Today’s title comes to us from pretty much everything John and I have dealt with in the past two days. We have finally gotten our lazy assets into gear, and realized that: “yes, we ARE leaving TOMORROW!” The worst thing, even despite the bathroom and behind the fridge, was, without a doubt, the fermented vat of cat-crap-wine.
Uh, yes- even the phrase brings a fresh surge of revulsion.
You see, when we move I like to set up “new” and “innovative” and “smart” ways to run the house, and last time we moved I decided it would a good idea to start putting the bagged cat-litter scoops in the trash can outside, thus saving them in a comfortable OUTSIDE environment until each garbage pick up day.
WRONG... NO THANKS FOR PLAYING.
In fact, it rained shortly after that first week or two, and no body wanted to go fishing for THAT. Thus, three years later, we had about a month worth of cat crap saved in a sealed trash can that filled with rain water THREE YEARS AGO. Yesterday, I had to, finally, fish it out. Swamp water is the closest way I can describe the smell, but even that is too weak. You’ll just have to try it yourselves to truly get the picture.
Boy, that was great experience- especially the new forms of hyper-coloured moulds and fungi.
So, now, we have only laundry and some dishes left, and tomorrow AM we hit the road for Waterloo- never to return to dismal Hammieville. I’ll keep in touch, but our new Dell doesn’t arrive until next week, and our internet may not be hooked up until Sept 1, so it may be a while.
So, I hope you all take care, and expect a post card in the mail- it’ll be the one signed “GLAD I’M NOT THERE!”
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
My 100th Post- Wasted
Yes, sir, 100 posts since April... This year chewing your ear off, next year world domination.
Just wanted to drop you a line on some recent links sent to me by my friend Catherine, and one that John and I enjoyed once upon a time in a galaxy far far away.
First, Episode III in poor translation, on a fellow blogger site that is sure to get all the ratings this week. Far be it from me to miss a band wagon.
The second is an oldie but a goodie. Psychedelic Star Wars adventures in Kenner figures. Um, Um Good.
Enjoy, and please sample the links on the side if you have time- this means you Catherine. I highly recommend the Lego Bible.
The internet is pretty crappy, but it does offer some finer joys...
Just wanted to drop you a line on some recent links sent to me by my friend Catherine, and one that John and I enjoyed once upon a time in a galaxy far far away.
First, Episode III in poor translation, on a fellow blogger site that is sure to get all the ratings this week. Far be it from me to miss a band wagon.
The second is an oldie but a goodie. Psychedelic Star Wars adventures in Kenner figures. Um, Um Good.
Enjoy, and please sample the links on the side if you have time- this means you Catherine. I highly recommend the Lego Bible.
The internet is pretty crappy, but it does offer some finer joys...
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Good Bye Elvis, and Goodbye Union
Today was my last Union exec meeting. I am now deleted from the website, and on the 20th the power officially switches to my replacement. That’s all she wrote. Tonight they take me for a retirement supper that I don’t actually want to attend, but I have to. Well, at least the relationship will end as it lived.
Also, we should all note that tomorrow is the anniversary of Elvis’ death- nine months to the day before I was born. It’s creepy to know that’s how my parents chose to mourn...
Goodbye, and take care (of business).
Also, we should all note that tomorrow is the anniversary of Elvis’ death- nine months to the day before I was born. It’s creepy to know that’s how my parents chose to mourn...
Goodbye, and take care (of business).
Another Day Older, and Deeper in the Pits
So, gentle readers, I sit before you a broken and sullen woman, for I am stuck in Hamilton for an extra 24 hours more than I had expected.
It seems that the friend who has agreed to drive us to Waterloo on the 20th, when given the choice, preferred the 21st. This is fair enough, and I cannot argue. He is, after all, doing us a huge favour by driving us. I can see how travel would be better on a Sunday than a Saturday for the sake of religion and for traffic (actually pretty synonymous terms in Ontario). My rational self sees no great tragedy to delay the trip for a day.
However, I make no pretenses to rationality. All I know is that I am a goner if I have to breathe the air of this place one more second than is absolutely necessary.
OK, so it will be nice to have an extra day to meet with friends before we part, and this is a silver lining. Further, we can put out our last garbage closer to Monday morning than before. Also, I get and extra day to clean. All of these good things.
Still- I NEED TO GET OUT OF HAMILTON. IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT $200. JUST GET THE HELL OUT- NOW.
The thing that haunts me is that someday I will die, and, on my deathbed, I will begrudge that extra day. It’s not the extra time here- it’s the time taken from spending my life somewhere else.
Oh, 21st, where are you????
It seems that the friend who has agreed to drive us to Waterloo on the 20th, when given the choice, preferred the 21st. This is fair enough, and I cannot argue. He is, after all, doing us a huge favour by driving us. I can see how travel would be better on a Sunday than a Saturday for the sake of religion and for traffic (actually pretty synonymous terms in Ontario). My rational self sees no great tragedy to delay the trip for a day.
However, I make no pretenses to rationality. All I know is that I am a goner if I have to breathe the air of this place one more second than is absolutely necessary.
OK, so it will be nice to have an extra day to meet with friends before we part, and this is a silver lining. Further, we can put out our last garbage closer to Monday morning than before. Also, I get and extra day to clean. All of these good things.
Still- I NEED TO GET OUT OF HAMILTON. IMMEDIATELY. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT $200. JUST GET THE HELL OUT- NOW.
The thing that haunts me is that someday I will die, and, on my deathbed, I will begrudge that extra day. It’s not the extra time here- it’s the time taken from spending my life somewhere else.
Oh, 21st, where are you????
My Unrequited Lust
I’m sure this title makes you think of something much more interesting than what I am about to impart, but it is important to me.
In a little and crummy antiques (-slash-junk) store on Locke Street in Hamilton lives a bright and lovely thing- a flower in the muck. There on the wall is a painting of Charlie Chaplin. I am not blind- the colour isn’t the most attractive, the frame is not top-quality and it is not quite contemporary with the man. It is not worth the asking price of $50, I guess. More like $20 to $40.
But I love it.
The expression of the Tramp is beautiful, and is rendered in those simple iconic lines that seem possible only with the king of the luftmensch. It was painted by no-one-knows-who in about 1978, the year after Chaplin died and the year I was born. The year seems significant to me. An artist, possibly in mourning for the man, painted this as I was born- a torch to be passed on. I want it- I would hang it on the wall of my office and look at the Little Man for comfort and energy.
But, with every hope there is a little tear. I can not afford a new shower curtain, let alone a painting that can’t be eaten, used for research, read, or worn. And now we leave the town, and I’m to be separated from even the hope (which I have cherished for some time) of coming upon enough totally free money to buy it. I won’t even be able to visit it through the window of the shop.
It’s a ray of enjoyment in this city. If you ever pass that shop, say hello for me.
In a little and crummy antiques (-slash-junk) store on Locke Street in Hamilton lives a bright and lovely thing- a flower in the muck. There on the wall is a painting of Charlie Chaplin. I am not blind- the colour isn’t the most attractive, the frame is not top-quality and it is not quite contemporary with the man. It is not worth the asking price of $50, I guess. More like $20 to $40.
But I love it.
The expression of the Tramp is beautiful, and is rendered in those simple iconic lines that seem possible only with the king of the luftmensch. It was painted by no-one-knows-who in about 1978, the year after Chaplin died and the year I was born. The year seems significant to me. An artist, possibly in mourning for the man, painted this as I was born- a torch to be passed on. I want it- I would hang it on the wall of my office and look at the Little Man for comfort and energy.
