Throwback Thursday: The Path Less Listened To

(Originally posted May 5, 2009, this is not necessarily an excellent or insightful piece, but I only recently discovered an actual music video for the song referenced below and could not resist updating it.)

Me old china, Island Mike (aka rufus.baseball in the comments section), and I have a longstanding and willful misunderstanding of each others' definition of musical value. It has provided us both with a lot of entertainment over the years, or I have really missed my guess and it has been driving him completely mental ever since I once referred to him as a 'musical Nazi'. Maybe it only provides entertainment for one of us at a time, I dunno.

I have, on occasion, characterized him as a reactionary, hidebound dinosaur, revelling in the glories of ages long past, a musical conservative with about as much inclination towards experimentation as the caterer for the Leduc Alberta Wednesday Night Lions Club. He, in turn, has regarded me as a shallow, musical dilettante, prone to auditory self-injury, who is about as discriminating as Paris Hilton's social secretary and who displays a horrifying tendency to tolerate admittedly bad music simply because it is fun or danceable, which is ironic and (perhaps even horrifying) when you consider that I dress out at more than an eighth of a ton, and am hardly light on my feet.

That said, I appreciate all music much more because of Mike. He schooled me up on the blues roots of bands like Cream and Led Zeppelin that I might have dismissed as the sole provenance of the kids in school who majored in shop class and wore lumberjack shirts instead of jackets. He and my friend Rob taught me the joy of liner notes, and the subtlety needed to appreciate quality session musicians. In exchange, I exposed him to things like Suicidal Tendencies (through the Repo Man soundtrack), Sinead O'Connor, Yello and most recently, Corb Lund. I have much wider parameters than he does in terms of listenability, but he is unequivocating in his criticism of dishonest or lazy music and musicianship. Our "What is best in radio, Conan?" discussion continues unabated to this day, and leaves its smoldering hoofprints in the comments section under my post "In Defense of 80s Music".

Driving home tonight I heard this band, Christian Hansen & The Autistics, and their song "Cocaine Trade". I am still not sure if he is referring to cocaine or disco in the chorus:

"Oh my god, it's comin' back, comin' back
It was lame the first time 'round
Oh my god, it's comin' back, comin' back
I can't stand to hear the soooouunnd"

... but I am leaning towards disco, and for a song that opens with the word "Cowbell", that is ironic and funny, and it made me think of Island Mike immediately.

I also read an article about the band and it's founder, a former folk singer who still hasn't made up his mind whether or not he hates dance music or not, but who hasn't let that stop him from playing it. They are an Edmonton group who were the Sonic Band of the Month in February, and have started to get a little traction and I wish them well. There is no motion in the 'video' (snort) link below, but it provides an opportunity to hear the tune without endless radio scanning, and it may bring you a smile.  Yes, rufus, perhaps even you.

(Update: the group moved to Toronto in 2012, have dropped 'And The Autistics', were active as recently as January, but are not yet massive.)

Best Calgary Breakfast: OEB Breakfast Co.

Our timetable didn't let us traverse the Icefield Parkway either going to or coming from Banff, but coming back by way of Cowtown enabled us to have brunch at OEB Breakfast Co. (824 Edmonton Trail NE) for the second time in a month.

 

When we visited Calgary earlier, I had Googled the best breakfasts in Calgary, and OEB had shown up in the top 3 of almost every list, and topped some. And why not? A locally-sourced, chef driven breakfast and lunch menu, featuring dark-yolk Omega-3 enriched eggs grown by two barns full of their own chickens makes this tiny diner a highly sought after spot for early day sustenance.

 

And by highly sought after, I mean be prepared to wait; we got there before 11:30 on a Thursday and were told the wait would be 45 minutes to an hour. I was parking the car, but was delighted that Audrey made the call she did. They take your mobile number with an app (that you can download with your smartphone, you know, if you are on a data plan), and text you when your table is ready. With an occupancy of only 50 people and a growing reputation, such a demand is hardly surprising. In the meantime, we gassed up, found a nearby spot, propped the iPad up on the dash of the Flex and watched the first third of The Grand Budapest Hotel.

 

About an hour later, we wer,e at last, seated at our table. Like a lot of other legit diners, OEB (which stands for Over Easy Breakfast, btw) isn't much to look at it, both from the outside:

 

Or seated inside:

(Quaint decor, but it is pretty hard not to see a cockeyed alien in that picture once you turn the reflected lights into a mouth, isn't it?)

