All Humans Are Tumblers

Grandpa fell in the ocean, I hauled him out, soaked, embarassed, didn't even change his slacks or polo.

Dad fell on the floor. Got up. Lit a smoke. Finished his story.

Important Earnest just went the Hemingway on the bed side shelf.

Cucumber sandwiches and calling Mr. Henry James to the night stand.

Not reading yet because the topic of men and our aging is fresh by the fire side.

There is a fireplace in my old room at my parent's shack, but I don't light it much. The crackle distracts from reviewing my old vinyl.

Tough choices to be made when you can only fly with 26kgz. You can't mail Zappa to an assumed name at your new bedsit.

Parent's just don't understand why I can't explain twitter. Grandparents won't fathom why we vote how we vote, or why the royal "wii" don't vote.

If anyone can invent a methodone for this internet craze, we are buying. Don't say friends, sex or fun. They are part of it.

I will blog this blog, then look at ocean, lights and mountain. Just...one...more...click...

"Chem Bros Electro" is not enough to google the video you want.

Not even in 2011.

Somebody get me Prof Gore on the phone.

Here's an inconvenient truth, dude couldn't outrun a Bush.

All zoo patrons are advised, not to feed the Blairs.

Kate Middle-claws will be such a beautiful bride (I read in the evening standard newzzzzz).

Give me Standard Lager and an Adirondack to watch our patriarchs age.

Me, my old man, my Grandpa

30 - 60 - 90

Lottery numbers or clues to a riddle.

The answer is 666.

For it is a humane number.

You were told to keep checking back at this location. Fear not, proper journalism will jump off as soon as the cheques are signed, third drafts are mailed to ones-selves and the vacation is over.

There is no break for the funky drummer.

Dude works always, forever.

Timeless.

I'll sleep when I'm paid.

This blogging is amateur sport.

We approach it like amateur skateboarding.

No money, but travel and shoes for free.

Stay free 2.0 threadcount embedding.

The internet should have never been about money.

Somebody subsidize my downloads.

Like the elders used to.

Word to the natives.

I can see the olympic mountains through this dawn.

Yes dear reader, it's still on.

Back To The Grill Again

This long dormant blog was once a source of joy. You read it, you loved it, you checked it - and it was always there for you.

We've grown up together. Not like family, lovers or colleagues, but the way you grow up with movies and records; the very things this space was intended to get hyped about.

To anyone reading for the first time, yes, I realize the last paragraphlette is reason enough to stop for ever.

Do not stop.

Until we can paint the store and build new shelves, we are back at this address.

The glut of mediocrity on the internet is no reason to pause. Be not intimidated by the hubris of the weak. Get what you have to give because they do not, or can not, or never will.

Grab your drink, walk over to the internet and say anything. It doesn't matter, she wants to talk to you. After she's left your apartment/office/playroom while you are in the shower, see a doctor if it burns, call her if she left a number, but smile at the exercize.

Our culture is too fat. Get up, indulge and work it off.

Liposuction for the fat egos of the new "me" newbies.

Tricks and tweets.

This is not about me.

This is not about you.

It's not a break-up, it's a break.

Dance to the break.

The break is the inexplicably short part of the permanent record.

We still grill.

The Trillness is not fatal, but it will not be cured.

Cure meat.

Sniff at the sickness.

Sew your patches on.

Smell the paint.

Breathe out.

Hit send.

It can only get better.

Fudge

Al Blendy

Sometimes smash togethers just work. Take a look at this parallelalzied display of gloriousical synchronacity!

Under Zero

Freezing Friday Fire For Followers Feeling Fine

Get Your Phil

Seoul Crushing

Scoops has a new blog dedicated to the greatest hate being reserved for only the finest student.

SHUT YOUR MOUTH BRIAN KIM


Watch that space.

Hand Me Down World

Major dude Rogie comes through with full glowing heart to tell you about a classic performance of Burton at a Jets game killing it at anthemics in Canada's murder capital.

MEAN MEDIA MODE

I Mike Collaborator and U Mean Competitor are hard cats to link to because their balls of string give contact highs and their pages crash browsers (of the mind) and induce seizures (of the mind) as well as making you scream screams (of the mind).

