California blog series, part VI: Travel philosophy

As per my promise, here is the sixth and final part in this mammoth series on my August trip to California, just in time for me to leave the province again - this time for a week in Vancouver with The Cord. To this point, I've spoken quite literally about noteworthy portions of the trip and the less concrete thoughts that inspired them. This one, however, is quite simply about my thoughts on travelling, impacted no doubt by my most formative experience of it. Most of all, though, I'm interested to hear other people's thoughts on their own travel philosophies and any neat stories that relate. Perhaps it will illuminate whether my experiences are more indicative of general mindsets or simply my own personality. Please don't censor yourself to brief comments out of a polite desire not to rival the actual post's length. I want a forum for discussion, remember. Not that brief comments will be scorned, of course ...

The first thing I wrote in the impromptu travel journal occurred while sitting in a neat little restaurant in the airport after I got into San Francisco - where I waited for hours because I'm apparently incapable of reading departure and arrival times right and I accidentally booked myself on a flight that arrived in San Fran six hours before Erin's (though it ended up being less, thanks to a 2-hour on-plane delay in Charlotte, followed by a vomit-filled flight courtesy of the little girl next to me).

There's something peculiar about being out of one's surroundings. I'm immediately way more perceptive to my surroundings (granted, I don't normally set the bar very high, but ... ) and everything is fascinating - the group of 20-somethings so anxious to drink that they're doing shots at an airport bar, that girl from Pearson bound to Dominican on a humanitarian project with whom I discussed ex's (at her prodding), the family beside me that I want to say is of Laos descent, but I'm far too ignorant to actually know - the father saw my burger and went to get his wife to order one. I nodded and smiled as he returned and he sheepishly asked if it was good. I assented and informed him that it was a California burger. He then scurried back over to ensure she got the right one - "I don't know. Just say California burger." - the whole family's adorable.

The details themselves are not especially important - it's the fact that I notice them at all. Though I'm not sure I am necessarily even accurate in using the term "most" in the first sentence of this next excerpt, I think I make my point appropriately otherwise.

Why do most people display a distinct aversion to travelling alone? My night sans Erin was one of my trip highlights. [Note: see part I for more detail] My time in Halifax last year was tremendous. It is in this situation of comparative solitude that one can most easily take in their surroundings. You don’t become immersed in your own life and you can actually understand a foreign locale’s overall feel much faster. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love Erin and I’m glad we had this time together. I love people, particularly my friends, more than anyone I know. But I also love learning about the world and myself, and solitude seems to be an absolutely necessary condition for me to achieve this.

So I guess the obvious next question is, does anyone else find solitude instructive in these respects, specifically with regards to travelling? If so, why do people shy away from it? Is it just a comfort thing - the need of having a safety net? Should that be a good enough reason or should we force ourselves into discomfort with the professed aim of a truer understanding of the culture we throw ourselves into?

On a related yet different note, how do people generally approach vacations? Do you research about the place ahead of time or just go with whatever seems right when you get there?

I’m very interested in people’s philosophies of travel and how they conform to my own – and precisely what my own is. I think I like to strike a fine balance of checking out the typical tourist sites and pre-planned/researched spots and simply taking in the culture off the beaten path.

Thanks for reading. Hope you've enjoyed the series.

California blog series, part V: Alcatraz

Erin staring down one of the cell blocks of North America's most infamous penitentiary

I didn't actually really plan to go to California. I'd initially been looking at hitting Italy with my beloved friend Meg, but finances and life choices had other plans. But as I was thoroughly sick of never leaving the province I was nonetheless delighted when Erin proposed this California venture - so delighted in fact that I wasn't especially concerned with where in California I was going at first. Except for two stipulations. 1) San Diego Zoo, which was the topic of the last post. 2) Alcatraz.

