what is that ringing?

or.... the obligatory post about the gods of rock.

Yes, folks, I went to U2. Thursday, April 28 at 7:30pm at General Motors Place. As previously mentioned, I had less than quality seats. I was over that. They turned out not to be that horrendous, particularly in light of a loaner set of binoculars. My ears are still ringing with guitar riffs and screaming girls. (wait. that might have been me...)

I will not spend the remainder of this post gushing effusively about how absolutely brilliant the boys of U2 are (even though they are) and how profoundly amazing the concert was (even though it was).

What was different about this concert over previous concerts was the ramped up (perceived?) level of political/religious discussion. Now, come on. This is U2. Of course it's going to be political and religious and blatant. What was I thinking?? There was, of course, the plea to phone or email our oh-so illustrious Prime Minister to berate him for not following through (yet) on his promise to allocate 0.7% of the GNP toward alleviating poverty and third world debt. There was the seamlessly incorporated reminder of the Human Rights Act that had everyone cheering themselves hoarse. In addition, the rendition of Bullet the Blue Sky was part showmanship, part tirade and, creepily, part new-at-6 reenactment. Gorgeous.

The religious overtones were strong, even outside songs such as Gloria and 40. With any other group, I would have been instantly affronted by the sheer gall and audacity of even thinking about wandering down the path to preaching, but U2 is afforded many more luxuries than the average rock band. Mostly, I think, because they are just so damned sincere and real about it. They're not actually trying to sell it, per se, they're just letting you know that (for them) this is the way it is. Not so for me, but who am I to say not for them?? In the end, it comes across as a beautiful spirituality, which is completely easy to connect with and accept - with as little or as heavy a meaning as one sees fit. (I may be a titch biased.)

Is that why these guys have been so insanely huge for so long? Because they stay in-your-face about issues without turning everyone off? It can't just be the length of a career, the song craft, or the rabid fans. What about bands like The Tragically Hip? 54-40? Blue Rodeo? Spirit of the West? These guys are all brilliant and form kick ass bands that anyone in their right mind pays big (Canadian) bucks and lines up to see. So, what gives?

Bono is a god, while Gord Downie, Neil Osborne, Jim Cuddy and John Mann remain minor (albeit, powerful) deities. What, exactly, is it about each of them that makes that so??

Having just seen Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy yesterday, this may indeed be the ultimate question. Therefore, the answer is, of course: 42.

Famous Players might as well start to garnishee my wages now

It now seems that I will be spending the glorious warm days of summer trapped in a dark and windowless box with upwards of a hundred other geeks. The summer movie season is now upon us.

I was well aware that I had to begin psyching up for the next Star Wars installment (truth be told, part of me thinks "enough, already!", kind of like the never-ending Robert Jordan Wheel of Time series, but it's a part that's easily beaten down and lost in the noise of ridiculous hype).

What has snuck up on me, in my hermit-like existence of rabbit-ear television, are two other "epic" movies that I must now add to my list of summer flicks.

Within the space of about 15 minutes last night, I saw two new (to me) previews that called for immediate attention. First, was The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I mean, my god, how can you not go. 'nough said. No, not quite. It has John Malkovich in it. How can you not go??

The second trailer was for Kingdom of Heaven. This stars not only Liam Neeson, but Orlando freaking Bloom. Those two alone are worth the cheesiness that will ensue. Oh, and it will ensue. Not only do we already have a religious theme that will be, undoubtedly, bludgeoned to death, but the scenes in the trailer were accompanied by some wailin' electric guitars. Oh, yeah. Perhaps I'll watch with ear plugs...

These two, and the aforementioned Star Wars, of course, are Big Screen Shows. No doubt about it. The only problem is that I hate going to theatres. They're full of obnoxious people and invariably uncomfortable; my knees ache for days afterward. But, for these, I'll sacrifice. That, and I mean, really, it's not every day that I get to eat pizza, popcorn, gummie bears and/or Skor bits in the space of 3 hours.

for the "who knew" files

During my lunch time reading of the current issue of The Georgia Straight, (and under the Travel section for some reason..) I came across an article on pinhole cameras.

Within the last little while, this odd, old little form of photography has been creeping around the fringes of my day to day and this last bit of info has pushed me over the edge. So now I blog it.

As I understand it, and, seriously, I don't claim to even begin to grasp the half of it, a box (up to the size of a large shed) is constructed and a teeny tiny hole or slit is made facing the object that is to be photographed. Film (and I use that term loosely) is placed on the side opposite the slit and left there to expose for a significant length of time. And you cross your fingers. The image appears on the film as it does on the back of your eye: inverted.

It began with my random discovery of the Cariboo Thoughts and Images blog. Not all of her posts are from a pinhole camera, but many are and they are very cool. I also recently visited the Vancouver Art Gallery (something I constantly mean to do, but very rarely get around to) and saw an exhibit of Rodney Graham's work that included, of course, pinhole camera photography: giant photos of up-side-down trees that were (of course) the literal translation of the pinhole camera. Then, today, I came across the article in the Straight by Andrew Scott referencing, not only pinhole cameras, but the fact that there is an entire day dedicated to the art.

As someone from the point-and-click school of photography, the work and time that seems necessary to devote to this method is mind boggling but also makes the end result that much more intriguing - not intriguing enough to really want to try and spend much time trying it out, but to, perhaps, find more photographs/photographers.

