Break out the long johns!

Because a couple of hurricanes last month, we haven't turned the heat on at the house yet. Turns out hurricanes can jack up your heating bill. So last night I busted out the old polypro long johns to keep me warm in bed. These haven't seen the light of day since hiking across snow and ice a mere 1000km south of the North Pole, some eight months ago.

I don't have a car. Due in large part to a very liberal and holistic upbringing, I've always felt it was my responsibility to planet earth to abstain from burning fossil fuels when I have alternatives. I've lived downtown in the 5th-largest city in North America for many years and have never needed wheels. Don't get me wrong - I appreciate cars and the opportunity to ride in them. But, I mostly walk, and there's always a subway, bus or streetcar for the longer jaunts.

But now public transit is slightly failing me. Bringing home the bacon now means a farther commute; one which won't quite get me to my daily destination. This means I have to (grudgingly) buy a car. After what felt like months of homework, I've finally learned just about all I have to and have settled on one. Now comes buying it. But I take a bit of solace in the fact that this specific car is a bit different.

Back at the North Pole, emissions are leading to the worst ozone depletion on record. The ice is getting thinner, and climate change is confusing animals and altering the lifestyles of the people who have lived there for thousands of years. All because of what's being pumped into the air in the south spirals to the north, and stays there.

Those long johns kept me pretty warm last night. Autumn cold has nothing to do with the reliance on and abuse of oil. But there are a few attitudes that do, and there is a group of people who are proliferating and benefiting from these ideas. But...it looks like the axe is falling. Stay tuned to the news on Thursday.

"Music Journalism"

Millenia ago there was a strapping young lad about to come into fruition; on the prowl to sow his seed. And across the globe, wherever he may have roamed, there was a beat. There was a tune, coming from a larynx or some other kind of primitive instrument. Those beats and relatively arcane tunes transcended civilization and culture - they all had the basis for what we shake it to today. And while hunting his comely lass our friend would draw inspiration from what would one day be called "music". It was pure emotion; passion. A driving force. And if he waited long enough - with that blossoming human conscience - he would be able to dissect it, and break it down. But then, he'd be blowing it.

Thousands of years later, this is still true. This thing called music now comprises a large component of popular culture, which is fantastic. Everyone should be allowed to hear and enjoy music, regardless of where or who you are. But it's only in the last 30 years or so that what someone listened to became grounds for judgment - much like skin colour or spiritual beliefs - and that's wrong. It's not as extreme as being lynched or forced into cultural assimilation, but it's still enough to polarize the true passion of humanity.

You're not going to like what someone else listens to, that's a given. Since music became such a big part of everyday life, we needed these "educated" observers to provide a bit of context; to show what a particular musical/cultural movement meant on a grander scale. For decades, these music journalists were the reference points - providing background where it was needed. For those growing up in the print-oriented early-1990s, this was extremely crucial. It helped us learn where we and our current heroes were coming from, and for once we understood the cycles of emotion, of raw, unrelenting devotion to making a difference and turning peoples' heads.

But barely ten years later, everything changed. Today, music has become a competition. Every futile, insecure devotee with an internet connection takes every opportunity he or she can to debase whatever band/musician they can. That's fine - a lot of music sucks. But to devote so much time and energy to making someone feel shitty about what makes them feel good represents a lot of insecurity on the accuser's part. These are the stereotypical bully tactics that no doubt drove most of these "gurus" into safe criticism in the first place.

Regardless, it comes down to what that music does for us. It makes us feel. Much like our primitive friend thousands of years ago, what we dig picks us up and makes what we feel deep inside come alive. And you can't take that away from anybody, no matter who you are. Who gave you carte blanche to judge, anyway?

There is no established hierarchy in music. No one put anybody on any sort of pedestal. No band or act is immune from criticism. But that shouldn't be anyone's modus operandi. Just remember, no matter who you are, YOUR FAVOURITE BAND STILL SUCKS.

There's something about...

...beer-drinkin', axe-slingin', ass-kickin' rocker babes that I can't quite put my finger on.

Oh yeah, I think it's the combo of something called a "guitar" with something else called a "babe". Anyway, here are some shots I took at the Nashville Pussy show last week at Lee's Palace. Enjoy!