Recently in MUSINGS Category

Who was the bright light that thought of putting ‘ice’ in the men’s urinal?

What, was some waiter scooping cubes into somebody’s glass then thought to himself, “Hey, wait! People could melt these with their pee!”

And guys, you know you can’t just do your business and leave. Oh no. You gotta make a game out of it. You start thinking to yourself, “Hmm… How many cubes can I melt before my pee runs out?”

And now, you’ve become this super hero, “I am Toxic Pee Man!” It’s like playin’ a game of ‘Break The Ice’, only with your wang. “If I can just blast through these last two, the whole thing will come crashing down.”

Anyway. I don’t know and I don’t care. The guy was a genius. And I’m hoping that he was at least promoted to Assistant Manager.

Why is it that every time I go shopping I have to belong to a club?

“Are you a Club Member?”

“It’s toothpaste.”

“Yes. Are you a member?”

Why the hell can’t I just go into a market and buy block of cheese without having to tell the clerk where I live? I don’t get it. I mean, is this actually supposed to make me feel ‘special’ somehow? That I’m now part of an elite group of shoppers? Will it be included in my eulogy?

“A member of both Safeway and Savon Drug Marts, Colin took great pride in purchasing deodorants and laundry detergent…”

That, and I hate being put on the spot. Shopping is kind of a personal thing to begin with, you know? You’re standing there with all this stuff out on display. You just want to get out of there, when… bang.

“Member?”

Well. Ahh. Don’t really know what to say.

I actually find myself embarrassed for some strange, ridiculous reason. So, I look away for a second. Only to find that the whole damn line is now staring at me. And I can just see it in their faces.

“IS he a member?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve never seen him in here before.”

“Condoms and Dog Food… Hmm.”

So. Here it is, for the record.

I don’t want your Petro Points, your Air Miles, your punch card, the free donut or the hat with your stupid filling station logo on it. I don’t want to belong to your stupid Club and have one of your stupid Club ‘cards’ that identifies me as being one of your stupid Club Members.

I’ve got my own Club. It’s colors are red, white and blue and I flash my membership in 5’s, 10’s, and 20’s.

Rented a movie with some friends last night, ‘3:10 to Yuma’. Or, as my buddy now refers to it, ‘3:10 to this sucks ass’.

Now Christian Bale is worth my nickel any day of the week, but it got me thinking. Exactly what ‘is’ good, anyway? Why is it that you can watch a film and be moved to tears and yet the retard next to you is laughing his ass off? (Provided that the guy next to you isn’t actually retarded.) Certainly it can’t be that relative?

It’s always struck me as quite the mystery that some of the best films I’ve ever seen died a quick and painful death and yet, there’s an Academy Award sitting on Whoopie Goldbergs mantel. God knows the films I’ve personally written or directed (although having received critical acclaim) have financially brought me little more than a croissant at a filmmakers breakfast.

But that’s my own personal rub. The films that inspired me when I was young have long gone extinct. The masterpieces of the 70’s. The social commentary of the 60’s. The zany fun of the 50’s. The glamour of the 40’s. Therefore the films I tend to personally make have the commercial staying power of an eight track tape.

So, what the hell is it? Is art really in the eye of the beholder or does a jar of urine and a canvas of chimp shit really deserve space in a room of full Rembrants?

Well, I’ve spent a lot of time pondering the above and I think I’ve come up with an answer.

Identity.

Fewer and fewer people today know what they are anymore, let alone what is great. In today’s multi-cultural mud bog, you’re lost. Where’s the standard? When grades are given out for showing up, excellence not only becomes marginalized, it soon becomes illegal.

George Clooney recently lamented on the fact that there aren’t as many ‘masterpieces’ today as there were in the 70’s. Interesting point. Where are the classics of today? I guess they just don’t make them anymore.

Or do they?

Perhaps it’s not that they’re not made, it’s that you no longer give a shit. If you live in the west, you can’t scratch your ass without being branded a racist or a homophobe. And so, you’ve not only become jaded to the cries of your neighbors rape across the hall, you actually celebrate the guy who went to the Arts Council and got a hundred thousand dollars to piss on a crucifix. How the hell would you know what’s good? Greatness today has become the collective. Something ‘we all do’ by default and so naturally, nobody knows what the hell it is. But not to panic we have the tv to remind us.

