Anyone who has ever loved a band has surely also fallen out of love with a band. The once-adored musical heroes got tired, repetitive, overplayed, or a dozen more bands jumped on the bandwagon and now EVERYONE sounds like the band that used to be special. Yawn! But there is surely a particularly miserable and stinky pee-smelling corner of rock n’ roll hell reserved for bands who did the harm to themselves. They bastardized their own past and turned themselves into bed-wetting embarrassments.

Metallica

Metallica

James Hetfield will tickle you to death if you don't buy his band's new album!

I came late to this party and I didn’t stay particularly long. But while it lasted, I did watch the longest concert of my life. It was a frigid Edmonton winter night in 1992 during the tour for the black album. I lived near Heritage Mall and Metallica played at Northlands, so along the way I had one of my infrequent exposures to working class and outright poor people. Adventure! People were smoking dope openly while waiting in twenty below to get into the coliseum.  To my sixteen year-old, sheltered self, this was totally amazing. Inside the concert, my friend Alastair and I slightly feared for our lives. People were going crazy, thrashing about like squids that had electrocuted themselves. Four hours. Three encores!

Metallica, oh what sonic savagery. For a good year, I listened to Master of Puppets, Ride the Lightning, and Justice for All whilst trying to make my pubescent muscles grow by lifting weights in the basement. Metallica made me strong!  They made made me angry! More importantly, they made me question the MTV model of success… because they defied it (by not making any music videos) – oh, until I discovered they had started making videos! Initially they said it would be just one video – you know, the one for One. Then the monster sell-out black album came along and they discovered they could make more money than a small arms manufacturer. That was the beginning of the end. Flash forward over a decade and I watched Some Kind of Monster, the documentary about the sad-sack money-grubbing losers they had become. I laughed so hard about Kirk Hammett having discovered his zen side. His line about him trying to make his ego as small as possible will bring a smile to my face forever.

A smile of scorn, that is.

Another highlight is Lars Ulrich confronting ex-Metallica-head what’s-his-face from Megadeth (can’t be arsed to look up his name) and both of them wallowing in their self-pity about the horrible, oh horrible feelings of hurt when aforementioned Megadeth-thingo got kicked out of the band. Group hugs anyone? Or a cup of warm milk? Maybe another bazillion dollars will help you feel better!

Bed-wetting score: Soaked

Explanation of ratings

The ratings go from, Woops! to Damp to Very Wet to Soaked.

Where’s the logic?

Woops! indicates a minor nocturnal release; a tiny accident in an otherwise unblemished career.

Damp suggests a significant amount of embarrassment but you can still just about live with it.

Very Wet means you totally can’t be trusted anymore. Not in the bed, and definitely not with any adoring fans in there with you.

Soaked means the bed overfloweth; you’re going to rot the floorboards below you and threaten the structural integrity of the entire building. Uh, that’s my cunning metaphor for saying you’re pissing over the entire concept of rock n’ roll.

Next up: U2

Bands that have become bed-wetting embarrassments

Anyone who has ever loved a band has surely also fallen out of love with a band. The musical heroes got tired, repetitive, overplayed, or everyone jumped on the bandwagon and now EVERYONE sounds like the band that used to be special.  But there is surely a blazing corner of rock n’ roll hell reserved for bands who did the harm to themselves. They bastardized their own past and turned themselves into bed-wetting embarrassments. My top two nominees in this category are Metallica and U2.

Metallica

I came late to this party and I didn’t stay particularly long. But I did watch the longest concert of my life one frigid Edmonton winter night in 1992 during the tour for the black album. I lived near Heritage Mall and Metallica played at Northlands so along the way I had one of my infrequent exposures to working class and outright poor people. People were smoking dope openly while we waited to get in. Wow! To my sixteen year-old, sheltered self, this was totally amazing. Inside the concert, my friend Alistair and I slightly feared for our lives. People were going crazy, thrashing about like electrocuted squids! For four hours! Three encores!

