Music is my safe drive home

It's 2, 3, 4am and I'm driving myself home along the route I know so well. Warkworth to Campbellford, Campbellford to Warkworth. County Road 29 to Highway 30. I must have travelled it hundreds of times. A passenger, a driver, a child, an adult. The grain silos, the house with the moose painted on one wall, the flea market, the golf course. I don't even pay them any attention now. Each curve and rise and fall of the road could be my own body.

Then one night, it snows.
A lot.

Nothing has changed, the route is the same, but now I fight to concentrate as the smallest drops and flakes compete for my limited attention. All I want to do is get home but I can only see the road directly in front of me and it's impossible to tell where the road ends and the shoulder (or ditch) begins. I'm quite certain I know what each rotation of the wheels will bring but the change in the weather is making me doubt my instincts.

I keep my eyes wide. I don't want to miss the warm and hazy orange glow that resides in the sky above the Warkworth Penitentiary. It means I'm halfway there. The traction control is supposed to help me. If one wheel is spinning out of control it keeps the other three gripping for stability. But the stabilizing pulls me in different directions and I don't want to move forward. I just want to stop. Take a break. Take a breath.

So I listen to music. I turn the volume up and I drive. The familiar synth lines of Depeche Mode will ease my anxiety. The pounding melodies and falsetto screams of Muse will energize me. Never underestimate the power of a well-constructed playlist.

Music is my temple.
Music is my drug fix. 
Music is my safe drive home...

Techno Update

It's official.
My laptop is dead.
D.E.A.D. Dead.
But don't feel too sorry for me.
I only waited a day before ordering a MacBook Pro.
It should be here on Christmas Eve.
Delicious.

Nicole, Peter and Evan Pull an Unnecessary All-Nighter

Good morning.
Yes, still awake.
I really have nothing to say.
I've already sent Jess about three emails.
Evan and I watched about two hours of Ricky Gervais stand-up.
And countless hours of questionable TV.
A Double Shot of Love, anyone?
Chips, Pepsi, sandwich meat, scrambled eggs.
People have started waking up for work.
Several friends have come and gone.
Peter is still here.
He came home from Ottawa around 4:30 this morning.
He brought Evan and I our pre-ordered and signed Matthew Good Live at Massey Hall CDs!
Rocks socks.
Apex concert tonight at CDHS.
See you there.
I guess I did have something to say.

A Warkworth Holiday

The Fine Art of Tree Decorating
From my chair by the newly hoisted tree I periodically reach to my left and place a decoration. My mom is a tree decorating master and after readjusting the lights about 4 times and readjusting the tilt of the tree about 8 times we've started actually decorating. Doing this always reminds me of a home video of my dad and I decorating the tree. I was about 3 years old and therefore only capable of reaching the bottom of the tree. I don't know how, but it took us HOURS to finish this seemingly simple task. It's impossible to watch the video in real time. That's what fast-forward is for.

The Technology Santa Has It In For Me
This is the first time I have braved the slooooow dial-up internet since coming home. Not to be over-dramatic, because we all know I'm never one to hyperbolize, but dial-up makes me want to DIE. Apparently my laptop has also had enough because for the past 2 weeks it's been blue-screen-of-deathing all over the place. It's at the shop. And it better cut the shit and start behaving like the loyal servant I expect it to be! Plus, my brother's Playstation 3 stopped working and his cell phone was attacked by metal detectors at customs in New York. I think these are signs of a coming apocalypse. Everyone, into your fallout shelters! I mean, storm shelters...

It's all over now, baby blue

Year 3 Semester 1: LEVEL COMPLETED

Today I wrote my only exam.
So it's time to celebrate...or uh, relax or sleep or, what ever...
Check out this rad song by SugaRush Beat Company, yo!
I feel an obsession coming on.
Yeah, I heard it on Grey's Anatomy.
What of it?

There's no place like Weldon

After a brief trip home for dinner, Steph and I are back at the library. 

