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"My dear Amanda," intoned the family lawyer, "it has come to my attention that you are increasingly seen in the company of extremely weird individuals."
Brushing a cigar ash from the attorney's somber necktie, Amanda corrected him. "There is no such thing as a weird human being. It's just that some people require more understanding than others."

So we, lucky readers, are introduced in the first few pages of Another Roadside Attraction, to the majestic character of Amanda, so vibrant in voice and aesthetic as to break the somnabulistic spell cast upon fiction readers the world over by dark and brooding tales of contraction. Step inside the mind of Tom Robbins' greatest character in his first and greatest work circa 1971, dancing a philosophical jig with an uncontrived and natural rhythm:

When she was a small girl Amanda hid a ticking clock in an old rotten tree trunk. It drove woodpeckers crazy. Ignoring tasty bugs all around them, they just about beat their brains out trying to get at the clock. Years later, Amanda used the woodpecker experiment as a model for understanding capitalism, communism, Christianity and all other systems that traffic in future rewards rather than in present realities.

The text is pulsating, optimistic and stylized without irritation (according to Rolling Stone "garbed colorfully in the language of Joyce" while the Los Angeles Times compares it to "the style and humor of Mark Twain" in audacious but fitting literary parallels), as plucky Plucky Purcell, the intense Tarzanesque John Paul Ziller, Nearly Normal Jimmy, and the self-titled narrative-weaving Marx Marvelous, whom like the four largest moons of Jupiter, rotate faster around the planet Amanda than she does on her axis. In the words of Marx Marvelous:

Nearly Normal Jimmy once described Amanda as a "religion-unto-herself" and I readily admit that there is something beatific about her gentleness, her poise, her radiant face, the way she seems to float several inches above the ground. However if she is a saint it was the pope of gypsies who canonized her. My God! What colors she wears, bangles and bracelets and beads. Rings on each finger, on every toe. Her dark hair appears singed by campfires and she moves always as if to music; her manner mixes action and dream.

Don't miss your chance to float away on her celestial femininity, leaping from the pages of the text. This is a carefree but poignant tale, providing insight in the undisturbed fashion of a reconciliatory neighbor. A recent review on Amazon bemoaned the fact that Amanda is such a fantastic character that it made the reader so sad that she wasn't real. Perhaps though she is real, needing only to be sparked and lit in our imagination, the way the flames of a campfire seem to always crackle and lean towards passing rivers, bubbling with the watery metaphysical companion to the fiery embers. After all, according to Amanda: " ... it had long been her theory that human beings were invented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another."

Labels: literature

So you are thinking of escaping the costliness, congestion, and breakneck pace of London? Seeking the perfect retreat in a seaside resort only one hour by train to London Bridge or Charing Cross but a world away in spirit and priorities? Brighton on the south coast of England is the place for you. The waves caress the long and winding seaside boardwalk filled with artists, musicians, pints and wines, and the cheerful resonation of a child's laughter. Only one problem. You are too late. Make that WAY too late.

Find yourself another seaside retreat because this one is full, spilling over really, and your wallet will empty faster than the away section of Arsenal fans at White Hart Lane after another thumping victory. Don't get me wrong Brighton is a fantastic city but at 3 pounds a pint, rents that put all but Chelsea to shame, and an increasing squeeze on the turf of the artisans this is not Blackpool. Take a day trip or spend a weekend in blissful retreat but seek your secret garden elsewhere. Saying that, after a weekend you might not be able to resist the thought of a London home away from home. Just make sure you have your baby carriage full and a little weasely dog on a leash. Or at least a baby on a leash. The young profesional and hedonists who flocked here in the nineties have all grown up. There still a load of fun but kind of like Fatboy Slim resident Norman Cook, they pick their spots these days.


Check out the photos in the Brighton album of the newly launched Chris Brauer Media Gallery for an idea of the attracting and sublime beauty of the place.

Labels: photography

The man standing outside Angel tube station thrust out his hand and I took a leaflet from him as I entered. Ever since reading George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London (a strange and poignant autobiographical vignette on poverty and his first published work) I tend to take the leaflets or am left imagining Orwell standing freezing on the corner unable to seek shelter until the last leaflet leaves his hand.

