Fie on Fussy Preparation!

I previously explored the obtuse mystery of a 1929 "Caviarette" advertisement. If you'll remember, the REAL mystery of the advertisement was that it was poorly written and barely sensible.

This appears to be a trend, because in the September 14, 1929 issue of The New Yorker I've run across another Caviarette advertisement, and it's equally bad.


Calling it "The Third C Mystery" is already a bad idea, because the mundane meaning of the "three Cs" are not revealed until the final panel (Cocktails, Caviar, Caviarettes), giving you little reason to worry about whatever it is they're looking for. If the society lady can't even be bothered to explain her problem except by using an acronym -- and if she goes about her investigation with such a haughty, ignorant facial expression -- then we're inclined to hope that she never finds what she's looking for and that her party fails.

But thank goodness the Smart Grocer understands her richie-rich autistic lingo and puts in an order for the all-important "third C." The only bright spot of this entire ordeal is the grinning, bundled up airplane pilot in panel five, who must have gotten paid a lot of money just to fly a package of crackers to her society do'.

In the final writeup we find out that her guests are in fact "Major Bliss, Madame Ecstasy and Miss Delight," which implies to me that she's actually the madame for a high-class escort service. And we know those folks care about their caviar.

These advertisements are beginning to annoy me.

Torchwood Season 3

I thought that Torchwood season one was generally bad, and that season two was downright terrible, but I've stuck with the series because it has potential. I felt that if the writers would only recognize the strengths of the premise -- and brutally stomp out all of the self-introduced weaknesses -- they'd end up with something truly great.

Usually my prayers go unanswered, but season three of Torchwood is absolutely amazing. They've darkened the tone, chucked the juvenile sexuality, trimmed off the extraneous character complications, and written within the budget. It is five episodes of perfectly-maintained suspense, anxiety, and outright horror. The aliens -- known as the "456" -- are the most terrifying creatures I've seen since...well, Alien.

In true Russell T. Davies style, however, the focus of the show -- and the REAL monsters -- are the buerocrats and functionaries who serve to represent humanity at its worst. It's bad enough that the 456 exist...what makes it TRULY bad are the petty foibles of those we expect to protect us.

If you've never watched Torchwood, go out and rent season three. Skip seasons one and two entirely; don't worry, you'll catch on quick enough. You might squirm when John Barrowman does his obligatory crying, but this time around it's kept to a tolerable level, and he really DOES have something to cry about.



PS: Actually this was very similar in tone and theme to a 1998 British mini-series called "Invasion: Earth." You might even accuse Davies of (perhaps unconsciously) copying it. Still, the particulars are different enough to make both series' distinct AND worth watching.

The Real Estate Rhumba

I mentioned last month that some changes were in the works...well, today marks their potential fruition: I just made an offer on a condominium.

I love where I live right now. It's a nice neighbourhood, and my apartment is big, and it's within walking distance of my work AND a car-share car. I could see myself staying here for the rest of my life, except for two very important considerations: I'm renting, and the soundproofing is AWFUL.

The mice aren't exactly a bonus either.

I've been gradually working towards buying my own place. I got pre-approved for a mortgage two weeks ago, and then set out with a wonderful real estate agent to find my dream home.

I quickly learned that there are no guarantees and no right answers. The better the place is, the more you invariably have to pay, and the second-scariest phrase I've learned during this whole ordeal is "house poor."

The scariest phrase -- one I'm already well-versed in -- is "bad neighbours." I am not a fighter who wants to grab the world with both hands and twist it to my will...rather, I want to snuggle up in my own corner of the world and try to quietly coexist with my fellow snugglers.

So besides the essential considerations such as location (I have no car) and price (I am not rolling in dough), I have done my best to consider the people who will live around me. How much will they impact on my homelife? How will they respond to me walking through the door in a pair of high heels?

Unfortunately, assessing your potential neighbours is not like assessing your plumbing. Today we looked at a townhouse that is unfortunately somewhat buried in its little cluster of townhouses; you walk through the door and you are on stage. But I tried to look for tell-tale signs of neighbourly badness, and even on a sunny Sunday afternoon I didn't see them: no couches on the front lawn, no beat-up cars, no garbage, nobody yelling. As a matter of fact I saw some nice flowerbeds and some well-cared-for lawn furniture.