In fact, it was the only activity we booked prior to our departure: a 3.5-hour evening tour of Alcatraz that would be the last thing we did before hopping the overnight Greyhound to LA. I've wanted to see The Rock for as long as I can remember, be it owing to the movie of that name with Nicolas Cage, Ed Harris and Sean Connery, a random childhood memory of wanting to attend a restaurant named The Rock that was actually a bar (probably why the folks wouldn't take me), or simply an overall fascination with the criminal mind. Whatever the reason, though, I'm ecstatic that I got to see it. Here's what I wrote about it on my flight home:

This is about the only attraction I’ve said nothing about and yet it was also my favourite (edging out the SD Zoo, swimming in the Pacific, my random San Francisco night, and the Aquarium of the Bay, in that order). I’d been told not to have too high of expectations (I think by Adrian), but I’m not sure why – it was fabulous! Admittedly, looking back, I’m hard-pressed to pinpoint exactly what we liked about it so much, but the guided and audio tours were both highlights, and Erin and I were in agreement that, had we been alive with $2.5 million in 1964, we definitely would’ve bought The Rock and invited all our friends to come live with us for one massive party. I feel like the cells would’ve made for a pretty ideal drunk tank for anyone who became too belligerent.

Anyway, I think for me, Alcatraz derives its allure from merely a general feeling that pervades the place. As the ‘inescapable’ prison, it holds a certain fascination, one which is made all the more prevalent by the type of criminals housed therein. But hey – perhaps I just have a sick preoccupation with the criminal mind.

Do I? If not, why are people drawn to the criminal? Is it a desire to live vicariously through those that, for whatever reason, do not allow themselves to be controlled by restraints of conscience, nor of civil law? Do we all have some sort of deep-rooted wish to live out some horrendous fantasies? 'Cause I mean, I don't feel like I want to be a murderer, but I do find them fascinating (from a distance and from behind protective bars and strict surveillance, naturally). Any thoughts?

PS - I think everything is just generally cooler if it's on an island.

California blog series, part IV: San Diego

Certainly not the best pic from the Zoo, but I'd be remiss not to post a panda.

So, San Diego. Or, if accuracy's your thing, I suppose this post would be titled after the San Diego Zoo. Unfortunately, 10 days does not really allow for comprehensive coverage of three of the coolest cities in America, even less so when they're all separated by hours of driving. As such, we did a day trip to San Diego. I'd like to go back someday, though, as it is undeniably a city rich in culture and history, a patronage point for the arts and a naval town of the highest repute.

For this trip, though, we whetted our appetites nicely with a single day. The Zoo took most of it and then we had dinner at the San Diego Hard Rock Café, a move which instantly spurred one of my trademark foolishly unattainable goals, namely visiting all of the 100+ Hard Rocks worldwide (and buying a shot glass from each). Perhaps I'll shoot for the more modest goal of the five in Canada (two in Toronto, and one each in Niagara Falls, Montreal, and Ottawa). I'd never been, having always assumed it was out of my price range, but it is actually not very expensive at all. I just found it neat because the people working there seemed genuinely to be enjoying themselves - and I like to think my skills of discerning fake smiles are fairly honed given my exposure to many a waitress friend. I also recall there being a typo on the platinum record on the wall, but I can't remember the exact details (one of the pitfalls of blogging on an experience four months after its occurance, I suppose). It was The Beatles and it was a pretty crucial typo. Something like "Can't Buy Me Love" without the crucial apostrophe-t combo. I just loved the irony that someone failed to accurately record the name of a song so immensely popular that the plaque was necessitated to begin with. Well, I've clearly screwed up this story. Back to the Zoo.

We were fortunate enough to have a gorgeous day to see the definitive North American zoo, and here are some of my reactions to the experience:

Truth be told, I kind of wish I’d been to the Toronto Metro Zoo in the last decade because, while it ranks very highly among the zoos of the world, no doubt, I imagine it would’ve given me an even greater appreciation of San Diego’s world famous attraction. As Jordo said to me before I left, “They have pandas year-round. You know you’re dealing with the real thing when they have pandas year-round.” [Note: Not an exact quote] And luckily for us, we hit the pandas at a very good time; we got to see them moving around and also went at about the only time all day that wasn’t busy, affording us an especially long viewing period.

