Do Your Own Homework

You may have noticed the quality of journalistic reporting dropping off over the last few hundred years. The need to get the facts out faster, even if those facts bear little resemblance to anything factual, has made the presentation of news on air and in print increasingly inaccurate and overly simplified. If a story can be thrown at the nearest satellite dish live as it happens, even if there’s no context or explanation to be had with it, then media producers are beholden to run with it. Wait an hour and it will be old news, and who wants old news? Unless I see the word “live” in one corner of my television screen and the words “breaking news” in another, why should I care? Anything other than a raw feed may have been considered, edited or, God forbid, fact checked. And that simply won’t do. Unless there’s that adrenalin rush of “Holy shit, this is happening right now and I’m powerless to stop it,” my attention might wander. Worse, I may shift my focus away from the TV during the commercial break.

Canadian journalism has been something of an exception to this trend, avoiding the sensationalism of the British media and the steady dumbing-down of their American counterparts. This hasn’t been due to a higher standard in news reporting up here, but rather the malaise of dullness. Sensationalism is easy to avoid when nothing particularly sensational ever happens. Likewise the need to appeal to the lowest common denominator is safely eradicated when the news is so boring, there’s no hope of luring the lowest common denominator and his disposable consumer dollar.

But with the pending prison release of Karla Homolka, Canada’s public interest has stirred and the media circus is pitching the big top. Just like their opposite numbers in England and the States, Canadian muckrakers are pulling out all the stops to get a jump on the story. What that story will be, however, is unclear. We’ve known for twelve years when Karla is getting out. It’s been no secret. The story, it seems, lies in what utterly mundane day-to-day bullshit she might get up to once she’s free.

My own jokes here aside, I (and most reasonable people) don’t really think Karla is going to embark on another whirlwind murder spree, chain sawing hapless victims and having sex with their body parts. That little hobby has had its day, and with armchair criminologists the world over keeping their eye on her, I expect she’ll want to keep her head down and slip into the most uninteresting and blandly normal life she can possibly manage for the rest of her days. You know, like O.J. Nevertheless, newspapers, magazines and news networks will be on the job, dutifully reporting what she had for breakfast the day of her release, and the size, shape and consistency of the resulting bowel movement. And then they might want to report some trivial facts as well.

So desperate are they for any facts about Karla, correct or patently false, that the Canadian media has resorted to a tactic so low, so vile, so unconscionable, it’s actually put them on an equal footing with those talentless, fear-mongering, shit-slinging, infotaining hacks at CNN. They’ve gone looking for blog sources.

True, these past few years, amateur blog sites have had a better record of cracking pivotal news stories than any of the major papers or networks. They’ve shown up the big boys so many times, CNN now spends long stretches of air time having two women (known internationally as “the hot blog chicks”) reading the latest news to hit the blog scene. Of course they save anything real juicy for their regular news coverage so they can pretend they found the story themselves, but we know where they got it. They ain’t foolin’ nobody.

It’s become such a standard practice, lazy journalists will go hunting for leads on any old blog, not just the serious ones. Witness what happened here only last week. After running my completely facetious entry welcoming Karla to my neighbourhood of N.D.G.(her planned place of residence come July), I was contacted by a Toronto Star reporter who wanted to know if I could point her at Karla’s future address. Like I pal around with serial killers. I invite you to reread that entry and tell me, in all honesty, if there’s any moment in it in which I don’t completely sound like I’m talking out my ass. You all knew I was kidding, right? Now where, I ask you, was this journalist’s bullshit detector?

As a responsible citizen of both reality and cyberspace, I politely informed the reporter in question that I had no additional facts that could help assist her in stalking any ex-cons who may or may not have paid their debt to society. But the question remains, if the supposedly legitimate media will come sniffing around a website like this for a lead, hint, or factoid, what other rocks are they looking under and which other completely unreliable blog geeks are they quoting? It may only be a matter of time before we see Stile weighing in on the issue of North Korean nuclear armament on Crossfire. Given CNN’s penchant for pursuing new all-time lows, this may happen as early as next week.

