Tederick.com: July 2006 Archives
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July 31, 2006

Seriously, dude! TURN THE MUSIC DOWN!!

At this point we have to declare that there is some unwritten law in the universe that goes something like this: without fail, if I go swimming in boxer-briefs, upon emerging from the water - dripping and bulging - I will immediately encounter a hot teenager in a bikini. It's happened at least once apiece in the past two summers, and it happened twice on the weekend. I'm just sitting around on a dock minding my own business and some model-quality superbabe in a white bikini staggers down the stairs. Or I go swimming in Lost Channel with my friends and there are not one but three nubile teen nymphets, whose bathing suits are being kept on by nothing more than their collective hopes and aspirations, are there to watch me flail around in my manly non-pants. Whatever is causing this, if I could bottle it, I would make a damn fortune... because you shoulda seen these girls. And people ask me why I don't own a bathing suit!

Tempting jailbait notwithstanding, it was goddamned great to get out of the city for the weekend. I didn't know how much I needed that. Every time I'm up north there's the "oh yeah" moment where I smell the air and see the rock and feel the trees and remember why this is worth a month of Sundays in the city. Sure, I was with vegans, but you can't have everything, and vegans often don't. I got to watch Mark scream "Dude! TURN THE MUSIC DOWN!!" across the bay at a bunch of total strangers, in the middle of the night, while naked. I got to see the particular shade of puce that Josh's face turned when he casually mentioned his immediate need to masturbate, unaware that Mark's mother was standing right behind him. I got to stare at the stars a whole lot. And I went up the river: after a week with more than its fair share of emotional difficulties and at least one decision that hurt as much as it healed, on Saturday I took some serious Matt time, got in a canoe with my hat on, and disappeared up to the north of the lake, through rain and sun and blackflies and seemingly to the ends of the earth itself. When you're alone in a wide marsh with no sign of human existence around you at all, and a perfect silver downpour blankets the world in the chatter of life, and you realize that you're both aware of your brief span on this earth and transcending it at the same time... well, that shit's good for the soul.

Oh: and the popularity of "you gotta ease into that shit," and its antecedent "you're not talking," has thoroughly permeated yet another group of people. You can't put a price on that.

Wheel of fortune

I came back from the cottage weekend (longer report to follow) to find Yellow Wall on top of the soccer standings in the league. WTF? I'm out of it for a little while and everyone gets delusions of grandeur?!

Here's the cool-ass carnivorous plant set for your desktop, which I saw on Jocelyn's web site last week and have been mooning over ever since. Unlike her, I do have an Office Space-type work environment in which to place this deadly constellation of vegetables that eat animals. So for twenty-five bucks I am seriously considering that shit.

Miami Vice tonight and Lady in the Water tomorrow, and yet for some reason all I want to do right now is go see POTC2 yet again. I am truly Jack Sparrow's bitch.

And finally: Dirty Harry. It's almost worth the flight to London, just to see the itty bitty Potter penis. Particularly if I get a whole gang together, all wearing t-shirts that say "Itty Bitty Potter Penis." Particularly if said shirts were designed and worn by a certain Silver Snail employee who is, most likely, even more interested in this than I am. Oh, opportunities.

July 28, 2006

The vagina warrior

Melaka Fray has light coming out of her vagina.

It could be utterly unintentional. It could be the coincidental biproduct of the required staged lighting necessary for a bit of lovely titillation, because for all of Whedon's feminist leanings to the contrary, let's face it: girls? Hot. Girls with Slayer strength living in the awesome-assed future? Really hot. Girls with Slayer strength living in the awesome-assed future who take showers by straddling two buildings, twenty floors up, and opening up a pipe on their naked bodies? Well, there's no word for that hot. And let's also not be forgetting that between all this comic book writing on the blog lately, and all this vagina writing on the blog lately, I may be making connections that aren't actually there. But I turned to page whateverthefuck of my shiny new Fray TPB, and noticed something I certainly didn't notice three years ago: Melaka Fray has light coming out of her vagina. And that makes for some cool.

This should be happening more. It's all well and good for Luke and Anakin to whack their phalluses back and forth, but our pop cult visual iconography is seriously lacking in the power of the bush. The Da Vinci Code's sole concession to awesomeness was drawing a gigantic V across the figure of Christ and suggesting that the uterine delta was, before Church spires stretched skyward, the original symbol of power. Buffy, that latter day warrior attempting to return all women to the temple of the goddess (even if she needs White Witch Willow, the true feminine power, to do it, owing to Buffy's own patriarchally-generated power centre) certainly worked on a textual level better than just about any show written for television, and its use of icon was equally vivid, but it was rare that the show ever drew it back to the V as the mythic source of feminine power. This was a shame, not just because picturing Buffy and Dawn sitting around talking about their coochies is wicked good times, and Eliza Dushku with a stream of light flowing out of her vag would be a new level of something... but because the show did have the ability to re-state and re-shape existing pop culture, and that voice was used largely elsewhere. The primordial mythic was left alone, in favour of breaking the more modern boundaries of film genre and archetype. I suppose we're best left not complaining; we still got one of the definining feminist voices in American popular culture of the past hundred years. But the image of Melaka Fray with light pouring forth between her legs is a nice, subtle nod to the link Whedon never overtly made: the vagina is power, and as with all Slayer strength, true power is power shared.

July 27, 2006

Skywalker on the move (redux)

Anakin is on the move. Repeat: Anakin is on the move.

I'll be away for the weekend so you can chart his cross-country journey to my doorstep here.

Fuck, I hope my address isn't hidden somewhere on that page resulting in a bunch of Tederick.com haters showing up at my house with knives.

EXTREME STEVE!!!! episode ten

July 26, 2006

The answer

By now, "you gotta ease into that shit" has entered the lexicon in a manner unchallenged for supremacy since the early days of "No, you're not talking." (Explanatory entries are here, here.) I am using it almost daily, and others are using it on me. Its legend spreads by leaps and bounds with its every utterance. It is truly a masterpiece of uselessness. Tonight at poker, though, Adam Storm trumped the tower.

In the middle of a deal gone awry, I blurted out

"You gotta ease into that shit!"

only to have Adam reply

"If you ease into it, it's done."

which, of course, is an answer so perfectly matched in its uselessness to the original statement as to border upon the uncanny. Did Adam know he was contributing to the great work of Tederick.com when he emitted a pointless non-sequiter so bereft of intelligence or meaning that it might well have come from the fevered rantings of a delirious 9-year-old gorilla? Probably not. But if uselessness has a god-figure, tonight, that god-figure shat in Adam's brain.

Popi lopi popi lopi popi lopi

The inevitable moment when Runaways started being written by someone else. Except that fortunately it's just the first issue of the Runaways/New Avengers Civil War limited series... but it is a harbinger of things to come, as I doubt Vaughan will stay with the title for more than another dozen issues, based on what I'm smelling in the wind. Nossir: I don't like it. Molly was the only thing working for me in the whole book, and even her dialogue seemed to be over-reaching a bit. Cool fight scene, though.

What the fuck was that besides 22 pages of finger-frolicking erotic? is what I asked myself after reading Powers #19. This was supposed to be a "jumping-on point" issue for new readers. I've been reading the title for over a year now and I didn't have one sweet fucking clue what was going on, except that it wanted to make me stick my finger up my ass. (In a good way). Still gorgeous as hell and the best letter col in all of comics and besides, lesbian superhero masturbation scene! So who fucking cares.

Then there's Batman by Morrison. A fucking weekly DC tentpole comic that is actually worth making part of your regular rotation and isn't just a damn placeholder. Sweet ass. Except that the issue frequently reminded me of Batman Forever, and not in any of the good ways, because of course, there are none. Morrison's trying to put the funny back in the Batman, and the colour usage is decidedly Schumacher-esque. He blew the Joker's head off on page five, which was cool. But... Man-bat? Seriously?

Indiana Jones and the Curse of the Unsculptable Face

Here's a little photo essay I like to call: "Nobody In The World Can Sculpt Harrison Ford's Face."

I have cancelled my order for the Sideshow 12" Bespin Han Solo doll.

July 25, 2006

More than super

After about six months of ongoing rumours that there would be a big Superman DVD boxed set in the fall - which would contain the four original films, none of which would be available separately, along with the long-sought Superman II Director's Cut - The Digital Bits brought out a boatload of really, really good news today:

  • There will be a boxed set, but each title will also be available separately, in the same format with the same features
  • The first such DVD will be a 4-disk (!) special edition of Superman I which will include the original and updated cuts of the film, the first George Reeves Superman movie, and half the vintage animated shorts
  • There will be both a Superman II theatrical cut DVD and a Richard Donner Director's Cut DVD; the former will include the rest of the animated shorts
  • There's gonna be a feature-length making-of doc on the second disk of Superman Returns.
  • Supermans III and IV can rest on the shelves all by their lonesome, just like Batmans III and IV.

So, uh, that's pretty much everything I've ever wanted in my life.

The more you spend, the more you spend

I often reply to any jabs about how much money I spend on crap (DVDs, comics, toys, whatever) with a line either about how I don't smoke, or I don't often go out drinking, so I'm already spending less than most people. Turns out I should have combined these two quips into a mega-point: nicotine makes it harder to get drunk. Or in other words, if you smoke while you're out drinking, you have to spend even more on beer to get anywhere.