But, with every hope there is a little tear. I can not afford a new shower curtain, let alone a painting that can’t be eaten, used for research, read, or worn. And now we leave the town, and I’m to be separated from even the hope (which I have cherished for some time) of coming upon enough totally free money to buy it. I won’t even be able to visit it through the window of the shop.
It’s a ray of enjoyment in this city. If you ever pass that shop, say hello for me.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
What an Ass
Well... I've been waiting for hours here at the Union office for my last article, which was to on my proverbial desk by today. Said article is not here, and, after emailing my displeasure, the guy finally responded- at 10pm.
Oh, and the response? "No go- hope you didn't wait too long." So I emailed and said, yes, in fact, I did wait long. Now he seems to have gone to bed, and has not emailed a "Sorry."
What an ass.
Oh, and the response? "No go- hope you didn't wait too long." So I emailed and said, yes, in fact, I did wait long. Now he seems to have gone to bed, and has not emailed a "Sorry."
What an ass.
501 Nights.
So, we all know I suck, but now I’m really bad. I haven’t really updated in something like ten days, so I have a lot of crap to unload. Bear with me!
I’ll post something before I leave, but the next real post will probably be done from Waterloo, and may not be until we get our internet hooked up for September.
So, I’ll see you around.
I’ll post something before I leave, but the next real post will probably be done from Waterloo, and may not be until we get our internet hooked up for September.
So, I’ll see you around.
This Week in Preview
13 August 2005
So we now have five days left before we leave Hamilton FOREVER. That means that I have five days to do all the crap that I had planned to do in two weeks. On Tuesday, I am wrapped up pretty much all day with the Union- my last meeting and a small get together afterwards. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I have to clean the apartment, do laundry and prepare to go. On Saturday, we think, we leave for Waterloo (we still have to confirm the exact day and time of this departure). We hope that that morning we might go to breakfast with a few people to say goodbye. But then it’s Adios- this time next week we will be unpacking.
Just a thought- doesn’t unpacking make packing seem senseless and futile? Maybe we should all just start shoveling our crap into vans and shoveling it back out. Why all the boxes? Why all the stress? I say we start to treat it like hay. Who’s with me on this one?
So we now have five days left before we leave Hamilton FOREVER. That means that I have five days to do all the crap that I had planned to do in two weeks. On Tuesday, I am wrapped up pretty much all day with the Union- my last meeting and a small get together afterwards. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I have to clean the apartment, do laundry and prepare to go. On Saturday, we think, we leave for Waterloo (we still have to confirm the exact day and time of this departure). We hope that that morning we might go to breakfast with a few people to say goodbye. But then it’s Adios- this time next week we will be unpacking.
Just a thought- doesn’t unpacking make packing seem senseless and futile? Maybe we should all just start shoveling our crap into vans and shoveling it back out. Why all the boxes? Why all the stress? I say we start to treat it like hay. Who’s with me on this one?
Yes. We Are Yuppies.
Saturday, 13 August 2005.
Well, after a week filled with lunches and movie nights, John, Christine and I decided to do something different today. Now get this, and try to align it with my personality if you can- we went for a nature walk! Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe as I now seem to have lungs built only for nicotine and smog, I actually enjoyed the Great Outdoors. Yup, we even brought little yuppie water bottles. We walked for about three or four hours, up to the waterfall (which, due to the weather, wasn’t very watery or fall-ily), and stopped every so often to admire- get this- a plant. Yes, sir, we actually did something wholesome.
Oh, yeah, and then afterwards we watched two Star Wars movies. So maybe that redeemed me.
Well, after a week filled with lunches and movie nights, John, Christine and I decided to do something different today. Now get this, and try to align it with my personality if you can- we went for a nature walk! Yes, I know, it’s hard to believe as I now seem to have lungs built only for nicotine and smog, I actually enjoyed the Great Outdoors. Yup, we even brought little yuppie water bottles. We walked for about three or four hours, up to the waterfall (which, due to the weather, wasn’t very watery or fall-ily), and stopped every so often to admire- get this- a plant. Yes, sir, we actually did something wholesome.
Oh, yeah, and then afterwards we watched two Star Wars movies. So maybe that redeemed me.
Once More the Sith Shall Rule the Galaxy.
Thursday, 11 August
On Sunday, John, Ben and I drove out to see Episode III again at the Burlington Staircase Theatre. Had a great time. Gosh, it was the fourth time seeing it, and I still love that movie. And is it just me or does Obi Wan get hotter with each viewing? Catherine will back me up on this. Tonight, John, Catherine, Mark and I went again. That was the fifth. Probably the last time to see it before it comes out on DVD on November 1. I think it may hold me, but maybe not.
The theatre was wonderful to visit, as well. It is truly a place of cinema-worship.
Sure the theatres are small, and the screens are dingy, but the place is established as a place of love. When you enter the foyer, you are faced with framed portraits of the gods of Hollywood- Alec Guinness, Clark Gable, Bing Crosby, etc. They’re all there. Then, when you have walked down the avenue of the immortals, you come to a massive mural tracking the history of motion pictures in Hollywood, from the silents to Star Wars. And there, nestled between a representation of the first cameras and a female that might be Norma Talmadge or Katy Hepburn is the true pinnacle of old Hollywood: Charlie Chaplin. Dressed as the Tramp, circa 1920, he stands about life-size (not hard as Charlie wasn’t exactly Wilt Chamberlain in his lifetime), and has such a beatific expression on his face that feel like reaching out to him. Marvelous. I can’t fully even explain why Charlie means as much to me as he does, but I know that may heart jumps whenever I see him, and that he may be the one love that lasts a lifetime. Forget parental love. Charlie is it- He truly is the Top.
Wow. Friends, a good movie, getting out of Hamilton, AND Charlie. Tonight had it all.
On Sunday, John, Ben and I drove out to see Episode III again at the Burlington Staircase Theatre. Had a great time. Gosh, it was the fourth time seeing it, and I still love that movie. And is it just me or does Obi Wan get hotter with each viewing? Catherine will back me up on this. Tonight, John, Catherine, Mark and I went again. That was the fifth. Probably the last time to see it before it comes out on DVD on November 1. I think it may hold me, but maybe not.
The theatre was wonderful to visit, as well. It is truly a place of cinema-worship.
Sure the theatres are small, and the screens are dingy, but the place is established as a place of love. When you enter the foyer, you are faced with framed portraits of the gods of Hollywood- Alec Guinness, Clark Gable, Bing Crosby, etc. They’re all there. Then, when you have walked down the avenue of the immortals, you come to a massive mural tracking the history of motion pictures in Hollywood, from the silents to Star Wars. And there, nestled between a representation of the first cameras and a female that might be Norma Talmadge or Katy Hepburn is the true pinnacle of old Hollywood: Charlie Chaplin. Dressed as the Tramp, circa 1920, he stands about life-size (not hard as Charlie wasn’t exactly Wilt Chamberlain in his lifetime), and has such a beatific expression on his face that feel like reaching out to him. Marvelous. I can’t fully even explain why Charlie means as much to me as he does, but I know that may heart jumps whenever I see him, and that he may be the one love that lasts a lifetime. Forget parental love. Charlie is it- He truly is the Top.
Wow. Friends, a good movie, getting out of Hamilton, AND Charlie. Tonight had it all.
I Was Right. Catherine was Wrong.