Films today, although very good, shoot for little more now than the opening weekend box and zeitgeist. The styrofoam cup ‘gone wild’. The big ‘whatever’. And it’s epidemic. And not that I’m taking any proverbial high road. I’ve worked on some of the crappiest film and television (and some of the best) shows in the world.

But when I look at some of the filmmakers honored in my adopted Vancouver, I’m consistently amazed. I don’t know a single one of my peers who isn’t left scratching their heads. I mean not only is the Emperor walkin’ around naked, but there’s tissue stuck to his ass. And not that I haven’t seen some great Canadian films, I’ve just never seen any of them honored in Canada. Now, I suppose we can take comfort in the fact that they’re not American. (You know, American films having that whole ‘entertainment’ thing going on.) But how many films can you make about sex and heroin before somebody cries bullshit?

But that’s my thesis. When a nation loses it’s identity and standards are thrown out the window, greatness becomes little more than flashing your snatch from a limousine.

Know what I miss? I miss the movie Priest. Remember when the Priest was a symbol of strength and dignity? ANGELS WITH DIRTY FACES. ON THE WATERFRONT. MEN OF BOYS TOWN. Priests that would grab you by the scruff of the neck and kick your ass should they think you were on the wrong path. Symbols of strength and moral courage. The tough America. Not the pussy it’s become today. They were the real deal. Ambassadors to doing the right thing. Not some placating apologist.

One didn’t need to be Catholic to appreciate the movie Priest. He was always the moral compass to the harsh reality of life. The Bowery was hard. So he was harder. The bad guy was tough. He was tougher. He had to be. He stood alone. Didn’t have his ‘posse’ of thugs and other assorted pussies to make himself look bigger. Sure, he turned the other cheek, but he kept a big fist in his pocket.

I miss those guys. The Fathers that had the boxing gym. The ones who would take in the troubled kid, teach him how to box and turn him into a Golden Gloves champion. How to stand as a man. To earn it and ask nothing of nobody. To pass on the hand out. Christ, do that today and your local honor student carves ‘FASCIST’ into the side of your car.

Today, say Priest and what comes to mind? Pedophilia. Homosexuality. Sex Scandal. Deviance. Spineless pussy. Where have you gone Pat Obrien? Our nation turns it’s lonely eyes to you.

Want to end the war in Iraq? Drop Karl Malden in there. Even from his wheel chair, that guy’d kick the snot out of those homosexual/women/freedom hating natzi’s with one hand and then still have time to drop kick that Iranian Howdy Doody they got over there into the stratosphere.

Good? What the hell is that? I don’t know anymore. When goodness is no longer cultivated, it’s asthetic becomes invisible.

But then again, what the hell do I know? My head’s still spinning from the recipient of this years (Vancouver’s) ‘WOMAN IN FILM AWARD’.

It went to a man. In a skirt.

Sorry, gang. Been sick as a dog for the last 10 days.

Will write more soon. C.

Hey gang. A little bored. Too many miracles this week.

Sure, there’s CENTIGRADE news to report but let’s be honest, who really gives a snort? If you’re like most of us out there, this blog is little more than a curio. A two headed frog along the highway of e-mail, facebooks and youtubes. Granted, I’m sure a few of you out there are serious when it comes to the net. Philosophers and budding journalists ‘researching’ that new book. You know. The one that started off as an anthem of good triumphing over evil, but somehow morphed into a story about twin sisters with giant tits, a strap on and the ability to jerk off bad guys with their feet.

So. Welcome to the state of the world. There’s an election happening down south if you haven’t been in the loop. A circus of two commies, a liberal and a bunch of college kids crying out for “change” (probably their bong water.) Half of them sprinkle Effexor on their cornflakes, the other half just checked out of Planned Parenthood and the loudest of them are terrified of catching their reflections in a lake. But what the hell do I know. There’s a guy standing next to me crossing himself. I don’t know if he’s Catholic or just lookin’ for his keys.

And the train kept a rollin’.

Anyway, I’m thinking about expanding the format of the site. Which, let’s face it, is pretty much just a smokescreen for my soap box tuned ramblings about society and people as we don’t know them. An Irish American GPS through the world of Hollywood and drift wood.

Speaking of wood, where’s Waldo? It’s snowing in Greece! Two weeks ago Israelis were commuting to work on skis. Insanity. But not to worry, they’ve issued an Amber Alert on Mr. Gore. Check your milk carton.

And that’s it. So, check in and I’ll have a little something different to ponder from week to week.

Till’ then, I leave you with a little tune written by Eugene O’Neil.

Enjoy.