For anyone who may have seen us here and looked at my laptop screen, I'll have you know that this is what it looks like when I study! I am not watching clips from Disney movies because I love Disney and just can't get enough. No. I am in the unfortunate position of having to study for the Disney exam I have tomorrow afternoon.

Now, I just have a couple questions about this short:
Why is God a pink strobe cloud?
Was Alfalfa's hairdo inspired by Noah?
Did God actually give Noah a blueprint? How nice of him.

If anyone is looking for something tripperlicious, check out this collaboration between Disney and Dali.

Take it easy. Stay sane.

The Do-It-Yourself Music Industry

Don Ross a guest speaker at Fanshawe? Good thing I had my trusty 2 Dundas bus schedule in my purse to take notes on! Hello A&E Journalism found story.

In the past few years, it has become apparent that the internet may be indie music’s best friend.  Big mainstream record labels are great, with their contracts, marketing resources, and high-tech studios.  But perfecting the fine art of self-promotion and -engineering is the smartest thing that any performer or writer can do during this age of technological obsession.  I mean, come on.  Don Ross is doing it.

I think for many people, the term “indie music” conjures up the sounds of folk-like plinking guitar melodies or soaring synth and keyboard lines played by 20-somethings in skinny jeans, skinny sweaters and skinny t-shirts in neon colours. 

With so many unique artists classified under the indie umbrella, the way most people think of indie music just doesn’t work.  The genre is indefinable now.  The term “indie” is simply shorthand for “independent,” and refers to an artist or group not signed to a major label, regardless of musical style.

How does 48-year-old Don Ross fit into this?  Wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, the Canadian fingerstyle guitarist gave an interview and performed three songs at Fanshawe College Friday afternoon.  I wouldn’t say Ross fits the image of a young hip indie musician, but after releasing nine albums for three major labels, he became an indie artist in the ‘90s and is signed with the independent online label Candyrat Records which specializes in virtuoso artists.  He’s familiar with the changing music industry.

According to Ross, there has never been a better time to be an indie artist.  All you need is YouTube, a MacBook Pro with Pro Tools, and a garage.  Or at least that’s what he uses. 

Downloading music for free from file sharing sites has become very popular and, rather than fighting the seemingly unstoppable trend, artists need to make the system work for them.  Yes, it’s a shame that so many people are less willing to pay for music now, but at the very least the downloading provides exposure.  Here’s where self-promotion through YouTube comes in.

I love YouTube.  It’s one of the things I miss most when I return home to dial-up internet.  If people can hear an artist’s music and see an artist’s unique style on YouTube, then the hope is that it will help that artist build a fan base.  Since it’s so easy to acquire music now, Ross says that live shows are the new Holy Grail of the music industry.  It was once records.  You use the internet to draw people in, get them buying tickets to your shows and, if you’re lucky, buying albums while they’re there! 

In the past year I’ve been privileged enough to see Bob Dylan in concert from the fifth row, and see The Spades, a young band from my home region, open for Matthew Good at the legendary Massey Hall.  Live shows are an undeniably unparalleled experience, and there’s always the possibility that the unknown opening band will become a new favourite.

Back to YouTube, 29-year-old American fingerstyle guitarist Andy McKee, Candyrat artist and friend to Ross, is a perfect example of its power.  Two years ago, McKee’s video for “Drifting” was featured on the site and has since been viewed almost 18 million times.  Sure, it’s no 26.3 million views in four months of Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida,” but I’d say that’s pretty good for an alternative indie artist!

The other big way artists set themselves apart from the masses and take control of their music is through self-engineering.  Here’s where that MacBook Pro you insisted you needed and your family’s unused garage come in.

Ross says the key to engineering your own music is having a good ear.  For all you artists graced with natural musical talent willing to put in the extra time, it’s a great alternative to paying techies to do it for you.  While fancy, expensive programs and equipment are helpful, if you have the musical and technical skills you can produce fairly high quality material with less extravagant equipment.

If I was an indie musician, I would probably be thinking, “That sounds pretty good, but are there any other benefits? I am, after all, a young starving artist with ever dwindling support from the Canadian government.” 