In terms of the townhouse itself, it's a two-bedroom end unit that is slightly larger than my current apartment (though it feels smaller because it's staggered on four levels). It's well-maintained and has lots of potential. The front and back yards are sort of crappy, but that's nothing a few trees and shrubs couldn't improve. The single shared wall felt solid and I sincerely hope it is.

What's more, it's only a short walk from a grocery store and a bus route, and even the walk to uptown Waterloo (and therefore my workplace) is doable. And the price is right.

Standing there with the real estate agent, I started to sweat. Even though I knew that a decision would eventually need to be made, I found myself completely unprepared for it. This was a hurdle I had to jump: the grown-up necessity to step into an uncertain long-term committment, without anybody there to make the decision for me. I had to be my own grown-up, for better or for worse. And I found it in myself to do so...I put forward an offer.

I'll find out tomorrow night if it's been accepted, and even after that there are a lot of conditions which need to be met, but I feel like I've made the biggest step of the entire procedure, if not my entire life so far. If the offer is refused, the next decision will be a bit easier.

My recommendation for those who are considering buying their first house or condo: find a GREAT real estate agent (I'll be happy to pass the contact info for mine if you're curious), be aware of hidden costs (water heater rental!), and...well, have some idea of what's important to you, and how much you're willing to pay for those things.

I wonder: is this whole process a little easier for couples?

Meditation on Vegetation

One thing I love about my apartment is the huge front window, and what I like MOST about that window is the huge amount of vegetation that grows in front of it. Seriously, look:



All that greenery has given me no end of pleasure. It's kept my living room cool on scorching hot days. It's a home to thousands of interesting little bugs. It adds something soft and natural to my view each day.

So imagine my surprise when I came home today and saw the carnage; yes, my landlords have chopped it all down to the roots and left it by the curb. No more vegetation. No more pretty view.

Why did they do this? I think their first concern was for the concrete steps out front, which they're in the process of repairing. Some of that vegetation was in the way of their repairs, and I understand why they'd want to TRIM it.

But REMOVE it? ALL of it?

When my parents bought their first (and current) house, they planted a sapling in the front yard and we named it "Slim." Over twenty years it has grown into a huge, beautiful tree that beautifies the front yard and shades the porch. Birds live in it from time to time. It was an investment that paid off through patience and a small amount of tending, and it remains a living, growing, vibrant thing.

And yet here, in Waterloo, all I see are people CUTTING DOWN trees. Whenever a new development is being built, the old and not-so-old trees get turned into sawdust. One by one, trees are being removed from front yards all along my daily walking route. Sometimes a few new trees are planted, but always in sparse little rows intended to be "decorative" instead of "functional" or -- dare I say -- "wild."

Just have a look at our Waterloo Town Square for an example of a disregard for the benefit of vegetable growth.

I am not a person who believes in woodsy spirits and I am not going to cry for all the lost trees, but I DO think that people are remarkably short-sighted and ANAL about vegetation. My landlords certainly had some reasons for removing my beloved greenery, and they probably gave a passing thought to the good reasons for RETAINING that greenery, but from what I see most people put vegetation at the very BOTTOM of the list. If it gets in the way of the lawnmower or kills the grass underneath it, get rid of it. If it must be trimmed, cut it down. If you need to build something there, chop it up and chip it.

The only plant we care about is grass, it seems.

So I am by no means slagging any one person for chopping down healthy trees and bushes. I'm slagging a general idea that such growth adds less to health and aesthetics than -- say -- personal convenience or financial concerns.

So sad.

Grumpy Behaviour: Children Versus Adults

Saturday morning. I'm at my favourite breakfast spot, and a huge group of people are throwing a "going away party" for a husband, wife, and their son named "Zane."

Zane is six, and he's apparently grumpy because he stayed up late the night before; he's excited because they're flying out to see "Aunt Betty" tomorrow.

How do I know all this? Because it's impossible for anybody in the restaurant to ignore Zane.

