Puckin’ Around

In all the excitement of my working holiday, I forgot to mention the results of the regular season hockey pool. Ever the groundbreaker, I was part of the first-ever tie for second place, which entitles me to half of the runner-up prize money. In all fairness, I tried to get the pool administrator to list my fellow second placer ahead of me in the archival list, since his team had more goals than mine, but the response surprised me. My team won as many points in fewer games, so my name precedes Craig’s for all posterity, and I get half the cash. I’m amazed to have got that far; between January and March, I seemed doomed to stay in fifth place, but in true “gotta make the playoffs” fashion, my guys made a mad dash to the finish and suddenly I owned the second spot by one point. It literally took the last game of the season to determine the final pool placements. The office pool was a wilder ride than the league standings this year.

I doubt I’ll do so well in the playoff pool.

I became a temporary Canuck fan for the first round of post-season. They pushed their series to six games and lost in Calgary on the weekend—I hope no one loses their job over it, since they exceeded all expectation after last year’s atomic coaching failure. The players themselves seemed surprised to have made the playoffs.

Which may have been their undoing.

It was acutely evident to me that the primary difference between the Flames and Canucks was their attitude. The Flames played like they were thinking, “We made it here; we can do this!” and the Canucks were, “We made it here? Can we do this?” In the end, they couldn’t. They blew a three goal lead and lost 7-4 in game six. But I, a proud Canadian, am rooting for Anaheim in the conference semi-final, and here’s why:

Calgary was in the lead, 5-4. The Canucks pulled their goalie with a minute left. With thirty seconds left, the Flames scored in the empty net. Vancouver was obviously done, gone, kaput, and the kids from Calgary were on their way to the next round. So they didn’t have to score a second empty-netter with nine seconds left. But they did. And they celebrated like it was a major coup. It wasn’t. It was just rude. No class at all. Shame, shame, shame, little boys.

They’ll have their hands full with the Ducks, though. Anaheim grounded the Jets in four, and with Ryan Kesler heating up, the Flames may be the ones who get roasted.

Blackout in Effect

A chilly spring morning, the mercury sitting at nine degrees with clouds and showers expected later today. Right now, it’s sunny … and I’m dawdling.

Ter dropped me in the village and I treated myself to a “real” Asian Mist—all milk despite my recent dairy-free status, a risk I’m willing to take with three days of vacation left. I can afford a flare if that’s my fate.

Re-work on the novel has been slow, due in part to my dawdling but mostly because I’m rewriting more than I’d imagined I would. And it’s daunting. So I let myself be distracted by F***book and Youtube (lots of Lep stuff there!) to the detriment of the project, and every day I become increasingly anxious that I’ll get nothing accomplished before heading back to the mill.

Well, not nothing. I’ve laundered the bedding and taken long walks. I’ve learned (happily) that Rick Savage is partial to Maseratis—my kind of man—and Joe Elliott likes a 4x4 because there’s loads of room in one. I’m brewing more kombucha and will have another batch of pfefferneuse in the freezer before Friday. Most importantly, I’ve learned how to answer my phone. But where actual writing is concerned, there’s not much to show for my working holiday.

So I’m going dark for a couple of days, to focus on the re-write and get some momentum going. I want to wake up thinking about the story instead of what witty remark I can post on F***book. I get than an author should be interactive with her audience, but she’s only an author if she’s writing offline and I’ll kick myself if this week passes without some significant progress on the novel. Part of me thinks I should blow it up and start from scratch, but three hundred pages in and I’m reluctant to dump any of it. Much of it is good. I’ve loaded the files into a separate folder and am rebuilding one chapter at a time, but the deeper I go, the more detours are taken from the original draft, so who knows? Maybe a complete bust up is the best thing!

Won’t know unless I quit dawdling and get down to it. Apricot tea and Sarah Brightman are in place and ready to go. Time for Ru to get disciplined.