Good news.  In addition to having more creative control over your work, you can save money!  And in these times of financial crisis I think that’s something we can all high-five over.  Saving money is a staple of DIY projects and YouTube is, at least for now, free to use.

Do yourselves a favour, indie artists.  Take advantage of technology and the wonders of a DIY music industry.  And do everyone else a favour by providing videos with artistic merit so we aren’t stuck watching clips of people’s cats and 10-year-olds singing “I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It.”

How to Procrastinate

This is what my day has consisted of thus far:
  1. Drink tea or coffee
  2. Go pee
  3. YouTube the Viva La Vida video
  4. Stare out my window
  5. Check my email
  6. Write a couple sentences
On endless repeat.

Now, some people might think that you can only do any of the first five things so many times, but I think today I have proudly proved those people wrong. 

How has your day been?

Truly the Holiday Season

This is kind of old news but I just heard about it at breakfast with the girls this morning. So if you're also behind the times, check out this ultimate Rick Roll stunt RIGHT NOW. Cartoon Network FTW!

Jessica Davis, this is for you.
Happy Birthday baby!
xox

Honey, where's my apron?

I had some pasta cooking for dinner tonight and I thought to myself, I'll just wash these few dishes lingering in the sink while I wait. Mostly forks and knives, plus a glass or two and the giant blue plastic bowl Steph and I use for popcorn. I was moving from one item to the next as quickly as I could to get them done in between stirring the pasta. The old rag we've been using since our last sponge disintegrated was supposed to be my partner, my ally. It was supposed to have my back. But it seems I misjudged its loyalty. Or maybe just its abilty to keep up with my mad dish-washing skills. Which leads me to today's lesson:

Always ensure that the cloth or sponge is fully covering the blade of the knife before you run your hand along it.

Luckily, our knives are kind of cheap and therefore not incredibly sharp. I didn't exactly cut myself...it's more of a scrape... I scraped my thumb on the knife. Right on the inside where the thumb bends. Delicious.

And yet, I still love Toronto

Over the past 20 years I've probably been in Union Station in Toronto hundreds of times. I was there again yesterday. But no matter how many times I'm there, the dirtiness of the washrooms always surprises me. Even when someone is in there actually cleaning, the washrooms are still painfully sub-par. The once-white paint is chipped and stained, toilet paper clogs the toilets and the drains of the sinks, the mirrors smudged, and there are enough rogue paper towels to create a new floor covering.

I wandered around for a while to find a clean spot, then was lucky to choose a sink with a full soap dispenser on my first try. While I washed my hands, a woman with a young girl of about three years entered the washroom. The girl was head-to-toe in bright woolen stripes and her hat was yellow with little knit ears sprouting from the top. Watching her mother enter the large stall in the corner the girl stood with her feet firmly planted and her face scrunched and wrinkled.
"C'mon," her mother urged.
"I don't like this place," she shouted, emphasizing each word with childish disdain.
"Well...this is Union Station. You don't have a choice..."

It's Friday?!

  1. This guy has the right idea. I'd stay in an airport too if I was getting free stuff!
  2. It's been confirmed, the great Hawking has accepted the position of Distinguished Research Chair from the Perimeter Institute and makes his first visit this summer! My dad is going to be so psyched.
  3. Local young women have taken a cue from Kevin and started booby-trapping their homes as the London Sleep-Watcher continues to creep around the city. It turned into a major topic of discussion in my class this morning because "Oh my god, he wears all black?!" Where's that scary old dude with the shovel when you need him?
  4. Join JM and I later as we will inevitabley get drunk and simu-blog about the rockin Geminis tonight! Yes, you heard correctly, Jason Priestley is hosting. Thankfully it's only an hour. Damn you AE Journalism!

And then Depeche Mode cried

Time to add another (atrocious) song to the 00s pop sampling 80s classics list. 

89 Depeche Mode's Personal Jesus
08 Hilary Duff's Reach Out

81 Soft Cell's Tainted Love
06 Rihanna's SOS

Feel free to cry/scream/throw a vase. Or, enjoy?

