http://theoatmeal.com/blog/awkward_movies
I laughed out loud (yes, I just wrote that out in full) at this comic. The expression on "you too!" dude's face is absolutely spot on. We all do this and sometimes even realize we did it and cringe. In a recent what-are-you-up-to-this-weekend sort of office conversation, a co-worker of mine solemnly noted that he would be attending a funeral over the weekend. I wished him well, and almost immediately afterwards, he attempted to end the conversation with "well, enjoy your weekend" and of course, I returned with the auto-response "you too!". I love comedy like this.
What I really want to talk about are soundtracks. My moods and thoughts have often been dictated by music. I've always thought that the best job in the world would be to choose music for films. I don't mean so much scoring films. My musical talent has never and will never stretch that far, sadly. I've always had an affinity to certain movies if not only for their soundtracks and perfect placement of pivotal music. Alternately, I love certain real-life moments when they are underscored by the right music, like the right tune in a grocery isle (Mellow Yellow - Donovan) or in the ears, under the snowboard helmet (Organ Donor - DJ Shadow) or while sharing your deepest secrets (Time Has Told Me - Nick Drake) or for waking up (White Winter Hymnal - Fleet Foxes).
Artists are often stigmatized for selling their music to be included in a commercial or soundtrack. This is not a black-and-white argument. In fact, the decision to sell music can be a savvy move when it's done with care. For example, some artists may take issue with selling a tune to the next over-the-top Michael Bay production (of the Transformers empire), but not to, oh, say Wes Anderson's next venture or maybe anything starring Michael Cera. And undoubtedly, there will be those who feel quite the opposite.
Perhaps I just haven't done my proper research (and apologize if that's true), but why hasn't anyone used Radiohead's "Nude" in film? This song inspired this post. In fact, as a bit of an homage to this song, I think I'll start taking note of the names of films and particular moments when I think "Nude" should've been part of the score. Could you call that a hobby?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Kindred spirits and dreams
It's probably nothing more than a coincident that I happened to see the movie Inception shortly before I had an uncharacteristically vivid dream. I've always wished I was that person who remembered dreams in the same vein as useless sports trivia, but that's never been the case. It's like trying to wrestle open a door fastened with a bungee cord. Tiny bits half emerge seconds before the door slams shut again with ferocious authority. My mind teases me that way. I also admire the person who claims to keep a notebook bedside and despite the hour, awakes from a dream and immediately writes down the details (for what I assume will be a close analysis later). I'm neither a rememberer nor a dream note taker. I push the mental snooze when I awake from most dreams, hoping to fall right back in.
In this particular dream, I only recall one piece. I got the innate feeling there were many lost pieces and sometimes I felt as though I had one too many glasses of wine and my dream friends took advantage of me. Dreaming is, after all, the safest way to lose control. The piece that I remember involved me and a friend of mine. We told familiar stories as if we'd grown up next-door neighbours and been in the trenches of war together. It was obvious to me who this friend was, even though I don't remember seeing his face or any other telling signs. I do recall a hat, which is strange because I don't ever recall him wearing a hat like that. Before the dream ended, we both laughed uncontrollably at something. I don't remember what but that laugh felt better than any laugh I've ever had in my real life. I hate this omission from my memory.
Either way, I almost immediately awoke, unstoppable smile on my face, to realize that I don't and probably will never know that person so well in my waking life. Why was I so comfortable with said friend in my dream when that's almost never the case in reality? When I tired of this vein of thought, I began to wonder if anyone ever made major life decisions based on dreams. People make decisions all the time based on hunches. And personally, I find the "I had a dream" rationale much more difficult to argue than "I had a hunch". Nobody can argue with your dreams.