This time I don't toss it in the garbage. "Love it. And Leave it," the text reads. Car sharing has arrived in London and the brochure notes how there's a Volkswagen Golf waiting for you around every corner, or at least "walking distance from here". If you are unfamiliar with the concept of car sharing, pioneered by the Swiss in the early 1980s, the basic premise is that a network of cars is positioned around a city and members go online to reserve a vehicle when they need one. A typical car can lead a very interesting life, serving many masters for functional purposeful missions.

So for all the talk of gas guzzling SUVs, rocketing car sales in the far east, and clogged commuter lanes, this is the very real flip side to that coin. People are taking action to share a car, like the nine people from my hometown Edmonton who share a 1999 Toyota Tercel through a non-profit co-op, in the interests of more affordable and environmentally sensitive travel. Transportation is the fastest growing source of greenhouse gas emissions from human activity. In places like London efforts like the newly enforced congestion charge in the center and practical alternatives like car sharing are attempts partially aimed at addressing this critical issue.

In his sociological manifesto, The Tipping Point: How Little things can make a Big Difference, Malcolm Gladwell writes of ideas and behaviors spreading like viruses instigating the mysterious changes that mark everyday life. I'm not sure why but seeing that leaflet at Angel tube kind of confirmed for me that car sharing is an idea whose time has come, an idea that is ready to tip. There certainly has been a lot of news coverage lately discussing the concept. But more than that it is a very 21st century idea - reducing hassle (rates include petrol, insurance and maintenance), offering flexible affordability (it's not that you don't ever drive, but you only drive when you really want to), and a hint of whimsical adventure (how about asking a girl on a date, waltzing over to a local car park to pick up your car, enjoying a romantic night out, dropping her off, dropping your car off, and retreating home to blissful slumber). Watch this space.

Labels: london, sociology

Just spent a hectic week in London starting Wednesday night under the lights of Highbury watching Arsenal take on Bayern Munich in an epic Champions League encounter. It hurts me to watch Arsene Wenger's brow furrow.

Thursday night was spent at the Catapult Club in throbbing New Cross, a musical hotbed of south London (it seems every band comes from Peckham, Brockley, New Cross, etc these days) watching a jazz improv evening. It might be the best night out in south London these days with storming performances from a range of young and old.

Friday night was spent at the Apollo Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue in the West End watching David Mamet's new play A Life in Theatre starring Captain Pickard (don't you hate type casting Patrick Stewart) and Pacey (Joshua Jackson) from Dawson's Creek. This was lightweight but enjoyable (especially if you are a woman keen to see Pacey in self-described 'tighty-whiteys') as the actors took us from backstage to the stage in a variety of segments. Probably was better suited for a smaller venue and features a melodramatic finale out-of-step with the rest of the script.

Saturday, and I mean all day Saturday, was spent in a marathon 5-and-a-half hour staging at the Royal Opera house of Wagner's Die Walküre, the second installement of his epic Ring trilogy. You either love it or hate it (I take the former perspective) but you can't dislike the fantasticlly renovated venue and the wonedrful English habit of bringing wine and dinner into the great hall and sprawling over steps and floor during interludes (the second a full hour in length) to sip Chianti and nibble Brillo.

Sunday concluded with the annual orchestral/choral presentation of Bach's St Michael's Passion at Royal Festival Hall. Said the elderly woman in front of us after hearing we had attended Wagner the night before: "Well at least you have redeemed yourself!"

So all in all Thierry Henry's lone strike through a resolute Bayern back-4 nips Woltan's lighting of the ring of fire for most cultured moment of a week that could be any week in the most fantastic of cities. As Oscar Wilde (or was it Samuel Johnson, I am never sure) said: "If you are bored of London you are bored of life".

Here's three sample tips of upcoming events you cannot miss if you reside in one of the villages, for if you prefer as Benjamin Disraeli said: "London is a roost for every bird".

