Bulletin Board

Over the course of my life I’ve subscribed to and read several music publications. These serve several purposes. One of the most important is to inform me about what’s going on in music and to tell me about bands I should check out. Another is to entertain me with some well written articles. These things aside entertainment journalism is invaluable because of the depth and appreciation it can provide for music.

Recently I was listening to an interview with Mark Foster of Foster the People on World Cafe on NPR and learned some very interesting things about him. For example he was a freelance composer and moved to L.A. at the age of 18 — which is not for the meek.

I also learned that “Pumped up Kicks” is about school shootings. I would never have guessed this. I thought the lyrics were kind of a mix between a graphic novel and a western but nothing more sinister. Listening to Foster explain his motives in writing the song and his love of characters in music helps me to better appreciate his music.

Entertainment journalism is valuable because it allows us to develop a greater understanding of the music, movies and other culture that are such an important part of our lives.

Take for example Pink, an artist that would be a guilty pleasure if I felt guilty about loving her so much. On time I watched the Behind the Music on her and since have developed an appreciation for where he music is coming from and her background. It’s not just that she’s a little bit badass and can write some catchy songs but that I understand deeper into the music she creates.

The song “Every Breathe You Take” is about stalking but most people don’t notice this because they’re caught up in the catchy beats and good music. Or “Dog Days Are Over” which has much darker lyrics than one would think based on the catchy refrain.

Often times songs are about far more than first appears and a great deal of hit songs are actually about pretty terrible subject matter. Entertainment writing opens our eyes to what’s beneath the surface.

(Source: NPR)

One of the hardest parts of any long trip is the baggage that you have to lug behind you. Too often it is painful to carry one’s collection of clothing up a step staircase or heave it onto an overhead luggage rack while trying not to kill yourself or the person in the seat below you.

Last summer I decided that since I was going to be backpacking across Europe taking a backpack was the perfect solution. No painful dragging while going up stairs, it would be perfect. Then I went to the airport and the weight hung on my shoulders and they ached. I hadn’t even left home yet but it was too late I was set to leave.

So I arrived in Paris and thanks to a tremendous effort I managed to stay upright while putting my backpack on. It was the first day of my trip and I hated this stupid backpack already. I trekked to my hostel and was glad to be rid of the wretched backpack.

Over my stay in Paris I debated whether it was worth getting a rolling bag. I had borrowed the backpack from my sister — she is slightly taller than me, which might be part of my problem — and she expected it to return with me so I couldn’t simply abandon it. After much deliberation I decided I would spend the money. Comfort is the most important thing in the world right?

There was a discount luggage store by hostel by it was closed the day before I left so I had to go wandering instead. I asked around and was told to check at train stations. After a couple of misses I found a place in the Gare de Est that had a good deal on a rolling duffel that would fit my backpack — it happened to be the time of summer blowout sales in France. Excited and regretting the expense I wheeled it shamefully back to my hostel.

I lifted my backpack into it before making the trip to catch my train out of Paris and was delighted by how easy it was. I thought just because they call it backpacking doesn’t mean that you need a backpack. Hindsight 20/20.

It served me well for the most part and when I needed to climb staircases I took the backpack out and carried the empty bag but it was not build to last. The wheels started to crack apart and no amount of duct tape could fix it.

After getting off the train in Glasgow (a month after the bag was first purchased) one of the wheels ceased to turn. I stopped and looked at the problem. The outer rubber had ripped in half and was getting stuck. It would have to be cut off so I pulled out my Swiss Army Knife and hacked away at it, looking nice and sketchy in the process.

My bag was on life support for the rest of the trip and I was happy to pack all of my stuff safely in the backpack inside the bag for the flight back because several holes patched with duct tape seemed ripe to break open. The bag was then thrown out. Next time I will think about a nice hybrid — a rolling suitcase with backpack straps for stairs.

I often think of the world in terms of similes — figures of speech using like or as for those of you who zoned out a lot in English class. Some of the authors I adore like Douglas Coupland are masters of the simile. If not for his skill in using it I probably wouldn’t love him as much. I understand things when I am able to come up with a comparison for them, which is helpful in academics but may annoy friends who mistake my saying so it’s like this for self-indulgence.

Recently, I was told that I needed to start watching Community because it is the new Scrubs — another simile there folks. I used to love Scrubs but have reached the point where I’ve seen every episode so many times that it’s not the same as it used to be.

The same friend who insisted I watch community also insisted that she is like Brita, because they both say bagel strangely — and are often made fun of because of it — and are the badass feminist kind.

While watching Scrubs we would have the same debates. Everybody wanted to be J.D., one of my friends took great pride in being like Dr.Cox. I always wondered why it was that we had to compare ourselves to these characters. At times it fit, but claiming being like a character didn’t make sense to me. It was like taking a quiz on Facebook that assigned you as a Grinfindor — of course — or Turk — how did that happen, must retake it. At times we were similar but despite numerous friends claiming to be J.D. I have yet to meet the guy.

