The TCL Roadshow

They don't know me, and I don't know them, but I'm sending tonight's entry out to the three teenage girls who came trick or treating here tonight. They were the only people who came to the door all night, and when I offered them apples, they said "No thanks" and promptly left. At least they know what they want in life.

Life on the Hill has been busy these past few weeks, so your lowly urban adventurer hasn't been at his best. And I regret that just as I'm getting comfortable in Ottawa, I'm taking this show on the road (more on that later...).

I ventured out to the Glebe last Friday to take in a show at Irene's Pub (885 Bank St.). Vancouver's The Awkward Stage were in town for the night before heading off to New York for a set at this week's CMJ festival. Sadly, too few of us took in the show, and that's a shame because the record is sweet and catchy. It's called "Heaven is for Easy Girls" and I commend you to buy it and love it.

I also caught a screening of Running With Scissors, the Augusten Burroughs memoir that maybe, just maybe, will land Annette Bening the Oscar she's been waiting for all of these years. Me? I thought she might have had it with Bugsy, but my Academy ballot always seems to get lost in the mail, so what do I know?

Running With Scissors is at once very funny and very tragic. Funny as when the cast gather around a toilet bowl to inspect someone's bowel movement and decide that because part of it is sticking out of the water, his financial situation is going to turn around. Tragic as when Burroughs' mother, in a Valium-fuelled haze, signs away her barely-teenaged son to her psychiatrist (he of the "life's looking up" bowel movement), under whose care he is encouraged to have a relationship with a 35-year-old man with schizophrenia. Questionable, at best.

Sad as it is content-wise, Running With Scissors is pretty brilliant film-making. It mined a lot of misery, but didn't necessarily leave me feeling emotionally-berated. Despite the obstacles posed by a drunk and forgetting father and a seriously misguided and self-absorbed mother, Augusten retains a certain measure of wonder and optimism about the world. It's because of this he ultimately escapes to New York, and it's because of this that the films works so well.

Granted, he, too, eventually became a drunk, as documented in his book, Dry. But that's another story. And another movie.

In other news, I know you're dying to find out why TCL is hitting the road. Let's just say we'll be bringing some good energy to the by-election campaign in London North Centre. And because I lived in London for about four years about four years ago, it will be a bit of a homecoming (if you scroll down, you can read all about the real homecoming I went to in September). So, stay tuned... London, here I come!

Sexy Sook-Yin, Leather Lovers & MacKay the Meanie: Various Snapshots from the Week

I heard it once said that if people couldn't talk about the weather, nine out of ten conversations would have no starting point. I find myself facing a similar dilemma whenever I begin another post. I always want to open with some comment on the weather and, for extra points, endeavour to be somehow literary in said post, drawing some arcane analogy between the weather and the week's various adventures and misadventures. Here then, permit me if you will to note that tonight is - like last week - dark and rainy. Hmm, and I thought I left Vancouver behind?

And yet there I was on another dark and rainy night last Friday with some friends (well, a friend and his friend, who I plan to co-opt as one of my own friends), for the Ottawa premiere screening of Shortbus, at the lovely and shabby Bytowne Theatre (325 Rideau). You've no doubt heard of this movie, the latest by Hedwig and the Angry Inch auteur, John Cameron Mitchell. (Is the word "auteur" pretentious? I couldn't decide.)

Yes, it's the one with the three intersecting stories about people in New York City who cannot seem to find satisfaction in their sex lives, or dare I say, satisfaction in their lives in general, which happens to also impact their sex lives (no surprise there). In hopes of finding some type of cure - or at the very least a release - they all frequent a sex-club called Shortbus, at which anything (and nearly everything) goes. All of this is set against the backdrop of a city in heat, where brownouts and blackouts punctuate the story, leading to the Big One (which actually happened in August, 2003).

Shortbus has received mixed reviews, but what I think most reviewers fail to mention in their critiques is how funny the film is. Perhaps I have a more juvenile sense of humour than most, but I found some of the scenes very funny. Particularly some of the sex scenes, and there are many to choose from. Of course, that's the one thing that sets the film apart from others: the sex is completely real, and by real I mean that Sook-Yin and Company showed off more than any actor I have seen in a long while.

So why the mixed reviews, you ask? Well, from my perspective, the characters didn't actually come to life. Aside from a few key examples, they don't come across half as real as the sex they are having, and when sex is the only leg the film has to stand on, it comes up a bit short, sort of like a relationship that's all sex and no substance. By comparison, I find Hedwig (Mitchell's earlier work, in which he played the title role) much more fulfilling, as Hedwig's character experiences a considerably more pronounced arc over the course of the film.