Wednesday, 10 August 2005.
On Monday night, John, Catherine, Christine and I went to rent a movie for the evening’s entertainment. Now, Catherine and I happen to be, well, shall we say, forceful people. We both have some well-defined and passionate opinions on film, and specific tastes in movies. John and Christine, being well used to my temperament and whims, usually are very mild and understanding, and let me get whatever I want. I can’t imagine how many times they’ve had to grin and bear something I’ve chosen. However, I get the idea that they take the easy route, which is just to let me have my hand.
However, Catherine rarely joins us for movie nights, so I held myself in check and let her choose. This was a task of monumental restraint, as video stores contain both a world of delight and horrors for me, and I tend to get very tense and violent when faced with hours of film to choose from. Catherine at first suggested Constantine- that monstrosity with Keanu Reeves. None of us had seen it, and Catherine is of an adventurous spirit when it comes to films. I, however, had to exercise my veto on that one. Politeness only goes so far.
Finally, holding back my suggestion for anything silent or evolving the Marx Bros., I suggested Galaxy Quest, a film I have never seen before, and one, as a Star Trek fan, I thought I might enjoy. Catherine, without having seen this one, exercised her veto (fair enough). We ended up going home with Ground Hog Day, one of those movies I never actually thought I’d rent as one can see it for free four times every weekend on TBS. However, it is an enjoyable movie, and Christine (through some miracle of nature) had never seen it.
But, on the sly, John and I rented Galaxy Quest and arranged with Christine to see it on Wednesday, sans Catherine.
Wow, did I like that movie. Funny, but really funny for Shatner fans. Who would have guessed that I’d actually like anything connected to Tim Allen?
So, for the record, I was right to fight the power on that one. Viva la Revolution!
On Monday night, John, Catherine, Christine and I went to rent a movie for the evening’s entertainment. Now, Catherine and I happen to be, well, shall we say, forceful people. We both have some well-defined and passionate opinions on film, and specific tastes in movies. John and Christine, being well used to my temperament and whims, usually are very mild and understanding, and let me get whatever I want. I can’t imagine how many times they’ve had to grin and bear something I’ve chosen. However, I get the idea that they take the easy route, which is just to let me have my hand.
However, Catherine rarely joins us for movie nights, so I held myself in check and let her choose. This was a task of monumental restraint, as video stores contain both a world of delight and horrors for me, and I tend to get very tense and violent when faced with hours of film to choose from. Catherine at first suggested Constantine- that monstrosity with Keanu Reeves. None of us had seen it, and Catherine is of an adventurous spirit when it comes to films. I, however, had to exercise my veto on that one. Politeness only goes so far.
Finally, holding back my suggestion for anything silent or evolving the Marx Bros., I suggested Galaxy Quest, a film I have never seen before, and one, as a Star Trek fan, I thought I might enjoy. Catherine, without having seen this one, exercised her veto (fair enough). We ended up going home with Ground Hog Day, one of those movies I never actually thought I’d rent as one can see it for free four times every weekend on TBS. However, it is an enjoyable movie, and Christine (through some miracle of nature) had never seen it.
But, on the sly, John and I rented Galaxy Quest and arranged with Christine to see it on Wednesday, sans Catherine.
Wow, did I like that movie. Funny, but really funny for Shatner fans. Who would have guessed that I’d actually like anything connected to Tim Allen?
So, for the record, I was right to fight the power on that one. Viva la Revolution!
We Got So Wasted… or Not
Tuesday, 9 August 2005
This evening, John and I took Mark and Catherine, our two gods of moving, out for supper. We went to the Phoenix and had some good food and lovely conversation. However, it ended a little too soon and a little too anti-climatically. Although I wanted everyone to get a little rowdy to celebrate the up coming departure, I have the way of dampening spirits. I do not drink, and, as a result, I have no idea how to start a party among people my own age. Thus, not being able to come up with a single thing to do for afters in Hamilton, the party broke up after an hour and we all went our separate ways for the night.
Oh well, there’s more to life than good times. Just don’t ask me what.
This evening, John and I took Mark and Catherine, our two gods of moving, out for supper. We went to the Phoenix and had some good food and lovely conversation. However, it ended a little too soon and a little too anti-climatically. Although I wanted everyone to get a little rowdy to celebrate the up coming departure, I have the way of dampening spirits. I do not drink, and, as a result, I have no idea how to start a party among people my own age. Thus, not being able to come up with a single thing to do for afters in Hamilton, the party broke up after an hour and we all went our separate ways for the night.
Oh well, there’s more to life than good times. Just don’t ask me what.
20 Million Slow Leaks
When was the last time I slept? It seems like never, but I’m sure I have a vague recollection of it. It was nice, and I enjoyed it. Actually, I have the feeling that I usually took it for granted, but that my life was better then.
Now I sleep on an air mattress that gets flatter and flatter by the minute so that, every morning, I wake up in a square of deflated rubber with a sore hip and a headache. Sometimes I can hear the hiss, but mostly I just feel the affects. Some mornings, John gets up in the night to re-inflate. It’s like a hell from which there is no pardon.
My cat is about to die. Every day I find new, tiny pricks in the mattress from cat nails. I keep trimming his feet, but I think he’s using a switch blade now, cause the holes keep appearing. I hate him with a burning passion. It is now elemental- one tired and uncivilized animal pitting instinct against a jackass cat who lives merely to annoy.
My eyes are dipped in grit all the time, and I am nervous and paranoid in sleeplessness. I want to die, but without sleep I have not the wits or strength to commit suicide. So I continue on in a quasi-half-life with no feeling except a dull throb in my back. I need sleep, and soon. We talk of going to Waterloo a week early just so we can be reunited with our real mattresses.
Oh, there was a dream that was sleep, and once again it will be realized.
Now I sleep on an air mattress that gets flatter and flatter by the minute so that, every morning, I wake up in a square of deflated rubber with a sore hip and a headache. Sometimes I can hear the hiss, but mostly I just feel the affects. Some mornings, John gets up in the night to re-inflate. It’s like a hell from which there is no pardon.
My cat is about to die. Every day I find new, tiny pricks in the mattress from cat nails. I keep trimming his feet, but I think he’s using a switch blade now, cause the holes keep appearing. I hate him with a burning passion. It is now elemental- one tired and uncivilized animal pitting instinct against a jackass cat who lives merely to annoy.
My eyes are dipped in grit all the time, and I am nervous and paranoid in sleeplessness. I want to die, but without sleep I have not the wits or strength to commit suicide. So I continue on in a quasi-half-life with no feeling except a dull throb in my back. I need sleep, and soon. We talk of going to Waterloo a week early just so we can be reunited with our real mattresses.
Oh, there was a dream that was sleep, and once again it will be realized.
I Smoke Old Stogies I Have Found
Life is like smoking butts off the ground cause your broke. They’re smelly, awkward, and shameful, but they hold a world of simple pleasures if you’re willing to do what you have to do. Also, you can’t always tell what is a good one until you’ve tried it. I’ve found half-smokes that are crap, and stubbies that satisfy.
Life also produces things that seem very gross when you blog about them. I’m sorry, but this is nasty so I’ll stop now.
Life also produces things that seem very gross when you blog about them. I’m sorry, but this is nasty so I’ll stop now.
Yup, It Was Dead: Hamilton Strikes Back.
Saturday.
Tonight we had a very nice evening with Christine. Our apartment, as you have heard, is a bit bare, so she was kind enough to give us refuge. However, on the walk home, our good mood at getting out of this dive was shaken.