Fucking losers!

Mamo #52: By George I Think They've Got It.

Surprise Mamo! The mood struck us, so we Mamoed. And so it was, and so it shall be.

Click here to download the mp3.

July 24, 2006

Violence

Chris beat me to it last week with his excellent slideshow of stills, but here are some of my favourite stills from Standoff. (I differentiated myself by putting my stills in the proper aspect ratio and colour grading.)

Loss

A few months after my grandmother died, I remember going over to my grandfather's house, and I remember thinking that he was just broken. There were no histrionics, no crying, no great display of sadness... he just made me and my mother some ham and cheese sandwiches and we sat around the kitchen table eating and talking. And it was the sheer intended normalcy of the entire scene that did nothing more than definitively underscore the degree to which everything that this man identified as his life had just been irrevocably shattered and would never, ever feel "normal" again. It's one way to deal with grief: to play the game that the people around you insist you play, the old "time heals all wounds" and "everything will eventually be okay" and "nothing to do but carry on" bulljive that is cruelly force-fed to the lost, almost from the moment they realize the extent of the chasm that has opened up in their lives. In so many ways I've spent the last ten years haunted by that image, of my poor, gentle grandfather making the ham and cheese sandwiches and serving them to us as though they could ever be anything but a pale comparison to the joyous, exuberant meals that were served at my grandparents' place up to and including the last day I ever saw my grandmother alive. I keep that image inside me as the definition of sadness of my entire life. It illustrates what pathetic liars we all are, and how the entire structure of this society is built up to try to delude us into thinking that loss is anything but utter destruction. There's no "get better." There's just "find some way to live with what's left."

Mamo #51: Lost weekend

This Mamo was recorded on Friday night just before the weekend started; we then went into the Varsity and I snuck into the theatre screening Pirates and found it packed, causing me to proclaim "Yup, Pirates takes the weekend." And so it did.

Click here to download the mp3.

July 22, 2006

The Benedict Chronicles: Sunset Grill

"...as plate after plate of fluffy poached eggs, cartilaginous peameal, and lakes of sunshiney goo continued to pile up over time, I realized that if I don't start catalogueing these excursions in some formal manner, a great field of human knowledge would be lost. Hence, the Benedict Chronicles..."

The Sunset Grill bears the distinction of being the place that simply refuses to cop to the fact that they're serving eggs benedict. The dish in question, on all versions of the menu, is called "Eggs Sunset." The last time I was there they claimed that they were going to update the menu and finally give the benny his due, but having been there this week, I can tell you that a) they have new menus, and b) it's still called Eggs Sunset.

For something not called benny, this is some sweet benny.

I first had the benny at the Sunset way the hell back in the day when we were trying to make our second attack on the benny perfection that is Sharky's, only to find the place closed; we walked across the street to the Sunset Grill in Bloor West Village and I had my benny there. I think I was disappointed at the Sharky's situation, which prevented me from really enjoying the dish at the time. Since then I've had it three or four times at the Sunset Grill at Yonge & Eglinton, and it's always really damn good.

Benny at the Sunset comes with buttered toast and home fries. It's probably the single most satisfying meal you'll get out of a benny served in this city: it is the exact right amount of food. And it runs you a mere $7.99, which for these deals ain't bad. The coffee at Sunset sucks balls that have to be seen to be believed, but I'm beginning to think "diner coffee" is a dying breed anyway.

The hollandaise at Sunset is awesome, and they pretty much nailed the poaching of eggs, at least in the sample above. I can't remember ever having a problem with it. I think they slightly undercook the peameal, which leaves it chewy, which would be the only detractor on an otherwise excellent meal. Three and a half eggs out of four!

The Sunset Grill is located just north of Yonge and Eglinton in Toronto, on the very spot that once held my habitual Second Cup. The Benedict Chronicles is an ongoing, non-regular series.

moviesTO #39: Two movies; no waiting

I chickened out on Lady in the Water - boy there's just no integrity left in me, is there? - so instead I'm reviewing Clerks 2 and A Scanner Darkly. And maybe I'll look at Shyamalan some other time.

Click here to check the podcast.

A Scanner Darkly

With its resilient paranoia, meticulous deconstruction of identity, and quasi-lucid visual nebulae, it's probably not surprising that Darkly lent itself to a glorious midnight mindwalk. In the cold light of morning, though, I find myself wondering if it works half as well when you're awake.

Click here to read my review.

July 21, 2006

Yet another meme

I'm trying to answer some interview questions about Tederick.com and having rum luck doing it, so I went meme-hunting. Maybe this will get me in the mood:

1. IF YOU COULD BUILD A SECOND HOUSE ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD IT BE?
Right next to the first one. Fuck, why not?

2. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLES OF CLOTHING?
My Raiders jacket scores highly, as does my Stormtrooper t-shirt. But I'm not sure if either of them would actually be my "favourite."

3. THE LAST CDs YOU BOUGHT?
I don't trade in hardcopy any more.

4. WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING?
Lately it's been 7:31. Actually that's just what my alarm is set for; I usually actually wake up just before 7:00.

5. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE KITCHEN APPLIANCE?
The kettle, bringer of tea.

6. IF YOU COULD PLAY AN INSTRUMENT, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
I suppose my parents were right: it really would be cool to be able to play the piano.

7. FAVORITE COLOR?
Green (clearly!)

8. WHICH VEHICLE DO YOU PREFER, SPORTS CAR, MOTORCYCLE, OR SUV?
Fuck all that jive! I am in a very no-petrol mood lately.

9. DO YOU BELIEVE IN THE AFTERLIFE?
Not any more.

10. FAVORITE CHILDREN'S BOOK?
What's Happening To Me?

11. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON?
Fall

12. IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT?
I don't. And at this point I think it's safe to say that I never will. But it will always be a regret.

13. IF YOU COULD HAVE ONE SUPERPOWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE?
Flying! Although as Wing recently pointed out, flying without invulnerability is some dangerous shit.

14. CAN YOU JUGGLE?
I can juggle two. I cannot juggle three. So... no.

15. ONE PERSON/PEOPLE FROM YOUR PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO?
Geoff MacDonald, my best friend when I was a kid who disappeared off the face of the planet in September of 1989. I suspect he's dead.

16. WHAT IS UNDER YOUR BED?
Some clothes, a wheelchair, the Queen's Royal Starship, an AT-AT walker, and miscellaneous packaging.

17. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE DAY?
Thursday, for some reason.

18. WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SUSHI OR HAMBURGER?
Tough fucking call. They're both equally viable, in such completely different ways.

19. FROM THE PEOPLE WHO NORMALLY READ YOUR BLOG, WHO IS THE MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND FIRST?
Respond to what? Ain't nobody gonna respond to nothin'.

20. ON WHICH BLOG DID YOU FIND THIS MEME?
Rhetoric and Democracy, via Google.

21. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE FLOWER?
Red roses

23. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MEAL?
I'm gonna go with lunch. I don't know why, but a good lunch is pretty much the key to my happiness.

24. DESCRIBE YOUR PJS.
Dinna wear 'em.

25. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE BREAKFAST?
I suppose I oughta go with eggs benedict... though I admit I've developed a fiendish fondness for breakfast bagels and breakfast burritos lately.

26. DO YOU LIKE YOUR JOB?
Well enough.

27. WHAT IS YOUR DREAM JOB?
Chief.

28. WHAT AGE DO YOU PLAN TO RETIRE?
I've never really thought about it. Whenever I'm done, I suppose.

29. WHERE DID YOU MEET YOUR SPOUSE OR SIGNIFICANT OTHER?
Thanks, rub that shit in. BITCH!

30. SOMETHING YOU WOULD LIKE TO DO THAT YOU HAVE NEVER DONE BEFORE.
Nail a Box girl

July 20, 2006

Clerks 2

Kevin Smith will never be a great filmmaker, but he's certainly getting better at being a bad one. His latest opus (and these opuses are becoming opusier every opus), Clerks II, feels like a graduate thesis on Askew filmmaking. There's a "look how much we've learned / how far we've come!" vibe about Clerks II that makes it likeable; if there are too many faults to make it loveable, then at least rest assured that Smith's slacker mojo remains intact.

Click here to read my review.

The new kid

Did I just write three lengthy pieces of comics analysis? Yeah I guess I did. Chad and Matty Price must be spinning in their graves. (With happiness.) (And also they're not dead.)

Stakes and X

So Civil War is going on in Marvel comics and let's face it, they got me. They really got me. I'm collecting Civil War proper (and so far it's been tasty as all getout), along with Front Lines, Spider-Man, Wolverine, New Avengers, X-Men, and... fuck, there are probably others. Just like back when Kramer was on Mad About You, this is why people do crossovers.

