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Peter Marmorek [userpic]

Butcher Politics

February 9th, 2017 (02:24 pm)

My maternal grandparents were both born in Germany. I always knew them as Bruzz and Opa: Opa is an informal German term for grandfather; Bruzz is an informal version of the sound sausages made in the frying pan when my grandmother cooked them for Fino, her dog. Those sausages usually came from Jörg, their favourite butcher in Mainz. After Hitler took power, Jews were no longer allowed to buy meat at stores where Christians shopped, but Jörg had always arranged to have meat delivered to their house. So when in 1940, they finally got their US visa, Bruzz wanted to say a personal goodbye.

They went to his shop and went in, even though it was forbidden. Bruzz explained, “We’ve just come in to say farewell, not to buy anything. Our visas for the US have arrived, so we’re taking the train to Berlin today, we’ll stay there overnight, and then tomorrow get on the trans-Siberian railroad.”

Jörg started yelling at her, “How dare you come in here! You know Jews aren’t allowed in here! And what hotel in Berlin would allow Jews to stay in it, anyway?”

Bruzz stammered out, “It’s the Metropole. It’s a very good hotel.”

Jörg roared, “Well, I’ll never stay there again. Get out, and good riddance.”

Saddened and hurt, they left. When they got to Berlin that night, and checked into the Metropole, the clerk explained a package was waiting for them. Jörg had telephoned a fellow butcher in Berlin and arranged for the delivery of a giant picnic hamper, stuffed with jams and cold cuts, and a giant smoked beef tongue, all of which helped them survive the trip by train across Russia, by boat to Japan, and on to Seattle where they settled.

Almost 30 years later I was visiting them in Seattle, and Bruzz and I were talking about Hitler and Germans. She said though she passionately hated Hitler, she didn’t hold a grudge against Germans, that the same thing could easily happen in the US, or in Canada. With the sweeping wisdom of a 19 year old who knew everything, I explained that she was wrong. Fascism could never take hold in North America, because we had laws and constitutions that would prevent that from happening. That was a half century ago. Today I look around and see that not only could it can happen here, but it is happening here. It has happened here. So the question is what am I going to do about it.

Like many others, I thought Donald Trump was a joke candidate, running on ego, with no chance to win. I believed that he would never get the Republican nomination; I was sure Hilary would beat him; I was convinced that Obama’s record had shown a president really didn’t have that much power to change things. And I felt it just underlined how different we were up here, that the Islamophobia that fed Trump’s rhetoric would slide off Canada’s body politic like water off a beaver’s back. Then came the executive orders, forbidding entry from Muslim countries with which Trump didn’t have business interests. And then came the terrorism in Québec; six Muslims killed and nineteen wounded while praying in a mosque. And once again, I realize that the chart by which I’m guiding my spaceship is wrong. It didn’t show the black holes, and though I thought I had studied the heavens carefully, black holes don’t show up very well against darkness. And now we’re all spiralling into them, and as time dilates and slows down I have to think about what I want to do.

The easiest is to do nothing, always. Even Bruzz, wise as she was, was only in Germany in 1940 because she hadn’t wanted to leave earlier believing the madness would pass. Opa, 16 years older, was wiser and finally managed to get her to leave. After all, I am relatively safe; while there is a surge in anti-semitism, it is Muslims who are being primarily scapegoated. I am male, and women are being targeted. I am white, and the targets are people of colour. I could just do nothing while they come for all the others. But even I know by now where that approach leads. I saw a great sign in a demo last week that said, “First they came for the Muslims, and I said, ‘Not this time, motherfucker.’ ” That’s where I have to stand.

Because when the slope gets steep enough, it doesn’t even have to be very slippery. If “alternative facts” become part of a debate, then he who tweets loudest wins. As Voltaire observed “Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.” A week ago a five year old Muslim was handcuffed at JFK airport, because he “might have been dangerous”. That seemed absurd. Four days ago an eight year old Muslim girl was killed in a US drone operation, by operators that knew she would be there, but also knew that “members of her family were affiliated with terrorists.”

I don’t know how yet. Should I boycott anything financially associated with the Donald? Of course. Stop going to see friends and relatives in the US? Maybe. It seems premature to give up on Canada–I walked past our local mosque today, and the windows were covered with messages of support from Jews, from school kids, from church leaders. But the world has become more complex and interwoven, creating a panicked feeling in people that there must be a simple answer to their increasing diminishment. As Mencken, that wise American cynic, observed shortly before the rise of Hitler, "For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong.” I need to be fully present with this horror, and like Jörg, be able to act in any moment to help fight it. That’s the only way now I can apologize to Bruzz.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

Leonard and Me

November 16th, 2016 (11:01 am)
current song: You Want It Darker - Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen came into my life exactly a half century ago, in 1966. Harold Federow, living next door to me in my dormitory, lent me Cohen’s first book of poems “Let us Compare Mythologies” and then I bought “The Spice Box of Earth”. I was a Montreal-raised Jew living in the US, a teenager interested in spirit and obsessed with sex, and Cohen’s work pulled me in and bound me to him. A year later in 1967 his first album came out, and I was his man, then and forever. I love song lyrics that are ambiguous, that I need to work at, and he had them. I loved the marriage of the sacred and the profane, which his work has always had. And I loved his sense of humour. I always found Cohen to be very funny, and remain puzzled at those who only see darkness and morbidity in his work.

