The Newman Crush

I couldn't help but love Paul Newman. I loved his politics and humanitarianism, never cared much for his salad dressing or tomato sauce, but as an actor he was almost beyond reproach. He was one of the most compelling screen personalities of his generation, the type of presence that would captivate you from the moment his character was introduced in the dozens of films he made. On screen he was the type of man you wanted to be - seductive and cool, smart and worldly. In movies like "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid", "Cool Hand Luke" and "Hud", he personified the anti-hero, long before it became a cinematic cliche. Whether playing a criminal, washed up hockey player, drunk lawyer, pool hustler, or cowboy, you sensed he was right - the world was corrupt and oppressive and his existential dilemna was an unwillingness to comply with the dishonesty and corruption around him. You respected his cynicism as the product of the rugged individualist, not that of a crusty underachiever. He was part of the generation of American actors who perfected a new,natural style that could reflect insecurity and volatility, tenderness and ambivalence.

Paul Newman was born in 1925, more than a generation before my friends and I. Despite the gap in age he was a role model - the kind of person we wanted to emulate during invented battles on the playground, and the man we hoped to become when we stumbled into puberty and its pleasurable and playful offshoot-dating. I loved his portrayal of a man struggling with his sexuality and failure to live up to his potential in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof". Despite the sexual chemistry between his character and Elizabeth Taylor's it was clear he was confused - and portraying "confused" in 1957 Hollywood and anesthetized America was not easy. Fifty years later it is also hard to say goodbye - recent photos of him looking ill in public were difficult for his fans to reconcile with. We wanted his blue eyes and sly grin to endure forever, luring criminals into jail and beautiful women into bed. Hopefully, despite the instantaneous and disposable celebrity of contemporary popular culture, it will.

What is Was......

Slim Gaillard, some time in the mid-1940's. One of the most interesting music personalities of the time. He invented a bizarre form of scat singing with nonsense syllables, played the piano with the backs of his hands and sang songs about cultures seemingly foreign to him. In this video,it is refreshing to see African American and Jewish American culture not at odds with each other. He had a song called Yip Roc Heresay, which was based on a dish he found at an Armenian restaurant. Almost eight, he finished off his long career appearing on rap songs in the late 80's. He also teamed up with Slam Stewart, a remarkable personality who would sing along with his bass and dance between breaks:



Where the hell are unique performers like this now? I have beaten the whole "It ain't like it used to be" critique of music to death, but I would sure like to listen to the radio and not hear recycled Clash filtered through recycled Green Day pass for alternative music or punk, or self indulgent singer songwriters who have traded in the profession's socially conscious mantle for endless navel gazing and ruminations about relationships that fail. Maybe you split up because emo boy and girl are a little narcissistic, no? Well I guess the accountants in the music industry won. A good tattoo and endless music lessions triumph over individuality every time. Every reality show features the same R & B "stretch every note so I can be heard" vocal intonation, designed to make mama and daddy in Kansas or Texas proud. Pretty, but much like breast implants. Despite the subjective aesthetics, the real thing, flaws and all, is so much more pleasurable to the touch. To be fair, Slim and Slam died poor, and Frank Sinatra rich, so the same thing happened then. It just seemed as though entertainment existed in the purest sense. You just have to look around at the endless nostalgia that exists among the youth for the music of the 60's, 70's, 80's and now the early 90's. Since that time, I can think only of Beck, Fatboy Slim, The Hives and the Dandy Warhols as a last stand for some sort of defiant indivuality, albeit ironic. There are other groups out there surely, but I'm not really listening anymore.

Front Row Seats

With a head cold and no time to cook, I relied on a Friday night staple in my humble neighbourhood of Notre Dame de Grace in Montreal. Chalet BBQ first opened in 1944, catering to a local clientele of skilled workers, lodge members, and wives of soldiers fighting in Europe. NDG was a simpler place then, home to a few thousand residents one generation removed from rougher parts of the city like Verdun and Point St. Charles. Sixty-four years later the anachronistic plastic booths and wooden panels still glisten cleanly under the odd light fixtures, as muscular waitresses move elegantly in first postion - carrying three or four plates and soup without spilling a drop or losing their cigarettes. This ballet is elegantly coordinated, cooked chickens chopped to a rhythm accompanying young girls stuffing bags for take out orders, and well-fed drivers dodging customers to deliver in rusted cars to those too faint of heart to opt for the floor show of the takeout section. Bemused customers scratch fat bellies and suck on toothpicks before walking happily stuffed to the parking lot, beaming at the thought of a meal served without pretention or a complicated menu to negotiate. They wax nostalgically with their partners about youthful rebellion and children who should call them more often. There is only one meat on the menu, and an audience of slow cooking chickens and dense fries watch the most elegant production in the neighbourhood since the Empress Theatre was a burlesque house. At one time, fifty bodies whirl and lunge with no physical contact or unnecessary liquid spilled. Waitresses pause to smile at customers gawking like tourists at the orderliness of the display. Not a movement is wasted, nor does a shout miss its intended recipient. The take out cashier conducts with quips and rolled eyes, pausing for a moment to show a wedding photo of one of her daughters. The restaurant is so enshrined, old timers who remember the Empress dancers standing outside to grab a smoke between sets refer to a takeout order as "getting a Chalet". Many institutions in NDG are gone - the Empress Theatre became the Cinema V and then a hollowed shell looking for adoption. The Monkland Theare is now a magazine store and a bakery, and the Monkland Tavern is the more elegant "Le Taverne", free of turned over tables and sixty cent beers served in glasses of questionable cleanliness. Still, Chalet trundles on, aging gracefully like its clientele, a little out of date but solid, pausing only for the occasional kitchen fire and holiday. The food is consistent, much like what it's like to go home for the weekend. You know how the potatoes will taste, what the colour the plates will be, and whether or not you will have room for pie.

