Assorted Nonsense

And on this auspicious occasion, check this out. Not bad for what apparently amounted to a couple of days work. Downright inspirational, I would say:

We just picked up a new vehicle the other day. A silver Hyundai Santa Fe… but that’s not the point of this post.

The Santa Fe came with a three month trial subscription to XM Radio… which is the point of this post.

There are something like 200 channels on XM Radio as near as I can figure, some of them even worth listening to. But I don’t think I’ll be subscribing. For one thing, I’m perfectly happy with Q-107 and CBC Radio One and Two and the handful of other radio stations we generally have programmed into our car radio.

But the kicker came tonight, when I was listening to Channel 7, or maybe it was channel 6, and one of my favourite songs came on, an old Gerry Rafferty classic called Right Down the Line.

It just so happens that I have that song on my laptop’s iTunes, and it comes on every now and then when I’m riding the GO Train working on the Great Canadian Science Fiction Novel (page 292 right now, thanks for asking). So I know what the song is supposed to sound like.

I swear the song had been pitch shifted, as if compressed for time, to make it shorter.

I was appalled.

I had got in the car only moments before, when The Eagles’ Peaceful Easy Feeling had been playing, and it had sounded fine. But the instant Right Down the Line came on I knew something was wrong. It was like Right Down the Line by Alvin and the Chipmunks.

I know a little something about time compressing sound files, having used it frequently back in my sound design days. We did a little experiment with ProTools one day where we calculated you could compress a half hour file about a maximum of 7.5% before the listener could tell you’d done anything, maybe a little less if the voices were familiar to the audience. But I hated doing it at all, and usually reserved that sort of thing for tweaking sound effects. Like creating giant screaming desert scorpions out of elephant cries.

I would never, ever do it to a piece of music. Not even 1.5 percent. Not even to a country tune. Especially not to a classic Gerry Rafferty tune.

I’m sure it was a one time fluke. Maybe just that once they really needed to shave off thirty seconds to get the cut in before the news. But even so the damage has been done. From now on every tune I hear on XM I’ll be wondering, fearing that it’s been time compressed. “Is the guitar solo supposed to sound like that? Is that a man or a woman singing?”

And that is why, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll not be subscribing to XM Radio when the three months is up.

Um, that and the fact that we can’t really afford it.

Freaky Friday must seem like a strange movie to write about. It’s not a classic movie by any stretch, especially the remake this past decade starring Jamie Lee Curtis and whatsherface.

But the 1976 version is definitely worth watching, but only to catch one of the few film performances of the effervescent Barbara Harris.

I picked up the movie recently for the kids to see. I thought they might enjoy seeing Jodie Foster as a kid, having just seen her as an adult in Nim’s Island. I was also curious what I would make of Foster’s performance as a kid. I remember as a young boy being struck by her charisma. But although perfectly serviceable her performance doesn’t really stand out in Freaky Friday, especially next to Harris, who blows everybody else in the film completely off the map, and who makes Jamie Lee Curtis in the remake look like a complete amateur.

When Harris first appeared on screen I didn’t have a clue who she was, and I wrote her off as some forgettable B string actor from the sixties (though later I realized I have seen her, in films such as Grosse Pointe Blank, and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels).

But almost as soon as she switches bodies with Foster’s character Harris proves she’s a cut above. She inhabits the role of a child in a full grown woman’s body, making it utterly believable, but more than that she’s just so darned interesting to watch, beautiful for one thing, but beyond that vibrant and funny, quirky in the best sense of the word, and ALIVE. I was glued to her performance for the entire film, and as soon as it was over I raced to the internet to figure out who she was.

Turns out she was a well regarded Broadway actor who only ever did a smattering of films (16 all told, I believe), perhaps most notably in Robert Altman’s Nashville, which I haven’t seen yet, but must, just to see her.

And then there’s being a Dad.

Sometimes I wonder what the girls will say when they’re grown, and they look back at my performance as a Dad.

“Left a little bit to be desired there, Dad,” they might say.

“Hey, I did the best I could given my limitations as a human being,” I might insist.

“Sure Dad,” E will say. “But what about the broom?”

Ah yes.

The broom.

Came home one night after they’d been with a babysitter. They’re always a little worked up after babysitters. Probably because they get a sense of how great the world would be without any rules. And then I come along and re-impose rules on their universe.

So this one night I’m keeping my cool, and they will. Not. Do. A. Single thing I say.

Parents sometimes wonder why they’re perfectly calm one minute and a raving lunatic the next. One explanation offered is that it’s because the kids are getting under your skin, but you’ve got your foot on the brake keeping yourself calm, right up until the point that they’re painting the dog and putting the cat in the oven, and then, attempting to save your prize rhododendron from the microwave you take your foot off the brake, but the other foot has been on the gas all along and suddenly you’re zero to a hundred and twenty in a split second.

That was me that night. Doing my best to remain calm in the face of two completely adorable but utterly out of control orangutangs, and failing miserably.

I’d had enough. I took my foot off the brake. Picked up one of the girl’s toy brooms. Threw the broom on the floor. As God is my witness I thought it would bounce. Instead it shattered into a thousand pieces.