His second album, “Songs from a Room”, has a song, “The Story of Isaac”. It’s a retelling of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac, contrasting Abraham, who is obeying a divine vision, to those today who sacrifice children for mundane schemes. The last verse puzzled me:

When it all comes down to dust,
I will kill you if I must, I will help you if I can.
When it all comes down to dust,
I will help you if I must, I will kill you if I can.

For two years I worried at that verse, as Rui worries at a marrow bone. Clearly helping and killing are opposites- so why the reversal? I was sure there had to be a meaning. One day the mist lifted: when it all comes down to dust, nothing matters. It is when it doesn’t come to dust, when there is something higher at play, like a divine commandment, that things do matter. And since then I have known that his images will cohere, and that when studied deeply enough, their meaning will open.

By then I had read and loved his two novels, enough that when in 1970 I moved to England and only took two books, one was “Beautiful Losers”, his surreal and complex rebraiding of Quebec history, sanctity, passion and much else. It was a link to the home behind me. And that summer was the first time I got to hear and see him in concert, at the Isle of Wight music festival. Just me, and 600,000 other people. It was Hendrix’s last concert; The Who played all of “Tommy” as their third encore; Cohen got four encores, the last at 3 am, and he seemed genuinely puzzled by how much the mass of people loved him. He looked out at us, smiled, and said, “Well, I guess maybe it’s good music to make love to.”

I followed his career, reading the books of poetry and listening to the albums as they came out. I did a long analysis of his work for a fourth year Canadian Literature course at York, getting a memorable response from a professor who both gave me an A, and suggested that Cohen’s work all followed the same pattern of positing a heroic ideal which he then elegantly mourned his inability to achieve. That may have been true for some of the early work, but his later songs often went deeper and became more complex. He remained one of the increasingly few artists whose albums I would always buy, and always spend time listening to and thinking about. And there was never one that left me feeling the time had been wasted.

After his decade at a Zen monastery on Mount Baldy, when he emerged to find his manager had both stolen and spent all his money, he was forced to return to performing. I saw him twice in those years, and he was exquisite: a performer who held nothing back, and who showed a respect for his band and his audience that was profoundly deep. He remained funny and self-deprecating – in a performance in London he commented, “When I was last here I was 60, just a young kid with a crazy dream.” It was inspiring to see someone older than me who remained creative and fully present with where he was in life, who was not just reduced to a cover band for songs he had written decades ago.

And always the lyrics remained relevant: when I wrote about retirement I chose his verse from “Closing Time” as my epigraph:
“And I just don’t know what happens next
Looks like freedom, but it feels like death
It’s something in-between I guess
It’s closing time.

His last album, “You Want It Darker” came out a month ago. Both on the album, and in the long New Yorker piece that came at the same time, it was clear that he saw his death as imminent. His response was that of Abraham’s in the story of Isaac: the Hebrew word “Hineni”, here I am. On first listening I found the album disappointing: simple and sparse musically, and perhaps too simple lyrically. But one song at a time, I have been seeing greater depth and more meaning in it. I will work at it, for as long as it takes. And I will work at it as well because there will be no more albums.

He died the day before Donald Trump was elected, though we didn’t know of his death till the day after the election. I was on Facebook, and saw that a friend had posted news of his death– a quick check of a news station, confirmed it. I am surprised, over and over again, how much knowing a death is coming is no bulwark against the emotional impact of that death.

The next day I went to a concert by Amanda Palmer. She had told her audience to bring items for an alter to Cohen, and talked about her love for him, and how a mutual love for Cohen had helped to bring her and her estranged father back together. She sang four of his songs to open her concert while maybe three or four hundred of us lined up to create an alter on the stage. There were candles, flowers, books, photos of Cohen, and somewhere, a small picture of Rui that I had carried in my wallet for 9 years. I didn’t get the email until I was at the concert, and searching for a precious object that was what I found. It felt right, not least because Amanda changed the verse in “Everybody Knows” from the original “Everybody got a broken feeling, like their father or their dog just died” to “Everybody got a broken feeling, like Bowie or Cohen just died”. And then Neil Gaiman came out and read the lyrics to “Democracy”, that optimistic vision of a better America, and there was some healing of the pain we all felt. As Amanda would write later, “There are so many cracks in everything right now that the light is going to be blinding.”

Two days later, at my Unitarian church, many of us lit candles in his memory. Our service closed with a singing of “Hallelujah”.
“And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand right here before the Lord of Song,
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”

Cohen says to God in the title song on his last album,
“You want it darker
We kill the flame.”