Other highlights for me included the ever-entertaining otters and meerkats , the majestic lowland gorillas, the comprehensive reptile house, and of course, the polar bears, though I couldn’t shake the image of a drowning polar bear from An Inconvenient Truth, which I suppose is a tribute to the filmmaker.

Like Brandon before me, the feeling of remorse that humans are keeping captive such majestic animals did creep over me once, while in the birds of prey section of the zoo. For some reason, this is the most tragic to me. I guess their space is really no more constricting than many of the others, but because they have the inherent ability to fly that essentially goes to waste, I lament it significantly more.

Anyway, the zoo was a tremendous time and reminded me that, as a child, animals fascinated me more than sports, women, and pretty much everything else. While I’m sure they’ll never regain such a grasp, it was fun to feed it if ever so briefly. I think San Diego earns its grand reputation not only because of its size, but also the exotic nature of its inhabitants and the appealing aesthetic of the park. Rather than the appearance of a number of cages all lined up, the zoo comes off as a pretty convincing imitation of nature … in which there just happens to be cages. Definitely worth seeing for anyone who ever gets the opportunity.

Am I alone in my relegation of zoos and animals to the realm of the child? There's a majesty and beauty in the animal kingdom that should appeal to the entire age spectrum, but it does seem to be a concern I have traditionally associated with kids. Perhaps if bars and other 'of age' forms of entertainment didn't exist, we'd be more inclined to get creative for entertainment and indulge in these type of things more often, rather than opting for the obligatory Saturday night drunk (which certainly has its place, don't get me wrong). Or perhaps our natural life-cycle will return such opportunities to the tops of our priority list after the joyous university days are behind us, and I should just treasure those hazy nights with friends while I still can. Still, personally, spending $50 at the San Diego Zoo vs. $50 at Phil's Grandson's bar would never be a decision I'd agonize over.

California blog series, part III: La Brea Tar Pits

Although I did manage to gain 10 lbs. in 10 days while away,
I still don't hold a candle to this Colombian mammoth
(well, at least not if he had skin and muscle and all that jazz)

While our Los Angeles trip wasn't especially steeped in culture, the stop at the Tar Pits was very interesting. I'll have to hunt down one of the photos I took. It's so ridiculously surreal to see this lake of bubbling tar in the midst of the downtown. I felt like looking around and asking, "Yo, is anyone else seeing this?" Anyway, a very cool afternoon even though our search for an uber-neat, somewhat famous hot dog stand proved fruitless. Mostly, I was proud of the fact we navigated from Huntington Beach via four different expressways without a wrong turn. Anyway, here's what I wrote at the time:

It’s unreal how the pits themselves continue to exist right in the middle of the city. Surrounded by businesses and residences, the tar remains. And from them comes a vast collection of over 650 species – it’s ridiculous. I think, for me, the most striking thing about the tar pits was the size of the skeletons. When I think of a sloth, I envision something moderately bigger than a beagle. When I saw the ground sloth, it had to be more than 7 feet tall. Throughout the museum, the common trend seemed simply to be size. Every sign read, “Much like [insert modern-day ancestor here] except larger.” And thus, I can’t help but wonder what will go on in the evolution of animal species in the future, if humanity can avoid imploding the planet in the next century. Will animals continue to get smaller? Is it because of their speed or their smarts that these animals survive? Why must brawn and brain be connected by an inverse relationship? For me, the tar pits raised at least as many questions as they answered but, given my naturally curious demeanour, that is neither surprising, nor problematic.

Anyone got answers for me? Does this mean I'm going to live longer because I'm so scrawny? 'Cause if so, my newfound, days-old fast food aversion is so getting cut ...

