MAGPIE TALE: Spice Interrupted

Our contribution to this week's Magpie Tale.

When Gaetan moved into the little cottage on the edge of the Laurentian Mountains, he welcomed it as a welcome -- and likely permanent -- respite from the excesses and decadence of Montreal that had seduced and grounded him 25 years earlier. Today he took solace in sipping Lung Ching Dragonwell, sketching the local butterflies and birds, and watching the tip of Mount Raoul Blanchard emerge as the morning sun burned off the fog while he worked on his latest article for the Spice Scholar Quarterly.

The spring issue featured his 2,000 word "The Quest for Libyan saffron in the 8th Century" as its lead article, and he was now under pressure to top it with a piece on the stealth trade Melegueta Pepper and Calamus between Marakesh and Timbuktu during the heyday of Taureg cattle cults. Typically hidden beneath camel blankets, there were horrid stories of families selling their children for just a few ounces of these prized spices. Gaetan had employed a small studio of illustrators in Brunei for the accompanying graphics and was toying with the idea of a trip to Bamako to do more extensive research and expand the article to a book.

Just as Gaetan was close completely what he felt was a very effective sentence describing the gait of camels, he spotted a figure in the garden, startling him from his contented morning of productivity. Gaetan let out a disturbed sigh as he spotted his cousin Cedric, who always had a habit of appearing unannounced after months or years of absence and no communication, bring a sense of tension and disarray to the household. He turned off the desk lamp and closed his eyes, taking in a few slow, quiet breaths to summon the calm strength to confront his cousin.

"The persimmons were rounder last year," Cedric said, munching on the remainder of the fruit, juice slithering from his hand and mouth.

"How do you know they haven't been sprayed? Wouldn't you be putting yourself at risk?" Gaetan asked.

"I've put myself at much more risk than a few pesticides, and I know you'd never use them anyway. I think the whole scare about pesticides is overblown."

Gaetan took another breath and regarded his cousin's consistently disheveled appearance -- the mismatched boots, one gray and one brown; his beard that seemed a full inch longer on the left than it was on the right; the cap that seemed to be coming apart at the brim. The order he had worked so hard to restore to his life was about to be blown to shreds.

"There are wild blackberries along the creek," Cedric said.

"I don't remember seeing them. Are you sure." Just as soon as Gaetan said this, he realized that there were never greetings when Cedric returned, just as there were never any farewells. Five years might pass, and it seemed they were picking up their last conversation just where they left it, as if it were a cup of tea Gaetan had kept warm in case Cedric returned.

"Well, maybe they weren't blackberries. But from a few feet away they sure looked like it. I may go back down there this afternoon." With that, Cedric opened the kitchen door, and Gaetan saw him make his way down the hall, to the guest room where he had stayed five years ago, without asking, without explanation.

Gaetan strolled back to his desk, not a word coming from down the hall from Cedric. For a moment he thought about calling his sister Sabine to see if she might take in Cedric this visit, but she always managed to have a way to shield her life of order no matter what hit her. For the moment silence had returned to house besides the muted sound of Cedric unzipping his bag from behind the closed guest room door. With that comfort, Gaetan returned to his article and began working on a lengthy description of the sands of Mali.

Axis Power Peaks

Quick, how many points along the Continental Divide can you list that are named after prominent Axis Power collaborators? Give up?

Well, I know of only one, Mount Pétain, on the borders of British Columbia and Alberta in the Canadian Rockies. Its namesake is Philippe Pétain, noted for his leadership in the Battle of Verdun during World War I and would go on, at the age of 84, to be the oldest head of state in the history of France. That would be reason enough to name a peak after him, wouldn't it, though you'd expect it in Quebec not in the Canadian West.

There is a small problem, however. Though a World War I military hero, in World War II, he would go on to head Vichy France. Vichy France has always fascinated me in much the same way that Manchukuo has, both puppet states of the Axis Powers. I wonder how many people in Canada even know this peak is named after the man happily shaking hands with Hitler? At the end of World War II he was sentenced to death by firing squad for treason against the state, but de Gaulle commuted his sentence to life imprisonment due to his age and service to France during the first world war.

It's a bit spooky that not only is there a museum (noted in the above link) complete with an online "boutique" and association to preserve his memory. Check out this story of the desk that his lackeys stole from a Jewish family who got it back after the war, and now it is going to the museum. Let us not forget, perhaps, but not memorialize.

