Underneath

I was up late last night.

I watched Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final. If only because I have not missed a Cup-clinching game since ... 1980, I would guess. The spring that witnessed the end of one NHL dynasty and the beginning of a new one. Back in an era when dynasties were still possible.

Even in the midst of a disastrous Greyhound bus trip across the country with a frigid female companion in the summer of 2000, I still managed to catch Jason Arnott's overtime goal behind the analog fuzz of a tiny TV atop the diner refrigerator in a charmless Calgary bus station.

But last night, after the entirely predictable (yet obviously unfathomable to Canuck "enthusiasts") Game 7 loss, I couldn't tear myself away from the CBC affiliate in Vancouver. Soon after their Cup hopes were efficiently extinguished by the Bruins, the civic humiliation escalated right under the paternalistic eye of the national broadcaster.

Not to exaggerate, but I was spellbound with a morbid fascination while witnessing, at a digital remove, the desecration of my familiar lieux de memoire in the downtown core. So little of that downtown has changed, it seems, since I spent the better part of a decade in that city. I probably know that downtown better than I do the downtown where I now live. The iconoclastic stripping of the altars around Georgia, Granville and all the other familiar streets had a surprising emotional impact on me. With the exception of the dear friends that I made while I was there, some of whom still reside in that beautiful city, Vancouverites always seemed, to me at least, unnaturally frozen under a patina of affected coolness and detachment which supposedly rendered them unencumbered by the societal stresses of the East, towards which they often wagged an empathetic or condescending finger.

But underneath there seemed to be a repressed sense of marginalia and neglect, leavened with a bizarre sense of superiority and entitlement.

When that reaches a boiling point, and the primordial sludge bubbles to the surface (it penetrates far beyond the parochial yet passionate milieu of NHL hockey), all it seems to take is a few combustibles and an igniting agent.

What bothered me most about watching things unfold last night was less about the fully loaded cretins who were burning and looting, but rather the non-participants who were obviously enjoying the spectacle of watching, and photographing/videotaping with their insipid 'smart' phones, the property and psychological damage being inflicted on both their home city and their international reputation. Smilin' and wavin' to the rest of the world as the flames flickered. The downtown, not to mention the social order, was momentarily turned upside down during a bizarre charivari of carnivalistic mob rule while the police watched from the sidelines. I have to believe that any global currency that the city and province might have accrued during the hosting of the 2010 Olympics (itself a problemmatic "event", but that's a debate for another day) went up in smoke bombs and tear gas last night.

Which begs the question. If Sid hadn't have squeezed that puck through Ryan Miller's short side, what might have happened in downtown Vancouver? Surely nothing of the sort that took place last night, as the 'international community' was there to chaperone. When left to their own devices and resources, its a different outcome, apparently.

Last night, I kept waiting for Hugh Dillon's elite reponse unit to show up and restore some order.

http://youtu.be/VclaeaajDiU

Y Cymry

As a diasporadic Scot, I feel a fellowship with other occupants of the Celtic fringe, including those from the Brythonic branch of the lingual tree.

The shiring of Wales by England may have taken place in the 1530s and 40s, but by then the Cymry had infiltrated what was arguably the most powerful institution of sixteenth-century England. The Tudor dynasty formally consecrated its Welsh lineage by including the Red Dragon in its royal arms. Earlier the future Henry VII raised the Red Dragon with its Tudor green and white background when he defeated Richard III and his supporters at Bosworth Field in 1485.

A little more recently, and right on the heels of their fellow Celts in Scotland, the Welsh regained their own parliament. It remains to be seen what Devolution will ultimately deliver to both, but it is interesting to watch.

In between, the Cymry have made their own disproportionate contributions to not only “Britain” and “Britishness”, but to the wider world. But fear not, I have no intention of assembling a list that irrefutably demonstrates how the Welsh invented the “modern world”. No doubt you can find something of that sort in a bargain bin at your local book bizarre of choice. Such claims have become what Trojan founding myths were to nascent European nation-states.

I do need to mention, however, a few Welshman that have meant something to me, if not the modern world, which, surely, is a more important cause than I am. Although I am open to contributions, as always.

Bertrand Russell never meant anything to me. Mathematicians never make good philosophers.

Richard D. James may not mean something to a lot of people. But Aphex Twin might, but not really that much to me.

It means more to me that Roger Glover is a Welshman. But not all Welshmen are Highway Stars.

It means much more to me that Peter Greenaway is Welsh. But not many Welshmen have made films as wonderful as The Cook, the Thief, his Wife, and her Lover.

And while it might not be traditional Welsh music, a power trio originally from North Wales has recently captured my ear.

Hwyl am rwan ...

http://youtu.be/9kNQeDlgBoc (switch to 1080p)

CannesCon

Another reason to marvel in May is over.

Another good field ran in the 64th reeling of the festival de Cannes.

Malick, von Trier ... even Takashi Miike got a long overdue invite to compete for the Palme d'Or.

