face perception

Player One: What is to Become of Us 

- Douglas Coupland

Douglas Coupland has an uncanny ability to capture the zeitgeist. He did, after all, popularize the terms Generation X and McJob. 

Increasingly, Coupland uses an ever-expanding toolkit, beyond the traditional novel form, to hold the mirror up to current culture. Over the years he has branched further into non-fiction, essays, screenplays, furniture design, and the visual arts. With Player One, Coupland returns to the novel form, but with a twist - it was originally presented as a novel in five parts for the 2010 CBC Massey Lectures. 

Divided into five chapters (hours), Player One tells the story of  a small group of people trapped inside an airport cocktail lounge during a global catastrophe. The narration shifts among the five main characters - Karen, who has just traveled across the country to meet her online date; Rick, the recovering alcoholic bartender who is ready to take an expensive leap of faith; Luke, a pastor who has just absconded with the parish coffers; Rachel, a disassociated beauty whose limbic system anomalies make her incapable of true human contact; and Player One, a disembodied voice who functions somewhat like a Greek chorus inside a video game. When global gas prices suddenly skyrocket to hundreds of dollars per barrel, the world explodes, and those trapped inside the cocktail lounge are forced to come to terms with the new world reality.

Coupland uses this clever premise to explore themes of time, identity, and the fragility of social structures. Player One, though, is so much more than just a clever premise; it's a compelling and highly readable story. Douglas Coupland has an unerring ability to synthesize postmodern reality, by taking people in instantly identifiable situations and digging into the mundane in a way that makes us really take note of that which we take for granted. With this slim novel, he once again succeeds mightily. 

Coupland wraps up Player One on an interesting note, with a glossary of terms (entitled Future Legend) that we will need in order to take us through our new phase of post-human existence. Terms like "time snack" (often annoying moments of pseudo-leisure created by computers when they stop responding in order to save a file, to search for software updates or, most likely, for no apparent reason) and "ikeasis" (the desire in both daily and consumer life to cling to generically designed objects; this need for clear, unconfusing forms is a means of simplifying life amid an onslaught of information) made me nod in instant recognition. As I often do when I read a Douglas Coupland novel.

hey, spaceman

returning from space

to lead the Stampede parade

look up, Chris Hadfield

so long

I have a confession to make. I love quitting. Severing the festering ties of a relationship that no longer works, throwing off the toxic shackles, and moving on, unencumbered - there is real joy and a sense of rebirth in that. I'm a sucker for a fresh start.

I do a fair bit of volunteering, much of it writing, but some of it actual physical work. In general, I find it really quite rewarding. It certainly doesn't hurt that the organizations I volunteer with are really great at showing their appreciation for their armies of volunteers. From volunteer appreciations events to free tickets to chocolates and cookies, they go all out to show their appreciation, even when all we really want is a simple thank you. 

Today, though, I quit organization x, for whom I have been writing two articles a month for about a year and a half. It wasn't so much that they were making money from the contributions of their writers (although I did find that a little sketchy) or that they were paying some of their writers but not others (okay to be honest, that was really shabby). It was the lack of appreciation that finally forced me to quit. I kept waiting for some love, but aside from mentioning my name a once or twice (but usually not) when they tweeted my articles, I got no acknowledgement.

I'm not sure why I waited so long to finally quit. Maybe I kept waiting for that elusive thank you. Eventually the completely ignored National Volunteer Week last week finally made me take action. I am sure going to love all this new-found free time.

Tell me about your volunteer experiences.  
Have you had any really bad (or really great) ones?

honey home

The Black and Wretched Blue 

- Emma Hill

With the release of The Black and Wretched Blue, Emma Hill finds herself physically back on familiar turf, in her home state of Alaska, but there are some sonic touches on the album that conjure up a distinctly more southerly territory. It's a fitting dichotomy for an album that resonates with wanderlust and longing for home.

Hill's honey-smoked voice takes on a soulful growl in many of the numbers, and combined with the horns that periodically kick in to accompany the familiar guitar, banjo and pedal steel, it imparts a bit of a New Orleans vibe to many of the songs. There is still plenty of rootsy sensibility to Emma Hill's music, but it is tinged with a soupcon of jazz.