 

As long as the place is clean, I don't much care if the joint is crowded and chairs unupholstered, provided the food is good. And brother, the food is good. There are plenty of variations on your classic omelettes, eggs Benny, pancakes and what have you, but their signature dish is a breakfast poutine called Soul In A Bowl, which Fenya ordered.

 

Soul In A Bowl starts with seasoned diced potatoes seasoned twice fried in organic duck fat, to which are added Saint Cyrille cheese curds, slow cooked bacon lardons, two eggs poached the way you like 'em and brown butter hollandaise.

 

There are quite a few variations on this dish, some without eggs, some with added elements such as duck confit, or the scallops I had last time; Audrey tried the Chasing Chicken, substituting pulled poultry for the lardons, and served in one of those delightfully old-school take-out boxes that are such a novelty here in Canada.

I tried my hand at the Croque Madame, a type of inside-out breakfast Monte Cristo, featuring roesmary ham, fried potatoes and flor di latte mozzarella all served on sourdough rye and topped with two sunny side eggs and brown butter Hollandaise. I don't normally truck with breakfast sammiches I can't eat with my hands, but I'm glad I made an exception for this; heavenly!

 

Glory, one day short of becoming an official teenager, had what may have been the largest dish on the table and indisputably the richest: two glistening slices of French toast stuffed with New York style cheesecake glazed with Bailey's crème Anglaise. Everyone I've described it to calls it heart attack on a plate, but OEB calls it 'Sweet Dreams are Made of These' - I suppose you'd have to call that a draw, then, wouldn't you?

 

We've never had cause to partake, but OEB not only has an espresso machine and lattes available but they are also licensed, so if you have cause for an early morning Irish coffee or Mimosa, they are able to oblige you. I settled for a caramel latte instead. The servers are knowledgeable, friendly and as quick as they can be in such a crowded environment, but everything about OEB is worth the wait.

 

The diner is just a few blocks south from Peter's Drive-In, another Calgary standard, and easily accessible from the Deerfoot and Trans-Canada. Do yourself a favour the next time you have an opportunity to brunch it up in Cowtown, and get in line for OEB; you will be glad you did!

 

 

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Mountain Castle Getaway

Somehow my intermittently frugal nature and inability to resist a bargain has brought our middle-class household to the lap of luxury.

We had decided early in the year that we would take a vacation during spring break, the first time we have ever done so. We didn't really have the wherewithal to fly anyplace, so Audrey and I began looking at drivable alternatives. Our recent stay in Calgary was nice, but there is more for us to do there in the summer, and besides, we had just been there. The same could be said of Drumheller, and the warm winter left us apprehensive about snowmobiling around Revelstoke.

The two of us had talked for years about staying in one of the theme rooms at West Edmonton Mall, and taking in the waterpark, GalaxyLand, mini golf and the other attractions, but there was a concern that the girls might find it a little too 'cheesy'.

I don't know how we got onto thinking about the Banff Springs; we had spent our second anniversary there two decades ago during a 'bed & breakfast' sale and loved it, but the handful of times we had looked in the intervening years it had become unfeasible, possibly due to its purchase by the Fairmont hotel group from Canadian Pacific. Surprisingly, however, when I checked their special offers page, it looked like we perhaps could pull it off, so we immediately conspired to do so.

We elected to keep our destination a secret from the girls, partially out of our delight at surprises and also as a means of managing expectations. They knew only that we were leaving Monday and returning Thursday, and that we were driving, and to bring a swimsuit.

After dropping Nitti off with friends, we got on the road mid-morning, grabbed a bite at Peter's drive-in for a late lunch, and turned west on the Trans-Canada Highway. Audrey had told the girls we weren't leaving the province, and they aren't terribly familiar with the highways in the region, so speculation as to our destination ranged from Canmore to Lake Louise to Crowsnest Pass.

Once we passed Canmore, I told them that our first stop was the Upper Hot Springs in Banff, which is why we had told them to bring their swimsuits and leave them accessible. Pulling off the highway into Banff, I confessed we would be staying there as well, but evaded Fenya's inquiry as to precisely where.

Given my reputation as a deal-seeker, it's possible they were expecting to stay in a budget motel or even a hostel, but after our dip in the hot springs, as we drove down Spray Avenue and the towering Banff Springs Hotel began to loom over us, Fenya asked, "Is this one of the same chain as the Hotel MacDonald?" and I replied that indeed it was.

