Tuesday, March 22, 2005

"Yer cheatin' heart will tell on you..."

Jesus, how scary. Heipel blogging about music.

As the old line goes, there are only two types of music -- country & western.

When my brother used to paint houses for a living -- in that interim period of his life when he skipped classes on the way to flunking out of high school and finally getting a good public service job with a fat pension plan -- his boss was a country music fanatic. My brother and his co-workers would get hell when the boss would drive onto a job site, stand at the bottom of the ladder and scream, "Who fuckin' changed the station on the truck radio!" The boys would also wait until the boss was way up a ladder or on scaffolding painting and then change the portable radio sitting on the grass to a station away from the local country station (jeebus, I even remember the station letters: CKNX -- "Swingin' Wingham" we used to call it, as Wingham was the town from which it originated).

Anyway, the boss in his country music fanaticism had the last laugh -- he soldered the radios in such a way that they were forever tuned to Swingin' Wingham. Within a year both my brother and his two co-workers were rabid country & western music fans.

And I know how it works. I've been mostly indifferent to music all my life, except when it's bad and unavoidable, then I tend to get an opinion (FM rock anyone?). It was hard to remain indifferent though, once immersed in torch and twang.

The first radio station I worked at was a country station and I became hooked in very short order. This was just before commercial country music finished its transformation into the bloody, heartless, mindless, homogeneous pile of steaming shit it has for the most part become. In the early '80s Waylon, Willy, Merle, Loretta, Tom T. Hall, Hank Jrn, et al, were still getting air for their new work, and their predecessors (Hank Srn, Kitty Wells, Eddy Arnold, etc) were still getting airplay. There were new singers still of that tradition too -- poets set to a steel guitar, but all were getting crowded out by the drive to bring country to the masses. (And thus, too, the Urban Cowboy thing popped up.) All that was good about C&W changed with Achey Breaky Heart I think -- the worst country song ever written. Oh, there'd been lots of cute novelty songs in country music, of course, but with irony, not schlock filled stupidity. And I noted recently, with shock and sadness, that the marketing generated guy who made that damn song a hit continues to be a massively popular country "star." Maybe he should drink a few Jim Beams too many and take Garth Brooks for a car ride...

I was thinking all this as my iPod continues to shuffle me country tunes. THE greatest country song ever written must surely be George Jones' "He Stopped Loving Her Today." A song about a man's funeral -- the day he finally stopped loving the woman who left him years before. "First time I've seen him smile in years..." God, love that song. Also love the shuffle feature as I can go from Johnny Cash to Mozart and it tain't disconcerting at all. Now to go from Mozart to Celine Dion -- thank you Apple for the skip feature.

Merle Haggard has an old song with somewhat cryptic lyrics, but with a close listen one realizes the narrator is in a mental hospital; crazy from a broken heart. Somthing like, "My doctors brought me new crayons today..."

When you work at a country music station you learn these things -- a British study found that the young, for the most part, don't like country music because it is too real. That surely will not be the case anymore -- it's a study now at least 20 years old. What once often formed the foundation of a refrain in country music -- a witty play on words -- and was a hallmark of many country songs, is now the very empty essence of modern country music and it is tired, tired, tired and bland. If the turns of phrase were any good it might be different. But they aren't (the only criterion seems to be that a rhyme is achieved) and the songs ain't about hurtin' anymore they're about failed attempts to write songs around a single, cute line of lyrics.

I understand Loretta Lynn has scored a hit off her new album. An album I scorned after a couple listens, but that I now think brilliant. All I heard those first couple of listens was the rock producer's influence and it was jarring. But in the end the country takes control. There is a cut on the album where Loretti (if I may be so bold as to call her that) just talks about when she was a kid and her momma steals a pair of red shoes for her daughter (Loretta). Amazing how fame and fortune can't erase Butcher Holler from that woman. A splendid two minutes. By gawd, what a delightful backwoods redneck. As an aside, Sissy Spacek (sp?) is wonderful as Loretta in the movie Coal Miner's Daughter.