From the sultry swing of Crushin' to the sweet sadness of The Arrow is Sharp, from the affectionate playfulness of Fallin' For a Girl to the aching lilting cry of A Hundred Homes, Emma Hill shows a maturation that sees her stretching her wings into new musical territory. The Black and Wretched Blue is a nicely nuanced album, full of heartache and joy, that satisfies on many levels.

emmahillmusic.com

setting the record straight

The Antagonist - Lynn Coady

Lynn Coady is a master of capturing the voice and the psyche of people on the margins. She hasn't lost her touch with The Antagonist.

Gordon Rankin ("Rank") grew up bigger and stronger than anyone else in his small town. Although it was contrary to his nature, he was cast early into the role of enforcer. It was a role that he fulfilled reluctantly, in order to gain the approval of classmates, coaches, and especially his own volatile father. 

Years after that thug status places him in the line of tragedy, Rank's now quiet existence is shaken when he discovers that a college friend - the only person to whom he has ever divulged his secrets - has written a book that is clearly about him. A book that places Rank in a less than flattering light. Through a series of emails to the former friend, he angrily sets out to take the author to task for this betrayal and to set the record straight. Along the way, Rank begins to question his own memory of those long ago events.   

You would never guess that this book was written by a girl. Coady has an unerring ability to portray male posturing in all its guises - in the locker room, in the parking lot, and in the dorm room. But with a deft hand, she is simultaneously able to move beyond the testosterone-laden camaraderie and rivalries, and uncover the motives that put those men into the roles they inhabit.

It's an inner understanding that Rank himself slowly uncovers, via months of unanswered email rants.

The Antagonist is both very readable and carefully nuanced. Well worth the read.

blink don't blink

Two days ago it was midwinter.

Downtrodden brown grass harboured the last sickly vestiges 
of the most recent ice age, 

while determined ridges of snirt clung to the pavement and clogged up wheel wells.

No time for such frivolous concepts as spring this year; suddenly it's midsummer,

and we've forgotten what it's like to close the doors and windows.

transition zone home

Partly to commemorate yesterday's alignment of the stars  which brought us that most auspicious of double whammy holidays - Record Store Day and 420, but mostly to celebrate two very talented local bands who tend to tread along similar musical paths, today I bring you:

 Two Calgary Country Bands You Should Know:

The Wine Soaked Preachers and The Ruminants

The Wine Soaked Preachers:
The Preachers started life in a rather unlikely manner. As a Corb Lund tribute band, their aim was to spread the musical gospel of Alberta's favourite former punk now reborn country roots musician, and, while doing so, play every hotel in southern Alberta. The jury is out as to whether or not they achieved that second lofty goal, but along the journey, they amassed a considerable following, including that of one Corb Lund himself.

As will happen when you play enough music together, the Wine Soaked Preachers began to develop their own sound, and the trio started penning original songs. In the fall of 2012, the Wine Soaked Preachers recorded their debut album, Tales of Western Noir, a foot stomping, fire and brimstone sermon of white lightning and watering holes. With the exception of an Alberta-only remake of Hank Snow's I've Been Everywhere (subtitled In the Key of Alberta), all the songs on Tales of Western Noir are WSP originals. Tracks like The Lethbridge Provincial Gaol Blues and Swift River embrace deep-rooted provincial ties, and all the songs call for a bracing shot of whiskey and a resounding stomp of the cowboy boot.

The Wine Soaked Preachers are currently on hiatus, to accommodate the travel bug, but look for them at a holy watering hole near you sometime this summer. In the meantime, pick up their album, Tales of Western Noir. You'll soon see the light.
thewinesoakedpreachers.com

~*~

The Ruminants:
Longtime Calgary bar favourites, the Ruminants, celebrated the release of their debut album on April 19 with a barn burner at Mikey's Juke Joint. Which was only fitting, since the self-titled album was actually recorded in a barn.

It was a savvy move. The acoustics of the big old Rockyford barn lend an extra level of heartache to the soulful harmonies on tracks like Time is a Bleach and The Note. You can all but hear the lonesome freight train wailing in the distance beyond the barn walls on the lead track, Railyard, and on the dark reverb within the belly hollers of tracks like Anywhere But Here.