California blog series, part II: Los Angeles

That's Erin and I in the middle, venturing out into the Pacific

Los Angeles - cool to visit, couldn't live there. That pretty much sums up the city for me. The above photo should be evidence enough of the obvious allure of the place: the weather. In fact, the one day that wasn't perfect, we were already so accustomed to it that I had to stop and remind myself it was still way nicer than what I would've been experiencing in Canada. However, unlike San Francisco, I could never see myself living in the City of Angels, and not only due to the fact it's in the US. Here's an excerpt of my musings.

Money is the be all and end all in LA. As Greg [Erin’s uncle] explained to me, the culture is such that the car you drive in many ways defines you as a person. This is why he lets his wife take the Envoy, while he drives an old Civic. Since she is new to the city (relatively), he wants to help her make a good impression. And cars do rule in the concrete jungle of LA. Thankfully, our hosts were accommodating enough to carpool to work and give the keys to their second vehicle to a complete stranger, thereby giving Erin and I the power of mobility. The transit system is not as friendly as San Francisco and we would’ve been screwed otherwise. And, I must admit that, as much as I loathe the city’s materialism, I generally enjoyed driving along the interstate. My mom worries about me taking the car to Toronto and a complete stranger entrusts me with his car on an unfamiliar 7-lane highway (each direction!) – welcome to the California mentality.

All in all, though, LA was the least impressive of the three cities we visited, I thought. The beaches were amazing – of a magnitude inconceivable in Canada – and the weather was pretty much perfect, but the total package didn’t do as much for me. Still, diving into 7-foot waves in the salty Pacific is not an experience I’ll soon forget. And it would admittedly take a while for me to tire of perpetual cloudless blue skies, warm weather, and cool evenings.

California blog series, part I: San Francisco

Well, here goes. The photos are still in process, but there are so many of them anyway that I'll probably just do a Prilstar-esque post about the photos alone once I finally get them sorted through. After all, my main impetus for beginning this blog was to pontificate on my worldly meanderings and so far, California is the closest thing I have to that. With the impending Cuba trip being a resort experience, it might not even topple it.

Anyway, to this point, I've been comfortably mum, for the most part, on the 10-day vacation I took in late August with my dear friend Erin, that was a very necessary and appreciated period of rejuvenation bookmarked by a crazy summer working three jobs and playing endless baseball and a term dominated by countless hours in the Cord office, two mindbending fourth-year seminars, and my part-time Record work. Basically, I wanted to have a chance to sort out my thoughts and provide something worthy of reflection here, but I'm always happy to discuss my wanderings in person if these posts don't answer to your every curiosity. So, here goes. My thoughts on the experience, complemented by italicized portions from the completely impromptu 22-page travel journal I ended up keeping (I blame the fact that Erin sleeps a lot more than me and I needed something to do in the gaps *laughs* ... and that whole notorious verbosity of mine, I suppose).

Anyway, our trip began in San Francisco, so that seems like a reasonable place to start recounting it. We arrived on the 22nd (of August, that is) and left on an 11 pm bus departing the city on the 24th, an eight-hour drive to LA that saved us both the daylight sightseeing hours and the cost of a hostel for the night. In between, we rode the cable cars (an experience that made me feel strangely connected to the city, even though I remain almost certain that the only people to ever use them are the tourists), walked across Golden Gate Bridge (both ways - took about an hour and a half. Turns out it's big.), meandered Golden Gate Park, spent a morning at the Aquarium of the Bay, an afternoon in the Haight-Ashbury district (where the hippies and beat poets once roamed), checked out Fisherman's Wharf, and did a 3.5-hour evening tour of Alcatraz. I'll let the pictures (when they come) speak for most of that, and I'll post on Alcatraz a little later, but for now, I think one of the most interesting parts of San Francisco was the second evening we were there. Erin was exhausted (she'd been on vacation with her mom in Pennsylvania just prior to our trip and I think the constant movement was catching up), so we went to bed at 8 pm. However, after an hour, I was wide awake and got up to meander the city alone. Here's what I wrote upon returning to the hostel three hours later.

My evening … was delightful. I spent far too much money and probably earned myself the hypocrisy crown by traveling alone, at night, in the drug addict/homeless centre of a major foreign city – but it was stellar...