I, The Untidy

The last time I tried to clean my room, I was reduced to hunching on the floor using a mini screwdriver and tub of Shea Body Butter as hammers to nail a thick, cardboard sheet into the back of my particleboard three-shelf bookcase.  Loose pieces of paper surrounded me like forgotten confetti at a giant’s birthday party.  A neon orange Post-it (PRINT LAB NOTES; grandfather, John Wayne, circus dancer; H.P. Lovecraft?) clung to my sweating body as I canvassed the rough beige carpet on my hands and knees, searching for more effective makeshift tools.  I never found any.  I also abandoned the cleaning project.

When I was a child, it seemed that my friends’ parents used bedroom-cleaning as a punishment, to the effect of, “You can’t run around in the field or build that fort with your friends until you clean your room!”  My parents were not such disciplinarians, and I’ve never understood the fuss over the importance of tidy bedrooms.  Maybe it’s because they remind me of hotel rooms. 

Along with rooms in hospitals and insane asylums (though I think they now hold the more politically correct title of ‘mental health facilities’), hotel rooms must be some of the most impersonal bedrooms in existence.  And what is the common denominator of those three places?  They are public representations of personal spaces.

And so, I feel that there is something fake about pristinely tidy bedrooms.  When I encounter them I wonder what the people who live there are trying to hide.  I see desktops unblemished by jewellery, movie ticket stubs, CDs.  I see floors devoid of stray socks, empty water bottles, newspapers.  In a tidy room I see only surfaces and nothing deeper to hint at the person who spends the most private of moments there. 

My parents have always urged me to “never judge a book by its cover.” But I still peruse the aisles of Chapters and loudly proclaim that if romance novels want to be considered legitimate literature they should start by banishing those surrealistic, colour swirl covers featuring nipple-bearing characters.  And despite my parents’ best efforts, plus fifteen and a half years of education, I can’t help but qualify people based on appearance.  Sure, once I start to learn the details of a person I begin to disregard my initial assessment, but the person I only pass in the mall or on the street will always just be “That bulgy-eyed chick with spidery lashes that looked like a Tim Burton character.” 

Since I know others also make these judgments, I do not wish people to enter my bedroom and exclaim, “My, this bears a striking resemblance to the Marriot I just stayed in!”  I want them to see my room and think, “A very interesting person must live here.”  So while I like my room to be tidy because the minimalist aesthetic is pleasing, people can’t see how intriguing I am when all of my possessions are hidden.  Yes, it’s problematic to base who I am on what I own, but those are the things I have surrounded myself with and they reflect my interests.

I have also discovered that tidiness is hardly practical.  On occasion, I try to cleverly store everything in boxes and binders or behind curtains, like an old-timer hiding her treasures around her house.  This keeps my possessions out of sight so that people can’t access them, can’t know of their existence.  But like that old lady, I too am helpless to find these items when I need them. 

Maybe I’m just defending my dishevelled room so people won’t see it and assume I’m a disorganized slob.  Maybe this defence is undermining my argument that “tidy equals fake” by proving that my untidy room is just another façade.  And yet, my books are ordered on shelves from tallest on the outside, down to the shortest in the middle.  They look good, and the majority of the weight is distributed away from the vulnerable midsection.  DVDs and CDs are alphabetical by title and artist, respectively.  Shirts in my closest are arranged in order of increasing sleeve length.  I like to be in control so I implement organizational structures.  That’s just who I am.  Being that my bedroom is my personal space, it is a tool of expression, just like the clothes and movies it contains, and I can use this tool in two ways.

I can use my bedroom as a mask.  The surface would be white and smooth, the eyes bright yet emotionless, the lips painted red without smudges or bleeding colour.  Or, I can use my bedroom as a display window.  Various items would be scattered around the room with little title cards saying, “This is her real favourite movie,” and “Who needs this many Ziploc bags and Post-Its?!”