Merle's new album a couple years back was brilliant too. One particular song about watching old friends get drunk and do cocaine is a particularly painful and poignant song of post-addiction and aging. It got no airplay, of any consequence. I emailed a good friend who programs two country radio stations in Alberta and asked him his opinion of that album. The response was not encouraging -- "Hey, I'd heard Merle has a new album..." This is a man I used to drink myself blind with (before work), the whine of steel guitars filling his brown-shag-carpeted, fake-wood-paneled basement as, with booze prompted maudlin tears further blinding us, we bemoaned the death of real country music even then.

Randy Travis - give me a fucking break. His was the last country concert I attended (someone else bought the tickets). Hmmm, might not have been him, but another of his clones. I fell fast asleep in the concert. My friends literally had to wake me up to take me home when it was over.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

pale blue box

Ah, what's a birthday I say without a gift wrapped in a pale blue, cloth bag inside a pale blue box.

That's right, the postman delivered to me a gift from Tiffany & Co. this year. Thanks, thanks, thanks to Mr. Trouble Who Resides Over There.

steve

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

will power

I just finished a delicious apple and an orange.

I am attempting to become a health nut again both in terms of fitness and dietary habits. To say I've not only fallen from the wagon but had it crush most of my head as it rolled over me is an understatement of the highest order.

Let's review the state of my physical and dietary disarray, shall we?

I returned to the gym on Sunday past -- I last went to the gym in May sometime. I did chest bench press with just the bar (45 pounds). Last may I was pressing 110 pounds. Let's count the days, Sunday to Wednesday. My chest is still so sore I have difficulty moving my arms.

I have had Kentucky Fried Chicken products twice in the last couple of weeks. I'm a vegetarian for bejeebus' sake! I have had French fries/rings countless times in the past 6 months. Bags of chips, microwave popcorn with hydrogenated PALM oil (for fuck's sake), TUBS of ice cream, eaten in bed (for fuck's sake!), cheesies, chocolates, chocolates, chocolates, ju jubes, cookies, chocolates....

I have attempted since Sunday, when I returned to the gym, to go cold turkey on at least the snack food crap. Today -- it is now about 3:30 p.m. -- I have thus far successfully had no "junk." Sun., Mon., and Tuesday did not work out. Yesterday for example, I got into work and someone had left the bulk bag of M&Ms I'd bought for the group the day before on my desk and I had those for breakfast. Today, I found myself at a chocolate shop in the underground here and stopped myself from buying for for myself -- instead, I got three solid bunnies (dark chocolate) for others and nothing for myself. I then refused offers of ears and feet.

I just finished the apple and orange to substitute for the NEED to have one of those bunnies. I can seriously say I have never craved alcohol physically -- despite the fact I stopped drinking because I considered myself a drunk. (The want for the place booze can transport one emotionally is a different blog....) I CRAVE both salt and sugar at the moment. And refined sugar, as the orange and apple just produced a sardonic chuckle deep in my brain stem which sounded a lot like, "who are you fooling -- get a bag of chocolate covered ju jubes. NOW!"

If you're looking for an entertaining half hour, let me know and I'll alert you when my ABs will be unsore enough to allow me to do a pathetic routine of abdominal work again -- I'm not sure what the neck stretching I was doing last night had to do with attempting to strengthen my stomach... I believe one's shoulders are intended to come off the floor during a crunch.

Next step, cooking at home. Yikes!

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Liberation

This marks the date, March 15, in 1945 that the Liberation of Holland began -- a campaign my father took part in as a member of the Essex Scottish Regiment.

So I was thinking of him today and these "notes" for a poem popped in my head as I walked home from work. I write them down here before they disappear forever, and who knows, they may become a poem some day.



There are rules

when Dad sleeps
nestled, drunk
in the fallen Christmas
tree --
step over him
talk
about something
[or] else

Monday, March 14, 2005

James Fixx is dead (been so for some time, actually)

I began jogging in secret. Would have been 1977 or so. I used to walk (so no one in houses along the way to the cemetary would see me jogging -- it was a small town and the whole town, yes, would have known about and then asked me about my jogging) to the local cemetary and then run the permiter road around the graves. Jogging was not common then, although that was the year that running truly became a fad. I used to keep track of the laps I ran by saying them out loud to one of the "residents." Hmmm, forget his name. Didn't think I ever would as I said hello to him, saw his name on the grave stone so often. I'll have to remind myself of his name next time I'm in the cemetary visiting my dead father's grave.