Now, I loved me some House of M. I really did. But the problem with that arc was that as soon as it was done, nobody had the balls to actually stick with it. You can't decimate the mutant population of the planet Earth to a measly 198 inhabitants... and yet conveniently have every single mutant character you like keep their powers - the principal casts of some eight major X-titles, and the supporting mutant characters of any other title on the stands. Fuck, they even specifically de-powered Bobby in HoM, and yet he was back to slip-slidin' away in the issue of X-Men I read last week. The Marvel writers wussed out and couldn't handle their shit, which is why every single Marvel title since HoM gets is ass handed to it by, say, Runaways, which had the integrity to title the issue following this week's big scooby death "DEAD MEANS DEAD." Young Vaughan has learned the lessons of the Whedon well: death (or change, or depowerment, or any other true narrative-shaker) doesn't always come with a convenient story arc and an apotheosis for your character to make it feel like it was "earned." It comes out of fucking nowhere (like a big wooden shaft through a cockpit window, for example), and it radically changes the entire landscape of your life. And things never, ever, ever get to be the same. I can fucking relate.

That being the case, the biggest baby on the Marvel lot is, surprisingly, Whedon himself, who seems to have decided that Astonishing X-Men exists in an utterly parallel world from anything else in the Marvelverse. There have been no references, glancing or otherwise, to the fact that there are only 192 mutants in the world besides the main characters of AXM. While Emma and Scott are brooking troth with Tony Stark in every other title on the stands this week about the status of mutants in the era of Superhero Registration, I suspect the next issue of AXM will give the talking point a clean miss. (Granted, the recent AXM events seem to be taking place on a single particularly bad night at Xavier's, so who knows when the funk they're going on.) And the problem with ignoring the rest of the universe, of course, is that it spins Joss' otherwise lovely little X-fantasy off into the la-la-land of utter irrelevance. Like it or lump it, Civil War is a goddamned great concept for a brand, and the moral and emotional stakes for all of the Marvel characters are huge. I wanna see Hank and Kitty and Peter and Emma weigh in on this one, man. I want to know where they fit.

Please, Joss, tell me a story.... and everyone else, grow a pair sometime. I'd much rather see what it would be like for Iceman to be a de-powered superhero than have everything get reset because it's narratively convenient. (See Superman Returns for a brief, but exceptional, comment on that.) House of M's stakes were lost... let's hope wherever Civil War is going, the conesquences stick around for a while.

How do you like your X?

A week ago, a guy at the Silver Snail up-sold me on a couple of X-titles. Of the four "main" X-titles (Astonishing, New, Uncanny, and plain ol' X-Men), I only collect the first two; he foisted the other two upon me and claimed that they were the best X-books he'd read in a very, very long time. Already I was a bit nervous, because I suspected what turned out to be true: they were the "other" kind of X-books.

For every X-title where the concept is played relatively straight and you have a small core X-team undergoing a series of character dynamics (of which Morrison's New X-Men, and now Whedon's Astonishing, are the gold standards), you have one of the "other" kinds, where a bunch of crazy crap is going on involving interstellar empires, mutant nations in Africa, the Phoenix Force, and a fuck of a lot of characters talking about a fuck of a lot of things. Books where you get two-page gatefolds with thirty principal characters fighting something off-panel, and every single one of them has a line. This is the dividing line, because to some fans (Snail guy included), this is their concept of X-Men. And me, I'm the other kind.

So I must diss out X-Men (#188) and Uncanny X-Men (#475) yet again, for they are not of my ken. I like my stories simple, real-world, and brutally entertaining. This week's Wolverine #42, which I expected to hate and was only reading for its Civil War branding, was actually one of the best X-titles I've read in a long while. (Wolverine's split focus between his duties on Astonishing X-Men, New Avengers, and Wolverine and Wolverine: Origin, however, remains one of the big SELLOUT! designators in the Marvelverse. Stop using Wolverine everywhere for fuck's sake! He's only good in small doses!) I also enjoyed the first issue of the new limited X-Men Civil War title, especially Scott gathering the original X-Men together for a bit of hard-ass shit towards the end. Both were excellent introductory stories for what look to be interesting longer arcs. I am intrigued.

And as for Runaways and the long-promised doom of one of the kids... oh man. Remember that time on Buffy when that thing happened, the one we all heard about beforehand? This was the first time a comic book had me shaking like that. So very, very good.

Apocalypse Gotham

Guess what I read last week? The Dark Knight Returns. Guess why this is significant? Because way the hell back in the day, when I decided it was time for me to look into this whole "comics" thing as an adult, a medium I had not touched since I was twelve, Dark Knight was the first thing I tapped. The very first thing. I went to a comic book store that used to be a few blocks from my parents' house (this was a year or two before I moved out) and I made my (renewed) start in the comics universe by picking the only two graphic novels I had any real interest in: Kevin Smith's run on Daredevil, and DKR.

Now, the Smith book, I dug. I sort of got it right away, even though I was relatively unfamiliar with DD back then, and with modern comic writing in general. DKR, I also dug... but not really all the way. I liked a lot of the things that were going on there, but I knew a bunch of stuff was way the hell over my head, and also (to use the obvious culinary antecedent) a lot of parts of that book were just too refined for my palate at the time. I didn't really like the panelling, for example, or even the art / use of colour particularly much; I found the narrative stylization distracting in a lot of ways, and didn't know one sweet fuck of a way to deal with the ending, what with the world ending and all. So I sorta smiled-and-nodded Dark Knight, and figured I'd pick it up again when I had a better idea of what I was supposed to be doing.

Here's what I've found out:

Dark Knight is different when you've read Sin City. Dark Knight is different when you've been to Arkham Asylum, or read enough '80s Batman (especially A Death in the Family) to know what claptrap Miller was walking into when he signed on. Dark Knight is different when you've read Watchmen and Preacher, seen Unbreakable and Batman Begins, and think From Hell might actually be your favourite graphic novel ever. Dark Knight is different when you find yourself wondering who would win a bare-knuckle fistfight between Alan Moore and Frank Miller. Most of all, Dark Knight is different when you've seen enough of both comic universes (and let's face it, there are only two) to really begin to become unnerved by all the ways that Batman, as one of DC's rare concessions to ordinary mortality, is just a scarily prescient comment on life in modern urban society. And if that's the case, DKR is the brutal masterpiece.

I also read Superman: For Tomorrow (vol. 1) last week, because at this point I'm willing to say that if Jim Lee is drawing Superman, I'm there. Even more than the story, this novel just illustrates rather plainly that there is something more to Superman than the storytelling or the mythology. There is something inherent in the simple visual icon that gives him at least a part of his power. I don't know how to explain it, but the way the guy looks - the costume, the big red-and-yellow S, the dangling cape - is part and parcel with how he succeeds as a character. Those images of Superman following me from earlier this week? Same deal: just seeing the logo in unexpected places around town has a surprising effect. It's always interesting to find the bits of art where there's more in the grain than just the component elements, where the alchemies of how things come together creates more than is in the base ingredients. The psychology of Superman as a visual matrix: someone oughta write a paper.

Bad blood

I went to the doctor this morning to have Bernard looked at. Bernard who is in fact gone, but left behind a hematoma the size of a golf ball which everyone in my office was convinced was going to mean the amputation of my leg. (A hematoma is a pocket of blood.) Well, it turns out everything is perfectly normal and healthy, but that the hematoma will probably be there for months, slowly draining. Suckballs.

These are pretty disappointing. I mean, I know that the plan was to do scenes instead of true action figures, but the problem with scenes is that it's up to the designer to decide what moments he considers "iconic"... and Kate standing in the bamboo ain't iconic. Kate blowing a bunch of folk away, wearing her hot-ass orange tank top... now that's my idea of "iconic." I admit, the nailed the shit out of Jack, Hurley, and Locke, but I don't see a lot of collectability on my end here. I don't do statues (often).

It's sort of amazing, given that I just watched the whole cycle in the spring, how much I'm craving Six Feet Under right now. That can't be healthy. It's a moo point anyway given that the ex-girl (who smited me with the Sfoo affliction in the first place, as I recall) has the key shinydisks. So instead I listen to Coldplay music and think of rain. It works.

Scored me a double pass to the Clerks 2 sneak tonight, so me and my man Chad will hit that shit and report back.

July 19, 2006

Insane criminal bastards!!

Great googly turtlefuck, those GLORIOUS MADMEN at Sideshow are doing what no toy company has ever dared: a 12"-scale Jabba the fucking Hutt. With a throne. And Salacious. And the fucking licker. Holy freeholies and it goes on sale tomorrow.

Insane. Genius.

And Galactic Hunter is pretty much kicking Rebelscum's ass, coverage-wise, in these early hours of Comic Con. What's goin' on, RS?

Pink ink

Standoff storyboards!:


What, I never claimed I could draw. Hell, I never even claimed I could make movies!

Strangers in a strange land

It's been a while since I've been into my stats. Back in the day, Tederick.com would bag an average of 3,000 visits per month, with its all-time high being during the pinnacle of the SURVIV.ORg run (the last four weeks of Survivor 2, and the first four weeks of Surivvor 3), where I was deucing 10,000 visits per month. (These are visits, mind you, not hits.)

In April of 2006, this site was visited 30,000 times.

Since then, the average has held in the 20,000-30,000 visit area. The weird part is that it pretty much jumped overnight - the visit count was holding in the 8,000/month range during the first quarter, and then in April, hit the double digits and went through the motherfucking roof. Apparently I hit the big time and didn't even know it.

Who are you people?!

