Political groupie

I always thought it would take a woman to sort out the world mess we are in. I was wrong and I'll come to that in a moment. I do however feel this global mess is entirely man made . Why? I put it down to inherent gender traits which we all agree exist and have been used for centuries by both men and women to justify their specific monopoly of societal rules. We all know what we think we're entitled to. Entitlement - there is a word that has a lot to answer for.

Socio-economics and politics aside which I admit has brainwashed both genders as far back as we can remember and further, I'm going to go back to basics for a second: women prefer to talk not fight. Women are resourceful, especially in times of scarcity and it is in our nature to nurture. We're also great at sharing but we are not immune to the corrupting power of rule and that is as far as the argument can take me.

So back to the solution for global disintegration. (ha ha yeah just like that. The queen of sweeping generalisations). We didn't need a woman as such - good as she might be for all the reasons listed; All we needed was an intelligent person. More to the point, one that really had to prove his worth more than the average middle class white guy and in this, ambitious women do relate. I'm back onto the topic of Barack.

He is from another so called minority (women make up 52% of the world's population - so you can see why the word minority is so despised.) but Barack is proving that having to be better, more intelligent than the often less able WASP who has traditionally been elected by big butch super powers like America or got the top job generally is already manifesting results.

First, by committing to close Guantanamo he is not only doing the right thing, he is saving tax payers money and sending out a universally welcomed message. How so? The Russians are following suit not one week later by halting its plans to deploy short-range missiles in its Baltic enclave Kaliningrad. But don't take my word for it, let's quote the Russian military official who explained that 'a change in US attitude had prompted the latest decision.'

Just yesterday Barack gave an interview to Arab TV with the message - Americans are not your enemy (not anymore wink wink). He is also having another look at the Kyoto agreement.

Though a small point to some, Barack has talked about the comfort in knowing that he will be able to tuck his children in at night (when he is not travelling) no matter how busy he is because they sleep a few rooms away from where he works. I don't think I've ever heard a president or prime minister talk about work-life balance in that way before - maybe Blair a teeny bit.

He may not be a woman but he is a metrosexual and god bless him for it. Subtlety and diplomacy may see us all through yet.

White boys can't jump...but they can rap

The Beastie Boys explained in a recent(ish) interview that in the early days of rap, the conventional wisdom was that only black people were supposed to like hip-hop and only white people were supposed to like rock. But it wasn't like that at all.

As the first white rap group of any importance, the Beastie Boys received the scorn of critics and strident hip-hop musicians, who accused them of cultural pirating, especially since they began as a hardcore punk group in 1981. But the Beasties weren't pirating —because they weren't trying to be black rappers. They rapped about shit they knew : skateboarding, going to White Castle (the oldest American hamburger chain of restaurants that serve square burgers called ‘sliders’), angel dust and mushrooms. Real recognises real. The Hip Hop crowds loved them.

In addition to this they knew everything about hip-hop -- the Cold Crush Brothers, the Treacherous 3 and Afrika Bambaataa, all the old-school shit.
They merely treated rap as part of a post-punk musical underground recognising that the do-it-yourself aesthetics and anti-establishment attitude of hip-hop and punk weren't that far apart.

The Beastie Boys were considered macho clowns for much of the mid-'80s. Their debut album, Licensed to Ill, an amalgam of street beats, metal riffs, b-boy jokes and satire was misinterpreted and largely dismissed as a mindless, obnoxious party record by the critics. That it went on to become the fastest-selling debut in Columbia Records's history goes to show how visionary underground movements can be and how mindless and obnoxious the critics can be.

Outside of this unexpected early success they continued to be ignored by the press at the time which was no doubt too busy exchanging make-up tips with the New Romantics.

While much of the Beasties' outrageous bigotry started out as a joke, it became a self-parody by the end of 1987 - a year plagued with arrests and lawsuits. Many would have called it a day and laughed all the way to the bank instead the group decided to revamp their sound and image over the next two years.

Unable to pigeon-hole it and with only a cult following, the press was on hand to trash their second album Paul’s Boutique.

None of this stopped them from coming out with a third; Check Your Head in which they play their own instruments. Whether this was something the press related to (if you are in a band you play something or you sing) it turned the tide for them and the album brought the Beasties back to the top of the charts. This time it didn’t appear to be a fluke. They were ‘suddenly’ considered one of the most influential and ambitious groups of the '90s.

It was however not until the fourth album Ill Communication with the singles ‘Sabotage’ and ‘Sure Shot’ that they went double-platinum. Paul’s Boutique is now of course considered one of the best albums of the 80s with its densely layered interweaving samples and pop culture references to retro-funk-psychedelia; critics falling over themselves unable to praise it enough now that they had a label for it.