In this particular dream, I only recall one piece. I got the innate feeling there were many lost pieces and sometimes I felt as though I had one too many glasses of wine and my dream friends took advantage of me. Dreaming is, after all, the safest way to lose control. The piece that I remember involved me and a friend of mine. We told familiar stories as if we'd grown up next-door neighbours and been in the trenches of war together. It was obvious to me who this friend was, even though I don't remember seeing his face or any other telling signs. I do recall a hat, which is strange because I don't ever recall him wearing a hat like that. Before the dream ended, we both laughed uncontrollably at something. I don't remember what but that laugh felt better than any laugh I've ever had in my real life. I hate this omission from my memory.
Either way, I almost immediately awoke, unstoppable smile on my face, to realize that I don't and probably will never know that person so well in my waking life. Why was I so comfortable with said friend in my dream when that's almost never the case in reality? When I tired of this vein of thought, I began to wonder if anyone ever made major life decisions based on dreams. People make decisions all the time based on hunches. And personally, I find the "I had a dream" rationale much more difficult to argue than "I had a hunch". Nobody can argue with your dreams.
Self-imposed power outtages
I've been in exile in my condo for a few days now. This is rare, especially in August, but I've enjoyed it. So much happens when I'm not around! The posh business people in the generic building a few blocks over had a rooftop celebration that I'm sure included gel and martinis (wish I had binoculars right then); the clouds move faster than I ever remember them moving and the new neighbour has a funny, potentially annoying problem with his smoke detector letting him know his apartment is hot, not burning, just hot, which is pretty much all the time in August. We suggested he remove the batteries for the evening (it was late when he made his confession) and get it checked out the next day. He seemed surprised by our suggestion and the fact that smoke detectors have batteries?!
After consideration, we decided that our made-up story of how the previous occupants moved out with complaints of chronic headaches, possibly due to toxic levels of carbon monoxide, was a devious and unneighbourly move.
Part of this condo exile has been on account of the weather. Things got a little stormy a few nights ago when we heard/saw a goliath strike of lightning that seemed like it hit about three blocks away. The ensuing fire truck and sirens were our proof. A friend from out of town was staying and our much-anticipated dinner was nearly on the table when the buzz stopped. The fish tank stopped dripping; the television quietly bowed down to the intensity of the storm; the clocks stopped insisting our dinner was late, as usual, and the ceiling fans conceded to the natural winds outside. Lights out and stove cooling our better-be-ready yams, we lit candles and observed silence between conversation, thunder and sirens. Luckily, my decanter is not electric.
It struck me that this whole experience made me feel as though I was in a sanctuary. It seems we're so used to noise, buzzing always, that we had forgotten how wonderful it was to be without it. Without so much distraction, the flicker of a candle on a wood table is pronounced. And is it just me, or does conversation seem secret and exceedingly precious around candlelight? Our roomie for the week just returned from South America and living in Costa Rica for nearly two years, so she wasn't fussed. Any amount of panic in a situation like this is pedestrian to her and I was happy to have someone to revel in the simplicity with.
When the power eventually made it's way back and we began re-setting clocks and scrolling through music and flicking channels and googling again, I felt a mild sense of disappointment, which is why I've decided to give myself a self-imposed power outage one evening a month. I understand the mesmerizing storm and the element of surprise will be missing and yes, it might be slightly annoying to set the clocks and hope the fish tank filter resumes without fail, but not enough.
I'll report back on my first reenactment.
After consideration, we decided that our made-up story of how the previous occupants moved out with complaints of chronic headaches, possibly due to toxic levels of carbon monoxide, was a devious and unneighbourly move.
Part of this condo exile has been on account of the weather. Things got a little stormy a few nights ago when we heard/saw a goliath strike of lightning that seemed like it hit about three blocks away. The ensuing fire truck and sirens were our proof. A friend from out of town was staying and our much-anticipated dinner was nearly on the table when the buzz stopped. The fish tank stopped dripping; the television quietly bowed down to the intensity of the storm; the clocks stopped insisting our dinner was late, as usual, and the ceiling fans conceded to the natural winds outside. Lights out and stove cooling our better-be-ready yams, we lit candles and observed silence between conversation, thunder and sirens. Luckily, my decanter is not electric.
