Oh Canada

Oh Canada. We want the US to say that using the same tone and intonation that the Bond girls would use with James. But the passion has long gone out of this relationship. Maybe it’s because we’re stuck in a perpetual missionary position (and guess who’s always on top?).

Rainy Day Woman/Bob Dylan

I was looking for “Everybody Must Get Stoned” on Youtube. Am I the only person who didn’t know that the actual title is “Rainy Day Woman”?

But I digress. I really wanted to write about Gord, the drug dealer who lives across the street. I’m not sure how I feel about having a drug dealer in the neighbourhood. It’s possible that I wouldn’t care at all, as long as he went about his business quietly. After having seen Maria Full of Grace though, I’m not sure I should be so complacent about local consumption that is provided via 50+-condom feeding frenzies and orgiastic violence elsewhere. Other addictive substances – cocoa and coffee come to mind – have fair trade alternatives. Maybe some enterprising drug dealer needs to start a fair trade drug business.

But I digress again. I’m bemused by Gord’s behaviour. I would have thought that drug dealers would be disinclined to draw attention to themselves. Maybe Gord is using some sort of reverse psychology. He has 5 hound dogs that lounge in the front window and bark at everything that goes by, so the house constantly attracts attention. Cars drive up at all hours, stereos blasting, the passengers not even bothering to hide the fact that some sort of transaction is about to take place. A monster truck arrived one night and charged a snowbank in Gord’s front yard, as if it were taking part in a demolition derby . Someone descended from the cab. “Hey, you got any fuckin’ money to pay this guy with?” he yelled at his friend in the truck. Once I went over to ask Gord to turn his music down, and was met at the door by Gilligan’s Doppelganger. He seemed surprised that I was bothered by the heavy bass, even though the house was visibly shaking. He was the one who pointed this latter fact out, although he said he couldn’t, while talking to me on his front doorstep, hear anything. He argued for a bit, claiming that the sound didn’t exceed 50 decibels. I told him I didn’t have a decibel meter, but the music was bothering me. We went back and forth like that for a bit, and finally he said he would turn it down. Then he shook my hand and introduced himself, which is how I learned his name is Gord.

A few weeks ago Gord got busted. They seized drugs with a street value of close to $100,000 from his house. This doesn’t seem to have had any impact on his business. Cars still pull up, people go into the house, leave after 5 minutes.

Soon this will no longer be my problem. A neighbour came over and told me that Gord is leaving. He bought a $1500 woofer, and wants to move somewhere where he can enjoy his music without other people complaining about the noise.

Money (that's what I want)

For me, the most memorable Candid Camera episode was when they planted a $20 bill under a car tire. Most passer-bys stopped, tried unsuccessfully to pull it out. One old lady, more resourceful, got in her car and rammed the other car repeatedly. Money, that’s what she wanted.

Flying Lizards

Jose Feliciano (for Susan)

John Lennon

Money/Pink Floyd

Money is on my mind this week. That’s because I’m taking my nephews to the Cirque du Soleil in Montreal next month, and now that I realize what the adventure’s going to cost, I’m aghast. I know, as Visa reminds me, that a weekend with my nephews is priceless; but I’m beginning to wish I had chosen a less-pricey priceless experience (but then again, in 10 years who will care?).

If I Had a Million Dollars/Barenaked Ladies

I don’t know what I’d do if I had a million dollars. I know studies have shown that people who win lots of money aren’t happy, but I have a hard time believing this. Although, someone my mom knows won $6 million, completed the $3 million spending spree in record time, and now her ex-husband is suing her for the remaining half, claiming they were only separated when she won it. She’s probably not too happy at this point.

Friday I'm in Love/The Cure

Friday I’m in love. But it’s sunny outside, which means that love, which falls like rain and disappears like puddles in the sun, should be waning. That’s according to the play I saw last night. It’s supposed to be meteorologically magnificent all weekend, so I may be heartbroken by Sunday.

Thursday's Child/David Bowie

Thursday’s Child. Blessed with beautiful bones, so even in middle age the face is elegant. That mirror isn’t doing him any favours though. Mirrors never give truthful reflections. On the other hand, they always answer honestly when asked who is the fairest of them all. Don't ask unless you're sure you want to know.