ZANE: I haaaate this place, I hate it here, I don't wanna eat here!

MOM: You've never been here before, give it a chance.

DAD: C'mon Zane, look at all this food, what do you want to eat?

ZANE: I don't WANNA eat here!

DAD: Hey grumpy, what do you want, do you want chocolate waffles?

ZANE: I don't WANT chocolate waffles, I don't WANNA have chocolate waffles, I wanna see Aunt Betty!

MOM: We'll see Aunt Betty tomorrow, Zane.

ZANE: I WANNA SEE AUNT BETTY NOWWWWWWWW!

What makes this more amusing is that Zane is sitting next to a smaller boy -- Billy -- who's a real goody-two-shoes. This kid keeps making the situation worse.

ZANE: I want COKE, I wanna have a COKE!

DAD: Okay, one Coke for Zane. What do you want, Billy?

BILLY: Milk, please. My dad says you should never drink Coke for breakfast.

ZANE: BUT I WAAAANT COOOOOKE!

DAD: Zane, that's alright, we'll get you a Coke.

BILLY: My dad says you should drink milk, not Coke.

ZANE: I DON'T WANT MILK, I WANT A COKE!

MOM: Wow, who's a grumpy-gus this morning?

The parents, family, and friends try all sorts of techniques for distracting Zane. They drag him around the restaurant and show him all the nooks and crannies. They talk about what their airplane trip will be like ("Maybe you'll get to fly the plane, Zane?" "I DON'T WANT TO FLY THE PLANE!"). Nothing works for long.

The food finally arrives.

ZANE: I want chocolate waffles!!!

DAD: You DO have chocolate waffles. Look, here, you've got chocolate waffles.

ZANE: I don't WANT chocolate waffles!!!

MOM & DAD: WHAT?!?

ZANE: I don't LIKE this chocolate, I want REAL chocolate!

Sunday morning and I'm back at the same place. Zane isn't there -- presumably he's flying off to see Aunt Betty -- but a man and woman in their 40s sit next to me.

I try not to pay attention to them, but I notice that she's complaining as soon as she sits down...something about wanting to sit in a different part of the restaurant because she likes the food better there, but the waitress reassures her that the menu is exactly the same and the food comes from the same kitchen.

A few minutes later, I become aware of them when the waitress brings them their food.

WAITRESS: Here's your order, and I'll just run and bring over your toast.

WIFE: I have just one request. Could you please make sure that the bread isn't toasted or buttered?

WAITRESS: Uhhhh...the food is already done.

WIFE: Oh. I'd prefer not to have it toasted or buttered.

WAITRESS: I see. It's just that they've already made your food.

HUSBAND: Maybe you should have mentioned that when you ordered.

WIFE: Sigh. Okay. Just bring it over.

Shortly afterward the waitress comes by to see if everything's okay.

WAITRESS: How's your food, is everything good?

WIFE: I just have one complaint. These are roasted red peppers. The menu just says "red peppers." Look at this pepper here, this is carbon. That's unhealthy and dishonest.

WAITRESS: I didn't know the menu didn't say "roasted," I'll tell the cooks.

WIFE: Because I don't like roasted red peppers.

WAITRESS: I didn't know the menu said that, I'll tell the cooks.

WIFE: If I'd known they were roasted I wouldn't have ordered it.

WAITRESS: I see, I'll tell the cooks.

WIFE: Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

Not long after I got up to leave. The husband asked his wife if her food was good, and I saw that she was poking at it and shaking her head.

WIFE: I...I don't even know what this is. I don't know what this IS. I can't EAT this.

I left before the final fireworks but I was struck by the similarity between her tantrum and Zane's: at least Zane was STRAIGHT FORWARD. His need to whine was 100% direct and honest. This woman, however, was more manipulative in her whining.

And somehow you can excuse a six year old for behaviour that is unseemly for a 46 year old.

I'd Buy Anything By...The Red House Painters

When I think of San Francisco -- where I've never been -- I either think of William T. Vollmann's prostitutes...or of The Red House Painters.