And so one of the big guiding flames in my life has gone out. But the candles of his work still burn for me, and for that light I am deeply grateful. Hallelujah.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

The Proof of the Pudding

May 17th, 2016 (10:08 am)

I’ve always loved the thrill of exploring the unknown. My insatiable curiosity has manifested in all sorts of ways, whether heading into a unknown country in the midst of a civil war because they had incredible temples there that I might never otherwise have gotten to see, or plunging into a science fiction book in which a hapless ambassador from Earth finds himself on a planet where the natives shift from one gender to the other, or going to a restaurant where I had a great dish and ordering something different because I haven’t had it yet. Food offers so many possibilities to the intrepid explorer, and how can you know what you’re missing if you don’t try a bite?

For a decade or so I’ve been reading food reviews that talked about sous-vide cooking. Sous-vide, French for “under vacuum”, is a method of cooking food in air-emptied plastic bags in warm water (60ºC, 140ºF) for long periods of time. This cooks the food evenly, as opposed to traditional cooking in which the outside is always more cooked and the inside always less. The theory is that the food comes out moister and more flavourful. It sounded fascinating, though like many innovative ways of cooking the prohibitive cost of the equipment made it more fantasy than possibility.

But as Wikipedia notes, “Non-professional cooks are also beginning to use sous-vide cooking.” Anova, a big name in sous-vide, has introduced a home device for $165 Canadian. For that you get a tube, about two inches in diameter and just over a foot long, with a digital screen on its head. You attach it to a pot of water by a clamp at its waist, and in its foot is an immersion heater that heats the water up. You prepare a ziplock bad of veggies and flavours, submerge it in water to get all the air out, and zip it shut. The Anova app on your cell-phone lets you choose to heat the water to 142.5 degrees for 43 minutes, you plop in the bag and 43 minutes later the veggies are delicately cooked and ready to serve. What could be cooler than that?

Cervantes has a lovely proverb in Don Quixote, “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” I had used the sous-vide device to cook a few vegetables over the weekend with varying results: the carrots were undercooked (too large pieces), the asparagus only okay (though they were lousy asparagus to begin with), and the mushrooms superb (delicate texture and deep umami flavour). So overall, a tie game. Tonight I went for salmon, and Diana, Simon, and I sat down to taste what salmon (135º F/ 57º C for 20 minutes) was like. We all like salmon, and I got a standard salmon fillet, of a kind I cook fairly often to test out.

It was indeed moist, and unusual in that the outside and the centre were equally cooked. It was far softer than a grilled salmon would have been, and more tender than even poached salmon would have been. The texture was...unusual. Simon said it was gelatinous, cheerily adding that as he liked salmon it was okay, but with something he didn’t like he wouldn’t find it acceptable. He’s my nephew and a kind and gentle person who wouldn’t want to offend his uncle. “Inedible,” was Diana’s verdict and as she didn’t eat it, it clearly was for her. I might have been able to convince myself that this was a fascinatingly different take on salmon had everyone else been enthusiastic, but as things were I wasn’t sure if I was in denial when I said it was really good. It was a whole lot like nothing I’ve ever had before, which I liked, but while it wasn’t undercooked, it didn’t quite seem as though it was fully cooked either.

Both Diana and Simon emphasized that they admired the way I tried new experiments, even if those experiments didn’t always succeed. I do admit that based on these verdicts my plan to cook sous-vide salmon for the ten guests we’re hosting on Saturday is, as my GPS would say, recalculating. The time and temperature I followed was supposed to yield a medium-rare result, and with a better cut of fish, and slightly longer/hotter settings there may yet be hope.

I had a ski instructor once who always emphasized that if you never fell, you weren’t trying enough new things. Mr. sous-vide and I have had a few tumbles in the early going, but I remain hopeful that with some fine tuning and we’ll be wowing the guests in no time. And what are the alternatives? The instructions that came with the sous-vide tube were careful to emphasize that one should not use it to power a hot tub, so that’s out. A shame really, as the prohibition made me think what a fine idea a sous-vide hot tub would be.

Besides, ultimately problems are just interesting puzzles one hasn’t solved yet. Optimism is another of my characteristics, as you might have guessed. I’m sure I have many great meals ahead. And I remain hopeful some of them may even be made with my sous-vide cooker.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

Colonoscopy IV: a Comedy

May 12th, 2016 (07:22 pm)


All societies have rites of passage, rituals that mark the formal transitions between one period of life and another. Universal examples are weddings, celebrations of a baby’s birth, mourning at a person’s death. The transition from child to adult is celebrated by Jews with a Bar (Bat) Mitzvah for a boy (girl); First Nations have vision quests; Catholics have communion. Informal rites of passage include going to the prom, getting one’s driving licence, getting drunk, losing one’s virginity. Cultures have a wide range of rites, but in most of them there are fewer towards the closing end of life than at the opening. In our medicalized world, a unique rite of passage to honour those who have passed 50 is the colonoscopy.