Wednesday Morning, 3 am/Simon and Garfunkel

Wednesday morning, 3 am. Charlotte is turning round and round on my pillow, finally draping her large frame over half of it, purring ferociously. Maybe she’s being affectionate. Maybe she’s attempting to muscle me out. Maybe she’s planning to suffocate me. Wednesday morning, 4 am. Festus is downstairs batting at the cat door, which is locked, knowing the noise will wake me up. Somehow he also knows I can’t yell at him, because I’ll wake Jen. I run down with the spray bottle. He’s nowhere in sight. He starts up again as soon as I go back to bed. Wednesday morning, 5 am. Bo is practicing his mouse-hunting skills, tossing some toy in the air and racing around the room after it. Occasionally it lands on the bed and he pounces on me instead. Wednesday morning, 8:30 am. I’m leaving for work, haggard-looking. All 3 cats are curled up in front of the fireplace, sleeping.

Tuesday Afternoon/Moody Blues

Tuesday afternoon. No after-work plans, which sometimes is the perfect plan. Scheduleless. Mindless. Endless (or so it seems, but of course that’s not so). It’s still too cold to chase clouds, but I can treat myself to daffodils, wine and chocolate and chase some dreams instead.

Monday Monday/The Mamas and The Papas

Monday Monday. Why do you roll around with such regularity? Some Greenwicher should decide the days of the week by rolling a die. It would, of course, be loaded, with the highest probability of throwing a Saturday or Sunday. And since only 6 possibilities can be entertained, let’s drop Monday as an option.

Wild, Wild Life/Talking Heads

The back of a Lonely Planet book shows someone taking part in the running of the bulls. The caption reads: “Will you have enough stories to tell your grandchildren?”

And the last lines of Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

I’ve been thinking a lot about these questions. And I’ve begun to dread the question “What’s new?” Sometimes it feels like I’m at the centre of the universe, but not in a good way. I’m standing still, while everyone around me is moving. I worry that I’m not going to have any stories to tell.

I want a Wild, Wild Life.

Qawwalis

TV generally portrays a one-dimensional view of Islam. Where, for example, are scenes of whirling dervishes swirling their way closer to Allah? (Although I’m intrigued, I would make a terrible whirling dervish; vomiting doesn’t seem part of their devotional rituals.) And where is the music like this?

Hare Krishna

Hinduism seems like the most fun and sensual of religions. Ganja-smoking Shivaites, a blue god who seduces milk-maidens in great cosmic lie-ins; bathing statues of the elephant-god Ganesh in milk and honey. I used to have fantasies of running away and joining the Hare Krishnas; their chanting is kind of infectious.

Hare Krishnas at an Iggy Pop and the Stooges music festival...

Om Mani Peme Hung

Barely 40, mother of two young kids (one not yet a year old), dying of a brain tumour in the hospital, no longer able to do anything except express her wishes. Who would begrudge her incense, chanting, an image of Buddha? Some of her friends, apparently.

A Buddhist mantra for Linda…

Ma Nishtana

An email exchange with a colleague last Thursday:

Me: Have a happy Easter.

Him: Thanks, but I’m actually celebrating Passover.

Me: Oops, sorry. Well, as long as whatever you’re celebrating involves chocolate?

Him: PRECISELY.

Some music for Passover...(I suggest the 4th song, Ma Nishtana)

Hallelujah (Handel's version, not Cohen's)

Years later I ventured back into churches. Not on a regular basis, but on those special occasions when choirs are featured. Those voices lift me out of the morass of pettiness I’m so often stuck in. I have yet to experience anything as transcendent as music.

A song for Easter, even though it always seems to be played at Christmas (I can’t listen to Youtube today, so hopefully this is a good recording).

Requiem/M. Ward

I dropped out of Sunday school because I found it hard to worship a being whose favourite activity seemed to be smiting. Thankfully, in that family it didn’t appear to be a case of “like father, like son.” We should have started with the New Testament.

A Requiem for Good Friday...

Here Comes the Sun

Here comes the song I play when I’m feeling down. Supposedly it was written by George when the Beatles were spending long days in the studio recording Abbey Road, and descending into divorce. George went to visit Eric Clapton one afternoon, and wrote this in his garden.

Venus/Shocking Blue (NOT Bananarama's version)

My younger self’s best friend’s father owned a bar. It was the era of go-go dancing, and sometimes Bonnie got to go go-going at his bar (he’d probably be raided for such actions now). I was envious: I wanted to don go-go boots and go go-go dancing too, to music like this.

Vincent (Starry Starry Night)

Vincent Van Gogh had “two unsuitable and unhappy romances and worked unsuccessfully as a clerk.” He even managed to get fired as a preacher, because of overzealousness (how often does that happen?). With that pile of prefixes slowly crushing him, it’s no wonder he killed himself.

Moondance

The moon is full, the air finely chilled, and wintry white skin will glow like pearls under the moonlight. So throw back the sheets that keep you tucked in, grab your favourite creature of the dark, and start moving. It’s a marvelous night for a Moondance.