The Ruminants debut album is a tasty melange of heartache country and hook-laden stompers. You really should pick it up and have a listen to some down-home Calgary alt-country.
theruminants.ca

working joe

I'm using an alarm clock these days. I'm now halfway through a temp day gig that has me rising at 5, much to the delight of the Slightly Retarded Kitty, who already figured that was the best possible time for humans to be rolling out of bed and tending to her needs.

I've learned a thing or two during my brief stint as a downtown office worker:
- If you are willing to walk four blocks you can park for $10 for the day (provided you arrive before 9AM) instead of $22. Hell yeah, I'll walk four blocks for $12!
- Leaving the house just past 7 and getting home just before 6 does not leave much time for errands. I have gained a whole new respect for the time management skills of normal people who work regular hours.
 - I don't have nearly enough office appropriate clothing, ie well-fitting, unstained, and unripped.
- If you pay attention, you can make it through the week without sustaining any paper cuts (or worse still, cardboard cuts).
- Winging it isn't all that hard; you'll figure it out or make it up as you go.
- Planning meals when you are at work all day takes a complete shift in mindset. Cheese sandwiches, it is.

What did you learn at work today?

create destroy create

The goal is to make it through the next week or so with no paper cuts, grabbing sleep where possible. We'll start with a mini Martha getaway in the face of a threatening snowstorm. Forces of spring, be ye now fickle!

the feet of the girl who serves

On Grey Cup weekend last November, I rustled up my usual massive batch of chili and tucked several containers away in the freezer for future self to enjoy on a cold grey dampish day. Today, the future arrived. 

Let's hear it for human forethought and chest freezers!

shadow lens

eyes in the trees
formed by the play of branches and air
gaze into a world of lazy focus and wool-gathering
they are the descendants of wood panel afternoons
where nymphs and monsters ruled the walls
shifting in and out of vision in a kingdom of badly pressed particleboard 

detente

We take our shoes off in the house, being good Canadians. Personal experience and popular culture has us believing that, in the USA, shoes are left on when entering the house.

But, the stupid question begs to be asked, and perhaps my American friends can set me straight on this burning diplomatic matter: what happens in the morning? Say you are getting dressed in the morning, but you aren't going to leave the house for a couple of hours, do you put your shoes on right away or wait until you are leaving the house? And where do slippers fit into this scenario anyway?

These are matters that we need clarified if we are going to maintain diplomatic relations along the 49th parallel. (And yet, we leave our shoes on at airport security...)

chesterfield notes

We're all pretty satisfied to be settled back into our own personalized butt indentations on the chesterfield.  Some of us though, on occasion, still opt for human lap over foam cushions. Not as squishy perhaps, but way warmer.

razing Arizona

I've been thinking a lot about Arizona since we've returned home. It's a place that digs deep into your psyche, because it is so very removed from normal life. A place of contrasts and extremes, a place that should not support human existence, but a place that many people love nonetheless. Full disclosure - I could never live in Arizona. I could never even spend a month there, like my sis and bro in law do, but the five days that we spent there was perfect. I could do five days anytime.

Arizona has the strangest flora. Cacti, of course, but far more varieties and species and weird shapes than I ever dreamed possible. It also has trees like the palo verde (which are bright green thanks to the chlorophyll in the bark), palm trees, and citrus trees growing right outside your door. 

 

Arizona is coffee on the deck in the morning sun, early sunsets, cold nights and dinner outside around the outdoor fireplace to ward off the chill of the desert evening. 

  Arizona is the ballsiness of building cities where none should exist, and the joy of spring training baseball on a gloriously sunny Sunday afternoon. Arizona is taking pictures of fountains and cacti coming out of people's heads.  It's a weird place that keeps calling you back.

 

standing on the sun

 My favourite restaurant meal of the Great Southwest Sojourn was eaten at a museum. The outdoor courtyard of the Heard Museum of Native Cultures and Art in Phoenix is a deliciously sun-dappled oasis, cool and restful. Set in the centre of striking Spanish-influenced architecture, it's an ideal location for a high quality restaurant that focuses on tasty and tastefully-presented food and impeccable service. I had tall frosty glasses of iced tea, served in the traditional unsweetened American style, and the best carnitas ever.