If I want to wear a mask every day, I must take care to never allow it to slide down as my face sweats with the guilt of lying.  I must track my lies so that I can retell them, create back stories, so I don’t accidentally say, “I was dancing to ‘Take On Me’ in my underwear last night!” when everyone thinks I’m a music snob who only likes jazz.  I’m always in such a rush that if I tidied my room every time someone might see it then I wouldn’t have time to search the internet for synthesizer-laden ‘80s tunes.  I try to avoid being fake because, if nothing else, it is a full-time job.  I have the attention span of a sugar-saturated youngster raised on video games, and a short term memory comparable to Leonard’s in Memento.  Being fake is hardly practical.

Of course, I cannot make so lofty a claim that I am entirely genuine, nor can I say that I have entirely given up on tidying my room.  I only hope that my untidy room does not turn into the façade I continue to argue against every time I look around at the personality-bearing array of items.

Vatican wishes White Album 'Happy 40th'

From the Globe and Mail yesterday:

The Vatican's newspaper has finally forgiven John Lennon for declaring that the Beatles were more famous than Jesus Christ, calling the remark a “boast” by a young man grappling with sudden fame.

The comment by Lennon to a London newspaper in 1966 infuriated Christians, particularly in the United States, some of whom burned Beatles' albums in huge pyres.

Concrete Love

Most people would probably think that it's stupid to build a library that looks like a concrete cave from the inside, but I take odd comfort in the gray, industrial walls and ceilings of the D.B Weldon Library. I love sitting on the main floor in the "comfy chairs" near the concrete pillars and looking up at the vast concrete waffle ceiling. I think it would be great fun to sit in one of those waffle sections if the ceiling was a wall or even a floor. Industrialism makes me feel studious. Elated. Invincible.  The all-business no-bullshit attitude of concrete structures makes me retaliate with creativity, with words to soften those unforgiving surfaces. Just think of all the ideas that have pooled in the waffle, just waiting to be explored.

 

Extra whipped cream, please.

Does everyone have a buddy?

Today I went on a field trip. Yes, a field trip. Around my own university campus with my 3000-level Arts and Entertainment Journalism class to look at public art.


At first, JM and I thought we would "get left behind by the group" along the way so we could write the thousands of words in essay due in the coming hours, days, weeks. But we employed the buddy system and took the tour. The pieces we looked at had surprisingly interesting back stories and it was nice to get out of the classroom, despite the numbness in our extremities that occurred. And who doesn't enjoy the occasional throwback to the days of elementary school? But it reminded me of some of the things I hate the most: looking like a tourist and doing group activities.


We were a small group. Maybe twenty people, tops. But as we travelled from art piece to art piece, an amorphous blob of chilly writers led by Catherine Elliot Shaw (the curator of Western's Macintosh Gallery), the only element missing that would have made us look even more like an adolescent tour group was brightly coloured lanyards with dangling cards identifying us as a unit. Or maybe matching t-shirts in bright colours, like they have for daycares. Or maybe a rope for all of us to be tied to so nobody would get lost…

To Speak the Words: 5 years 1 month 5 days ago

Four o’clock in the morning is a lie, an illusion, like infomercials and New Year’s resolutions, for the time looks as much like morning as the softly curving letters of cancer look like a gnawing and malicious disease, or as a draining coma feels like reviving sleep.

My transition from warm containment in the womb of sleep to jarring exposure in the open-air of full consciousness was slow to begin as I struggled to reach the strained whisper I could hear swirling in the ether above my body.  After many laboured breaths, I widened my eyes with a pop.  My eyebrows puckered in confusion, eyes refocusing to recognize the face mere inches from my own.  A face I knew should be familiar before it could be seen by my newly opened eyes.  My mother had been whispering. 

Surrounding her was not the welcoming reflection of sunshine on bare and chipped white walls, having penetrated my east-facing window.  Surrounding her was the absence of light, of colour, that I had seen hours before when I forced my body to rest.

Crouching at my bedside, the side of the bed I had been sleeping in since the last night in my crib, my mother hesitantly stroked my hair as one might comfort an abused foster child.  The corners of her mouth were up-turned, not in a smile so much as a grimace, forming a canoe burdened by curvy letters and about to overflow.  The empty spaces of our pupils aligned.  Hers harboured a story.  Not one of birth.  Not one of canoe trips on shiny lakes.  But on no other morning would this story have shocked me less.