Perhaps my favorite film of that era is Les Enfants des Paradis. Begun before the end of the war, the production had a weird mix of Vichy collaborators and underground resistance members working side by side. Its star, Arletty, was tried by the time the film premiered for having an affair with a German officer. She is credited with saying , "My heart is French but my ass is international." A quote I could live by.

Olympic Harlequin

We all love Philip Johnson, but he dumped some of his worst architecture in Texas in the 1970s and 1980s. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what happens in Texas stays there and festers until it becomes a president or the Tea Party Movement.
Phew, San Francisco is immune to such things. Oh, wait, we're not! Not only do we have a Neiman-Marcus in Union Square, we have one with a harlequin design by Philip Johnson. However, he claimed he was Phillip Johnston when he designed it. (Look closely, he just added two consonants.)Just how bad is Johnson's Texas architecture? Check out the website for the Crescent in Dallas which he designed. Crescent as in croissant, as in French as in faux Versailles. They have some really great propaganda:

• As culturally vibrant as the neighborhood in which it sits, Rosewood Crescent Hotel is ideally located in the heart of Uptown Dallas. Within walking distance of the downtown Dallas' Arts District, where the new Winspear Opera House and Wyly Theatre complete the largest urban arts district in America, the luxury hotel consistently wins hearts and accolades. Offering chic, contemporary styling, a serene spa and dining options ranging from Nobu to Starbucks, Rosewood Crescent Hotel offers discreet, professional service with Texas charm.

The biggest arts district in America? Or the Americas? I've been to Buenos Aires, and I think theirs is much bigger. And San Francisco's arts district, the Engleside, is bigger than Midland AND Odessa combined. Come on, Texas, you're big with oil and Texas Instruments not "the arts". However, nothing says "the arts" more than "Rosewood".
What goes around, comes around., Have you been watching the Winter Olympics? Of course not. No one watches the Winter Olympics since there are no Cuban or Brazilian men's swim teams, but they do have harlequin patterned curling pants from "the San Francisco Bay Area". (Actually Santa Rosa, but isn't that also in Texas?)

Theme Thursday: Bells

The bell above is in my back garden and was originally a part of the aforementioned Lazy Acres. The bell below is from a long ago trip to Nepal. I plan to join in the ringing around the world at 2 p.m. EST for recent blog acquaintance Barry who will be doing the same to mark the end of his round of chemo therapy. It's an encouraging ritual and reminder of the temporary nature of all aspects of life and reminder that blogland can be a nice place to do more than just be snarky and leave LOL comments.

The Revolution Will Be Televised...from Canada

Imagine you're a lonely kid in Ottawa in February 1965, confused and bored. Just after local wonders Ian and Sylvia do a few subdued numbers, this young man (yes, man) is introduced, and you will forever see the world and your country in a new way.

Until about 10 a.m. today I'd never heard of Jackie Shane, and apparently this is the only available video performance in a decidedly short career. There's no Wikipedia page on him, but this entry from Jezebel Music gives us a little insight into his life.

I am now compelled to learn more about this revolutionary, visionary, sensual creature. Canada really is about more than Mounties and Joni Mitchell.

Corey Bleu. Cory Blue. 1980s. Jeans. Boys. Boxes

There were a lot of Coreys and Corys and Cories and bad hair and bad jeans (acid wash, stone wash) in the 1980s. But I would like to say a few words of praise for the Quebec sensation Corey Hart. Schmaltz, oui, but I had the same exact haircut in 1985, as did just about every boy I chased. And Corey really exemplifies why blue jeans were made for the male body. Just Saying. Enjoy.

1988: Nina Hagen Presents Tomorrow's Hits Today

So many memories tied up with this one. Recorded in Toronto I think, in between Tegucigalpa and Ouagadougou. Move to Africa? Marry and settle in Toronto? Take that job in San Pedro Sula? Join Edelweiss as a bearded bandoneon player? Edelweiss!?!?!? They had that huge hit "Don't Bring Me Edelweiss". And what was their other hit? Oh, yes, "Don't Bring Me Edelweiss".