The Pursuit of Happiness ... been there done it.

I had lunch with some lovely friends this weekend and we got talking, well there wouldn't be much point in silent lunching. We talked about trust, restraint and guilt and the role these emotions play in the pursuit of freedom, happiness, independence and fulfilment, you know in relation to marriage specifically and all that relationship jazz.

We talked about the folly of taking telephone numbers off people (in bar situations) you have no intention of calling. Actually more accurate would be to say people you shouldn't ever call...because well it's a small point but your wife or husband might be a little put out by it. Let's not mistake thrill-seeking with the symptoms of unhappiness.

The solution or quest lies within not at the meat market. I learnt this the hard way and you are all entitled to do so as well. There is nothing wrong with the tactic of temporary distraction from ones woes. Looking is free afterall. Sometimes it wasn't even degrading.

However, I believe that if you sit in the barbershop chair long enough you are going to get a haircut. Especially if you are not addressing the cause. Blah blah - tell us something we don't know.

Ok. Try this on for size. NO-ONE, not one single human being has the kind of willpower to resist temptation. It's important to define the vice in each case. Clearly having cigarettes in the house isn't going to bother a non-smoker. But are you a non-smoker? Once those parameters are set, do not then place yourself in the middle. It's like having alcohol in the house when you're "on the wagon" or if you're on a diet but you buy cookies "for when you have guests". The force will leave you faster than a trophy wife who's just realised your net worth isn't as much as she thought.

So to those who take that telephone number that of course you'll "never call" deserve the paranoia attack which comes with the realisation that it's your partner's turn to do the laundry and you're not sure you've emptied out your pockets from the night before. As my Canadian buddy said at lunch - when faced with a questionable decision (in a bar situation for example) ask yourself - would I do this in front of my wife? Of course the answer depends on whether you want to remain married.

Anyway, I guess this whole happiness thing comes down to one thing. Truth. Actually two things: truth and courage, the sort that comes with conviction.

So anyhow, you can reach me on 905...only joking!!

Oh it's that time of year again darling

So the 'lovies' and curios of the red carpet are once again getting ready for their Oscar close-ups; buffing, primping and pimping for the best frock in town. Nice to see a truckload of Brits up for various accolades but then again they always sort of are. Last year saw two Brits take top awards for excellent performances though I would have given Best Actor to Viggo Mortensen for his Eastern Promises role which was authentic, studied and well...he got his kit off (need I say more?).

Daniel Day-Lewis is a brilliant actor but we all know that don't we? Son of a Poet Laureate and brother to refined UK TV cook Tamasin, who can scramble eggs with her accent alone, deserved it too. There is something a bit predictable about giving awards to actors like Day-Lewis or Streep for example, that takes away the magic . We should just agree that any film with them in it is going to be great and be done.

There Will be Blood is one of those films that had the kind of moments (solely driven by Day-Lewis's skill) that truly stay with you. The final scene is truth in artform. OK the Oscar was his.

This year I really hope Sean Penn gets his Oscar rocks off for Milk and although it wasn't pleasant to look at Mickey Rourke should get something too for his performance in The Wrestler which reminds me, it's high time Marisa Tomei got another Oscar (supporting) for her part in the same film. She's the diamond in the rough.

Another actor that has risen from the ashes is Robert Downey Jr. Hunkeroonie and extremely funny in Tropic of Thunder. Really really good. At this rate there won't be enough Oscars to go round.

So many good films to choose from it's going to be a hard choice all round unless the inevitable happens and Meryl gets it all again.

Man or Messiah?

I would not want to be Barack Obama, no sir. The poor sod is being touted by the liberal media as the next messiah - the man who can turn water into wine, heal the sick and free the captives. That is a pretty tall order. He has one US predecessor to draw inspiration from and perhaps copy to an extent. FD Roosevelt had a similarly difficult situation on his hands when he came into power during WWII, while that maniac Hilter was mincing around in his jodphurs thinking HE was the messiah and costing everyone a lot of money. There was other irritating political stuff going on too like unemployment and inflation. I digress. FDR got the cash injection bit right with his appointment of some clever fellows at the Federal Reserve who gave banks cash on the condition that they spread the wealth around but he got it wrong when it came to job creation which led to the kind of 'Indian giving' that Seinfeld doesn't want to talk about.