No, we did not meet up with a drunk, or with Can Man, but rather a sad and small and broken sight. A limp and unmoving cat lay on the side of the street. As we passed it, we looked down, but did not touch it. I don’t think we wanted confirmation that it was dead- Maybe it was just asleep.
Remember that from childhood: “It’s just asleep.” Second only to “He ran away” in childhood euphemism. We wanted to believe it, but mostly we didn’t buy it. It was just easier to say “asleep” than “dead”.
But this cat was dead.
The thing with Hamilton is that it just won’t let you be happy. Whenever you are doing well, and the future looks bright, something will yank you back like a cruel master on the other end of a leash. It will lash out, and take a bite from you.
We’ve been happy about leaving, so for some time now I have been wondering when Hamilton will take it’s last swipe at us. Will it come in the form of a speeding drunk behind the wheel? A mugger? An element of the move that falls through? How about a dead cat that reminds you that life here is doomed?
Well, we received what we hope will be the last swipe of Hamilton. This past weekend, John lost his job at the porno store. This was the big economic news that I posted you about. We had some warning, you see, because the asses who run the joint started training three replacement employees before they had actually fired the current staff! So now they have made a clean sweep, and have replaced the entire staff. John did nothing wrong- he was a model employee. Dependable, responsible and effective, he was probably better than a porn store deserves. However, as this is Hamilton, the store was doing horrible business (even if it was a porn store), so the managers, protecting their own necks, fired the whole staff. Blaming the clerks because people just don’t come in seems like a shoddy temporary solution, but this is Hamilton- the land of the shoddy half-measure.
To put this in perspective, John was about to start working off his two week notice, anyway, so really it’s mostly principle. However, those two weeks’ pay would have been useful. In the long run, in a year or so this will be a funny story to tell friends. Right now, it sucks.
But if this is truly the last swipe of Hamilton, we are relatively lucky. Have no fear, the Jedi will return (the Jedi being, metaphorically, my sense of hope and security). However, it can never be right again until I am out of this hole.
Perhaps the cat is better out of here, too.
Tonight we had a very nice evening with Christine. Our apartment, as you have heard, is a bit bare, so she was kind enough to give us refuge. However, on the walk home, our good mood at getting out of this dive was shaken.
No, we did not meet up with a drunk, or with Can Man, but rather a sad and small and broken sight. A limp and unmoving cat lay on the side of the street. As we passed it, we looked down, but did not touch it. I don’t think we wanted confirmation that it was dead- Maybe it was just asleep.
Remember that from childhood: “It’s just asleep.” Second only to “He ran away” in childhood euphemism. We wanted to believe it, but mostly we didn’t buy it. It was just easier to say “asleep” than “dead”.
But this cat was dead.
The thing with Hamilton is that it just won’t let you be happy. Whenever you are doing well, and the future looks bright, something will yank you back like a cruel master on the other end of a leash. It will lash out, and take a bite from you.
We’ve been happy about leaving, so for some time now I have been wondering when Hamilton will take it’s last swipe at us. Will it come in the form of a speeding drunk behind the wheel? A mugger? An element of the move that falls through? How about a dead cat that reminds you that life here is doomed?
Well, we received what we hope will be the last swipe of Hamilton. This past weekend, John lost his job at the porno store. This was the big economic news that I posted you about. We had some warning, you see, because the asses who run the joint started training three replacement employees before they had actually fired the current staff! So now they have made a clean sweep, and have replaced the entire staff. John did nothing wrong- he was a model employee. Dependable, responsible and effective, he was probably better than a porn store deserves. However, as this is Hamilton, the store was doing horrible business (even if it was a porn store), so the managers, protecting their own necks, fired the whole staff. Blaming the clerks because people just don’t come in seems like a shoddy temporary solution, but this is Hamilton- the land of the shoddy half-measure.
To put this in perspective, John was about to start working off his two week notice, anyway, so really it’s mostly principle. However, those two weeks’ pay would have been useful. In the long run, in a year or so this will be a funny story to tell friends. Right now, it sucks.
But if this is truly the last swipe of Hamilton, we are relatively lucky. Have no fear, the Jedi will return (the Jedi being, metaphorically, my sense of hope and security). However, it can never be right again until I am out of this hole.
Perhaps the cat is better out of here, too.
The Move, Part II: “My TV is Gone!”
Friday, August 5, 2005.
Episode X: I Wish I Were Dead.
Woke up at 6am again, and I feel like I just got into bed. Correction, I feel like I just got out of a sack full of rocks going over Niagara Falls. My back hurts, I think I may have broken a thumb, and both of my legs are covered in nasty purple bruises. On top of that, I have to face another day of moving stuff to Waterloo. Yesterday we took the books and the big stuff. Today we truck our TV, DVD player, computer and other breakable stuff.
Another day of moving means another day of being bossed around like a slightly retarded four-year-old, as well. John and his dad are great guys. His father is helping us immensely, and I love John to death. However, they are both very bossy and pig headed guys when pushed, and they sure do know how to push each other. Thus, in the middle, I am the precious and idiotic female who follows orders and tries to cool tempers. Well, what if my temper is about to blow? What happens then? No body ever worries about pissing off a stubby chick with dimples, do they?
Episode XI: On the Road Again.
Well, we are now back on the 8 to Waterloo, again, and yet again, we have no idea where in the hell we are. Why no one remembers is beyond me. However, as I am still on the floor, I refuse to help. Suck on that.
Episode XII: Futon Envy.
I had no idea furniture was so ff’ing expensive! Does that mean that every one of my friends with a couch had to chose between that and like 20 DVDs??? And they chose a futon!!??!! I, on the other hand, will not. It’s extortion, and I refuse to participate.
Plus, as we all have absolutely no desire to be in each other’s company a moment longer, I do not want to spend time driving around, bitching about a map, comparison shopping. John and I will go to the Sally Ann in September and get whatever costs less than $100. Otherwise, we will wait until Canadian Tire puts their park benches on sale and get one of those.
We did, however, buy two lawn chairs through which we shall be able to thumb our noses at the fat cat futon industry, and hold out until I get something cheap. My ass does not need $300 spent on it. That’s just insane.
Episode XIII: Mooching for Fun and Profit.
Well, despite my better instincts, John has taken his dad up on the offer of a free first load of groceries. For my part, I’d rather go home and die. However, John is right. A thirty-gallon jug of laundry detergent paid for and delivered by a loved one is too good to pass up.
Episode XIV: The Last Goodbye.
Despite the fact that we are all so on each other’s nerves that an explosion or core meltdown is inevitable, we had a very touching moment when John’s dad headed back for home tonight. We had to drive down the street to do it, as our down stairs neighbour (who also happens to be my thesis advisor from my MA) came home just as we did, and I didn’t want that over my shoulder as we said good bye. John’s dad gave us a handout (one of my favourite parts), a hug (which was nice as well), and said good bye.
Despite the poor communication of the last several days, I’d still change dads with John in a heartbeat.
Epilogue: “I’ve Been Robbed!”
So now we live in an empty apartment, and everything except a clock radio, lap top (with no internet, but a handful of CDs) and a suitcase of clothes are gone to Waterloo. And, oh yes, the air mattress. We can’t forget that, can we?
It’s gonna be a long couple of weeks.
Episode X: I Wish I Were Dead.