I meandered into the Mission District, where I stumbled across the San Francisco Chronicle’s office – an impressive building to say the least. This city, unsurprisingly, seems to have a great writer’s niche; I’ve also picked up two of the many plus-sized Echo-esque weekly papers I’ve stumbled across.

After shooting a few pics of the Chronicle building – which I’m sure will turn out poorly, as I was fairly nervous to be sporting such an expensive camera in a pretty poor part of town – I wandered a little further into the Mission, where I met Alan, a 40-year-old Detroit native who is black as night. This was the highlight of my day. We shot the shit on how racism bleeds America and he was a very interesting guy. He claimed to have attended university at my age, though I’m not sure I believe it since he was clearly only semi-literate as he attempted to read my email address. He did admit to nearly killing himself with drugs, though, and spoke very eloquently with a fairly sophisticated vocabulary, so maybe he did.

I realize these people immediately try to forge a connection and be your friend before they ask you for help, but I haven’t bought into the numerous others. Alan, if he gave me a legit name, seemed embarrassed to ask me for money, as though his pride prevented him from doing so but also from sleeping outside. In the end, I gave him both my email and the $7 to sleep at the YMCA, and while I never expect to hear from him again, it’d be neat. He also insisted on giving me his favourite gospel CD as “collateral” (see – decent vocab), so maybe I’ll just have a religious experience out of the whole deal. A smart person would say the odds he did anything with my money besides drinking or drugs are slim to none, but I pride myself on never having put much stock in being smart. Anyway, all the best to Alan from Mission and 6^th Street. If nothing else, you gave me one more Detroit connection with which to build my street cred.

Here's a shot of the Chronicle building - poor, as promised.


Anyway, there's much more to be said in the coming posts, but I just felt that my night of wandering really put me in touch with the feel of the city and it was a neat experience that I wanted to share. Stay tuned.

Introducing Saul Williams

Okay, so we must begin with a preface. I suffer from Matt Paterson syndrome. For those of you that weren't present when he and I discussed this, that is to say that I make broad-sweeping generalizations about music that I don't actually believe. I will say something is terrible or brilliant, even though I'm well aware it's really a matter of opinion. In fact, by the end of the month, I plan to have completed mixing a CD for a friend to be entitled "15 Songs You'd Have To Be Stupid Not To Like." Does not liking these songs make one stupid? Of course not. But I'm passionate about music and so take my ludicrous claims with a grain of salt. We're all mature enough to know that music - and art more generally - is a matter of subjective appreciation.

That said, Saul Williams is a modern prophet and I pity anyone that doesn't listen to him with appalling frequency. *laughs*

Okay, some background. Saul Williams is a poet, actor, hip hop artist, and all-around virtuoso (phrase co-opted from Brandon Currie), who I was originally turned on to by my sagacious brother after he saw Williams perform at Bonnaroo (major music festival held annually in Tennessee, that I might go to with him this summer, depending on timelines and what life throws our respective ways). Recently, in exploring music MySpaces while trying to survive the essay crunch (I made it!), I came back to him and was blown away by the tracks "List of Demands (Reparations)" and "Talk To Strangers". I picked up the CD (self-title) and his most recent book, The Dead Emcee Scrolls: The Lost Teachings of Hip-Hop, which I'm stoked to read over the Christmas break. Basically, this dude is what hip-hop should be.

Some of the tracks - I'm thinking most specifically "Talk To Strangers", "Telegram", and "African Student Movement" - sound more like poetry recited over a simple beat, but they're brilliant and contrast nicely with some of the more upbeat tracks like "Black Stacey" and the aforementioned "List of Demands". Throw in passionate shrieking vocals on tracks like "Surrender (A Second To Think)", a stellar Zach de la Rocha collobaration on "Act III, scene ii (Shakespeare)", and all-around to-die-for lyrics, and I dare anyone that can find any redeeming qualities in the genre not to enjoy this man's work. I'll leave you with some lyrical excerpts to whet the appetite. If you're intrigued, drop me a line and I'll ensure you get hooked up with the CD (by helping you find it, not burning it or paying for it). I haven't been pushing anyone this hard since Laurier's own Shad - and I wrote a cover article for that dude.