I had the girls’ attention now. But I certainly hadn’t improved the situation any. Man were they mad, especially E, because it was her broom I’d broken. She was inconsolable, and I was ashamed, because this was not me. I was not someone who broke kids’ brooms, or lost control.

And I heard about that broom for months. I’m sure when I’m an adult I’ll hear about it again. I won’t be completely forgiven until the girls have children of their own, and discover that they too are only human. Just as I’ve forgiven my own parents for the odd bonehead move they made when I was a kid.

Now if I can just limit my own bonehead moves to the broom for the next nine years…

Today a producer called me into a booth to ask a question about the documentary he was working on. He wanted to know about the placement of music.

I listened to the little bit that he wanted me to hear, which was essentially a guy talking, and then some music, and then a guy talking. The talking was interesting and well edited, and the music well chosen. But it didn’t work as well together as it could have.

He wanted to know my opinion, so I gave it to him, ’cause I spent twenty years doing this kind of work, and I love it.

First, find the post in the music (the part of the music where it becomes so pronounced that you’re better off not talking over it… often there’s more than one possible post). Place the post directly after the end of the talking and bring the level of the music up. All the music before that point should sit nicely underneath the talk.

The reason you do it this way is to create a little tension, like in many other kinds of art. You want to make the listener (or reader, or viewer, depending on the kind of art) want to know what’s coming next. He hears the music underscoring the words, suggesting a change in tone, and he wants to know what it means, so he sticks around until he finds out. It’s also more aesthetically pleasing to the ear, suggesting that this is something well put together, some thought has gone into it, so perhaps its worth sticking around.

It’s not rocket science this kind of stuff, but a little bit goes a long way toward giving a production a certain sheen.

How do you know when it’s right?

When you listen back and you get a little shiver running up and down your spine.

Special Guest Post:

Hi, my name is Mevalin* and I did a project for school about declawing cats. I want you to know how bad it is to declaw cats.

I chose this project because I wanted to help make cats’ lives better.

I don’t think it is fair to declaw cats, or shows respect. Declawing cats is like cutting off the top part of your fingers. A cat’ body is very well designed. A cat’s life depends on its claws. Cats need their claws to defend themselves. If you pull their tail, they scratch you. And if the cat sees a mouse it will stab it with its paw to catch it.

You may not like it when a cat scratches your carpet, but does your cat like it when you wash its new cat-licked fur? But seriously, try getting your cat a scratching post. Your cat will act like the scratching post is the carpet. I Keep my cats in a non-carpeted room over night so they don’t get into trouble scratching the furniture.

Claws naturally give cats great climbing power (if the cat is not deliberately handicapped by a human.) Cats’ claws allow them to establish footing for running, walking, climbing, springing, and for stretching. Scratching is a normal characteristic of a healthy cat.

If you have a lost cat and it has not been declawed, your lost cat would definitely be able to defend itself and hunt for food.

I want to be a veterinarian when I grow up so I can help stop declawing cats.

By the way, my three cats are much more happy not being declawed.

*Hint: Mevalin is my favourite name but my real name is private.

(SPOILER ALERT)

That’s right… Star Trek the animated series By J.J. Abrams.

Wait a minute, you say… J. J. Abrams had nothing to do with Star Trek, the Animated Series.

I’m talking about the new animated series.

Wow, there’s a new Star Trek Animated series, you say?

Yes, that’s right. Except that it’s not actually animated. It’s live action, a great big, full blown live action movie that just happens to feel kinda like a cartoon. Cause it sure as heck ain’t real.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy J.J. Abrams Star Trek. I did.

It’s just not my Star Trek.

And not just because J. J. is a self-confessed fan of Star WARS, as opposed to Star Trek. I believe he treated the Star Trek franchise with respect, and panache, and ability.

He just didn’t treat it with depth, or understanding. It was more a Star Wars sensibility. Space Opera as opposed to science fiction.

Oh sure, Abrams understood perfectly how to make it entertaining, how to keep the audiences amused and on the edge of their seats. Maybe too much so — at times it felt like J.J. was pulling out all stops almost in a kind of desperation to keep the audience amused and entertained, as if, were he to pause and take a breath, the audience might have time to reflect for a moment that hey, wait a minute, there’s something missing here.

This was Star Trek as a big cartoon, one dimensional characters, a plot completely devoid of any original, thought provoking science fiction ideas, and for all the lip service paid to the concept of emotion, no actual compelling emotion to speak of. Entire populations of planets destroyed, the death of a mother with barely any screen time — and not a wet eye in the joint.

There were some fine casting choices — I completely bought Pine as the young, pseudo-juvenile delinquent Kirk — insofar as I bought the concept of Kirk as a juvenile delinquent come Star Fleet Academy Officer candidate (which I didn’t, really). Zachary Quinto pulled off Spock satisfactorily, although I missed Nimoy’s deep, gravelly voice. (Curiously, even Nimoy lacked his usual gravitas in this movie, as though J.J. felt compelled to direct Nimoy’s performance at the same breakneck pace as the rest of the flick.) Simon Pegg was an entertaining Scotty, though I never really did see past Simon Pegg, and Uhuru was a fine Uhuru. Chekov was a cartoony Chekov, but then, Chekov was always a bit cartoony. The best for me was McCoy, perhaps because he most resembled the actual McCoy, but also because the character seemed the more grounded in reality than many of the others. But this had more to do with the presence of the actor portraying McCoy than the part written for him.