After a brief pause, Glory said, "But that's not where we're staying, right?"

"Actually," I said, "it is."

I'm profoundly grateful at how excited they became once I confirmed we would be lodging in what effectively amounts to a mountain castle. Both girls are keenly interested in the past, in a way that I never was as a child, and all of us have a tremendous appreciation for the mountains. I don't think either of them had any notion about what differentiates a luxury hotel (having had zero exposure to them!) and in truth, I only had the foggiest idea myself.

Thankfully I had joined the Fairmont President's Club (free) which meant they were expecting us at the curb with our keys and room number already sorted out. I had fully intended to drop off the ladies and then go park the Flex, but the valet option was only a little more than self-parking, and I didn't want to postpone our arrival any more than absolutely necessary, so I opted in for the additional service, and a polite young man whisked our ride off to the parkade.

In booking our room, there was nothing available in the original building that had two Queen-sized beds, so I had resigned myself to staying in the Stanley Thompson wing, an annex that used to house the hotel staff and was once called the Manor Wing. The default option offered no view, but for another $25 per night we could upgrade to a suite that did, so that was an easy enough choice to justify; after all, when could we expect to be back here again?

In most instances I am of the mind that the size and quality of the room is only of minor importance, since, ideally, all you would be doing is sleeping there. However, on this vacation, the accommodation was also the destination, so a slightly larger room, divided into living and sleeping areas, was ideal.

With our luggage in tow, we made our way from the traffic circle to the Stanley Thompson wing, bypassing the lobby entirely, and descended three floors to room 1107. We entered into a tidy suite, with two queen beds behind a sliding door, a decent sized washroom with two sinks, and a living area furnished with a couch, two comfy chairs, a desk and an office chair. Four bathrobes monogrammed with the Fairmont "F", an initial very suitable for our family and doubly so for Fenya, hung in the closet.

We didn't spend too much time in the room initially though, as we immediately wanted to get the lay of the land. After exploring our wing of the hotel and its attendant lobby and common area (with two billiard tables, a number of sitting arrangements and an immense oaken table), we got directions to the conference centre so the girls and I could do some 5-pin black-light bowling while Audrey took a shower and got a little reading in.

It's a somewhat convoluted route to get from the Stanley Thompson wing to the pedway, but as expeditious as it might have been to simply step outside and cut across the traffic circle, who could pass up a chance to meander the storied halls of such a legendary edifice?

The next day we spent a fair bit of time exploring the hotel, from the Alhambra room and it's expensive bronze gates, to the fossiled stone stairway outside it.

Also a good spot for a Lumiere impression, if you are so inclined.

Then we went through the baronial elegance of Mt. Stephen Hall.

Reproductions of armour and weapons abound, making it a wonderful venue for history nerds like ourselves. It could be a great place to hold a gaming convention...

A story persists that a bride's dress brushed a candle way back in the day, and in stamping out the flames, she plummeted down a stone staircase in the lobby to her death. Her ghost is rumoured to dwell there still, so it was decided we needed to get a picture of the 'Bride's Staircase', even though neither of the girls was comfortable miming out a falling pose.

There had been some sort of event the night before in the ballroom that had not yet been cleaned up, so the doors to it were closed. Our thinking was, though, that if they truly wanted to keep people out, they would have locked those doors, and since they hadn't, we entered to explore it and the attached conservatory.

I'm very glad we did, as I had never set foot in those rooms before, and they offered a spectacular panorama of the surrounding mountains as well as a period elegance in the decor. It was easy to imagine listening to a live orchestra in the ballroom like they had in the 1950s, or an elegant tea in the conservatory.

Riverside Hall is still one of my favourite parts of the Banff Springs Hotel; spacious, brightly lit and offering an immense view of the Bow Valley.

A wonderful place to sit and take in the view, but also suitable for dancing.

The castle theme extends to many of the appointments and decorations, such as the tapestries that decorate most of the halls. Audrey felt compelled to open most of the cupboards and armoires we encountered in our wanderings, and many of the furnishings are reproductions of items from European monasteries.