Ah, how I envy those of you who aren’t quite sure what that is! For your benefit, I’ll explain the simple version. A doctor sticks a camera up your bum and looks around. If you’re lucky, they don’t see anything. If they do see anything, you’re probably also lucky (though less so) because that means that your colon cancer has been identified sooner rather than later. Having had three friends go through colon cancer and its treatment, I’ll take the colonoscopy. My GP sent me, then a stripling of 50, off for my first but it was on my third when they discovered I have Crohns’ disease. That’s not because my spiritual tradition honours the wisdom of older women, but because my body carries a genetically inherited irritation of my bowel lining. About 70% of those who have it have to get operations that reduce their full colon to a semi-colon; about half of those wind up carrying colostomy bags.

So this Wednesday I was scheduled for Colonoscopy IV, my fourth insight into the world we all carry inside of us, and mostly hope to avoid having to get involved with. I wasn’t looking forward to it. You see, it isn’t the colonoscopy that is so unpleasant, it’s the prep. To get clear photographs, as all photographers know, you can’t have any shit on your lens. So the night before, after 24 hours of a clear liquid diet, I drank two litres of purgative. “Purgative” even sounds like something from the Middle Ages: “Use leeches to bleed the patient, then administer a purgative. Verily, he suffereth mightily from an excess of melancholic humour.” These purgatives take about twenty minutes to react, and the rest of the night gave a whole new interpretation to the phrase “game of thrones”, as I ran back to the toilet with horrific frequency. I mused how this was an ironic reverse of my university exam preparation: now I got to pull an all-nighter uncramming before my test.

Diana drove me down to St. Michael’s hospital the next morning; (they won’t do the test unless you have someone with you to help you leave afterwards.) I changed into those bizarre hospital robes. Now you have to wear two, one with the embarrassing gap in front, the other with it in back. Between them I was covered enough that I didn’t feel too exposed lying in a bed like 15 others, all of us here for a similar procedure, none of us making conversation. I was wheeled off into a tiny room with lots of fancy machines. There, my gastroenterologist explained the procedure, the unlikely things that could go wrong, and I signed a release that I had been told. Then they gave my rohypnol (the most common date-rape drug), which made a certain mordant sense as the two procedures are vaguely similar, absent the issue of consent.

I have a few woozy memories of the experience, watching the images the camera was feeding to the monitor above my head. I would have to say that “in” is probably not my best side. I will not post any screen captures, you’ll all be pleased to know. I then passed out, and returned to consciousness in the waiting room where some kind nurse brought me cookies and orange juice. After a half hour, they concluded I was as compos mentis as I had been when I started, and any further improvement was unlikely. So I got to get dressed, exit, and meet my doctor to get my test score.

Pleasingly, I passed. No signs of any cancer, and while the Crohns is still there it didn’t seem any worse than it had been last time. I got a new list of possibly helpful drugs to research, a series of blood tests to take, and then I’ll meet with my doctor and we’ll make decisions about what to do next. But in the meantime, Diana escorted me to a restaurant where I got to eat smoked salmon under hollandaise and home fries with coffee. The best part about rites of passage is the feast you get to have afterwards, and I really appreciated this one. And I’m good for the next five years....

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

The Traumatized Dog

April 19th, 2016 (05:50 pm)

Saturday morning dawned sunny and warm. It felt as though we’d finally moved out of the shadow of winter, and into the first rays of spring. I asked Rui if he’d like to go down to Humber Bay and walk along the shores of Lake Ontario, rather than doing the same walk we always do through High Park. He was enthusiastic about the idea, so we drove down and strolled the banks taking pictures (Peter) and peeing enthusiastically (Rui) as we went. The new season was intoxicating, though the clouds of midges prevented one from drinking too deeply.

Rui was clearly enjoying himself. On our usual walk he usually trudges along behind me, trapped as he is between the fences on either side of the path that deliminate the off leash area. Here he would run ahead or disappear behind, investigating the new smells. As is his manner, he happily wolfed down the newly grown spring grass, then happily regurgitated it a few minutes later. Dogs seem to enjoy this, and owners seem puzzled. It is how it is. But all went well, at least until we reached the stepping stones.

The Humber Bay park borders on Lake Ontario, but has a few slow and muddy streams that seep through it. One of them has stepping stones that go across it, and Rui has previously used them to cross over, and then to return. This time he looked into the swampy water, and leapt in. I knew this was not good; the water is filthy, redolent with mud and decayed vegetation and he would not be a fit travelling companion till he was much cleaner. But I was missing the real problem.

The stones are at water level, and the pond is fairly deep, with a bottom that’s pure ooze. Rui soaked happily in the mud, then put his forelegs up onto the stepping stones. But now what? The stones offered no purchase by which he could pull his mud-weighted body up; the swamp had no bottom off which he could push himself. He realized he was trapped and was clearly very unhappy about this. He whimpered, and as he tried unsuccessfully to scramble up, his whimpers became more desperate. I could easily reach his collar, but pulling on it would only choke him. So I reached around underneath him, into the guck, and got my hand underneath his bum. Together we got him hoisted up. He was utterly filthy, but so happy to be out that he shook mud all over me.

Rui realizes he's in trouble...