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Nerd Safari

“Did you love it?”

This was the ambush question I was asked over brunch at someone’s house, the day after seeing Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones in 2002.

“Well, no. I didn’t love it. But I thought it was an improvement over the last one.”

Three years later, the same review applies to Episode III – Revenge of the Sith. You know, if George makes a few more of these space operas, he might start to get the hang of it.

Trying to get into the first show of a new Star Wars movie is an act of madness unless you just so happen to have a complimentary VIP pass that allows you to bypass all the lineups and walk straight in to your reserved seat. I couldn’t turn an opportunity like that down, but truth be told, the show I was really interested in was the freak show before the movie.

Turning out hours early for the midnight screening were a variety of impoverished Jedis, unemployed Sand People, and Cheapo Fetts. With Hallowe’en so far away on the other side of the calendar, the superfans seized this opportunity to play dress up out of season. It was sort of like attending The Rocky Horror Picture Show, only with more costumes, less sexual deviancy, and a church-like silence so every syllable of Lucas’s overwrought dialogue could be processed, memorized, and later debated online at length.

I suppose it’s all in good fun, but I always find this level of obsession to be mildly creepy, especially if you think about the psychology behind the costume selections. For example, there’s something disturbing about the sort of person who chooses to dress as a storm trooper. Out of the myriad of characters and alien races sprinkled throughout the Star Wars universe, the one they find most compelling is an anonymous, faceless, fascist enforcer clone. You just know it was the exact same sort of conformists who were first to don a brown shirt back in 1930s Germany. Look at the faces of these people when they take off their masks to come up for air and tell me I’m wrong.

I don’t mean to pick on Star Wars fans specifically though. They’re too easy a target, and who am I to judge? I may have gone dressed as a normal human being with a life, but I was still there, first show, first day. And even if some of them feel compelled to dress up as the genocidal shock troops of a galaxy far far away, it could be worse. They could be Civil War reenactors. Now those nerds scare me.

Unlikely as it may seem, superfans come in both male and female varieties. And sometimes they hook up, assuring the gene pool will not be deprived of future generations of nerdlings.

This guy was dressed as a pause button. The noble Pause Buttons are a warrior race native to the planet Kashyyyk, if I remember my Lucas mythology correctly.

Darth Midget required a pair of platform shoes to maintain his imposing stature as a dark lord of the Sith.

As the superfans documented the evening for posterity, some, like the guy in the middle, had their eye on short-term gain. NB: If you want any hope of getting laid at one of these events, come dressed as Harrison Ford.

Even the ones not in full costume still looked like they were dressed for some other movie prequel. Napoleon Dynamite: The Early Years perhaps.

These unfortunate plebeians had to rot in line for hours and pay good money for the privilege.

Jedi Master, Obi-Wan Depardieu.

Meesa sad, meesa have no dialogue.

Welcome Home, Karla!

Canada’s cutest serial killer is getting out of the can and moving in next door! Yes, Karla Homolka, that rapin’ murderin’ party girl is apartment hunting in my neighbourhood. Word is, once she’s free to mingle with the public again she’ll be forgoing a return engagement in Ontario in favour of coming straight to Sin City North, Montreal. Specifically my own neck of the woods, the semi-suburbs of Notre Dame de Grace.

The geographical relocation is so Karla can be closer to some of the gal pals she made in prison, like Christina Sherry, one of the ringleaders of a Montreal rape-n-torture gang who got sent up the same river for her crimes. Obviously the girls spent their terms bonding over mutual interests like curling, American Idol, rape, Phil Collins albums, torture, and Hello Kitty memorabilia. Now they can hang out away from those nosy prison guards and go bar hopping, bowling, or cruising Catholic schoolgirls at their own convenience. I’m sure they’re just dying to cut loose and paint the town red with the blood of their many nubile teenage victims. It’s just like a bad Hollywood slasher film, only real and much sexier because neither of them is Paris Hilton.