The same happened last night with an excited discussion of Community. My friends who had seen it enthusiastically discussed how great it is — really you should watch it right now —then the cast was assigned. I was a combination of Abed and Brita, I feel a little bit like Abed every time I matter of factly make a popculture reference, and my friend was Annie, he’s a good guy who can occasionally be a rebel, and so it went.

The whole time I thought to myself it’s so arbitrary. You’re not really that much like Annie but I need someone to pick. It’s not like she’s a total doppelganger but she’s close enough right? Then we assigned Pierce to one of our friends and giggled. So much can be implied or read into these random roles we project onto ourselves or are assigned.

Having now watched both seasons I understand the comparison between the two shows. They are both sitcoms about a bunch of oddballs who build friendships and bond through a common circumstance (employment at Sacred Heart, attending Greendale). If not for an easy comparison to something I already watch like Scrubs or How I Met Your Mother I probably wouldn’t have gotten into this show. The same goes for album reviews, tv reviews and so on.

We take comfort in comparisons. It’s nice to find the most similar system. With shows based around group dynamics it’s fun to think of where you fall. Who’s our Jeff, the accidental leader — perhaps this role befits me too? You want to be like them but you also want to make a comparison to your own life. We think in categories or in my case like and as.

I’ve been taking stock of my library books — far too many of which are scattered carelessly on the floor — and figuring out which ones I am reading, which ones I want to read and which ones I should give up on.

I have a book called Submersion Journalism that had a boring introduction and first article and I never got into. It has been on my floor for a month abandoned, and unloved and its final renewal is approaching. It has an article by Ken Silverstein, who I saw speak at NASH 73 (this past year’s Canadian University Press Conference) and he specifically mentioned the article. I should read it but I just don’t know if I will have time.

There’s also Boozehound, which was a delightful and entertaining read but I have hit the wall, and by that I mean the last ten pages. After two weeks of neglect and distraction I just can’t get back into it.

I need to figure out where I left My War by Colby Buzzell, another amazing book I have been distracted from.

I also have a few books that I took out but that don’t seem that inspiring. Random books by people who write the odd article I like can end that way.

A trip to the library is impending as a new round of holds awaits me. I may fall in love with some of them and if I do I hope I can be more disciplined at finishing them.

Lady Gaga’s new album is out, or so an old issue of NME tells me. I always seem to miss her singles — we have stopped listening to Kool 105 (yes with a K, not a C) at work so not only am I no longer subjected to “ET” and “The Lazy Song” five times a day I am no longer in a position to be exposed to “The Edge of Glory” — and hear them a few weeks after their initial unveiling.

I assume it will be catchy, dramatic, shocking and the same but slightly different than all of her other songs. One time I was over at a friend’s house and we stumbled onto a live performance of “Born this Way” while trying to find something to watch. Gaga danced and dazzled with strange backup dancers behind her — all of which were as androgenous as could be — before she simulated a birth sequence. We couldn’t take our eyes off or change the channel, regardless of our impulses to do otherwise and save ourselves. Curiosity killed the cat.

After the strange performances finished my friend said, “Wow, that just happened.” That’s the feeling I am left with after every Gaga picture, antic, performance or music video I see. When she shows up at the MTV Music Video Awards or on the cover of Rollingstone dressed in plastic bubbles she is trying her best to appal us, shock us, surprise us and it works.

I can’t help but wonder if we would like her as much if she was sincere and didn’t put on this show. She’s not one of those artists that is all about the music, in fact, at times it feels like the music is secondary to the strange outfits and behaviour — her music isn’t bad but it’s not the whole package either. Would her music stand up if she wasn’t putting on this act? If she wasn’t taking it so far?

You also get the feeling that she’s smart and knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s the kid in junior high school who died their hair crazy colours for attention, but she happens to have a cool personality beneath it all — as I said the music’s not bad.

There are other artists who also feel fake to various degrees. Bruno Mars seems too puppy dog cutesy to be real and Katy Perry spends an hour doing here makeup every day but this is pretty standard and neither of them take themselves too seriously or have legions of crazy fans taking them too seriously. We know it’s fun and not entirely real, but we can still get the feel for the person underneath. There’s someone there and they happen to wear jeans sometimes.

Then there’s people like Janelle Monet, who has enough funkaliciousness to make anyone fall in love with her. “Tightrope” is a masterpiece in hit song writing and enough to make you a little jealous that you don’t have hair like hers. The music video has a strange bit about a mental hospital but this really needn’t happen, her music and funky dancing with cool outfits — black shirts with white ties and suspenders is a great look — are enough. Her twitter feed is an interesting experience and I have stopped following her because it was too much.

So my question is why do they bother? Why have the strange outfits? Why add the strange subplot to the otherwise cool music video? Why come up with a fake persona? When did wearing jeans and t-shirts stop cutting it?