But I Don't Want to Play Trains!

When I picked up Jake from the daycare on Tuesday he had a nasty cough. "Just a leftover from the last cold" I tried to convince myself, but it became worse as we made our way back home. On the bus, one of the other moms in the neighbourhood noticed how sick he looked and we both shrugged our shoulders knowing this is a common thing to happen to a four year old. She has twins and ought to know afterall. Well two days later and he seems on the mend, but I have been stuck at home and am going stir crazy. I keep chiding myself for not wanting to get more involved in his young life, but I have reached a point of saturation, where the cute, inviting books, games and videos for preschoolers are starting to become tedious for my pseudo-intellectual mind. Surely bathing, feeding,cuddling, and allowing him to watch movies while he recovers should be enough, but I know I should be doing more. My mother would have whipped out the flashcards and would have had me writing my name between bites of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup. I just can't. I am restless and am missing my co-workers and friends and am spending time on e-mail, Facebook and Google in the hope of finding some snippet of contact with the outside world. Today is regrettably a slow day. Luckily I am not alone. http://www.truedadconfessions.com/ is part of group of websites devoted to allowing people to confess their "sins" anonymously. Other sites include:

truemomconfessions.com

truebrideconfessions.com

trueofficeconfessions.com

truegreenconfessions.com

truemilitarywivesconfessions.com

truehookupconfessions.com

truebodyconfessions.com

I "confess" to having used the office confessions site on more than one occasion and you know what, it feels good! Sometimes you just have to push your inner thoughts out. It's actually a cathartic experience. Posters have admitted to using their workday for everything from masturbation to childish pranks, and some of the declarations on both this and the other sites are funny but often painful to read, especially if they ring true personally. There is talk of discontentment, disappointment, resentment, and infidelity, and the end result is not judgement, but that we are merely human, trying to make sense of a society that places constraints on our behavior that act in conflict with human nature and primate behavior. Others reveal with honesty the dilemna of the modern person- from Dr. Spock to Baby Einstein, parenting over the last 50 years has created several generations of selfish and self-absorbed kids who don't grow up, but still have to share their lives with families, friends and co-workers who have the same problem. It's likely the reason why so many people I know are single and so many couples I knew are now divorced. We don't worship God, or our country anymore, we are devoted entirely to self-love. How many times does the average Canadian say in a day "I do so much for them and they don't appreciate it." How can we when we don't think of anyone but ourselves? I shouldn't be blogging right now - I should be upstairs with Jake reading to him or watching the awful kids movie I allowed him to see. I just can't help but wish I was out in the sun going for a long walk and taking a few photos of the early Fall we seem to have in Montreal this year. Ok, the movie has ended and he wants my attention. I can't resist his smile.

Subprime Broken Rib

With the fall of Lehman Brothers yesterday, the world is a slightly more chaotic place. Global finance is so interconnected, only a fool would say "It doesn't affect me". Japanese businessmen who built careers working for one firm are packing their bags today, dishonoured and shaken. People are scared to look at their next finanical statements, even if they had no direct knowledge of the aforementioned company, which filed for bankruptcy after 158 years in the money business. Analyists relate this to the continued fallout from the subprime lending crisis, where people who wanted to buy houses were furnished with ridiculously low interest initial loans in the hope they could renegotiate mortgages later on.

It doesn't take a Sociologist or Psychologist to understand that people with a history of subsistance living do not know how to save money. It is analagous to leaving your dog with a plate of food for each day you are on vacation, assuming he/she will ration their eating. People are not dogs, but there is a serious problem with capitalizing on people's dreams (like the right to own property), while setting them up for failure. It ties in with a culture of immediacy that encourages us to consume rapaciously without the thought of how and when we are going to find the money to pay for it. I see it as an analogy to the awful state of Montreal's roads. After a century of amusing ourselves to death, someone looked beneath the beer bottles, concert tickets and used condoms and found out that our plumbing is about to disintegrate. What a drag on the party scene!

While I don't expect the world to divest itself of interest in the American economy (afterall, other investment companies were bailed out to avoid the financial repercussions associated with their demise) it would be nice if every Economics program in North American universities featured mandatory courses on ethics and consumer behavior in relation to socioeconomic status. Ah, I'm so naive!

Say It Ain't So, Coen

As painful as this is to say, the reviews for the new Coen brothers movie "Burn After Reading" are surprisingly bad. The follow up to the Oscar winning "No Country for Old Men" was supposed to be a return to comedy for the remarkable team that brought a litany of laughs to discriminating film goers and the odd smirk to the faces of film snobs with movies such as "Raising Arizona", "Barton Fink", "Oh Brother Where Art Thou", and my favourite, "Miller's Crossing". I am wondering what went wrong and have a small theory or two. Brad Pitt and George Clooney are accomplished actors and have proven that handsome features are no impediment to comedy. However, we see them all too frequently, whether it's the latest sequal to "Ocean's 11" (are we up to 16 now?) or as fodder for the Sarah Palin set, on the cover of terrible gossip magazines, like "The Star" and "Entertainment Weekly". It's kind of like being in a relationship for too long. The things you find adorable about your partner when you first tickle their toes under the sheets are later found to drive you crazy when you are both painting the bathroom in your underwear. There are other problems with familiarity too - how many stories featuring CIA operatives must we see on the screen? Answer-plenty. Since the Central Intelligence Agency is well, involved in clandestine activities, their very essence of mystery leaves them wide open for the creative minds of screenplay writers with a couple of espressos in them. Still, like Brad and George, the genre may be getting tiresome.

I guess I should see if first - after a long day of student advising and attempts at personal growth, I many not be all that discriminating.