I'll be damned if this page of URMEAN2COMPUTER isn't as nice a hair of netting as I've seen since I plucked chickens for the yellow bellied coward committee.

Click HERE to break the atmosphere

A Cop. A Feel.

The Gonz Rap

Over the last grip of years, this dude Gonzales has made a bunch of excellent music ranging from hip-hop to pop to dance to ragtime to classical.

See:



On his new mixtape he gets real seriously flippant as he jacks a bunch of rap, reversioning the joints, adding accapellas, underscoring and cutting in clips of himself talking about making things:

"I'll just be sitting at home, counting my money off those Feist royalties, in front of the fire, hot French sluts, one after the other, it's crazy man. And I'll be like, oh shit, I'm the underdog...and I have to find adversaries - real or imagined - and believe me, I find them."
-Gonzales

Tape of the year for me, so far:

Pianist Envy - Chilly Gonzales (Download Link to Arts & Crafts Mixtape)



For you casual internet users who may have missed it:

Shit With The Guru

Guru is not okay.

In fact, the situation is very far from okay. Watch this video by Guru's nephew Justin for the real story.



I knew something was up with this cat Solar when I saw Guru perform at The Jazz Cafe in London.

a) Dude cut Primo beats off with the gunshot sound effect
b) He called Primo a "faggot"
c) Guru came up to see fans and even humour a geeked out Canadian dude who wanted to talk about if he would ever patch things up with Premier, but Solar went backstage.

Stay there.

EDIT

Woah, I posted this, cracked a beer and pressed play on the ipod...this played...



Woah.

Style

This video of Eek A Mouse's crib is beyond the beyond. I'm talking about a futuristic vision of the past sent back from the future viewed in the present.

Dig in:

Our Closing Ceremonies

The Olympic closing ceremony was an abomination of Canadian music. If you saw, you know. For those that didn't: Neil was dope, so was Shatner and then...

Nickleblech
Afro Laveene
Simple Plan
Hedley (who is Hedley?)?
K-OS in rave paint doing a dance song
etc.

Here is a loosely curated alternative.

These Song Will Change Your Wife

Nice out.
Boots off.
Yachting loafers ready...sneakers on.
(air horn)
Shades off the bench.
Hat time.
Fuck yeah.
I melt with you.

I took my morning coffee at my neighbourhood spot sans headphones today. The sun owning the city, smells of real spring (not just fraudulent warm snap fool's gold spring), and my thoughts. One of the best things about shunning the curation of one's own soundtrack is that dj brain takes over and various tunes float into the consciousness. Here are the three that I sang internally before returning home to zap them to you.



The Shins are a band that get hated on mercilessly by those who resent the burgeoning and fickle hype machine that emerged in the 00's as "alternative" changed to "indie" as a marketing tool for an industry that was losing its ability to market. Around here, we still think that they're dope, and this autumn tune works as well in Spring as it does in the fall it was penned for.



Scandinavian pop punk of my youth about food. No further explanation necessary.



Apparently Guru is out of his coma. Excellent. Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal is one of the best mc's to ever do it, and as he recovers, let us all do the same. Whether taking a trip, tripping, falling, springing, traveling or flying: let the wisdom of the greats be your guide and let us celebrate before it's too late.

I Don't Like Pumpkins

Comissioner Gordon Bombay

Hello Friends,

First thing's first:

WHO IS THE CUTEST?




Il Fordinho from Calscary Al-Hurta (Calgary AB) haas made a mix that I am loving. Dude has zeroed in on the common rhythms from around the world that have been underscoring many jamming dance ditties these last few years. Dude says:

"I remember in the 90's when I used to "Rave" these CD comps that came out called Ethnotechno. No matter how ridiculous the name seems now, the title seems to be very appropriate for a lot of the dance music coming out right now. This mix is for a serial "E" trip, no special K please. Man I miss getting high. Just kidding, druggies."