We walked back to the lakeshore, where I found a stick. I showed it to him, then threw it about ten yards into the lake, close enough that he could swim out to it, far enough that he would have to wash himself in clean water to do it. That was how he had learned to swim when he was under a year old, and he has always leapt into water after sticks with dogged determination. But now he didn’t go. He just walked in to knee depth, then stared unhappily at the stick, and barked mournfully. The stick ignored him and continued to float where it was. I urged him to go get it, but he was not going any deeper into any water. Instead he continued to bark, occasionally whimpering. I led him down the shore, to where the six inch waves were only four inches, and threw out another stick, but he was not fooled. Again, mournful barks were all he would do to get the stick back. This stick also proved indifferent to this approach.

So I gave up, and put him into the hatchback, drove home and told him he was going to have to get a shower. Showers are never Rui’s favourite thing, but he was still covered in mud between knee and shoulder, and there was really no alternative. But when I pointed at the stairs to the basement, where the shower is, Rui started to shiver and tremble, and refused to go down the stairs. He’s never done that. He clearly knew that he was going to get a shower and clearly did not want any more water trauma. I pulled him and he reluctantly went down the stairs, then tried to hide in the basement bedroom. When I made him go into the bathroom and closed the door, he stood and shivered and trembled and looked so utterly woebegone that I stroked him and tried to reassure him that showers rarely proved fatal, and that he could do this. But nothing helped.

One of my mother’s finer admonitions was not to cut off the dog’s tail little by little so it wouldn’t hurt so much. If there’s something unpleasant that has to happen, just do it. So I lifted his front paws and put them in the tub, and he sadly jumped in the rest of the way. I showered him and rinsed him, and told him he could get out. He jumped out very quickly and gratefully went to shake himself over my shirt, which I had taken off so as to keep it dry. Then he raced out of the bathroom and ran upstairs.

I went to get him breakfast, but as his kibble box was empty, I went to refill it, from the barrel in the basement. As soon as Rui heard the sound of kibble being scooped out, he happily raced down into the basement and stood watching the kibble scooping process in much the same way the early Jews must have watched manna descending from heaven. It was clear that the basement itself wasn’t scary.

The next day we went for a long walk along the Humber river, north of the bay. There the water is fast flowing, and clean. Rui waded into it to drink, and seemed significantly more comfortable near water than he had been the day before. But he didn’t go swimming, and seemed quite happy to lie on the banks, with a stick, and stare curiously out at this peculiarly dangerous element. He may be an old dog, but he has clearly learned to be wary of water’s new tricks.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

The Year the Music Died

October 29th, 2015 (11:31 am)
current song: Guitar Music Water Sound Beta Waves 432 Hz - Exam Study Classical Music Orchestra

I am a child of the sixties, a baby-boomer, and I come by my love of music honestly. I first heard rock and roll lying in my bed listening late at night to a crystal radio set my father had build for me, that somehow could pick up stations in the southern US, all the way up where we lived in Quebec. I can remember a song with the chorus It’s a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud. I believed it. I wasn’t sure where exactly the Mississippi was, but I recognized a good beat when I heard it, even at age 6.

Later in 1964, I watched, hypnotized, as Ed Sullivan introduced the Beatles; two months later I sat in a box seat at the first Beatles concert in Canada, at the Montreal Forum. It was loud! For a shy introvert to be surrounded by thousands of hysterically screaming peers felt like some transcendent communal sacrament. Within a few months I had bought my first 45 (Roll over Beethoven) and my first album (JB and the Playboys, a Montreal band) and I had started my own music collection. More albums and 45s followed. quickly. Then came tape recordings, first hit songs recorded off the radio on reel-to-reel as I desperately tried to hit record and stop exactly the moment after or before the disc jockey patter spoiled the song. A year later at University, I started obsessively recording albums from other students. In those days music tied us together. If you were my age, you listened to the same music as me. It was a core part of who we were. Last Sunday, at my Unitarian Church, we sang The Times They are a-Changing, and I noticed that most of the people who were my age didn’t need to look up at the projected lyrics. We may be old, but we got to listen to all the great bands.

There were great concerts and rock festivals; I was at Hendrix’s last concert, followed the Grateful Dead, and was rejuvenated by Springsteen. But there was the inevitable splintering of a religion into different sects, as the music I loved gradually transmuted from hip into golden oldies. But I always kept getting new music, whether on album, or CD. I had CDs and vinyl upstairs, tapes in various formats downstairs. Then came mp3s, and ipods, iPhones, iPads, and the whole range of iMusic. I could take my music with me when I went out walking, or drove the car. I had to choose, but there was always enough. It seemed like a golden age. I could put together playlists, selections I loved, and burn them to CD for friends or just to have as a selection.

And now that’s all ended. Part of the ending was the inevitable decay of media. I decided to throw out my reel to reel tapes at about the same time that they had been destroyed by decay and damp where they were stored in the cold room, a fact I didn’t know until I went to trash them and found the white mold of entropy had beaten me to it. The cassettes I managed to throw out before they decayed, as they were in a drier room. But that wasn’t what really precipitated the end of my collection.