When I think of the Red House Painters I am instantly transported back to the early '90s, when I listened to their "Rollercoaster" album over and over again while driving desolate country roads. There's a lot of angsty music in the world, but the Red House Painters weren't just angsty, they were downright MISERABLE. They'd given up on everything. Life was too awful to even scream about, and when lead singer Mark Kozelek DID scream it was like a sucide victim lurching suddenly out of the morgue: oh so dangerous, oh so lost.

Nirvana had nothing on the Red House Painters. These guys could play so slowly that you almost thought they'd stopped. The guitar was painful and alone. The lyrics were sheer poetry without a single misstep. They could make you cry for three minutes or twelve minutes, no matter how short or long the song. And the album covers, enigmatic and beautiful in that 4AD way.

Here's a prime example of how they could turn an already bleak four-minute song into a brilliant nine-minute epic. It's "Katy Song," which starts off simple and gradually descends into chaos.



When I say these things I am talking about the "classic" RHP albums. Kozelek cheered up a bit on the later albums -- musically at least -- and it was difficult for some fans to adjust to the slightly more upbeat sound. Errrr, "more upbeat" as in "not quite so suicidal." Take a look at this spot-on fan video for "Song for a Blue Guitar," the title track from their last 4AD album.



The band broke up, they had label problems, there are solo albums and new projects, blah-blah-blah. These things never last forever. I'd love to find copies of their post-"Blue Guitar" albums but until then, The Red House Painters will always mean San Francisco and sad country roads to me.

Albums to buy: the two (!) self-titled releases, often called "Rollercoaster" and "Bridge," which contain the most finely-crafted of their songs. Albums to avoid: their later work was more loose and spontaneous, but it shouldn't be actively avoided. For fans only: the bonus "Retrospective" CD with Rollercoast/Bridge outtakes and demo versions. There's a reason why those versions didn't appear on the final albums.

The ZsaZsaBlog VI

Last month I noticed that Zsa Zsa was looking increasingly scruffy; she had tufts of fur sticking out every where and she appeared to have stopped grooming herself. She was also extremely lethargic. "That's it," I thought, "she's REALLY dying now."

But then I had a sudden brainstorm. I took out a comb and started to brush her, and in half an hour I'd removed sixteen inches of loose fur.



It seems that the sudden heat and her new frailty had dealt her a double blow, and whereas in the past she'd been able to remove all that fur, this year she just couldn't. It was like she was wearing a pair of snowpants in the middle of summer. As soon as we finished our hour-long brushing session she went bouncing around the room, suddenly cool and free!

As always, signs of her demise were greatly exaggerated.

Case in point: she caught at least two mice last week, and in keeping with her experimental nature she left them in various states of gruesomeness.

Last Monday I stepped on a mouse tail, which she'd left at the bottom of the stairs. Usually she eats the tails, but maybe this one simply wasn't to her liking.

Wednesday's mouse was the most disgusting yet, because instead of eating it front-to-back or back-to-front, she'd eaten in LATERALLY, from the underbelly up. Three of the feet, most of the viscera, and the lower jaw of the mouse were gone...but the tail, spine, and much of the bleary-eyed head were still intact. It looked like a horror movie prop: a mouse dipped in acid, its ribs gnawed back into little fingers and one little back foot hanging off.

Why does Zsa Zsa do these things? I thought she was a cute little bundle who snores happily on my lap, not a wicked witch-monster who spends the early morning hours eating small creatures alive.

Of course this only makes me love her more.

Dee-Yadda Diddy-Aoh Scat!

This weekend King Beckett loaned me his copy of "Anita O'Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer." And though there's not much in the documentary that I didn't already know, it DID increase my respect for her jazz-stylings from "I don't know how to evaluate this vocal style" to "Holy cow, she was SPECTACULAR."

Do yourself a favour and watch her interpretation of "Sweet Georgia Brown" during the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival. The director spends WAY too much time focusing on the audience, but persevere until she really gets going. It's more than worth it.

Back in the Objective-C Saddle Again

Every year or so I decide to tackle Objective-C and Cocoa again, partly because I want to create useless applications for my computer, but mainly as a brain-sharpening mental exercise.

