We Meet</a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">", which closes the album. Sung
once again from Leon's perspective, it seems like a post-breakup song,
with Leon seemingly relieved that he and Ramona are truly nothing to one
another anymore. </span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The liner notes for
the album (AKA "The Diary of Nathan Adler, or, The Art-Ritual Murder of
Baby Grace Blue") ask "It was definitely murder - but was it art?"
This kicks off the album's narrative arc, and is an interesting
question to ask as the 20th century dies and we seem to grow
increasingly numb. What does it take to shock us? What does it take to
inspire us? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's also an appropriate
question to ask of the album itself. By reinventing himself yet again
as an industrial/electronic experimenter (which Bowie would successfully
continue on his excellent follow-up album, 1997's "Earthling") Bowie
arguably killed many pre-existing conceptions of how his music did and
should sound. To judge his success - is it art? - is subjective. I can
only say that I think he came sincerely to the genre and created a
compelling album that can appeal to fans of both classic Bowie and new
electronic music. Certainly, reinvention is Bowie's game, and we all
love those ch-ch-ch-changes.</span></div>
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<span class="im"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's not a perfect
album. There's a case to be made that it's too long, too jagged, too
dark, too unfocussed, too far removed from Bowie's most iconic
material. If, like me, you want to know how the story ends, you might
share my frustration upon reading a page at the recent "David Bowie Is…"
exhibit which suggested the narrative was never intended to be
clarified, and was deliberately left vague to inspire interpretation.
Still, I love this album because it tries something bold. I love it for
its many successes, for inspiring my curiosity and wonder, and for
giving me some of my favourite songs ever. I hope you might be inspired
to give it a listen, either for the first time or with new ears. The
music, after all, is outside.</span></div>
</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-63726624817870683742014-10-19T06:50:00.001-07:002014-10-19T07:17:11.214-07:00Anxiety descending.<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A popup art
gallery has blown into town with the autumn wind. Art "galleryvanting"
is one of my favourite pastimes, and a popup installation is too alluring to
pass up, even if I know nothing about the artist or the exhibit, save the
title: Millennium Fetish. The details of this particular event have been
shrouded in secrecy, despite the twitter campaign that brought me to the
gallery's front door.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's a
blustery October evening, and the gallery is located on a quietish street in a
not-great part of town, among low-rent apartment buildings and cafes that have
been shuttered up for business. About
half of the streetlights are burned out or flickering their final breaths. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A sign on the
door says that the gallery doesn't open until 7:00pm - that's sundown at this
time of year in this part of the world. My phone tells me it's 7:08. I'm the
only one here, so I'm kind of getting a creepy vibe about this thing. Just as
my inner voice tells me "I've got a bad feeling about this", other
people begin showing up. A small crowd of curious art fiends forms on the
sidewalk in front of the old picture framing shop, its faded sign an indication
that it may have been years since the last time anyone did business here. The
lights are still off in the shop and we're becoming restless, wondering if we should
call 7:30 as official "ah, fuck it" time.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just then,
the lights inside flick on, and a man in his 20's who looks like he's lived (and
suffered) for a hundred years opens the door. He welcomes us inside and tells
us the artist will be with us in a moment, but we are free to begin exploring
the gallery. As we file past him, he offers each of us a complementary glass of
champagne, which I finish almost immediately after taking the flute into my
hand. I always drink champagne too quickly.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tiptoeing into
the main gallery hall among the other patrons, the first thing I notice isn't
the array of canvases hanging on the walls or the sculptures arranged around
the room, but the smell. It's the odour of flesh and blood, fresh and stale,
combined with the scent of paint and glue, like the smell of humanity,
dismantled and reassembled. What is the source of this unsettling aroma? How
can I be expected to enjoy this exhibit if I'm forced to endure something so
repugnant and distracting? </span><s><o:p></o:p></s></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the
looks on the faces of the others, I can see they're having the same thought.
But no one is leaving, and I decide that there might still be very well
something worth seeing, so I move toward the wall on my right. Most people go
left, don't they? I prefer to avoid the pack, so I begin my journey through the
room at the wrong end.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My eyes
drink in an enormous, deeply hued palette knife-driven mural of a cityscape by
moonlight. Reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night, this viscerally affecting
pastiche of blues and blacks and purples with shocks of white and grey where the yellow
should be gives me the disquieting sensation of insignificance as I shrink from
the sheer size and magnitude of it. The number 9 swirls and looms repeatedly in
the construction of the cityscape's imposing buildings. Nine's as big as
houses. On the knoll next to the largest of the nines is a tiny void of a
flower wearing a diminutive 6. The flower wilts with inferiority while gazing
up at the skyscrapers with disdain, envy, fear. I am that flower; I am the six.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Backing
away from the mural, I bump into an older gentleman dressed in a houndstooth
suit with matching trilby. The poor soul gasps and cowers away from me, taking
the hat from his head and holding it to his chest, sniveling a breathless
string of apologies for being in my way. I assure him he need not apologize, it
was my own fault for not watching my step. He smiles meekly at my assurance,
and he introduces himself.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mr.
Touchshriek's near-nonsensical ramblings make me slightly nervous and worried
that he might not be all right in the head, but there is nothing overtly
menacing about him, so I shake his hand and excuse myself to view the nearest
work of art in my vicinity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not
alone in my slack-jawed shock as I stare at the grotesque statue: a monstrous
creature constructed from the bones of many other creatures set in shiny
polished metal. A housecat's skull resides in the chest where the heart should
be. The tail is constructed from what looks like a human spinal column. Surely
it is made of plaster, but the staining from blood and tissue looks authentic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The monster
is adorned with unusual jewellery and clothing... earrings in the form of a
shining pair of blue iris-ed eye balls set in resin; a shirt woven from what
looks like human hair in various shades of blonde, brown, ginger, black, and
even grey and white; a brooch on that vest made from the teeth of various
once-living things, painted ironically in cheerful colours; and the piece de
resistance, a beautifully crafted handbag of an unidentified leather in a
disturbingly familiar pink flesh tone. I swallow hard and wonder if this is
partially where that gruesome smell is coming from.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I move away
from the gory sculpture and find myself called toward a wonderfully realistic
hand-drawn rendering of an adolescent girl drawn entirely in hues of red, rust,
and brown. The lines of the drawing are so fine and perfect that it looks as
though the girl could step right into the room off the canvas. Looking into her
face, it appears as though that is exactly what she wants to do, as if
something in her two dimensional world is terrorizing her, tormenting her both
physically and emotionally. The scars on her half dressed body express terrible
pain, and the wideness of her wet eyes, the only part of the piece painted a cold lake blue, display a horrid fear.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I want to save this girl from the unspeakable
fate she is clearly anticipating. I read the card next to the piece to find it
titled Baby Grace, Age 14, after interest drugs. (Whatever those are.)
Subject's blood on canvas. (Come again?)</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sick
feeling in my stomach is telling me that I've seen enough. I define good art by
its ability to make me feel something, whether that feeling is joy, sorrow, loathing
or fear, and as such the pieces in this gallery qualify for that distinction; however,
it also feels utterly wrong, as if I've stumbled into something horrifyingly
real, and definitely illegal. Something in me wants to tell the cops about it,
just in case.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then from
out of nowhere, Mr. Touchshriek appears next to me. He tells me he knew Grace.
Her family lives in his neighbourhood, old Oxford Town. He used to see her
walking to and from school every day. Then one day he saw her talking to
someone through the window of a van. She got in, and was never seen again. I
ask him if he reported it to the police, but Mr. Touchshriek simply removes his
hat again and holds it over his heart, never taking his eyes from Baby Grace's
dark blues.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That's it,
I'm out of here. As I start to make my way to the door, the man who let us in takes
the centre of the gallery. He introduces himself as Leon, and announces that
the artist will be making her appearance shortly, and she's willing to answer
any and all of our questions. I decide that it might be worth it to stay for a
bit, maybe get a bit more information on the obviously deranged person
responsible for this horrendous display. Then I'll go to the police.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The artist
blusters into the room like a woman possessed. Dressed in leather and clanking
with heavy metal jewellery with black hair all askew as if caught in a
permanent windstorm, Ramona A. Stone is in her 50's and is doing her damndest
to cover it up. She jangles her way to Leon, kisses him with wildly visible
tongue and dispatches him with an expression and a gesture filled with a
palpable hatred.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She smirks
as she judges us silently from her pedestal. Before she can speak, the
questions from her audience begin. Who is Baby Grace Blue? Is she alive? Did
you really draw her portrait with her own blood? Finally, Ramona speaks.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, a
raucous thunderstorm begins, releasing a torrent of rain, ear splitting
thunderclaps, and blinding lightning. The power goes out and the spectators
begin shrieking and gasping as we bump into one another and into the works of
art as we clamour to find our way to the door. A terrible cry pierces my ears -
I recognize the voice as Mr. Touchshriek's. Another cry, this time from a young
woman. What the fuck is going on? I slip on a puddle of something and land on
the floor. That smell. I know this smell. I smelled it when I came in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The lights
come on, and as expected, I'm laying on the floor in a puddle of someone's
blood. The young woman who cried out - she's on the floor next to me, cut from
groin to throat, her guts spilled out onto the floor between us. I vomit
convulsively onto the floor, my tears dropping daintily into the pool of blood.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mr.
Touchshriek offers his hand to help me up, a ragged gash visible on his arm. He
asks if I'm alright and I scream that I'm not fucking alright, none of this is
alright, we need to call the police!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As if on
cue, a man comes bursting through the door, introducing himself as Detective
Nathan Adler. He informs us that Baby Grace Blue's body, or what's left of it
anyway, has been found and he's got it on good authority that the culprit is
inside this gallery at this very moment in time.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's
been another murder just now! I blurt out, and point to the young woman on the
floor, as if Detective Adler wasn't keen enough pick up on it himself.
Unfortunately, my frantic outburst draws the detective in my direction and he
begins his line of questioning with me. Have I ever been to Oxford town?</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I feel
faint. This can't be happening. I just wanted to go to an art show. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Old Mr.
Touchshriek approaches in his typical skittish way, and he tells Detective
Adler that he was a witness to Grace's abduction and he's not entirely sure who
has done the killing, but he suspects it's the artist whose gallery we're
visiting, or maybe she's gotten her hapless boyfriend Leon to do her dirty
work. Detective Adler thinks aloud.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ramona and
Leon emerge from out of nowhere and begin an bombastic, unnatural looking dance
in the centre of the room to a song with a rigid, jackhammer beat and
otherworldly lyrics. As they move about the room, their total disconnect from
each other seems almost choreographed. Ramona stops to take polaroid photos of
the pool of the fresh victim's blood mixed with my vomit and tears. She tacks
each polaroid to the wall as she continues her strange dance. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm
astonished at Detective Adler's inaction. Then, out of the blue, he begins to
applaud. He's being ironic. I get it. Except... a number of spectators begin to
applaud as well. Mr. Touchshriek is clapping away like a man who doesn't have
an oozing wound on his forearm. And the poor girl with her entrails all askew
suddenly rouses, and stands with help from Detective Adler, and she starts
clapping. And then a girl resembling the unfortunate girl in the portrait
enters from the back, clapping wildly,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's all
been a vast creation - more than a show, a ghastly, dramatic piece of
performance art. Incredible. Ramona thanks us for attending. As we can see, no
one has really been murdered in the name of art tonight, have they? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Leon throws
his arms out in the direction of Ramona, encouraging us all to give her one
last round of applause. This time I participate. Leon bows and says that he
hopes that this performance has given us a new perspective on the definition of
art. Ramona glares at him with utter
loathing for only a second before blowing us all a kiss and bidding us
goodnight.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Outside</i>
couldn't have come to me at a better time if I had actually planned it this
way. Mid-October, the spookiest time of the year, is the perfect backdrop for a
concentrated listening of this creepy-as-fuck album. <i>Outside</i> is art in its
purest form, and it demands to be listened to as such. If you go in expecting
something you can put on at your 39th birthday party surrounded by family,
you're going to have a bad time. And everyone is going to leave. Which is okay,
because then you can listen to it properly, and really enjoy the fuck out of
it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I advise
against listening to it in the bathtub when you're home alone on a windy night
in the weeks approaching Hallowe'en. By the time you get to <i>Wishful Beginnings</i>,
you will be rocking yourself in the tub going "what was that?!" every
time you hear your cat do something downstairs. It was the cat, wasn't it?
Please tell me it was the cat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I like when
Bowie does concept albums. For me, <i>Outside</i> is like Nine Inch Nails fucked Twin
Peaks and then Twin Peaks gave the baby up for adoption and it was raised by
Sin City. It definitely contains some of the most disturbing ideas to come from
Bowie's brain up to this point, aka, murder in the name of art during a time of
social decay, rapidly advancing technology, and a future unknown. I have to say
that despite my initial misgivings, this album is a masterpiece that really
defines who David Bowie is as an Artist with a capital A. No doubt he is also a
phenomenal pop star and songwriter in general, but <i>Outside</i> takes it to a whole
other level.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It should
be noted that I omitted some of the album's tracks from my story and shuffled
the ones I did include to go with the narrative flow. To really get it, this
album deserves to be listened to as a whole. The story contained within <i>Outside</i>
is a bit abstract, as with previous concept albums in Bowie's catalogue. He
doesn't spell it out for you. You need to listen, and you need to connect the
dots, interpret it like you would a painting, and then you need to just chill
the fuck out when you realize that there is no resolution. Make that part of
the experience. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So without
further adieu, here it is.</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/jgwqPj9AkTc" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Someone
should really organize an art gallery "showing" of <i>Outside</i>, don't you
think?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Post Script</b></i>
- This post is dedicated to my friend Dave M.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have a confession to make. There was a time
when I ignorantly rejected not only this album but David Bowie as an artist. I
recall a conversation with Dave (who, incidentally, I will be introducing you
to shortly via a special guest post!) sometime in the mid-90's in which he told me I would really like Bowie, and I
noped so hard I think I nearly gave him whiplash. I'm ashamed that it took me
this long to open my mind and see just how wrong I was, but I'm happy that now
I get to share my appreciation for Bowie's work with my dear friend. You
planted a seed, Dave. It just took a really long time to take root and grow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>Post Post
Script</b></i> - If you're wondering wtf? about the nines and sixes I described in the
cityscape mural, watch <a href="http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/the-boy-with-the-incredible-brain/" target="_blank">The Boy with the Incredible Brain</a>. You won't regret it.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-11851686311067060642014-10-05T10:45:00.000-07:002014-10-05T11:02:11.295-07:00Down on my knees in suburbia.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuodHloLJJo3YED5Pe7D8rxVFlsPWAsMBvpsSVRygFw6aho6n7lq3VvmOb9V0AkZbLaCqgQ7ZGd45LbRIZCgeFPGl1dYWCCkBFNew1WIvdDVOFVB_-sY0IvUOZCvA6Q715j0Ad3KQDvEQ/s1600/Bowie_buddha-of-suburbia_2007-release.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuodHloLJJo3YED5Pe7D8rxVFlsPWAsMBvpsSVRygFw6aho6n7lq3VvmOb9V0AkZbLaCqgQ7ZGd45LbRIZCgeFPGl1dYWCCkBFNew1WIvdDVOFVB_-sY0IvUOZCvA6Q715j0Ad3KQDvEQ/s1600/Bowie_buddha-of-suburbia_2007-release.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm feeling
a little flat this morning. As I open my eyes to the day, I immediately notice
a compressed, two dimensional appearance to the bedroom. My bed faces a
mirrored closet, and as I sit up to look into it, I see a cartoonish world
reflected back... thick black lines outlining the edges of everything,
including me; vibrant colour all over what is normally a neutrally toned room.
I'm peach coloured with yellow hair, sky blue eyes, and strawberry candy pink
lips. As I get out of bed, the polka dot pattern on my pyjamas doesn't fold and
move the way it should; it kind of just stays put, despite my movements. This
is going to be a weird day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/HDLtOVp_v8E" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To be
honest, I'm craving a bit of weirdness, since moving house a little over a month
ago. I've traded the colourful idiosyncrasy of city life for the comfortable homogeneity of the suburbs. I've
adapted spectacularly well, which is something I didn't expect. I grieved
deeply the morning we relocated our belongings from the 416 to the 905. Now
that I'm here, I'm relishing the comfort, cocooning myself in the house when
I'm not at work.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/VPAqQgtPkvY" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I've
got some errands to run today, and I'm curious how the world outside looks in
cartoon format, so I ready myself to go out. Hilariously, when I open my closet
I see that hanging inside it is not my normal selection of clothing, but the
same outfit on every hanger. My cartoon uniform... you know, the outfit that
cartoon characters never change out of? Shaggy's green shirt and brown cords...
Lisa Simpson's red dress and pearls... April O'Neil's yellow jumpsuit thing...
you get the idea. The fact that I don't even get to pick mine is a bit
frustrating, if kind of telling. So I dress myself in rolled up blue jeans, a
black tunic, a brightly coloured beaded necklace, a pair of mary janes, and of
course my tortoiseshell glasses, which are apparently so deeply apart of my actual
persona that I actually woke up wearing them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wanting to
be in the house for not a minute longer, I swoop down the stairs and exit
hastily via the front door. Alighting on the front porch, I stop for a moment
to survey my street. Yes, it looks the same, except in cartoon format. There is
a kid, a boy of about 8 years old, swinging on the tree swing in my yard, just
like any normal day. I wonder if the kid is seeing everything this way too? I
decide not to ask, just in case he thinks I'm crazy and tells the other
neighbourhood kids and then they egg the house on Hallowe'en.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before fully
embarking upon my errands, I decide to go to the Italian bakery up on the
corner and get a coffee to put into me. I live in a distinctly Italian
neighbourhood now, which pleases me. I grew up with Italians, back in my
hometown, and I find them comforting, friendly, wholesome. Maybe a bit too
wholesome. The Roman Catholic church on the opposite corner is a reminder of
this. Families dressed in their Sunday best file in to the church like the
dutiful, fearful Christians that they are. Hate to remind them what they had to
do to make those beautiful, shining babies in their arms.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gju5ZGtiIOM" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In true
cartoon fashion, the sun shines yellowly over the church, with sweetly singing
blue birds swooping above, while a dark
thundercloud forms over my head and the rain begins pouring down on me, my own
personal lightning bolt zapping me over and over as I wait to cross the street.
Even in the cartoon version of the world, I am judged. The light turns green
and I dash across into the bakery. Unfortunately, the rain cloud follows me in,
and a bakery employee tells me "you can't come in here with that". I make a deal with the cloud - it can wait for
me outside if it just lets me get a coffee first. It agrees, and floats out the
open window.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/48d4irOHhLY" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bakery
smells divine. I get into the queue - probably for the first time in my life
I'm more than happy to wait in line for something. Looking around me, I see
that the bakery is filled with people wearing what I've learned is the local
uniform - the young men in sweat pants, t-shirts, gold chains, and addidas; the
old men in dress pants, undershirts, and socks with plastic sandals; the young
women with big hair, giant hoop earrings, bold makeup, high heels, short
jackets, and yoga pants... just like the
old women. These are my neighbours.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/X5-x0glDpi0" width="420"></iframe>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I get my
coffee. It smells good but looks like a hopeless brown liquid here in
cartoonland. I take a sip and it burns my mouth. I blow the inky black steam
swirls away and enjoy the next sip. I was hoping to spend a few minutes sitting
down with it, but the tables are full. Back outside I go, with my own personal
raincloud waiting for me like a loyal puppy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've had
quite enough of this nonsense. I shake my fist at the rain cloud, spilling hot
coffee everywhere. Miraculously, the cloud dissipates, and I can finally enjoy
my morning errand stroll. Except fuck errands. I need to get out of the 'burbs
and take a visit to the city, where I belong. Luckily, a zone-crossing bus is
pulling up behind me, so I board it with the relief that I will soon be back in
my old neighbourhood, flipping through records in the shops, among the other
city dwellers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the bus
zooms toward the 416, I take notice of the suburban environment. It's totally
devoid of any character. The restaurants don't serve food I want to eat. The
shops don't sell things I want to buy. It's a total clash of values. I don't belong here at all. Why, oh why have I
moved out here? Sigh... the things you do for love. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9uUE1ZR0YBg" width="420"></iframe>
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The city
isn't perfect - it's expensive and crowded and you can never get ahead. But
when you're there, you know that. You accept it. Everyone is in the same boat.