It was Apple Music. Others reached the same spot with Spotify, or Pandora, but the names don’t really matter. It’s called streaming music. Here’s how it works. I pay $15 a month, and my family (defined by Apple as any six people I choose) get to listen to any of the 43 million songs Apple has. I can listen at home or on an iDevice out in the world. I can listen to playlists I’ve made, or use the ones Apple has made. I can listen to thousands of radio stations: Tom Waits Radio? Mozart radio? New Age Meditation Radio? It’s all there. I can listen to all the music I used to have on my reel to reel tapes or my cassette tapes. When Buffy Sainte-Marie won the Polaris prize for the best Canadian Rock album of the year a month ago, I read about it in the paper, and then listened to it instantly on Apple Music. And it is pretty good. But– here comes the twist– none of it is mine. I only have access to this music as long as I pay the $15 per month. I can download it onto my iPhone, so that if I go somewhere where there is no internet (surely there must be such places, still) I have it with me. But I can’t make copies of it. I can’t share it with anyone who isn’t also on Apple Music who would therefore already have access to it.

It is very strange. My listening has deepened, both as I discover wonderful albums I’d never heard by musicians I’ve loved, or hear new music. My nephew, who is a sound engineer, is scornful of the low sound quality that streamed music has, but I remember my first transistor radios, and the cheap tapes of the past, and this is way better. And I’ve seen the frequency charts from my recent hearing tests, and know that age and front row seats for Who concerts past have demanded their toll, and my ears no longer carry the exact change. The sound quality doesn’t bother me.

It feels perhaps like the difference between living in your house, and living in the most luxurious hotel you can imagine. The hotel is more comfortable. Someone else cleans up your mess, and you can order food to be delivered, but it’s not yours. If you stop paying, you’re out of there. Maybe it’s the difference between your own car and a rented car, or your own library and a public library. Perhaps this is a residue of living in a capitalist society in which we define ourselves (in part) by what we own. Perhaps I should just celebrate the end of limits and the endless aural vistas that open around me. Isn’t this exactly the brave new world Caliban promises, in “The Tempest”:
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices…

So shouldn’t I answer just as Stephano does, “This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing”?

But I know that when I was young and I had only a few albums and had been to a few concerts, I used to dream a lot about rock stars. They would wander in and out of my unconscious and we’d have long conversations. Lesley Gore told me once that I should drop Latin. She was probably right, too. John Lennon made about a half dozen appearances in my dreams. Now music comes and it goes. I liked that Buffy Sainte Marie album, whatever it was called, but I haven’t gone back to it, because there’s always new music. Fast music, like fast food, feeds us. But it doesn’t linger. That McDonald’s hamburger was a lot like this one. Once even the scratches on my albums were part of my history. I would know to get up and move the stylus when it got stuck right at that moment in Dear Mr Fantasy. Now it’s all polished. Now I have everything, and to my surprise, it feels as though I don’t have nearly as much as I once did.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

A Man of Very Little Taste

October 17th, 2015 (10:50 am)

I started cooking when I was 18 and in my first year at university. It seemed a useful skill to acquire, as I enjoyed eating and the meal plan I had been enrolled in wasn’t cutting it, or in the case of the steel-belted veal parmesan, wasn’t possible to cut. I bought myself a rotisserie oven and a hot plate and started enthusiastically preparing food for myself and others. I had a fervent, though misguided, belief that if I really tasted a dish in a restaurant there was no reason why I shouldn't be able to duplicate its preparation and spicing at home. After six years I decided maybe it wasn’t a total copout to use cookbooks, and things started to seriously improve. There were some spectacular dishes that preceded that decision, as my surviving friends would testify. A duck a l'orange for example, in which I tried to thicken an orange sauce without knowing that the sauce needed to be heated for the corn starch to work. So I added more and more corn starch, and when I finally did heat it, it did thicken, to an adamantine degree.

My diet took its first major shift in my mid-thirties, after an unpleasant period in which burning agony prevented me from cooking, or writing, or doing much of anything that involved flexing my wrists. Arthritic tendonitis, the doctors decreed. I had tried anti-inflammatories, cortisone injections, acupuncture, and deep electrical massage, all to no effect, when a friend’s suggestion to give up meat proved efficacious.  I really liked meat, and still do, even if the amount I’ve eaten in the past thirty years could fit on a plate and still leave ample room for the rest of a meal.

This change forced me out of the meat/ salad/ veg vision of a meal, and and led me to Newk’s Interprovincial Salvage, a quaint store in which you might find anything, and were certain to find things you’d not expected to find, ever, anywhere. I found 12 copies of Julie Sahni’s 700 page opus  “Vegetarian Indian Cooking” in Newk’s book section, and Newk happily sold me one for a dollar. It not only had recipes, but explained the philosophy and ingredients of vegetarian Indian food, putting the foods into a context. The next day I raced back and bought the other eleven. Newk shook his head sadly, “Guess I underpriced those.” He went out of business not long thereafter.