*sigh*

The Concert Experience

Ru, wee sis, Boy Sis, and the matching purses
(the pic is as fuzzy as our hearing)

I suppose it may be gleaned from yesterday’s review that I didn’t enjoy myself at Def Leppard. That the gig was too loud, too garish, and too predictable.

Actually, that was the audience.

The flipside of a rock concert is the crowd. It matters not who is on stage; the same players are always in the stands. The flailing dancer in the seat next to you. The staggering drunk in perilous heels trying to navigate the stairs. The bombed macho buddies who throw their arms around each other while bellowing, “I love you, man!” in the row ahead of you. The parade of trailer trash fashion on the concourse. The cigarette lighters that spark in the arena when yours was confiscated at the door. The beer balancing act as the alcohol max is purchased on the first concession stop. The inevitable cloud of pot smoke wafting from the seat behind you. The giggling groupies. Their biker boyfriends. The twentysomethings who don’t care who’s playing, let’s get tickets and go embarrass ourselves while annoying the real fans during the show.

It is possible to be fed up before the band takes the stage. In some cases, it may even be probable.

Most of the concerts I’ve attended in the past couple of years have had no opening act. The artist starts on time, takes a brief intermission halfway through, then finishes the show. Alas, Def Leppard adheres to the template of hiring an opening act that no one wants to see, then coming onstage at bedtime and blasting through the standard hour-plus set that includes a two-song encore. This makes for a true test of endurance, so it’s better to have a friend along for the ride.

Ter and I lucked out on Friday. My wee sister and Boy Sister met us for dinner early, then headed to the arena well in advance of the show to ensure that we got parking (a quick getaway is impossible, but a smooth exit isn’t, if you get there in time to nab the best space). That left us with a couple—nay, a few—hours to kill, as we had no interest in the opening act and were unwilling to risk our hearing for anything less than the headliner.

Regrettably, Victoria shuts down at six on a Friday night, hence no shops of interest were open. So we trekked to the arena and hung around outside, enjoying the mild spring evening and watching the streaming humanity form a line at the door. People-watching with my sister is a riot. BS is even funnier with his observations, but nothing was more entertaining than the people we were watching. Lots of leopard spots in evidence, in tights, shoes, jackets, shirts, scarves and purses. Ridiculous heels trip-trapped across the pavement. Big blonde hair was snaring bugs everywhere. Dark glasses were firmly in place despite the twilight. Tall boots, short boots, and why in the world would a girl wear kitten-heeled mules in a milling crowd of inebriated headbangers? She wasn’t going anywhere fast, not when she had to clench her toes to keep her shoes on. Mundane jeans and sneakers were peppered with sequins, studs and chains. BS asked Ter and me if we hadn’t dressed that way in the 80s? To which I replied, “We were Miami Vice cool, not Madonna tramp trash.” Heck, we weren’t even Lep fans until Hysteria came out, and by then Vice was done and Madonna had brushed her hair.

The four of us sat on the fringe of this crowd because we did not belong in this crowd. The notion occurred to me that this was the modern day equivalent of going to the opera, when the aristos of old dressed up to attend the theatre. Too scary a thought to maintain, however. This was more like the Roman mob filing into the Coliseum to watch grown men beat each other to a bloody death.

And we were here, why?

Oh, yeah. The Leppard King. Well, he wasn’t due for a couple of hours yet. With roughly half an hour until the opener, we joined the lineup and got through security with the merest pat-down and bag search. Checked out our seats in the stands. Four in a row of eight, second row up in the bowl, with one of us on the aisle. Sweet. Wee sis and I sat together for a while, comparing the length of our femurs (hers is longer) and me showing her how to shorten the strap on her purse—which, we had discovered at dinner, is the exact twin of mine. She’d been trying the trick she uses on a horse’s halter (her daughter has a horse) and remarked, “Horses are my life, Ruthie.”

“That’s weird,” I replied, “since I was the one who wanted horses.”

“You wanted kids, too,” she reminded me.

“So how did you end up living my life?”

“I dunno, but now I’ve even got the arthritis!”

At which we both fell about laughing.

