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.