Woke up at 6am again, and I feel like I just got into bed. Correction, I feel like I just got out of a sack full of rocks going over Niagara Falls. My back hurts, I think I may have broken a thumb, and both of my legs are covered in nasty purple bruises. On top of that, I have to face another day of moving stuff to Waterloo. Yesterday we took the books and the big stuff. Today we truck our TV, DVD player, computer and other breakable stuff.
Another day of moving means another day of being bossed around like a slightly retarded four-year-old, as well. John and his dad are great guys. His father is helping us immensely, and I love John to death. However, they are both very bossy and pig headed guys when pushed, and they sure do know how to push each other. Thus, in the middle, I am the precious and idiotic female who follows orders and tries to cool tempers. Well, what if my temper is about to blow? What happens then? No body ever worries about pissing off a stubby chick with dimples, do they?
Episode XI: On the Road Again.
Well, we are now back on the 8 to Waterloo, again, and yet again, we have no idea where in the hell we are. Why no one remembers is beyond me. However, as I am still on the floor, I refuse to help. Suck on that.
Episode XII: Futon Envy.
I had no idea furniture was so ff’ing expensive! Does that mean that every one of my friends with a couch had to chose between that and like 20 DVDs??? And they chose a futon!!??!! I, on the other hand, will not. It’s extortion, and I refuse to participate.
Plus, as we all have absolutely no desire to be in each other’s company a moment longer, I do not want to spend time driving around, bitching about a map, comparison shopping. John and I will go to the Sally Ann in September and get whatever costs less than $100. Otherwise, we will wait until Canadian Tire puts their park benches on sale and get one of those.
We did, however, buy two lawn chairs through which we shall be able to thumb our noses at the fat cat futon industry, and hold out until I get something cheap. My ass does not need $300 spent on it. That’s just insane.
Episode XIII: Mooching for Fun and Profit.
Well, despite my better instincts, John has taken his dad up on the offer of a free first load of groceries. For my part, I’d rather go home and die. However, John is right. A thirty-gallon jug of laundry detergent paid for and delivered by a loved one is too good to pass up.
Episode XIV: The Last Goodbye.
Despite the fact that we are all so on each other’s nerves that an explosion or core meltdown is inevitable, we had a very touching moment when John’s dad headed back for home tonight. We had to drive down the street to do it, as our down stairs neighbour (who also happens to be my thesis advisor from my MA) came home just as we did, and I didn’t want that over my shoulder as we said good bye. John’s dad gave us a handout (one of my favourite parts), a hug (which was nice as well), and said good bye.
Despite the poor communication of the last several days, I’d still change dads with John in a heartbeat.
Epilogue: “I’ve Been Robbed!”
So now we live in an empty apartment, and everything except a clock radio, lap top (with no internet, but a handful of CDs) and a suitcase of clothes are gone to Waterloo. And, oh yes, the air mattress. We can’t forget that, can we?
It’s gonna be a long couple of weeks.
The Move, Part I: The Joads Move West
Tuesday, August 4, 2005
Prelude: Air Mattresses Suck. (6am)
After several days of frantic preparation, we are now ready to hit the road. John’s dad arrived last night, and we went to Zeller’s to buy new sweat pants for the move, then went to Canadian Tire to get bungee cords and Windex, and then to Walmart to get a dolly. Why not all in one place, you may ask. I have no idea. Blame it on the fact that we haven’t shopped in Hamilton in like three years, and have no clue where to get anything.
So last night we had our first night on the air mattress that will be our solace until the 20th. The mattresses that we usually sleep on were already trussed into their covers for the move, so we got an early start in our camping-mode. Holy crap- we haven’t moved a thing, and I’m already sore. Every time John rolled over, I flew off. Actually, it’s amazing that that happened at all, as rolling over on a king size air mattress is an experience akin only to winning a beach back from the Nazis. It takes co-ordination of abs and shoulders that I simply don’t have- even with all of the Nova Scotian school system’s love of field day activities. Worse than all this has to be the fact that the poor thing clearly has a leak, and upon waking (way too early and in shitty moods, I may add) we found ourselves bruised and stiff on a square of rubber on the floor.
Oh- it’s going to be great day.
Episode I: Stairs Suck. (8am- 2pm)
By the time the heat of the day started, we had, thankfully, already moved much of the heavy and large items. Down went the giant oak book shelves we inherited because friends of the past were smart enough not to try to move with them. Down went the dresser, and down went the big table. John started ahead of me, as he was picked up by his dad to help load the van with donations (filing cabinets, computer desk) sent from PEI.
Can I describe the hatred I now have for three flights of fire escape? Only to say it burns like a thousand generations of lovers of cheap French whores.
Episode II: I Suck.
OK. I knew I wasn’t in great shape. I’m pudgy and dowdy, and I live in a chair. However, I didn’t know that I fainted at the sight of physical labour.
You learn something new every day.
I watched people struggle with my possessions for hours, occasionally taking down a box, but mostly just flitting around getting water for those people actually working and trying to look busy. I’m so very, very sorry…
Episode III: Mark and Catherine Rock, However!
Meanwhile, may I say how much I love Catherine and Mark? John was working like a Trojan, and I mean him no slight, but at least he owned the stuff we were moving. Mark and Catherine, on the other hand, had no stake in moving the crap, but they worked to the end. It was dead hot (in the forties with the humidity), and they looked like they were sweating out the last of their life force, but still they kept going. They are both tall, svelte and blond, so I am beginning to believe the whole Master Race stuff…
Episode IV: It Was the Most I Ever Threw Up.
By noon, I was whipped. Even with the small amount that I actually did, I was beat. Having skipped breakfast due to my crabby mood, I was empty. Well, not quite- I was actually full of about three gallons of water. I wasn’t feeling too well, as every time I moved I sloshed. This put me in a bad situation, as Mark and Catherine were there and I couldn’t imagine my horror at throwing up in front two pictures of health (especially Mark who always looks so healthy and good and pure). I would have felt like a toad wandering into a butterfly conference and belching.
So I quietly hid at every opportunity and took deep breaths to keep everything down. I never prayed so hard.
Finally, we were finished loading and I was able to see the group off with a big thanks. Then I quickly ran in and kissed the bathroom tiles for about twenty minutes and felt better… a little bit, anyway.
Episode V: On the Floor.
So, I write to you now from the floor of our moving van, headed vaguely Westward along highway 8, towards Waterloo. I have some plan to type this up later, but I may not live. We look like the Joads, with everything but the dying granny in the back. Everything we own is crammed into the back, and family members hang from every inch of the cab.
John and his dad bracket me on the seats, and I am crouched in the middle. Every bump bruises my already abused ass, and there seems to be a vent pressed into the small of my back blowing scalding air at me. My legs are cramping and twisting into something horrible and unrecognizable. Getting out for a sandwich, as they have suggested, and stretching the legs sounds good, but I no longer have legs. The day’s lifting and the hour’s squatting, have left me without the use of said legs. Oh, and wonder of wonders- the day isn’t over yet. We still have to unload! And then I get to squat all the way back to Hamilton.
Bliss.
Episode VI: Up and Down, and Up and Down. (2.30- 6pm)
Well, unloading was nicer than loading. We had two trolleys and an elevator “in service” for our exclusive use. While John’s dad watched the truck, we took loads up, even having brief chances to grab smoke, water and rest breaks. We were done in just a few hours, and even the rain co-operated. We just took stuff up and dumped it, so we’ll have a great time unpacking, she said sarcastically.
Episode VII: Movin’ on Up.