I have a folder on my computer called "Unicef" and am happy that this dude beat me to the curation of such a tape, because it bangs like the stamp on a passport and blends like once disparate cultures. It's filled with that "ethnic*" sound that is pefect for your barrio bombox, suburban spin class, drive to school, piazza Cappuccino, or coup d'etat. I'm using it to get psyched about Curling and Hockey.

Il Fordinho - Ethnicity Volume Uno



Slovakia vs Canada tonight! Getting ready:



*Italics and visible air finger "quotes" are used to allow less imaginative readers to get the right latte sipping lilt on the word ethnic.

Slow Vacuous

"Some people believe the Mayan myth that the world is going to end in 2012. Personally, I'm excited for 2012 because Dakota Fanning's birthday means I'm not a pervert anymore"
-Scoops

Adam Gopnik for Thine New Yorker on Canada vs Russia (literary references)

Speaking of iced canes, we were victorious against the Ruskies, and I have almost recovered from all the syrup I chugged in triumph.



Tomorrow night! Slovakia. A bunch of venerable killer players who can make it through the game at their advanced ages thanks to the courtesy of the olympics not letting dudes punch them in the face and stab them with sticks.

For The Strange Love Of The Game

The Canadian assembly of millionaire superstars were able to beat Germany tonight.

Tomorrow. Russia.



We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Well, that and not having a shot at a medal, and the ensuing laughingstockery to which we will be subjected.

"I don't know how it could get much worse, unless the Russians happen to get up there first."
-Bob Dylan

Usually reserved for the NHL playoff posts, here's Zevon's TOP SHELF CLASSIC!

Party. Serious.

The Wiz and I were in discussion about websites and google buzz, while getting googley eyed and catching a buzz on Friday. His feelings on this site being: "Bro! You came back strong, but now you're dropping the ball. You got to get up like EVERY DAY." I'm with this, so expect posts of lil stuff I discover in addition to the full blown banter, journailzingers or polemics.

Today, I present:

TWO YOU TUBE VIDEOS AND A MOTHERFUCKING CROSSFADER DOT COM



See you soon loyal faithful, I have a draft to finish before I start yelling "NAZI!" at hard working German Olympians that dare to score on Roberto Luongo.

The Baron made me laugh hard the other night in a lamentable loss to the Yanks (read Caps full on lambasting here), when he said "At least we have Crosby and Nash, if only we could get Stills and Young on there we'd be good."

Full Car: Took The Trunk To The Bar

Hey Blogopolis,

This space will continue to be a regular source of things worth checking. The 100 or so of you who look here every day are beloved. You don't know. I wish you did, but there's just so much I don't know about you. If you visit here, you probably love being put onto or reminded of songs. Here's two that are jamming like a drum circle that cures apathy on a Saturday.

Sincerely,

The Proprietor

Cold World

The worst thing about the depths of winter in our inhabitable northern cities is the effect it has on already crusty people's attitudes. Well, no, it's the freezing cold. The cutting, destructive, heartless, racist cold, that is the worst. The bad attitudes that worsen inside the crusty, that is the second worst.

It's freezing here in Canada's business capital, somewhere in Vancouver a dude is taking his sailboat out, in LA a guy goes skateboarding in a t-shirt and in Winnipeg, a gang of dudes hang out in a basement loving that it is so cold nobody can expect them to go outside.

Here's one to shiver to:

Do It, Dude (Crazy Heart Review)

Since this blog is not being retired/deaded/put out to pasture/pasteurised/euthanised, it is time to start with the new features. Here's one:

Keep It 1000: A Review In 1000 Words or Less Where We Don’t Ruin The Story

Crazy Heart (2009)
Directed by Scott Cooper
Written by Scott Cooper based on a novel by Thomas Cobb
“The harder the life, the sweeter the song”

This movie begins with a dude. A Dude in the Rio Bravo Dean Martin tradition of an alcoholic Cowboy at the end of his rope, struggling to hang himself, if only he could keep his hand steady. Not literally. Read on dear cinephile, there are no suicide spoilers in this review.