Most popular search strings remain "elephant penis," "queef," and "keira knightley nude." "Oily vagina" now appears low on the list, for the first time. All of these give good indicator to who you people are. I recognize more than a few of the IP addresses in the list, too, so I know who's here a) too often, b) way too often, and c) is fucking stalking me from out-of-province. I'm assuming that the dude from Burkina Faso is a spammer, but if he's not, bienvenue! Comment est ton president, Monsieur Blaise Compaoré?

July 18, 2006

Continued lethargy

Bruise check: however the fuck long it's been

Check it out: Bernard left me. Right after I named him, the motherfucker took off. What? He left in his place a strange series of bloody splotches on my ankle and heel (thanks Jeff), and a small lump about the size of a toonie where the original impact took place, which, I must assume, is a trapped pool of sub-surface blood that will have to be evacuated by a physician if it don't go away soon.

Either that, or I've got cholera.

Please don't kill my Bruiser.

Sorry Chase... or Nico... or whoever, and it's gonna hurt like fuck whoever it is, but if he kills Molly my soul will freeze, shatter, and be no more. Sorta like it did when I saw that cover. Man, caring about stuff sucks!

My movie will not fit on your iPod.

"The future of movies is on iPods," Premiere magazine blithely proclaims after putting Lasseter and Jobs at the top of this year's Power List, the one issue of that rag that I'll reliably buy every year, out of nothing more than sheer inertia. This after a pair of weeks when Pirates of the Caribbean - which would not play worth a rat's puckered asshole on a 2x2 screen - made a born-again believer out of me about the continued, ineffable magnetism of the moviegoing experience for the modern mainstream audience. POTC2, probably more than any other movie since... uh... POTC1?... regardless of what you might think of it as a film, is proof-positive that there is something inherent to the cinematic experience that actually will draw in the crowds if the product appeals to them. There is still (thank goodness) something enhancing about seeing a film like this with a large group of people, rather than on the subway on your iPod or at home on your laptop. After-market sales for home video will always exist, and maybe some kinds of films will slowly wend their way out of the theatrical distribution thoroughfare over time and into more direct-to-viewer mechanisms, but I'm going to stand up and say it out loud: cinematic distribution will stay. For now.

It's strange, though, that I'm backing the continued viability of theatrical cinema - I want to see subculture, and all my other movies, and all of their other movies, on the big screen - and yet I'm involved in a one-minute festival that is probably part-and-parcel aligned with the global trend towards miniaturization of the film experience, and I also do not one but two podcasts, leading the continued fad for downloadable packaged content. I'm even developing at least one short film project that in the back of my mind is specifically designed for non-theatrical distribution venues - YouTube, iPods, etc. Yet in spite of all of this I still tend to turn my head at least once during every movie I see in theatres, to watch the light from the screen play on the faces of the crowd and remind myself that there is a three-dimensionality (not the stupid Superman Returns 3-D) to the moviegoing experience. That it is a play of light on a 2-dimensional screen in a big room full of people, but if you tilt your head forward, it's also a completely engrossing 3-dimensional emotional experience that transcends the reality you inhabit. Maybe the importance of this thing is lost somewhere in there, in the change of angles, in the willingness to be in two places at once, like when I thought the Star Destroyer was actually in the theatre with me when I was two years old. There's a reason they make those screens big. And even my stupid little one-rooom movie about demons arguing with each other won't fit on your bloody iPod. My movie is bigger than you. And so it should be.

Superman is following me (II)

It's always the quiet ones

Honestly, though, you think they'd at least have let me know...

July 17, 2006

Superman is following me (I)

Who has my Game Cube?

Repeat: who has my Game Cube?

This is what I do, darlin'... this is what I do.

On Saturday morning I left the house at about 10:00, walked over to Timothy's, bought myself some Superman-related movie magazines (Cinefex, AmCin, Premiere), got a coffee, and busted out my notebook. All things considered, if you have the means to use hard-bound notebooks instead of cheap Hilroy crap, I highly recommend it. It makes everything seem much more meaningful. And so, sipping my coffee and browsing my magazines and listening to music on the trusty iPod, I started to storyboard Standoff. I don't think I've actually storyboarded a flick properly since before Bone Daddy 1. I usually just write out shot lists. But it's been a long while since I've shot a movie (I think the last time I actually rolled a camera was shooting the Taste of the Danforth plates for E-Watchamacallit Un-amation, almost a year ago), so I decided to go oldschool with it and actually make my truly pathetic doodles in their truly lopsided boxes.

And it was so much fun!

I'm always sort of worried about whether or not I'm actually going to be able to come up with anything interesting and/or sustain my camera-blocking creativity over time, but these storyboards fairly rattled off the pen with only a few stops required to chew cud, sip coffee, and survey the surrounding skyline. This was the first project I specifically conjured shooting at a 2.35:1 aspect ratio, so that was kinda fun, really bringing out the Leone in my non-western. And in the section of the film that I designated "Fight 2," I indulged my manic experimental whims to a cake-eating degree unprecedented, possibly, since the shooting of The Hunt. (Or maybe Night of the Centipedes. Did I do anything cool with the camera in Night of the Centipedes? Fuck, I oughta watch that flick sometime.) Upside-down flips, "news photographer just trying to survive" interaction between camera and subject, and the pièce de résistance, a double-rotation barrel roll across the axis of action that may or may not be entirely useful, but sure was fun to write down.

I ended up with 43 setups, which is not the least ambitious shot list ever, but probably not the most, either. Certainly given that I staged Burn completely boardless on the fly, and never storyboarded a Bone Daddy movie at all out of sheer lethargy, it was the most complex shooting plan I've had in a good whiles. But anyways.

I spent Saturday night watching À nos amours, which has absolutely nothing to do with Standoff itself, but is an awesome film and one should always watch awesome films if one is going to make one of one's own. (One.)

Shooting, as I reflected with Chris in the car on Sunday on the way to the location, is a surprisingly angst-laden concept going forward, given that it represents on the whole the least buy-in for time of the entire filmmaking process. Whether this notion of shooting be an impassable labyrinth of inevitable doom is something that was inaccurately beaten into us in film school (a concept I will explore in the last Absent Storms piece, which I swear to god is actually coming), it's sort of amazing that three measly hours in the midst of a 3- or 4-month overall process can be the subject of so much feet-dragging and moaning on the part of the filmmaker (me). Especially given that I don't particularly like CGI-animated films and don't want to be an animator, you'd think I could get over my hangups on going into the real world and filming real things. But oh well.

We congregated at Mer's going-away brunch, where I ate too much cheese (I should have stuck with the mango), and then headed to Sunnybrook Park to shoot in a wide open field, which would eventually be known internally as "the anvil" or, less charitably, "the asshole of hell." Why? Because it was all of 43 degrees with the humidex in the city of Toronto yesterday (a degree for every shot on my list, prompting Daniel to ask me to delete a few shots and see if the temperature came down), and we were in full sun at the height of its mid-afternoon powers. With these flicks, it's always something.

In Standoff, Daniel and Demetre fight each other to the death. Daniel uses a Manfrotto stand, and Demetre uses a Manhasset stand. Putting these two guys together on this field of combat and having them actually duel with large metal objects made me realize that there's something about this type of cinema - whatever "it" is - that inherently appeals to me. The same impulses applied to the VCR movies. Something about the violence of physical objects and the unpredictability of their destructive power... i.e. when I go to throw a television out a third storey window, I really don't know what's going to happen, I just know it's gonna happen. Ditto for two guys smacking at each other with unwieldy metal stands. It's fucking loud and destructive and yeah, more than a little bit dangerous (when Daniel's stand went ahead and disintegrated on a particular impact, sending a large portion of itself flying into the distance, he quipped "This just shows that we didn't know until right now how much danger Demetre has been in up to this point"). It's all very real; the boundary line between narrative cinema and a Jackass stunt... and though I'm somewhat unable to explain the appeal, the appeal to me personally cannot be denied. I really, really like making movies like this. Standoff 4x? Maybe.

The day's shooting went well. There's always the strange mental trade-off between how you conceived the thing looking in your mind's eye, and the set-in-concrete reality of what is actually rolling onto the tape like an unstoppable freight train. Some films have more divergence in this area than others; I'd put Standoff on the high side overall, probably due to the unpredictability factor mentioned above. Also, from a purely pragmatic standpoint, it was amazing how much shooting this was like working on film, inasmuch as the on-set ability to monitor the shots was concerned. In full sun, and with masking tape guides on the viewscreen to compose for 2.35:1, it was almost impossible to get a really good look at a shot while it was happening; as is the case with film camera viewfinders, best guesses were about as good as it got. This sort of lent itself to the style, though; I think it looked good. The only thing I was worried about was any situation where the shot wasn't going to give me enough to work with in post - too contrasty, too many harsh shadows, etc. The visual elements that can be increased in post, but not decreased if there's too much "on the negative" already.

The other thing I found hard was "thinking on my feet." I think I'm just rusty at this. On the whole it's good that I storyboarded so meticulously. I followed the boards religiously throughout, only making slight modifications as to angle or framing, or re-staging certain actions in more classical compositions to cover elements that might be lost in the more avant-garde staging. The only time I threw out the storyboard altogether was the very end of the movie, where I abandoned the planned 6-shot sequence and composed a 360° long take in its place. It was hard. It was hard to know if I was going to be able to make it work in the cut, hard to figure out the blocking of the characters and where the camera needed to be, and just plain hard to concentrate in the moment, devise the shot, and know if it would work. In yesteryear, I would have jumped into that kind of on-set improvisatory opportunity with both feet. Yesterday, it was damn scary.