Americans can have their Aileen Wuornos, our murder chicks are way hotterI hope Karla moves real close because the novelty of living two doors down from local news reporter, Cindy Sherwin, is growing thin. Karla’s a real celebrity, and just the thought of her living near enough for me to hear the angry protestors has me all star-struck. Maybe she’ll come over to borrow a cup of sugar to bake a cake, or a cup of bleach to destroy DNA evidence. I can’t wait! The welcome mat is out.

In news that affects me personally and deeply, Land of the Dead is nearing release. It’s just another zombie flick you say? No, it’s the fourth zombie flick by George A. Romero, and zombie geeks like me have been waiting for it for twenty years now. I’ve seen the previous three entries in the series a million times each. Literally. I’m not kidding. I counted. One million times each. I figure I’ll need to spend the next eleven years of my life watching Land of the Dead over and over again to get anywhere close to evening it out in my head with the others. Fuck Episode III, this is the one I’m getting in line for now. Maybe it’ll even be good.

The sad thing is it won’t do anywhere near the business of all the Romero knock-offs that have come out in the last few years. It must suck when you invent a genre and then everyone else under the sun gets funding to do insipid rip-offs of your work while you have to rattle a beggar’s cup on corners to get funding to do your own proper sequels. It’s an experience I hope to replicate myself one day when I launch the first ever celebrity sex crime porno epic to great critical and cultural acclaim. See you at Sundance!

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The Kitchen Is Now Closed

So much news, so few updates. I should make a resolution to write little one-paragraph updates when something happens instead of waiting weeks and composing an epic to cover all the bases. I really should make that resolution. But I’d probably ignore it and go on doing what I’m doing, so why bother?

Fries With That? is over and done with. YTV isn’t ordering another season. The show now exists in a television netherworld. It isn’t cancelled. Quite the contrary, they’ll run it for years to come. But we won’t be making any more of them. Those same fifty-two episodes will play over and over again until anyone who watches the show regularly will have seen them dozens of times.

I went through the same thing with M*A*S*H when I was a kid. I saw them all so many times I can’t even look at the show now, even with the tempting DVD releases that offer the opportunity to watch it without the god-awful laugh track. But at least there were eleven years worth of episodes to go through as it ran five times a day (literally) when I was watching them in high school. Not so with Fries, which will have a much shorter shelf life I expect.

With all my remaining episode ideas dying on the vine, my greatest hope for the show now is that other networks out there will continue to buy broadcast rights well past the five-year buyout. That’s when I get to see some royalty cash, and there’s nothing I like better than to be paid money for something I wrote years ago and can hardly remember. Believe me, I savor every one of those three cents I get for the Student Bodies clip show episode each time a cheque shows up. I hope to one day get enough pennies out of that particular royalty to buy a stick of gum. It may yet happen while I still have teeth in my head to chew it.

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Dying On Stage

I’ve been wanting to continue with my coverage of what’s what with the Paddywacking project, but lately I’ve had a hard time tearing myself away from CNN’s round-the-clock coverage of Terri Schiavo‘s demise and the punditry from both the pro-death and the pro-sticking-your-nose-up-other-people’s-asses sides of the debate. Everyone on the network from Larry King to that mighty pillar of journalistic intellectualism, Carol Costello, has had their own daily (sometimes hourly) crack at the story. Good thing there’s no other news happening in the world. Anywhere. At all. Unless Terri’s feeding tube is reinserted soon, I fear there will be no choice for Western civilization but to turn its attention back to those tiresome headline hogs: war, the economy, and the environment. That or Carol Costello can start reading the funnies out of the morning papers live on the air. That should keep her busy for awhile, because, you know, Garfield uses all those big words and stuff.