How do you describe that feeling of being out on your own downtown and yet
feeling like you are a part of something great, surrounded by strangers who are
like friends, friends who are like strangers...? It's a whole other different
kind of comfort, being alone amongst the many.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/7hxkwaXaGKI" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally, I
arrive downtown at my favourite record store and begin flipping through the
racks. I like the record store in cartoon format. It's like art on steroids.
Already so vibrant in the real world, the cartoon version of the record store
is a feast for the eyes, not just the ears. Like a bitmap image that has been
converted to a vector, the depth is lost, and yet somehow the truth is
revealed.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Out of the
corner of my eye I spot a friend I haven't seen in ages. Our friendship goes
back a long time, and there is every reason to suspect that seizing this moment
to say hello will bring hugs and laughter and perhaps a fun-filled day of
shenanigans in the city. But something is holding me back. I can't tell if he's
seen me, and I am suddenly hesitant to interrupt him. Then he looks up, right
at me. There we are, looking at each other, knowing full well that we have
about 10 seconds to say something before we officially become strangers ...9...
8...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let him
confirm that he sees me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">7...6...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay, well
maybe just move one aisle closer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5...4...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He's coming
over. We're still friends. Yay!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3...2...1...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And he just
walks right past me, out the door.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Bab8qD1Bhnc" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Damn. That
smarts. But maybe I should have expected it. I remember telling him a while
back that I was moving out of the city and he seemed sort of... well... done
with me. Those words were never said, but I had definitely picked up a
"nice knowing you" vibe. Maybe he took it personally. Or maybe we've
just outgrown each other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sadly, my
return to the city hasn't turned out to be all that I hoped it would be. I
remember it so differently. I desperately want to feel the way it used to make
me feel. But maybe it's true what they say. Maybe you can never really go back.
And maybe I never really understood the whole "home is where your heart
is" thing until now. At the moment, my heart is broken, and home is where
my stuff is. And I kind of miss my stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This album
didn't really take me on fantastic voyage (ha, see what I did there?), but that
doesn't mean I disliked listening to it. Strangely, the album kept me in the
present as it sort of relates to current events in my life, if a little
abstractly. This album serves as a soundtrack to the BBC 4-part television
series <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Buddha_of_Suburbia_%28TV_serial%29" target="_blank"><i>The Buddha of Suburbia</i></a>, which is based on the book by Hanif Kureishi. My
life in no way resembles that of the main character, but that's the cool thing
about art. The creator could have completely different thoughts, ideas,
intentions while making it, but you get to take from it whatever you want,
relate to it however you can.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Having said
that, I didn't write this in such a way that the songs directly relate to the
story. Instead, this was inspired by the overall feeling and messages received
from the album as a whole. Yeah, I've just moved from the city to the suburbs,
a move with which I'm struggling on the inside. Though geographically speaking
I'm only a few streets north of the city I love, the feeling of having turned
my back on it, of having left my friends behind, and of having relinquished a
way of life that I cherish is a lot like walking around with a dark cloud over
my head. Everything in my new neighbourhood feels flat, shallow, and deceptive.
Is it all bad? Of course not. But within me, there is a great resistance to
getting used to it. My values are under attack, and I'd like to think that I
would stand and defend them, if I wasn't so damn comfy.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Obviously,
this is a ponderous time for me, and I can't even begin to guess what my perceptions
will be one year from now. I will say that it's been lovely listening to an
album that feels like it was written for me at this very moment in time, even
if in reality that is not even remotely true. One thing is for certain: <i>The Buddha
of Suburbia</i> is going to bookmark this time in my mind forever.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-23445403408093907692014-09-20T14:09:00.001-07:002014-09-20T14:23:55.303-07:00I look into your eyes and I know you won't kill me.<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1wa_FMyAg-xamDCpeIF_AiwzvC9Wzb7hMk1ZBRBIQG7dJZVE5lA_3MUEflRPRM40Y97wu1JRn8otUoX2QYF2f-a49ynOjunazuguTC5vKgRgyZKucV9Io8XoFeNKkHyXrg_gFJePfas/s1600/Blacktiewhitenoise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1wa_FMyAg-xamDCpeIF_AiwzvC9Wzb7hMk1ZBRBIQG7dJZVE5lA_3MUEflRPRM40Y97wu1JRn8otUoX2QYF2f-a49ynOjunazuguTC5vKgRgyZKucV9Io8XoFeNKkHyXrg_gFJePfas/s1600/Blacktiewhitenoise.jpg" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bells are ringing and I'm standing halfway
up an enormous set of steps leading up to an imposing cathedral. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Rht01wob5B4" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I appear to
be dressed for a wedding, complete with lipstick and high heels. I never would
have chosen these shoes for myself -- I'm going to break my neck prancing
around on these steps. It occurs to me that I don't know who the wedding is
for, and maybe I can get out of this. Not that I hate weddings or anything, but
I do hate these fucking shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I take them
off and scurry down the steps. I should point out that I'm the only one
around... I see no one on the street, no one rushing to the doors of the
cathedral. It's a bit cold and lonely out here. Nevertheless, I continue down
the vast staircase. As I reach the bottom and step onto the sidewalk,
everything turns black. There is nowhere
for me to go but back up the steps. Huh, so this is what happens when you try
to escape one of these trips. Good to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Resigning
myself to my fate, I climb my way back up the seemingly hundreds of thousands
of steps, clutching my stilettos in my hands like fashionable weapons. The
wedding bells are getting louder and seemingly more frantic and impatient,
yelling at me to enter the cathedral. I attempt to open the heavy door, but it
won't budge. Then it dawns on me: I'll have to put on the shoes. That's how
this works. Goddammit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Feet
squeezed into torture devices, I push the door and it opens with the slightest
touch, like magic. The pews are tightly packed with guests, all of whom turn to
look at me as I stumble like a newborn deer from the back of the church to the
nearest open spot. The bride and groom are already at the front together,
facing each other, glaring at my reprehensible tardiness. I've never seen them,
or anyone in this room, before in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the
ushers, a stately looking man with gorgeous obsidian skin, appears next to me
and hands me a wedding programme. Opening it up, I learn that I am witnessing
the marriage of Charlotte Jennifer MacKenzie, daughter of George MacKenzie and
Elizabeth Gardner, to Marcus Arnold Tombe, son of Arnold and Natonya Tombe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In typical
format, the bride's guests are one side, the groom's on the other. The aisle,
decorated with red rose petals and Charlotte's kilometre-long white train,
divide the room's human contents: white on one side, black on the other. I
smile at the family sitting next to me - Marcus' relatives, no doubt - and they
smile back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/pU7aU71KWr8" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The shock
of my appalling interruption subsides, and the event finally resumes. It's time
for the vows. Marcus takes Charlotte's lily-white hands in his and declares his
love for her with a hint that sweet Charlie shouldn't be wearing a lily-white
gown. <i>You've been around, but you've
changed me.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/C-MzTl_kjAU" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Charlotte's
parents give each other a knowing glance. Charlotte herself grins sheepishly
and looks down at her feet. The congregation laughs warmly. They obviously know
something I don't. Whatever her story is, it doesn't matter, clearly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's
Charlotte's turn, and her saccharine declaration of love and commitment pull
the inevitable tears out of everyone in the room, including me. God, I'm a
sucker for this stuff. <i>I love you in the morning sun, I love you in
my dreams.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/829mlJiRCIU" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then all
the rest of it happens, quite as you would expect, with the pronouncing of
husband and wife, and the kiss, and the applause, and the inevitable unrest
that washes over the congregation as they start mentally checking out of the
cathedral and getting antsy for the real reason they dusted off their Sunday
best and came out today - food and booze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I start to
wonder if my presence here is still required (was it even required in the first
place? Why am I here, anyway?), so as the guests become restless and begin
standing and moving about the cathedral, I slip discreetly away toward the
door. The usher is absent, so I try to open the door to leave, but no such luck
- it's locked from the inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I jump
clumsily out of the way as the bride and groom, their parents, and the bridal
party swiftly make their way back up the aisle toward the cathedral doors.
Through them they proceed and the receiving line forms out on those imposing
steps. The bells start ringing again, signaling the end of God's immediate role
in today's festivities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/aW0XT5SbEII" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/mrtCu0l16FI" width="560"></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I turn
around and look at the congregation, and only now do I see that the two
families don't seem to be gelling. Maybe this is their first meeting? Whatever
the case, they seem unwilling to acknowledge each other's presence, choosing to
exit the pews from the far side rather than via the aisle that joins them. This
is going to be uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I watch as
the guests begin to file out of the church, careful to stay close to the people
with whom they came. How on earth am I going to get out of this? I'm an
unwilling wedding crasher who can't even sneak out of my own volition. I am
sure to be discovered as an infiltrator as I take my place in the receiving
line queue. I may just be in hell. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, the
usher appears next to me. He introduces himself as Lester, Marcus' uncle, and
he shakes my hand. He asks how I'm getting to the reception hall, and I tell
him I have no idea. The kind man offers me a ride. And before I know it, he is
whisking me down the steps, past the receiving line with a wave to the bride
and groom.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the car,
Lester reveals that he knows I'm a "visitor". He could tell right
away. He's sort of a magnet for visitors - people who drop in to moments in
time and space via some form of creative output - a song, or a painting, or a
poem, or what have you. Well I'll be! That's what's been happening to me all
this time, throughout this project! Lester tells me he feels like it's his job to
help visitors when he encounters them. Sigh, if only he'd been there during
some of my other "visits". I sure could have used his help during the
"Heroes" album.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway,
Lester is smoking and driving and giving me the scoop: that Charlotte and her
people are from a small town in Saskatchewan with a population of less than 50
people, can you believe that?! Charlotte went to Toronto for university, and
there she met Marcus, a born and raised Torontonian whose family hails from
Kenya, originally.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Tombes
have had no issue accepting Charlotte into their lives from the get-go,
however, Charlotte's family has been reluctant to welcome Marcus and his family
into theirs - and that's putting it mildly. Hell, this wedding almost didn't
happen on account of Mr. MacKenzie's "reluctance" to have anything to
do with it. But when Charlotte and Marcus threatened to elope, Charlotte's mom
managed to pull everyone together and make this day happen. Wow.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Uncle
Lester and I arrive at the reception hall, and he ushers me in and secures a
spot for me at his table. Cousin Gabe wasn't able to make it due to his
precarious mental health and sudden involuntary committal to the mental
hospital, so there is a seat available.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lester
tells me that he's got to go see a man about a horse, which I think means he
has to pee, but really could mean anything. I hang tight at the table and help
myself to the wine, sitting uncorked near the centre piece of the table, just begging
to fill my glass.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the next
table, I overhear a conversation between one of Charlotte's bridesmaids and
another guest. The bridesmaid is depressed about standing up in yet another
friend's wedding, and is lamenting that her bad luck with men means that she'll
never be the one in the white gown. The waterworks begin, and her friend tells
her dutifully and unconvincingly that it'll happen someday.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ljhm-gJ9RRw" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bridal
party is seated at the head table and dinner begins, but there is no sign of
Lester. The other guests at the table seem slightly suspicious of me.
Thankfully, I can keep my face full of food and avoid conversation. Meanwhile, Lester's
empty chair is sending all kinds of icky signals through my body.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dinner
ends, and the speeches begin. Mr. and Mrs. Tombe bicker through theirs,
admonishing each other for getting story details wrong and for interrupting. But
in the end it is evident that they love each other and hold up as a good
example for Charlotte and Marcus. Their speech ends with a toast and a sweet
kiss between them.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/0ZHz-P3nIU8" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the
speeches end, the bride and groom descend upon the floor for their first dance,
which is lovely. But when it's time for the guests to cut some rug, the DJ
can't seem to get anybody up on the dance floor. Like a highschool dance where
no one wants to be the first, I find myself hoping that someone will break the
ice; that these two families will finally mix it up and get to know one another
and congeal already.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then it
occurs to me... I will never see these people again. My presence here has been
uncomfortable and seemingly pointless... until now. So I toss my glass of wine
down my throat and dance my way over into the middle of the floor. Right on
cue, a spotlight shines upon me, and I give it all I've got. I kick off my hell-on-heels
shoes and show them all how it's done. I'm totally ridiculous, flailing and
kicking and thrusting and twirling, but that's kind of the point.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/WeUkof9a5F4" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then it
happens. A table of young girls on Marcus' side join me, followed by a table of
young girls on Charlotte's side. Then the old people get in on it. Soon, the
house is rockin' and poppin' and lockin' and twerkin' and jerkin' and doin' it
gangnam style.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My work
here is done... or is it? I'm still here. And I'm actually kind of having a
good time. A matronly woman joins the dance circle and asks me how I know the
bride. I tell her I don't... I'm a friend of Lester's.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shit.
Lester. Where is that guy? Suddenly there is a commotion involving a lot of
text messages and phone calls coming in at once on Marcus' side of the family.
Young Gabe has apparently tried to escape from the hospital. He's jumped out
the window... he's okay, he basically jumped from the second story and sprained
his ankle pretty bad, he's back inside being treated for that.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/avJt0SQec0I" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The woman
asks me where Lester is - he's Gabe's godfather. I tell her that before dinner
he told me he had to see a man about a horse. The look on her face tells me
that it almost definitely does not mean he had to pee. A search party is
formed, consisting of everyone on the dance floor and then some. The two
families come together to locate Lester, and I feel like a turd for not
mentioning it sooner.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/AsLrXBRCrTo" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lester's
whereabouts are soon discovered. He's been in the bathroom all this time after
all... not peeing, but getting high. He's coming down now, and has finally been
seated at the table. I take my seat next to him. Lester's comings and goings
are hardly any of my business, I realize, so I reserve judgment and simply sit
with him. He settles back in his chair and takes a sip of water from the glass
in front of him. One of Charlotte's bridesmaids approaches and tells Lester he
gave everyone a fright and she's glad he's okay. He nods gentlemanly at her but
says nothing.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the
festivities wind down, the newlyweds announce that they'll be leaving shortly
on a night flight to Barcelona for their honeymoon. Charlotte has never been
out of the country, and she's a little nervous about flying overseas, but
Marcus assures her that they will have the time of their lives.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/eL03lUj89oY" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And with
that, Charlotte and Marcus exit the reception hall. The DJ continues spinning tunes, and the dance floor is crammed with dancers celebrating the union
of two people they love, with no idea exactly how they will touch each other's
lives before the night is over.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I realize I
probably only have a few minutes before I'm zapped out of this place in space
and time. I turn to Lester and thank him for helping me navigate this visit. I
ask him if I'll ever see him again, but as I say the words I realize that I'm
dealing with infinity, and the chances of visiting his world again are small.
He touches my hand, and I'm gone.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Black Tie White Noise</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> was not love at first listen. But if
I've learned anything from this project, it's that my first impressions are
basically meaningless (<i>Lodger</i>, I'm
looking in your direction -- and loving the shit out of you now). I wouldn't
say I'm in love with <i>Black Tie White
Noise</i>... I wouldn't marry it, but I'd date it for a while and then have
fond memories of it and maybe even go back for a little something something
every now and then... you know friends-with-benefits style. So it has
definitely earned a place in my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If it took
me to a place that's a little on the nose, I'm okay with that. This story was
always going to be about a wedding, and there was always going to be a racial
element. What surprised me was Lester, and his role of usher to visitors who
drop in via some song or painting or film or whatever. I'm finding myself
rather enamoured with that concept, and I'm surprised that it took me this long
to acknowledge it here and to create a "seer" character who knows
what's happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With any
luck, I'll run into Lester again someday... lightening can strike the same
place twice, after all.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-50222401980157052322014-09-06T14:19:00.000-07:002014-09-07T12:50:38.092-07:00Hello humans, can you feel me thinking?<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQU4zOBxZZb69GczFr4IgQdzgkBtv4TaVk3OYsp9PPvOSOpS9krKMhl1jb2PPwAHCQyQezY02Gi5qDY2y9Oy-AKO1U7uQ2tVSRcjbk4d_ToZtX0HNYJqheky00ZHcNnpMUrA7mrILB0s/s1600/Tin-machine2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQU4zOBxZZb69GczFr4IgQdzgkBtv4TaVk3OYsp9PPvOSOpS9krKMhl1jb2PPwAHCQyQezY02Gi5qDY2y9Oy-AKO1U7uQ2tVSRcjbk4d_ToZtX0HNYJqheky00ZHcNnpMUrA7mrILB0s/s1600/Tin-machine2.jpg" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A funny
thing happened on my way to the grocery store. There I was, walking along,
mentally reciting my list of things I need to pick up: coffee, eggs,
toothpaste, tampons. Things for my body, my corporeal self, to keep me alive,
healthy, clean. Okay except maybe for the coffee. That's for my mind and my
soul, the part of me you can't see.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Treading
along on the tree-lined sidewalk, I was
aware of the warmth of the day, and the uncomfortable humidity which made me sweat and caused my sandals to
rub against my skin, giving me a blister. I was also aware of a
"disturbance in the force", that feeling that something is sort of
off, or something. A message from somewhere in the universe is transmitting but
not being received, because I'm a mere mortal with limited understanding of my
senses and perceptions, and no discernible super powers. Beyond keeping myself
alive and maintaining basic human functionality, I barely know what to do with
my brain 90% of the time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Then all of
a sudden, I'm somewhere else. </span>Somewhere... just... in the universe, I guess. I want to describe it to
you, but how do you describe something you've never seen before and have no basis
of understanding? There are lights and colours, but it's also dark. It's cold
and warm at the same time. I feel vast and yet small, empty and yet loved,
alone and yet surrounded. In a word, it's a trip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Trying to make sense
of it, I become aware that I'm amid a sea of souls with no bodies, all
connected to one another and to all of us down on earth. Like sponges they soak
up our thoughts, our feelings, our attitudes, our energies... and transmit them
back to the Other, an entity I've asked them to describe and they can't. Is it
God? No. Is it Buddha? No. It's... the one who is everything. It's the universe
itself. They feed it what they learn from us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The funny thing is
that they're not at all like you would think. They have individual
personalities, unique thoughts and feelings... but they just kind of share them
with the collective brain that binds them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They are fascinated
with us earthlings and the way we go about our lives. While they are busy
sucking up all of our experiences, perceptions, and sensations, they sometimes
try to initiate a two-way conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The trouble is, they
don't know that the majority of humans can't feel them, and when we do feel
"something", we don't know it's them we're feeling. There's that
disturbance in the force again. Deja vu. Those humans who do have an inkling of
the universal beings' presence don't know how to process it, so they imagine
them in different ways to try and understand. We call it religion. Some people try
to communicate back to them, and some of those people get called crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/kMdZ1r_YVpA" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I soon learn that our friends out here in the universe seem to watch our
lives like some kind of reality show. They have favourites... people with whom
they empathize, or whom they find entertaining for one reason or another. They
start feeding my brain with flashes of human lives they are following on earth.