Running became the very essence of me ever so quickly. It was so freeing and more so since it was a something I did secretly, I think. Gawd, the self esteem used to just pour into me when I'd do my daily 10k. I was such a non-jock teen (as if I have to say that; sheesh). I ran every day of the week in those early days the same distance at the same pace. Hung over (and was inevitably), sick, bad shoes, snow, rain, heat, dark, I ran. I still have Jim Fixx's book -- the first issue hardback. It's always the non runners who mock the fact he died of a heart attack on a day he forgot an appointment with his cardiologist. They tend to forget running clearly gave him 15 or so more years of life than he would have had. And real life, not some wheezing, fat existence that he had before his first heart scare had him lacing on his runners. Hey, running also gave him the most famous pair of anonymous legs in the world, maybe.

Have a sketch somewhere from the tattoo artist with whom I talked about having the latin phrase "I run therefore I am" (sorry can't remember what it is in latin) inked on my calf. The sketch was so bad I decided to find another artist and never did -- thank god as it would mock me now. Worse than "I love Myrtle" on a tattoo when years later it would need to read "I love Murray."

I will never run again. I've known that for the past few years, and it has been the well source of a what has kept me depressed for a very long, long time. But I have not really taken my final status as non-runner inside and let it settle -- have not tried to live as someone who will never run again. That pile of shit known as hope wrapped in denial always gave me a position of thinking I was just on the temporarily injured list, I guess.

But this weekend it really came home to roost for some reason: I will never run again. I went back to the gym this weekend. Today the muscle groups I worked are filled with that glorious post-workout pain, but there is no post-cardio workout fatique. Oh, I included 40 minutes on a stationary bike and nearly puked the green of an army truck from boredom(, not work!). I've got to figure out a way to teach myself to use the bike simply to get to some level of fitness and give up on the idea it might become more than a means to work my lungs and heart. And, of course, the very easy fake bike ride has left my knee hurting today, so even the bike may not be a meaningful means to find the road to cardio fitness...

Aiiiiiieeeyah, this is turning into a whine to self. Guess I just wanted to get on the page that I will never run again -- and even in this act, there is some false hope that by typing it, I will make a liar out of myself and indeed run again some day. Fat chance. Heavy, ahem, on the fat.

So, thanks to a couple of late 50 or early 60 year old guys coming back from a jog yesterday at the gym and lamenting they haven't seen me out running lately (can you say years!?), I realize I have to stop waiting for running to be the essence of me again. Fitness was a glorious side effect of running. I ran because it brought me joy. Ridiculous to say perhaps. Certainly, simple. Running = joy. But that was then and this is now. Now I just have to focus on the fitness, not the means.

The search for joy needs to be a separate pursuit. It ain't going to come with a bench press or on a bicycle. Those are now just tools to get fit.

I jogged up the street the other day -- about one quarter of a block before my knee had other ideas. Those few jogged steps made me grin like a kid running through a maze of tombstones.

steve

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Lights, Camera... Passport

Canada has NO signature movie; a movie that has changed me, one that I can turn to again and again in memory. A movie that, frankly, offers reflection on how I might approach my own life, like literature can and does. A movie that speaks the human voice from Canadian lips.

Sure, sure there have been good Canadian movies made, but I challenged myself to name just one that has had a lasting emotive impact on me as a movie goer. And there is none I can name. Of course for each of the countries I'm about to name off the top of my head there are MANY films that would fit what I'm talking about, but for me there is Jibeuro (Way Home)and Tae Guk Gi (Brotherhood of War) from Korea, Beijing Bicycle and In the Mood for Love from China, there's Billy Elliot from UK, Gallipoli and, fuck, even Crocodile Dundee from Australia, Le Colonel Chambert from France, City of God from Brazil, Nuovo Cinema Paradiso from Italy...

I want to blame our screwed up distribution system in Canada -- we are on the distribution end of a movie making machine (American) that does not factor our movie makers into the equation. So, the type of Canadian movie I'm yearning for may be getting made (but I doubt it), but if so, they are not shown anywhere.