In other non-news, the post-Oscar buzz has finally subsided. And now that the whole world has collectively forgotten who was nominated, not to mention who won, the Academy can get back to planning how they’ll make next year’s ceremony even more boring. I only mention this because it has particular significance to me. The awards for the 2004 film year were particularly trying for me thanks to the multiple nominations for Alexander Payne’s movie, Sideways. Thankfully, with the passage of time, fewer and fewer people persist in telling me I look like Paul Giamatti. Though terribly flattering in a bearded, balding, pudgy sort of way, it gets old after awhile. Now that the dust has settled, I look forward to comparisons to Brad Pitt resuming as per usual.Commiserating Oscar losses with my good buddy Thomas Haden Church

But I don’t have that much to complain about when it comes to the Oscars. Sure the awards themselves sucked, but they also managed to pull in an extra fifty bucks for me. Called in as a ringer for an Oscar party I didn’t even attend, my brain was tapped for best guesses as to what would take home a gold statuette. My picks smoked the competition, not because I was good at choosing the most deserving nominees, but because I was good at selecting who would win the political race. One tip for all who might find themselves mixed up in an Oscar gambling pool: Best Editing always goes to the longest picture. Bet the farm on it. I think the logic goes that whoever has to suffer through the most footage earns the award.

Despite the fact that the winner shared her gambling-vice cash with me, there were still accusations of foul play. After all, I’m a film industry peon who spends all his spare time watching movies and actually gives a shit about petty rubbish like the Oscars. It hardly seems fair to go consulting someone who can make an educated guess about who might win in the short documentary film category. Even the winners didn’t go to see their film. Yet there I was, with an inkling of a notion that proved correct again and again in all the nothing categories that never made it to a full-blown stage presentation. After getting a dozen right in a row, I was starting to scare even myself, because, after all, who gives a fuck? Apparently, I do. I’ve never been a ringer before, and entering a competition with a grossly unfair advantage is a new experience for me. At last I know what it feels like to be the Olympic men’s basketball dream team. All of them, all at once. Minus the huge regular season paycheck and the homoerotic group showering.

No, It’s Not Actually Made Of Ice

I’m not a location scout. But last month I felt it was my duty to make an excursion out to a couple of obscure Montreal locales to snap photos for the benefit of the Irish half of the Paddy Whacking development team.

They’d come over recently to debate the merits of the material as it stood at that time and do some research, but our tour of the city’s underbelly failed to include two key locations. Both figure prominently in the story, and I was compelled to share a virtual tour with them so we would all know what we were writing about.

The Black Rock is a monument to the Irish immigrants who died on the fever ships on their way to a new life in North America during the potato famine. Thousands perished after arriving in Quebec, as did many here who tried to care for them through this epidemic. The rock is placed in the middle of what used to be the cemetery where so many of the victims were buried. Currently the penultimate scene of the series is set there during an official gathering of the local Irish community. Depending on when the shoot happens however, I would never be surprised to see this same scene relocated to take advantage of Montreal’s St. Patrick’s Day parade, the largest in North America. We’ll just have to see when the time comes, but until then, here are some photos of a corner of the city even most locals have probably never seen.Always place your monuments in the middle of a busy streetBe sure to advertise your company when honouring the deadJust in case you forgot it was Irish

I felt it was particularly important for me to make it out to the ice bridge because we have pivotal scenes set there at the beginning and end of the series. All sorts of nefarious goings on happen, at least in our fictional world, out on that barren stretch of pavement that stretches over the St. Lawrence. If you’re familiar with this, the most obscure bridge off the island of Montreal, it’s probably because you’ve crossed it in its context as a foot and bike path. There’s enough space for vehicles to get on, but only city vehicles are authorized to do so for maintenance purposes (specifically to change the bulbs in the lights, I imagine). Its actual function is to break up the ice flow coming down the river in winter, before it hits the bigger and much more expensive Champlain Bridge.

