In Which He Pouts a Little

Lately Ali and I are feeling kind of "off" Halifax. ("I've gone off London this week. It doesn't do anything for me," says the pouty and foppish fashion photographer in Blowup.) It makes me feel spoiled to admit it, as I really don't know where else could be any nicer. I guess the students all being back has something to do with it. And the recent upturn in random violence. I suppose mostly we're both just feeling in a bit of a rut. Fall's always a good time for a big change.

Speaking of The Fall and depression and fashionably aloof young Englishmen, last Friday we attended the Atlantic Film Festival screening of Control, the new biopic about Ian Curtis from Joy Division, who committed suicide at the height of the band's power. It's really well done: gorgeous black and white; fine acting, especially by Sam Riley as Curtis and Samantha Morton as his long-suffering wife; based on the book written by the latter (character, not actor). And lots of Joy Division songs are performed in the film, which has been making me feel like listening to nothing but ever since. That insistent bass, those robotic drums, that dark, Wire-like guitar... such a perfect environment for Curtis's brooding baritone to feel its way around in. This one's a particular favourite. I've already started working on a JD-inspired song called No Comment: "No one ever comments / On his wiseass blog / Makes him feel unwanted / Like a pedagogue."

In other film-watching news, we've lately rented the complete series of Sister Wendy's Story of Painting and are really enjoying it. I don't know whether you've ever seen it, but this super-loveable nun with awful glasses, horrible buck teeth, and an Elmer Fudd voice takes you through art history from her own personal perspective. She's so passionate and full of sympathy and joy it's infectious, and one soon finds oneself very emotionally involved. Well, these "ones" do, anyway. Marveling at a Brueghel depiction of peasants sitting in front of a fire, she notices that the lady "warming her underpants" turns her face slightly away from the men, who are "warming their, well, lack of underpants."

Oh, and the softball playoffs were last weekend, as I believe I'd mentioned. We lost every game. No one seemed to mind much, though, I must say. It managed to be a pretty fun day of ball.

And now Alison's considering playing next year. She's a bit of a natural pitcher, like her man. We went out for some batting practice with Meg before dinner tonight. Won't be able to do that for too much longer. I can't believe next weekend is Thanksgiving! Oh well, bring it on, I say. I've had enough of summer's light fun and tomfoolery. Time to get down to some serious contemplation in a cold dark room. Now that's what I call a good time.

- Andrew

My Favourite Comic When I Was Fifteen

Dump

I've been meaning to do a post about how busy I am, but I haven't had time.

Played a show at the Music Room with Erin Costelo last Saturday.

Recorded some more with Al Tuck.

Finished Alan Watts' The Book: On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are. I'd read it as a teenager, but forgotten how inciteful it is. Probably one of the more influential books in shaping my life. Probably could have just read it over and over instead of a lot of the various metaphysical stuff I've read since.

Lately I'm obsessed with Nancy comics.

Worked myself into a literally nightmarish state over a used car sale print ad that over two weeks became so cluttered with junky visuals and starbursty exclamations there's no communicative architecture whatsoever, let alone hierarchy of meaning. In my dream the ad is the surface of a pond under which I'm drowning as there are no spaces where I might come up for air.

Realized that some people probably couldn't see the animated GIF I'd put on the last post, and must have wondered what all the fuss was over an admittedly Escherian but quite lifeless cube in a cube drawing. Well you'll just have to trust me that your mind would be verily blown if you could see the way it perpetually turns itself inside out and outside in. Seriously, dude. If Escher were alive today, he'd be working in animation. Or Lego®.

Currently reading Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, wherein Marco Polo describes the cities he's seen to Kubla Khan, whose domain they ostensibly comprise. Only it becomes apparent that the cities being described are fictitious and all based on Venice. Each description is only a page or two, some banal but poetic, and some quite fantastic. Calvino uses the format as an excuse to spout off about human nature. It's fascinating.

Softball playoffs are this weekend, starting at 8:00 in the morning on Saturday. Ah hope we wee-uhn!

- Andrew

Me & Doug go way back.(He just doesn't know it yet.)

I found this in some random guy's comment on Douglas Hofstadter's MySpace page, and it won't stop freaking my beak. I see it behind my eyelids when I lie down to go to sleep. I finished his book, I Am a Strange Loop, the other day and it was a really fascinating read, as I expected, if a little limited in its scope. He has an interesting and by some standards radical theory on how a physicalist view of the world can be reconciled with the experience of consciousness, but as he's from an academic background, I find he stresses cognition too much, at the expense of the really interesting pre-cognitive environment, which is where I would locate the "soul". I kept nodding along with him, waiting to see what he was going to say about that stuff, but the only real references he made to it were some cheap shots, based on misunderstandings, at the "Tao and Zen people".

I'd really like to see someone who's writing about this kind of stuff from a scientific/American philosophical viewpoint find a way to allow some room for spirituality or even a little mysticism, without tipping over into the totally kooked out camp. I guess there's a general and justified fear of organized religion among academics these days. Still, I'm trying to figure out a way to land Hofstadter as one of my MySpace friends, so I can try out my Motivated Book Exchange (see this blog post) idea on him. Got some borderline New Age literature I think would really open up some new territory for him. Plus it'd be super cool to see what he would think I need to read. I think he'd be a perfect celebrity endorsement to get in on the ground floor of what I still believe will be a huge phenomenon.

- Andrew

Stuff You Need to See

Things have been pretty hectic at work this week, meaning there hasn't been much going on during free time, besides watching movies and sleeping. Alison had a photo shoot to go to in LaHave this morning, assisting with shots of the sunrise. She had to get up at 3:30 in the morning to get there! Ugh.

One of the movies we saw was Year of the Dog, starring Molly Shannon from Saturday Night Live before it got totally terrible. It was a really good character-driven comedy, and quite an admirable stretch for her. We also rented the remastered special edition of Meatballs, Bill Murray's first movie and the one that would win him a place in Alison's heart and wallet. It was of course even cornier than we remembered, but also surprisingly funny every time Mr. Murray was on the screen, and even sort of heart-warming. My favourite line was a random bit of encouragement during the hot dog-eating contest scene: "Every day, I am eating more and more hot dogs."

There's been some tennis going on, too. Our friend Jeff is visiting from Toronto for a week, and he came out to play some mixed doubles last night with us and Meg. Good, sweaty times.

Finally, here's an outrageous site that my coworker tipped me off to today. WARNING: Although there's no visually gross or graphic content, this site represents a very sick concept and will make you very very angry. I'm still not sure whether it's a joke. My friend claims not, but check out the testimonials. I can't read them in a non-sarcastic way. In the FAQ section, they claim to be legally protected under religious freedom laws. If this is in any way serious, it's a pretty good argument against those laws.

- Andrew