The apartment is as good as I remember it! We actually have a dining room table under a chandelier- we are definitely a better class, now. The table was a donation from John’s parents, originally meant to be a desk. On seeing the thing, a heavy dark oak thing with straight-backed embroidered chairs, I decided it was a crime to use it thus, so now it is in the dining room.
The Joads have finally made it!
Episode VIII: Shove That Map in a Place We Don’t Talk About.
OK, so I can’t navigate. I’m useless. If I had been Moses, the Jews would still be trying to find the Promised Land. However, I can’t see how any one would be reasonably expected to navigate when seated on the floor of a moving truck with no ability to see street signs. Well, John, his dad, and I may never speak again, but at least I retrained myself from doing anything too rude with the map on the drive home.
Episode IX: Air Mattresses Definitely Suck.
Am so sore I could die… Three hours on the floor of a truck, and about six or seven hours of lifting things heavier than me. Now that mattress. Yes- this is definitely a great way to end our time in Hamilton.
Prelude: Air Mattresses Suck. (6am)
After several days of frantic preparation, we are now ready to hit the road. John’s dad arrived last night, and we went to Zeller’s to buy new sweat pants for the move, then went to Canadian Tire to get bungee cords and Windex, and then to Walmart to get a dolly. Why not all in one place, you may ask. I have no idea. Blame it on the fact that we haven’t shopped in Hamilton in like three years, and have no clue where to get anything.
So last night we had our first night on the air mattress that will be our solace until the 20th. The mattresses that we usually sleep on were already trussed into their covers for the move, so we got an early start in our camping-mode. Holy crap- we haven’t moved a thing, and I’m already sore. Every time John rolled over, I flew off. Actually, it’s amazing that that happened at all, as rolling over on a king size air mattress is an experience akin only to winning a beach back from the Nazis. It takes co-ordination of abs and shoulders that I simply don’t have- even with all of the Nova Scotian school system’s love of field day activities. Worse than all this has to be the fact that the poor thing clearly has a leak, and upon waking (way too early and in shitty moods, I may add) we found ourselves bruised and stiff on a square of rubber on the floor.
Oh- it’s going to be great day.
Episode I: Stairs Suck. (8am- 2pm)
By the time the heat of the day started, we had, thankfully, already moved much of the heavy and large items. Down went the giant oak book shelves we inherited because friends of the past were smart enough not to try to move with them. Down went the dresser, and down went the big table. John started ahead of me, as he was picked up by his dad to help load the van with donations (filing cabinets, computer desk) sent from PEI.
Can I describe the hatred I now have for three flights of fire escape? Only to say it burns like a thousand generations of lovers of cheap French whores.
Episode II: I Suck.
OK. I knew I wasn’t in great shape. I’m pudgy and dowdy, and I live in a chair. However, I didn’t know that I fainted at the sight of physical labour.
You learn something new every day.
I watched people struggle with my possessions for hours, occasionally taking down a box, but mostly just flitting around getting water for those people actually working and trying to look busy. I’m so very, very sorry…
Episode III: Mark and Catherine Rock, However!
Meanwhile, may I say how much I love Catherine and Mark? John was working like a Trojan, and I mean him no slight, but at least he owned the stuff we were moving. Mark and Catherine, on the other hand, had no stake in moving the crap, but they worked to the end. It was dead hot (in the forties with the humidity), and they looked like they were sweating out the last of their life force, but still they kept going. They are both tall, svelte and blond, so I am beginning to believe the whole Master Race stuff…
Episode IV: It Was the Most I Ever Threw Up.
By noon, I was whipped. Even with the small amount that I actually did, I was beat. Having skipped breakfast due to my crabby mood, I was empty. Well, not quite- I was actually full of about three gallons of water. I wasn’t feeling too well, as every time I moved I sloshed. This put me in a bad situation, as Mark and Catherine were there and I couldn’t imagine my horror at throwing up in front two pictures of health (especially Mark who always looks so healthy and good and pure). I would have felt like a toad wandering into a butterfly conference and belching.
So I quietly hid at every opportunity and took deep breaths to keep everything down. I never prayed so hard.
Finally, we were finished loading and I was able to see the group off with a big thanks. Then I quickly ran in and kissed the bathroom tiles for about twenty minutes and felt better… a little bit, anyway.
Episode V: On the Floor.
So, I write to you now from the floor of our moving van, headed vaguely Westward along highway 8, towards Waterloo. I have some plan to type this up later, but I may not live. We look like the Joads, with everything but the dying granny in the back. Everything we own is crammed into the back, and family members hang from every inch of the cab.
John and his dad bracket me on the seats, and I am crouched in the middle. Every bump bruises my already abused ass, and there seems to be a vent pressed into the small of my back blowing scalding air at me. My legs are cramping and twisting into something horrible and unrecognizable. Getting out for a sandwich, as they have suggested, and stretching the legs sounds good, but I no longer have legs. The day’s lifting and the hour’s squatting, have left me without the use of said legs. Oh, and wonder of wonders- the day isn’t over yet. We still have to unload! And then I get to squat all the way back to Hamilton.
Bliss.
Episode VI: Up and Down, and Up and Down. (2.30- 6pm)
Well, unloading was nicer than loading. We had two trolleys and an elevator “in service” for our exclusive use. While John’s dad watched the truck, we took loads up, even having brief chances to grab smoke, water and rest breaks. We were done in just a few hours, and even the rain co-operated. We just took stuff up and dumped it, so we’ll have a great time unpacking, she said sarcastically.
Episode VII: Movin’ on Up.
The apartment is as good as I remember it! We actually have a dining room table under a chandelier- we are definitely a better class, now. The table was a donation from John’s parents, originally meant to be a desk. On seeing the thing, a heavy dark oak thing with straight-backed embroidered chairs, I decided it was a crime to use it thus, so now it is in the dining room.
The Joads have finally made it!
Episode VIII: Shove That Map in a Place We Don’t Talk About.
OK, so I can’t navigate. I’m useless. If I had been Moses, the Jews would still be trying to find the Promised Land. However, I can’t see how any one would be reasonably expected to navigate when seated on the floor of a moving truck with no ability to see street signs. Well, John, his dad, and I may never speak again, but at least I retrained myself from doing anything too rude with the map on the drive home.
Episode IX: Air Mattresses Definitely Suck.
Am so sore I could die… Three hours on the floor of a truck, and about six or seven hours of lifting things heavier than me. Now that mattress. Yes- this is definitely a great way to end our time in Hamilton.
Ladies and Gentlemen: Our New G.G.
This morning it was announced that the PMO has revealed the identity of Canada’s new Governor General. In September, the post will be taken up by… (Drum roll)… Michaelle Jean, CBC personality and documentary journalist. You may know her from her work on The Passionate Eye. Well, she’s not Shatner, but I can deal with this.
Here’s to her (and to all the journalists out there looking for their umlaut-like diacritical mark on their keyboards).
Here’s to her (and to all the journalists out there looking for their umlaut-like diacritical mark on their keyboards).
Three Maritimers Seek the Sea
Monday, 1 August 2005
Tonight Catherine, John and I got up to no good. Seeing as she still had her rented car, we decided not to waste it and we took a mini-road trip. After a nice meal at the Cat, we saw Charley and the Chocolate Factory (see review). Then Catherine was going to drop us off, but we were having too much fun for that. Therefore, as she likes to drive, and we like to be chauffeured, we convinced her (without much effort) to just keep driving. What a lovely feeling to get out of this dump, even for an hour or so.