That’s about all I know about the ice bridge. What I didn’t know was that it’s closed to foot and bicycle traffic in winter. Which is why I had to break in to get these shots. Although I’m happy to commit a misdemeanor in the name of fair and accurate screenwriting, I was hardly alone in doing so. There was already a convenient hole torn in the wire fence at the top of a muddy embankment, allowing awkward but reliable access to those who would not be deterred from crossing at any time of the year. Indeed, I passed several joggers and bike riders as a strolled from one side to the other and back again, firing off shot after shot of bland industrial architecture. I won’t bore you with all of them, but these should give you a sense of what it’s like out over the river in February.Champlain Bridge left, ice bridge rightShot through the locked gatesOn the bridge after minor scrapes and cutsA view of the real bridge from the lesser bridgeA chunk of ice makes it through to the ChamplainHeading back to Nun's Island as the sun sets

The most interesting thing to occur on my tour happened when I heard a slow, steady crashing noise on one side of the bridge. I ran over in time to see a huge sheet of ice breaking apart on one of the supports. Only moments later, another sheet came bearing down on the same spot, so I whipped out my camera and grabbed these action shots showing exactly what an ice bridge does during a Canadian winter.Look out!Crack!Sploosh!The ice bridge earns its keep

In other news (at least in news I find interesting), The Passion of the Christ is getting recut and reissued. The new edit of the movie is supposed to remove six minutes of violence so as to make it a more family-friendly snuff film. I doubt the tinkering will end there since, these days, no cut of a movie is the final cut. The director has had his cut. This, I suppose, is the marketer’s cut. The producers will probably have another stab at it. And eventually we can all look forward to the caterer’s cut with plenty of missing Last Supper footage reinserted.

I’m sure, as the years go by, more violence will be deleted with each subsequent release, and eventually the film will be:

FADE IN:

Judas fingers Jesus. Jesus is busted.

CUT TO:

Children hunt for Easter eggs.

THE END

This will be convenient to all those who like their pop culture salvation to come in three-minute doses. Sure, we want to be saved, but does it really have to kill and entire afternoon? Me, I think I’ll stick to my own particular brand of religious cinema. If people can find the Lord in a piece of toast, I can go looking for him here.

And before I sign off, I’ll point you all at the movie night minutes, which is up to date for the first time in months. Go make snide comments at my expense. That’s what the forum is for.

Rewrites Starting With The Title

In case you were wondering, checking in here on a daily basis hoping for news, I am indeed back from Ireland. My vicious sinus infection from flying with a cold is all cleared up, the mucus has been safely expelled, and my ear canals are relatively pus free. Hurray!

I have a number of interesting stories to tell and loads of digital photos to share. But the time for that will have to wait another week or two. There’s a new deadline for a new draft of the miniseries hanging over my head, and it’s too important to be swept aside by my desire to eat bandwidth with even more self-indulgent blog entries (now second only to porn as the primary product of internet technology). What I can do here and now, however, is finally share the nature of this mysterious TV miniseries I’ve been mentioning for months. As it’s now listed on any number of publicly accessible CBC documents as being in development, the cat is long out of the bag, shitting in your flower garden, and having noisy yowling sex with the unfixed tabby down the street.

The Irish Connection is the working title, but that’s likely to change in the near future to address two issues that have come to light. The first being a documentary with the same name that has recently aired on Irish television and may cause confusion. The second being that everyone who hears the title hates it. This four hour miniseries co-production will, if all goes well, air at some future date on Canada’s own CBC, and RTE in Ireland. Set in the present day, it concerns the nefarious criminal and social goings on of the Irish mob in Montreal and Ireland, and will feature generous helpings of sex and violence and murder. Therefore, at least until a better title presents itself, I will simply refer to the show as Paddy Whacking for clarity’s sake.

I’m responsible for the second two hours of this epic storyline, so a lot of my time has been spent coming up with solutions to questions like: How do we reveal the secret family ties between various characters? Who should we keep alive for a possible series renewal? And how do you write a torture scene for prime time? As a result, other projects have had to suffer. But since we have to make a March 1st deadline for a funding application, my calendar should open up again soon.