LYRICS!

From "Talk To Strangers"
We represent a truth, son, that changes by the hour / And when you open to it, vulnerability is power / And in that shifting form, you'll find a truth that doesn't change / And that truth's living proof of the fact that God is strange / Talk to strangers, when family fails and friends lead you astray / When Buddha laughs and Jesus cries and turns out God is gay / 'Cause angels and messiah's love can come in many forms / in the hallways of your projects or the fat girl in your dorm ...

And that's what I've been looking for, the bridge from then to now / Was watching BET like 'What the fuck, son? This is foul' / But that square box don't represent the sphere that we live in / The earth is not a flat screen; I ain't tryin' to fit in / But this ain't for the underground; this here is for the sun / A seed a stranger gave to me and planted on my tongue / And when I look at you, I know I'm not the only one / As a great man once said, 'There's nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come.'

From Black Stacey
Now here's a little message for you / All you baller playa's got some insecurities too / That you could cover up, bling it up, cash it in and ching it up, hope no one will bring it up, lock it down and string it up / Or you can share your essence with us / 'Cause everything about you couldn't be rugged and ruff / And even though you tote a glock and you're hot on the streets, if you dare to share your heart, we'll nod our head to it's beat

From "Telegram"
The ghettos are dancing off beat. stop. The master of ceremonies have forgotten that they were once slaves and have neglected the occasion of this ceremony. stop. Perhaps we should not have encouraged them to use cordless microphones, for they have walked too far from the source and are emitting a lesser frequency. stop. Please inform all interested parties that cash nor murder have been included to the list of elements. stop. We are discontinuing our line of braggadocio, in light of the current trend in realness. stop. ... Give my regards to Brooklyn.

From "Act III scene ii (Shakespeare)"
I didn't vote for this state of affairs / My emotional state's got me prostrate, fearing my fears / In all reality, I'm under prepared / 'Cause I'm ready for war but not sure if I'm ready to care / And that's why I'm under prepared / 'Cause I'm ready to fight, but most fights got me fighting back tears ...

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now / For you share the guilt of blood spilt in accordance with the Dow Jones / Dow drops fresh crops, skull and bones / A machete in the heady / Hutu, Tutsi, Leone / An Afghani in a shanty, Doodly dandy yank on / An Iraqi in Gap khaki, Coca Coma come on / Be ye bishop or pawn? / In the streets or the lawn? / You should know that these example could go on and on and ... / What sense does it make to keep your ear to the street? As long as oil's in the soil, truth is never concrete / So we dare to represent those with the barest of feet / 'Cause the laws to which we're loyal keep the soil deplete / It's our job to not let history repeat ...

If they ask you to believe it, question whether it's true / If they ask you to achieve it, is it for them or for you? / You're the one they're asking to go carry a gun / Warfare ain't humanitarian - you're scaring me, son / Why not fight to feed the homeless, jobless, fight inflation? / Why not fight for our own healthcare and our education? / And instead, invest in that erasable lead / 'Cause their twisted propaganda can't erase all the dead / And the pile of corpses pyramid on top of our heads / Or nevermind, said the shotgun to the head.

Convinced yet? You should be.

Musicians and politicians: part one

Well, this has been a tremendous week to say the least. It all started on Tuesday with the much-anticipated Foo Fighters/Bob Dylan show, and for that, I owe thanks not only to Tara for getting the tickets and driving, but also to April, Brandon, and especially Tonezone for holding it down on a solid News section. Unfortunately, after a rather difficult time finding Skillz and less than stellar traffic flow, we arrived at the end of Marigold, the second song in the Foo's acoustic set; it's a song written and sung by Grohl, but released on a Nirvana album - I want to say the greatest hits box set or something.