Now, if I tell you I spent Saturday at Leather Night at the Centretown Pub (340 Somerset West), would you think I'm all sex and no substance? Seriously, I was out with friends and had I not gone, I would not have seen the Adidias chaps I haven't been able to get out of my head ever since. Imagine all of that comfort and functionality in a pair of pants intentionally designed without a crotch or butt. They would have come in so handy at Shortbus. Chaps notwithstanding, I will say that the music was terrible, but perhaps that comes with the territory. If only leather daddies liked Belle & Sebastian.

On the Hill, it was a stupid-busy week. I'm not going to offer much in the way of political commentary here because I don't want to say something on my blog that will earn me the Turner Treatment. Even at my worst I hope you won't find me as self-absorbed as the "I'm not the issue here, but have you seen my blog" newly-Independent MP from Halton.

The Conservatives released the Clean Air Act today, but get this: minutes before Ambrose's press conference, the fire alarm went off in Centre Block and everyone was evacuated. The cause? A heat censor. Seems like all of their hot air is catching up to them.

And of course, how could I forget to mention Peter MacKay's side comment about Belinda Stronach in the House today during Question Period? Seriously, Belinda-bashing is so tired. But what really bothers me about it is what's underneath; what to me feels like a simmering and constant attack on women. And it's not like the female population of Canada should depend on Status of Women Minister Bev Oda to defend them. Ok, that's it, no more politics. Back to me. Kidding.

I'd like to close this week with a salute to the fine contractors and sub-contractors who have been assigned the unenviable task of fixing Bank Street between Laurier and Wellington. It's finally opened between Laurier and Queen, and I know the Ground Zero between Queen and Laurier is just a few more weeks off from being cleaned up and re-opened. Thank heaven for progress, even if it doesn't progress very quickly. Or look all different when it's done.

Adventures, in Waiting

It's a dark and rainy night in Ottawa. On Bank Street, there is a long line for a show at Barrymore's by a band I've never heard of (The Suicide Girls? Anyone? Anyone?). I stepped out to get a chocolate bar at the Herb and Spice, which is sorta pricey, but I dig what they're doing. It's also the only store I've found so far that carries the amazing Cocao Camino Fair Trade/Certified Organic dark chocolate bars (71% cocao). Yum!

I regret this post is of limited adventure of the Capital variety. I spent far too much time this weekend in my car, and decidedly not exploring the city. Were I here, I might have checked out the Trangressions event on Friday, which was part of the Ottawa International Writer's Festival. A reliable source gave it a passing grade, but said Ivan E. Coyote was definitely the stand-out. Not surprising, Ivan E. is a brilliant storyteller whose work I came to love and admire while living in Vancouver. I probably would have also done my best to see the New Pornographers on Monday night at Capital City Music Hall, in part because I like their records, but also to corner Daniel Behar and tell him how much I appreciate the brilliance of Destroyer and their album, Rubies. It's playing right now and, to be honest, I'm finding it a little difficult to concentrate.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have spent my first few weekends in the city out of the city. A few weekends ago, the event that drew me away was Homecoming at the University of Western Ontario, my alma mater. Now, this may come as a bit of a shock because we don't really know each other yet, but Homecoming and the events therein are not really my thing. Don't get me wrong, I was excited to see old friends and visit old haunts, but I could have done without the Western ra-ra. Let's face it, I could always do without the Western ra-ra.

Having said that, though, while writing an e-mail to a friend from Western who didn't make it to Homecoming, it struck me that - good or bad - going back to Western re-awoke certain memories I had forgotten until then. Here then, for your reading pleasure, is the text of that e-mail. The subject line was Postcards from Homecoming.

I
Gastonomic travesties of melted cheese and chicken wings at the Alibi, washed down by beer and memories of what was, so many years before. Washed down by more jugs of beer in the subterranean world of the Poacher's Arms, the ringing in your ears from all the noise forming a soundtrack for your hangover the next morning.

II
And in the morning, a loud and vulgar parade through the streets, made worse by pouring rain, smearing the purple and white face paint together, the lavender faces of youth beeming at the thin crowds gathered on the sidewalk, many of whom were just waiting for a chance to cross the street on an otherwise idle Saturday morning.

III
Walking those streets, north on Richmond past Fullarton and Kent and Albert and Central, past all of the stores that have been there forever and the bars that have been there even longer, wondering why years before it felt so much larger and cosmopolitan. Buying CDs at the place beside Dr Disc because Dr Disc is no longer, and not being able to find the book you wanted at City Lights because it just happens to be on the reading list of some earnest first year English class. So you actually went in to Attic Books and bought something.