Which is a good thing because I’m woefully behind in my movie viewing habits. It’s awards season, and I haven’t even been out to see half the films I’m allowed to catch for free. I’ve just received my Genie Awards ballot and I haven’t seen a single nominee. Worse, I haven’t even heard of most of them. That’s not a good sign for the Canadian film industry when a guy like me, who can see any Canadian movie for free, and watches many more movies a year than most shut-ins, hasn’t heard a word about most of the flicks that are supposed to be our country’s top offerings for 2004.

For that reason, I’ll make the same offer to the nominees I did last year. Buy my vote. It’s cheap. Just send me a screener on video or DVD. If the American Academy members can get piles of freebie screeners every year, so should their Canadian counterparts. I’m not taking time off from work or the rest of my life in general to run across town to the Academy offices to borrow copies I’ll just have to return the next day. Fuck that shit. Send me my own copy. I’ll watch it and I’ll vote for your film regardless of its quality. Because I am a whore and you can have your way with me for two bucks worth of video tape and postage. Surely my bending over for you is worth that much. Even street whores in Tijuana charge more. I know, I checked.

As for the American Oscar nominees, I’m really going to have to be selective about which ones I need to run to in this last week before the envelopes are opened, read, discarded and forgotten about a day later. I may have to skip the ones I know I’ll hate in favour of the ones I know I’ll merely dislike. It’s all about time management.

Lost in the netherworld of rewrites as I’ve been, I’ve failed to acknowledge the passing of Valentine’s Day in any way more meaningful than film selections for Movie Night. To rectify this, allow me to point you at this involving documentary about the origins and manufacturing of the modern greeting card — a Valentine staple every bit as important as obesity-inducing chocolates in novelty boxes.

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The Ticking Clock

I had the best of intentions, with all sorts of updates I wanted to add and things I wanted to talk about. But the clock has run out. Another trip to Ireland is upon me. I’m on the red-eye to Heathrow tonight, and then on to Dublin for heated debates concerning the second draft of the miniseries. By Friday, we’ll have reinvented the show half a dozen times (as opposed to the usual even dozen) and we’ll be another step or two closer to figuring out what it is exactly we want to put in front of the cameras. I don’t expect I’ll go into the same gory detail as to my activities when I get back again, but I’ve been booked for a trip outside the city limits for one day so I might get into some trouble worth reporting. A digital camera will also be making the trip, so expect more photos.

Among the updates I’ve failed miserably to complete are the movie night minutes. I have, however, added a few episodes to the forum lately, and should be able to finish them off once I’m back. I know you’re all dying to find out what shit we forced ourselves to sit through over the holidays. Sadly, I’ll be thousands of miles away from whatever the gang decides to view this Wednesday. That means, if my accounting is accurate, I no longer hold the single greatest attendance record for the event. I must now share that title with Eric, who tends to show up for a lot of movie nights because they conveniently take place in his home. I’ll have to find some way to drive him away in the coming weeks to damage his average. More episodes of Strangers With Candy might fit the bill.

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A Traditional Family Boxing Day

Every year during the holiday period, I have my own ritual. Some people choose to observe religious traditions, some like to go caroling, some are even known to roast chestnuts by an open fire. Me, I like to attempt to make it through the season without hearing The Little Drummer Boy all the way through.

The Little Drummer Boy, I don’t have to tell you, is the single worst holiday song in the history of holiday songs. Despite its Christian connotations and celebration of the Lord contained therein, God himself has reserved a special place in hell for the composer and lyricist.

It’s flatly impossible to go the distance without hearing it at all, so my goal is always to survive December without getting trapped listening to one complete rendition of it, start to finish. This usually involves fleeing stores — sometimes in mid-purchase — to spare my ears the torture. And I’ve never succeeded. Not once in all the years I’ve attempted it.

This year I was nailed in the exchange line at Future Shop, with a French version that was remixed with Ravel’s routinely sexualized classical composition, Bolero.

I wish I were joking, but it happened exactly like that. Apparently there are teams of scientists out there trying to engineer a cover of The Little Drummer Boy that sucks even harder than all previous renditions combined. Call it the A-Bomb of the war on terror. Those insurgents will flee their spider holes in droves, straight into our boys’ machine gun nests, once the Air Cavalry comes flying over the desert blasting it from their skid-mounted speakers.