Probably because pop stars stopped thinking they could get by on sheer coolness and talent. They need a draw, it needs to be a show. Maybe that’s why I am very glad that I am now listening to the indie radio station where certain songs are played nonstop but I know that the people who wrote them let the music speak first and the press shots second. 

But it doesn’t have to be that way. I remember watching footage of The Clash performing. It was dramatic, chaotic and musical. They were putting on a show and their outfits were trying to do something but they meant it. Maybe today’s popstars need to watch Joe Strummer frantically jumping about on stage barely managing to make it back to the microphone for the next verse. Now that’s a cool I can believe in.

I visit my friendly neighbourhood Youtube and check out “The Edge of Glory” and the song is OK, yes just OK. I can only watch Gaga gyrate on a fire escape in a bad wig for so long before I get bored. I would rather watch OK GO’s “This Too Shall Pass” which is an experiment in creativity, not taking a tired old formula (performer dances in location x), and the song is better.

Then Adele comes to mind. I watch her perform “Someone like you”, a hauntingly beautiful song. There is nothing but her voice and a piano. That same feeling of “wow, that just happened” comes to mind but in a totally different way.

Most so-called Facebookers know that social media is both a powerful and dangerous tool. Some of us know that what you post on Twitter can ultimately come back to haunt you, while others do as they please and will think of the consequences later.

A recent Good article discusses a company called Social Intelligence that goes deep into your online life and builds a profile for potential employers.

Using deep search tools that make Google look like AltaVista, Social Intelligence will provide potential employers with an ultra-modern background check, one that scours the internet for a person’s blog posts, pictures, and uploads to social media sites. If the employer doesn’t like Social Intelligence’s file on you, you don’t get the job. Not only that, but Social Intelligence then keeps your collected information in an archive for seven years.

This is alarming on several levels. Beyond what one posts on Twitter, their website and Linkedin individuals should reasonably be able to protect themselves from doing anything too embarrassing that would put off a potential employer.

What employers would want with my Facebook page is beyond me. Facebook in no way reveals skills they may be looking for — aside from the obviously ignored ability to socialize and get along with others. Say a company is looking for a geologist. What would Facebook tell them about potential candidates, probably very little. Truly valuable information can be acquired through interviews, resumes, cover letters, references and things of that sort. If said aspiring geologist has a blog dedicated to how much they love Glee or Community or the Bachelorette this reflects in no way on their geological knowledge.They should be able to judge character based on standard hiring practices.

What difference does it make to them if somebody has pictures of them at Denny’s that were obviously taken at 4 a.m.? Who cares? It might just be a good thing to hire people who aren’t perfect — which let’s face it nobody is — and can have a little fun.

The fact that the information this website gives to companies is of little use makes it even worse that they feel the need to violate the privacy of potential employees and snoop around in their private lives.

Most people are good about protecting their privacy and not putting anything they regret online, although not everybody is very wise about this. Employees have control over what they post but the fact that employers would seek out every dirt little secret is invasive and probably useless. There’s two sides to the trust coin: we’ll be reasonable and you’ll respect us.

Even if I have nothing to hide I still want to. 

(Source: GOOD)

I first read about The Futureheads when their name graced the pages of NME, which at the time I was fairly certain meant that I should like them. I listened to their first self-titled album in 2004 — this feels like a long time ago — and was both disappointed and impressed.

Their sound has moments of beauty and magic but more often that not they are annoying and whiny. Noises clash and guitar chords and vocals clang on and on like an annoying roomate that just won’t stop making noise when you want to study. Some of their songs make you really want to like them.

Their cover of Kate Bush’s “Hounds of Love” is a soaring piece of magic that I have listened to numerous times. It is subtle and lets the vocals tell the story. It would go great in any soundtrack or playlist. Few bands can touch this.

Unfortunately, the rest of their album falters and stumbles. It is annoying and noisy in all the wrong ways. It seems the music they write can’t touch what they can do with a beautiful cover.

Since 2004 The Futureheads disappeared from my musical radar. They released two album I never listened to. I probably should sometime. A few days ago at the library I was checking out the librarians picks of cds and there sat The Chaos released in 2010 and I have been giving it a listen. At times it is good and at times it is bad. It is like watching an athlete who never lived up to their potential but has occasional moments of brilliance. 

After “The Hounds of Love” finishes “Man Ray” starts to play and it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I want to change back, go to where this band shines, where they live up to the 2004 hype, but then the kachung kachung riffs jostle me and I give up. Back to “The Hounds of Love” and thinking of what could’ve been.

We live in a world of many vices, which for me include coffee and belting out “Pocket Full of Sunshine” loudly and out of tune with my sister. The online site/magazine Good often encourages readers to cut out vices and improve our general well being.