It certainly makes my digital camera look overpriced, but I'm thinking the sheer difference in size, time and delete-capacity make it well worth the initial expense. None of my pics may land in any galleries but that's a sacrifice I'll just have to live with for the sake of my point-and-click sanity.

the short and defenseless

I cut my fingernails off last night. I didn't just cut them. I cut them off. I haven't truly had short nails since high school, when I was still taking piano lessons.

Aside: okay. It's not like I had long nails - you know, not like the drag queen and/or too-much-make-up lady who gets them "done" every week. No claw-like weapons of mass destruction. They just had a little bit of length to them. Good for peeling labels, taking care of minor skin irritations and removing slivers. That kind of long. Just to clear that up.

My hands are now completely naked. The skin that used to be protected by the (small) length of nail is now like brand new skin: tender and hypersensitive to everything that it gets harshly bashed into. Like computer keys.

Opening my contact lens case this morning was an entirely different event than it had been the day before, as was removing the lid on the margarine at breakfast. Even driving was an oddity, as gripping the steering wheel placed new pressures near what's now left of my nails. Fortunately, in my distractions, traffic was light.

After a simple nail clip, my hands now look stunted, my fingertips, flattened and my knuckles, more prominent. Ick. Hardly a great way to meet and greet anyone - with a short, squat and knobby handshake.

I did have a reason for doing this. My nails were not cut off in a rage over a chip or accidentally torn contact lens. I bought (and I use the term loosely: I forced $25 on an acquaintance) a 3/4 guitar that was being given away. It had issues; that was obvious. But, for $25, it seemed worth it to see if it was worth fixing.

It wasn't.

However, for a surprisingly reasonable cost, the guitar shop - conveniently, the same one where they felt it unwise to repair the 3/4 guitar - had several small full-size guitars available. (Neil Douglas Guitar Shop in New Westminster: super nice guys (though I'm sure they had a good laugh after I left). They have a store cat. Any place that has a store cat is automatically bumped up in my ratings.)

Another aside: I took my friend's 3/4 guitar because, although we already have a full size guitar, it is incredibly painful for me to play it. No one told me, damn it, that, within the "full size" guitar world, there are actually different sizes, and that it is, indeed, possible to get a "small full-size" guitar.

So, I've now settled myself into returning this weekend to get a new, smaller guitar. And so, I cut my nails off. That way, I have to go back. I mean, I cut my nails off! That's a pretty serious commitment. It'll take a few weeks, at least, before they can fully grow back!

The problem, now, exists around this fragile fingertip skin. How long is it going to take to toughen them up?? They've been so protected and sheltered for so long... Perhaps reviewing some proper piano tunes (unlike the cop-out chordings I've been playing the last few years) will once again get them used to being used.

It's either that, or attacking my fingertips with the pot scrubber while washing dishes.

split personality

Ah, what a weird week. Work's been hectic, after-work's been hectic (I'm supposed to be at a writers' workshop right now, but bailed on the excuse of a headache). I'm only surviving at work by virtue of post-it notes and an extreme version of a filing system that will never make sense to anyone else but me.

Meanwhile, at home, disarray is the ruler of all. Piles of random items have taken over my kitchen, bedroom and dining room. By necessity only, my living room and bathroom remain mostly unscathed.

Apparently, my co-workers feel that it should be a little unsettling to transfer daily from the poster desk for implied organization to the pit of let-it-lie-where-it-falls. There is a decided separation between my work and my home. That's supposed to be a good thing, right?? The fact that I live, alternately, at opposite ends of the neat and tidy spectrum really hadn't occurred to me.

But now, I may have to write a post-it to remind myself to think about it.

Shameless Plug*

Yay me!!!

It's official: I received my copy in the mail today, so I now have absolute and utter confirmation. I have a poem in the Spring 2005 edition of Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine. (yes, Canadian poetry exists, and yes, there are magazines wholly devoted to it.)

So, head to the link above and find out how to gets your hands on a copy!

*this Shameless Plug interruption will affect one post only. posts will return to Venting and Bitching shortly. please stand by.

Donald, darling..

Oh, I hate to do it, I really do, but I find it necessary to comment on the atrocity that is The Apprentice.

I don't get it. I've tried. Okay, I've watched a few very brief portions of a few episodes, but that's absolutely all I can handle. Who are these people? What exactly did they do before getting scooped up onto a reality tv show? How do you get a group of people with such diverse and generic backgrounds (sales: what?? cars, coffee, cruise ship photos, girl guide cookies??) all competing for the same job? And what exactly is the job that they're competing for??

So, I've obviously never actually watched the whole show. But without being provided a few specifics, I'm never going to. I'm a lab tech. I work with specifics. I need details. These people get bounced all over the board. Alright, so there's variety in the job and they're able to cope with change. Those are good things to look for in a career (yes, even as a lab tech). But the entire process seems so utterly based on whim, what side of the bed you got up on and whether or not someone pissed in your Corn Flakes.

And if you win, you get to work for Donald. The same guy who's been torturing you for the preceding months. Oh, yeah. There's an incentive.

I just don't get it. Have I said that yet?? Well, lucky for the competitors, I guess, they won't have to worry about me rushing in there to take their "job" away from them.

Stop laughing.

Guess they likely wouldn't take a Canadian on the show anyway. There's probably some network and/or free trade rules against that. And, as if they'd do a Canadian version of The Apprentice. For who?? Moses Znaimer??? heehee. We already had Made in Canada (with Moses cameos, even) and, sorry, no reality tv show is going to ever compare to that, dears.

Sorry, Donny.