Obama's biggest headache, I am reliably informed by the The Rolling Stone Magazine - the venerable or is that venereal old man of punditry, 'will be finding enough job-creation projects that can be started quickly.' Doing so will help push funds into the economy before it takes a nose dive into the Hudson that not even Chesley B. Sullenberger III (pilot behind the miracle on the Hudson) could prevent. Failure is not an option. Can you imagine? His spin doctor will have to do some pretty nifty management of national (nay global) expectations. I want to be his PR person less than I want to be him.

Reviving the economy is going to cost money. How much? very likely to hit a trillion dollars. HOW MUCH? look at it this way: the Bush administration wasted at least twice that much on an unnecessary (I think I'm allowed to say this now) war and tax cuts for the wealthiest. Do the math. Cheap at half the price. Now is the time to borrow mate - interest rates are at 0 (don't tell anyone). Another tip? look at what the conservatives want and do the exact opposite. And in the meantime, let's hope that the real Messiah can hold nature back a little bit and keep us from reaching the tipping point in terms of the environment and climate change until we all get back on our feet again. All of a sudden the odds of winning the lottery don't seem that vast anymore.

Whatever happens, and I'm going to try to be positive here, one thing is for sure - 2009 is going to be a crap-a-doodle year. I'm off to get a scratch card.

Blue Pills and Parachutes

I've struggled all my life with the so called irrational fear of flying. Why is it irrational? I may not be a physicist but if a flock of birds can bring a plane down...I'm starting to think my fear was grounded on some very solid survival instincts.

I'm referring to the 'miracle on Hudson Bay'. A miracle indeed. Not sure if the plane flew into a flock of Canada Geese or if the geese, on detecting the Arctic temperatures of their native land decided on a mass suicide pact and flew straight into the engines of the Airbus 320. The result was the same. Black Hawk down. There is no doubt the pilot's quick thinking and long years of service saved 155 lives. He deserves all the accolades that are raining down on him. I'd still be clinging to his ankles.

Canada Geese are now on the US NSA hit list. Don't bother trying to fly into US air space because my little goosy gander you will be hauled away by customs and forced into an orange jump suit.

It must have been Manhattan's worst nightmare to hear a pilot's distress call so close to the city that has already paid dearly for ...well this isn't about politics.

So I revert to the wisdom of a life jacket and not a parachute beneath passengers' seats. I take it all back. Airport Authority 1, Me 0.

In my time as a 'nervous traveller' I have still managed to travel the world. I rationalize my terror of crashing by reminding myself that it's the safest way to travel once you've actually taken off and are at cruising altitude and of course up until the time the pilot asks his crew to cross check and take seats for landing. At these times I find self medication helps. A nice Beaujolais or aged rye for example is recommended. On flights to dodgy countries on dodgy airlines I knock myself out with a little blue pill.

I did this once on an internal flight in Cuba that had a reputation for only making it's destination every other week and rather embarrassingly miscalculated the dosage for such a short flight. Suffice to say the airport and hotel staff were very accommodating...or so I'm told. I woke up in my room in Santiago de Cuba with my shoes still on and a vague recollection of the crew offering me a glass of tap water just as we hit altitude.

No Fun, My Friend, NO FUN!

So Ron Ashton, founding guitarist for Iggy Pop and The Stooges is dead from a suspected heart attack at the age of 60. He was found at his home on January 6 and it is believed he'd lain there undiscovered for several days. That makes me sad. Not so much that he died - death comes to us all and while I don't believe he had an easy life, I definitely think he totally lived the dream. But to not have daily contact with people to the point where you can die and no-one would immediately miss you is very sad. And scary. It's one of my greatest fears having moved to Canada where I don't know a soul and where I only speak to my friends in Europe once in a blue moon, preferring to Facebook (where occasional silences are expected) or visit in person (which doesn't happen often). My husband would hopefully find me before the smell of decomposition alerted the neighbours and of course if I failed to pick up my daughter from daycare - that too would not go unnoticed but if my daughter were home and my husband on a business trip - well I have thought about it and there is no getting round the fact that my daughter would have a hell of a time finding food until daddy got home. This has led to some practical though morbid precautionary measures.

When I know that I'm going to be home alone for a while instead of asking the in-laws to call once a day lest that be mistaken for a glorified suicide watch service - I always put a jumbo bag of crackers and a couple of sippy cups full of water at baby height in the event the grim reaper comes to collect his dividends off me.

To be fair I'd probably be in a similar position in London if I worked from home as I do here. Though I dare say I'd still be found sooner. There is one thing to say for Canada, at least in the winter the rate of decomposition would be much decelerated. Every cloud.