To avoid the opening act—which we would hear well enough from the concourse—we retraced our steps to check out the merchandise. Once again, the Leps have no program, which is the only thing we would have bought. I was wearing the hoodie I got at the Edmonton gig in 2007 (75 bucks at the show, 35 online, to which wee sis observed, “Yeah, but you got a free concert.”) and if we bought a t-shirt at every Lep concert we’ve been to, that’s all we’d be wearing.

Time for water and popcorn. Ter and BS vanished into the concession swarm; wee sis and I hung out by a pillar to keep clear of the current and continue to people-watch. She says she can’t do it with her daughter because my niece gets embarrassed. “Are you two in the lineup?” somebody asked.

“No,” sis said, waving them on by, “we’re just holding up the pillar.”

We hadn’t noticed it was the pillar behind the line for alcohol service. We’d just thought everyone wanted pizza.

Finally, our elves emerged with the goods and we took up position just inside the main entrance, where security continued to pat down newcomers though the opening act was by now well into their set. More big hair. More leopard print. More leather jackets. Gads, even a pair of fishnets in red hotpants. Stiletto pumps, stiletto boots, stiletto sandals. Canuck jerseys in abundance. Canuck jerseys? Well, the playoffs are on, and one of those jerseys gave me the best laugh of the night: an old Luongo sweater with the name taped over, inscribed with LACK (for Eddie Lack, the now-goalie) and the numeral 1 preceded by a handmade 3.

At last, the first act ends, the lights come up, what audience was present for them returns to fuel up with more booze, and we make our way to our most excellent seats. Some dickering with our phone cameras so we can get them to work during the concert. Then, the show, complete with the surrounding distractions as mentioned at the top of this post. I had a blast anyway, situated between Ter on the aisle and BS on my right (wee sis took the flailing neighbour for the team), and by the end of it, we were done. Not a perfect evening, as BS said later, but how can it be bad when it’s spent with people you love?

Amen, brother.

Leapin’ Leppards!

Three of them, anyway - Rick Allen on drums.
Sav on bass, and shirtless (as usual) Phil Collen

What do you get when you take a vintage muscle car, tune up the carburetor, spiff up the paint, and re-chrome the hardware?

Fast, loud and flashy.

This was Friday night’s Def Leppard show in three words.

Fast – they powered through ninety minutes of their heyday radio hits with nary a pause for breath. With their catalogue, I thought they could have gone longer, but Ter pointed out that Viv Campbell is recently out of cancer treatment and they have to be mindful of him. Good point. Though the perennial “new guy” guitarist gave no sign of flagging, he wasn’t racing all over the stage, either. That said, I expected ninety minutes and I got ninety minutes. They play so many festivals and double-bills that they don’t give any more than that. Sucks, but really, my hearing wouldn’t survive a longer set. Which brings me to …

Loud – everyone asks if I bring earplugs and I always say no. I don’t wear them. It’s stupid, but my byline is that if I’m going to lose my hearing, I want it to be by a rock band. The loudest band I have ever heard live is the Leppard. The Police were close, Aerosmith was so long ago that I don’t remember if my ears buzzed afterward though they must have done, and everyone else either has a better sound crew or cares more that every note be heard. With the Leps, I’m fuzzy right out of the gate. They don’t need to crank it up so high, except that they are a rock band, dammit and if the concert can’t be heard pounding halfway across town (which this one apparently was), they’re not the genuine article. This makes it an unlikely bonus that they play no new material, since if I can’t hear the riff through the fuzz, I won’t know what they’re playing and will be entirely lost. The hits are part of my mental muscle; I can sing along – at the top of my lungs, by the way – and know where I am because the beat is a well-worn one.