Don’t get me wrong, Burlington isn’t Paris. However, it is better than here, so we drove out to Burlington. Soon, we were passed the point with which any of us were familiar. It was midnight, and we were firmly lost, I think, but I don’t think we cared. Catherine suggested that we find the waterfront, so we drove around searching for it. This is an unusual circumstance, as, back home, one just walks down hill and, eventually, you simply come across the ocean. Here you must search for it.
After some trial and error, we did find the marina. Not very impressive, as it looked just like a pond with a few boats tied up. We did however, find a possum, so it wasn’t a wasted evening. Finding nothing to stay there for, we drove on. In the end, after an odd detour through Oakville, we pointed the car homeward and found ourselves back in Hamilton. Dropped off directly at the door, we had not a single Hammie encounter.
What a great evening- Thanks Catherine.
Tonight Catherine, John and I got up to no good. Seeing as she still had her rented car, we decided not to waste it and we took a mini-road trip. After a nice meal at the Cat, we saw Charley and the Chocolate Factory (see review). Then Catherine was going to drop us off, but we were having too much fun for that. Therefore, as she likes to drive, and we like to be chauffeured, we convinced her (without much effort) to just keep driving. What a lovely feeling to get out of this dump, even for an hour or so.
Don’t get me wrong, Burlington isn’t Paris. However, it is better than here, so we drove out to Burlington. Soon, we were passed the point with which any of us were familiar. It was midnight, and we were firmly lost, I think, but I don’t think we cared. Catherine suggested that we find the waterfront, so we drove around searching for it. This is an unusual circumstance, as, back home, one just walks down hill and, eventually, you simply come across the ocean. Here you must search for it.
After some trial and error, we did find the marina. Not very impressive, as it looked just like a pond with a few boats tied up. We did however, find a possum, so it wasn’t a wasted evening. Finding nothing to stay there for, we drove on. In the end, after an odd detour through Oakville, we pointed the car homeward and found ourselves back in Hamilton. Dropped off directly at the door, we had not a single Hammie encounter.
What a great evening- Thanks Catherine.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Can't Talk. Coming Down.
Title says it all. Moving is complete. Two days of hellish stress. Will write later. Am still alive.
So tired. So sore. So frazzled. So in love with Mark and Catherine for helping. It was my crap, and I didn't even want to move it.
Will talk later with details.
So tired. So sore. So frazzled. So in love with Mark and Catherine for helping. It was my crap, and I didn't even want to move it.
Will talk later with details.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Wonka Post Script
If you’re looking for a double feature when this comes out on DVD, I can suggest a couple of options.
Oddly enough, I wouldn’t recommend the original. They are very different movies, and, like myself, people who aren’t fond of the original are likely to enjoy this version, and vice versa.
Conventionally, I would recommend Edward Scissorhands (1990) for victims of a Depp fetish. Or a Burton fetish (in which case, you may want to try therapy).
However, try Shadows and Fog (1992), by Woody Allen. That strange pairing of mythical cities might produce interesting results. Chaplin’s City Lights (1931) would make a good pair with Shadows and Fog, but I’m uncertain about how this would go with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005). The cities in all three of these films are truly remarkable, though, for their sheer fantasy elements. Babe: Pig in the City (1998) also comes to mind here.
Otherwise, although one critic used this as a derogatory comparison, do try Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971). These two might make playful abusiveness and monstrous child-play an unusual evening party.
For a something completely different, and a night that may prove unforgettable (in a good or bad way), try Toys (1992), another fable about an intolerable man-boy running a “magical” factory.
Happy viewing!
Oddly enough, I wouldn’t recommend the original. They are very different movies, and, like myself, people who aren’t fond of the original are likely to enjoy this version, and vice versa.
Conventionally, I would recommend Edward Scissorhands (1990) for victims of a Depp fetish. Or a Burton fetish (in which case, you may want to try therapy).
However, try Shadows and Fog (1992), by Woody Allen. That strange pairing of mythical cities might produce interesting results. Chaplin’s City Lights (1931) would make a good pair with Shadows and Fog, but I’m uncertain about how this would go with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005). The cities in all three of these films are truly remarkable, though, for their sheer fantasy elements. Babe: Pig in the City (1998) also comes to mind here.
Otherwise, although one critic used this as a derogatory comparison, do try Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971). These two might make playful abusiveness and monstrous child-play an unusual evening party.
For a something completely different, and a night that may prove unforgettable (in a good or bad way), try Toys (1992), another fable about an intolerable man-boy running a “magical” factory.
Happy viewing!
Wonka and Depp: Truly Scrumdiddilyumptious
Having just finished watching Tim Burton’s new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), I am still in awe of Burton and of Depp, his apparent timeless muse.
Let me start off by saying that, being a pro-Union person, Wonka himself has some explaining to do. This is a man who, having fired his entire staff without warning, replaced them with illegal immigrants who work for a slave wage based upon cocoa beans. Willy Wonka is either the most magical person you’ve ever heard about, or the greatest monster that labour relations has ever known. Take your pick.
Aside from that, this book has been a long standing favourite with me, and I was apprehensive (to say the least) about this new film. The original Gene Wilder version Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971) had one major pull on my affection: Gene Wilder. However, it was a severely flawed film, with massive lulls during anything spoken or sung by Charlie’s mum, and a fairly cavalier attitude towards the integrity of the book. Nevertheless, Wilder was a magnificent Wonka, and it was hard to imagine that anyone, even a man as talented and beautiful as Johnny Depp, would be able to top him.
Wait. Go back. Thank you. We should lay the groundwork. I have no doubt that most of you know the basic story. A brilliant yet eccentric chocolate maker, who closed his factory because of spies, releases five golden tickets in Wonka bars which will allow five children to come to his factory and see inside the “magic”. This basic plot, of course, is unchanged in the new version, with most of the innovation taking place at the character and special effects level. Veruca is still spoiled, Augustus is still gross (although, in our new Big-Mac-World, much less funny than he was), and Charlie is still… Well, Charlie- perfect, loyal, sweet, poor, good, etc, etc, etc. In short, kind of sickening.
However, in Mike TeeVee, and Violet Beauregarde, Burton has added some much needed modernization. Whereas the Mike of yore was a fifties-style TV-cowboy-show addict, in this version he is a spiky-haired little turd who lives through video games, satellite and Encarta. He is “hip”, jaded and brutal, as well as destructive for destruction’s sake. In truth, the original Mike wasn’t really as bad as he might have been, so Burton has created a modern nightmare: a kid who is made evil by television, but not as zombified and sedate as we would have liked. Similarly, Violet is updated for an A&E generation. While she herself is not quite as enjoyable as that delightful girl in the original, her mother is a hoot. Whereas the original Violet was a typical, stereotypical, and cartoonish “Yank” who chewed gum like cud and was loud and abrasive, this Violet is trendy, aggressively-suburban and completely artificial. And no wonder- look at that Barbie of a mother! It’s like the Jon Benet Ramsey family wound up in a chocolate factory. Creepy, but wonderfully satirical.
In terms of set dressing and effects, you will like them if you like Burton. That’s about all I can say. They are clever and slightly creepy, and always slightly off-kilter. Burton has a masterful way of taking fifties/sixties Americana and selling it back in a processed, horrific way. In typical middle-America fashion, the puppets put on a show, singing and mechanically gesticulating in a completely unsubtle commercial for Wonka. This is a clear imitation of cold war era amusement parks. However, only Burton would make these puppets a little seedy and discolored. And only he would have them catch a blaze in a pathetic anti-climax to their chirpy and terrifying song. And only he would then have them go to a puppet burn ward! (That, I think, was the cherry on top.)