• Theatre of the New Ear - A live double bill of readings of screenplays, accompanied by music and sound effects featuring Joel and Ethan Coen's Sawbones and Charlie Kaufman's Hope Leaves the Theatre. Performers include Meryl Streep, Steve Buscemi, Hope Davies and Philip Seymour Hoffman. (Royal Festival Hall, 13 May, 2005)
• Otello - A rare opportunity to see Ben Heppner & Renee Fleming together on this side of the Atlantic. (Royal Opera House, 28 June, 1,4,7,10,16 July, 2005)
• Legends of Hip-Hop - Live DJs spin, beatboxers box the beat, and lockdancers hold headspins. Experience the cultural phenomena of breakdancing first-hand with the best in the world. (Queen Elizabeth Hall, 25,26,27,28,29,30 March, 2005)

Labels: london, music, theatre

In the spirit of whimsical lists upon which the Media Project has made its name, I humbly offer five suggestions for your bedside table. They are all funny, very well written, and simply great reads.

• Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole :: If you haven't read this comic masterpiece consider yourself lucky. But don't wait another moment to savor the journeys of Ignatius Reilly in New Orleans. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize.
• The Restraint of Beasts, Magnus Mills :: Often overlooked tale of a Scottish fencing crew sent to England with the best laid plans and hapless consequences. No less than Thomas Pynchon calls it "a demented, deadpan-comic wonder".
• Flashman Papers, George MacDonald Fraser :: Follow Harry Flashman, cad extrodinaire, as he stumbles through the great moments of the 19th century. You love him and hate him at the same time.
• Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams :: About to smash on to the mainstream cultural radar as a series of films, this first book in the trilogy will make you laugh until your belly hurts. Really.
• Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S Thompson :: Another great author who kills himself (and the second on this list along with Toole) which isn't funny. But this book, his classic text, has taken on its own cultural presence and a thorough read will still leave you shaking your head and opening your eyes wide.

Labels: literature

While the rest of the world focuses attention on the bubbling cauldron in the middle east, Gates, Bono, Clinton and Blair pledge 2005, the year of Africa, enlightened worried Canadians have turned their attention to a much more pressing homeland security issue -- the Greenland Conspiracy.

Now to be fair, like all great conspiracy theories, I am not aware of anyone else on the planet with the insight to have identified this particular subterfuge. So let's get started, before it's too late and we're all assimilated into working for small shipyards and saluting Hans Enoksen, the great leader.

OK. It obviously all starts with that strange textbook fact from our primary school years that Greenland is icey (0% arable land) and Iceland is green. But there's more of course, if that's not enough.

While many have pointed the finger at the Danish in the territorial dispute with Canada over little Hans Island, a small rocky outcropping near the northernmost tip of western Greenland, it can be suggested that the Danish are acting at the behest of the Greenlandians, and not the other way around.

Let's put Greenland under the magnifying glass. Not that we need to when speaking of the world's largest island, three times the size of Texas, already suspicious because everyone knows nothing is bigger than Texas. And yet it is also suspiciously shrinking with developments in cartography, hiding from the world's glare. A finger has long been pointed at the unfairness of Greenland looking the the same size as China, and larger than Africa or South America. Now if we look at more recent projections like Peters or Winkel Tripel Greenland seems to be sinking into the sea or at least vanishing into the great white north.

Hmmm. All very interesting and suspicious. And with rumors swirling that hunters from Greenland were making their way across the frozen baring strait to illegally hunt Canadian polar bears, our strongest northern perimeter defense, the Canadian government finally decided to do something about it and launched a major military initiative, Operation Narwhal, that mainly consisted of us setting our helicopters on fire on our boats and losing ground troops overnight in icey caves, possibly kidnapped by evil Greenlandian polar bears, who everyone knows wear patches over one eye.

So all in all it reeks of conspiracy. And it hits home on a very personal note in our household where my girlfriend and I were thinking of picking ourselves up a little bit of retirement paradise with a chunk of Hans Island after reading a Dept of Fisheries and Oceans report that described it as "sandy in colour with a 150-foot cliff on one end". With global warming and the climate, described as "cool in summers, cold in winter" bound to heat up, we could be sitting on a beach-colored cliff-diving oasis. Alas, we are obviously not the only ones with such designs ... Damn you Hans Enoksen! ... Send more polar bears to the perimeter. This thing isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Labels: canada, funny