Back to Ron. I was fortunate enough to get to see Iggy and The Stooges in August, see my review here: http://www.phase9.tv/musicreviews/iggypopandthestooges-c.shtml. It was an honour and a long standing dream come true to see them in all their original glory. I want to pay homage to Asheton’s riffing which include the iconic I Wanna Be Your Dog, No Fun and Down On The Street. He took up bassist duties on their third record Raw Power in 1973 before leaving the band and joining The New Order and Destroy All Monsters, New Race and the Wylde Ratttz, a supergroup comprised of Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore, Mark Arm from Mudhoney, Dinosaur Jr.’s J. Mascis and The Minutemen’s Mike Watt.

To the quiet American who eschewed drama and remained true to his art to his last tour, RIP and thanks for all the fish.

Read my Diary, Look Through my Stuff and Figure Me Out

Just finished coffee table book 'Cobain Unseen' - a pictorial account of Kurt's disturbing art and ghoulish doll head and skeleton collections. As his wealth grew so did the realism of these pieces. After the frenzy that followed the release of 'Nevermind' which began as a slow burner, the record label initially only pressed 44,000 copies thinking it wouldn't be that much of a success, Cobain retreated and dedicated every waking moment he wasn't taking drugs to producing these often revolting bits of art. He was obsessed with foetuses and anything to do with genitalia. The more deformed the better. It's quite the whacked out exhibit. He also painted and though the tone was always gloomy and dark, he had a real and insatiable gift for it.

It brings temporary conclusion to this phase of my on-going and ever-evolving preoccupation with Cobain that began rather morosely with his death in 1996. I think I'll read his journals next, journals he began as a teenager where he invites us in a creepy precognition 'to read my diary, look through my things and figure me out'.

This isn't an isolated or exclusive fascination. I've read his widow's journals 'Dirty Blonde' a treat for any voyeur. I've also extensively read about the rise and demise of Jim Morrison, Diana Princess of Wales, Marilyn Monroe (who else?), River Phoenix; The merest hint of tragedy and I'm all over it like a fat kid on a smartie. I'm not really sure what drives this interest in doom and death. The bigger the talent lost, the deeper the curiosity runs.

After the media's distortion of these people, I think it might be the humanity of it all that draws me in. I don't like loose ends either. I hate inconclusion and I'm always after 'the answer' to the question. You can imagine my frustration with The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I was always that student in language class that couldn't accept the fact that some languages cannot be literally translated word for word. Anyway, curiosity hasn't killed me yet so I will continue to respond to the irritating inner child that fuels this thinking. I'll just keep on questing and questioning though I do draw the line at Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

Keeping it real, keeping it real

The other day a little girl reverently asked me if I was speaking 'British' because she'd heard that language before. She was in turn speaking to me in 'Canadian' which is fairly easy to understand if you already speak 'British'. The overall effect of speaking this exotic language is one of pedestal elevating splendour. I was dropping my daughter (2) who speaks 'British' and 'Canadian' and also understands 'American' at her daycare when said exchange happened. This in turn resulted in my girl being selected to present 'Star of the Week': an opportunity that allows the children to talk about who they are and what they like.

My child, being multi-lingual and a citizen of the world explained she was a 2 year old girl who was born in London, UK from a Canadian dad, British/Spanish mum and likes stickers. For this she was awarded a certificate of merit that noted in particular her good manners (that's the British side) and helping others (obviously the peace keeper in her).

Later that night it appeared the accolade had gone to her head as she swatted away the breaded fish I'd lovingly prepared from scratch for her and instead demanded chocolate milky and Elmo.

If she is not careful I shall be forced to strip her of the award. I cannot be party to fraud. I did that once when I bought a Millie Vanillie record and it scarred me for life.

If you find yourself with time on your hands...

...go see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. It's almost three hours long but it feels like ten minutes. At least it did for me. I wouldn't say I was totally engrossed as the film pretty much does what it says on the tin: a boy is born old and lives his life backwards but the magic is in the storytelling. You really don't have to do much work for this slice of entertainment except to sit quietly on your bum for well...a long time. Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett and Tilda Swinton are excellent. It's no epic like say, oh I don't know, Lord of the Rings but it is incredibly watchable. The aging, de-aging prosthetics are unbelievably good. You can tell but you have to look very very carefully. Anyhoo. If you have a throw-away afternoon, this film is three hours better spent than cleaning or watching TV.

If you prefer a more mind engaging time eraser you could start reading Shantaram by Gregory Roberts. Based on a true story it will completely seduce you. Add a couple of zeros onto the three hours you might throw at a movie and you have an idea of the book's proportions but the end will come too soon - you'll see.