Each month Good chooses a new thing they want people to work on. Among these things they have included for calls to reduce the amount people drive. Apparently, this is hard to do in LA. I personally find this call admirable. There is nothing more depressing than sitting in bumper to bumper traffic waiting an hour to complete a ten minute drive. I could not survive this every day and still have the will to live. This is what bikes, transit, rollerskates and walking are for — even in -20 weather. This month they tried to get people to reduce their meat consumption. While I don’t feel a compelling desire to become a vegetarian this is also an admirable goal and there are lots of good vegetarian dishes out there.

Recently one writer argued that people need to reduce their usage of the words “awesome,” “amazing” and “ridiculous.” While she presented eloquent and well constructed arguments in the article I disagree with her basic premise. These words exist in their urbandictionary usages for a reason. They fill a need to communicate certain things, and if not these words another would fill their place.

Awesome exists so that when a co-worker hands me that thing I was looking for I can say something hipper than thanks-a-bunch or stand their awkwardly and quietly. It is short, socially acceptable and better than saying too much or too little. It is also far better than texting a friend a winky face or curt reply. Awesome says everything that needs to be said in a friendly and non-offensive way.

There are times when one doesn’t want to be too formal. When an articulate individual uses “big words” with the wrong crowd they can come off as being pretentious or just won’t be understood.One doesn’t want to be a show off.

Amazing and ridiculous also serve similar purposes to awesome — although I abuse awesome so much more. They are the perfect response in a situation where you need to say something but not too much.

One should never take oneself or one’s language too seriously. There are times when one should talk and behave a certain way. There are times when formal, articulate language is perfect and fits in nicely. Other times it is nice not to take yourself too seriously. Language is fluid and situational. It’s nice to relax and have some fun.

Sometimes you need to set aside your wonderful playlist of moving and mellow indie folk songs because your friends will get mad at you for putting them to sleep. Instead you need to bring out the Nelly Furtado. Belt out “Maneater.” Live a little.

(Source: GOOD)

Today I got off work early and ended up in Pages, an independent bookstore in Calgary near where I work. Pages is a dangerous place to go and generally one leaves with one if not several books they may or may not have needed. After flipping through a few Penguin classics — there is something about that little Penguin logo that makes a book seem so much more appealing and readable — I decided to get a copy of Slaughterhouse Five.

I have been meaning to read Kurt Vonnegut for a while and almost bored Slaughterhouse Five from a friend but left it at her house. Problem solved I now have my own copy to read and abuse.

So far it has been different than I had expected — most books obviously are but still some authors surprise you, while others Hemingway for instance, are exactly what you thought you would find. The tone is intriguing and reminds me of Hunter S. Thompson. It is a break from the creative nonfiction and Steinbeck and Hemingway style fiction I typically read. Much like the iced americano I got today — they were out of the iced coffee I usually get, which was a bummer, and not in a spoiled way but in the going and get coffee during my lunch break is one of those simple things that makes life worthwhile — it tastes a little bitter and unusual but it has a lot in common with my usual diet and is something I might get used to.

Many people have told me that Vonnegut is incredible and that much adoration doesn’t come from nothing. And I do love Hunter S. Thompson. His informal tone, while at times a little doped out, is captivating and sincere. Few people manage to do what he does. In Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail in ‘72 he captured the spirit of his country and how the campaign affected every day people and volunteers. Thompson’s voice is ever present and has much to offer the reader. I hope Vonnegut, for all the ways his style reminds me of Thompson, can do the same.

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Today my friends and I headed to the Palomino, a bar in Calgary that is in a sketchy area — one might say the wrong side of the tracks. It is a western style joint that was decorated without the assistance of a single level and has the usual clutter of band posters, celebrity pictures, sports related signs — for example Steelers parking only, this bar seems to be very pro-Steelers given the decor — and liquor logos.

On the wall above us was an orange banner for Jagermeister with the deer and cross sitting large and prominent in the middle. First I noticed that the image is really quite striking and the deer looks rather beautiful. Then I thought about the history of Jagermeister and the fact that this bar had not one but two Jagermeister cold shot dispensing machines and I knew that Jason Wilson would be proud. Boozehound had succeeded in educating and entertaining me.

I initially discovered Jason Wilson because he is the series editor of the Best American Travel Writing series. His introduction to the 2009 edition was moving and informative — something a lot of introduction fail epically at doing. He is the liquor columnist at the Washington Post and wrote a book about liquor.

It is adventurous, interesting and informative. He is a witty and blunt writer whose opinions are to be found everywhere as is his passion for the subject matter. He discusses the history of liquor and mixed drinks and ties it back to prohibition. It is interesting to think about how prohibition hindered the bartending profession and shaped the drinks that are served at bars all over North America. Wilson tries to take an approach that brings in history, culture and chemistry to build an understanding of liquor for the less informed.