A few things have hindered me:

* An incomplete mastery of C.

* Textbooks which tell you to do things, but don't explain why.

* Textbooks which go out of date with each OS X update.

For these reasons I've bumbled around the language, eventually finding myself out of my depth and retreating to safer pursuits (like YouTube puppet shows with a seal, for example).

This time I think I'm REALLY getting somewhere. Part of my success is due to my previous attempts at learning the concepts -- even when I failed I took away some valuable lessons -- but I'm using some different resources now...ones that suit my knowledge level AND my method of learning.

I started with Stephen G. Kochan's "Programming in Objective-C." Whereas most other books either assume a total knowledge of C or a complete LACK of knowledge, Kochan's book is written for those who understand the concepts but REALLY need a syntax refresher. The first half explains all the elements of C in an Objective-C context, and ends with "Underlying C Language Features" (like structs and character arrays) that you'll probably never need (but should know about anyway).

The second half of the book is devoted to using the essential Objective-C Foundation classes -- numbers, strings, files, etc. -- and all the important methods. Once you've finished "Programming in Objective-C" you are ready for the Cocoa concepts.

That's where Aaron Hillegass' celebrated "Cocoa Programming for Mac OS X" comes in. This book assumes a comfortable knowledge of both C and Objective-C, and it teaches you how to use them effectively with Interface Builder. By page 100 you're building full-featured applications for your Mac...

...but Hillegass' book is more of a "gentle introduction" than I prefer; it often skips over the lower level "HOW does this work?" stuff. If you're like me then you NEED that information, so I recommend that you SIMULTANEOUSLY read "Cocoa Design Patterns" by Erik M. Buck and Donald A. Yacktman. By teaching you the best ways to use the extremely flexible NEXTSTEP frameworks -- and revealing the common patterns that developers use when writing Cocoa applications -- you learn exactly why Hillegass tells you to -- for instance -- [[foo alloc] init].

The only downside of "Cocoa Design Patterns" is that it's still unfinished. I bought a "rough cut" advance copy and it is teaching me SO MUCH...but it's damn obnoxious to read, full of spelling mistakes, incorrect cross-references, incomprehensible formatting, and half-finished ideas. It's very much a work in progress -- and it's advertised as such, so I wasn't ripped off -- but you MIGHT want to wait until the book is actually released.

These three books are my recommended recipes for success. They teach you the syntax, the application, and the structure of Cocoa programming. They also teach you why creating Mac applications is such a pleasure...until you start doing reference counting, of course.

New Video: "Depressed Benny Hill"

Yesterday I started thinking that although Benny Hill is fun to watch when you're in a great mood, I bet his show would simply infuriate a depressed person. And since Schnapps the Seal is always depressed this was a shoe-in for a short video, which I shot last night and edited today:



Backstage Expose

As usual the music was mostly built up from Apple Loops -- including some sound effects that came with Soundtrack Pro -- but this time I tried something entirely new: foley recording.

If you've ever seen Benny Hill (!) then you know that much of the comedy (!) depended on over-the-top foley work...one of his trademarks was sped-up film with overdubbed sound effects. I was hoping to be able to avoid all that hassle, but as I was putting this video together it became obvious how essential that stuff is to slapstick.

So I did some brainstorming, and these were the techniques I came up with.

* Footsteps: I turned a pair of high heels upside down and hit the heel-tips with a pair of hairbrushes. Totally unnatural, but Benny Hill's footsteps never DID sound natural.

* Brushing: The aforementioned hairbrush rubbed across fabric. I enhanced the lower frequencies to make it sound richer.

* Slapping Schnapps' Head: The hairbrush again, slapped against my palm.

* Whip Effect: A thick hair elastic stretched between my fingers, then snapped on my leg. Ouch.

* Dominatrix Hissing: "Hiss! Hiss! Rah! Hiss!"

* Weightlifting Noise: This was the hardest one. I wanted something that sounded like a ratcheting wrench -- or maybe a jack -- but I'm not exactly swimming in tools. So I took three strings of cheap mardi-gras beads, wrapped them around the back of a wooden chair, and pulled them back and forth. It really worked!