Oh, Metallica, oh sonic savagery. For a good year, I listened to Master of Puppets, Ride the Lightning, and Justice for All whilst trying to make my pubescent muscles grow by lifting weights in the basement. Metallica made me strong! More importantly, they made me question the MTV model of success… because they defied it (by not making any videos) – oh, until I discovered they had started making videos! Initially they said it would be just one video – you know, the one for One. Then the monster sell-out black album came along and they discovered they could make more money than a small arms manufacturer. And that was it. That was the beginning of the end. Flash forward about a decade and I watched Some Kind of Monster, the documentary about the sad-sack money-grubbing losers they had become. I literally expected them to wet the bed in that film. I laughed so hard about Kirk Hammett having discovered his zen side. The line about him trying to make his ego as small as possible will bring a smile to my face forever.

A smile of scorn. For you, Metallica!

Another highlight is Lars Ulrich confronting ex-Metallica-head what’s-his-face from Megadeth (can’t be arsed to look up his name) and both of them wallowing in their self-pity about the horrible, oh horrible break-up. Group hugs anyone? A band in collective counselling? Maybe another bazillion dollars will help you feel better!

Bed-wetting score: Soaked

Explanation of ratings

The ratings go from, Woops! to Damp to Very Wet to Soaked. Where’s the logic?

Woops! Indicates a minor nocturnal release; a tiny accident in an otherwise unblemished career.

Damp suggests a significant amount of embarrassment but you can still about just live with it.

Very Wet means you can’t be trusted anymore.

Soaked means the bed overfloweth; you’re going to rot the floorboards below you and threaten the structural integrity of the building; i.e. a cunning metaphor for the whole music industry!)

A frustrating weekend working on a story that did not work out. It had an OK beginning but I could not give it a satisfactory ending… What exactly is the point of writing? Montreal just had an election and the mayor was re-elected despite obviously having awarded millions in contracts to crooked Mafia companies. That is more important than writing. World leaders will convene in Copenhagen to try and hammer out a deal on climate change. That seems more important than writing. The war in Afghanistan is not going well. That’s more important than writing.

Writing is navel-gazing and time-wasting.

But I did at least have an epiphany. I keep reverting to writing about the same type. To be blunt, a loser. The plot-line revolves around this person wrestling with / acknowledging / suffering as a result of his insecurity.

I need to stop writing about this type. He has outlived his usefulness.

Instead, I need to write about somebody who confidently speaks in a booming voice, finds a missing cat, saves the girl who fell down the well, learns to shoot a gun, confronts a gangster, can raise his leg over his head. Somebody a bit more heroic. Somebody who would not sit around second-guessing the utility of writing.

Maclean’s has a long article called “What Happened, Michael?” wondering what happened to poor old Michael Ignatieff, once supposedly the Liberals’ saviour, now supposedly dragging the Liberals down in the polls to exactly the same level as Dion did a year ago. I think the question in the article’s title is a silly one. It presupposes that Michael Ignatieff once had a good thing going, which I think is an assumption more than an accurate assertion of fact.

Ignatieff has built a reputation as being intelligent. The problem with his kind of intelligence is that it gets all the simple things wrong. Perhaps it is tiresome to hark on about the past, but I think that Ignatieff will never live down his support for the Iraq war. It was a monumental blunder. He built a rather abstract argument for intervention along humanitarian lines, but in fact, when it came to the moral case for war, the truth was every bit as simple as placard wavers at protests worldwide always asserted. George W Bush and his cronies were right-wing thugs who were bound to fuck up the invasion. It was about oil and greed. The wellbeing of Iraqis was never their concern.

Another simple truth: being out of a country most of your life stands you in very poor stead to lead it. I despise the Tories’ negative campaigning and the lowest-common-denominator cesspit they inhabit with their “Just Visiting” ads, but they have a point. Ignatieff pretty much proves it every time he opens his mouth to say something “patriotic” or insightful about Canada. “The great thing about politics is you get to see the country raw and unplugged,” says Ignatieff to the Maclean’s reporter. “You get to see things that most other Canadians don’t see.”

