July 2002
Back to archive index
July 30/2002 (10:33 AM) ~ posted by Sean
Paul Rathe is unemployed. Or rather, he lacks full-time employment. Instead, he follows a man called Brian Root, giving foot-massages, arranging fruit-and-nut meals, organizing the purchase (and subsequent return) of mini-trampolines. He communicates frequently with Root through a series of hand-signals.
Brian Root, in the words of Rathe, "...doesn't do any work except put his hand on the car." Root is the Hand-a-Thon King, the Earl of Endurance, the Prince of Palm-Pressing, "the Machine". He travels the country, entering radio and car dealership sweepstakes, putting his hand on the official vehicle (Beetle, pickup, convertible) and keeping it there. For 97 hours. 152 hours. 225 hours. If he outlasts the other competitors, he wins the object of his sweaty affection. Then he sells it. Rathe gets 20%. And they travel, by '87 Nissan sedan, to the next contest. If it was a profession to speak of, Root would be a professional. A consummate professional. He wears sunglasses. A hoodie. And kicks the ass of the upstart carpenter's apprentice who wants to help pay his girlfriend's tuition.
What does Brian Root's mother think of all this?
"I wish he'd find a nice girl and settle down."
I always knew The Wall Street Journal had to have some redeeming virtue. It seems it does: stories like Brian's.
(More here.)
July 26/2002 (5:34 PM) ~ posted by Neale
Well, here I am. All alone on a rainy Friday night as the majority of the Ottawa-based Tangmonkey Group are off having fun at a cottage party. I can't go because of work and I'm sure they're having a wonderful time despite the rain.
It's ok because I've got the new issue of Ink to keep me company. Thank God.
This week's Ink is a single series of photos by myself as opposed to the usual mish mash of different artists. It's got more of a narrative to it that past issues, I hope you like it.
That said, we will most likely be returning to our regular format next week, and submissions are welcome. So send stuff in if you've got it. Submissions can be sent to ink@tangmonkey.com.
July 25/2002 (6:34 PM) ~ posted by Dan
Wondering where Blank is? Well, probably not. But I'll tell you anyway: It's now scheduled for Mondays. Be sure to note that in your Palm Pilots or something.
Also, a lot of people have been using the comment box that appears at the end of all the columns here at Tangmonkey. This is a good thing. However, the comments get e-mailed to me anonymously, so I have no idea who sent them, and no way to respond to the questions some of you have asked. So be sure to type in your email address somewhere if you want me to reply. That is all.
July 25/2002 (8:24 AM) ~ posted by Sean
James A. Traficant was - and is - one strange fellow. Though he's no longer a Representative (D-Ohio) in the House, his legacy of absolutely weirdness lives on. Not only a kook, Traficant was a consistently-baffling crazyman, who voted unerringly with his conscience (much to the chagrin of his Democractic colleagues) and, contrastingly, was convicted of bribery, racketeering and tax evasion.
After the House Committee on Standards of Official Conduct voted unanimously to expel him, Traficant responded to the possibility of jail-time by announcing:
"I will take with me a file, a chisel, a knife, I will try and get some major explosives, try to fight my way out. ... And then when I get out I will grab a sword like Maximus Meridius Demidius and as a Gladiator I will stab people in the crotch." This statement, of course, comes after an arduous process where Traficant, uh, got to talk quite a few times. For instance:
"I would ask the committee not to ask me any questions, because I've got to go to the bathroom. I'm disgusted, busted, can't be trusted."
"I will break out of prison and I'll make a neck tie out of some these bureaucrats." When he first was threatened with disciplinary action, he bravely stepped forward and declared:
"When I get to the floor for this final execution, I will wear a denim outfit. ... I will walk in there like Willie Nelson, combination of John Wayne, Will Smith -- 'Men in Black' -- James Brown. Maybe do a Michael Jackson moonwalk, right up to the stand and ask unanimous contempt to undress and revile the House." Traficant's formerly hilarious Congressional website has been taken down, but some of his trademarked "One Minute Speeches" are reprinted for posterity on this fansite. There are pearls of wisdom here - giant, twenty-foot pearls, with enormous shoes and big, fluffy wigs.
July 22/2002 (11:44 AM) ~ posted by Sean
I've said it before and I'll say it again -- some cities have spirits. It's nothing new to speak of New York's distinctive, loud and unwavering personal voice. Those of us who have visited London or Bruges are comfortable with the thought that perhaps these words - London, Bruges - are not the names of places, but the names of old beings made of stone, fog and bells. It's not that the residents of Quebec City are parasites, or that the tourists of Lisbon tramp all over the face of some sleeping creature... but these people are part of their city's bloodstream, their joys and tragedies like electrical noise between nerve-endings. Some cities, you can imagine having shadows.
Travelling from Ottawa to Montreal (and back), this weekend, the warm silhouette of Montréal fell in harsh relief across the muted watercolours of the nation's capital. Montreal is rich. It's rich in history and humanity, in sights, sounds and smells. It's rich in stories. Montreal is equal parts beautiful, ugly, awkward and noble.