We only ate two meals in the hotel itself, partially to stay on budget and also to make the best use of our time. For breakfast on the first morning, we partook of the buffet in the Bow Valley Grill, which may be the best breakfast smorgasbord I have ever encountered; Full continental with bagels, pastries, porridges, hot fruit compote and cold cereal, but also a full omelette bar, trays of eggs Benedict, two types of sausages and bacon, pancakes, waffles, hot and cold smoked salmon, etc.

For supper on our last night we ate in The Waldhaus, built out of the former golf clubhouse and styled like a Bavarian hunting lodge. Venison, schnitzels, spaetzle, and an enormous appetizer tray of sausages and cheeses were chased down with huge steins of German Dunkel and cider. Having given up sweets for Lent, I elected instead to finish things off with a glass boot filled with Big Rock's Oatmeal Raisin Stout.

For me, it doesn't really get much better than drinkable souvenirs and our waiter complimented me on my choice of dessert.

We had brought along a fair amount of dried fruit and jerkies and the like, and the day we went to visit the Cave and Basin, the historic site that really kicked off National Parks in Canada, our simple, in-room breakfast was more than sufficient to our needs, and helped offset the decadence of some of our other meals.

We spent a fair bit of time exploring the luxurious shops on the lobby level, found a few things on sale and discovered that the President's Club membership also entitled us to a15% discount on most items, and netted a few souvenirs there as a result, including a book detailing the hotel's history. A new shop, L'Occitane en Provence, had their grand opening that Wednesday, and not only were the girls one of the first customers (which entitled them to a nifty little bag full of expensive lotions and...I dunno, skin maintenance items?), but Fenya got to participate in the ribbon cutting.

It was a bittersweet excursion in some ways; keenly aware of being middle-class in an upper class establishment, and bidding farewell to childhood, as Glory's 13th birthday loomed at the end of the week. Also, with Fenya entering grade 12 next year, we may only have one more spring break left to us as a family, which is, frankly, a somewhat daunting prospect to consider!

Still, we enjoyed ourselves immensely, whether walking through the elegant halls in our borrowed bathrobes and then swimming in the outdoor heated pool as snow fell upon our heads...

Or simply catching up on some reading in a tranquil spot...

Or trying our hand at some pool in the Stanley Thompson lobby area...

We made the most of our temporary exposure to "the good life", fully recognizing that, in our case, that good life is due to our ability to truly enjoy each other as a family, wherever we might happen to find ourselves. If we are careful, there is no reason for this to ever change, which hearkens back to the hotel's motto, Semper Eadem, which translates as 'Always the same', because some things should never change, no matter how they might grow.

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Throwback Thursday: Metal-Aged Guy

(This shameful re-run of a re-run was originally published April 5, 2009.  I have subsequently brought my youngest daughter to a metal concert in Calgary, while Island Mike's son (14 at the time) has grown into a strapping young lad who attends university and played baseball with the Edmonton Prospects last summer.)

Today's post will be familiar to some, as I sent it around via e-mail in December of last year. It was the response I got from this, however, that prompted me to start the blog in the first place, so I had always intended to include it. Besides, with half the household up all last night being sick (on Glory's birthday no less), it was either this or a posting called "Happy Birthday to (hugh)". What follows is an exhortation to my friend Mike who lives on Vancouver Island to cross the Strait with his 14 year-old son to see the "Ultimate Beatdown Tour" that was playing in Vancouver the following evening.

Warning: the following post does contain traces of pottymouth. Forewarned is half an octopus.
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Why should you see the show? First of all, you have a serious obstacle to overcome in the form of a major waterway just to get to the show, and I respect that, but remember that you will not have to deal with waiting for 45 GORRAM MINUTES in MINUS 25 DEGREE COLD. Damn, that was awful, I could barely remember the sensation of even having a big toe by the time we got in to the Edmonton Event Centre (formerly Reds at WEM). And as soon as we are in the doors, it is the mandatory coat check, which slows the line up AND keeps us close to the soul-chilling temperatures of the great outdoors. And then we find out that the only food in the place is the Funky Pickle pizza stand, AND because it is an all ages show, you can't take your beer out of the cordoned area in front of the stage, so if we want to beer it up (and, not surprisingly, we do), we are going to have to go and stand by the bar where Pete has at least recce'd us a sweet spot and made friends with the bartender. So, in short, at least your venue will not suck nearly as badly and you probably won't freeze to death waiting for the doors.