The best Star Trek for me was the first season of the original series. Written largely by professional science fiction writers like Theodore Sturgeon, Robert Bloch and Harlan Ellison. It explored what for me is true science fiction — the human condition in circumstances not currently possible. Abram’s movie is quite a departure from those days. Which is not to say that it is bad — just different. Fluffier.

That being said, I would not have advised Abrams to ape the original series. No, the smartest choice was to chart his own course, and not second guess Star Trek creater Gene Roddenberry, or any of the subsequent producers. Abrams has wisely kept elements of the original season, such as the heart, and the humour. But I do wish he could have kept just one more characteristic of the original series: some actual science fiction. One original idea.

Something, anything evoking a sense of wonder.

Maybe next time.

Apparently this is old news:

But old news or not, it’s surprisingly well done, and yes I’m certain that Nathan Fillion would make a great Green Lantern.

Can ya believe it?

In the comments section of my last post my own sister called me weird.

My own sister!

(Who actually oughta know, come to think of it.)

Now before you think there’s some kind of feud on the boil here, relax. I don’t hold it against my Littlest Sis. She’s a good pal and I know her well enough to know she didn’t mean anything by it. Heck, I am weird. And that’s a good thing.

It took a while to come to terms with that, though. You see, long before I became the virile hunk I am today, I was a gangly teenager. Hard to believe I know when you peruse the very model of masculinity currently typing these words. But I’m here to tell you that during my freckle-faced adolescence, on at least two (possibly as many as seventy-four) occasions, I quite clearly recall a series of young, attractive, frequently buxom young women calling me “weird.”

Few things wound the pride of a freckle-faced adolescent boy as much as being called “weird” by a young, attractive, buxom woman.

What did these young, attractive, buxom women base this on, you ask? Did I have some kind of facial tic? Was I given to shouting random words like “refrigerator!” in public places (like at least one friend in those days)? Did I stand in crowded elevators asking people out of the blue for another word for egg (like another friend in those days)?

No.

No, I was branded with the epithet “weird” because I dared broach unfamiliar conversational terrain in the presence of these young women. The meaning of life, questions of ethics, notions of honour and so forth.

It hurt at the time being called weird because I would have preferred that these young women like me. And in truth I don’t know that they didn’t, but certainly they found themselves on unfamiliar ground in my company, and had to respond somehow, and perhaps “weird” was just the first thing to come to mind. And no, I don’t hold it against them any more than I hold it against my charming Little Sis. I’m not suggesting that they were any less intelligent than me, and I’m absolutely certain that they’ve grown up into fine, upstanding individuals. I’m equally certain that between now and then they must have spent at least a moment or two pondering such “weird” questions as I posed then.

So my Littlest Sis has brought all that back, and I thank you Sis for reminding me how far I’ve come since those days, when a word like that could sting so much, and now doesn’t at all.

Yeah I’m weird all right.

Like a freckle-faced fox.

The problem with knowing your mother reads your blog is that it limits the amount of wild and crazy incidents from your youth you can recount.  I can’t write about anything involving alcohol lest it shatter her image of me as a clean cut mama’s boy.  (Of course, she already knows the worst story– the family picture with a ridiculously hungover me in her living room for a good fifteen years, to shame me, no doubt, which it might well have done had I ever been able to bring myself to look at the thing.) Fortunately, that sort of nonsense belongs to my distant past, and my misspent youth.

Nor can I write about frequent, perilous encounters with a wide assortment of drugs — because there WEREN’T any.

No, instead I am forced to write about the time I inadvertently cut my –

Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for interrupting this post. But we began writing it several months ago and inexplicably stopped halfway through the previous sentence. Sadly, we no longer remember what it was we cut.

Perusing the possibilities, we immediately dismiss the obvious: hair. How could one inadvertently cut one’s hair? Likewise toenails and fingernails; difficult to cut unintentionally. Lawn? “Honey I’m sorry, I inadvertently cut the lawn this afternoon.” I think not.

The most likely explanation is some kind of wound. “I inadvertently cut my (insert body part here).”

But what? What body part have I cut significantly enough in the last few months that it would make me want to blog about it? There was the loss of my left foot recently in that unfortunate lawnmower accident. And the time I accidentally lopped off my head shaving. But neither of those warranted wasting either your time or mine blogging about it.

Truth is, I think the only thing cut was the post itself, cut short, the victim of my lovely wife returning home, or one of the cats vomiting violently on the carpet, or yet another piece of space debris clipping the roof and scaring the bejeezus out of the children (”Daddy what was that?” “Just another piece of the Hubble, girls, go back to bed”).

If I ever remember differently I’ll be sure to let you know.