The jury, headed by Robert De Niro, gave the nod to Malick. Which doesn't mean much, of course. What makes the festival noteworthy are the films buried in the sidebar competitions and non-competitions that finally make it to wider distribution.

One of the best parts of all this was watching De Niro speak French. I guess his Italian didn't help him out very much.

http://www.festival-cannes.com/en.html ("Best of du 64eme festival de Cannes" - at the 6:30 mark)

Country Fair

The Victoria Day long weekend is about to kick off!

Here in the city, the patios are packed. The hot dog vendors can't keep 'em coming fast enough to ease the long lineups.

And out beyond the city limits, the season of the country fair is about to unfurl in all its ferocious glory.

Its time.

Time for the 4-H clubs to make some hay.

Time to clean out the fryer, and wipe off the grill.

Stir the gravy. Chop the curd. Flip the burgers.

Take the tokens. Put up the beer tent.

Ride the rusty rollercoaster. Bum a smoke off the carny.

Drive the tractors over. Put your lemon in the demolition derby.

Creedence cover bands. Proof of age wrist bands.

Others can have their Pioneer Days. Nothing needs to be re-enacted at the Country Fair.

Its always been.

And others can have their Balloon Festivals. No Trooper. No April Wine. No Honeymoon Suite. No Loverboy. No unforgiving spandex. And no balloons. Sounds like a solid manifesto to me.


I'll take the country fair.

You'll find me and my Jumbo Dog under the shade of the John Deere green.

Going a Maying

Its May Day.

The Beltane fires are burning. Walpurga has walked.

A putative day off for proles around the world. And the intergalactic workers as well, Space Truckin' their way through the nebulae.

Too bad it falls on a Sunday.

Tho' even on this day of rest and recuperation, there's a bustle in my hedgerow -- the spring clean for the May queen continues.

A vain Projector for so long, my tempest-tost head is reeling with productive possibilities, while my passions are firmly in the grippe of a virulent yet vitalizing strain of biblophagia.

On this evening 228 years ago, Samuel Johnson remarked to James Boswell and a young Edmund Burke that "it is strange that there should be so little reading in the world, and so much writing. People in general do not willingly read, if they can have any thing else to amuse them. There must be an external impulse; emulation, or vanity, or avarice. The progress which the understanding makes through a book, has more pain than pleasure in it."


Its May, and we're all after something.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.



Maypole Song by

Happy Record Store Day!

Spring has sprung.

The fiscal year is finished. Finally.

The Highlanders hoisted the Dominion Cup. I see new headphones in my future.

The Stanley Cup Playoffs have begun. Great traditional rivalries renewed.

Habs v. Bruins (remember Kenny Dryden v. Gilles Gilbert and Patrick Roy v. Andy Moog?)

Canucks vs. Blackhawks (remember King Richard Brodeur v. Murray Bannerman?)

Predators vs. Ducks (remember ......... Pekka Rinne v. Dan Ellis?)

The downtown patios are opening.

And come morning, its Record Store Day.

New releases and re-releases from hundreds of bands. From Husker Du to Pearl Jam. ZZ Top to John Mayall's Bluesbreakers.

Ozzy Osbourne is this year's ambassador.

And while I haven't owned a turntable in years, I hope vinyl lovers turn out in droves on Saturday to buy records.

As for me, I'll be scorched earthing my apartment. All superfluous shit must go. Maybe I'll have a garage sale. That seems to be the thing to do this time of the year. Or, since I don't have a garage, and have to park my car halfway across the downtown, I'll dump everything behind the building next to the trash and recycling bins.

One man's trash is another man's treasure.

Did I mention that Ozzy is the ambassador of Record Store Day this year?

Country Home

A minivan drove into an apartment in my building this morning.

My "art deco" building, as the newspaper reported.

Thankfully, the pregnant driver nor her baby in the backseat appeared to be injured. But she will have to pay the bill, I suppose.

It just makes me all the more thankful for my Country Home.

Yeah, this city life has lots of style, but it wears me out. Its nice to jump in the car (i.e. walk the 7 city blocks to the parking lot) and skin out to the ancestral Glen.

Springtime in the Glen offers me the opportunity to experience the sublimity of Nature and its restorative powers. So seemingly peaceful and placid, yet underneath the surface teeming with microscopic agons of life and death. The signs of these struggles are scattered about, particularly when I walk among the ancient trees of the primeval forest. At least I used to pretend it was primeval, even if it was just a farmer's bush.

Nature red in tooth and claw, indeed.

In passing from the City to my Country Home, I always experience the ataraxia that comes along with that escape. The cessation of the incessant noise of my street during the spring: the jackhammers, the fire trucks. Or minivans plowing into the apartments below.

When in the Glen, I realize that another part of me rouses from its hibernation. Something comes alive. A different part of my brain is activated, and a special part of my soul begins to soar.

Et in Arcadia ego


Neil Young - Country Home 1976 by Yedi