Crazy Heart is a film about a dude digging himself. Our hero is played by the soft and weathered Jeff Bridges, known for playing THE Dude in The Big Lebowski (Coen, 1998). The Lebowski comparisons are ineveitable and may be claptrap that you’ll hear a horn-rimmed greenhorn spouting over ironic PBR (ordering cans, in a bar, dude they have TAPS in bars) this weekend, but permit me one observation: Our dude, in this film, shows up at a bowling alley that is not a respite nor office nor social club: it is his venue. Former superstar Bad Blake has been reduced to playing dives across a lonely, infinite, and panoramic American Southwest that is as filled with vistas as our protagonists chain smoking and sour mash barf bouts are tinged with hubris. This is a whole other breed of dude and the opening scene at the bowling alley is a firm reminder that we will not be seeing Jesus, the bowler or the saviour. Through Bad Blake, Bridges gives us a bitter and haunted glimpse at a entertainer who has been going through the motions for so long that he doesn’t know his wheels have come off and his truck is in the ditch.

The film moves like a road trip or a tour. There is no stopping its move towards resolution at the edge of a final breathtaking vista. The dialogue is casual, the characters real, the scenes wear jeans. You can feel the disaster looming, and there are plenty of broken strings, disconnections and showers of gravel along the way, but what makes Crazy Heart feel so good is that it is tender without being too sympathetic. The journey for Bad Blake is fraught with trouble, but only the kind of trouble that he has earned, and is willing to take to the bank and find out what it’s worth.

The life of the country musician has almost made Blake as irrelevant in the world of the living as he is in the music industry. This film handles the change in country music, where the once badass heroes of slang, twang and doin’ thurr thang have been replaced by pop stars. Contemporary country embodies little of the outlaw spirit that is at the core of western, rap, rock and much of the powerful lyric driven music of our times. This film is not a Country song about how sad it is that you can’t make a decent country song. It is a tip of the Stetson to the solid axiom that problems need to be fixed, be it in your life, your craft or your love. It just happens to be about a country musician, and having lived in the country and the city, we all need to listen to more Country Music (which is provided by T Bone Burnett who brought Appalachian Folk to the suburbs in Oh Brother Where Art Thou, so he might just get slow burner tear-in-my-beer Ballads to downtown headphones).

The world of Crazy Heart is backed-up by the reality that a country musician can still sell records. That the songs these guys and gals record in Nashville and Los Angeles still get bought. The stakes are high in this regard, and for Bad Blake the dirt road to renaissance is waiting to be paved with tears, the mud, the blood and the beer. This is what makes Bad Blake decent to watch. The fights that cause a Cowboy to get thrown through swinging saloon doors and into the shit filled gutter are the beating heart of the Western Music that made us deify Johnny Cash with regard more to what he had learned than how much cash was rolling in. Bad Blake is knocked down, but he’s not dead yet, in fact he is just getting up.

The Dude Jeff Lebowski could abide. Bad Blake doesn’t get to choose. Jeff Bridges takes us on a trip through the music and country in which a man who truly “fits right in there” has to be able to stand under his own power and deliver it.

Jason Parker Quinton

Additional Notes That Should Encourage A Viewing:

1) Maggie Gyllenhaal felt a few years too young as the love interest, but her performance is detailed and captivating as usual. My friend Allison thinks she is “too thin” and that Hollywood needs to get their shit together and put some real women on the screen. Not just emotionally real, but with hips (see Precious (Daniels, 2009). But, ya know…white women… not named Streep.

2) Robert Duvall is in it. There is a scene where Jeff Bridges and Robert Duvall go fishing and talk about fatherhood. Yo!

3) The film was preceeded by a trailer for the upcoming “Kenny Chesney In 3D” which underscored where the music and cinema are at right now. The tricks and the cheese are all accepted easily, but great characters, handled with aplomb by filmmakers who take their time still seem to be acceptable.

Let's Go

Greetings readers,

This blog will be returning shortly. No nifty re-design. No hosting service for Mp3's. No frills. No shirt. No shoes. No dice.

There have been choices made at headquarters about: do we really want to participate in the deluge of disposable bloggery and unnecessary bafflegab that clogs our internets?

Well, the answer is yes. There will be words here. Tell a friend or call the cops or cut us from your bookmarks.

We Still Grill.

Not Dead Yet