It's difficult for me to process them all, the many millions of lives and
experiences they have retained and "favourited".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They wring their proverbial hands over our humanly miscommunications,
our inability to think to each other and understand each other immediately.
They face palm at our fights and foibles, wishing they could intervene and set things
straight. Like this man who keeps making mistake after mistake, hurting the one
he claims to love, and incessantly apologizing for his misdeeds, only to go and
do it all over again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/JoJygkPUBg0" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Is there something wrong with his learning?" they ask me. I
think about how I would explain it, and I can feel them inside my brain,
piecing my thoughts together into something they can understand. Sometimes our
physical needs and desires get in the way of learning, I "tell" them.
<span lang="EN-US">Our </span>bodies drive our actions and intentions,
and often interfere with them at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On one hand, they
think these behaviours of ours that are driven by physical need is strange and
low, but on the other, they understand that if they had bodies they'd probably
be the same. Sometimes they wish for bodies so they can feel what we feel - as
if feeling our sensations second hand isn't good enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/DRLKm-J7j9o" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Comically, they
inquire into the condition known on earth as "blue balls". Is that a
real thing? they want to know. I tell them I can't answer that in any
definitive kind of way, having not experienced it myself. But they seem to
grasp that the human brain is capable of processing emotional and perceived
pain and translating it into physical pain. I ask if none of them have ever
experienced second hand blue balls through the human males they've observed,
and immediately, the experience is transferred to me. Ouch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Ehit6Gs5dnE" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, my mind is filled with glimpses into the life of someone who
is living far from home and missing his girl. He longs to be with her, as she implores
him to come back to her, despite the warrant for his arrest that also awaits his
return. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/azkrhKO3_GQ" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Why is it not enough to simply love someone? What's the deal with
proximity?" they want to know. It
isn't just physical, or we'd all be "doing it" 100% of the time we
spend with other people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hAkIGB-_y1Q" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They don't seem to get that our disconnected human brains get lonely
when we're without the physical presence of our loved ones. Their inability to
escape one another in the realm of their collective mind prevents full understanding
of human social behaviour. I guess that means they won't be able to clear that
up for me, either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's hard work being among these bodiless entities. As cool as it has
been to see this unknown part of the universe and learn how we connect to it, I
feel exhausted and have a deep need to be alone someplace on earth, where I may
be surrounded by other humans, but my thoughts are safe within the walls of my
own cranium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And with that, I Iearn that it's not just the lives of earthlings of
which these beings are fond. Apparently, s<span lang="EN-US">ome of them have developed an affinity for
certain places on earth. Someone asks me if I've ever been to Amlapura. I explain
that I've never heard of it, until now. They think me all kinds of images and
perceptions of the place, inspiring my own sense of curiosity.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/2qCXUldOf1s" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While these
universal beings have grown to love humans and planet earth, they are also well
aware of the atrocities we are capable of committing, and do commit, at an
alarming scale. People murdering each other in cold blood, using each other for
personal gain, defiling the most innocent of our species. We may abhor these
nightmarish occurrences, but we don't experience them the way the universal
beings do. Feeling everything the
victims feel, seeing through the perpetrators' eyes, and then watching as we do
almost nothing about it, is a heavy burden for the universal beings to bear. And
they're only the messengers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/cSWif1zHsAA" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dSeoGs3DMOs" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally, they're
fascinated and a bit appalled by the value we place on certain individuals over
others. Perhaps one of their flaws is that while they clearly have favourite
humans whose lives they pay more attention to, they think we're petty and silly
for elevating some humans above others because of the way they look, behave, or
because of the things they make or do for the enjoyment of others. It's not so much
that they don't understand the value of art, but they don't understand what
makes one piece of art better than another, and why some people receive acclaim
for it while others are judged harshly or receive no credit at all. And why
are some of these people valued higher than those who work toward saving or
improving the lives of others? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Ok5A8VoOMis" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That's a question I
can't even begin to answer, except to say that... well... we humans aren't
perfect. In comparison to other creatures, we kind of suck. But we're not all
bad. And if I've learned anything from these universal beings, it's that
they're not perfect either. I mean, they're pretty cool and all, and it helps
to know that maybe our lives do have some kind of meaning and purpose connected
to something greater than ourselves. But I'm glad I'm just some silly little human.
Even if it is that time of the month.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's not that time of
the month, at least not at the time of writing this. And what I really mean by
that is that this is a work of pure fiction. I don't want anyone to get the
idea that I think this is how the universe actually works. I've read some books
that propose some similar ideas (such lovely ideas!) but I'm not prepared to
accept them as gospel. I simply enjoy twisting my mind and thinking about
things that I can't ever possibly get close to understanding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Does everything
happen for a reason? Is there some kind of order in the universe, directed by
something with some kind of intelligence? My inclination is to say "Nope.
Things happen and then you die". That might scare a lot of people, but I
actually find it quite comforting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My listening of <i>Tin
Machine II</i> (not the most mindblowing name for this album, is it?) happened to
coincide with a friend's recent Facebook rant about The Universe and what he
calls The Truth. I suspect his ideas are not fully formed (apart from Stephen
Hawking, whose are?) and he's a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but it's always
interesting to discover other points of view. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This post was also
somewhat inspired by a Ted talk I saw recently featuring a man named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rupert_Sheldrake" target="_blank">RupertSheldrake</a> explaining his theory of morphic resonance (the idea that all things in
nature have a collective memory). Again, I'm not ready to say that I think it's
The Truth, but I find the idea very intriguing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So what is the
connection between <i>Tin Machine II</i> and all of these highfaluting ideas about the
universe, collective memory, and what it all means to be alive? In a word,
nothing. <i>Tin Machine II</i> is a collection of songs about very human, physical
things - love, sex, violence, and the state of having a body, basically. I
guess I just wondered how a species of beings without bodies would see us, what
our physical needs and desires would look like to them, how our corporeal needs
drive our actions. Putting this album in that context helped me to find and
make connections between the songs - something my brain just wants to do, for
some reason.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I like this album a
lot. In many ways, it sounds like a return to the early 70's in terms of the
overall sound and themes. <i>Baby Universal</i>
is kind of post-Ziggy and <i>Amlapura</i> could
have been right at home on <i>Hunky Dory.
Stateside</i> is one of my favourite songs off this album, with the lead vocal
by band member Hunt Sales - he has a great voice! Overall, this is a fun album
to rock out to. And so far, my new neighbours haven't banged on the door and asked me to turn it down :)</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-13128413325674857112014-08-23T11:58:00.001-07:002014-08-23T12:21:39.601-07:00Tin machine, tin machine, take me anywhere.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFxzSQJi3R1rTd0mf0h7bvbJwEp4vkL7NFX5Sx8bV15SrVIX44gcVEgzduhI2xUPIPrsJqKsVlDqX0MsFjeKjCLnrCGgNzU1cxCF3rM923kaGe3fJ_-IsclH3xx1a3c_T8s_FjpYE42A/s1600/Tin-machine_album.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFxzSQJi3R1rTd0mf0h7bvbJwEp4vkL7NFX5Sx8bV15SrVIX44gcVEgzduhI2xUPIPrsJqKsVlDqX0MsFjeKjCLnrCGgNzU1cxCF3rM923kaGe3fJ_-IsclH3xx1a3c_T8s_FjpYE42A/s1600/Tin-machine_album.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's early morning as I head out into the fog. Walking down the long, tree-lined path through the lush green park to the bus stop, I'm aware of feeling like I don't want to go to work. The grind is getting to me. I could really use an adventure right about now. Something to inspire me, to get my blood pumping, to give me new things to think and dream about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm thinking about Europe. I never did finish my European tour back in 2004. I always figured I'd go back. The planet felt so small and navigable back then, but since returning to Canada ten years ago, the distance to the rest of the world seems to have increased somehow. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What if I didn't catch this bus? What if I cross the street instead and go the other way, to the subway station, and then to the airport...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My fantastic scheme is interrupted by an unexpected discovery near the end of the path. It's a machine. Some kind of vehicle, I assume. Made of dull light metal, tarnished and dark, with an upright cylindrical construction, it's like a tin can on tiny wheels.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wonder what's inside? I envision a TARDIS-like room, larger than this construction can possibly contain, serving as a futuristic control centre. Opening the door, I'm disappointed to find more tarnished metal and air that smells vaguely of beef vegetable soup. The door closes behind me, but little cracks of light are visible. It's barely tall enough for me to stand up inside, and there is no seat, so I have to stoop just the tiniest bit. What a rip off. I'm not going anywhere in this thing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thinking I have time to get to work, I exhale into the soupy atmosphere and try to open the door, but it's stuck. Ugh, seriously? I push and push, and then kick and kick at the door, but to no avail. Frustrated and not able to do much else, I curse, cross my arms and glare angrily in the cracklight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then the door opens, but just a bit, like it's been ajar all this time, like a gentle breeze has pulled on it ever so slightly. Fuck you, tin can door. You're the worst.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Exiting the soup can, I'm aware that I'm still in the same place, but everything looks different, older, ruined, falling apart. The trees are dead, the grass is sparse and brown, and there is garbage everywhere, decorating the lifeless branches, littering the park path. The sky is overcast and the clouds have the appearance of being shit stained. Come to think of it, the air smells shitty, too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's my bus. I run to catch it. Downtown I go. I look around at my fellow passengers. People on the bus don't usually look like they're having the time of their lives, but these people look downright sad, downtrodden, beaten. I pull out my iPhone to check the time and call work to tell them I'll be a bit late. No service. Wtf?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To pass the time, I grab the Metro paper on the seat next to me. The date on the paper makes my mouth run dry and my stomach leap up into my throat - it's today's date... but the year is 2039.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So wait... </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">that shitty soup can on wheels is a time machine after all? </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And of all the places and times it could take me to, I hopped forward 25 years in exactly the same place? Lame. It could have at least been a DeLorean with a flux capacitor. I deserve at least that much.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><a href="http://grooveshark.com/#!/search?q=tin+machine+tin+machine" target="_blank"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3663097537" name="gsSong3663097537" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36630975&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=36630975&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=David%20%26%20Tin%20Machine%20Bowie%20Tin%20Machine" title="Tin Machine by David & Tin Machine Bowie on Grooveshark">Tin Machine by David & Tin Machine Bowie on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object></a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>(Amazingly, I couldn't find a video for Tin Machine anywhere on the interwebs. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>So here it is</i><i> on Grooveshark.)</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bus drops me off in downtown Toronto. I have a love-hate relationship with this city. Growing up in Northern Ontario, I knew I wanted to live here when I grew up. Coming to visit as a kid, it was magical to me. The size of it, the people, the shops, the streets... everything dazzled and sparkled with the hope and promise of a fantastic kind of life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I thought I was going to be like Picasso, painting pictures all the live long day and selling them to people who would hang them on their wall, and brag about owning a Shelley Zarudenec original. And they'd have all my books, too... the complete library of my contributions to the literary world. And they'd go see my Oscar-winning films and then come to my concerts where I would sing for the delighted masses. Big dreams for a little girl. And all I had to do was move to Toronto. It was that simple.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Obviously, things didn't turn out quite like that. Toronto didn't turn out quite like that, not even in 2014. Now in 2039, I'm shocked and saddened to see a city that has achieved a stunning decrepitude. A thick film of melancholy covers the buildings, the sidewalks, and the people as they shuffle hopelessly to work, home, shopping, nowhere. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At Yonge and Dundas Square, CityPulse24 flashes on the billboard sized TV screen. The headlines appear barely long enough to read them. I learn that the newly elected mayor has published a memoir describing his sinister deeds and rise to power. Mayor Rob Ford's legacy is that in the future, we no longer expect our leaders to be better than ourselves, inevitably leading to the ruin of our cities. I look out over the empty square. Someone has scrawled the words Crack City over the old Toronto city logo on the old ticket booth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the headlines continue to flash, I discover that the same is true for Canada as a whole. Prime Minister Stephen Harper has long since passed the torch to his successor, and the federal Conservative party has retained power consecutively across these 25 years over which I've skipped. Always elected democratically, of course, but if you were an outsider, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a dictatorship.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Conspiracy theories abound. One popular theory is that the Liberal, NDP and Green parties are actually factions of the Conservative party, orchestrating an official Conservative win at each election. What happens to those whose ideals lean toward social policy? They defect... or go missing. Once known for our generous hospitality and welcoming nature, the nation has all but closed its borders to migrants from other lands, and has moved toward marginalizing those who weren't born Canadian. My heart is sick and sad.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A small group of people begins to form in the square. They're carrying signs and it looks like they're about to begin some kind of protest. They call themselves the Laytonist Party - obviously the deceased federal NDP leader Jack Layton is their hero. They're disorganized and a bit meek for a protest group. Their barely audible chants of worship for their working class hero are easily drowned out by the sounds of endless traffic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In 2039, I am 63 years old. I assume that I'm still alive, and despite the paradox of meeting oneself in the future, I decide to try and find myself to see what I can learn about the last 25 years and to find out how I can make the most of them when... if... I return to 2014.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Phone books don't exist anymore, of course. I see a lot of people walking around adorned with wearable tech. Would someone be kind enough to google me on their device? Not that I expect to find an address, but maybe I can at least find out if I'm still in Toronto. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But people are keeping their heads down, and the few I try to speak to refuse my request or simply ignore me and continue on their way. Frustrated and beginning to feel hopeless, I begin walking west on Dundas Street, being rejected by citizen after citizen in the search for someone who will help me find myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, a homeless man stops me in my tracks. Witnessing my pleas for help, he tells me that he has only got a few eCredits left on his watch, but I can use them if I'm desperate. I decide I'm not desperate enough to accept this man's generosity. Instead, I give him a $5 note and, a few loonies and toonies, and some other change. He chuckles at my offering, saying he hasn't seen the likes of these in years. He hopes the stores will still accept them. He wishes me well and hurries off back to the patch of sidewalk he calls home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm feeling a bit aimless. Normally I'd go exploring, but I'm afraid of what I will find. So instead I follow my new friend over to his makeshift condo, and ask him if I can hang out with him for a little while. He happily obliges, and over the next couple of hours, I learn about his life, and how he came to be on the streets.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was all because of a girl. A girl that he loved so much that he feared losing her every minute of his waking life. A girl he swore to protect from the evils of the world. A girl he couldn't leave, despite the ruin his life was becoming in trying to keep her safe. A girl named Dahlia... his daughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">One day his wife just didn't come home, leaving him to care for little Dahlia. Then he lost his job, and began dealing drugs to earn an income. The government came and took Dahlia away from him, and he was arrested. When he finished his time, he was released into the world with no where to go, and this is where I found him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I ask him if he tried to reconnect with Dahlia since his parole. Sadly, he tells me that he doesn't want to know. Instead, he has chosen to believe that she has gone to live with a family in a home filled with love and security and that she's forgotten all about the heartbreak she endured as a young child. He has no idea if it is true, but choosing to believe it is what keeps him alive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It begins to rain and the man, whose name I have learned is James, moves to the bus shelter to keep dry. I thank him for talking with me and descend into Toronto's underground PATH.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I always manage to get lost in the PATH. Having no clue where I am, I decide to go back up to get my bearings. I emerge in the Eaton Centre, and make my way out to the street. The rain has stopped and the streets are slick and steamy. As I walk by City Hall, I see a young couple sitting at one of the chess tables, kissing like their lives depend on it. Normally I'd be annoyed by such a public display of affection, but in the context of this gloom, it's actually heartening to see that even in the worst of times, love finds a way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly I'm aware that I'm gawking at them, and I turn my gaze away just as the boy puts his hand up his girl's skirt. I hurry away, head down, but smiling with the realization that some things never change. Love is a beautiful thing, but we're all here because two people had sex.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Continuing west on Queen St., I see that the shop and restaurant names have changed, but in a way it all still looks the same. The old CTV/MUCH building still has that car half hanging out of the wall as if it's crashed through, the wheel still spinning. There's a TV in the window at street level playing CTV's signature entertainment news show, eTalk. Ben Mulroney's been replaced by someone who looks the spitting image of him, only much younger, of course. I'm sure he's retired by now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They're talking about a young new "it" girl. I didn't catch her name, but I learn that she rose to fame by banging some pop star and posting their sex tape on the Internet. Now she has a reality show in which a film crew follows her around while she goes shopping and talks on her phone. She's only 17 years old, but the clubs let her in because she's good for business. Someone on the program calls her a savvy entrepreneur. I just about throw up on the sidewalk. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I find out her name. Dahlia Something.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">God forbid anyone becomes well known for contributing something through talent or intelligence anymore. This is how you get your 15 minutes, people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Next up on eTalk: The story of Canada's most famous serial killer. He grew up idolizing Canadian killing stars Paul Bernardo, Luka Magnotta, and Dellen Millard. He always knew he would someday take his place among them. He knew he had what it takes: charm, good looks, street smarts, and a raging case of undiagnosed, unbridled psychopathy. At the age of 18, Carys Stewart began posting videos of his intricately planned and executed murders on his blog, <i>The SK Chronicles,</i> and got away with it for months by shooting his videos creatively and making the whole thing look like a fictional web series.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sure, people were horrified to learn they'd been tuning in to watch him actually kill actual people, but he had also attracted a loyal fan base. He was eventually arrested and sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole, inciting his fans to protest and inspiring them to start copy cat blogs. Carys Stewart admits he always knew he'd get arrested someday, but he's proud of his contributions to the SK hall of fame.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The eTalk segment includes a screenshot of Stewart's blog, and it appears to be written in some kind of jibberish I can't understand - a nonsensical mishmash of letters, numbers, symbols and emoticons strung together in a way that almost looks like a code. And then I realize this is the evolution of the English language. It sounds the same, but now it looks like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">ZOMGGG u giz,,, hav such goo d nooz 4 u 2dayyyyyy XD XD XD Nu vid 2B postd sooooon!!! Loveeee MR CARYSma </span>=^..^=<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hate 2039. I want to go back to 2014 where things are fucked up but not as bad as this. Maybe I can do something about it, something to stop it. If only I knew where to find my 63-year-old self before heading back to my soup can time machine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then there I am, walking toward me from the west. I look old and a bit different, but I have no doubt. I can feel it. My own energy getting closer and closer, filling me up with... I don't know how else to describe it, but... it's like I'm filling up with my own selfness. With every step 63-year-old me takes in my direction, I know more and more about myself. I am brimming with my own light and truth. No drug in the world feels like this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As we meet, we don't need to embrace or even talk. I know everything she's... everything I'm thinking. I didn't need to go looking for her. She knew where to find me. Of course she did. She's been waiting for this. <i>25 years pass just like an evening at the circus</i>. The advice she imparts to me without uttering a word changes me forever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There isn't anything I can do about the state of this city, this country that I love so much, in 2039. I'm only one person and it's out of my hands. But I'm not altogether powerless. I can't control what others do, but I can control what I do. I can vote. I can give. I can be kind. And I can write, and draw, and sing, and paint. And if I don't do those things, I'm sacrificing myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I owe it myself and to the world to go out and use the brain and the talents that I have to make something, to put something new into the world, to contribute. It won't stop 2039 from happening. But the world will be 0.01% better because of it, and that's not nothing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, Tin Machine then. I like this album. I don't love it, but I like it a lot. It's not profound or groundbreaking, but it gave me a lot to think about. Like the future. And when I think about the future, I think about what kinds of things I will have contributed to the world. Never has "making something" been more important to me than it has been in recent months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I was a kid, I was generally involved in one of four activities:</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">daydreaming, writing, drawing, or singing. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is a bit embarrassing, but I did sort of have this feeling like I was special, or something. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Like I was destined for some kind of greatness. I don't think it was narcissism... I think that my parents just did an amazing job of telling me I was a better artist, writer, singer, etc. than I really was. I was certain that I was going to make a living doing one of those things, if not all of them, and that I was going to be famous for it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I grew up and life got in the way. I stopped dreaming, essentially, and got down to the business of trying to pay rent and buy groceries, and have a bit of fun in the meantime.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lately, I've been thinking a lot about art, and creativity, and making stuff. I no longer have dreams of fame and fortune, but the need to make something, to put something out into the world, just for the sake of it, has become pervasive in my thoughts. This blog fills that need to some degree... giving myself a little creative writing assignment every couple of weeks fueled by Bowie albums has been good for me, I think. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">B</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ut I have another more long-term project that I'm working on, and I'm most excited about it. Not too many people know about it, and I'm fine with that. One day I shall unleash it upon the world. It shall get no attention whatsoever, except from the people who love me. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that I've made the world 0.01% better. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Because every time a piece of art is made, whether it ends up hanging in a gallery, sold on Etsy, or hanging on a fridge in a family kitchen, the world is improved. And that's why you should write a poem. Or play the guitar. Or shoot a short film on your mobile device. Or draw a picture. It doesn't matter who sees it. It doesn't matter how good it is. It doesn't matter how long it took. All that matters is that you made something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Finally, before I sign off today, I just want to say that Tin Machine felt... Canadian to me. Isn't that weird? Some of the songs... <i>I Can't Read</i>, especially, remind me of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAZUsCONjIQ&list=RDHC-NLt1B6Hjqg" target="_blank">Tragically Hip</a>. I listened to a bunch of The Hip to see if there was a particular song that I was thinking of, but I couldn't find one specifically. It's really just a Tragically Hip kind of feeling. And I think that in some way that feeling inspired this post as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-5305986851768955962014-08-09T18:32:00.002-07:002014-09-10T19:01:35.112-07:00Mommy, come back 'cause the water's all gone.<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm lying
on the ceiling, on what feels like a mattress. It's oddly comfortable. Some
kind of reverse gravity is pulling me deeper and deeper up into the cushiony
softness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> I open my eyes to find that I'm actually in
bed. Funny how your mind can trick you, especially when you're as sick as I am.