It struck me that this whole experience made me feel as though I was in a sanctuary. It seems we're so used to noise, buzzing always, that we had forgotten how wonderful it was to be without it. Without so much distraction, the flicker of a candle on a wood table is pronounced. And is it just me, or does conversation seem secret and exceedingly precious around candlelight? Our roomie for the week just returned from South America and living in Costa Rica for nearly two years, so she wasn't fussed. Any amount of panic in a situation like this is pedestrian to her and I was happy to have someone to revel in the simplicity with.
When the power eventually made it's way back and we began re-setting clocks and scrolling through music and flicking channels and googling again, I felt a mild sense of disappointment, which is why I've decided to give myself a self-imposed power outage one evening a month. I understand the mesmerizing storm and the element of surprise will be missing and yes, it might be slightly annoying to set the clocks and hope the fish tank filter resumes without fail, but not enough.
I'll report back on my first reenactment.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Have legs, will run for advice
Having just booked a ticket to Kathmandu, I felt the need to start a regular training regime, particularly one that includes stairs or steep inclines of some sort. As I run/walk/go in the general upwards direction, I think about how I've always perceived this place like I have Transylvania. Just saying the name of this exotic city aloud elicits thoughts of lingering and unexpected fog. It feels good to say it, so I do so on a regular basis. It imposes itself on otherwise humdrum conversation like an Irish accent and begs to be heard.
I'm going to come back to Kathmandu later. After all, I still have two-and-a-half months to contemplate it.
It's the training regime I want to talk about. I hate to use the word 'regime' to describe what has been a half-hearted attempt at best. Typically, I like to run down the promenade, down Victoria Park Hill and up the stairs from Victoria golf course a few times and run/walk home from there. I know this isn't much, but it incorporates a little of everything in a manageable time frame.
First off, stop laughing. Indeed, Edmonton has it's very own promenade perched on the lip of the river valley peering over Victoria Park Road. It stretches from 116th to 121st Street. I'm shocked at the number of Edmontonians who eye me suspiciously when I call this stretch of avenue a promenade. Honestly though, if you were over 75, you would know this place. It's the avenue of the old and wise.
The first time I ventured out to try my route, an 87-year-old woman (name unknown) waited as I ascended my final go of the stairs. "My daughter does that six times a day, you know." She also noted that if I continue to do this (six times a day?!), I would look as good as her at 87. She looked pretty able for her age! Noted.
The next time, I met Freddy. Where to begin with Freddy? He lives on the promenade and if you make eye contact, you may as well discount a good half hour from your day. Having said that, he will make it well worth your time. Freddie is 84 and here's his life secret: "No alcohol but the finest cognac." Oh yes, and only share it with your real friends (because it's expensive). How do you know real friends from your fake friends? "Look them in the eye and you'll know their character."
This man is straight out of a Dostoevsky novel. In the span of 30 minutes (him talking; me listening), I saw the lighthearted Freddy ("How old was that other lady you were talking to here? Does she live around here?" - referring to the 87-year-old lady from my last jaunt), the humorous Freddy ("you're young, but not that young."), the thoughtful Freddy ("this modern architecture [referring to a new condo on the promenade] it's built like a prison! Why would I pay $1 million to live in a prison!") and the dark Freddy ("I survived for 70 days on leaves during the war.")
After a half hour, I had to tell Freddy to save some stories for next time we run into one another and I cut my stair climbing short to make my escape. It's rare that you meet people so sure of themselves and of life. Over the weekend, I found myself wondering what Freddy or the nameless 87-year-old woman would think about _________. I wonder if I'll be more inclined to talk to strangers when I'm old?
Tonight...six flights of stairs, the finest cognac and hopefully another gem to add to the agenda.
I'm going to come back to Kathmandu later. After all, I still have two-and-a-half months to contemplate it.
It's the training regime I want to talk about. I hate to use the word 'regime' to describe what has been a half-hearted attempt at best. Typically, I like to run down the promenade, down Victoria Park Hill and up the stairs from Victoria golf course a few times and run/walk home from there. I know this isn't much, but it incorporates a little of everything in a manageable time frame.