Practice, practice, practice.

We pretty much scorched ourselves out there, me and Daniel and Demetre and Chris. Chris was shooting stills of the entire action that I am considering cutting into the video footage; that might not work out, but even if it doesn't, I'll warrant that Chris has an equally viable stills version of Standoff that will match or improve upon the full-motion version for overall storytelling. (And doubtless, Chris will come up with some sort of way to turn the stills into a dense, moody contemplation on the futility of artmaking and the place of the masculine ego in the 21st century, told entirely with cats.) We were all fairly pink by the end of the day; shooting wrapped at around a quarter to six, an hour over schedule, but still within the 3-4 hour timeframe I was aiming for, so that's good. I hate working longer than I have to, on anything, but on a film shoot in particular. It's just so goddamned unnecessary, and contributes to the "shooting as an impassable labyrinth of inevitable doom" mentality that stumbles so many of our movies before we even dare to make them. Shooting is just collecting elements, and for the most part, elements can be collected faster than you think. Speed does tend to equal freshness and innovation, and freshness and innovation tend to equal good.

So Standoff's in the can, and I'll look at the footage this week (ack! the only true horror of the filmmaking process) and make with the cutting on the ol' PC workstation. This will be a sound-design-heavy post-production, given the milieu; I brought (some of) the remnants of the stands back to my place for the ever-amusing foley, and there will have to be plenty of ADR'd grunting and breathing (and strangulated dying sounds). I'm going to have to come up with an overall sound "scheme" for the environment itself, which is going to have to be somewhat different from the "children playing in the distance" vibe that's on the native audio. Oh, and didgeridoo. I'm finally scoring a flick with my didgeridoo.

Next up: gotta solve the One Minute Film Festival problem (problem: too many vague and thereby useless concepts, no solid concepts), and write all nine segments of Asshole. before going into character development on the asshole in question. I'm pushing Stanley's Death to the winter, and I still haven't given up on This Is What We Do. But them's for laters. Oh, and I think there's one more thing on the go, but I can't remember what it is. It's probably in my notebook somewhere, feeling meaningful.

I'll post storyboard scans and stills from the shoot when I have a mo'.

Anachronihilism

It seems like the new trick on junk mail is that they date the messages as being from the distant past. I presume that this is so that it appears at the top of your inbox when it gets downloaded. Far from being annoying... this is in fact so cool! I got an e-mail from March 1 1969 this morning! Imagine if such a thing were truly possible: e-mails from the dawn of the computer age. Would we even be able to understand their primitive use of emoticons? With the invention of Viagra several decades away, would junk mail instead be pimping early, high-dose birth control pills and/or those ultra-safe IUDs made of aluminum? What bores a typical office worker in 1969 would be nothing like what bores a typical office worker (me) in 2006. It would be a peachy keen opportunity to examine the archaelogical roots of our post-industrial slackerdom.

Oh, to live in a world where such things were possible.

July 16, 2006

Yes, I know I'm the only one still interested in this.

Bruise check: one week mark

More pooling in the ball of the foot, more diffusion in the bruise itself, a general "greenness" indicative of hemoglobin breakdown and healthy healing (I've been reading!). And yeah, I know there's a one minute movie in this. But it's not the one I want.

Oh shit I totally forgot to tell you: the bruise's name is now Bernard. Actually originally it was Herbert. But now it's Bernard.

July 15, 2006

Stop reading this blog.

Do the world a favour and have a power-free day. Turn off the computer. Don't air condition a room you're not in. Work on paper. GO OUTSIDE. Read. Breathe. Tederick.com will still be here when you get back.

Seriously, when you shut everything off, the ensuing lack-of-hum, coupled with the coolish breeze currently drifting around the city, is sort of every kind of perfect.

moviesTO #38: In Between

Because there was no major release coming out this week for me to review, I recorded this podcast of miscellany a week ago. It is an ingenious plan. In like kind, I wrote this post on Wednesday. You just never know what the fuck is going on with me. I am a time-bender.

Click here for ye mp3.

July 14, 2006

King Long

I suppose it was already sorta official, but it becomes more official: there will be a preview of the extended cut of King Kong, one of the few movies I can't see adding a single frame to, at Comic Con next week, in preparation for the holidays' release of the super-extendo DVD. Now that I'll buy, unlike these double-dip LOTR disks coming next month. Strangely, I probably woulda bought the LOTR disks if they came out after Kong, out of sheer PJ neediness. But now that ship has sailed.

Also: if Davy Jones is CGI, why is he significantly more realistic than any of the other digital effects in POTC2? I just can't shake the feeling that we've been had.

Best mother ever.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I related how I discovered with shock and horror that there's a bookmark on my mother's computer called "my son's web site"? Well, it turns out she does indeed know what a blog is. She popped onto the site recently to have a look. When? Last Friday. Oh brilliant, Matt.

Without actually relaying the anecdote itself, as such a thing might embarass her, I will tell you that the vagina-related vignette (vagnette?) she told my siblings and I in reference to the content of my blog post proves that I have the best mom ever.

Bruise check: hour 108

It's becoming more spectacular by the day. Now I'm considering using this reference photography a few months down the line to have a bruise of these colours permanently tattooed on my calf. A guy I work with has the same colours tattooed on his leg, but they're in the shape of a dragon. Side by side, our calves are quite striking. Mine looks like his dragon exploded.

Also note the patches of blood pooling in the ball of my foot (far right), which indicates that I may have to lose the leg soon. Ah well, stumpy, it was nice havin' yeh.

Today I:

  • Got let out of work early and made a merry sport of my afternoon opportunities
  • Spent way, way, way too long chatting it up at the Silver Snail... but so much fun
  • Nearly collided with a woman at the Eaton's Center, who proceeded to freak out as though I'd pulled a gun on her
  • Drank a mojito... Mmmmmmmmmmmojito.
  • Changed my clothes four times
  • Took two showers
  • Took so many pictures of my bruise that I had to dump memory card in order to make room for more pictures of my bruise
  • Watched Dan beat the Colonel to death on Deadwood, and was very satisfied
  • Forgot how to drive the Smart car
  • Remembered how to drive the Smart car
  • Ate sausage (not a metaphor)
  • Y'know what? Had fun. Had damn fun. That's all it is.

July 13, 2006

mamo #50: The Biggest

Wow, a whole fifty Mamos. Someday I'll listen to them all back to back and it'll be like Matty Price lives in my brain. Which, in a lot of ways, he already does.

Click here to download the mp3.

EXTREME STEVE!!!! episode nine

July 12, 2006

Hello beastie

I went to see Pirates again tonight. It was one of those rare occasions in my life where my opinion remained absolutely unchanged from one screening to the next. My review? Nails it. First act sucks, second act better, Davy Jones awesome, Keira Knightley talking about "tasting it" bringing the single most vivid cunnilingual imagery to my mind that I have ever experienced in a movie. Yadda yadda yadda, so there. It seems I have picked my man of summer, and he is Super.

Bruise check: hour 72

You might not have noticed, but I'm sort of obsessed with body processes. I am literally taking ten photos of this thing per day. Sometimes I reach down at my desk and finger it lightly. It is a mighty companion on my strange voyages, and I shall be sad when it has gone on its way.

Love this, but Big Fuckin' Hermione might be jealous. But 12" Davy Jones that talks? Might kinda hafta.

The melancholy life of Hans F. Zimmer

It must be quite peculiar to be Hans Zimmer. He is one of the most celebrated musicians in Hollywood and works at a fever pitch on a yearly basis, yet I cannot for the life of me force myself to think of him as an actual composer. Has a score that Zimmer wrote all by himself ever been particularly memorable? I have given "best of the year" notes to Zimmer on countless occasions but always and only when he works in collaboration with other composers, acting essentially as "orchestrator" to someone else's melodies. The Lion King, Pirates of the Caribbean 1, and Batman Begins are three of my favourite scores, yet Zimmer originated none of them - in all cases, he was brought in to bring gusto to someone else's compositions. In Pirates 2, you really begin to see the deficit; with Zimmer working alone, he's unable to bring any of the inherent charm or zest to the new material that Klaus Badelt provided for Pirates 1. He's re-orchestrating work that has already been re-orchestrated, and it's the aural equivalent of multiple Xeroxes. His bombast remains in full swing, but the simple musicianship is lacking. I shudder to think what would happen if someone were brainless enough to give him sole propriety over Batman Begins S'More, cutting James Newton Howard out of the picture. Let the man collaborate, certainly, but don't leave him alone for a second!

Germans. Whatever.

July 11, 2006

The last scion

I may be the only loser on the planet who was loserish enough to wait for CBC to start airing the second season of Doctor Who. They don't start until October 9th. The rest of the motherfucking planet has seen the entire motherfucking season. Motherfuck.

I continue to walk gingerly, not due to any lasting damage to my leg but because the bruise is big enough that shifting the skin around my muscles sorta hurts. Oh, and I'm getting a cold. And I'm shitting a blue streak, which is not the normal colour for shit. Generally, I feel hobbled.