Favorite Beatles Cover of the Week

Icks Cured by Gay Bison

There has not been a lot of activity or interesting activity on the blog recent due to some distractions, also known as chronic, crippling depression. I don't go into those sort of things here and hate too much of vomiting up personal emotions, but I'll just leave it that I've felt there has been so little of value here recently and that I've been leaving sometimes comments on other blogs that border on inappropriate. I have come close to retiring from the blog world and knew I needed something to snap me out of it.

Tonight I went to see Guy Maddin's My Winnipeg which was the perfect downer movie to make me come away feeling healed, restored and ready to return. There is lecherous Mayor Cornish who serves as the only judge to crown the golden boy at the man pageant held on the fifth floor of The Bay department store, a mother that is tortured by her children with a parakeet, gay bison whose lovemaking causes a stampeded on Happyland, homeless people hidden on tops of the city's buildings, horny prepubescent boys who torture the director's eight-year-old self with hairless boners, a sister who hides her sluttiness with deer flesh and blood on the hood of the car. It's all there, and I took summer comfort in the solace of the coldest city in the world. Ninety percent of the film is narration by Maddin himself, his recent narration of The Unkown at the Silent Film Festival echoing in my mind. He uses Winnipeg much the way John Waters uses Baltimore in his films but is much sicker, stranger and creative.

To borrow the catch phrase of a fellow blogger, Maddin is beligerantly nonsensical, mixing fact, fancy and fiction. Did a group of Rotarians actually dress up like Nazis during World War II and stage a mock siege of the city? I don't need to know the "facts" to accept this truth. While I've always loved Maddin short film which I've felt is his best format for his hodge podge of ideas, his manic, surreal narration built like a wacked tone poem that ultimately merged into what was truth rooted in dreams and the haze of memory and was deeply, unexpectedly moving. I am sure I'll end up seeing it again.

Get Up and Make Us a Meatloaf -- NOW

Being just a few inches away from Guy Maddin last night, I wished I'd been brave enough to ask him when My Winnipeg will finally be screened in this cultural backwater that is San Francisco. They're showing it in Palm Springs fro Chrissakes!

I really need to see those Canadian man pageants.

It's Miller Time

I bought McCabe & Mrs. Miller this weekend, prompted in part by all that discussion last week about ampersands. Tragically, the titles are all done in dower Helvetica, but that scripty, swerving ampersand in the posters is still there. Check it out in the link above to the trailer. Perhaps Altman was making a statement about a curvacious ampersand being dropped into the stark Helvetica forest frontier. Type is such an erotic thing sometimes.

It was a little hard to find. The store had it filled under "Action and Adventure", and there it was next to the Matrix. Uh, yeah.

Otherwise, I was not disappointed. It has a cool, appropriately depressing Leonard Cohen score and some hot beards and bowler hats. I sort of like the concept of a village of bearded men in the misty Pacific Northwest lonely for companionship. Though I'm essentially opposed to furs, I have to admit they are kind of hot on a still supple Warren Beatty weaving through the snow as a church burns. Oh, and seeing Julie Christie smoke opium is a barrel of monkeys too.

Northern Comfort

I am really anxious to see Guy Maddin's My Winnipeg, which he is billing as a "docutasia" and pulling in stories from his own life, the history of Winnipeg and his usual weird silent era Soviet film influences. It's slowly making its way across the border into New York and may be out west come July.

Real Boy Ryan

It's really frustrating that most of the movies I want to see are released during the time of year I have the least time to see them: mid-October to late November. Sometimes I just have a brown out due to the wealth of choices and decide to see lesser works as I did today with Lars and the Real Girl. I can always say that it was an excuse to see a preview of I'm Not There on a screen larger than the one of my VAIO (also the name of my favorite beach near Osaka). Seeing that preview on the big screen was worth the price of admission. I also have to admit that Lars, which has been receiving decidedly mixed reviews, is one of the first films where I did not look at my watch once.

I would go to about any movie with Ryan Gosling in it, and he is certainly the best method actor younger than my niece with both the Mickey Mouse Club and experience playing a Jewish neo-Nazi on his resume. In fact, I can't think of an actor I've been so smitten with in ages. It's all the more remarkable that his blond boy smoothness defies every predisposition of my past states of being smitten, though he closely resembles my first...well, I won't get into the details of that in this post. As in The Half Nelson, his Lars is another irresistible mess though of a completely different order. Interestingly, Lars has been critiqued most frequently for a lack of cynicism and for presenting a kind Middle America that the likes of Alexander Payne have long educated us does not exist. Personally I've grown increasingly tired of Payne's dark portrait of the great muddle in the middle. Election, yes; Schmidt, no. Seeing Lars in a church lady knitting circle with pro-gay grannies didn't bother me and wasn't that unbelievable either. Even as a chubby Lars, Ryan was fetching, but certainly not in the intense Half Nelson way, in which he made even a band aid take on a life of its own.