What does it mean to most people that a spirit is “prickly” or “silky and rich” or that it tastes of “Danish and black raisins”? If I tell people that a cognac is “mature yet owns the promise of youthfulness,” will they now understand what I mean? Do I understand what that means? No, this was no way to change people’s hearts and minds and introduce them to the wide world of flavors. This was too much like the language of wine, and so many critics had already ruined the enjoyment of wine. I wasn’t going to be an accomplice in that sort of thing when it came to spirits.

Wilson ties memories to spirits instead of just throwing out words. It can often be hard to review something or give an idea of what it tastes like, sounds like, looks like when all those things are tied to things outside words, things that for Wilson are untranslatable or ineffable. He also writes about spirits in the context of geography and takes us on journeys to Norway and Italy as he tastes local spirits and drinks with locals.

As a lover of the fauxtinis that Wilson is so dismissive of, given new life by J.D. of Scrubs and his appletini addiction — nectarinis are better in my personal opinion — I am the audience that created the flavoured vodka trend he so despises, or at least I was right after I turned 18 and didn’t know what to order aside from rum and cokes. I am not a boozehound of spirit nerd and neither are my friends. We drink what tastes good and what is affordable. I don’t have a taste for wine and I find real martinis to be toxic tasting. I do enjoy beer — although my taste is usually based on whatever happens to be on special.

It is nice to receive a bit of an education about the drinks that are out there looming in menus and pop culture beyond my understanding and palate. Wilson has an excellent sense of humour that makes the book interesting through and through.

Please understand: I am by no means here to defend the Redheaded Slut. I think anyone who serves one of those 1980s shots-with-a-naughty-name — Sex on the Beach, Slippery Nipple, Screaming Orgasm, Dirty Girl Scout — should be forced to listen to an iPod that plays only Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” over and over again.

He includes recipes for drinks at the end of every chapter and some of them sound very interesting. I would love to try some but don’t have a plentiful liquor cabinet or $80 to spend on a bottle of cognac. Also, having read 100 pages so far today I would be in bad shape if I drank them all.

Like most good writing on a specialized topic Boozehound is informative and accessible. One doesn’t have to know what any of the liquors Wilson lists off actually taste like, they just have to feel their mind opening as they become aware of something new and informative or at the very least you will think about the marketing campaign that is the reason your friends want to do a round of Jaggermeister as opposed to something else.

For the most part we no longer listen to the radio — there are some stations that are exception to this but for the most part commercial radio stations are as necessary as Blockbuster Video rentals. It is something that exists for car rides when we have forgotten to bring along and for workplaces that don’t have iPod docks or satellite radio — which mine is one of. 

For the most part there are three radio stations that we alternate between. Jack 96.9 plays a large variety of random music with no consistent theme. Q plays rock, or at least a limited selection of rock music ignoring a great deal of fantastic music and playing the same singles by the same bands over and over again.

Lately we have been listening to X, Calgary’s alternative radio station. In principle it is a good idea but in practice falls short. There is a healthy appetite for music that just doesn’t get played on other radio stations, that lives in a world where singles and radio play matter less and less. This is the idea behind college radio stations and charts, to play the music that is just mainstream enough that all the cool adults and teens and twentysomethings have heard it but that doesn’t grace the top 40s world that is dominated by Lady GaGa and Katy Perry.

The X plays lots of great music. There is a steady diet of Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers (the good stuff, not the weird stuff), Metric (lots of the good stuff but also some of the weird stuff) and Nirvana along with the alternatives hits of the day, which currently consist of Adele, Hollerado, the Broken Bells and Mother Mother. Unfortunately this diet is too steady — like eating mac and cheese every day it gets old fast and is not nutritionally balanced. They play one or two songs by each group over and over again.

For example Broken Bells have an entire album of songs, not just “The Ghost Inside”, as well as the entirety of Danger Mouse and the Shins’ catalogue if you really love them that much — which when it comes to James Mercer there is no such thing as loving them too much.

However, there is such thing as overkill. The involuntary forced repetition of certain hit singles ruins them no matter how much you like them on their own. When somebody needs to listen to a certain song over and over again they do it of their own free will and because they love a song. These radio stations destroy good songs by playing them too often.

Instead of being an alternative they are exactly what they aren’t supposed to be. They don’t play a wide variety of indie music just the most obvious stuff.

Thank god for iPods.

A few years ago the first Fiasco Gelato opened up in Kensington — a popular urban shopping, eating, walking, coffee drinking, chilling out part of Calgary. As the city thawed and spring hit us Fiasco became a thing to do, a place to be, you know, happening and what not.

There were lots of flavours and it was delicious. It was always a struggle to narrow it down to just a couple and we would always push the limit of number of sample scoops on small fluorescent plastic spoons that looked more like shovels. There were kind of enough chairs, depending on how busy it was and whether it was warm enough to sit outside and not shiver while eating.

There was a Vespa parked out front with the Fiasco logo on it. I wanted a Vespa. It was the shit.