Since, left to my own devises I tend to bounce aimlessly from exhibit to exhibit, we opted to join in one of the 45 minute museum tours. Oh my lawd didn't we get Gloria for our tour guide.  An 80-something self-confessed bossy-pants (there was speculation amongst the crowd that she must be a former teacher), Gloria pounded the display glass with her bright red talons, turquoise rings flashing as she expounded points that wandered in and out of focus. I suspect they have to break out the Windex after Gloria finishes her tours. She was awesome.

 My favourite exhibition at the Heard was that of the Native American Code Talkers.  I knew of the role that the code talkers played during wartime, but didn't realize that instead of simply translating English messages to Indian languages, as I thought, they actually developed a code within the native languages, based on alphabet and on Indian words that matched the function of the war machinery.  A fascinating, but troubling chapter of American history.

If you exit through the gift shop with the aim of bringing something home, though, you are going to max out that credit card.  There were some pretty pricey offerings therein, including a katsina doll that could be ours for the very reasonable price of $28,000.00.

Two consecutive days of museuming turned out to be the perfect leadup to an afternoon of major league baseball.  Stay tuned!

when I run dry

Taliesin West, just outside of Scottsdale, is where Frank Lloyd Wright moved - in his seventies - to take advantage of the warm dry Arizona winters and the cheap $12.50/acre land.  He always meant it to be a temporary camp.  The buildings were constructed to be open to the elements, with no glass in the windows and canvas on the roofs. 

Architecture students who studied with him there in the barren desert slept in tents until they completed their own shelters in the desert, and were pressed into service hauling rocks down from the hills for masonry and building the only road by hand.  They were also expected to participate in formal evenings.  Evidently FLW instructed those students applying to study with him at Taliesin West to bring a tuxedo or ball gown, and a sleeping bag.

Frank Lloyd Wright was a bit of an eccentric kook and, from what I understand, somewhat of a dick, but there is no denying that he was a genius.  And he built structures that resonate with my soul.  Photos of the inside of Taliesin West and its inner courtyard are not permitted, but after a 90 minute tour on the second day of our great Southwestern desert odyssey, its striking lines and dramatic desert presence will be forever burned into my psyche. 

Also forever burned into my memory will be the rounds of Cards Against Humanity that we played later that evening on the back deck of the condo. Nights are mighty cool in the Sonoran desert and the sun sets around 6pm, so with a fire crackling in the outdoor fireplace to keep us cozy in the dark, we guffawed and snorted and wiped tears of laughter from our eyes and snots of laughter from our noses. Who knows what the neighbours assumed the loony Canucks were up to?  

Yet to come, a pilgrimage to Phoenix for the beautiful Heard Museum, a sojourn to Salt River Fields for spring training baseball, desert hikes, pancakes and neighbourhood bars.

sun baking

 There's some highly unusual flora and fauna living in the desert of the American southwest, and I am not just referring to family members who are vacationing down here. I have learned so many names for cacti since arriving. Evidently that which I have always called Bugs Bunny cactus is really known as Saguaro. There's also the Teddy Bear Cholla (which literally attacks you when you walk by,) and a bunch of other weird and wonderful ones whose names I have written down somewhere but can't think of offhand.  

I especially like the Palo Verde tree, which has a bright green trunk that produces chlorophyll.  It reminds me of the blue-painted trees we saw last time we were in Seattle, except of course that these trees are naturally tinted and Seattle could not be more opposite from Arizona.

We were lucky enough to spot a little lizard sunning itself outside the condo on the first day, as well as a hummingbird and a whole bunch of cute little quails (the Chicken McNuggets of the desert) and they run really fast with their little top-notted heads abobbing.  

I thought it was pretty cool that after all the heart-warming family friendly statues that we admired outside the library (where a young mini Jimi Hendrix was coaxing distorted tears out of his electric guitar, sending vibes across the mesas), I spotted a rather fierce statue of a mountain lion tearing the innards from some small desert creature. I was admiring the bravery of the juxtaposition until my family pointed out that it was actually a mother carrying her cub. D'Oh! 

Day one of the Great Southwest Desert Odyssey was fabulous.  To come - Taliesin West, the Heard Museum, major league spring training and family shenanigans.