Really? Some might argue that politics is exactly the wrong vantage point from which to suddenly understand a country “raw and unplugged.”  You need to develop an understanding of the country before you enter politics, because once you’re a politician, raw and unplugged is exactly what most people won’t be – at least when your artificially smiling face comes anywhere near. And don’t you just love the “You get to see things that most other Canadians don’t see” put-down of every Canadian that doesn’t get to jet-set around the world’s second biggest country like he does?

Only someone extraordinarily out-of-touch with “raw and unplugged” Canadians would have suggested, as Ignatieff did a month ago, that we were all desperate for his coronation.

I saw Ignatieff speaking in Montreal earlier this year. He gushed vacuously about having visited Pratt and Whitney earlier that day, about how he had seen some amazing technical gizmo and how awesome it was to see such ingenuity and invention here in good ol’ Canada.  It’s exactly the let’s-all-pat-ourselves-on-the-back thing that is one of the most nauseating things about Canada, and indeed, some elements of its Natural Governing Party. If this is indeed a great country, it’s not because we invent amazing gizmos. Ranking countries on their ability to make gizmos would mean the United States kicks the crap out of our little country every time. They invented the Internet for crying out loud! The last thing this country needs as it lurches ever further into a decentralized mess of selfish provincial fiefdoms with decaying infrastructures and environmental ruination of increasing magnitude — the last thing we need is an aspiring leader who thinks that, by definition, Canadian = good. “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel,” said Samuel Johnson, and begad, he was right. Political speech-making is not the same as making an advert for Molson Canadian. I’m not advocating Ignatieff runs on a Canada-sucks platform, but — oh, wait a minute — the Liberals just threatened to throw this country into an election and they don’t even have a platform!

This is the party website of the Liberal Party of Canada. If you can find out what platform the party is running on in the next election, well, you’ve a keener eye than me. I’ve spent 30 minutes trying to find anything beyond a list of books by Ignatieff, photos, and of course party resolutions, which typically don’t get listened to by a party in power anyway.

No doubt about it, the Conservative government of Harper has to go, but if Ignatieff were our PM, I have no idea about how he’d differ from the current occupant of 10 Sussex Drive. Now Stephane Dion — there’s a leader who clearly would have taken this country in an entirely different direction, but Ignatieff? He is a mere two inches to the left of Harper, which says something, because Harper is about the most sinister, pro-oil, pro-war, pro-corporate, anti-worker PM in modern history.

Where are the Liberals on the environment since killing Dion’s Green Shift?

Where are they on the rapacious activity of the financial sector?

Where are they on the need to massively overhaul Canada’s infrastructure and prepare for a post-fossil fuel future?

Do they even oppose the Alberta tar sands, as any ethical leader in this day and age should? I get the clear impression that Ignatieff actually likes the tar sands.

Where are they on the ludicrously unfair and unhelpful system of student loans in this country?

Where are they on the ever-growing number of homeless?

The fact that Ignatieff hasn’t used his 10 months at the helm to paint even some rudimentary policy brushstrokes for the Liberal Party is underwhelming at best. Along with the worst-timed sabre-rattle since Sammy the Sabre Rattler cut off his own arm,  Ignatieff is emerging as Canada’s leading Man Without a Clue.

My short story, “Missing Things,” was chosen among Glimmer Train Magazine’s Top 25 finalists in the Short Story Award for New Writers 2009. By clicking the relevant link here you can see that I am not making this up.

I turned 34 this week. Aside from the after-effects of quite a bit of wine on Wednesday when my girlfriend and I went out to the restaurant, le Nil Bleu on rue St. Denis, I have been feeling in good health. I am not limping gasping squinting straining or croaking. Mind you, nor are a good number of people in their 70s.

I am not missing being younger. No sir. I remember from the age of about 12 I wanted to be in my thirties, and now all my dreams have come true.

Well, some of them.