Another store opened on 17th Ave — another popular shopping, eating, walking, coffee drinking, chilling out part of Calgary. It was a great spot on a warm day.

Everything was going right for Fiasco Gelato and then they disappeared. A couple of years after the first one opened both of them were gone. Why they had closed no one knew. There were rumours that a fire forced a closure of the Kensington location.

Fiasco was gone.

Maybe people just didn’t want gelato during the frigid Calgary winters? This didn’t seem possible. Amato Gelato opened a few months later down the street — but in a less happening, lower walking traffic, still urban but not the shit part of town — and did very well.

As time went on a couple of different tenants occupied the spaces where Fiasco had been. On 17th the building was renovated and a fast food Asian food chain moved in. In Kensington a cell phone company and a short-term moneylender stayed for a while. The punk and random drug paraphernalia store next door moved to a location down the street and was replaced by a semi-fancy restaurant. Eventually, Wake, a breakfast place opened up where Fiasco had been.

One morning I went to wake for brunch and noticed a large cooler — the type used to house gelato. I asked out waiter about it and he said the owner was trying to bring in some Fiasco Gelato but on the first weekend they tried to have it their breaker blew and they lost $5000 dollars of gelato. They knew people missed Fiasco but it was touch and go.

Now they seem to have overcome their electrical challenges and Fiasco is back where it began.

I don’t know if it will last. It seems to be expensive — $5000 is a lot of gelato to lose — and there may not be room for two Gelato places that close together.

Either way, it is nice to have one more place open later in Kensington — many places close early due to reduced foot traffic and high rent — and maybe, just maybe, the Vespa will make a long overdue reappearance.

I have always loved reading but stumbled onto fiction later in life than most. Near the end of grade nine I picked up a copy of Animal Farm. I enjoyed it but found it frustrating that I knew exactly what was going to happen — people tell me that that is the point of the book yet I still didn’t enjoy it as much as the rest of Orwell’s books.

After that I set out to read all of Orwell’s books. In hindsight Orwell didn’t really write a great deal of fiction. 1984 stands out as a gem as does the little known Coming up for air in his fiction writing. I loved these books for the vivid tone he used and how Orwell’s language pulled the reader into the scene. You felt like you were there.

Not all of his writing is magical Burmese Days was less than enjoyable and I didn’t finish it, not even close. Keep the Aspidistra becomes daunting and self-involved but this writing is not where his charm lies.

Orwell was magical because he told stories about himself and his life. Down and out in Paris and London and Homage to Catalonia leave you hanging on his every word, staying up until 4 a.m. even though you need to get up early magic. He was telling us his life in a compelling narrative. I was in love.

Next I found his essays and my admiration grew. He could take the simplest thing, like a toad, and write a bitter sweet essay about nature, spring and the passing of time.

I had spent the years before I found Orwell reading books about politics — with a heavy portion on American politics, which became depressing fast as a junior high student in the Bush era. I sat and read nonfiction that would have been daunting to some adults yet my mother worried about me. It was not that I wasn’t reading but that in her mind I was reading the wrong things. I hadn’t read any fiction that hadn’t been assigned to me by a teacher aside from Harry Potter and a series of unfortunate events.

Judging by the contents of this blog she had nothing to worry about — other than the fact that her daughter would grow up wanting to be a writer, journalist or political scientist. There is no right genre or type of writing. There is writing that is enjoyed and writing that is daunting. I read the first kind.

I could care less for lists of books that I should read before I die or the BBC’s list of the top 100 books. Some of these books like the Lord of the Rings are nothing but daunting, long, are we there yet types of unpleasantness.

Over time I have built up my own list of must reads and authors I admire. Among them is Karl Taro Greenfeld who exists in a world outside AP acceptable lists. These are the books you read because you want to, not because you are supposed to.

My sister picked up Speed Tribes: Days and Nights with Japan’s Next Generation at the CBC Canada reads book sale and after a few years dormant on my bookshelf I picked it up and fell in love with it. As a read I wasn’t really sure of what to call what I was reading. I didn’t know how true it was. Did these people really exist? Where these quotes from people? From his imagination? From both? I called it journalistic fiction. I knew he had a background as a journalist.

I special ordered Standard Deviations: Growing up and coming down in the new Asia at inflated cost from Chapters. Standard Deviations was more of a memoir — not in the same way that Boy Alone: A Brother’s Memoir is a memoir — than Speed Tribes and reminded me of Orwell’s accounts of his adventures. I knew they were alike but I didn’t know what to call them.

Today I began reading The Best Creative Nonfiction Vol.1 edited by Lee Gutkind. The introduction by Gutkind describes the evolution of creative nonfiction and the writers behind the trend. Orwell and Greenfeld both fit. It was the word I had been looking for all this time. An explanation of what they were doing, what I feel in love with when I discovered writing in the first place. It is the best of nonfiction writing, which can often fall into the trap of being formulaic and dry. This is the type of writing that makes up the Best American collections I have spent so much time reading of late.