This isn't just a page turner, it will consume your every waking moment. I read it in just over two weeks and I have a demanding two year old but I found myself doing something I haven't been able to do since I was a teenager - stay up reading into the early hours. I would snatch a page whenever the opportunity arose. I would read making breakfast, walking to the shop, on the loo...everywhere. Couldn't read it fast enough and yet I didn't want it to end. The book became an extension of my arm. It was my first and last thought of the day. The only other time in recent memory a book has turned me into such a freak was the Philip Pullman trilogy. And maybe the Da Vinci Code but they took a fraction of the time to complete and to be fair I was nowhere near as obsessed. This book makes you work for it and you will do it happily.

It's an amazing story of crime, punishment, escape, love (requited and un), friendship, betrayal, human endurance, kindness and frailty, war, peace and loss. Set in Mumbai for the most part, 'the city of lights' I defy anyone who doesn't want to visit Cafe Leopold after reading.

Accounts of time spent in a lice-infested indian jail will repulse you; jail breaks will send your pulse galloping until you can't bear to read another word; the power of love and human endurance will melt the blackest of hearts and it will feel like saying goodbye to a lover you've just spend the whole night talking to on the phone when you turn the last page.

Do yourself a favour read it in February - the month of boring. Winter will never feel so good.

No post Christmas blues?

The 5th January hasn't been anywhere near as depressing as I expected. Though I don't get up to go to work as I 'work' from home (both the most and least enjoyable aspect of my job), it was however back to the commuting version of 'March of the Penguins' for my husband.

I had become quite used to having him around over the holidays and normally I'd be really down at the prospect of waking up alone, going to bed alone and pretty much spending the bit in between alone 'cept for when my little girl gets home from daycare taking me from one extreme to the other. Bless her cotton socks.

Sunday night was unusually upbeat and pleasant too. We watched "Elizabeth" on the telly. Cate Blanchett sounding like her Lord of the Rings character but still ever so good and then this morning's glorious winter sunshine.

It's only 10:30 am granted - still time for a crisis but right now all is well. In a year that bodes so badly for personal finances, it's a good job that I haven't lost the ability to appreciate life's simple pleasures or perhaps I've been taking too much cough syrup again.

Either way, I plan on being less of a 'Girl Interrupted' this year and more of a 'this one time in band camp' person.

Good Morning Sunshine

New Year's Day in Hamilton, Ontario shook me gently awake this morning with a glimmer and sparkle of a beautiful winter sun peeking through the roman blinds of my mother-in-law's guest bedroom. Even the latent hangover couldn't dull the freshness of a bright ball of fire in an ice blue sky. It made up for the hour's walk home in minus 20 the night before. I had been expecting this - if you think the Brits can talk weather - a Canadian's knowledge and understanding of weather systems makes a Englishman's polite musings sound like the ramblings of a mad old aunt. Everyone is a weatherman here and they need to be. If you leave your house without checking what the weather might be doing today, well put it this way, it's not like leaving your umbrella in a pub and getting a bit wet on the way home. Here that kind of oversight could kill you. I repeat MINUS 20 degrees below freezing.

Anyway, taxis being as easy to find in the early hours of New Year's Day as Bin Laden, I had come prepared with balaclava, woolly hat, ski gloves, Uggs and a second pair of trousers. After a night of mixing spirits, wine, beer and champagne whilst cutting a vigorous rug to live trance electronica in heels, walking home was literally the last thing I wanted to do but call me Yukon Cornelius, at least I wasn't cold. The exercise didn't go amiss either.

Old enough to care less about aesthetics than surviving the trek home, I was utterly astonished at the youthful nihilism encountered last night. Did I say it was minus 20 degrees below freezing? Well it was minus 20 degrees below freezing and all about me young guns stood around in bare legs and thin fashions seemingly unaffected - though the angry red rawness of their skins told another story. I did worry that a couple of them were simply frozen solid in mid stride rather than unaffected by the brutal temperatures. I didn't know whether to praise or pity them. Thank god for the numbing effects of alcohol. I believe it may have been the only thing keeping them alive last night.

I saw in the New Year with the husband, the old friend, the sister-in-law and her lover at a kooky bar in Downtown Hamilton. Three live drum and bass bands later, a bunch of textbook lesbians and creative fashions on the dancefloor made for a truly entertaining evening; a people watcher's paradise. Fun and frivolous.

After a year of loss and upheaval and looking at the year of economic depression that lies ahead it's more important than ever to appreciate the fact that the best things in life really really really are free. Vaya con dios amigos.