Flashy – their time in Vegas has served them well. The boys were fans of 70s glam bands as well as the industrial rockers of their youth, so they’ve always been glitzy in a fashionably rough manner. Their light shows have been pretty standard, but this time out was dazzling. Loads of track, spot and whatever lights in every colour of the rainbow. Add the three big video screens and you’ve got visual pandemonium in support of the aural assault. The band themselves are lookers who know how to dress, but you have got to love Rick Savage. Ever the stylish one, he showed up for the encore in a shirt that proclaimed I Am So Fucking Disco and I doubt anyone would challenge him on it. He’s no tough guy, but he’ll stand his ground with conviction. Word is that he’s even gone head to head with the King and won his way.

As for the King himself, thank the gods that Joe will never change. He struts like a conquering hero. He can silence the crowd with one gesture and make it roar with another. He’s a warrior of the finest caliber, the last man standing, the green-eyed god with the Viking stance and big cat charisma. He was hitting those notes, too. Still has the pipes, the moves, and that mystical air of majesty that came with him from—where? No matter. It was good to see him again, to see once more the man who inspired a legend and be assured that nothing was imagined. He truly is that strong, that powerful, and that mesmerizing.

But he’s not my favourite Leppard. Never has been. That honour goes to the dishy disco-loving bass player with the moppy blond mane and sleepy blue eyes. My crappy camera phone snapped more shots of him than of anyone else, including Joe, so while I may be accused of a less than glowing review of Friday night’s show, I was un abashedly delighted to see Sav and his band. Good fun, good show … good night.

The Return of the Leppard King

I thought I’d fallen out of love with them. Last December, I heard that the former producer of the Q Morning Show had died in a car crash on snowy roads and I was looking up further info on the station’s website. I was so intent my mission that notice of the Leps’ concert date on the coming events list gleaned naught but a huh? Then my wee sister IM’d me: “Def Leppard is coming to town. Are you guys going?”

“I dunno,” I wrote back, feeling uncomfortably lukewarm about what had once sent my temperature to thermonuclear heights. Joe and the boys had fallen off my radar. The world he had inspired was in a holding pattern while my passion for vampires raged anew. Neither Ter nor I listened to their albums anymore; we didn’t follow them on F***book and hadn’t visited their website in years. In fact, we were living in fear of the band turning up to play the River Rock Casino or, worse, on PBS as part of the “Rock of 80s” nostalgia pledge drive package that you just know is coming down the road.

My email pinged. The Q Crew newsletter arrived in my inbox, letting me know that the Leps were coming and tix were going on sale that Friday. I flipped it to Ter with a feeble: “What do you think?”

My phone immediately rang. “Of course!” she practically yelled when I picked up. I hadn’t heard her so pumped about anything in a long while.

“Really? I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “He’s coming to me!” Which, roughly translated, means that she’s done with traveling to see the Leppard King, but if Victoria is on their itinerary, us going is a no-brainer.

Of the Joes we know, Elliott is to Ter what Perry is to me—that mysterious memory of a previous life where he played a role so important that the effect has lingered through dimensions. Crazy, yes. Improbable, maybe. Possible, definitely. Why not? No matter what you believe, something about his current incarnation sparked the birth of our mutual hero, Lucius Aurelius, and the world of Fixed Fire. For that, I am eternally grateful to him, to Ter, and to the band who played the soundtrack for Treason.

So, yeah, she’s right. Of course we must go to the gig. Of course we must pay homage. Of course he’s come for a particular reason at a particular time, and isn’t it funny that I’ve gone back to Castasia once more? His Royal Leppardness has no idea, but it truly is a homecoming for him.

Four of us are going—Ter, my wee sister, my boy sister, and me. The kids are fans for a different reason; they just like to rock, and if you wanna get rocked, then the Leps are DEFinitely the band for the job.

More to come …

Working Holiday

Spring in the pagan days was the beginning of a new year. Same applies to the workplace fiscal year, which starts on April Fool’s Day and don’t let the irony of that escape you. Perhaps because April begins the first annual quarter at work, it heralds a beginning for me. By the end of March, my creativity has been suppressed for almost three months and I’m dyin’. Fortunately (is it?), I have accumulated enough years of service to enable a full five day week of vacation without making a big dent in my annual allocation.