Indian cooking led me to Thai cooking, (as well as to India, Thailand, and many other south-east Asian countries, each of which had its own wonderful vegetarian tradition.) I quickly leaned in Thailand that saying, “I like it spicy,” translated quite differently than it did at home. But I did like it spicy (assuming you’re not from Thailand,) and I cooked every non-meat dish in Cynthia Wine’s “The Hot and Spicy Cookbook: Food So Good It Hurts”. Frequently, in many cases.

But I had a secret, which was that as my mouth’s tolerance for and delight in spices increased, my digestion’s tolerance for it, which had never been great, decreased. I found out why when my gastroenterologist greeted my return to consciousness after a colonoscopy with the good news that I didn’t have colon cancer and the bad news that I had Crohns Disease, an inflammatory bowel ailment that is triggered by spicy foods. Denial seemed an increasingly ineffective bulwark from what we Chronies call “flares”, and I tried desperately to find flavours that would serve as a satisfactory substitute for chilli heat.

I was successful through a thoroughly requited love affair with Yotam Ottolenghi, whose weekly columns in The Guardian introduced me to a richer world of fusion food than I knew existed. Full disclosure: there were a number of cooks with whom I had fallen in love between Julie and Yotam, Deborah Madison being the most notable.  Yotam's column is my first website every Saturday Morning, and what I read there is often what we will eat Saturday night. With a recently renovated kitchen giving me a work area that actually worked with me, and a new stove that generated a heat that actually seared when I wanted it to, I was enjoying cooking more than ever.

The problem that I didn’t smell so well first became obvious with things that didn't smell so good. I noticed on dog walks that unpleasant smells seemed less unpleasant to me than to everyone else. When Saatchi got sprayed by a skunk, Roy assiduously washed her in a variety of skunk cures. I thought they'd worked, but no one else did. When Diana happily pointed out the beautiful fragrance of the new rosebush she had planted, I could only detect a faint whiff of rose. Strangely, the cabinet of 43 essential oils with which Diana and I scent the jacuzzi all seemed to have grown weaker at the same time. And I couldn’t taste as precisely as I once had, back when I prided myself on being able to identify individual flavourings. My mother had started to lose her sense of smell at about my age, so I was clear on what was happening. A quick google search let me know that some of the causes of anosmia were likely to be imminently fatal, though as Mom is still eating meals 28 years later, I avoided panic.

But I did go to see my GP, who referred me to an ENT (not a talking tree from Tolkein, but an ear-nose-throat specialist).  I had vaguely anticipated a set of vials that I’d sniff till I couldn’t detect anything, but I discovered there is no standardized test for your smelling ability as there is for your hearing or sight. The doctor did shove a pointy rod with a camera in its tip up my nose into my skull, and was pleased to report she saw nothing there. I would have much preferred a conversation with a wise talking tree, but this was what the medical system offered. She said, unhopefully,  that I could try spraying prescription drops into my nostrils; I did; nothing changed.

So here I am, trapped between the need to increase the intensity of food flavours so that I can detect them, and the inability to happily process the dishes that satisfy mouth hunger. I can see a future in which I become a Beethoven of the kitchen, cooking marvellous dishes whose flavours my guests savour but which I can no longer detect. Sic transit gloria foodie.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

Rui @ 9

September 29th, 2015 (01:48 pm)

Rui, our labradoodle, has turned nine. The book, The Year of Living Doggedly, which chronicles his and my first year together has been out for four years, and it describes events that had happened four years before it came out. In human years that makes him about 63, to the extent that one can translate such things. And yes, there is a distinct change in him that parallels the changes I see in myself, as we become approximately the same age. I write these words at 7:36 pm, and he has just trotted up the stairs to go to bed. He used to stay up later, but didn't we all?

I look back on my anxieties of that first year, my worries about whether that puppy energy could ever by tamed, about whether he was a "bad dog", some punkish urban equivalent of a sheep killer, and they seem hilariously naïve. He was a puppy, and that's what puppies are like. If a friend confided her worries because her 6 month old son couldn't write yet, it would be similar. First dog, new parents: what can you do?

His maturity manifests in a number of ways. He stopped playing with other dogs about four years ago, for the most part. The one exception is puppies who are bigger than him physically. Rui is generally submissive, so we suspect he enjoys dominating bigger dogs, and he can only do that safely if they're younger. At the dog park, he enjoys chasing Pepper, a 14 months old great Dane. He always preferred people to dogs, but while he'll enthusiastically greet anyone who comes to our door, he becomes uninterested in them in a few minutes. Happily, he rarely leaps up any more; non dog-people used to seem displeased by a 30 kilogram dog leaping onto them, even if it was affectionately. Stuffed toys, which he used to tear at until they were completely destroyed now warrant only a few minutes attention, and then are discarded.

But from the beginning, before Diana and I had even come to live with Rui, I'd had a dream. That was of being able to walk with a dog off leash, calling him when I needed to, not worrying that he'd run off. And that's come to happen, though not where there are cars, or houses. Rui retains his curious disposition, and will happily try to learn what’s inside any open door, which is how I have made a number of new friends with whom I share a common alleyway. Ella, a four year old who lives three doors south, came shyly to our door last week and asked if she could give Rui a dog treat. That was very kind of her, as her first meeting with Rui had come when he dashed through the garage in which her mother was working, ran across the backyard and into the house, grabbed one of her stuffed dolls, and dashed back out of the house, “like a Navy Seal on a mission”, as Ella’s mother admiringly noted.