“Grandpa died this morning…”

Watching as the canoe capsized, it was time for my first words.  It was time for me to whisper.

"It's because last night on the phone Adam and I said goodbye to him."

Don't Drink the Kool-Aid

Today marks the 30th anniversary of the Jonestown, Guyana cult suicide of over 900 Peoples Temple followers.

 

RUNNING TALLY FOR THE MONTH

11/04   

Obama elected first African-American President of the United States

Matthew Good's Live at Massey Hall released

11/11 

Bob Dylan concert

11/18 

Jonestown Massacre

11/22 

40th Anniversary of The Beatles The White Album (Visit the London Music Club Saturday night for The White Album Tribute Show!)

 

Who knew November 2008 would be so epic? And it's not over yet...

Disney, you slut! You genius, genius slut...

Love or hate the Walt Disney Company, you must at least acknowledge its incredible, albeit frightening, influence and adaptability. It can be a business genius, moving its pawns about with a maniacal laugh. Or it can be a whore on the corner who will do anything to turn a trick (or rather, an illusion).

 

It was recently brought to my attention that to accompany the "Anniversary" or "Platinum" editions of its classic animated films, Disney has gotten its teeny-bopper arsenal of musicians to record covers and music videos of famous songs from the films. I believe "blasphemy" is the word you want. Ah, but wait! This whore of a marketing scheme is undeniably genius, no matter how cringe-worthy it feels. In doing this, Disney is further cementing itself as a key figure in children's understanding of history, society and culture by bringing old songs and films to the new generation.

 

THE OFFENDERS 

Watch. Be horrified. Try not to get sucked in.


The Jungle Book

I Wan'na Be Like You - The Jonas Brothers


The Little Mermaid

Kiss The Girl - Ashley Tisdale I don't think cheek counts

Poor Unfortunate Souls - The Jonas Brothers

 

101 Dalmatians

Cruella De Vil - Selena Gomez This may be the worst


Sleeping Beauty

Once Upon A Dream - Emily Osment

 

…Plus there are some promises of "All new songs and music videos… And much more!"

 

Pardon the bias. I'm currently writing a research essay on colonialism in Pocahontas and The Jungle Book. I am NOT enjoying it. I've probably seen Pocahontas once before and I'm adamant about not liking it. I think the songs are sub-par. But I have been finding it quite hilarious. Of course, not the parts that are supposed to be funny if you're taking the movie seriously. It also might be the only Disney movie where the main characters don't get together (or stay together) at the end of the movie. Pochy stands on mini Pride Rock as leaves swirl Cinderella-style down to Smith's ship where he waves at her the way the natives wave to say goodbye. Nothing short of epic, but a seemingly unprecedented finale in these princess love extravaganzas.

Winter Weather

My hands are so dry right now that I feel like I could just rip the skin off the bones and muscle. The skin between my knuckles shines and almost feels smooth when I make a fist, but the rest of my hands are textured with each skin cell cracking without enough moisture. The joints of my fingers are covered in cement. Trying to stretch out the tightness, I keep tugging at the skin, hoping some hidden moisture in my fingertips will replenish it. But instead, it just makes me want to tear away the dead skin and forget this dryness all together. 

One Year Ago Today

2007

We Do This For Free

 

You do need to say it

I can't believe it if you don't

Because we're rarely on the same page

And you need to find the words on your own

 

No one is looking out for us

Or issuing do-overs

Everything that happens here

Goes straight into the books

 

I know loose ends make you uncomfortable

Well honey closure never was my strong suit

Things sure can get complicated

When there's no one to clean up your mess

 

Of course it would be great

But it could never work

Life doesn't translate well

That glass is thicker than you think


2008

Painting Lines of Silver

 

One

(It rolls quickly, no pleasantries, then disappears)

Two

(It lingers, disco ball reflections, then lets go)

One

Two

That's all I give you

Today.