IV
When night falls, a dinner at the Wave pours out onto the streets and soon lands back at the Poacher's Arms, with its clamour of celebration and bad cover music. Bellies full and beer mugs emptied, doddling up Richmond, surrounded by what felt like thousands of early-twentysomethings drunker than they've been this week, hailing cabs and giving all of those people who never come downtown more amunition, more reasons to hate what happens to their city.

V
At breakfast the next morning, a table for four grew until it was a table for 12, and re-hashing the night before never got old. Taking one more drive through the campus and remarking on the damage and debris left behind from the night before, and only imagining the damage and debris done to all those young bodies, sleeping it off in their dorm rooms or in the beds of new friends who were strangers only hours before. Somewhere in these episodes, somewhere in all of this pomp and debauchery, was you and me and everyone we knew who, for a time, made that place a home, but for who the coming back now feels so strange, yet somehow, so oddly welcoming.

Thanks for putting up with my indulgence. More Capital City Adventures from here on in, I promise.

The First Month

For future reference, the best way to get to know a new city is not by leaving it every weekend. Yet that is the fate that has befallen me this first month. Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed the travel but Ottawa and I are still no closer acquainted. Alas, for you, some highlights:

Ceylonta, 403 Somerset West
If you haven't been, go. If you have been, then I'm sure you'll understand my enthusiasm. The food is fantastic - I recommend a Thali (esp. the mutton thali). Wash it down with a glass of Kingfisher beer, and you'll feel like you're in heaven. Or Sri Lanka, the northern part of which is where the inspiration and origin of the food come from. The service is kind and welcoming and, if you ask, they will tell you a bit about Sri Lanka, which was a fascinating addition to already delish dinner.

The Hidden Cameras @ Barrymore's, Sept 13
Having waited for years to see them live, imagine my disappointment in the days leading up to the show when I read in the (X)Press that the band had made a concerted effort to tone down their live show. What? No go-go dancers? No audience members busting on-stage with the band to take up tambourine duty? The show was good, but I definitely felt that because the Cameras were introducing us to their new material from Awoo (it was, afterall, a CD release party), there was not as much excitement on the dance floor as there could have been. And the Cameras felt it, too, I think. Still, the "Music is my Boyfriend/I Want Another Enema" encore won over even the most solemn of faces in the crowd.

Galerie La Petite Mort, 306 Cumberland
I went last Thursday to check out the show in the portrait gallery by twin brothers, Stefan and Jason St-Laurent. It was a small show, but the combination of video performances and face portraits made up of tiny black ants were worth the tromp in the rain. I did wonder if a certain substance in the video "Facial" was authentic, and if so, how many volunteers were required on the shoot (if you saw the show, then I imagine you are rolling your eyes right now as that was a pun of unforgivable terribleness). There were other pieces throughout the gallery as well; I particularly enjoyed a large,slightly out-of-focus photograph of a highway overpass.

Stay tuned for further adventures...

Welcome to Ottawa, pop: 785,001

Can you hear the clinking of glasses? Ottawa and I are celebrating our one-month anniversary tonight, which is shorter than a few of my relationships, but longer than a few others. Yet this night seems a fitting occasion to float my blog out into the ether like a helium-filled balloon in hopes it will have a nice life and perhaps one day bring me a book deal. That would be nice, though I won't quit my day-job just yet. Especially considering that for a first paragraph, this one might disappoint just slightly.

Speaking of day jobs, that's what brought me from Northern B.C. to Ottawa in the first place, to work on Parliament Hill. It's a good life, and no matter how many times it happens, I don't think I'll ever tire of riding the elevator with Stockwell Day. How many people get to do that in a day?

As part of the move across the country, I thought it was time to launch a blog. I was so out of it when people were making 'zines that I completely missed that whole moment in the counter-culture. I even tried to make a 'zine a couple of summers ago, but I never had the work ethic to finish it. A pair of friends have seen it in draft form, but that's where it remains three years later.

Instead of raising it from the dead, I thought I'd start fresh. And though I'm sure some people prepare manifestos for the opening day of their blogs - manifestos that get to heart of why they're doing this in the first place- I cannot be so clear-headed and visionary.

What I will say is this: I plan to write about things I experience in the city as I come to know it. Having made a major change in my life (i.e - country to the city), people often ask if I love it here. I don't love it yet, not even close, but my heart is open. I'm willing to love it, and frankly, I can't think of a better start than that.