It is the type of writing that may not be studied in English courses but makes anyone who reads a memoir or an outstanding feature in a newspaper or magazine smile, think and enjoy reading. It is a perfect combination and no one — not even your mother — should let you think otherwise.

As I come close to finishing The Best American Travel Writing 2010 I can’t help but wonder what if anything most of these articles have in common. They have all been very good articles but I sincerely wonder if some of them are about travel.

The introduction discussed travel and the feeling of being abroad, while most of the pieces don’t fit this theme. “The Ghost Course” by David Owen also appeared in The Best American Sports Writing 2010. Despite being about a golf course in Scotland and mentioning at one point that the town hopes to attract tourists through the upgrades to the course it is not a travel piece. It is maybe a sports piece, maybe a magazine piece, maybe a news piece but I wouldn’t put it in a travel collection.

“The Ponzi State” by George Packer is a remarkable account of the real estate boom and bust in Florida. Aside from a brief mention of the decline in tourism in Florida it’s not a travel piece.

This collection is moving and thoroughly enjoyable but not what it’s title suggests it would be. Perhaps authors should develop stricter guidelines of what constitutes travel writing and which publications are eligible to ensure a more consistent adherence to the theme in the future. I have only read the 2010 edition thus far and can’t comment on the past but this volume has thrown many curve balls and has been highly inconsistent.

For me travel is about not being at home, not sleeping in your own bed, visiting strange places and being a tourist. Many things can be enveloped in the theme of writing about that but first and foremost it must be about somewhere away from home that someone is either visiting or working in for a period of time.

“In Defense of Tourism” by Peter LaSalle presents a defense — as the title would suggest — of why being a tourist isn’t a bad thing. Many times I’ve thought Tourist would make a great title for a travelogue. In my experience when one is backpacking they are not a local. Often times it is cool and fun to pretend you are a local or to go where the locals supposedly go, LaSalle speaks about this and defends the idea of “touristy” things:

As for cynical travelers, they can arguably learn, or relearn, something from the wide-eyed “tourist” — from the sense of wonder and unmitigated joy he brings those top-of-the-Eiffel-Tower, crest-of-the-Cyclone, edge-of-the-Grand-Canyon moments that all travelers, no matter how jaded, long for. This involves surrendering to the inherent awkwardness of being a stranger in a foreign land, yet somehow losing yourself — and your self-consiousness — at the same time.

To be a tourist is not something inherently terrible or unhip, it is one of the joys and inevitabilities of travelling. Certain things are indeed a tourist trap and a nice walk to explore a place can be much better — if ever in Bruges avoid the chocolate museum. However, other things are simply enjoyed because you don’t live in a place.There are certain places and things in one’s own home town that you never do because you are not a tourist.

The unfortunate thing about being a tourist is that after a while it becomes exhausting to keep up the energy to do it day after day — especially when backpacking for an extended period of time. Locals can get up and do nothing for a day and they’re not missing out on the wonders of their city because they have all the time in the world to enjoy it.

When you arrive in a new city you become acquainted with the area around your hostel or hotel. You find your breakfast spot, your coffee shop, that place with the great shawarma but instead of hanging out there with your friends you spend a few days — just long enough to find a couple of spots — and then leave.

Travel is impermanent. You go from place to place, hostel friends to hostels friends. In some ways this is good and in others bad but fundamentally it is the difference between travel and living somewhere. You are just a visitor. That is all.

Belfast. I find myself in Northern Ireland, a place I have heard many things about. The politics. The conflict. The IRA. But first I stop at the TI and ask how to take the bus to my hostel. Finding your hostel and ditching your stuff is an endless repeating cycle while you’re backpacking. Every new city brings a new hostel, a new place to leave your collection of way too much stuff stored in a falling apart suitcase covered in duct tape, a new neighbourhood, a place to call home and get to know. Always the same, always different.

Here it doesn’t go smoothly. I was told which bus to take and vague directions but I can’t find it. I wander downtown Belfast near city hall glancing at bus signs with 50+ pounds in tow. Eventually I get lucky. The right bus. I take it for a while until the street signs seem to be telling me that I’m in the right area. I pull the string and hop off. I don’t know if I’m going to lose at this game of hot or cold.

I pull out my trusty map and try to find a street sign. No such luck. I continue walking and there’s one on one street but not the other. I am somewhere along a street in the neighbourhood I want to be in. I start wandering around looking lost and annoyed. Somebody runs into me and points me in the right direction. I am a block from my hostel. Mission accomplished.

The surrounding area is home to Queen’s University Belfast and is full of bars and coffee shops. I wander the campus and notice that a couple of the students have stickers on their laptops — usually a fairly typically if shortsighted and potentially grey adhesive glob inducing thing that students do — but this sticker was different. I later learn that it was the red hand of Ulster — often used as a symbol by unionist paramilitary groups.