And only he would have Wonka get more fun from the burning than from the song.
Wonka is, of course, the heart of the picture. What ever actor takes on this role must, really, have enough talent and charisma to carry the entire film. We are very unlikely to watch just because Charlie is sweet and loyal. (Talk about cavities.) While I had misgivings about remaking this film, I must say that Depp was worth it. Effectively mixing innocence and insanity, his Wonka is clever, fascinating, funny, sad, and, not to any small degree, absolutely monstrous. This film seeks to delve into Wonka: The Man, an interesting task. They have managed to fulfill a need that I didn’t know I had, and Depp carries it beautifully.
While I have not read many reviews of this film, I have heard that many critics have under appreciated (i.e. hated) Depp’s performance in this film. I have heard that many people feel that there are too many shades of Michael Jackson in Wonka for him to be funny. True, the voice and clothes may evoke the other “magic” man living in his own secluded and twisted palace, but I don’t see that Depp is directly cribbing him. Depp is clearly cribbing his own past performances, however, with heavy shades of Ed Wood, Edward Scissorhands, a little Ichabod, and even some Sam. This does not harm my enjoyment, though, and I feel that Depp is one of those craftsmen who, like Chaplin, continually sought ways to employ previously developed and remembered bits of characterization, honing them over several pictures. Thus, Wonka is not so much a cribbed performance as he is a sharpened one, and the effect worked very well on me.
Frankly, in the end, I’m not sure that Depp did top Wilder, exactly, but, rather, he stands as a fully alternate version of the character. His performance is a totally new creation on the elfish man from the Dahl book, and it neither replaces or surpasses Wilder’s. On the contrary, the two stand as companion performances.
This film worked so well on me, in fact, that I actually feel that this remake was well worth seeing, and, what’s more, well worth making. It is pert, attractive and modernized. True enough, I am not sure that the Oompa Loompa half-time-like dance sequences will age any better than did those retro scenes in the original. I’m sure we may all either deride them or love them for their irony in a few years. Nevertheless, I am tickled that I went, and can recommend this picture to anyone who liked the book, anyone who is a Depp-screen-persona devote, or anyone who appreciates the unusual art of Burton.
Let me start off by saying that, being a pro-Union person, Wonka himself has some explaining to do. This is a man who, having fired his entire staff without warning, replaced them with illegal immigrants who work for a slave wage based upon cocoa beans. Willy Wonka is either the most magical person you’ve ever heard about, or the greatest monster that labour relations has ever known. Take your pick.
Aside from that, this book has been a long standing favourite with me, and I was apprehensive (to say the least) about this new film. The original Gene Wilder version Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971) had one major pull on my affection: Gene Wilder. However, it was a severely flawed film, with massive lulls during anything spoken or sung by Charlie’s mum, and a fairly cavalier attitude towards the integrity of the book. Nevertheless, Wilder was a magnificent Wonka, and it was hard to imagine that anyone, even a man as talented and beautiful as Johnny Depp, would be able to top him.
Wait. Go back. Thank you. We should lay the groundwork. I have no doubt that most of you know the basic story. A brilliant yet eccentric chocolate maker, who closed his factory because of spies, releases five golden tickets in Wonka bars which will allow five children to come to his factory and see inside the “magic”. This basic plot, of course, is unchanged in the new version, with most of the innovation taking place at the character and special effects level. Veruca is still spoiled, Augustus is still gross (although, in our new Big-Mac-World, much less funny than he was), and Charlie is still… Well, Charlie- perfect, loyal, sweet, poor, good, etc, etc, etc. In short, kind of sickening.
However, in Mike TeeVee, and Violet Beauregarde, Burton has added some much needed modernization. Whereas the Mike of yore was a fifties-style TV-cowboy-show addict, in this version he is a spiky-haired little turd who lives through video games, satellite and Encarta. He is “hip”, jaded and brutal, as well as destructive for destruction’s sake. In truth, the original Mike wasn’t really as bad as he might have been, so Burton has created a modern nightmare: a kid who is made evil by television, but not as zombified and sedate as we would have liked. Similarly, Violet is updated for an A&E generation. While she herself is not quite as enjoyable as that delightful girl in the original, her mother is a hoot. Whereas the original Violet was a typical, stereotypical, and cartoonish “Yank” who chewed gum like cud and was loud and abrasive, this Violet is trendy, aggressively-suburban and completely artificial. And no wonder- look at that Barbie of a mother! It’s like the Jon Benet Ramsey family wound up in a chocolate factory. Creepy, but wonderfully satirical.
In terms of set dressing and effects, you will like them if you like Burton. That’s about all I can say. They are clever and slightly creepy, and always slightly off-kilter. Burton has a masterful way of taking fifties/sixties Americana and selling it back in a processed, horrific way. In typical middle-America fashion, the puppets put on a show, singing and mechanically gesticulating in a completely unsubtle commercial for Wonka. This is a clear imitation of cold war era amusement parks. However, only Burton would make these puppets a little seedy and discolored. And only he would have them catch a blaze in a pathetic anti-climax to their chirpy and terrifying song. And only he would then have them go to a puppet burn ward! (That, I think, was the cherry on top.)
And only he would have Wonka get more fun from the burning than from the song.
Wonka is, of course, the heart of the picture. What ever actor takes on this role must, really, have enough talent and charisma to carry the entire film. We are very unlikely to watch just because Charlie is sweet and loyal. (Talk about cavities.) While I had misgivings about remaking this film, I must say that Depp was worth it. Effectively mixing innocence and insanity, his Wonka is clever, fascinating, funny, sad, and, not to any small degree, absolutely monstrous. This film seeks to delve into Wonka: The Man, an interesting task. They have managed to fulfill a need that I didn’t know I had, and Depp carries it beautifully.
While I have not read many reviews of this film, I have heard that many critics have under appreciated (i.e. hated) Depp’s performance in this film. I have heard that many people feel that there are too many shades of Michael Jackson in Wonka for him to be funny. True, the voice and clothes may evoke the other “magic” man living in his own secluded and twisted palace, but I don’t see that Depp is directly cribbing him. Depp is clearly cribbing his own past performances, however, with heavy shades of Ed Wood, Edward Scissorhands, a little Ichabod, and even some Sam. This does not harm my enjoyment, though, and I feel that Depp is one of those craftsmen who, like Chaplin, continually sought ways to employ previously developed and remembered bits of characterization, honing them over several pictures. Thus, Wonka is not so much a cribbed performance as he is a sharpened one, and the effect worked very well on me.
Frankly, in the end, I’m not sure that Depp did top Wilder, exactly, but, rather, he stands as a fully alternate version of the character. His performance is a totally new creation on the elfish man from the Dahl book, and it neither replaces or surpasses Wilder’s. On the contrary, the two stand as companion performances.
This film worked so well on me, in fact, that I actually feel that this remake was well worth seeing, and, what’s more, well worth making. It is pert, attractive and modernized. True enough, I am not sure that the Oompa Loompa half-time-like dance sequences will age any better than did those retro scenes in the original. I’m sure we may all either deride them or love them for their irony in a few years. Nevertheless, I am tickled that I went, and can recommend this picture to anyone who liked the book, anyone who is a Depp-screen-persona devote, or anyone who appreciates the unusual art of Burton.
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