Secondly, the opening acts. I had not heard of either opening act, so I was prepared to listen to two sets of badly produced amateur speed metal with no sense of either grandeur or irony in order to get to Dragonforce, who are pretty cool and clearly have a decent understanding of that "take your work seriously, don't take yourself seriously" thing. so when the first band comes up on stage wearing the oversized Frank Frazetta shoulder pads with spikes and all, I'm rolling my eyes and thinking, "oh brother, 'ere we go...", when they rip into a big instrumental that not only sounds well played, but strangely familiar. Is it classical? No, more like folk music...Russian maybe?

Then it all clicks together: I am listening to a speed metal interpretation of "Kalinka", a Russian tune most famous for being the music from Tetris, and the band is called Powerglove (like the old Nintendo accessory), and they are the premier purveyors of "video game metal". Possibly the sole purveyors, but it matters not. And they are a riot: they introduce themselves and state plainly that they are here to "fuck up your childhoods"; no vocals to speak of, except the finale, and they play bits of Sonic the Hedgehog, Super Mario and Final Fantasy VII. After asking if there are any warriors in the crowd (to an enthusiastic response), the frontman says "good, because we need about 15 skeleton warriors to wield these INFLATABLE SWORDS!" and the crowd goes apeshit, "And this MIGHTY CLUB!" which is an oversized neon pink inflatable baseball bat. About midway through the set, Pete notices that frontman's shoulder pads are actually the turtle shell thingies from the Mario games, a nice detail. For the finale, Powerglove rocks up the crowd with a stirring rendition of the "Power Rangers" theme. A great time, and I bought their disc.

So then the second act comes on, and Mike, Pete and I have reconciled ourselves to the fact that the other opening act could not POSSIBLY be as cool as Powerglove. So the lights go down, the stage is black and a Finnish accent booms out "Edmonton.. are you ready for BATTLE METAL?" and from the response, apparently a number of the crowd really are. So this band, Turisas, hit the stage, rocking the Battle Metal with what I would call a significant hardness, with a six piece band, all decked out in furs and red and black striped warpaint reminiscent of the hedonism scene from Conan the Barbarian's. They've got a vocalist, bass, lead guitar and drums, as well as a crazy ass guy with a cut down violin and.. a female accordionist. I know, I know, you've seen one Finnish folk-metal band with a female accordionist (or as Mike says,'accordionatrix'), you've seen them all; and yes, she was cute; Pete compared her favourably to Sandahl Bergman in the aforementioned Conan, but I think that sells her a little short), but I am new enough to the world of international metal that it was still a novelty for me.

And this band really does rock. Yes, I bought their CD, "The Varangian Way" too, and not just because it references the Varangians mentioned in those John Ringo 'Kildar' novels. They remind me of a less orchestrated, rougher version of Rhapsody/ Rhapsody of Fire. The folk influences are deffo there (violin and accordion, hello?), but the vocals are growlier, and there are a lot of sing along choruses that would not have been out of place in a Viking mead hall. Early in the set, I turn to Pete and say, "You know, these guys would do a positively kick ass rendition of Rasputin, eh?" and he agrees emphatically, so when, not three songs later, a familiar beat is followed by "There lived a certain man, in Russia long ago..." Pete is convinced I am psychic.

Their lead singer and warlord, according to the liner notes, ran a very thin line between getting the crowd warmed up for the headliners and formally inciting a riot. "these guys up front look bored, I'm sorry to say. They are security, and it is their job to keep the stage secure. You aren't giving them very much to do, ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS? they are getting paid to do nothing, and it probably pisses them off. I KNOW IT PISSES ME OFF!! START SOMETHING!!!" But thankfully, order was maintained, even though Turisas have enough of a presence in the metal community that a number of young fans were kitted out in warpaint and furs as well.

And Dragonforce? Just an excellent show with absolutely breathtaking guitar work by the two leads. Great crowd participation, band interaction, the works. There are enough videos and the like on YouTube that you can certainly get the idea (esp. "Operation Ground and Pound") of what to expect, but I maintain that watching highly trained and skilled professionals who clearly love their work are a joy to watch in just about any field, doubly so in music, and even more so in heavy metal.