Anyway, our truancy notwithstanding, Grohl continues to blow my mind. This was my third time seeing them, after the Molson Ampitheatre show last summer and their July 7, 2003 set at Arrow Hall (I remember when I'd only been to 15 or 16 shows and I could recite them all by chronological date - oh, to be that cool again). It was interesting because they played a lot of the lesser known tracks (See You, Next Year, Another Round), as well as a new track called Skin & Bones - awesome, quiet start, but building - and of course, some of the absolute favourites, like Best of You and Everlong. They also did Cold Day in the Sun, which is the song that drummer Taylor Hawkins sings - I'm fairly convinced this dude, who put on a pretty mindboggling display with a triple-crossover drum solo, is Grohl, just a decade behind. I shall definitely have to check out his side project.

But yes, Grohl = God. His stage presence is tremendous, and Skillman, Bri, and I were all in stitches as he explained that he's allowed to curse incessantly because his mom's an English teacher and his dad was a speech-writer, and as such, he's articulate. It was also interesting to ponder the notion of Grohl having a past before Nirvana, and to contrast what sounds thus far like a fairly normal upbringing with the absolute mindfuck of reading about Cobain's twisted childhood in Heavier Than Heaven, a tremendous novel by the insanely-skilled Charles Cross. Anyway, yes - does anyone know of a performer they think could rival Grohl for his stage presence, setting aside your thoughts about the Foo's music? And what makes a good performer, for that matter?

Well, if it's crowd interaction, Bobby D is very low on the list. As I think is perhaps a little more common amongst the aged rockers, crowd interaction was almost nil in the icon's hour and 45 minutes on stage. Frankly, I enjoyed the set. He played more of the songs that I wanted to hear than I could have hoped for, including Tangled Up In Blue, Masters of War, It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) and, perhaps my favourite, Don't Think Twice, It's Alright. The encore also included Like A Rolling Stone and All Along The Watchtower (though Skillman assured me that Hendrix's version is far superior). Basically, had he replaced some of the initial songs with Hurricane and It's All Over Now, Baby Blue, I would've suspected he'd geared the set list directly at me.

Now, I would say all my friends were less impressed than me (though my brother liked it, and I have yet to hear the analysis of Mr. Joseph Turcotte). I think their expectations were too high. While I would've liked to see some of the classic Dylan tracks performed in a more stripped-down light with less backing instrumentation, he didn't do too bad. Sure, his voice sucked, but it was never that good to begin with. Do we take it for what it was, or is it fair of us to expect more from a man who has gone through serious drug usage and is in his '60s? Should artists past their prime even be performing? Is it doing a favour to a younger audience by affording them an opportunity to see them, or is it simply tainting a legacy? I found it interesting that Scorsese's documentary paid no attention to Dylan's career beyond the 60s. It almost seemed to me to be an implicit commentary that the years that have followed aren't as crucial to the Dylan legacy. Thoughts?

This post is getting too long. I'm going to break now and Bill Clinton, Jurassic 5 and Adrienne Clarkson will be relegated to another post.

Slave to aphorisms

At Pinchy's request, and because I'm neither tired nor motivated, here goes.

This evening, I was watching No Direction Home, Scorsese's lengthy Dylan documentary (three days!) and there were two points in the movie where Dylan said something that caused me to look around and grab a pen and scribble down what he had to say.

"An artist has got to be careful never really to arrive at a place where he thinks he's somewhere. You always have to realize that you're constantly in a state of becoming."

"You can't be wise and in love at the same time."

There's just something about aphorisms that really fascinate me, and I don't know why. Is it something about the writer in me? The hopeless romantic?

“The future belongs to those that believe in the beauty of their dreams.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

As a self-described hopeless romantic, it's hard not to get excited about that phrase. I seem to have this consuming desire to sum up life in all its complexities with a few choice words. Ironically, the only other person I know that shares this overwhelming desire is Adrian Ma, also the only man I know who rivals me in my verbosity.