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I stop by the Ulster Museum where I am visit an exhibit about the troubles. It does a good job of representing both sides of the conflict, talking about major incidents and the peace process. It was the only thing I wanted to see there — after a while all museums blur and only things that you find really interesting are worth the time — so I turn and leave going backwards through the hallways that are meant to funnel me deeper into this place of learning. I walk past dinosaurs and plastic replicas of plants native to Northern Ireland.

Before I leave I find myself in the gift shop. As a kid I thought gift shops were a magical place filled with many wonders, I have since come to know them for what they usually are: a place filled with overpriced generic junk that is not worth spending the money on to take home to family members. Here I find a rare gem, a series of sketches of Belfast done by a local artist. They are beautiful. Some are of landmarks like the Ulster museum and the dock where the Titanic was built — I don’t recognize the latter at the time and simply think it’s a beautiful piece of art — and others are not. I picture them on a wall in a home I will own at some point in the distant future. I stand and stare at them for ages before talking myself out of buying them.

I continue to explore the city and have grown accustomed to the serious lack of street signs. I have a good sense of direction and can make my way around the area I’m staying in with relative ease. I wander and notice that this area of Belfast is really quite beautiful, exactly the type of place that a university student or twenty-something would like to live in, this is the U.K. after all.

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The owner of my hostel — a wonderful and helpful individual — insists that we need to go on a black taxi tour of the city. I am not entirely sure what this entails but me and the Aussies I have befriended are up for it. We are shown around the Catholic and Protestant neighbourhoods that were the epicentre of the troubles. This is where people lived and died through all of this.

The taxis were invented by the Catholics as a way of keeping safe. Our taxi driver is a friendly man and a good guide. He tells us about stuff along the way and lets us take it all in. First we stop at the republican murals, then the Sinn Fein headquarters with a mural of Bobby Sands irreverently painted on the side and ads for all natural Irish bottled water posted in the window.

Now we go over to the other side where villains become heroes and more union jacks are flying in a square kilometre than all the rest of the U.K. Here murals are painted on the sides of houses instead of on fences. It is weird to think that people live on the other side of walls where the faces of militants are painted.

After this we visit the peace wall. It was made to keep the sides apart and to save lives. It is covered in graffiti and signatures scrawled by people from all over the world. This is neither sides land but instead somewhere in the middle.

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That night we head out to a bar for some beer, another thing Ireland is known for. We meet a couple of Irish girls. One is nice, one is a little bit crazy and wearing a top that is lacking in material in certain crucial areas. We chat. Eventually they invite a couple of Irish guys to sit with us.

Unbeknownst to us our new Irish friends instantly get a read on one another’s religious and geographic roots. The one girl tells us that the guys are obviously Catholic and from a good part of town and it turns out she is right. The guys also figure out the religion of the girls right away.

The two girls take us on a tour of after hours Belfast and begin to get the impression that they have a different idea of what a good night out is and long to return to the pub from whence we came. We walk up streets I recognize from bus trips into downtown and find ourselves at city hall — across from the TI that I visited on my first day in Belfast — where the girls tell us their take on the city landmark.

We continue walking until we are in a back alley a few blocks away and are told how much cover is. I sigh internally and hand over ten pounds. The club is for all intents and purposes a club. There is bad music, dancing, shots and Irish people.

I chat with one of the guys about his plans for the future. He is 21. He speaks fluent french and wants to move to Paris.

As I walk back to my hostel with the Aussies I think about this city and the people that inhabit it. I am in the West, in Europe, in the U.K. and people here live just like everywhere else in the West yet there is the lingering sense of an age old conflict. Perhaps that is the political science major in me and the lens I put on this city but I can feel it restive in the air.

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Ultimately as tourists we see what we see and make certain choices that shape how we perceive a certain place. You don’t really get to know what a city is like simply by spending a few days wandering around and visiting it’s landmarks. People surprise you and shape the views you form.

While on our black taxi tour our taxi driver tells us that Belfast was recently named one of the safest places in the world for tourists to visit. “We don’t kill tourists, just each other,” he jokes.

Some people here don’t care. The Good Friday Agreement was 12 years ago. They have moved on, learned to agree to disagree and worry about more important things like drinking beer. Others fly Union Jacks like they were on sale at Costco and have the red hand of Ulster out for all to see.

Our driver tells us that the reason there are so few street signs is because the IRA used to take them down or paint them black so British soldiers wouldn’t be able to make use of their maps and would get hopelessly lost while on assignments. He tells us that the U2 song “Where the Streets Have no Names” is about this city. This explains my confusion and frustration when I first arrived. I think to myself it’s been 12 years, it’s time to put the street signs back up.

Photo: Mural of Bobby Sands on the wall of Sinn Fein headquarters.