When I was walking home from work yesterday, despite the snow and the cold – which strike me as having arrived prematurely this year – I stopped off at a bakery on rue Villeray and purchased a loaf of bread that was still warm from the oven. This, at 7:30pm. It made me very happy indeed.

Upon my return home, Banchi greeted me with a feline squawk for food. She wanted to eat the bread but I would not let her.

Five hours later, I only had about a ten-minute attention span for reading a book before drifting off into slumberland. I am currently reading Faubourg by Georges Simenon, and it is very good. I find the way Simenon reveals important plot points so natural and effortless – they just unfold in the course of describing what the protagonist , De Ritter, is up to. And boy is he mysterious, this protagonist. It’s clever how Simenon really gives you the sense of knowing who De Ritter is and yet not really knowing, all at the same time – and in a way that is intriguing and not frustrating.

Tonight I will have a bit of a shindig at my abode in Villeray. It is safe to say that tomorrow I will feel every year of 34. It’ll be interesting to see if my neighbours show up. Pierre has been contending with some heavy shit recently it seems – got harrassed by the ex-boyfriend of his sister, who is currently staying with him.  Some stuff I didn’t entirely catch about some custody battle. Apparently the boyfriend character also made threats against Pierre’s car.

Speaking of threats against inanimate objects, the other day on St. Laurent I saw a man shout “Colisse! Fuck you!” at his bicycle. Later, during the same outing, I saw a dog digging out dirt from around a tree and scuffing it all over the nice St Laurent sidewalk. That really cracked me up. I don’t know what exactly it was. Perhaps it was the contrast of sniffy snooty shoppers out shopping for their fancy clothes and whatnot, and this bull mastiff with no greater joy in the world than making a mess of that sidewalk.

Last November, like many, I succumbed to Obamania. I drove down to Burlington, Vermont, where I was dispatched by bus to the neighbouring state of New Hampshire. On my ride, I met Mike, a retired professor, and Lindsey, an actress, and many more friendly, hospitable Americans. My campaign duty was to knock on doors and remind people to vote. At the end of the day’s work, my fellow Obama supporters and I returned to a hotel in Vermont and watched the election results come in on CNN. When it was announced that Obama had won, many people in the room cried tears of joy – especially Lindsey, an African-American from Philadelphia. My own heart melted a little to behold the new first family take to the stage at Grant Park, Chicago.

Since those heady days, I’ve returned to my usual cynicism about politics. It’s not as if I expected Obama to fix everything overnight. In fact, I thought my expectations were realistic. I thought that if he could show a bit more responsibility versus the out-of-control financial sector, push harder for peace in world affairs (after all, he was the candidate who’d never supported the Iraq war), hopefully preside over a new paradigm of environmental responsibility – well, if he could do some of those things to the best of his capabilities, then it would be reason for some optimism.

But Obama has disappointed on almost every level. If you follow Glenn Greenwald regularly – and other insightful commentators of his ilk – you’re left with no alternative but feeling completely underwhelmed, in fact, betrayed by Barack Obama. Despite the obvious extreme right-wing and racist resistance to some of his plans, the biggest enemy of reform in America is Obama himself. Obama deliberately hijacked his own health care agenda, shutting down debate on universal health care from the get-go, leading to the extraordinary spectacle of health reform proponents being arrested. The current health care bill, if passed, will contain no public option and will do nothing to stop Americans from having the most inequitable health care system in the developed world. Thousands of the poorest Americans will likely still line up outside the Forum in Inglewood, California, waiting for hours in the stifling heat for some of the few coveted free appointments with a doctor.

Obama, the Nobel prize winner, escalated the war in Afghanistan, would not countenance an end to forced rendition, wherein suspected terrorists are held without trial and tortured in foreign prison cells (as opposed to in Guantanamo Bay, which he famously shut down – a pyrrhic victory) and has done absolutely nothing to encourage an end to Israel’s violent expansionist regime. Obama has simply put a polite and smiling face on the ongoing imperialist foreign policies of America.