Also: I miss sexual intercourse, as I found it to be rather enjoyable, and well-suited on a number of levels to the movements of my personality.

This is NOT an indictment of your opinion of Seven Samurai

It's team week at work, so my time is scarcely my own. During team week we sit in a large room and talk about the team and all the the things the team is going to do this year. There's no I in team, so there's very little to blog.

I went to see Seven Samurai at the Cinematheque last night. I was a bit on edge about the whole thing. When there's a flick you jump up and down naked upon saying "this is nth favourite movie ever ever ever," there's always the little worry in the back of your head that the next time you see it, you won't be as impressed as you were when you formed your opinion. Well, no fear this time. I think (?) this was either the first or possibly the second time I've seen it projected on the big screen... but it was definitely the most I've ever enjoyed the film, by a longshot. What really got me this time was the humour. Most of that shit just doesn't play when you're at home watching the Criterion DVD, but with an enthusiastic audience, that is one massively funny film (in addition to everything else). And on the big screen, the sheer impressionistic brilliance of Kurosawa's compositions comes through in a way that has to be seen to be believed. So many simple little things like the diagonal placement of bamboo reeds or the frenetic intercutting between each samurai in the same position in frame, running towards the bandits, just left my jaw dangling open at how much cooler it is when the image is standing fifty feet high glaring down on you, rather than the other way around. That was the thing I wasn't expecting: this movie is so damn cool. Now if I could just pick up a hot brunette girlfriend who digs on going to the Cinematheque to see 50 year old Japanese films, we'd really be cooking with gas.

Bruise check: hour 36

July 9, 2006

Gating mechanisms

And then I got hit.

Seem like a non-sequiter to you? It sure did to me. I'm not sure what happened before it, or even after it really, but I know I got hit. I think I was trying to block a guy who I later nicknamed The Thing. I think his knee got under my shin guard on my left leg and hit my bone. And I think I now have a bump on my leg so big that it actually looks like I have a second kneecap. I can at least be comforted by the fact that when this gigantic, throbbing mass breaks open, the spiders inside will rule the world with an iron fist. Because they're my spiders.

It's interesting, though; remember that episode of House last year where he had to go off the meds for a week and he got through by breaking his hand to trick his mind's "gating mechanism" for pain? That shit's very real. I was not back on the field two minutes (after 25 minutes of pulling a Peter Griffin on the sidelines), when The Thing stomped on my foot, damn near breaking my toe. And within moments, I could no longer feel the pain in my leg at all. It was really quite extraordinary. Then I took a ball to the exact fucking spot of the bump. The world flashed white and I very nearly passed out. And then I decided I was gonna stop getting in The Thing's way.

Anyways, home now. Knew this thing would make walking difficult, but I'm surprised to find typing so challenging. Regardless, behold behemoth:

I may continue to document My Son here, because I expect he'll be nifty colours by morning.

The Benedict Chronicles: Golden Griddle

"...as plate after plate of fluffy poached eggs, cartilaginous peameal, and lakes of sunshiney goo continued to pile up over time, I realized that if I don't start catalogueing these excursions in some formal manner, a great field of human knowledge would be lost. Hence, the Benedict Chronicles..."

The Golden Griddle is sort of the godfather of the Benedict Chronicles. It was the simple fact that quite often in a year I will go to a Golden Griddle (open 24 hours) after a late movie to have eggs and talk filmmaking, always ordering eggs benedict, that got me started on ordering bennies all over town. This is only made strange by the fact that as bennies go, the Griddle is in a class by itself, and not necessarily in a good way.

The key here is the "hollandaise." I don't know what the fuck this stuff is. It sure as hell ain't hollandaise, but I'm sort of in love with it. It is a perfect colour of yellow, and maintains that colour throughout because it is, of course, factory-made. It actually shines, and has an overall velvety texture which must be experienced to be believed. It is like the difference between Kraft peanut butter and real peanut butter. You'd never mistake the one for the other, and each has its own value. I could drink a lake of this stuff. I've had fantasies of taking home a vat (or, I suspect more likely, a squeeze-bottle) and putting it on everything I eat. I cannot get enough of "hollandaise."

So the key really is: how much are they going to put on? The eggs on a Griddle benny are kinda like the eggs in a McMuffin, i.e. they come out of some kind of mold. The peameal's all right and so is the english muffin, but these suckers live and die by the yellow goo. The really good Griddles (the one at Redpath and Eglinton is my favourite) will positively drown your meal in this shit to a degree that is embarassing. The other locations tend to use more restraint, which doesn't work in their favour. For the record, as Griddle bennies go, I'd call the quantity of "hollandaise" in the sample image above to be "barely passable." I always want more.

Eggs benedict (the peameal version) at the Golden Griddle now costs $9.19. This is up about a buck fifty from where it was at earlier this year, and so came as a bit of a shock to me the first time. It's served with what the Griddle calls hash browns, but are actually fried potato shavings. I don't know any other way to describe them, but for what they are, they ain't bad. This time out (this particular meal was had post-Superman), they were undercooked, which is deadly. Then they're not so much fried potato shavings as greasy potato shavings. Not so good.

Like a Big Mac, the virtue of the Griddle benny is that you always know what you're going to get, and it's almost always satisfying, particularly taken at 3 in the morning and washed down with tepid decaf and a glass of tap water. As slumming goes, it doesn't get better than this. I give it 3 eggs out of 4.

Golden Griddles can be found anywhere and everywhere; the location used for this article was the one at Carlton and Yonge in Toronto. The Benedict Chronicles is an ongoing, non-regular series.

moviesTO #37: Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!

Rather like the film itself, this podcast was nowhere near as much fun as Superman. But what the heck, as Tom Hanks said a while back, sometimes it works, and sometimes less so.

But here are the pirates.

July 8, 2006

Night flights

I took my dad to see Superman tonight, just the two of us. We did the same thing last year for Batman. As usual, I was on tenterhooks throughout - it's too long, it's not funny enough, it's not his thing - but man howdy he loved the shit out of that film. Just like me. Couldn't stop talking about it, about the scene with the jumbo jet, and the "get out" line with Kitty, and how great Kate Bosworth was. And the emotional arc for Superman, and what it means. The man dug it. I can't tell you how good that makes me feel.

And I met Larry Hama today! He was at the Silver Snail making an appearance, so I dusted off G.I. Joe #43 and took it down there for him to sign. I'm not much of an autograph guy generally, but this was sorta key: it was my first comic book ever, and he wrote it. Really nice guy, really took the time to make it a personal experience, and it was cool just to listen to the man talk about writing comics. So on the whole I'd call it a good day.

I bought a Superman action figure today. As has often happened to me with toys, I was on the fence about it until the moment I had it out of the package, and then it was all flying around the apartment and throwing it at the cat. With the movie and the Hama and the man in the blue tights, tonight was sorta perfect in its way. A little like flying.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

In the race to make the first half of a six-hour pirate movie, the film often forgets to be where it is, instead of where it's going. It's frustrating. Gone is the effortless zeal, the rigging-diving grace, of Pirates 1, replaced by Orphean complexities and labyrinthine plot points.

Don't let the above precis scare you: I enjoyed the living shit out of this movie, and can't wait to see it again. I'm taking the old man to see Supes this afternoon, and maybe I'll try to cram Captain Jack into tomorrow. There's something to be said for catching this flick with an opening-weekend crowd. I can't remember the last time I was at a movie where the entire audience cheered as the lights went down, and then went berserk when the main character pranced onto the screen. And I know I screamed "Nooooooooooo!" when it was over....

Click here to read my review.

July 7, 2006

WHY IS THE RUM GONE?!?

Drink up, me hearties, yo-ho...!

Rec(u)nting the vagina post

The godmother of all these Vagina Fridays is, of course, the vagina post, that holy day back in 2004 when, at the end of a 4-installment series, I talked vagina on the blog in a big, fat, happy, pussy-lipped mega-post. It sort of remains the highlight of my blogging experience. The odd thing is that almost as soon as this post was done, I began doing deeper research into the vaginal arts, and quickly discovered that some of the content in that post was pretty much crap. The problem with the vagina is the sheer quantity of information out there that is either a) missing, b) incomplete, or c) accepted as gospel while actually being the product of patriarchal control efforts, most of which were generated by Big Pharma's ongoing efforts to dominate the female gender through a neverending system of abuse. Or put more plainly, if you do your research mostly on the internet, expect most of it to be a bunch of urban legends, old wives tales, and vag research from a decidedly non-vag-friendly perspective. Foolish moi.

Well, the twat with that.