I’m taking such a break next week. I like to have a project in mind before I book vacation, usually something I can finish, like a short story that’s been in progress for months or something new, like The King’s Man, which was written on the fly over four days straight. This time out, I’m admitting defeat before I begin. I will not get this holiday’s project done before I have to go back to work … but I intend on getting my teeth into it nonetheless.

It’s the novel, also known as Reijo’s romance. Having committed to finishing the first draft before tackling something newer and shinier, I’ve been tapping away at it of late and have discovered some wondrous things about my mysterious heroine. I knew very little of her when I started. Four years later, she was still baffling. It’s true what they say – creativity feeds on itself. Only by focusing intently on Jannika’s part of the story have I discovered who she truly is. A general idea has evolved into a complex but very real young woman who is struggling to understand …

No spoilers allowed, especially as the series preceding this volume remains unpublished. Learning what I’ve learned about Nika, however, has given my writing holiday a greater purpose than simply not going to work. Now I have something to accomplish and I’m excited about it. Yup, rewriting a bunch of already written stuff has never looked so inviting. So, first thing on Monday morning, I’ll be camped at the Moka House with an Asian Mist and my scribbly journal, making helter-skelter notes to help with my mission of tightening up weaker scenes and revisiting the ones that work to ensure continuity. Once I’ve cleaned up the preliminaries, I should be able to write nonstop to a happy ending.

Me, write a happy ending? Hey, everything is possible.

Dumber Than My Phone

What with navigating around F***book (I’m still a bit … okay, a lot boggled) and surviving fiscal year end, I’ve not done much writing of late. I miss it, but that’s okay – I have a week’s vacation coming soon and a project in mind. That, however, is another post.

As part of my ongoing plan to become a social media savvy celebrity author, I turned in the old flip phone and bought a Smartphone last weekend. It’s a basic model compared to the iPhones and Samsung Galaxies floating around out there, but I have a pre-paid mobile account and didn’t want to commit (there’s that fear again) to a contract with my upgrade. So this little fellow is a Motorola E (or something), powered by Google Android, which freaks me out because the androids on Star Trek thought they were better than humans and, if not for JT Kirk and Co., would have taken over the world … I digress. Mr. Moto is less a phone than it is a tiny computer. Once I figure out how to drive it, it will check my email, keep my appointments, snap photos, upload said photos to FB, send and receive text messages, reflect my scintillating personality by way of varied ringtones and desktop wallpaper, stash any apps I accidentally download, and probably cost me way more than the thirty dollars per month I’ve budgeted for the privilege of ownership.

Yes, I’m totally lost. Well, not totally. Ter found the user’s guide online – via the big computer rather than the “mobile device” – so between us we deduced how to answer an incoming call after the first experiment failed. The device started ringing … actually, it started to play a boogie tune that had me grooving until I saw our landline number on the screen. Whoa, call display! How cool is that? But once startled into action, I couldn’t figure out how to connect to the call! So off it went to voice mail, and off I went to consult the manual.

Handy things, those manuals. Too bad hard copies don’t come with the product; switching from the computer screen to the phone screen can start a migraine faster than cheezies with a chocolate chaser. I’ve yet to delve much deeper into it than skimming the basics, but at least I can answer a call or choose to ignore it and then retrieve the voice mail. I was able to record an outgoing message by remembering which buttons to push once I call my own number; it helps to have a similar VM system at work. And the camera … let’s be truthful here. I bought it for the camera, for spontaneous pics and fast uploads; again, part of Ru’s cunning Media Savvy Plan. I adore my little digital Canon, but I don’t carry it with me every day and I have missed golden weekday photo ops, like the streetlamp lying on the boulevard. It looked like the eye of the Martian spaceship in the Gene Barry version of War of the Worlds and I would have taken a picture if only. So I guess I’ve really bought a camera that has a phone rather than a phone that has a camera, so does it matter if I can’t get Mr. Moto to play Darth Vader’s Imperial March when my father calls?

In this intellectual game of chicken with my phone, you bet it does.