My throat is so swollen and sore that I can't swallow. My pillow is wet from
saliva. My entire body aches, and I'm shivering uncontrollably despite the 104
fever burning inside. I am the definition of wretched. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I close my
eyes, and I'm on the ceiling again. I'm not crazy about being up here, but I
can barely keep my eyes open, so I guess I don't have much choice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm
actually not sure how long I've been like this. I keep waking up and passing
out again, and the shadows in the room change each time I open my eyes. Days... weeks... months... years?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm vaguely
aware of being alive, so it can't have been longer than a couple of days. I
don't remember the last time I got up to pee or had a drink of water. I wish my
mom was here. Sick and alone is a bad combination. What if I die? How long will
it take for someone to find me? Will my cat eat my face? Where is my phone? All
very important questions. Delirious or not, I need to take action.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">My eyelids
feel like they're being pressed down by mean, rough phantom hands. I glide my
arms over the bed, feeling around for my phone to call my mom. She doesn't even
live in the same city as me, but she needs to know I'm probably not going to
make it. This flu has "RIP Shelley
Z" written all over it. H1RIPSZ. Wasn't it in the news? Regardless, my mom
will save me. She'll know what to do. The</span> <i>soothing hand that turned me round, a love so real swept over me.</i><i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/c4ZZMbpUFMY" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What's that
thing in my hand? It feels like a phone. I push the on button and pry my eyes
open just enough to scan my contacts for my mother's number. Tap. Hello? I hear her voice on the other end, but I can't understand what she's
saying, like she's speaking another language. I pause for a moment and try to
put the sounds together in my head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think
she's asked me if I've had any water to drink in the last eight hours. Hmm, I'm
going to have to think very hard about this. Finally, I request clarification: "Mommy,
what's eight hours?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Things
start to go dark. The phone slips out of my hand and suddenly I'm listening to
another voice. A man's voice. He's describing the child-rearing habits of a creature
known as the glass spider. David Attenborough, is that you? Thank God. Will you please bring me some water?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/vC0djHMegmc" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sweet
mother of Jesus, what the fuck was that? Sick dreams are so messed up. Coming
to, I feel like I'm floating in a putrid sea of my own perspiration. Has my
fever finally broken? I try to swallow some saliva, but to no avail. My bed is
disgusting, and I simply cannot continue to lay here in this gross sweat pool. But
I don't have the energy to change the sheets. Somehow, I need to get myself
over to the couch. I sit up, but I'm <i>too
dizzy</i>, and I crash back down onto the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/vj0NuhTzv6k" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My kidneys
ache. Dehydration. I force myself to swallow. Red hot razors slice my throat as
they work their way down the narrow passage. Tears break from my eyes. God
fucking damn that hurts. But you know what? I'm over this. This is not how I
die. Holding onto the dresser for support, I pull myself over the edge of the
bed and onto my feet. Hugging the wall, I shuffle to the kitchen, my head
banging like it's being hammered by a thousand mallets. I pour a glass of tap
water and brace myself against the pain of swallowing it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Within seconds,
intense nausea gives way to relief, and bit of strength returns. I make my way to
the couch. It's nice to be awake for a change. Maybe now that my fever has broken,
I'll start feeling better. I decide to open my laptop and check in with the
world and see what's new.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Good news
is hard to find. Ebola is rampaging its way through Africa and threatening to
emigrate. Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 passengers are returning to their
homes in body bags. Israel's bombing the Gaza Strip. The mayor of my city is an
admitted crack addict who has astonishingly managed to retain voter support of
30%, and my preferred candidate is losing support. America still thinks it can
change the Middle East. And Kim Kardashian did something that doesn't matter.
If it wasn't for her, you'd think it was still 1987.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/_CJ-wG71AQg" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've been
online for only a few minutes, but my eyes are already getting heavy again, and
the dreaded full-body fatigue is kicking back in. What's more, my fever seems
to be returning. I close my laptop and prostrate myself on the couch to rest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sick
dreams begin again, one after another. It begins with the plight of a homeless
woman who is trying to find money to feed herself and her child.It turns out,
her child has been exposed to radiation and is tragically suffering from
debilitation deformities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The child's
mother has turned to the streets to make her living, and she winds up in a
relationship with a hopeless heroin addict. He promises to kick the stuff and
turn their lives around. They promise each other that this will be their last
trip before they begin their new lives. Her child plays with a discarded needle
in the next room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/0pMM_yokRsM" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4:05ish - Bowie on roller skates playing a guitar solo.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/aTpTUh0TpH0" width="420"></iframe><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1:30ish - David Bowie gets beat up by mean dancers.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/0MFPmmSWqyU" width="420"></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wake from
these dreams with my fever raging anew and nausea so intense that I'm unable to
make it to the bathroom before the water I've drunk projects violently from my
mouth to the floor. Nowhere in the world is as comfortable as this patch of
hardwood beneath my hands and knees, so I slide down to my belly and close my
eyes again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I'm
out. I descend into another bizarre sick dream. I'm happily walking around the
streets of downtown Manhattan. The sky is blue, the day is warm, and everything
is technicolour happy. And then I realize I'm naked. Embarrassed, I duck into a
clothing store to try to find something to wear, but I can't seem to get the
clothes on my body. I put on a shirt, only to get lost inside it, unable to
find the sleeves or the collar. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Throwing the shirt to the floor in frustration,
I attempt to slide my legs into some pants, but I keep missing the pant legs. Trying
to get into these pants, I'm stumbling around the shop like I'm doing some kind
of ridiculous dance. The shopgirl says she likes the beat of my drum.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/oPwduRaHOKI" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly I
find myself standing on a gigantic pedestal in the middle of the Hudson River.
Gigantic, naked, and looming, I feel a hand caress my back. Suddenly the hand,
big and turquoise, slides around to my breast. I turn around to see Lady
Liberty herself leaning in for a kiss. She kisses well, for a statue, and I'm
rather enjoying this. But wait... what's she doing... no! Dear God, not the
torch!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dhUKnV3k0bk" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> I look out into the harbour to see a water
taxi crammed with tourists watching me get torched by Lady Liberty, each one
with their phone in the air, instagramming this monumental sight for posterity.
I can even hear the tour guide describing our every move, the majestic gift
from France and her Canadian companion, giving New York an eye-full. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sun
sets behind us and the tourists begin to scream wildly as the tour guide
announces that the band they have all come to see is about to hit the stage.
The pedestal grows in size and suddenly I find myself at the microphone with
Lady Liberty next to me, wailing away on the guitar. Behind me, I can barely
make out the other members of my band, they're faceless and blurry, but we all
perform together in perfect unison a rock 'n' roll song for the people on the
ferry.<i> Tonight the Zeroes were singing
for you. </i>Maybe this dream isn't so bad after all. I look down... yep, still
naked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/-mv_ex0ju6M" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wake up
screaming as I'm suddenly immersed in ice cold water. I'm in my bathroom, in
the tub, my pyjamas clinging to me wetly. I glance around the room, trying to
find the culprit. Then I see her. My mom. I knew she'd come to save me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This flu story is based on true events. Once, when I was living
alone, I got so sick that I was basically bed-bound for five days with a fever
that kept breaking and then coming back, and glands so swollen that I couldn't
swallow my own spit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eventually,
my boyfriend-at-the-time came over to find out why I had vanished from
existence, and we had a conversation in which I actually remember my own
delirium and complete inability to comprehend his words. I actually did respond
to his question of "have you had any water in the last eight hours?"
with a confused reply of "what's eight hours?". He took me to the
hospital, and I remember telling him to watch out for the pine trees crossing
the road. At the hospital, I told the nurse not to worry because there were
plenty of nachos to go around.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's scary
to be that sick and to be alone, unable to take basic care of yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway, I
sort of feel the need to apologize for this post. Not my best work, I admit.
Incoherent mess, is more like it. I can't say exactly why "sick in bed
with the flu" is where this album took me. <i>Never
Let Me Down</i> didn't exactly imbue me with the kind of inspiration that usually
happens when I'm listening to a Bowie album. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After doing
my standard research at the beginning of the listening period and finding out
that <i>Never Let Me Down</i> is universally considered Bowie's worst album (including
by him), I dove in with pretty low expectations. Sadly, my expectations were
met. Having said that, I didn't totally hate everything about it. I'm not going
to criticize someone who improved the world by pretty much consistently making awesome
and innovative music over the course of 50 years with only a few
exceptions. My creative contributions to the world are amoebic in comparison.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Most of
this album won't make it into my playlist. I found the socially conscious
lyrics didn't jive with the light, poppy, Huey Lewis-style music. This album
contains my least favourite Bowie lyric so far: <i>I've touched down with vermin,
cowardice, lice.</i> That's just lovely. Obviously it's supposed to be icky, and I
get what he was doing with <i>Shining Star (Makin' My Love)</i>. Normally I like it when there is a
contrast between lyrical themes and music styles, but this just made me go "eww". Also, Mickey Rourke rapping? I'm noping that so hard.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A handful
of songs will make it into my iTunes rotation. Despite its generic 80's vibe, I
really like <i>Zeroes</i>. It does what it's supposed to do. It makes me happy. And
the album's title track has good things going for it. It's so personal and
hopeful. And you know what? Despite its ridiculousness, I'm taking <i>Glass Spider</i>
with me, even if it sounds like Bowie trying too hard to be... well... himself.
Maybe that's what I like about it. He's still in there. <i>Glass Spider</i> may be a
bit comical, but it harkens back to a time before the mid-80's when Bowie was all
about putting his weirdness out there. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Weird Bowie = good Bowie.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-39042258548654541162014-07-26T06:47:00.001-07:002014-07-26T06:59:49.267-07:00I'll twirl and I'll tumble.<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdXoiOunjK9rAewFU9i98ravQcn5UKviQpZLap44yso7TNA9U7iWjQe5GbZkLmq96w30OVe4dvBRW8VzpTX_eZt_1QH0Fvp927ELQSSep-Z_-GppQFh26AyG0USO744Cy3vzwmqsc6hk/s1600/Tonight_(album).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdXoiOunjK9rAewFU9i98ravQcn5UKviQpZLap44yso7TNA9U7iWjQe5GbZkLmq96w30OVe4dvBRW8VzpTX_eZt_1QH0Fvp927ELQSSep-Z_-GppQFh26AyG0USO744Cy3vzwmqsc6hk/s1600/Tonight_(album).jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The sky is
bright blue and the sun is hot here in Miami. I'm standing on the dock,
shielding my eyes as I look up at the enormous cruise ship. My fellow
passengers are boarding hastily, but as the ship looms before me, I feel my
knees weaken and very nearly give out. I never have been a fan of boats or
sailing. (I know, I know, it's not a boat, it's a ship. I got it.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I'm
here, like it or not. And far be it from me to fight where the music takes me. For
the most part, I do like it. Cruises may not be my ideal method of travel, but
travel is my ideal method of living, so I decide to just go with it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I board the
ship just behind a newlywed couple holding hands and dragging their luggage
behind them like some kind of human steam rolling, clothesline machine. It
takes less than a minute to climb the steps to the ship's deck, and they've
kissed ten times. Note to self: as soon as you get on the deck, get as far away
from them as you can.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From the
ship's deck, I look out over the vast blue ocean stretching out for eons to the
east. It's hard to believe that just a few hours ago I caught my connecting
flight from Toronto to New York, and now I'm here, about to set sail to the
Caribbean islands. <i>From Central Park to
Shanty Town.</i> I make the mistake of looking down over the balcony where the
water laps at the ship's base. I shouldn't have done that. There go my knees
again. Ugh, and my stomach, too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/rLrzegif-V0" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I move away
from the railing and deposit my luggage in my room before finding the nearest
bar. A cocktail ought to settle my nerves and relax my mind. The ship honks its
horn and we're officially off. I take a
seat in an Adirondack chair (at home we call them Muskoka chairs), sip my
fruity-coconutty beverage and close my eyes to the warm sun, listening to the
chilled out reggae band playing nearby as we set sail for Jamaica.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly,
the shrill chatter of the newlywed couple assaults my ears as they squeal and
coo childishly at each other. They're
wearing matching Bride and Groom t-shirts and brandishing their wedding bands
like shiny new revolvers in the wild west. I have nothing against the newly
united, but these two are just over the top, dripping with love and sentiment,
smearing themselves across the scenery like blobs of Valentine red and pink
paint<i>. If our love song could fly over
mountains...</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nBFGzoBkdzI" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mister and
Missus are taking selfies over the deck's railing. It's windy, and I have
visions of them losing their iPhones over the side. The devil in me relishes
the thought, but then the angel in me knees my devil in the vagina and offers
to take a photo of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They thank
me profusely for my deed, and I make my way to the bar for another drink. I can
already feel the island rhythms limbering my body, loosening my joints,
lubricating my soul. While waiting in line for my cocktail, I begin to sway to
the reggae music. I can't help myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unfortunately,
my moment of relaxed abandon is interrupted by raised and heated voices. A
Christian, an Atheist, and a Scientologist are sitting at the bar... oh, you've
heard that one before? Alright then. They're having an argument, of course, and
I'm wondering if they met on this cruise by chance or if they came here
together, three friends with different perspectives, <i>believing the strangest things,</i> loving one another despite their
differences, but not afraid to tell it like they see it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/OOaqDEjxQAU" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As
interesting as the debate is, I don't have a head for it right now. I down my
drink as the ship docks at the Jamaican port of Negril, and I disembark the
vessel for my first shore excursion. Exploring the town, I'm lovestruck by the
island's vibe and the friendliness of its inhabitants. I find myself a quaint
patio for some refreshment, and a beautiful woman wearing a perma-smile and a
name tag that says "Jean" brings me a deliciously cold Red Stripe.
She's dressed head to toe in denim, and one of the locals calls her Blue Jean, simultaneously teasing and flirting with her. Everyone
calls her that, she says, on account of her denim wardrobe - the fabric of her existence. She teases right back with acid washed comebacks.
<i>Sometimes I feel like the whole human
race is jazzin' for Blue Jean.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/LTYvjrM6djo" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm
finished my Red Stripe and about to do some more exploring, when who should
find me but The Newlyweds, clinging to each other and oozing cloying weddedness
from every pore. They sit down at my table and I inform them that they can have
it to themselves, since I'm moving on. They insist that I stay and have dinner
with them - apparently this pub dishes up some of the finest jerk chicken in
the country. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not
picky, but I can think of about a million other island delicacies I would
prefer over anything in the jerk category. Still, I am hungry and could perhaps
enjoy hearing how Mister and Missus met and tied the knot - knowing their story
will surely make spending the next several days with them more tolerable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was love
at first sight (of course). It was her first time at the gym. He gave her the
tour. She said she needed a personal trainer. He said he couldn't be hers, on
account of the conflict of interest. What conflict of interest? she wanted to
know. Gym staff aren't permitted to be romantically involved with their
clients. But we're not... oh. Oh! Ohhhhhhhh. (I just threw up in my mouth a
little. Good thing I like Red Stripe.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was a
month ago. They eloped in Vegas earlier this week. Now here they are. They raise their cocktail glasses in honour of
each other. To us! they exclaim. Holding their drinks in the air, they look at
me expectantly and wait for me to raise my beer bottle for a little clinky-clinky
action. Cheers! I say, toasting my new friends, God love them. And with that,
the jerkiest chicken my nostrils ever beheld arrives, served up by smiling Blue Jean, plates balanced up
her arms before being slung skillfully onto the table before us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I begin to
dig in, but Mister insists we give thanks to the Big Mister in the Sky for this
meal. Sighing silently, I lay my fork down and close my eyes and listen to the
prayer. Mister is thankful not only for the food and Blue Jean's nimble
delivery of it, but he's ever so thankful for the Missus at his side, she beaming
uncomfortably with a wide grin and expressionless eyes. He waits for her to
echo his sentiment, and she does. <i>God
only knows what I'd be without you.</i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/HOadV_CPT_k" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Turning their faces to me, I exclaim "Amen!" and we finally begin our meal. It's the best jerk chicken I've ever eaten in my life.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After
dinner, I bid adieu to The Newlyweds in
search of a suitable location for a me party (what can I say? I enjoy my own
company). I happen upon a happening little place with a band playing and people
dancing. This is where I shall spend my evening. I trade in the Red Stripe for
rum and juice, and let island rhythm carry me away, twirling and tumbling on
the dance floor. Until, of course, the newlyweds find me, yet again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I keep my
distance while they make like Swayze and Grey on the dance floor. Thankfully,
there is no chance of making accidental eye contact, since their gazes are
fixed, unblinking, upon each other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fine, let
them have their moment. I'm having mine anyway. Rum + reggae + dancing = bliss.