But for me, the nadir of Obama’s reign thus far has to be his continuation of the Bush administration’s handouts to the financial sector, to the very people who crashed the economy in the first place. It must be nauseating for the public to watch their tax dollars go straight into the pockets of the richest people in America. How they must seethe – one year after the financial “emergency” – to see the same bankers who held their hands out for corporate welfare goodies now return to record-breaking profitibility, and of course, obscene bonuses.

If I can thank Obama for anything, it is for failing so miserably that he brought me to my senses. I used to believe that some sort of compromise with the capitalist state was possible. Now I believe this is an idle dream. Our current system is going to continue plugging along until it fails so spectacularly that it will provoke revolution, or necessitate an extreme totalitarian government to oppress the populace into accepting its savage injustice.

For me, acceptance of this sad state of affairs actually brings a small measure of serenity. Investing oneself emotionally in something as enormous as the possible salvation of a giant country such as America is quite the roller-coaster ride. To realize that it’s all in vain engenders a return to seeking to do good in small ways. Being involved in a progressive theatre project like Sexy béton, that helps. But to be frank, I can’t claim to be doing much good for anyone. I am a peon.

However, on an autumn day of brilliant sunshine and bright red maple leaves, walking through the streets of Villeray, looking at the sidewalk sales and a woman sitting on her step sipping an espresso, laughing at my cat Banchi bouncing in and out of the open window and visiting her feline friends, and with my stomach full from an enormous breakfast with Monika, a good measure of my cynicism fades away. Everything will not be OK, but on some level, there will always be some things in life that are very OK.

My friend Teena has entered her dog Pogi into the Cutest Dog in the World competition. As you’ll see, Pogi is without question the cutest dog in the world. So vote for him and help him win.


CutestDogCompetition.com
Vote for my Dog Sponsored by All American Pet Brands makers of premium dog food.

So I’ve been working on marketing and communications for  a play called Sexy béton. It’s about the collapse of the de la Concorde overpass in Laval in 2006. But it’s about a lot more than the tragedy of the five people killed and six injured that day. While honouring them, it asks that everyone take responsibility for the infrastructure that we use every day. Thousands drive over a concrete colossus such as Montreal’s Turcot Exchange with no idea of how fragile it is. The damn thing might well fall down within five years (one of the reaons it’s slated for demolition).

Anyway, the show is well worth seeing (I declare my bias openly!).  So too, I’d like to hope, is this very short interview I did with Annabel Soutar, the playwright. Thanks to Laura Kneale who made this video with me.

Over at the Guardian, Deborah Orr is fast becoming one of my new favourite columnists. In this article she discusses the contradictions in Britain’s class divisions. I don’t agree with her entirely. Saying that ownership of a second home makes someone a member of the rich elite is an over-simplification, in my view. The rich elite own the means of production. Or, if they don’t directly own the means of production, they are on first name basis with those that do. When it comes to social class, that is the  class distinction that matters the most.

We’re at a fascinating juncture in history. On one hand, we’ve witnessed one of the greatest failures of our current system of capitalism. On the other hand, it’s full speed ahead with the same system! This article out of the UK is interesting, given that it suggests that the great compromise between capital and civil society promised by centre-left parties such as UK’s Labour (and of course our own Liberals) is perhaps impossible. You can’t have any meaningful form of social justice while bankers and oil tycoons etc. continue to plunder the world’s wealth and resources.

Over the weekend I discovered a great British TV comedy called Snuff Box. It co-stars Brit comedian Matt Berry and his American co-conspirator, Rich Fulcher. The peculiar premise of the show is that they are executioners, but spend most of their time sipping whiskeys at a gentleman’s club. There are also numerous other oddball characters that come alive through the various sketches. What unites the whole show is a dedication to laughs at any price. Very crude, very black, very juvenile at times, but zanily brilliant. I think it’s better than The Mighty Boosh.

You can see the one and only season of Snuff Box in its entirety at Joost TV.