I spent much of Saturday wandering up and down St-Denis. For those of you who have never visited, St-Denis is - at the quietest of times - among the most noisy and colourful of boulevards. Restaurants lean into eachother, the perfumes of tandoor ovens and Vietnamese noodle-pots wafting into used comic shops, medieval clothing shoppes, artists' studios. St-Denis is hip - different from the patchwork ghetto of St-Laurent, the neon-meets-couture of St-Catherines. As chic as it may be, however, this remains Montreal; strangers kiss strangers, falafels are $1, and any nose-in-the-air Toronto sneers are swallowed up by easy-going belly-laughs. St-Denis is hardly a secret - hell, it's one of the guide-books' biggest singing-points - but it remains fiercely real, organic and human to the extent that even yuppie-loathing hippies brave the crowds, and there's ten smelly Montrealers for every camera-toting tourist.
This week, from St-Cat to Sherbrooke, St-Denis is Just for Laughs. Where usually there would be a mob, now, there's a clown-nose-wearing, kid-carrying, laugh-readying supermob... families stare at bronzed buskers, comedians throw crowdsurfers-nés-volunteers onto watchers' raised hands, the vocal cast of The Simpsons sips bubble-tea incommunicando. Again there are tourists - certainly - but all of Montreal is there, too; the exuberance, the laissez-allez, the joie-de-vivre is unmistakable. I didn't feel packed-in, I felt embraced.
I'm a hopeless romantic - this has been established - and doubtless my friends (those who were there and those who were not) will dismiss my description as exaggeration and wankery. Just for Laughs is merely one iteration, however; one of the manifold characters that emerges from the city's lined, expressive face. Neale spent much of Sunday coursing through the city's subway system, snapping digital photographs of strange and wonderful Metro stops. Rock critic Greil Marcus coined the phrase "the old, weird America" - and in some of his pictures, Neale was exploring the "old, weird Montreal". The boxy cement stairwells that sit like locusts on the sides of hills; the fluorescent lights like glowing eggs; the benches whose chrome backs swoop up like vampire capes. In the far reaches of Longeuil and Verdun, Montreal's breath still rises from the grates, it still murmurs snips of French folk-songs and musky jazz. Here, though, the voice becomes distorted, the light bends... empty overpasses scrawled with graffitti, like cave-paintings.
Ottawa is pleasant. It is pretty. But its personality is a passive one - it spreads its arms and welcomes everyone. Tourists, sight-see'ers: "Come one, come all!" Everyone is free to wander around, to leave their mark - but Ottawa won't mark you. At parties, Ottawa hangs around the punch-bowl, smiling. It doesn't have very much to say, and it has a crush on Halifax. I can't imagine anyone ever falling head-over-heels for Ottawa. It would make a good wife, maybe, but never a good lover. It's only as deep as its scenery.
Sometimes I wonder if it would be possible to change this. If someone like Woody Allen or Louis Armstrong could rise from Bank St or off of Carling Ave, and shape a vision of Ottawa. If someone could use the city like clay, and slow-build it a spirit - with eyes, bum and throat. I wonder sometimes - I do - and I wonder if it will be somebody I know.
July 19/2002 (3:12 PM) ~ posted by Sean
Dahlia Lithwick's analysis [1 2 3] of the hearings for suspected terrorist Zacarias Moussaoui is far more entertaining than any such subject-matter has a right to be. It's a showdown, you see, between Moussaoui - who is representing himself - and Judge Brinkema - who is trying her damndest to keep the trial fair. The problem, of course, is that Moussaoui keeps trying to shoot himself in the foot; Lithwick explains this like so:
"[I]n the twirly world of Zacarias Moussaoui's head, his decision to plead guilty today to all the charges against him makes perfect sense: In his head, the judge is crazy and acting in concert with the prosecution and his stand-by defense team to have him executed. ... He clearly trusts the prosecutors more than his own stand-by lawyers, asking again today to receive all pretrial discovery documents directly from the other side. ... In light of all this paranoia, Moussaoui is interested in only two things: telling his story and doing absolutely everything he can to flout the judge. So his assumption—that if Judge Leonie M. Brinkema wants him to plead not guilty, he'd better do the exact opposite—actually makes perfect sense. You'd probably do the same if you were on trial in Upsidedown Land."
Moussaoui comes across as a spirited but frustrated man, utterly overwhelmed by the proceedings and trying desperately to keep afloat. While perhaps he doth protest too much, it could just be that he's in way over his head, and is too under-educated and brainwashed to cope. Brinkema's refusal to accept Moussaoui's casual self-incrimination gives me some faith in the American justice system... it's simply too bad that most suspected terrorists don't get within a mile of such trials: dat's why we got secret military tribunals!
July 17/2002 (3:08 PM) ~ posted by Sean
Pentasmal, among the finest comics ever to grace the Net, has come to an end. Since reading the news twenty hours ago or so, I've been weeping non-stop, hoping to eventually wake up in a world where the Blue and Pink guys still make small-talk. Sadly, I'm beginning to lose hope.