<i>Everything's gonna be alright tonight.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/8Swj3pmKric" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's late,
and I'm drunk and disheveled. I've enjoyed my evening of partying with myself,
the locals, and some other tourists. I made a game out of guessing how many
times the newlyweds would crash into other revelers on the dance floor with
their exaggerated dance moves, spilling and knocking drinks clean out of
people's hands. I stopped counting at 10. I don't think they noticed even one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I stumble
back to the cruise ship with the help of another fellow tourist, and crash down
into bed. Tonight was a good night. Tomorrow we set sail for the Dominican
Republic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I awake
with a banging headache, the heat of the morning already feeling oppressive. I
throw some water down my throat and dress before making my way up to the main
deck for some fresh air. Upon my arrival, I sense that something is not quite
right. The other tourists, including my friend from last night's party, all seem
to be as confused as I am. We're clearly bobbing up and down next to a tropical
looking island, but it feels like another part of the world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is
another part of the world. The ship's captain announces that over night, we somehow went adrift, and we've sailed through an oceanic wormhole, carrying us
to the other side of the word: Borneo. Oceanic wormhole, you say? Is that a
thing? For real? Like the Bermuda Triangle or something? But we weren't even
close to... ah, forget it. There is so much we don't know about the world, and
the ocean in particular.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The captain
tells us we must dock here temporarily. We're allowed to disembark, but we do
so with caution. The local indigenous Iban people are friendly, but rainforest
life is challenging, and we must watch out for wild orangutans. There are no
hotels or resorts in the immediate area, but tribal longhouses are a popular
tourist attraction. The captain tells us we must be back on the ship by dusk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally, a
real adventure! I decide to take a shore excursion into the nearby village. The
captain was right - the people are friendly, gracious and welcoming, though
busy. They seem to be preparing for some kind of festival, with bright coloured
costumes being sewn and patched. I hear the word Gawai uttered in conversation.
I don't know what it means, but it seems to be a joyful word, bringing smiles
and laughter and excitement to those who make say it. They can barely restrain
themselves from dancing as they prepare. <i>They
twirl and they tumble. I like the free world. They say it's pretty this time of year.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Vqn14VeoBdA" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It turns out
that Gawai is the word for festival. I am invited to join a local family as they
prepare for the celebration - I help tidy the longhouse, and help prepare food,
and visit the graveyard with the family to bring offerings to the dead. They
invite me to take part in the evening's festivities, but I tell them I must
decline in order to get back to the ship on time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before I
leave, the family's teenage daughter sneaks me a piece of traditional cake and
some rice wine, and she shows me her beautifully detailed costume. She plays
some traditional music and we dance together on the edge of the jungle, our own
little private celebration. Suddenly, we're interrupted by a teenage boy from
the village. She doesn't seem to like him much, but he seems to like her a lot.
I don't like him at all, there's something off about him. He makes me nervous. <i>Look at his eyes, did you see his crazy
eyes?</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.zapkolik.com/api/embed/538926" width="640"></iframe></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.zapkolik.com/video/david-bowie-neighborhood-threat-538926" target="_blank">David Bowie - Neighborhood Threat - Zapkolik</a> - <a href="http://www.zapkolik.com/" target="_blank">zapkolik.com</a></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The lad
convinces my new surrogate sister to give him the last of her rice wine. I give him mine,
too, and she speaks to him angrily. He stomps off, but I get the feeling this
is just one moment of an ongoing drama between them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sadly, I bid
farewell to my host family and return to the ship. It's in a terrible state -
something has obviously damaged it during our journey through the wormhole, and
the ship looks to be taking on water, anchored lopsidedly off shore. I stand
with my fellow tourists looking at the ship in dismay. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just then,
the newlyweds emerge from the jungle yelling obscenities at each other. Apparently
Missus caught Mister making out with one of the head locals' daughters. For her part, Missus
was wooed by a tattered Playboy t-shirt-wearing local man, encouraging her to
stay on the island. She wasn't considering it at the time, but now she might
just do it. <i>Though I know in my heart
we're drifting apart, can't believe that our love is dead.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div style="width: 480px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe frameborder="0" height="385" hspace="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://www.ultimedia.com/swf/iframe_pub.php?width=480&height=385&id=qsllsr&url_artist=http://www.jukebo.com/david-bowie/music-clip,i-keep-forgettin,qsllsr.html&autoplay=0&mdtk=04516441&site=.fr" vspace="0" width="480"></iframe><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font: bold 11px verdana;">See all </span><a href="http://www.jukebo.com/david-bowie/music-clip,i-keep-forgettin,qsllsr.html" style="color: black; font: bold 11px verdana; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">music videos David Bowie</a></span></span></div>
<br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A sweet
silence falls over Mister and Missus as they join the rest of us in looking at
our sinking ship, wondering what's going to happen now. Dusk turns into
evening, and evening turns into night. The joyful sounds of the Gawai in the
nearby village beckon me to return. I turn my back on the ship and hurry away
from the crowd of stranded tourists, back in the direction of my new surrogate family.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This album
is a fun mix of covers and originals. If <i>Tonight</i> was an
all you can eat cruise ship buffet, it would be filled with all of the most
delectable and bad for you things you can think of... pizza, fried chicken,
banana splits, cakes and chocolates. If there is any nutrition at all, it comes
in the form of fresh tropical fruit like mangoes and pineapples. You couldn't
live on it forever, but damn it's a good little vacation from the everyday
grind. Of course, filling up on all that sugar means you have to go and dance
it off after.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the
reasons this album is maybe a bit "nutritionally devoid" is that it
seems to have the highest concentration of love songs on any Bowie album so
far. Love songs aren't necessarily bad, and Bowie's love songs are better than
most, but the sentimentality is still a bit surprising. Especially since I've
sort of gotten used to chewing on something a little more substantial over the
past several months.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For me, <i>Tonight</i>
includes <i>Absolute Beginners</i>. I may have made it seem like I don't like the
song, but as a chick I am biologically programmed to want it. It's like a pretty,
sparkly sprinkled cupcake with whipped frosting a kilometre high. I'm powerless
against its saccharine charms. And while
I know it wasn't recorded until after this album was originally released, I
can't imagine listening to<i> Tonight</i> without it. It just makes sense here. Hence its
inclusion in this story despite its anachronistic bonus track status. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the coolest things to come out of this album is the 20 minute short film<i> Jazzin' for Blue Jean</i>, which is basically an extended music video for <i>Blue Jean</i>. I highly recommend this neatly presented dish of pan-seared tongue(in-cheek) served on a bed of dry British humour, garnished with a sprinkle of mime-shtick and two heaping dollops of David Bowie making fun of himself.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/DXvAaNcXNzI" width="420"></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Despite the
punch and candy vibe of <i>Tonight</i>, or maybe because of it, writing this post was a bit of a different
experience, because rather than coming just from my imagination, I got the
opportunity to learn a bit about the indigenous Iban tribe of the Dayak people
of Malaysian Borneo. I may have blurred the details of the traditional Gawai
festivals for this story (Gawai Dayak happens in late spring, so I'm a little
late). If you want to know more about the fascinating Dayak, you can start by
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iban_people" target="_blank">going here</a>. Who knew that I needed to go to Borneo?</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-7461088525039396612014-07-11T18:40:00.001-07:002014-07-11T19:05:35.767-07:00Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkvYC6oZM2JCjTNx1bhhGq_P1NYtAHnZAT27aa-2LnNt98pm8M5HzGl-tyqAq4e_bq1wKWLaZM30pN6ZNgT0Y3JZGLMGCjZP3FFnyejxciwDNWAg-EWRUk-9lfxIQVnlZmDiPaaULGTI/s1600/David-bowie-lets-dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVkvYC6oZM2JCjTNx1bhhGq_P1NYtAHnZAT27aa-2LnNt98pm8M5HzGl-tyqAq4e_bq1wKWLaZM30pN6ZNgT0Y3JZGLMGCjZP3FFnyejxciwDNWAg-EWRUk-9lfxIQVnlZmDiPaaULGTI/s1600/David-bowie-lets-dance.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's a
quiet Friday night after a crazy work week. Today I managed to do the
impossible and get not one, but two major projects out the door. I'm exhausted
and ready for the weekend, so I crack open a delicious beer and put my feet up.
I don't really watch much television... I have a handful of shows that I'm
committed to (True Blood, anyone?) but right now I just feel like cruising down
cable river and seeing what's on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I take a
quenching sip of cold beer and grab the remote. I press power. Nothing. That's
weird. I get up and flip some lights on and off. There doesn't seem to be a
power outage. Annoyed, I pick up the remote and stand closer to the television,
pressing and pressing and pressing the power button, with no reaction from the
television whatsoever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alright
fine. Who needs TV anyway? I toss the
remote to the chair, but it doesn't quite make it. Instead, it falls to the
floor with a loud crash. Suddenly, a luminous, multi-coloured red, green and
blue light blasts from the remote and shoots toward me, enveloping me,
electrifying me, and then continues past me to the TV screen. The hairs on my
body are standing on end, but I don't feel any pain - more like I'm in a cocoon
made of static. And there is another peculiar sensation. I look down and see
that I am floating above the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just as I'm
wondering what is happening and enjoying the pretty light and funny feelings,
the TV switches on and the RGB light pulls me through the room toward the TV.
I'm afraid I'm going to crash into it, but instead, I am sucked right in
through the TV screen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Goddamnit.
I left my beer on the other side.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alrighty,
where exactly in TV land am I? I seem to be in someone else's house. A typical
sitcom-style living room. I can hear voices in the next room - the kitchen, I
suppose. The voices start to get louder and I realize the characters of this
show, whatever it is, may not be expecting to see me. I dash behind the couch -
in sitcoms, no one can ever see you behind the couch. It works - the two young,
TV-attractive men emerge from the kitchen. One of them is wearing a baby. All
three humans are of different ethnicities. The two smooch each other sweetly
and concisely on the lips. The live studio audience applauds and whistles. I
get it. It's a show about <i>modern love.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/1hDbpF4Mvkw" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, a
wild neon-clad neighbour, big in the hair and even bigger in attitude, comes
bursting through the door performing some kind of flygirl routine. Her spindly
limbs flail about with fierce expression, threatening to knock the duck lips
right off her heavily made-up face. The force of it almost knocks the modern
couple over.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/z3yovdHzWcc" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Then she stops in her tracks and looks right
at me. She lunges at me and pulls me out from behind the couch. The modern
lovers gasp in surprise as the flygirl throws her arms around me, crying with a
nasal, nails-on-a-chalkboard wail, "Oh honey, you're back! You guys, you
never told me your sister was coming back from Australia! How was it? You must
be so jetlagged, oh you better just run right upstairs and get yourself some
sleep, then come over and tell me all about it!"<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"G'day,
mate!" I stereotypically reply, thankful for the opportunity to escape from
this canned hell. The audience laughs as I bolt up the stairs, the show's two
main characters watching me with overly wide eyes and overly dropped jaws on
their overly stunned faces. Lucky for me, I don't get to find out how they get
out of this one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Upstairs in
the sitcom house is a dark and strange place. The paint is peeling on the
walls, and the light bulbs are flickering creepily. Bits of garbage litter the
floor like an obstacle course for cockroaches and silverfish. Is this what is
hiding above every sitcom living room?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> I can only faintly hear the sounds of the live
studio audience downstairs. I decide to crawl out the bathroom window, which
conveniently has a fire escape. As I hurry down the stairs, I'm aware of being
in what looks like not a very good area of town, the inner city, as it were. The
air is damp and smelly, and there are sirens not far off. As I walk around to
the front of the building, I see a young woman crouching behind the dumpster.
She's badly beaten and bruised, her clothing torn, her face red from crying. I
call for help.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ioOp1rUvLNM" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wait with
the girl until the ambulance arrives. I'm a witness now, and a couple of
investigators come to talk to me about the girl. They look really familiar,
these investigators. Is that... Mariska Hargitay? Am I in Law and Order SVU?! I
stifle the urge to shake her hand and ask her for an autograph, for obviously,
this is a serious moment in the episode and I don't want to ruin it for those
who may be watching.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I tell them
everything I know, and they ask if I wouldn't mind coming to the station with
them, to fill out some forms and give a statement. Feeling a bit uneasy about the
whole thing, I go, feeling like I don't have much of a choice. Where would I go
anyway? This universe is unfamiliar to me and I could end up in a situation not
unlike that poor girl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the
station, I'm surrounded by all kinds of people from all walks of life. Most of
the people scattered around the station have a passionless, drifting way about
them, like they just can't seem to get ahead. Everything about them is dingy
and hopeless, caught up in a world that never gives back, forcing them to take
what isn't theirs. They bounce off the walls and push through the combine, in
and out, around and round through the revolving doors. <i>Ricochet! It's not the end of the world.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/u64Cib_jZco" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've
waiting in this room for what seems like an eternity. I wake up to some
commotion as a dirty, disheveled looking man who smells strongly of gasoline is
brought in wearing handcuffs, his hands behind his back. He wears a disturbing
grin, baring rotten, blackened teeth which look as though he's been chewing on
charcoal. The edges of his coat are singed black, and black smoke practically
wafts off his hair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">I've been putting out fire with gasoline</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> he looks at me and says. Just then,
a documentary crew comes flying into the station, demanding to know if this is
the famous Catman, the elusive arsonist who has been setting fires all over
town. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/X55AfXZDLcc" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally,
Mariska Hargitay appears and tells me I'm free to go. I ask her if the girl
will be alright and she says she thinks so, thanks to me. Feeling happy to hear
that, I leave the station light on my feet among the lost souls filing in and
out through the revolving door.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Out in the street,
the moon has broken through the clouds, illuminating the streets and casting
glimmering sparkles on the river up ahead in the distance. I start walking toward the waterfront of this
television city. As I stroll, I find myself getting caught up in a crowd of
people watching something on the street. I'm short and can't see over the
crowd, but I can hear the sound of voices rhyming and singing in unison. I slither
my way through the crowd to the front to find what looks like two rival gangs
getting into a musical battle with each other - a battle of singing, dancing, and
cheeky glances. Oh god, is this some kind of budget, television take on West
Side Story?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now the
people in the crowd are getting in on it, dancing in choreographed unison to
the song. How do they all know the moves? I look like a right moron, being the
only one not dancing, so I start copying the moves of the people in the crowd
around me. And then cartoon birds appear, singing and dancing along with us, in
their magical Disney-esque way. TV world, you are weird.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/N4d7Wp9kKjA" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The dancing
crowd breaks up and the dancing birds flit away, but I hang around for a
moment. The victor of the dance-off seems to have won the girl the rivals have
been fighting over. She's a beautiful young Chinese girl, and she seems quite
thrilled with the result of the battle. I watch as the girl and her man go walking
off toward the <i>serious moonlight</i>,
holding each other tightly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/E_8IXx4tsus" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(Things that are uncomfortable to listen to: this song. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Things that are not okay in 2014 and I don't remember being okay in 1983 either: most of this video.)</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I make
my way to the waterfront, I become aware that I'm not sure if I'll ever be able
to get home. What if Chad changes the channel and never finds me? What if he turns
the TV off? How can I let him know that
I'm in here? I'm basically homeless here.
I might have to shack up with one of those singing, dancing gang guys.
Ugh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Staring at
the big white moon, I'm suddenly aware that I can see a face in it. Will you
look at that, in the TV world there is a man in the moon after all. Of course
there is. I smile and think about Chad. I wish he was here with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/YM85EOxgFnU" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I sigh and
think about where I might take shelter for the night. Suddenly I hear someone
calling my name, ever so faintly in the distance, or through some kind of
barrier. It kind of sounds like Chad. Wait, it is Chad! In the moon... that's
his face! Then I start to hear other voices... disgusting gurgling voices,
choking out what sounds like "brrraaaiiiinnnnssss". Are you kidding
me? Zombies? Am in The Walking Dead now? I fucking hate that show! Fucking zombies!
But boy do they move fast for a bunch of deadbeats. Shit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">More and more,
I can see the image of Chad fading in from the sky. He's waving at me. He can
see me! I wave frantically at the man in the moon, yelling at him to get me out
of here. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He's pressing all kinds of buttons on the
remote control, but nothing is happening. The zombies are getting closer and
closer. I mouth the word ZOMBIES at Chad, hoping he can read my lips. Nope. I
scream it as loud as I can. He shrugs helplessly. Then he sees them. There's nowhere for me to run. Now he's pressing buttons on the remote like crazy. I have never been this
terrified in my life. I'm going to be turned into a zombie. This fucking sucks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Desprate,
Chad throws the remote at the TV, tearing a hole in the fabric of the sky. The
warm light from my living room beams through the tear. Just as the horde of zombies
approaches, Chad's arm reaches through the jagged hole and he grabs my hand,
pulling me off the ground, through the air, over the river, and through the
hole in the sky, safe and sound back into my home.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sigh. I hug
him harder and tighter than I ever have before in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then a
nasty fucking zombie arm comes grabbing through the hole in the TV. Without
even a thought Chad and I grab the TV and chuck it out the window. It crashes to
the ground 20 floors below, the rotten arm of the undead twitching in the
wreckage.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fuck
television.</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay, this
album didn't exactly set my imagination on fire. The first few listens
were fun and nostalgic, taking me back to Grades 2 and 3. The songs <i>Modern Love</i> and <i>Let's Dance </i>seem to be printed onto my DNA, and I love them in that special kind of way. I
even have a couple random fleeting memories of them playing, one where I
was riding in the car to my uncle's girlfriend's house (she was like a
part of the family - my sister and I even called her auntie) and <i>Let's
Dance</i> was on the radio, and for some reason I associate <i>Modern Love</i> with
the playground
at my school in Grade 3.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think that's why this album took me to TV land. I was a kid raised on television. I'm relieved that I've pretty much grown out of that now, but up until about 12 years ago, I watched a lot of TV.</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
theme of getting zapped into the TV I have obviously pinched from <a href="http://youtu.be/dLl1MeOCeKI" target="_blank"><i>TVC15</i> </a>off
<i>Station to Station. </i>I played with the idea of using that theme for the <i>Station to Station</i> blog post (get it? TV station to TV station? Ha, miso clever) but ultimately it wasn't true to the real feelings and images I got from that album, so it got shelved until now, when it just made much more sense.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not going to say I didn't like this album. Obviously it earned its place in my heart long ago before I even had a say in the matter, but I will say the chances of it making it into my everyday rotation are not high.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-53448005986270340762014-06-27T18:28:00.001-07:002014-06-27T18:36:31.162-07:00I'm not some piece of teenage wildlife.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjDzA_VCqA8oEuIvhM1FGZyvVhoJlsvqsNctXG2pBltNZHv2c3ZvVNgYEdn6zhl1Gc7HMGjnJi7gPjNxv4LUf40GcdRkw2whC4_DpYkItVE6J5uH8a0cSTrtx_crqp1mEeVltR-upQoE/s1600/DavidBowieScaryMonstersCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjDzA_VCqA8oEuIvhM1FGZyvVhoJlsvqsNctXG2pBltNZHv2c3ZvVNgYEdn6zhl1Gc7HMGjnJi7gPjNxv4LUf40GcdRkw2whC4_DpYkItVE6J5uH8a0cSTrtx_crqp1mEeVltR-upQoE/s1600/DavidBowieScaryMonstersCover.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
source</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I wake up
bleary-eyed, shielding my eyes against the bright daylight beaming through my
bedroom window. It's Saturday, and it feels like one of those special kind of
Saturday "mornings" from my high school years. I put mornings in
quotations because like just about every teenager, I never actually knew what morning
looked like on the weekend; I rolled out of bed anytime between noon and one
o'clock, typically.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No idea
what's producing this dreamy nostalgic effect this morning, but it's kind of
nice. Then l I roll over and grab my phone to check the time. It's 1:16pm. I
haven't slept in this late in... well, a long time. Then the iPhone in my hand
magically transforms into the receiver of an old school cord telephone, and my
bedroom morphs into my old bedroom at my parents' house. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm facing
myself in the mirror, shocked to see my teenage self standing there, slackjawed
with the old phone receiver to my ear. A girlish, high pitched voice suddenly
comes wailing out of it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She: "Shelley! Are you
there? Oh my god, did you just drop dead or something?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me:</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"No, I'm here. Sorry..."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She: "So are you coming
tonight or not?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have no
idea what I'm about to agree to, but I know that voice, so I know the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Me: "Uh-huh, yeah. For sure."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She: "Awesome! Come to my
house around 7 and we'll go from there. Byeeeee!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Click. I run into the living room and pick up the
newspaper sitting on the coffee table. The year is 1992, which would make me 16
years old. But this is no flashback, for I can remember everything that has
happened to me since this year of my life. This is my 38-year-old brain inside
my 16-year-old body.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back in my
room, I inspect myself in the mirror. I remember this face. It's mine only
younger, brighter. Same with the rest of my body. Wow. I remember how gross I
thought I was at this age. Can I please, please, please keep this body when
this is over and I go back to my real life again? Pretty please with a cherry
on top? And these button fly jeans? These were my favourite!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Rvi1uNrLERE" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I decide to
spend the afternoon holed up in my room, trying on my old clothes, reading
letters from boys and secret classroom notes from my best friend Nicki, whose voice
squawked from the telephone earlier. I think about what it is I've agreed to
this evening. I was never a misbehaving kind of kid, and I never did go to many
parties back then. If I am lucky enough to relive a brief moment from my
teenage years, shouldn't I do something a little crazy and memorable with it? I
start to get excited about the possibilities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I plan what
I'm going to wear: my button flies, of course, my Beatles t-shirt, and my
patent black penny loafers. I'll top the look off with one of the many pairs of
gigantic novelty earrings in my aresnal... should I wear the big white dangly
smiley faces? The purple dangly peace signs? Hmm, no, I'm already wearing a
Beatles shirt, that's too much retro. I know, I'll wear the massive dangling
yellow skeletons with rhinestone eyes. I love the way the skeleton's limbs jangle
around, like they're dancing above my shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If only I
could do something about my bangs. If I'm to keep the illusion that I'm still
the same little me, I'll have to tease and spray them up high and hard. Hope I
remember how to do this. Now where's my curling iron?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/mvsQjprz1x4" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fast
forward to the part where Nicki and I are arriving at the house
party. I'm not even sure whose house this is, but it's huge - it must be the
biggest house in town. Do we seriously know the person who lives here?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The house
is already packed with kids from our school, and many we've never seen before.
