I can’t discover everything myself.
Right now it’s Pride week, in Toronto, Canada, and all around the world. We’ve been celebrating it in our own way for years now. Grushenka likes the parades. Me, I’ll always be an audio/video geek; I make mixdiscs, playlists, and the occasional “top five” for our site.
“You and me. But that’s fine. So long as we’ve got each other, that’s all that matters.”
Today I am going to celebrate Father’s Day by burning some bacon for the best male person ever invented.
When I was a permed and awkward adolescent girl growing up in a trailer in permafrost Northern Alberta, I believed that men people didn’t have feelings. None. Or at least, they didn’t feel their feelings like I, a brooding female person, did.
Turns out men do have feelings. Lots. They have complex inner lives. They write poems, long letters and music that communicate the cave-spelunky, deep-down feelings they have in their male-type bodies.
They brood. They quietly regret. They share their feelings in complex and entertaining ways. They don’t just smash beer bottles against trees and crash their pick up trucks when they are feeling low.
So today, I am grateful that I get to hang out today with the best man I have ever knowed. Here are a few blog posts that touch on my feelings (and junk) about men and family and fathers.
I’ll work on the bacon. (Also the Fallout 4 Special Edition with Pip-Boy was sold out …sorry).
“We don’t always get the kind of work we want, but we always have a choice of whether to do it with good grace or not.”
There are times where I become literally frozen with admiration. Normally a blabber-mouth of the highest order when it comes to the people and things I admire, my tongue …and my typing fingers were stilled by the news that the immortal Christopher Lee had died.
As the site’s resident goth, with my rooms stuffed with vampire paraphernalia, I was tasked with writing this great man’s memorial. What did I do instead? I puttered, I fussed, I napped. For shame. This was not a very Christopher Lee way to live my life.
This man was pure, unadulterated, real-deal bad ass of the highest order. 6 foot 4, a former intelligence officer, Lee fought the Nazis, came down with malaria six times in one year, and climbed Mount Vesuvius – three days before it erupted.
On the day bad-assery was redefined by Christopher Lee, we stood in awe and wept.
His was a Dracula you knew could really, actually hurt somebody. There was a pair of enlarged, bear-trap incisors behind that stiff upper lip. The guy could chew up scenery in his 80s. His voice could scare the tight pants and armless t-shirts off the most die-hard metal heads. And he dropped his first metal album at the age of 88.
His resume reads like a man who tore everything he could out the throat of life. An opera singer, world-class fencer, speaking six languages, a metal god, Lee was also a huge and commanding presence in movies that shaped my shadowy world.
Mostly, I am not worthy. Christopher Lee, I salute you.
“Original Canadian-produced action-adventure animation, something that we haven’t really seen in this country since Rocket Robin Hood…”
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Several weeks ago was 2015’s Free Comic Book Day. Since then, I’ve tried in vain to locate the one free title of most interest to me: Captain Canuck #0.
I’ve checked in every comic book shop I’ve found, and nobody has it, free or otherwise. Apparently it was too low in supply and exceedingly high in demand.
Damn, missed it again!
First I missed the creators’ Ottawa expo appearance. Then I missed the Indiegogo crowdfunding campaign for webisodes. Now this issue zero debacle . . . crazy! How hard is it for an avid fan to get ahold of Canadian content?
Since January of this year, I’ve been sending my stepfather, Charlie, our favourite westerns every couple of weeks or so.
I shopped on Amazon.ca and quietly sent them to my mother’s home in Northern Alberta. The DVDs started dribbling in from various sellers around Canada – each one a mysterious little parcel wrapped in bashed-up bubble wrap, with strange return addresses written in dripping Sharpie ink.
After a bunch of these movies arrived, mother called me one day on my cell, frantically concerned that she and her husband were signed up to an oddly specific Columbia House service or were being targeted by a cowboy-loving stalker.
I guess I’ve been called worse names.
My stepfather loves westerns. Hell, he lived westerns. He collected rifles, travels out to his hunting lodge in the fall, can gut and quarter a deer with amazing speed and facility, and rode on horseback to tend to his cattle.
He is one of a handful of people on the planet who can wear a cowboy hat with absolutely no irony whatsoever. No one would ever (ever) laugh at him wearing cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat. And not just because he’s 6′ 4″ with calloused hands the size of dinner plates.
My stepfather watching westerns was a big part of my life when I was a sullen, twitchy adolescent. Now that I’m a sullen, twitchy adult, I appreciate that early exposure to westerns a whole heap of a lot.
This list is for you, Charlie. Have a very happy birthday. The movies will keep on a-coming.
“My world is reduced to a single instinct: Survive.”
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Where do I even begin? Mad Max: Fury Road is the Jupiter Symphony of post-apocalyptic films. It is El Greco’s La Crucifixion, Dali’s Soft Construction with Boiled Beans, van Gogh’s Starry Night and Gauguin’s When Will You Marry? – blown up, burned down and crushed into a flaming, oil-smoking ball of brilliant colour and spectacle. It is a great, dusty, violent, beautiful world’s-gone-mad opus.
Which is to say I really liked it. No, I love it. Adore it! Gargle, blargle, drool.
Shiny and chrome!
Why haven’t you seen this movie yet?!
“Why don’t you give me your number and I promise that I’ll never call you.”
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I am not a big hockey person. Actually, that statement’s not really true. I am vaguely – very vaguely – aware a sport named hockey exists. Come to think of it, I am vaguely aware that something called sports exist.
Sure, I used to play a hockey video game at an arcade on Yonge Street a fair amount. But that arcade no longer exists, and therefore, my tenuous connection to this thing called hockey ended too.
However, a movie like Goon with its charming smile of broken, bloody teeth might just convince me that hockey is worth a little more of my time. Maybe.