First off, stop laughing. Indeed, Edmonton has it's very own promenade perched on the lip of the river valley peering over Victoria Park Road. It stretches from 116th to 121st Street. I'm shocked at the number of Edmontonians who eye me suspiciously when I call this stretch of avenue a promenade. Honestly though, if you were over 75, you would know this place. It's the avenue of the old and wise.
The first time I ventured out to try my route, an 87-year-old woman (name unknown) waited as I ascended my final go of the stairs. "My daughter does that six times a day, you know." She also noted that if I continue to do this (six times a day?!), I would look as good as her at 87. She looked pretty able for her age! Noted.
The next time, I met Freddy. Where to begin with Freddy? He lives on the promenade and if you make eye contact, you may as well discount a good half hour from your day. Having said that, he will make it well worth your time. Freddie is 84 and here's his life secret: "No alcohol but the finest cognac." Oh yes, and only share it with your real friends (because it's expensive). How do you know real friends from your fake friends? "Look them in the eye and you'll know their character."
This man is straight out of a Dostoevsky novel. In the span of 30 minutes (him talking; me listening), I saw the lighthearted Freddy ("How old was that other lady you were talking to here? Does she live around here?" - referring to the 87-year-old lady from my last jaunt), the humorous Freddy ("you're young, but not that young."), the thoughtful Freddy ("this modern architecture [referring to a new condo on the promenade] it's built like a prison! Why would I pay $1 million to live in a prison!") and the dark Freddy ("I survived for 70 days on leaves during the war.")
After a half hour, I had to tell Freddy to save some stories for next time we run into one another and I cut my stair climbing short to make my escape. It's rare that you meet people so sure of themselves and of life. Over the weekend, I found myself wondering what Freddy or the nameless 87-year-old woman would think about _________. I wonder if I'll be more inclined to talk to strangers when I'm old?
Tonight...six flights of stairs, the finest cognac and hopefully another gem to add to the agenda.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
My obsession with nutella...
...or anything that tastes like nutella, for that matter. The thick, chocolately, gooey stuff I actually broke my fork in is called Nutkao. It's a rip-off. That's when you know your addiction has come full circle...you start buying knock-offs, mainly because they are cheaper, but also so you can test your knowledge of the original product. Is the cheap Nutella knock-off as good as the original? Is it (*gasp) better? Are there more of less hazelnuts, protein, carbs, fat in it? Can I get away with putting in in my morning coffee? Can it make a meal on its own?
Let's talk Nutella and culture now (because I'm obsessed, you see). Nutella seems to have a higher cool factor than peanut butter. I reckon it's because mom and/or dad or you, if that's how it went down, never packed you a nutella and jam sandwich and sent you packing to learn your ABCs. An n&j sandwich just doesn't have the same ring to it as pb&j now does it. Perhaps another reason is that it's from across the pond. It's foreign and foreign = instant cool. If we bring nutella down to a peanut butter level, it's actually hazelnut butter (hb&j) in the way that Kleenex is tissue paper. Let's face it though, even at the trailer park level, hb&j still sounds like a mid-range, trendsetting retail outlet or a sexually transmitted disease.
My obsession calls...
Let's talk Nutella and culture now (because I'm obsessed, you see). Nutella seems to have a higher cool factor than peanut butter. I reckon it's because mom and/or dad or you, if that's how it went down, never packed you a nutella and jam sandwich and sent you packing to learn your ABCs. An n&j sandwich just doesn't have the same ring to it as pb&j now does it. Perhaps another reason is that it's from across the pond. It's foreign and foreign = instant cool. If we bring nutella down to a peanut butter level, it's actually hazelnut butter (hb&j) in the way that Kleenex is tissue paper. Let's face it though, even at the trailer park level, hb&j still sounds like a mid-range, trendsetting retail outlet or a sexually transmitted disease.
My obsession calls...
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