One of the guitarists is named Sam Totman, and Mike has informed us that it is a rare enough name in England that who knows? they may be related. Watching Sam onstage and seeing a multitude of Mikely mannerisms manifest themselves was just about enough to convince me, and there is certainly a passing similarity, even if Mike is about a foot taller. After the show, we ended up talking to both Sam and the accordionatrix while we waited 40 minutes for the coat check tide to subside, so Mike and I got our Turisas discs signed, and Mike got his picture taken with Sam after telling him the relativity theory. Sam wished his Dad was there "because 'e'd be all 'oo,er, family tree" et cetera, but yeah, nice guy, funny, sarcastic, and enough like Mike that I would not bet against them being related to some degree. Oh, and Pete and I read on Wikipedia that the accordionista is a step-in player filling in for the original bloke who "disappeared under mysterious circumstances while in Amsterdam." No shit.

Had I taken Fenya, she would not have been close to the youngest person there at age 10. I saw a lad of probably five riding on his dad's shoulders, wearing a Dragonforce t-shirt. And aside from a gratuitous amount of f-bombs and the occasional lewd gesture, there was nothing in the show I would have called age-inappropriate, unlike the previous show I saw at Reds, which was Gwar(!). Fenya had asked to come, as she likes the non-growly metal in general and Dragonforce in particular, and having experienced the show, I wish now I had taken her along. You have an opportunity to go and experience with your boy the spiritual inheritors of the music of your youth. they are no Iron Maiden, but very decent musicians with great showmanship and tremendous humour. It could be a year or two before another show like this comes to your neck of the woods, making your son 16 by then, and either insanely busy in the family tradition, or just unwilling or uncomfortable doing such things with his dad. I just don't want to see you down the road, listening to Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle" holding a picture of better days while a single tear tracks down your unshaven cheek, et cetera... but I think you get my point.
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Unfortunately, with the limited amount of lead time they were given, Mike and his son were not able to attend the show, but he let me know that he appreciated the heads up, and that my experience had given us both a lesson in terms of seizing opportunities. On the other hand though, I am helping some friends arrange the music for their wedding reception this summer, and since playing "Rasputin" is practically an obligation in such circumstances, it is nice to know I can spice things up a little bit, courtesy of Turisas, and my mates who brought me along to the show.

A Glimpse of Two Gulchites

A recent radio article discussing terrible job interview questions revealed that, on top of the normal nervousness involved in putting one's best foot forward for a prospective employer, an interviewee might have to field a doozy like, "How would you go about moving Mt. Fuji?"

My instinctive response, though I don't know if I would have the courage to voice it in a job audition, would be something along the lines of, "I guess this is similar to that question about 'how does a Pygmy go about eating an elephant?', and the answer at its simplest is, 'one bite at a time'. If I have to move Mt. Fuji by shovel, for instance, it comes down to 'one shovel-load at a time', doesn't it?"

The irony is that in actual day-to-day living, I can often find myself paralyzed by the scope or scale of a project, or multiple projects, and end up darting between them ineffectively, or worse yet, abandoning them until I have a better approach in mind. This has even impacted the amount of hobby work I have done lately.

Although the best way to complete a large modelling project is to leave it as accessible as possible so that you can work on it as time permits, I vastly prefer to have large, dedicated blocks of time that I can use to really focus on them and easily see my progress. The trouble is, as life gets increasingly busy, and my offspring become more and more active, that sort of time becomes difficult to come by!

I thought for sure I would get more work done on Serenity Gulch once Fenya's obligations to the Edmonton Opera Company were done with, but there is always another event, meeting, visit or committee, or at least that's how it seems. Wanting to complete a bunch of bystanders for some of the scenarios, a posse for Rob, since painting is more difficult for him than for me, some of my own models, plus the need for more buildings and scenery in the town itself, I looked for a day off when I could throw some serious effort at one of those tasks.

But maintenance issues and other commitments seems to conspire against me (or at least, that's how it seemed at the time), until I find myself less than two months out, with a scheduled renovation project jockeying for time with everything else. Some of the participants were hoping to come over for painting bees, since they had no hobby supplies of their own, and weekends were now in short supply. Had my reluctance to do piecemeal work doomed Gaming & Guinness X to be Gulchless?

When it came to a head, I offered a painting session yesterday, which Mike was willing to attend, and furthermore, was willing to take all the paints over to his place, and potentially host some bees at his place (far closer to where the others live) until the bathroom is completed in mid-April.

Breaking the seal on miniature painting after such a long absence felt really good, and I managed to get a couple of Rob's figures largely sorted out, his trail cook and scout:

With the paints out of the house, the first priority is renovation prep, but once that is out of the way, I can get back to work on some buildings and scenery. Once the new bathroom is in place, assembly should be done, for the most part, and I can focus solely on painting up buildings right up until G&G X.