We weave through the hordes of teenagers through the hallways and try to find
our clique. Everyone I squeeze past seems to be looking at me strangely and
suddenly I wonder if they can see the real me, if I've morphed back into my
38-year-old self. Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of a
marbled wall, I relax seeing I still look 16. I smile nervously and look away from
the peering eyes of boys and girls I've never met. I may look like them, but
I'm acutely aware that I'm different. If they knew what I was, they'd abhor me
like some kind of monster.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I 've lost
Nicki - she's probably found someone she knows from her "other life"
as a dancer. I'm not in with that crowd, so I keep searching for my own kind,
which happens to be a bizarre yet cohesive mix of hockey players, headbangers,
euchre champions, and musical theatre geeks. I like to think I somehow
assembled this motley crew myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unfortunately,
I can't seem to find my people anywhere. Instead, I find myself getting called
over to a group of kids who sort of hang out on the fringe of my clique. They're the band kids. Sometimes I think they're spies, infiltrating us for information to take back to the music room, but usually
they just seem like sweeter, quieter versions of us, trying to be like us, or
part of us. We're <i>okay</i> but they're kind of <i>so-so</i>, if you know what I mean.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/y4R3x1MBTKg" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It seems
that they've adopted the Japanese exchange student, Kiyomi, into their clan.
Apparently Aaron spent a year in Japan and he's trying to impress her with his
limited knowledge of the language. She goes on a wild Japanese tangent to the
awe of everyone present. Because let's face it: Japanese girls are hot and
their voices are like delicious ear-candy. If only that drunk guy would stop wailing so
offkey to the song that's playing so I can hear her sweet, luscious words.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/q4HG-OjMxzE" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly,
our school's resident deliquent, Tommy, comes stumbling over. I guess he just
got out of juvey. He spills his beer all over Kiyomi, and she berates him with
gorgeous, shiny Japanese sounds. She's probably calling him a mother fucker and
telling him he can go to hell, but it sounds like unicorns and rainbows. Tommy
informs us all that can hook us up with any pill, powder, or herb of our
choosing. The <i>so-so</i> kids all turn their noses up at him and move away. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think
about it for a minute. What's the worst that could happen? I'm a grown-up in
disguise. And it's not like I even live permanently in this timeline, this
world, this universe that I woke up in this morning. If I get caught or if I
have a bad trip, I'll just eventually come to in my normal life anyway, won't
I?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I decide
that waking up in my 16-year-old body in 1992 is trippy enough, and decline
Tommy's offer. Poor Tom. Everyone knows he's a <i>junkie</i>. He'll be 18 soon, and
he'll snort, trip, and inhale his way into grown-up prison if he's not careful,
and he won't be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<spa allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" iframe="" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/CMThz7eQ6K0" width="420"></spa></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/CMThz7eQ6K0" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Tom sloshes
off, inadvertently dousing various teenaged revelers with waves of golden lager
from his enormous glass, which seems to somehow never decrease in volume. I
follow in his wake through the trail he has cut through the teenage masses,
hoping to find Nicki or someone, anyone from my crew. Instead, I come face-to-face with the child of the parents who own this mansion-turned-playground. He
asks me if I'm having a good time at his house. Looking into his eyes I see an <i>ugly teenage millionaire</i> who never wanted for anything in his life, except something to smile about.
He says he likes my earrings and asks me if I wanna make out. I'm ashamed to
admit it, but I consider it. Oh come on, imagine you've been thrust back into
your teenage world. Tell me you wouldn't try to get away with something naughty and a little depraved while you're there? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/jxNYoVOa2JA" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I don't
do it. I tell him I'm looking for my friend and he's away from me like a bullet
from a gun. I move through the crowd into another room, and I see a group of
people tucked away in a corner. With them is Sam, a kid from our school who
went a little nuts and then went to live in the local mental hospital for a year. It's
good to see he's out, but I can tell he's still in a fragile state. He looks
like he's about to cry. I always liked Sam. Back when I was really 16, I always
felt bad for him, but I was sort of afraid of him, and never knew what to say,
so I kept my distance. Now I know
better, and I scurry over to his corner and ask him if he'd like to go outside
for some air. He comes with me and tells me about his time in the hospital.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/WzheO7UbJM0" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sam smokes
his cigarette and offers me a drag. I'm not a smoker but I take a quick puff.
The nicotine gives me a crazy head buzz and I hand him back his cancer stick. I
tell him I've had just about enough of the party and I'm ready to go home. Then
Sam comes up with this bonkers idea that's just too good to pass up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He lives
next door, he says, and he's got some hockey gear in the garage - wouldn't it
be fun to dress up in goalie masks and scare people through the windows? Let me
think about that OMG YES LET'S DO THAT. Finally a shenanigan that's up my
alley!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Creeping
through the shadows from his garage with hockey masks on our faces, we make our
way back to the mansion and each find a window looking in on a sea of drunken
teenagers. On the count of three, we appear in front of the window and watch with hope for the screaming and freaking out to begin. We are not disappointed. After a quick
flash of our masks, we move briskly to
the side of the house. The ripples of our first appearance are already
making their way through the house, judging from the commotion. We appear again in another window, but only for a second, and then
hide behind the massive hedge. Wailing, flailing teenagers come flying out of
the house. Some run crying and screaming home, and others come to the yard to
investigate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NHywdqH3F6Y" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What we don't
know is that we started a deadly fire. Upon our first appearance at the window,
someone freaked out and knocked over a candle, which set the living room carpet
aflame, sending kids running and screaming all over the place. Tommy, not the
brightest bulb in the pack, poured a 40 of vodka onto the fire to try and put
it out and caught fire himself. Now he bursts through the door into the yard,
staggering toward Sam and me, howling in pain and fear, leaving a trail of fire
everywhere he goes. Still masked, Sam suddenly gets the presence of mind to
turn on the garden hose and blasts Tommy with water. I watch in
horror as Tommy falls to the ground, charred and smoking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through the
windows, I can see the orange blaze of the fire crashing the party like the
most unwanted guest in history. I take
off my mask and stumble out to the street, calling Nicki's name, but there's no
way she'll be able to hear me over the police and ambulance sirens as they come
nearer and nearer. I start to cry, my body heaving with grief and responsibility.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm back in
my living room, present day. It's dark outside and in the room, and I'm the
only one here, or the only one awake, it would seem. My heart is burning with
sadness and my cheeks are wet from tears. I wonder if what just happened is in
any way real, or if it was just some kind of lucid dream. I hope for the
latter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before
shuffling off to bed, I decide to take a quick glance at Facebook. Nicki has
posted a memoriam for the 22nd anniversary of the passing of her friend Tom,
who died from burns sustained at a house party in 1992...and for her friend
Sam, who committed suicide that same night, over the grief of having indirectly
caused the fire that killed his friend.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I've
learned anything from this, it's that timeline jumping is <i>no game</i>, and as
innocent as I may look, I am a <i>scary monster</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yeah so
this went to a weird place! Don't worry - none of this is based on any kind of
true experience, this was just sort of an exercise in letting my brain go free-range and just writing what came out. Listening
to <i>Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)</i> the past couple of weeks, I knew
immediately that the setting was going to be a teenage house party. I didn't
have a specific story in mind though, and I decided to just let this one flow
out of my mind as my fingers did the typing. I'm a little surprised that this
is where it ended up, to be honest, because this album is a lot of fun to
listen to. Even the album's title track resides on the lighter side of scary.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I could psycho-analyze myself through this piece, but I'll refrain from stating the obvious.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will say that I'm a little bit obsessed with <i>Ashes to Ashes</i>. The nursery rhyme inspired lyrics and melody telling the uber-sad story of junkie Major Tom not being able to "come down" from space is kind of haunting me. My heart aches for him. He's a character in a song. I'm clearly a sucker for suffering of a certain kind. Let's not psycho-analyze that either.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh... and I didn't get to keep my 16-year-old body. Bummer.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-283797941814695692014-06-16T18:12:00.000-07:002014-06-28T08:18:24.580-07:00Time flies when you're having fun... Art Decade: 1969-1979<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay no
more gifs after this, I promise! But this one was just so appropriate to this
post.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well. Here
am I, six months and 13 studio albums deep into The Bowie Project, and suddenly
I'm feeling a bit like I need to stop and smell the roses. I'm experiencing
that mindfucking feeling that time seems to move at two different speeds simultaneously --
the speed of the present moment (will this week ever end?), and the <i>speed of
life</i> (holy shit, I'm 38 years old?!). And I'm asking myself how have I gotten
to the halfway point of this project already?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To quote
Ferris Bueller (and I will, because I was a kid in the 80's), "life moves
pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around every once in a while, you could
miss it". Before I dive head first into the 1980's according to David
Bowie, I feel that I should recognize some of the many other contributions that
he made to the 1970's. I hate to gloss over them, but that is exactly what is
about to happen. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mott the Hoople<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What the
Whoople? Oh please tell me I'm the first person to come up with that. I'm not
even going to google it to see if someone said it before me. I'm claiming it.
Anyway, without going into too much history because you have access to
Wikipedia too, Mott the Hoople was a British glam rock band from the 70's whom
Bowie supported by trying to revive their dying career by writing a song for
them to record. In 1972, <i>All the Young
Dudes</i> happened, and it was a hit, and now it's like the only thing Mott the
Hoople is known for. <i>Hey, dudes! Where are ya?!</i> Heh heh, nice one, Bowie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Iggy Pop<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm not
gonna lie, Iggy Pop kind of frightens me. Until now, the only Iggy Pop song I
thought I was familiar with was <i>Lust for Life</i>
- probably because it had a resurgence in 1996 when it was featured in the film
<i>Trainspotting</i>. Sigh, I know... lame,
right? And I got into Queen as a result of <i>Wayne's
World</i>, I admit it. But is that so wrong? I'm pretty sure hipsters as we
know them today were birthed by <i>Bohemian
Rhapsody</i>'s presence in that film... "I liked that song before it was
in Wayne's World" and all of that. But at least I'm not a hipster! Anyway
I digress. It turns out I had no idea that not only do I know some of Iggy Pop's
other songs, but David Bowie actually worked with him on a couple of albums in
1977: <i>The Idiot</i>, and oh would you
look at that, <i>Lust for Life</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Well this
is familiar! <i>Sister Midnight</i> is <i><a href="http://youtu.be/Xhj1W42x0s4" target="_blank">Red Money</a></i> from <i>Lodger</i>'s fraternal twin!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Aha! We haven't gotten to the 80's just yet, but we know another version
this song.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lou Reed<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Andy
Warhol, who was a recurring character in Bowie's life, managed a band in the
60's and early 70's called the Velvet Underground, of which Lou Reed was a
member. Bowie apparently got into the Warholian scene and met Lou Reed during
that time. When Reed went solo, Bowie produced his 1972 album <i><a href="http://youtu.be/4OyVk0komiE" target="_blank">Transformer</a></i>, which spawned the hit <i>Walk on the Wild Side</i>, which of course I
already knew when Marky Mark sampled it for his own take on that song. So
there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cracked Actor<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shot in
1974 and aired on BBC television 1975, Bowie was the subject of Alan Yentob's
documentary <i>Cracked Actor</i>. The film
depicts him during an extremely hectic time - during the American <i>Diamond Dogs</i> concert tour and in the
midst of writing and recording the album <i>Young
Americans</i>, right before he was about to begin filming <i>The Man Who Fell To Earth</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Cracked Actor</span></i><span lang="EN-US"> is uncomfortable to watch... at least for me,
it was. Immediately you get this horrid, sinking feeling when you see that Bowie
was clearly 100% NOT OKAY during that time, and you kind of want to hug him,
except you'd be worried about breaking him. While I suppose watching the doc in
'75 might have caused one to feel rather alarmed at the state of him, at least
today we have the relief of knowing that Bowie emerges from that period much healthier, with
new passion and creativity, and goes on to make some of most amazing music and
eventually marry a supermodel. Being armed with that knowledge definitely helps
to get through the more sad and wince-inducing moments of the film.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Live Albums: David Live and Stage<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Lodger </i>is
Bowie's 13th studio album, but in the 70's he also released a couple of live
albums. Admittedly, I've skipped listening to these for the time being, though
I do intend to go back to them. <i>David
Live</i> was recorded during the American Diamond Dogs tour (see <i>Cracked Actor</i>,
above). It spawned the single <i>Knock on
Wood, </i>a cover of the Eddie Floyd hit from 1966.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Stage was recorded in 1978 during the Isolar
II tour, featuring performances of songs from <i>Station to Station, Low</i>, and <i>"Heroes".</i> The live version of <i>Breaking Glass</i> from<i> Low</i> was
released as a single.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just a Gigolo<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1976 marked
Bowie's first feature film role, Thomas Jerome Newton in<a href="http://thebowieproject.blogspot.ca/p/screen.html" target="_blank"> <i>The Man Who Fell To Earth</i></a>. He took to the silver screen again in
1978 with <i>Just a Gigolo</i>, a film about
a Prussian soldier who returns to Berlin after World War I but can't find
work, so he goes to work in a brothel. Yeah. Reviews of the film are horrible
and I've decided to skip it, probably forever. My curiosity is outweighed by my
desire to not see a shitty film starring someone I admire. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/n2cG22iW0FE" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(I chose
this clip at random and watched a little over the first half of it, until the
part where he drops the giant beer bottle costume down the stairs. I don't know
what happens after that, and I'm fine with that, lol.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So shall we
call it a decade, then? I'm sure I've missed some of Bowie's other contributions
to the 70's, and I've enjoyed every single everloving moment of this journey
over the past six months, but I'm starting to get a bit antsy to get out of the
70's and get the 80's and the second half of this project underway. So without
further adieu, I shall take a page from the book of Bowie and give the 70's a
stiff middle finger and look back no longer. Onward to 1980!</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>UPDATE:</b> I watched Just a Gigolo <span style="font-size: x-small;">*hangs head in shame*</span>. I wrote about it <a href="http://thebowieproject.blogspot.ca/p/screen.html" target="_blank">here</a>. You'll need to scroll down after The Man Who Fell to Earth (or read that one, too) to find it.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-21447003069779203732014-06-08T10:09:00.002-07:002014-06-09T15:22:37.596-07:00Life is a pop of the cherry.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNw6B89TpxfACl6IpmYue-O36fdxK7GzUHhd1IZhGk0QOk3ddMK8MM-wMBhKdpssoTyT0yr9ScYSd5lhyphenhyphenNLrHEq2IohdcMdKRo9styMSiO-FN4plpxDecTnwIkcnDllKYmlQDyoy2eFiA/s1600/Bowie-lodger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNw6B89TpxfACl6IpmYue-O36fdxK7GzUHhd1IZhGk0QOk3ddMK8MM-wMBhKdpssoTyT0yr9ScYSd5lhyphenhyphenNLrHEq2IohdcMdKRo9styMSiO-FN4plpxDecTnwIkcnDllKYmlQDyoy2eFiA/s1600/Bowie-lodger.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lodger_%28album%29" target="_blank">source</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's a typical
weekday morning and I'm riding the bus to work like I normally do. Every
morning, I see many of the same people. There's the construction worker lady who
dines on a champion's breakfast of potato chips while reading romance novels.
Sometimes she is so engrossed in her book and chips that she misses her stop.
If I'm sitting near her, I'll give her a tap on the shoulder. She bolts off the
bus without so much as a word.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then
there's the elderly gentleman who tries to hustle, cane and all, but his
hobbling, worn out body won't let him. The bus driver always waits for him.
Sometimes the old man sits next to me and tries to talk to me, but I usually
have my earphones in, rocking out in my head, so I just smile and focus on my
tunes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A few times
a week there is this empty-eyed lady who thinks the bus belongs to her. She
likes to take up multiple seats for all her bags that she always has with her.
Let me be clear that this isn't a homeless lady - her fussy outfits and pursed
lips give away her sense of entitlement. When you ask her to move her shit, she
stares straight ahead and pretends she didn't hear you. Pregnant ladies and old
people must stand, so that she and her bags can all have a seat to themselves.
Bitch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's the
really obese woman who has practically sat on me on a couple of occasions; the
hip-hop emcee wannabe who raps ineptly near the back of the bus; the twin
teenaged-boys with giant afros and even bigger duffel bags; and a man I silently
refer to as Indian Alan Alda (because he's Indian and he looks like Alan Alda,
duh). He continually switches seats on the bus as people get off until he finally
gets one of the single seats where you don't have to sit next to anyone. I like
to guess how many times he'll move before I reach my stop. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I assume
these passengers recognize me, too. I'm the short girl with new hair colours
every few weeks and who mouths the lyrics and taps her feet to music they can't
hear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Looking
around at my fellow passengers, I see that like any weekday morning, many of
them are doing stuff on their smartphones, while others read the metro paper.