As any good Canuck will tell you, the real fun of the Christmas holidays comes the day after the presents are all opened, just around the time the eggnog hangover is kicking in. Because that’s when the Boxing Day festivities get underway, with the lineups queuing in front of stores shortly before dawn, and the early hypothermia casualties being chipped out of the ice by ambulance technicians come first light.

Boxing Day, for those of you unfortunate enough to find yourself outside our borders, is an annual tradition during which Canadians sardine themselves into the nearest available shopping mall and exchange airborne viruses while they try to save two dollars on items they could just as well purchase on any other day of the year. The sales are legendary, even if the markdown is all hype.

With the NHL hockey season cancelled, this year’s Boxing Day provided Canadians across the nation with a much needed outlet, delivering body checks, elbows and high stickings to competing consumers who wouldn’t keep their damn hands off that last 20%-off toaster oven. I myself nearly got mixed up in a serious stabbing incident, albeit one that took place entirely in my head with me on the business end of a ball-point pen. Boxing Day probably isn’t such a good idea for people with as much suppressed rage as I have. All that anger, normally turned safely inward where it festers and promotes heart disease and tumor growth, comes dangerously close to externalizing and manifesting itself as a ten to twenty year stretch in the Provincial Pen.

Not quite what I was asking for for Christmas.

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Trapped At Home For The Holidays

The television miniseries I’m co-writing progresses, a first draft has been delivered, and my long absence from this site is over. At least for this weekend. I might be back at it by tomorrow, and then all through the holidays. Joy to the world. Oh well, at least it beats writing for children’s television.

It seems like this one project is all I’ve been doing, but that’s not accurate. It’s merely been occupying my every waking thought. The problem with being a writer — as opposed to being a plumber, brick-layer, or barkeep — is that you never get to go home after work and turn the job off. It’s always with you, eating at your brain. The only job I can think of that might compare is a gynecologist. A male heterosexual gynecologist. It’s female genitalia all day at work and then, like the rest of the heterosexual male population out there, it’s female genitalia on the brain all night.

This is why so many writers drink. Not to forget, but to stop thinking entirely. Being a novice drinker myself, I mostly have to rely on video games to numb me. At least until I develop a serious substance abuse problem.

And speaking of drunks and junkies…

This week in world news, Bush finally found Canada on a map and decided to pay us a visit for the first time since he became president a million years ago. He dropped by Ottawa (the capital) and Halifax (the capital of drinking) in a whirlwind tour that went by so quickly, the army of protesters didn’t even have time to catch a chill in their designated civil disobedience zones. With Canada-U.S. relations at their lowest ebb since the War of 1812, this first state visit by the Bush White House poses a serious question for our two nations in these times of crisis. Namely, why can’t Halifax ever blow itself up when it might actually do some good?

If you’re wondering why it’s been so long since there’s been any new Movies in Longshot, it’s because I wanted to revamp that section so it would be a little easier to navigate. The newest entries now all appear on the top, with an archive below that arranges the previous strips alphabetically. I know that’s not much of an excuse for the lack of new material, but now that things are all orderly, I feel comfortable rolling out my latest cinema adaptations. Once again, there will be a new one each week, starting today and ending whenever I run out — which probably won’t be next week, or even the week after that. So drop by regularly.

And as I get back into the swing of things here, one of my priorities was to update the month’s worth of Wednesday Movie Night screenings I’ve fallen behind on. My one social indulgence each week, this has at least kept me in practice when it comes to watching movies. Otherwise I’m woefully behind in my viewing habits, despite the deluge of eBay imports that keep showing up on my doorstep, beckoning, “Shane, stop working for a living and come watch us. Watch us. Watch us…” I’d really feel better about the DVD backlog around here if I could only take off a month and watch five movies a day, every day. That would truly make my holiday special.