Here are some recuntations:

  • The girl who looked between her legs and then refused to let anyone go down on her, ever again, is now delivering babies for a living, so I suspect she got over it.
  • I was right on the money with my exuberance regarding the clockwork design perfection of the ol' babymaker. Nevertheless, at the time I had nothing near my current understanding of the scope and complexity of the vagina design. Readers are well advised to read The Story of V to find out just how the vag's concept of "intelligent design" outstrips Apple every step of the way.
  • The vagina is not proof of the existence of God. The destruction of the vagina as potent totem is the single worst thing that has been done during the relatively recent popularity of (he-)God.
  • I betray my gender bias with the constant references to the relative complexity of the vagina. The vagina is the primary organ, of which the penis is a genetic modification, not the other way around. All of the elements get repurposed when testosterone turns a twat into a dick, so there is no inherent complexity to the vag that is not shared by its male counterpart.
  • "Almost all women in North America" do not necessarily trim their pubic hair. Actually, no real statistics exist but I suspect the percentage remains relatively low, given the demographics involved.
  • The vagina (meaning the actual vagina now, and not the broad-based, misused generic term for vulva) can be used in homo-sex just as much as hetero-sex. Didn't mean to be exclusionary.
  • The prevailing belief that a vag can stretch to 9 inches in length isn't scientifically supported, although I suppose it's possible on some women. Under the right circumstances, the average vagina should be capable of accommodating the average penis, or anything else of similar dimensions. 'Nuff said.
  • The joke about unused pussy sucks, is vulgar, and is generally indicative of a patriarchal bias.
  • The possibility of collateral physiological benefit of female sexual pleasure, as exemplified by the clit, is still a matter of some debate. While it's nice to believe that the clit exists as a totem to our creator's love of us, there does of course remain the possibility that its function actually does have reproductive benefits as well.
  • I continually refer to the clitoris in the same way that most people do, as being a tiny little nub located on the vulva. The clitoris is actually quite a bit more significant than its tip - it is a lengthy, three-pronged organ that resides deep in the pelvis, circumnavigates the vaginal barrel, and has nerve endings that extend throughout the entire female genital area. It is really, really not just the little thing on top. One of the benefits of this is the fact that direct clitoral stimulation is really just one way to party - the extended clitoral shaft can be stimulated in a number of other ways, if you know where to go, to say nothing of its association to the "female prostate" / G-spot, and a host of other pleasure-making physiological constellations in that marvel called vulva. A greater understanding of the anatomy really opened my eyes to the hows and whys of a lot of things that had been largely unconnected in my mind before. It's worth your time.
  • Female circumcision is still a crime so hateful it can make me cry.
  • Because semen can be a trigger for labour, some doctors actually encourage late-term intercourse, rather than the other way around. It's possible that this, too, was part of the Grand Design, explaining in part why jizz izz the way it izz.
  • Human females actually have one of the most difficult and dangerous birth processes in the animal kingdom, given the trauma inflicted upon the vagina. Still, it's nothing compared to female hyenas, who give birth through their clitoris!!!
  • Obviously, exercise caution when introducing foodstuffs to the vagina during sexplay. Women prone to yeast infections or UTIs, particularly, should be careful, not just of food products, but also anything sugared (including scented massage oil).

That's it. If this proves anything, it's that the field of vag-knowledge is ever-widening. Who knows, maybe I'll have to come back here in another couple of years and school ya some more!

July 6, 2006

You can't spell Brangelina without bran

Last night was the first programming meeting for the One Minute Film & Video Festival. I think somehow the word musta got out that the theme for this year's submissions wasn't "growth" at all but rather "stuff with lips." When you think about it, "stuff with lips" makes a pretty good theme. We might use it next year. We'd certainly get a lot of stuff, based on the enthusiasm our filmmakers seem to be displaying this year for movies featuring stuff that does not ordinarily have lips, now having lips. The other unofficial theme was cock. Given the whole "growth" thing, I know we expected a couple of boner movies, but I was sort of surprised by the sheer un-irony of the dudes who sent in films that actually posit, completely straight-faced, their wangs as the most important thing in the universe. I mean, there's being proud of your dick, and then there's serious overestimation of your potency, and then there's declaring the cock to be the most important thing in all creation and giving yours as the best example. Silly, silly erectile tissue.

Now for the good news: I have been coasting on free food for most of the week. It's gorgeous. Every day somebody's been leaving something free in the lunch room at work, and I run once I know it's in there and scarf myself like crazy. Today it was eggs. I guess it's sorta dumb to eat scrambled eggs if you don't know where they came from. But what the fuck, free eggs. Meanwhile, I wore my fireman shirt to work, and damn near got raped by a pregnant woman. An actual pregnant woman who came by my cubicle like a bajillion times during the day just to stare at me and the Etobicoke Fire crest on both of my shoulders. It turns out the ladies in the office dig on the firefolk. Firefolk must get a lot of play. I practically had to pry one of them off me at 4:00, and only got that far by promising to dress as Superman for Hallowe'en. I guess Supes must get a lot of play too.

Now it's time to convene the Council of Two. I've already bought the sandwiches. On the way home from the sandwiches Chris and I basically plotted out the next couple of years of Extreme Steve... and let me tell you something, it will blow your mind. Maybe I can get Laura Martin to do the inks.

Bex wrote to me from Menno camp today, to say that she has given up Judaism and has accepted Jesus Christ as her personal lord and saviour. I was floored. I didn't know she was Jewish.

July 5, 2006

Mamo #49: Poor Superman

On the weekend I called Matty Price up and asked "Is Mamo the kiss of death for quality big-budget filmmaking?" After Batman Begins, King Kong, and now Superman, it's starting to feel like every big movie we really get behind goes on to do less box office than even the pundittiest pundit could have punded.

Crawling towards 50...

July 4, 2006

Fanboy radio

I wrote to Runaways last week. I'll let you know if it get published. I'm not counting on it. But I poured my damn heart out on the page about how and why it ain't gonna matter who they end up killing next ish, because I'll be just as upset for pretty much anyone at this point.

Anyways, Andy asked after my Astonishing X-Men letter a few weeks ago and I realized that I never actually published the whole thing in the blog, just a teaser image because I wanted everyone to go out and actually buy the comic. Well, that ship has sailed. So here goes:

(For the sake of completeness, I'm publishing my entire original message. The green highlighted parts are the stuff they deleted from the printed version, which is only irritating in that they managed to give my Cassaday wank a clean miss. And this letter was all about the Cassaday wank.)

Dear Mails to Astonish,

You've done it again - Astonishing X-Men #10 is one of those issues that I will end up carrying around with me all month, just in case I run into someone who needs to read it, just to be convinced of how truly great this series has become. (The last such issue was Astonishing #3, which I actually ended up giving away to a kid on the street, just because he got so excited about Hank's fight with Logan. Don't worry, I bought another copy.)

It's a terrible thing to say, but I think I have been taking Mr. Cassaday's artwork for granted for the past few issues. #10 is a glaring example of just how incredibly valuable he is to the title. The final panel, of Professor X staring up at Danger's incoming flight, just about threw me off my chair with glee. And in an action-heavy issue such as this one, Mr. Cassaday's visuals are so integral to the storytelling that I just have to hang my head in shame for ever underestimating his value. The five or six panels before Emma gets slugged by Danger - including the "morph" out of her diamond form - are about as perfect as anything I've ever seen.

A couple of questions:

1. Can we get some love for Ms. Frost? Aside from Cyclops (a fave since childhood), she's my number one X-person. I'm not sure what Mr. Whedon has in mind for her character, but the various nods we've had in the past few issues to some great secret she's been concealing has me all kinds of freaked out. The White Queen has a lot of fans; don't keep us in suspense for too much longer!

2. Given Mr. Whedon and Mr. Cassaday's apparent fondness for large, 6-issue arcs, I'm wondering if we can look forward to any stand-alone episodes in Year Two. You know, the kind of issue that seems entirely self-contained, until about a year later when you realize that it was sort of the lynchpin to everything that came before and after. :)

[Ed: yeah, I used a smiley in a letter. Fuck off.]

Regardless of where the book is heading, it is hands-down the best title on the market right now. I've said it before but I'll say it again: I cancelled my cable subscription the day after the last Joss Whedon television series left the air, and I'll quit comics if I ever find out he's done writing them!

Matt

Then they tried to convince me to stay in comics by pimping Runaways at me. Ha!

A world without ashtrays

You know what'd be neat? If some omnipotent superbeing or something came down and made cigarettes 100% fatal inside of a year. He just makes a press release (I'm picturing the blue dude from Watchmen here) where he tells the people of the earth that he's radically altered the chemical makeup of cigarettes so that they admit lethal levels of poison into the bloodstream that cannot be survived by humans for more than a year. There would be a point of no return, like you can smoke 38 cigarettes before you're irreparably fucked. Then the omnipotent blue superbeing just flies away and we get to watch the chaos fucking ensue, man. Think of all the people out there who would just go, "No, I'm not going to quit, I can't quit. I guess I'll just die." And beyond that, there would be sooooooo many folks who flat out would not believe it. "Fuck the omnipotent blue guy. These fucking things won't kill me." And they all drop like flies at like the 11½ month mark and the world is overrun by corpses. And the undertaking industry goes into a boom period not seen since the tail end of the Black Plague. Then there'd be all the madmen who'd say "38 huh? Well I'm gonna space those fuckers out." And they spend the rest of their lives having like one cigarette a year which is the highlight of their entire existence, like Christmas for other people, only it's Smoke Day. They write songs about those lonesome fags out on the hill (because if cigarettes were dependably fatal inside of a year it would probably become illegal to smoke them around other people) and ruminate to anyone who will listen about how good it used to be in the old days, before the blue guy. And the tobacco companies would go into abject fits of rage. Like, completely freak out in a way that is not cool and sort of unsettling. They'd sue blue guy. Then they'd sue George Bush, and then they'd sue each other, and then they'd come up with a non-tobacco cigarette alternative called "YUM" - which blue guy's loser cousin Paul (he's red) would have to come and make fatal too, because otherwise what was the point of blue guy's original action?