But these phrases can elucidate so much. They can make sense of seemingly irrational feelings of possession.

“There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.” - Oscar Wilde (the king of aphorisms and, not coincidentally, I'm sure, my favourite author)

They can comfort and amuse me when I feel like I'm trying to carry too many of my friends' burdens for them.

“I know God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish he didn’t trust me so much.” - Mother Teresa

They can even lend a shred of credibility to my hatred of sleep.

“Sleep - those little slices of death, how I loathe them.” - Edgar Allen Poe

Perhaps it's the idea that anyone, regardless of the rest of their experience and whatever they may do, can have a brief moment of lucid understanding where they see vividly some profound truth (granted, the Teresa and Poe ones there are not so much profound as clever or relatable), and leave an apt summation to the world. I have a seven-page list of quotes on my computer, and they're not all from Wilde and Poe.

“Tomorrow is wonderful with a question mark, but yesterday will always be magnificent with an exclamation point. We worked very hard to always have enough fun to make sure this would forever be true.” - Mark Ciesluk

Chalk that one up to my current nostalgia for a few years ago when my less lofty ambition allowed me to see more of my friends, but I think there's something profound in there.

So, who wants to solve this one for me?

On another note, this week holds Foo Fighters, Bob Dylan, Bill Clinton, and Jurassic 5, so my list of aphorisms could grow.

The immediacy of desire

Thursday, I was sitting in Madelaine Hron's "Human Rights in an Interdisciplinary Perspective" - one of two fourth-year seminars I'm currently taking to prove to Laurier that I am indeed fit to graduate and be a representative of their Honours English program - and it really irked me that I hadn't done any of the readings for the course, especially given how tremendously cool the discussions seemed to be. For that moment, I was thinking to myself, "Yeah, I'm going to leave here and just become an academic recluse. I'm going to really passionately throw myself into the myriad texts and expand my mind and challenge my pre-existing assumptions about the nature of things. Yeah, that'll be great."

And then I left class and went to the Cord office, checked my email and immediately wanted to help all my writers ensure they wrote their best articles this week - that Tones and I put out a damn fine News section.

And then someone makes mention of Oktoberfest and I already regret not getting a ticket to the authentic Concordia Club experience like many of my co-editors, simply because I wanted to be academically responsible, when I clearly haven't been doing readings anyway.

And then I go to work at The Record and some of the younger writers/photographers invite me out to Jane Bond and Huether and seem to forget that I'm "just a student" (a self-imposed view of my role in the Record machine), just genuinely wanting to chill with me as an equal.

And as I lie in bed in those semi-conscious moments before sleep, my mind races through all the people I wish I saw more of, the amazing friends I have that I hardly ever see and wonder if they understand why I spend so much time on classes, Cord, and The Record. If they even should understand?

The thing is - and my brother sent me a poem to this effect not long ago, so at the very worst I know this is merely an affliction that torments the Brown family - there's never enough time. The phrase "killing time" is actually a very legitimate pet peeve of mine because the notion that anyone should want to get rid of time is utterly abhorrent to me. I have a stack of books that I desperately want to throw myself into precariously balanced by my bed - and it is but a shadow of the novels I actually desire to read. Movies, music - the same. And they keep making more, the crazy punks! Besides, that doesn't even begin to open the can of worms that is travel. How I could easily spend my life travelling and not even cover one continent to my liking.

For me, it seems the immediacy of desire rules me, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. What's in front of me now is so absolutely crucial, even when I know on a conscious level that there are many other things that I care about at least equally. I mean, I like that I can be so passionately concerned about so many things, but I also wonder about my ability to discern between what truly is important to me. It can't all be, can it?

I guess the most peculiar part of this all is that I ultimately conclude not that the lack of time is a depressing thought, since I will inevitably fail to accomplish all my goals, forever outstripped by my own ambition. Rather, I look in awe at a world that is so limitless as to leave me forever with a plethora of pleasing options - perpetually spellbound by the world around me, if you will.

Oh, world. You so crazy.