According to recent sightings of Gosling in Manhattan on Gawker/Stalker (he reportedly shops at Urban Outfitters -- wonder if it's the same one in Soho I frequented weekly in the early 1990s?), he's very pleasant and approachable in person compared the predictably jerk-off Russell Crowe (much less talented and far less attractive). He also hangs out at a bar named Mr. Biggs. (Hmmm. True Junk Thief insiders will get the multiple meanings of that one.) In interviews he won't even take the bait to trash fellow Mousketeer Britney. Then again, maybe it's the Canadian thing, further evidence that it is a country known for producing comics and people with good manners.

Too bad they don't make a blow up Ryan, unfortunately. Would I be as disciplined as Lars as to have him chastely waiting upstairs in my dead parents' bedroom if they did? Probably so. I'm much more romantic than many of you would be led to believe. But my blow up Ryan would accept my wedding proposal and all would eventually be consummated. By the way, I agree that the movie is totally manipulative, but I also cried during the last third.

Red or Yellow...Black or White

Feeling a little down today? Does your Wednesday have more lump than hump in it? Then I suggest you head north and charge across the prairie to visit little old Aunty Christ. She was discovered last week when JunkThief did the story (yes, it was more fiction than reportage) about the visiting Mormons. During the fact finding mission, JunkThief did a Google search, and was thrilled to see that sweet little 96-year-old face staring back at him and pulling out a big old booger. (Sadly, Aunty Christ's sister, Aunty Depressant has yet to launch a site. I keep telling her to take her Zoloft!)

If you're cranky, I think you'll just love Aunty Christ. There's no getting around it. This gal's got attitude to spare. As she puts it: "I used to be the girl all the men wanted to dance with. It's true: Men once enjoyed dancing with elderly women with bunions, facial hair, and breath like a teenage boy's armpit. No longer, though. Thank god. I fucking hate dancing."

Clearly the Dorothy Parker of Saskatoon, Aunty Christ is also a graduate of the W.C. Fields Academy of Child Care. The only thing she hates more than raccoons (which apparently fill the streets of Saskatoon) are the wee ones. In her book, there is nothing more redundant than the two words "ugly baby."

Sadly, poor Aunty has not been feeling well lately and is just returning from a Robitussin holiday. So be sure to send her a get well message.

Alejandro and I have been planning a Valentine's Day getaway to Saskatoon next year, but Aunty has been oddly reticent in responding to my question of whether I should pack my thong or boardshorts for when I loll and sun by the pool at the Econolodge on the south side of town. Oh, come off it! It's not as if this were the first time they saw ivory thighs in Canada.

Aunty dispels another Falwell fallacy about the Aunty Christ being a Jewish man. Oh wait, that was anti-Christ. Jewish satanist? That would be my cousin Sheldon in Lansing!

Though I've not confirmed it, I strongly suspect that Aunty Christ was the model for the promotional poster for Saskatoon done back in 1926. What could lure you up there more than that siren of the maple leaf prairie?

Ah well, do check out this, another JunkThief endorsed blog. Now I'm becoming the Swifty Lazar of blog land serving as the agent for others. As Tug Boat Dave in New Orleans put it: "Sometimes your blog makes my head hurt!"

Separation of states and insane nations

Yesterday's elections in Québec were a huge setback for the Parti Québécois and mak
e it pretty certain that there will be just one Canada for the foreseeable future. Having family roots there more than a century back, I could easily romanticize such a separation, but I'd rather see some of the more progressive U.S. states break off from the U.S. and join Canada.

Not that I would ever argue in favor of the "honor" of the old confederacy, but some separation movements do make a certain amount of sense, such at the State of Jefferson, making one wonder what California might look like were it treated like the former Soviet Union. I'm sure that the State of San Joaquin, likely nabbing Orange County so it would look like a huge J on the map, would soon follow. City states of Los Angeles and San Francisco would be just as logical.

Regardless, I would see no problem with some configuration of California making a break with the current powers that run U.S.