It might not have quite as many structures as I had envisioned at the start, and some of the more ambitious elements I had wanted to add to Serentity Gulch may have to wait until a later date, but it feels good to be moving forward again, even if the pace and dedicated time isn't what I had hoped.

In the end, one bite at a time should get me and this tiny town to where we need to be by the end of May.

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Pop Culture Gladiators: Star Wars vs. Marvel

So, sci-fi blog io9 is doing one of those ridiculous contests that pits various TV and movie franchises against each other in an approximation of the March Madness college basketball tournament, and they are now down to their Final Four:

Star Trek (TV) vs. Doctor Who

Star Wars vs. Marvel (Movies).

Currently, and perhaps unsurprisingly, Star Wars is currently edging out Marvel, but it is honestly closer than I anticipated:

Now, as big a fan as I am of the original trilogy, I found it very easy to vote for Marvel. Why? Because Marvel has somehow managed to do the impossible.

Marvel, through what I presume to be a combination of alien technology and dark magic, have brought together an incongruous menagerie of different writers, directors and producers, from all sorts of backgrounds (The guy who made Elf is shooting Iron Man? A Shakespearean Brit is doing Thor? Some TV comedy duo is writing and directing a spy-thriller featuring Captain America?) and have not only come away with an astonishingly decent and consistent stable of ten movies (zero misfires by my math, one by Earl's), but then placed them in a shared cinematic universe and capped off their first phase by putting three title characters from their own feature films together in the first real superhero team movie!

Star Wars, on the other hand, starts off brilliantly with a new-fangled, old-fashioned look at space opera, then can't make up its mind about the tone it wants to take, and is hampered by no one more than its visionary writer-director, who asserted a micro-manager's control over practically every element, even when delegating might have rendered better results (e.g. dialogue, for instance).  And that's before you take the prequels into consideration.  It's a universe I am strangely looking forward to returning to, but as both entertainment and an accomplishment, I don't think it compares to what Marvel has done.

(Sorry, let me just kick this soapbox out of the way here...)

Now, should you feel the same way I do, and you have a moment to spare, I heartily encourage you to head over to io9 and vote, not against Star Wars, but in support of Marvel.  Tell your friends, if you've a mind to, and help narrow the gap and perhaps even create an upset. Face front, True Believers!

After that, it's everyone for themselves when the victor takes on Star Trek.

UPDATE:
Star Wars ended up being victorious, but Marvel kept the margin close, to within 250 of nearly 7,000 votes.  On Monday, Star Wars (Movies) vs Star Trek (TV) begins, and that should be an interesting comments section to peruse...

Throwback Thursday: The Cycle Repeats Itself

(Originally posted March 31, 2009)

And now, a slightly comic denouement to the previous post, to serve as a virtual sorbet and make the transition to future silliness more palatable...

Mark is a friend of mine (former boss, actually) who lives in the U.K. and is a tremendous history buff. He sent me an e-mail telling me he enjoyed Opa's story, and added this: More WWII info for Fenya; apparently if German tourists get 'uppity' (a habit they find hard to break) in Holland the Dutch say 'can my grandad have his bicycle back?' as the occupying forces left in such a hurry they stole every mode of transport they could get their hands on!

Needless to say, I found this pretty funny, and told a few people at work, a few of my mates, the wife and so forth. That evening, she was on the phone with my father-in-law to thank him for the tale, and put me on the phone to tell him Mark's anecdote, which I related with glee.

"It's true," he said. "I had a bicycle near the end of the war. It was old, and worn out, and all the leather had come off the seat. Springs were all sticking out of it, so it hurt my bottom to ride it. But near the end of the war, a drunken German soldier came to the farm and just told me, 'Kid, I need that bicycle.' And I said, 'Take it.' And he rode off, and that was that."

Now, I figure a dilapidated bicycle is a small price to pay to hasten the departure of occupation forces, sad as it is to be taking a toy from a 12 year old Dutch boy. But there had to be some measure of satisfaction in knowing that if you wanted to, you could probably track the guy down by his funny walk after he rode it all the way to the border in a semi-anesthetized state, right?

And I am just waiting for the inappropriate moment when my daughter asks some visiting German person, "Can my granddad have his bicycle back? No, seriously..."