In any case, Pentasmal was notable both for the relative youth of its author, Aaron Farber, and for the vim and bite of its humour. The Archives are a wealth of hilarity - laugh at the Physical Incarnation of Stress; chortle at, um, this; and snicker at enterprising youths.
RIP Pentasmal. We will miss thee.
Oh hey - lesbian Russian pop-stars!
July 16/2002 (9:31 AM) ~ posted by Sean
Ash is back with a firm, vitreolic smack to the head. Though I was actually rather enjoying the idea that his dark stain had been obliterated from the earth, I'll have to swallow my disappointment, wipe away my tears, and learn to live with the fact that He Yet Lives. One wonders if the same can be said for our Comics guy, Scott...
Things slowly continue apace on backstage tweaking, here at the Monkey. More writers will be coming aboard to write about music, and we're also seeking additional contributors for the Food, Comics and Books sections. For now, email me if you have an interest; in future, we'll send you straight to the sections' respective editors.
Canoe, Canada's own poorly-designed News Portal, never ceases to amaze me. The only reason I visit any more is for John Sakamoto's outstanding Anti-Hit List, which showcases the best songs you haven't heard. Well, I visit for that and the steady updates on Nickelback and Mick Jagger.
Anyway, the reason I was amazed - today in particular - was the following impressive headline: Producers hope 'Stuart Little 2' is Successful.
Yes, that's right folks - contrary to expectation, the men and women who made Stuart Little 2 are rooting for its success at the box-office. While the more jaded among us would expect the producers to be rallying behind K-19: The Widowmaker, here - in a remarkable display of altruism and modesty - film execs have declared their support for the film in which they invested one-hundred million dollars.
Tomorrow: Parliament Hill SHOCKER! Prime Minister Chretien hopes to be re-elected.
July 15/2002 (8:55 AM) ~ posted by Sean
Have you heard about the Chinese Walking Fish, aka the Northern Snakehead?
It is a terrible, terrible beast - a Grendel for the modern age.
The Chinese Walking Fish...
- has the head of a snake
- has teeth like a piranha
- may grow up to three feet
- is illegal to possess in thirteen states
- can survive outside of water for four days
- can walk from lake to lake
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS FISH? Please KILL this fish.
More info: CBS | CNN | Washington Post | New York Times | National Geographic
July 8/2002 (9:37 AM) ~ posted by Sean
Good morning!
Nick Hornby, author of High Fidelity and About a Boy, has written a terrific summary of the World Cup for the New Yorker.
It is perhaps worth pointing out that C'est la vie is a French expression, and that stiff upper lips are most commonly associated with the British Isles. [Following their loss to the South Koreans,] the Italians went stereotypically nuts. The FIFA e-mail system crashed after receiving an estimated four hundred thousand enraged messages about the refereeing decisions. Franco Frattini, the Italian minister for public offices, described the referee as "a disgrace, absolutely scandalous." He went on, "I've never seen a game like it. It seemed as if they just sat around a table and decided to throw us out." . . . at one stage it seemed only a matter of time before a small flotilla of Italian gunships would set sail across the Atlantic, to prepare the way for a full-scale invasion of Ecuador.
This week's batch of music reviews will go online late today or tomorrow; the serial novel update will happen as soon as Neale sends his work my way. In the mean time, consider starting an argument in our Forum, and remember to click the ad banner!
July 2/2002 (11:37 AM) ~ posted by Sean
Welcome, Louise!
Also, a warm 'Hello!' to Raoul, Gomez, Theodore, Boxwell, and all other visitors to TANGMONKEY.COM on this, the day after Canada Day. For those of you who struggled with the appropriate degree of patriotism, allow me to recommend a belated (but not toolated) Red-and-White-Celebration recipe.
Food:
Beaver tail (the sugary-cinammony kind. not, um, like so); poutine; vanilla ice-cream with maple syrup. Also: Americans. Drink:
Beer (Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale; St-Ambroise Oatmeal Stout; Moosehead; or, er, Canadian); whisky (Canadian Club); ginger ale (Canada Dry, perhaps with a touch of cranberry juice [yum!]). Preferably not all at once. Ooh - and chocolate milk! I love chocolate milk! (Soy milk = reasonable alternative.) Music:
MORNING: Julie Doiron - Desormais; Bach (performed by Glenn Gould) - Goldberg Variations; Sarah Harmer - You Were Here.
AFTERNOON: Sloan - Twice Removed; Barenaked Ladies - Gordon; Hayden - Skyscraper National Park; Great Big Sea - Up; Greg MacPherson Band - Good Times; Weakerthans - Left and Leaving.
EVENING: Tragically Hip - Day for Night; Joni Mitchell - Blue; Do Make Say Think - Goodbye Enemy Airship the Landlord is Dead. Company:
The closest of friends. Further recommendations for Canadian pride should be sent to me. If I get enough good'uns, we'll revisit this topic in the next couple days.
Back to archive index
|