The "voices" of Canadian filmmakers that do get screened are interesting and artistic voices, but not the splendid blend of the human-condition voice, and voice of entertainment I hear in Billy Elliot or Le Colonel Chambert or Cinema Paradiso -- the latter I watched last night again. For a movie may be art, but it is when viewed in a movie theatre with popcorn meant to be entertainment as well. There are many movies as art that I deeply respect and even like, but that I would never watch in a theatre after paying 12 bucks and while stuffing popped corn in my maw. Those are films. Today, I speak of movies.

Anyway, what a remarkable view of the cliche 'you can never go home' Cinema Paradiso truly is. And in comparison, oh my, how the American movie machine so, so fucks that simple human truth up time and time again. So much so that it had been long enough since I'd last watched the Paradiso that I was filling in the story in my head ahead of the film, but was doing so incorrectly, expecting the American version I guess. I found myself remembering that the "returned child as adult" buys the theatre, refurbishes it and thus "saves" his memory... What actually happens if the theatre is blasted to the ground and turned into parking space. Which is a fine metaphor for the ironic theme of the film that nostalgia is a killer.

Okay, I'm done. But would someone make an entertaining, heart-warming or heart-chilling, human-filled Canadian movie. Porky's was close, I guess.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Blog-lite: none of the blog all of the observations

Have had the pox for the last week -- intesified early last week and I missed a few days work; went in Firday and on Saturday I was snookered again. Then had to be at work today (Monday) at 6:30 a.m. and I resnookered again -- much redundancy in this flu/cold/bronchitis/pneumonia... In any event there 's more snot on my mind than too many coherent thoughts. But by popular demand I post something here to fill the void. More random observations than anything else.

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I had the distinct pleasure several years ago to come upon Ernst Zundel's home not long after firefighters had arrived to deal with the consequences of someone tossing a firebomb into the fortress. Was thinking of that enjoyable interuption to my early morning jog so long ago as I watched Schindler's List the day Canada deported Ernst's racist fat ass. We should have put him on a plane bound for Israel by mistake. Oooops, sorry. I am having diffiulty reconciling Canada's use of a special warrant (or whatever we call them here) that kept Zundel in jail without due process (beyond the special warrant) for two years or so with my sense that the use of such vehicles by the state is a dangerous precedent. Hmmm, but I have no problem with the morality of the firebombing.... Oh, I'm sure I've just gotten the historical record wrong. The fire was a result of faulty electrical wiring; the two years "in-limbo" custody was in fact ordered in response to unpaid parking fees. Ain't living downtown a bitch.

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He Who Has Never Eaten Dog informed me that Koreans don't eat pigeons. No idea how we got on that topic, except that the decimation of the pigeon population in Russian by a very hungry population over the last decade or so ago was involved. Seagulls are not excempt from the Korean menu, it seems. With innocence of the popular English language comment, He informed they "taste like chicken, apparently."

The dogs eaten in Korea are raised just for that -- dogs as pets existing most distinctly from the culinary pooches. "Byung-Heon! Walk the dog and pick up a pound of terrier, will you!"

Korea has made some great movies (please see the Way Home, if you have not already, for example). Appetite for the Western classics is lacking as it seems Lassie has little visibility in Korea. So I was thinking, maybe a Korean version of the film or tv series:

THE TREATMENT:
Uncle Kim is trapped by a large, flat-screen tv that has fallen on him. Lassie after finding Uncle Kim bolts off to run in circles at the local police and fire station to signal that Uncle Kim is hurt and needs help. In the next scene two satisfied looking emergency response officials are pushing back from the dinner table -- Cop (played by Won bin, of course!!!): "Well, that sure beat kimchi take out." Fireman: "Ai! The way he was jumping around I can't believe he was that tender."

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Yesterday marked 5 weeks without sex. Perhaps a record period of time for me (as a gay man, anyway) -- I know I once went without for a month while camping in the far north with vehicles full of straight people. But, it's not the celibacy that is of note, but the fact that it is much, much easier, so far, than giving up television ever was...

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