All of a sudden, a chorus of text tones and ringtones erupts - I can hear the
strange symphony even with the music blasting into my ears. Then I feel my own
phone vibrate and check the message.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's from
my mother. Apparently there is breaking news: the man in charge of not pressing
the button that will end the world is refusing to leave the control room. His
wife says he stopped taking his prozac. He's locked himself up inside with the
button, and has emailed a note about his intentions - not a suicide note, per
se, since he evidently plans to take the rest of us with him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/3tD6FayGPyw" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That's a
fairly alarming piece of news. I mean, most of the news that happens on a daily
basis is alarming, but not like this. I feel a lump in my throat and I think
about how to respond to my mother.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6H1W-8PqpIBW3LQ-LAQ5pCknamb2mQZq681h5HLcRwE4z2wZXnpTAdD_-6-ehQgMLs1yKlUWCxFzP_fE8idlIRSU4Wc492U46cHl6vSjw8cUUZOnHVo1n3tmY_KtHFCdzy9KByn9e9I/s1600/lodger+chat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6H1W-8PqpIBW3LQ-LAQ5pCknamb2mQZq681h5HLcRwE4z2wZXnpTAdD_-6-ehQgMLs1yKlUWCxFzP_fE8idlIRSU4Wc492U46cHl6vSjw8cUUZOnHVo1n3tmY_KtHFCdzy9KByn9e9I/s1600/lodger+chat.png" height="320" width="270" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I look
around and see that the other passengers are calling and texting loved ones.
Some are crying. The end is imminent... or is it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly,
the driver loses control of the bus and we skid across the road. The bus flips
over and continues its slide toward the bridge up ahead, the sound of metal
scraping on pavement and the sounds of people screaming and tumbling inside
creating a horrific cacophony.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At times
like this is usually when one's life "flashes before one's eyes". I'm
getting flashes alright, but these are flashes of lives that are unfamiliar to
me. Somehow, I've tapped into the "life flashes" of the other
passengers on the bus - the flashes belonging to the afro twins, Indian Alan
Alda, and spaced out construction lady.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The flashes
are completely random, and I can't always tell who they're coming from. Sometimes the memories are so out of context
that I can't make heads or tails of them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/QEJjASV20kc" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/MY_16u4zoy0" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But sometimes
it's very clear who is generating the memory flash. And I suddenly get a
glimpse into Madame Entitled-to-Three-Seats' life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/l2c73wQH73U" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's kind
of hard to hate her now. She's been through enough with Johnny. Maybe she can't
stand up to him, and the only way she can get her anger out is to take
something a little extra every day for herself. What previously seemed selfish
and greedy now seems like she's sort of earned it. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A new flash
appears in my brain, and it clearly belongs to the hip-hop emcee. Looks like I
was wrong... he's not an emcee after all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/3Su1vqGhNOs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dude kind
of thinks of himself as an artist in his "field", it would seem. I
suppose there is a loose kind of art to playing other people's music in order
to incite a response from your<i> believers...
</i>or maybe dude takes himself a bit too seriously?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Flash! Oh,
this is fun. No seriously, I can't tell who this is coming from, but the one
who lived the moments I'm seeing lived what looks to me like an enjoyable life
of world travel. Judging from the flashes, he went to some pretty exotic locales.
I'm a bit jealous.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/yfvn-jzJiAA" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/rSp7B5s2gCo" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly it
occurs to me that I might actually be stealing these people's memories. If I'm
seeing their flashes, does that mean they're not? Are they seeing mine instead?
That's a disturbing thought. Then another one comes on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My guess is
that these memory flashes belong to the young man with the rainblow flag sewn
on his backpack. Wait...no... is that... Indian Alan Alda I see dancing
joyfully with a crowd of his companions in a gay bar? I thought I had you
pegged, Indian Alan Alda! How wrong I was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/6SoiXlp0HAU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Who knew
dying could be so fun? Maybe this is how it really happens. Maybe you don't actually
see your own life flash before your eyes... instead you get flashes of the
collective memories of everyone who is dying at the same moment as you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the
flashes seem to be slowing down now, and it makes me wonder if I'm moving
farther away from the realm of the living, or if the dying people in my
vicinity have all completed their journeys into the everafter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I spoke to
soon. The flashes begin again, and I assume these belong to the suited,
brief-case carrying gentleman who offered me his seat. Of all the memories this
man could summon, willfully or not, before he dies, it's about his job. Ugh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Xhj1W42x0s4" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After all
of the interesting memory flashes I've experienced, I sincerely hope that the
Businessman's despair at his project going pear-shaped is not the last thing I
see before I die. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thankfully,
it's not... but just like dreams, you don't get to decide what happens. This
flash makes absolutely no sense to me. Either this person thinks he's some kind
of pirate or my brain is shutting down, and I'm losing the capacity to
interpret the memories. <i>The hinterland?
It's far far far far far far far far away? It's fa fa fa fa fa fa fa ya ya da
da da da?</i> Are these the memories of someone who is mentally challenged? Or
is this just me getting brain damage?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/o6uvYuEyUY4" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I fear that
my time on this earth is about to end, so I decide to leave my body and take
one last look around to assess what's happened before I accept my fate and make
my way to the everafter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From what I can tell, the bus has
crashed through the bridge's guardrail and is teetering over the edge. To
prevent the bus from falling, the uninjured and those who are still mobile have
moved to the back of the bus, forming a human anchor, allowing the bus to
balance perilously on the edge of the bridge, but not fall right over.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Obviously,
I'm not among the uninjured. I gaze somewhat blankly at my own body laying on what
has become the floor - a cracked window.
There are others around me who are in the same predicament - unconscious,
broken, bleeding. I shouldn't have come out for a look - now I'm afraid of
dying. Fearing that if I stay out of my body for too long I may never return to
it, I slip back in and try to move, but to no avail. I'm breathing, but my body
doesn't work. Everything starts to go white...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">CLEAR!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A surge of
electricity shoots through me and I feel an intense pressure in my chest. AGH! There
it is again. And I'm back. I open my eyes and see that I'm no longer lying
lifeless on a cracked window inside the bus; I'm on a stretcher outside, next
to other people on stretchers, amid a crowd of survivors, emergency personnel,
and onlookers. I look to my left and see Indian Alan Alda lying on a stretcher
next to me. I don't think he made it. And on the stretcher to my right, I see a
bearded man who looks like a backpacker - I recognize him from his memory
flashes of travels in Africa.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm alive. I made it. No death for me today! In the
midst of the chaos I suddenly remember the text conversation with my mother. I
search my bag for my phone and open it up to the conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADQgn1uY5yMIn5COYhlIR4Uxq5No-wetyUzGcIIiB_j-vFeXvGCEgSqEDQ-yMgXvfBaOM1_BeydFrDKFHU7YDRsgs4D6Qzs0cRUkvl4yv-Npr475RaZWQSVn8yp7dKvXRnazz7oK8omk/s1600/callgrandma.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADQgn1uY5yMIn5COYhlIR4Uxq5No-wetyUzGcIIiB_j-vFeXvGCEgSqEDQ-yMgXvfBaOM1_BeydFrDKFHU7YDRsgs4D6Qzs0cRUkvl4yv-Npr475RaZWQSVn8yp7dKvXRnazz7oK8omk/s1600/callgrandma.png" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I dial my
grandmother's phone number and wait for her to pick up. Ring. Ring. Ring. Then
I hear something else... what's that whistling sound coming from the sky?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I took a
cue from the <i>Lodger</i> album cover for this story, obviously. </span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1Yj9EzbGAnWlrdX6pSVk79DsGZ1FUPFFu9DIozYjkVP7DSZ6roAmuWkd9IjpBAx5pThDAwJ-PmdVdnMUzyH_c_oLXPIKKC5HZwrffyl_94WAH2hRceRy2TrQyJ9tnCx8HIA-fJSQ1I4/s1600/db79lodger-duffy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1Yj9EzbGAnWlrdX6pSVk79DsGZ1FUPFFu9DIozYjkVP7DSZ6roAmuWkd9IjpBAx5pThDAwJ-PmdVdnMUzyH_c_oLXPIKKC5HZwrffyl_94WAH2hRceRy2TrQyJ9tnCx8HIA-fJSQ1I4/s1600/db79lodger-duffy.jpg" height="200" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I have a feeling that
even if the cover had been different, that I would have still gone the
"accident" route. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I
started The Bowie Project, I knew there was going to be a lot of weird, wonderful,
exciting, fun moments that would make me go like this:</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br /></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="375" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//giphy.com/embed/Vc8TM3X5oqvSw" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="200" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//giphy.com/embed/Wer0THzNFUoYE" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="536" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//giphy.com/embed/Jm4UbTjSHq0aQ" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="286" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//giphy.com/embed/Qkwy4bJtv32Ba" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I also
knew that there was always going to be a time when I would be going like this:</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="264" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//giphy.com/embed/1HIBPhFX8nnag" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That time has arrived --<i> Lodger</i> has
delivered these moments.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not all of
Bowie's albums have been love at first listen. Some have, but in many cases, it
has taken 2-3 days of listens before it clicks and the love begins. Lodger took
much longer. And a rollercoaster of a time it has been. The first couple of
listens gave me the acceptable reaction of "ok... just give it some
time". But days 3-5 actually started to fill me with despair... and anger,
I have to admit. I was kind of ready to give up on it. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then it happened -
it clicked. Sort of. To be honest, I don't know if I'll ever really
"get" <i>Lodger</i>. The songs seem pretty random and at this point in time
it continues to baffle me as a whole. That doesn't mean that I don't like it.
Learning to love <i>Lodger</i> may have been a bit like a 12-step process (most notably, the phases of denial, bargaining, and acceptance) but now that it's in my life, I wouldn't give
it back.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-27749658648816434892014-05-25T18:44:00.004-07:002014-05-26T15:16:24.378-07:00Get me off the streets. Get some protection! Get me on my feet. Get some direction!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBCqKW6sTYabdWei9KiutYMPby2Ztiw5hAy5nCAIerAk5SYyz2iIzeNmrUaKHFLmBxW59M3QX3o-ADAaSe4qYy84AN9v_9CdbgE-VtSLfpFf-c1zY7ytTtWKg60KUyFyevEFDUNi8rHY/s1600/DavidBowieHeroesCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBCqKW6sTYabdWei9KiutYMPby2Ztiw5hAy5nCAIerAk5SYyz2iIzeNmrUaKHFLmBxW59M3QX3o-ADAaSe4qYy84AN9v_9CdbgE-VtSLfpFf-c1zY7ytTtWKg60KUyFyevEFDUNi8rHY/s1600/DavidBowieHeroesCover.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm walking
on an anonymous street in what could be any old city, any place in the
world. It's chilly out, darkest night, and the street is shining wetly in the
lamplight. The threat of rain still hangs in the air, and the moon is trying to
break through the charcoal grey clouds over my head. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The
cobblestones in the street are uneven and slippery beneath my feet. I trip and
fall, bracing myself for the shock of landing, but I don't land - not right
away. I'm falling, falling, falling... through utter dense blackness, until
finally I land safely on my feet on what looks like the same street - until I
become oriented.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm in the
Markt, in Bruges. Normally bustling and welcoming during the day, here in the
wee hours of the night I'm eerily alone. I blink, and suddenly I'm standing in
the middle of Broadway and 42nd Street in the city that never sleeps. There are
people everywhere, moving like schools of fish, swimming up and down the
sidewalks. A yellow cab honks and swerves to avoid me, and I dash out of the
way. I blink again, and I'm in Dam Square, Amsterdam. At this time of night,
it's much quieter than New York. I take a seat on a bench and wonder exactly
what's happening. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's late,
and I'd like to go home. I yawn, and watch my breath wisp visibly from my
mouth. Squinting my eyes, I suddenly become aware of all the places I've just
visited, and more, all existing in one place simultaneously, seemingly unaware
that they are sharing the same time and space - layered on top of one another
like thin transparencies that expand before me with each blink of the eye.
Curiously, I recognize each of the locations as they phase in - they are all
places I've been before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think I've
tripped and fallen into a rip in the space-time fabric, and I've somehow taken
on the qualities of a quantum particle, in which I'm able to exist in several
places at once. It's like being inside
a multiple exposure photograph. And I didn't bring my camera.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US">Blink.</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US"> Temple Bar, Dublin. It begins to
rain. I get up off the bench and look for a welcoming pub to duck into, but not
before the monsoonal downpour begins. I dash through the nearest door and slosh
over to a stool at the bar. The bartender brings me a Guinness and I begin to
sip and look around, at the other patrons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The man
sitting to my left seems peaceful enough, sipping away at his own dark pint of
stout. He's sort of handsome, this man, but serious in his calmness. I avoid eye contact, but watch him out of the
corner of my eye. He waves the bartender over and requests another pint, but
the bartender tells him he's had too many and cuts him off. Suddenly, the
beautiful, peaceful man transforms into an angry, ugly monster, slamming his
nearly empty pint glass down on the bar, shattering it, and demanding a
replacement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/l4fFL4uU_RE" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The beastly
man is ejected from the bar, thank goodness. I was beginning to worry about my
safety. I look out the window and see that the rain is still pouring down. I
order another Guinness and move to another location inside the bar, near the
pool table, where a crowd has gathered around a man who has introduced himself
as Joe the Lion. Joe's a bit drunk, and he's making outlandish claims and is
taking bets. Dude looks like Rhys Ifans, but he thinks he's David Blaine. He's
saying shit like<i> "Nail me to my car
and I'll tell you who you are". A couple of drinks on the house and he's a
fortune teller. </i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/mvstpQGjPPc" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The guy
standing next to me shakes his head and shouts in my ear over the loud music
"quiet night, isn't it!" I laugh with him for a minute, before taking
my leave from the back of the bar. Out the front window, it looks as though the
rain has eased up, so I pay my bill and make my way back out onto the street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><i><span lang="EN-US">Blink</span></i></b><span lang="EN-US">. Okay this looks familiar... it's
the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, the World's End Close end. At this time of night,
in this weather, with the shops all closed until morning and so few people
around, it feels sort of haunted. Like I can feel the souls and spirits of the
people who were here earlier today, floating around me, having left a piece of
themselves behind. Or maybe it's the medieval ghosts of people who lived here
hundreds of years ago. Regardless, the hostel is closed and there is nowhere to
take shelter, so I blink, hoping to be whisked away to someplace more
hospitable.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No such luck.
But I know this place well, so I walk up to the castle end of the street with the
hope that I'll encounter an open pub. As I approach the castle grounds, I see a
young couple by the high wall of an old stone building. They have the look of
forbidden love, having stolen away in the night, like two conjoined shadows, like
it's the two of them united against the world.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Tgcc5V9Hu3g" width="420"></iframe> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The couple
walks away, holding hands, their laughter and whispers echoing through the
misty air. <b><i>Blink.</i></b> I'm on West Queen West, in Toronto. Yes! If I can just
find a streetcar to get me to the subway, I can get home to my warm bed. Traffic
is quiet, so I cross the street nonchalantly and take a seat in the streetcar
shelter. Just then, two hipster dudes appear and look at me as if I've stolen
their bench. As if they discovered this streetcar shelter and I'm merely a
tourist, squaring the place up. One of them pulls a Buddy Holly 8-track
cassette out of his plastic bag. I smile. They roll their eyes at me so hard I
nearly get whiplash.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/NnOhBykB-z4" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span><br /></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't
know how long I've been waiting for this blasted streetcar, but the hipster
dudes seem to have glided away and left me to wait on my own, which makes me worry that they know something I
don't. Of course they do. I decide to try and walk east toward Osgoode Station
and hope that the subway is still running.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I hear a
commotion coming up behind me. A group
of friends who've obviously been out drinking are stumbling near. One of the
guys is angry with his friend - the handsome Jekyll-turned-Hyde from the Dublin
bar?! He's barely able to walk, or even talk, as he slurs his words, trying to
form a complete sentence. His friend is pissed that his birthday is ruined -
again! Every year, according to the Handsome Man's friend, this happens. The
Handsome Man gets drunk and causes a scene and gets kicked out of every bar and
ends up passing out. The Birthday Boy always ends up carrying him home. The
Handsome Man seems like he's trying to apologize, but then he falls to his
knees, and then falls again forward, his pretty face hitting the slimy
pavement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/KqqOVqjxs6Y" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Leaving
Birthday Boy and Handsome Man behind to live out this year's tragic pattern, I
walk on toward the subway. But I <b><i>blink</i></b> and suddenly I'm someplace
else. Damn. I was so close to getting home! I look around to try and figure out
where I am, and suddenly it hits me - I'm in Trafalgar Square. I love London,
but this is frustrating. I kick a stone and walk in the direction of a pleasing
saxophone riff. I find myself standing outside of a pub with live music. I'm
tempted to go in, but the place looks packed, and I'm enjoying the music from
my standing room only place on the street.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/dC20rI6mOiE" width="560"></iframe>
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The music
ends and I walk on back toward the square in search of a place to sit. <b><i>Blink.</i></b> Oh for crying out loud, where am I now?! George Street in
St. John's, Newfoundland. Oh thank goodness, some place like home! The bars seem to have closed for the night,
but if I can get to my in-laws house, I'll be safe and warm, at least for a
little while.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I walk up
Duckworth Street, trying to remember my way around. I make a wrong turn and end up on Water
Street. This feeling of sudden homelessness is wearing on me. Knowing that I
may find a safe place only to be transported into another space-time layer, I
just want to sit down and rest my weary feet. Then I hear the sad and somewhat
scary sound of a man crying in a laneway.
The sound of empty beer bottles rolling on the uneven pavement punctuates
the silence and the man's intermittent sobs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/f43DiHUH-6A" width="420"></iframe>
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US">I resign
myself to my fate. I'm doomed to slide from time-space membrane to membrane for
the rest of eternity. I'm a bit afraid I might find myself on planet</span>
<i>Tralfamadore</i>, but then, I don't recall ever visiting there, so perhaps I
needn't worry about that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, I see a night bus hurtling down the street.
Thankfully, I'm not far from the bus stop! I get there just as the bus pulls
up. It stops, and I get on. Smiling from ear to ear, my heart filled with hope,
I search my pockets for loose change, deposit it into the meter, and take a
seat. I may not be going home, but I'm going someplace like it. I'm sure my
in-laws will be happy to have me. I feel at peace. And then I <b><i>blink.</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm in
Sydney Botannical Gardens. I couldn't
be further from home if I was on Mars.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I used to
come walking here when I lived on Pitt Street years ago. I've never been here
at night, and I'm not even sure guests are allowed to be here after dark.