And then a year or so would pass and all the smokers would be dead except for closet cases who are still secretly addicted but cannot smoke for fear of the death. And there would also be a whole bunch of people who used to be smokers but legitimately quit. And maybe some of them really did need to smoke to control the stress in their lives, and now they end up going batshit and murdering a bunch of people. Maybe there would be a buffer couple of years where the streets are ruled by stressed-out hoodlums with grenades and flamethrowers who used to be smokers. I dunno. Meanwhile every once in a while one of the closet cases would crack, start smoking again, and would smoke themselves to death. But they aren't enough to keep the tobacco industry running, so the industry collapses and the latter-day smokers are reduced to growing their own tobacco crops, rolling their own, and it's so much fucking work that when they finally die (a year later), they're like "feh, that was stupid." In fact, "FEH, THAT WAS STUPID" becomes the number one selling gravestone epitaph in North America. And they make shirts of it. And everyone dances around.

Seriously, someone should make a science fiction movie of this. Someone not me.

July 3, 2006

Every boy I've ever wanted to fuck

Today I was on the patio at the coffee shop with Mer and I caught sight of one of the only two males on the planet earth I've ever had a substantial crush on. Strangely enough both of these males were both named with something starting with a B, so we shall call them B1 and B2. The one I saw today was B2. A few years back I wanted him bad. He worked at a place I used to work at that required a change of clothes in the morning, and I had all manner of inappropriate locker room fantasies about wriggling around with him in various states of undress. (It was the red tighteys. Man, I still dream about those red tighteys.) It was all highly inappropriate. And he of course never had a sweet clue. Brilliantly heterosexual, stunningly naive and charmingly gormless, poor B2 wouldn't have known what to do with my man-lusts if I'd walked over to him and grabbed his pleasingly lengthy wang while diving in for a good snog. Poor B2. Still, he fares better on the scale than B1, who probably would have had less trouble with any sexual advances I might have made, but unfortunately came into my life at a time when I wasn't quite ready to process a full-on crush on a guy, so I didn't really realize that that's what had been going on until a few months later. Given that B1 lives in an entirely other place than this Ontario Canada locale, two months later was two months late. But oh well. He was fucking beautiful, man. Every inch of him the sort of man that gay poets have been writing epics about since before the fall of the Roman Empire. Alas for B1 and B2. Cruising up on 30 I've sort of accepted that I was never really fated to have a wild fling with an attractive male partner. Hey, I'm having enough trouble with hetero these days anyway. There are absolutely no eligible women on the face of this planet. At all, ever, thankyouvermuchcruelandindifferentgod.

July 2, 2006

Wha's goin' on, Dave Tebby?

Dave's off shooting in Rwanda these days, and like any good Canadian he's got a blog about it. Which would be fine and dandy if he was frolicking with the gorillas and eating maize, but here's the nut of the story as far as I'm concerned: "This show is the single most difficult, messed up, stressful and soul-consuming gig I have had the angst to experience in my short tenure as an AD." Watch the world explode, daily (or maybe weekly), on Dave's Rwanda blog.

Sweet emotion

Somehow my weekend plans got all shoehorned onto this very Sunday and none of the other days. So finding myself with nothing coherent to do last night, I got stoned and watched Dazed & Confused. I think it was like the fourth time I watched that movie but the first time I watched it stoned. I was maybe 30 minutes into the high when I got hit with the most unbelievable urge to order a fuck of a lot of KFC and eat it in a single sitting while watching the movie. The minute I put the phone down I knew I was gonna fucking regret this. The entire notion of it would be enough to put my poor mother into paroxysms of grief - not only am I doing drugs, but I am eating unhealthily. "Good son gone astray" knows no astray-er than this. Then the KFC arrived and yeah, I pretty much ate all of it in spite of the fact that my stomach had long ago told me to not be ingesting any more. I just couldn't help myself, and therein lie the evils of narcotics. Kids, don't smoke the reefer: it'll make you eat crap.

Dazed & Confused, on the other hand, suggests to this particular filmmaker that the flick may in fact have been precision designed to be watched stoned. It is a whole other movie stoned. Like playing a record backwards or hooking up Dark Side of the Moon with The Wizard of Oz. In the first twenty minutes or so I was so convined I had stumbled upon the greatest feat of hidden archaeology in the last twenty years of cinema that I was ready to write a fucking McGraw Hill book about it. Just the opening credits - which to the sober mind are merely a montage of kids walking around the halls of their high school - become a cyclonic vortex of psychedelic sensorama, with endlessly revolving colours and textures and patterns, when watched stoned. Then there's the lynchpin line: "One hour of drums? You couldn't handle that shit on strong acid" which actually sent me into a fifteen minute giggle fit that I was lucky to survive. It's a throwaway line, would you even notice that if you were sober?

Now, the question rises in my mind as to whether it would ever actually be possible to design a movie to work differently stoned than not stoned. I mean you could certainly make a movie that you would presume would interact with the mind differently if drugs were involved, but I don't think you could actually design it per se, because there's no way to account for all the variables. Still, a mighty, mighty revelation was made to me, so cheers to that.

Oh: and the Dazed & Confused Criterion DVD is now the front-runner for disk of the year. That package is sweet beyond human measure. The booklet alone is worth the forty bucks. And then there's also a movie, and a documentary, and a bunch of deleted scenes, and even more shit that I didn't even bother watching. Yeah, that's solid.

July 1, 2006

Zippy the pinhead

I admit, my Canada Day weekend isn't off to a rollicking good-times start. I am doing office work. I'm sending E-watchamacallit Un-amation to various film festivals today. What's amazing to me is that I did all the paperwork beforehand, and it's still taken me almost two hours to mount all these submissions. Still, mailing stuff around the world is fun. You get to use umlauts a lot, which doesn't happen much in my daily life. But my favourite addresses are the UK addresses. They're always so arbitrary. It's always something like:

Over by the hedge,
Under the nook,
Furthermore,
Bolton.

It's like haiku addressing.

Oh: and I am going on record with a long-held assumption which, I now feel, I can transition to an outright opinion: Gregory Maguire is a fucking retard. Sure, there were parts of Wicked that were good, but let's not forget (in light of the book's continued success) that there were also lengthy parts that were really boring and dumb. And the fact that he's now done six or seven of these "revisionist fairy tales" books pretty much spells H-A-C-K in the sky with flourescent contrails. I didn't take Chad's advice on Lost, because as I've said before I have a serious problem walking away from a book. But I binned that piece of shit the moment I turned the last page. And I never throw out books, either. So clearly, I was pissed, mostly on account of how unbelievably stupid the thing was from start to finish. This passes? I am hard-pressed to recall a more poorly told story, nor a story less worthy of telling. Cripes!

An evening of well-mannered frivolity

Happy Canada Day everybody! I am feeling very Canadian right now. I am planning to shortly take the ultimate step in Canadianness, and become bilingual. I'm reading and writing so much French at work these days that I figure I'm just a stone's throw away from being able to manage a really good verbal. And then I would be the king of this phat country. I could walk from sea to shining sea and speak the language everywhere. Except Nunavut.

Anyways there will hopefully be an opportunity for some French classes at the j-o-b in the future, and then there's no stopping me. And yes, I will look up Stasia Zaleski and tell her she was right all along and I never should have dropped Grade 12 French.

My desk chair is shedding floof like it's going out of business. (Floof = fluff that flew the coop, as per Nini.) I've been putting off buying a new chair for about five years now, though, so I guess I earned this mess.

I've been having weird dreams of late. A lot of dreams involving either a) pregnancy, b) my ex-girlfriend holding a baby, or c) abortion. Just more proof that I can keep my shit together just fine during the waking hours, but my subconscious is gonna go ahead and turn motherfucking cartwheels at night just to prove that it can. It really bothered me for about a week, but I'm sort of inured to it now. Do your worst, hedd. As long as you keep throwing in the endorphen-stimulating sex dreams, I think we'll be okay.

Last night Matty Price and I went for burgers at Allen's, which makes outstanding burgers but way too small. (They make up for the smallness with blue cheese, though, which as I think we all now realize is in fact the ultimate burger condiment.) After that, lacking for anything better to do, we went to see Superman again. This is vaguely reminiscent of my high school days, when any blank space in the calendar would be filled with going to see the biggest, awesomest flick in current release, no matter how many times we'd seen it before. Pulp Fiction got a lot of Friday nights when I was 17. Jurassic Park, obviously, basically ate the summer of '93 alive to the point where it became a running joke ("Got five spare minutes? That's five good minutes of Jurassic Park, my friend.") And when things started to get really bad with my dad when I was a teenager, I remember walking over to the York in a fuming rage and plopping myself in the back row for a True Lies screening or two. And I guess what I mean to be saying by this is that with the possible exception of Pirates of the Caribbean, there hasn't been a flick like that in my life in a long-o time. Thank you Superman. You have made me feel like a film-crazed teen again. And that's no mean feat.