Still, I'm in no hurry to leave. Though it has recently rained, the moonlight
glows and illuminates the trees. I sit down on a bench, close my eyes and
remember how it looks in the day. I can feel warm sunlight on my face, hear the
lorikeets chirping, and dogs barking. This is a happy place. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/vCGCo4tYG2c" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suddenly, I
hear the sounds of footsteps and the familiar voices of a couple of lovers out
for a night walk. It's the couple I saw by Edinburgh Castle! They walk into the
garden just as the fog rolls thickly in. They don't see me and I'm not quite
ready to leave, but I can hear that they're now having a fight. More than a
fight, it might be the end. They argue through the dense fog and I get up and
leave them to their quarrel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I walk out
to Circular Quay. The fog, garden, and couple are now far behind me, but her
sudden wail of emotional distress and pain cuts sharply through the fog, pierces my eardrum and stabs me in the heart. It's a cry of grief with the
distinct sound of the end of love.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/_CFQgwJrCdM" width="420"></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I make
my way to Pitt Street, the rain begins again. I look around but everything is
closed. There is nowhere to go. I run up the street, hoping I can make it to
the old hostel and convince them to let me in. I blink with purpose, hoping to
be taken someplace drier, someplace near an open bar or shop. I blink. Blink. <b><i>Blink.<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><b><i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm in
Paris. I don't know what street I'm on, because I never did get my bearings
over the four days I spent visiting here. But I know I'm in Paris, because I
recognize the architecture - ornate white buildings with balconies, for eons in
all directions. It's raining here too, but I quickly locate a 24-hour movie
theatre and rush inside.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The movie
is already in progress, and there is no one to stop me from going in. I sit
down and try to catch up with the story, taking place in an exotic desert land.
Thank goodness the subtitles are in English. I can't tell if the meaning is
lost in translation, or if the film is trying to be serious and failing, or if
it knows how silly and camp it is. I decide that it's self-aware and let myself
giggle in earnest at the story as it unfolds charmingly and humorously. But why
am I the only one in the theatre who is laughing?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/712GnEJHn_Y" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The movie
is over and the credits begin rolling. I'm content to sit here in the theatre
while everyone leaves. They all have someplace warm and dry to go to. I close
my eyes and try to fall asleep. Just then, the usher appears at my side and
asks me politely in French to remove myself from the premises. I open my eyes
to find that I'm no longer in the theatre. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm back on
the anonymous street in any city, in any part of the world. I squint in the
darkness, but I can no longer perceive the layers. It looks like my space-time
travel adventure is over. Now if I only I knew where I was.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After the
increasing misery and melancholy that's been coming on over the course of the
past couple of albums, <i>"Heroes"</i> has swooshed in to save the day and bring back some hopefulness. It's not all hunky dory (har har), but we all know that when things are
on the upswing, one's <i>sense of doubt</i>
can swoop back in and take us out for a play or two. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I'm thoroughly enjoying this album. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Note that I have no idea if <i>Sons of the Silent Age</i> is about hipsters, but that's what it made me think of, and I quite enjoy the idea of David Bowie condemning hipsters before it was cool.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Admittedly, <i>"Heroes"</i> hasn't gotten a full two weeks of my undivided attention - I took a wee
vacation to New York City last week, which was seriously a
lot of fun, but it didn't leave me much time for pondering this album. Walking
on the streets of the Big Apple did inspire this story, however. Though it was
my first time there, it reminded me of so many of the places I've visited
before, and yet had a distinct quality all its own at the same time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I may take
another week with "Heroes" before I take the next step in this
adventure... but I'll try not to leave this space unattended for too long!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8951072496602000770.post-74973679373590688022014-05-10T12:46:00.001-07:002014-05-10T13:34:02.542-07:00Don't you wonder sometimes, about sound and vision?<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This post is dedicated to Snruby. You will get
through this. Love you.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-oBHg8o7_6JG-vXvAMr3z37o7Fc3aI-kruKspbpJgcXa8PvepMNEpQmYrR5Gw1cUEXhXRDwuG9SVG5_l_M6_9_jmJUjW-JWNdJAhwFa0IF_PJQnm37WJVke8n5XJpQt-OWxxydSjTmg/s1600/BnPBJ6UCAAAeUOh.jpg+large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju-oBHg8o7_6JG-vXvAMr3z37o7Fc3aI-kruKspbpJgcXa8PvepMNEpQmYrR5Gw1cUEXhXRDwuG9SVG5_l_M6_9_jmJUjW-JWNdJAhwFa0IF_PJQnm37WJVke8n5XJpQt-OWxxydSjTmg/s1600/BnPBJ6UCAAAeUOh.jpg+large.jpg" height="189" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> I stole this from @ThatEricAlper's twitter feed.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As you
might expect, <i>Low</i> took me to a dark place. My memory took over and pressed Rewind
and then pressed Play, and every time I went to press Stop, it would swat my hand
away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In 2007, my
new job required that I take this personality test called the Clifton
Strengthsfinder. Everyone in the company had to take this test in which you
discover what your top 5 strengths are. They gave me a certificate to keep at my desk, and at the company-wide sales meetings, they made us wear an ID tag with our top
5 strengths listed. The idea is that you keep a person's strengths in mind when you
communicate with them. If so-and-so's number one strength is Responsibility,
you wouldn't tell them how to cut a corner somewhere.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In a world
where sales is the main goal, everyone around me had extremely bold strengths -
Maximizer, Achiever, Activator, Competition. When my colleagues would catch
sight of my top 5, they often commented on the "strangeness" of it,
how they hadn't seen anyone with my mix:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Empathy</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Adaptability</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Input</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Connectedness</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Intellection</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Empathy.
This "strength" has been a dominant theme my whole life, but I don't
think I've ever learned to use it properly. I'm not even entirely sure what the
best use of this trait would be. Perhaps nursing, or teaching, or saving the
environment, or something. But I never had an inclination toward any of those
things. Instead, I had to be artistic. So </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">where am
I going with this?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrkqnJQ6MqA255YtgKNJgrX4tD0fOoIFkAPavFpqbl7VX8MdgkyRQqsQfiU0RxTLynSn9ZShuBMzoHC-IePSl0EW0RbqHG6ZRdUSjJ020htRzlPivfkvau7jmx-ANhcmcfvwNwi4YfQE/s1600/Low_(album).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRrkqnJQ6MqA255YtgKNJgrX4tD0fOoIFkAPavFpqbl7VX8MdgkyRQqsQfiU0RxTLynSn9ZShuBMzoHC-IePSl0EW0RbqHG6ZRdUSjJ020htRzlPivfkvau7jmx-ANhcmcfvwNwi4YfQE/s1600/Low_(album).jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's been kind
of a challenging two weeks, absorbing the <i>Low</i> album. It is a fantastic album. I
was a bit worried about it, because in my pre-reading about it, I learned that
it's primarily instrumental, with only a light smattering of lyrics. I was
afraid that if I couldn't sing along to this album, I might not be able to
relate to it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How wrong I
was. <i>Low</i> doesn't need lyrics. The music tells the story. And it's not a happy
one. It physically brought me to tears.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before I
tell the story of where the album took me, I just need to ask one question. Does
everyone go through a "blue period"? <i>Everybody hurts</i>, that's what
Michael Stipe said. And that's absolutely true. But does everybody hurt for an
extended period of time in which simply breathing and getting out of bed to
complete basic tasks like getting a glass of water is damn near impossible?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My blue
period occurred not too far back in recent history - from January 1 2006 to
February 10, 2010. Yes, I know the exact dates, because they were important
dates. Maybe the slide into darkness began somewhat earlier, and maybe the rise
out wasn't completely devoid of pain, but those dates bookend the period rather
aptly. And that's not to say that I never smiled or had a happy moment during
those years... but the dominant feelings were melancholy, restlessness, fear,
isolation, loneliness, anxiety, hopelessness, and an overall feeling of being
lost. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That period
is where <i>Low</i> took me. I could try and make up something else, but that would be
dishonest. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Having said
that, I've decided that I don't just want to put all of this out there where
anyone can see it. I mean, I'm kind of doing that anyway, but I'm going to set
up an invisibility cloak on the story that follows. If you can figure out how
to read it, congratulations, you get to find out about some of my darkest
thoughts and moments from that time period. Yes, I'm making you work for
it, which may mean that no one will bother, but it's important to me to set up
some kind of shield. Without further adieu...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Fall and Rise of the Little Girl With Grey
Eyes<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">It was the
summer of 2005. Actually, it was not even summer yet - it was early May, but
hot like summer. The hottest spring on record. The Little Girl With Grey Eyes
had just returned to Canada from nearly two years overseas. The time of her life.
She left behind the person she was to become someone else for awhile, to just
be in the world and experience it in an untethered way. The only moment of fear
or hesitation she experienced was the dilemma of whether to continue backpacking
in Europe or put all her money into a flight to Australia. Her next destination
all hinged on that. In May of 2004, The Little Girl With Grey Eyes called her
mom from Bruges and asked her... "So should I go to Berlin or back to
London? If I go to Berlin, I'm going to stay in Europe. If I go back to London,
I'm going to fly to Sydney".</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/11mhZFDSkyg" width="560"></iframe> </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">She went to
Sydney. She had fallen in love with an Australian hiphop emcee she had met in
Edinburgh, and she followed him home. She stayed downunder for a year, the best
year of her life. But when her visa was up, it was time to leave. So back to
Canada she did go. She had considered resuming
the European adventure, but her grandmother was sick, and thus decided she had
been away too long.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Initially,
adjusting to life back in Canada wasn't that difficult. The Little Girl was
living a permanent high. She was positively glowing. Everyone wanted to hear
her stories, at least, she believed that they did. Regardless, she told her
stories relentlessly.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">When her Aussie
boyfriend ended the relationship over the phone a couple months later, The
Little Girl was instantly crushed. But while the initial blow was devastating,
the longing that so often accompanies a break-up didn't persist longer than a
couple of months. More than likely, his residence on the other side of the planet
helped her to fold him up and put him away into a shoebox on her shelf, out of
her thoughts, relatively quickly. It wasn't long after, that she was suddenly
able to see him with a much clearer perspective the person he really was. How
she had chosen to ignore the fights, the drunken rants, the violence followed
by blackouts, in favour of the beautiful idea of being with him.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/IgdCIAEupNI" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">The Little
Girl had been working and living in a resort in cottage country that summer. As
the warm weather came to an end, she found herself a hotel job downtown Toronto.
Growing up in Northern Ontario, she had
always wanted to live in Toronto. On December 1, 2005, she moved into a share
house on Sullivan St. at Queen West and Spadina, with a group of art students
and a spiritual coach type guy. According to local lore, her snazzy new
dwelling was three doors down from where Margaret Atwood once lived.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">December
31, 2005. The Grey Eyed Girl was working the evening shift at the hotel. A good
group was working that night. Their shift was supposed to end at 11pm, and they
had planned on cramming themselves into the nearest bar and ringing in the New
Year together. But hotel workers rarely finish work on time when it comes to such
holidays. The group made it to the bar just after midnight, and stayed for a
couple of hours to celebrate. The Grey Eyed Girl felt good. She liked her new
life. It wasn't Europe or Australia, but she had made friends and was happy,
making ends meet in Canada's Big City. She may not have been living her dream,
but it was good for the short term. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/JhZqsYkl1zI" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">At 8am on
New Year's Day, 2006, The Grey Eyed Girl bounded out the door and up Sullivan
St. on her way to work, just a short 10 minute walk away. The two men walking
briskly in her direction gave her a bad feeling, but she didn't want to be late
for work, so she continued on her way. As The Girl encountered the men upon the
sidewalk, they pulled out knives and held them to her neck and back, demanding
money. The Girl gave them the $15 she had on her, and hoped that would be enough to
satisfy them. They let her go, physically unscathed, with only the warning that
they saw which house she came from, and would come back for her if she reported
them to the police. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Little
Girl's brain had difficulty processing the thought that she had traveled the
world by herself for nearly two years, without so much as the slightest incident
occurring, only to get mugged in her homeland.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">Life after
that became strange for The Girl. She was thankful those men didn't hurt her.
She knew the chances that they would make good on their threat were slim. And
yet, she feared them. She feared everyone, particularly during the earliest
hours of the day. She became convinced that there were only two kinds of people
out in the early mornings - those going to work, and those who were up to no
good. She tried to identify them. There seemed to be a lot of the bad kind.
Leaving the house in the morning became difficult. She asked for afternoon and
evening shifts, which her manager was happy to give for the most part, with
only a few exceptions. Still, leaving her room became a challenge.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/SDBiH5UdP2g" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">A couple of
months later, The Little Girl With Grey Eyes ran into a friend from university.
They hadn't seen each other in about 8 years - had it really been that long?
She liked him, always had. He was smart and creative, and well dressed. After a
day of enjoying sushi, drinks and clothes shopping, the two became an item. Unfortunately,
The Girl lived in daily fear that The Smart Boy With Amazing Shoes was going to
leave her. He could sense it and revealed to her that he had always thought of
her as a secure and confident person, but now he had gotten this feeling that
she wanted a body guard, not a boyfriend. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/kB7skYEv_EM" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">When he
broke it off, the devastation crept into the Girl's heart more slowly and
insidiously than it had with the Aussie. She took the news quietly, thanked The
Boy for giving her the chance to be with
him, and then proceeded to spiral down, down, down, into a hole so dark and deep
that it was impossible to tell which way was up. She took a sick week off work
to lie in bed. Going back to work, she was barely able to stand. The crushing
loneliness and newly developed fear of being alone spawned terrible, alarming thoughts. Thoughts about going outside, closing her
eyes, listening for the nearing ding of the streetcar, and walking out onto the
road.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9Gy94N_mcWs" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Grey
Eyed Girl broke her lease six months in. The insipid, lilac-frosting coloured
walls of her room were closing in on her. Sullivan St. was a nightmarish world
where everyone walking her way was coming for her. She moved up the road to a
flat above a restaurant in Chinatown with a girl she met on craigslist, The Pretty
Girl With Golden Hair . The apartment was small, but cheerful, with tiffany
blue walls and enormous bedroom windows through which happy glowing rays of
sunlight beamed. The change of scenery was welcome. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At first,
The Grey Eyed Girl felt sure she had left everything that happened to her on
Sullivan St. behind. Chinatown was always busy, with people crowding the
sidewalks at the markets. No one could hurt her there. And her new roommate was
a lovely, chipper girl. Then, things changed at work. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">During the
first year of employment at the hotel, everyone at the front desk was required
to do a three-month stretch of overnight shifts. The Grey Eyed Girl's stint
began that June, immediately after her move to Chinatown. The first couple of overnights weren't so
bad. But soon she found she was unable to sleep during the day, despite her
best efforts. She made <a href="http://youtu.be/uUcKeKt8C1k" target="_blank"><b>Daysleeper by REM</b></a> her anthem, and blasted it on her
stereo when the sun and the sounds of the street got to be too much. The big
bright window that had seemed such a blessing when she moved in became a source
of vast discomfort. With the hot June sun shining into her room and filtering
into the rest of the apartment, her eyes would not stay shut. She wanted the
darkness back.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/fRc2_-BCljQ" width="420"></iframe></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">A couple of
weeks into overnights, things fell very much apart. With very little sleep, The
Little Girl found herself unable to eat much. Her thoughts became increasingly
irrational. She was relieved to learn she had been given three days off in a
row, beginning on Tuesday. Rather than sleep, she called every friend in town
to see who wanted to go on a bender. Being a Tuesday, no one took her up on it.
Insistent that she was going to get blind drunk, alone if necessary, The Little
Girl bought herself a big bottle of wine and popped Moulin Rouge into her
laptop.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/pQxjVPmcdyQ" width="560"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She awoke
the following afternoon, having slept most of the hangover off. But what
concerned her more than feeling a tad unwell was the knife she found in bed
with her. How it came to be there, she could not recall. She called her dear
friend Snruby for advice, which was to go to the hospital and tell them what
happened. The Little Girl did, and stayed there for two days. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">Mostly she
slept, but when she finally woke to find herself in a room filled with a
hundred different kinds of crazy, the need to get out became overwhelming. She
considered going to Montreal to see a friend there, but the doctor talked her
out of it. Before leaving, he gave her three things: a note informing her
manager that she was not medically able to work the night shift, a bottle of
Zoloft with an accompanying prescription, and a recommendation to attend
Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. The Little Girl took the note and the pills, but
rejected the other suggestion. In her mind, the wine didn't get that knife,
something else did. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/hv7Y7F-Q2KE" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">Zoloft is a
strange thing. Within hours of the first dose, the Grey Eyed Girl felt as if
she was swimming slowly through space. This effect eventually wore off, but the
additional effect of not being able to cry or laugh persisted. In this
quasi-functional state, life became sort of livable again, even if it wasn't
what could be described as joyful. Despite this, the mediocrity was punctuated
with joyful moments - her sister got married, and she rekindled her friendship
with The Smart Boy With Amazing Shoes. She and her roommate moved to a larger
apartment with a better sunlight balance, and a balcony. She left her job at the
hotel and began working what she hoped was going to be a more creative role.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/IevwLPV86os" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fast
forward to December 2008. The US economic crisis had left the American-owned
company The Grey Eyed Girl worked for in a state of financial emergency. Jobs
were cut. For a time, it was rumoured her position was on the chopping block.
Fortunately, she didn't lose her job, but over 150 of her colleagues in the
Canadian facility lost theirs. As 2009 took over, the impact of the closing of
the Canadian facility became apparent in the Toronto showroom. Fights between
sales reps broke out, profanity-laced rants filled the atmosphere. A thick film
of anxiety covered everything - the office walls, the floors, the photocopier,
her computer, the entire showroom.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Grey
Eyed Girl wasn't a fighter. As she had learned during her first week at the
company, her number one strength was Empathy. She absorbed it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">It got so
that she could barely answer the phone, and when she did, the words "What's
wrong?!" fell out instead of the standard greeting. She spent hours in the
washroom. She cried at her desk. She ate almost nothing, and when she did, she'd
often spit it out before swallowing it. She took a lot of sick days. She drank
every night. She thought insects were
crawling in her hair. She probably should not have stopped taking the Zoloft.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: white;">Eventually,
the Girl's behaviour and resulting weight loss were brought to her attention by
my manager and two of the sales reps. She had no choice to admit that she
wasn't alright. She was encouraged to take a short-term disability leave to get
better.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/PK1alQN3MDg" width="420"></iframe><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white; color: white; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Up</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: white;">on
returning to work in December 2009, The Little Girl With Grey Eyes knew it
wouldn't be for long. The fear and sadness were still there, but something else
had taken root: Hope. 2010 was coming, and The Little Girl was tired of all the
bullshit. Tired of being sad, of being afraid, of phantom insects, of feeling
lost and not knowing where she was headed. She knew that 2010 was going to be
the year that everything changed. She gave her notice on February 10, and never
looked back.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">*****<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> I have a love/hate relationship with <i>Low</i>.
Musically, it's beautiful and incredibly moving. The first time I heard <i>Warzsawa</i>,
it made me cry in public, and I still get a lump in my throat when I listen to
it.<i> Sound and Vision</i>'s lyrics just about
put me on the floor, despite its upbeat music, and<i> Be My Wife</i>... OH GOD IT'S
ALL SO SAD. (And can I just say that the first time I heard <i>Subterraneans</i> I nearly choked during the lyrical part of the song. It's uncanny how it actually sounds like he's calling my name... Shelley Shelley Shelley... I'm not crazy, I played it for some people and they agreed.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Having this
album take me back to my blue period is painful, but I know that it's behind me
and I refuse to let myself ever slide back to that place. I am not that person anymore. I could argue that
I'm currently living in my "rose period" - the most creative period
of my life so far. My time overseas may have been the happiest and most fun,
but no one should live in that kind of unbridled hedonism for so long - you
come down too hard. Balance is important.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This album is among my favourites, because of
the way it never ceases to make me FEEL. Having said that, it does get to be a
bit too much at times. It is also hard to take because I know its creator went
through his own personal hell during the making of it, and of course, I empathize.
Fucking empathy.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15753254625113789369noreply@blogger.com0