So Rui and I walk together on paths through parks, and in Toronto ravines. Rui has always been benign towards nature, and has become more so at nine. He doesn't chase squirrels or birds, and has never shown aggression to any one, so I don't have to worry about what he might do. He might eat something disgusting, or lie down in mud, but he is a dog, and I've come to accept that is what they do.

He has become a delightful companion. He has expectations of me: there is a time for food, and a time for walks. Should I stray outside of the acceptable bounds of either he will come and stare intently at me, till I remember and do what I am expected to do. But he rarely barks, unless he wants to be let in and the door is closed, or a stranger is arriving. He is an easy dog to be with, and he accepts that humans are in charge without resentment.

Rui and I both have a fairly cavalier attitude towards rules about leashes. There are a few dog walks on which a dog can be unleashed, but we very often walk elsewhere. We walk in school yards that have "No Dogs Allowed" signs. We walk, unleashed, in ravines that warn "All Dogs Must be on Leashes". We walk though the gates in High Park that say "You are leaving the off-leash area. Please leash your dog". Rui stays on paths, which he understands. He doesn't chase fauna, and he doesn't destroy flora. I can't think of any damage he does that he wouldn't do equally if he were leashed, and as we walk at different speeds it is much more pleasant for me to walk at my slow amble, while he'll sniff something of interest and then catch up with me. Or perhaps, he'll dash ahead, and then wait for me to catch up. Should the path fork, he'll wait to see which tine I choose, and then follow unquestionably.

There is a minimum fine of $360 for having a dog off-leash in a prohibited area, and for a while I was concerned about that. But the bylaw officers who enforce that law rarely get out of their cars, as many dog owners have noticed, so as long as we remain out of sight from the road we seem to be safe. If I consider how many fine walks we've had illegally, and divide that into $360, the average cost per walk seems quite reasonable, certainly less than the cost per walk of a dog walker. Like other practitioners of civil disobedience through the ages, I believe there is a higher law than the law of man; for me it is the law of dog.

Over this Edenic bliss, of course, a dark shadow looms. A dog's life is far shorter than a human's. Rui continues to be quite healthy, but the average life span for either standard poodles and Labrador retrievers is about 13. Both Diana and I notice how empty the house is on days when Rui’s staying with friends. There will come a time when he is staying with a different set of friends, those who have passed on, and that is hard to imagine. But that is not today's problem, and one of the many lessons Rui has taught me is to remain more solidly focussed on the present.

Pets age faster than their owners. That means that they start out younger, and end up older. So it logically follows, according to what I once learned was called the intermediate value theorem, there must be a day on which they are the same age. I have calculated that April 25th, 2016, is that day for Rui and me, and that will clearly call for some sort of celebration. I don't know what it will involve for me–perhaps a very long walk– but for him meat will certainly be part of the festivities. In some regards, he hasn't changed at all.

Peter Marmorek [userpic]

What is this Socalled Music?

May 26th, 2015 (09:16 am)

Josh Dolgin, called "Socalled" is this guy from Montreal. He does things, including but not limited to, journalism, film-making, magic, puppetry, and cartoons. And he makes music, most notably People Watching, an album he's just released this past month. It's a great album, but trying to pin down its genre is even tougher than describing its creator. A lot of it is hip-hop, blended with reggae, dance-hall, funk, soul, rock and roll, klezmer, jazz and classical. And it meanders, smoothly, from any one of these into any other, such as in the title song which starts with a vaguely Klezmer choral wave, becomes a folky female vocal, moves into a funk rhythm, a soul chorus that alternates with hip-hop verses that suddenly become Jamaican dance-hall, which transmute into a call-and-response with Punjabi singer Kamal Chamkila. Bootycaller brings in French-Canadian singing from Josey Wales and Frank Lambert part-way through, and so it goes.

This would be vaguely notable only as eclecticism run amok were it not for the extraordinary skill with which Socalled blends the different threads. Katie Moore, his long time singer creates lovely waves of female vocals; Fred Wesley (ex-James Brown and Funkadelic) brings in serious funk credentials on his trombone; and Oliver Jones plays a jazz piano that reveals new depths on every listening. And just when the first time listener thinks they've gotten a sense of the kind of musics this album holds, something comes flying in from out of the blue: such as Fire on Hutchison St., a solo piano and voice song (folk/klezmer, basically, but.) that alternates verses about the Friday night fire in his apartment ("An audience assembles across the street to watch/ lots of Hasids to see the fire blazing/ movies and tv forbidden so this is the show to watch...") with a chorus about the end of a relationship ("Well I'm sorta sick of saying I'm sorry/ I'm sorta sick of feeling like I kinda never know"). Is the titular fire on the street the external or the internal? Like all good poets, Socalled doesn't give you answers, but leaves you to admire the question. 

The references resonate throughout. The album opens with a chant, "Went through all the good books, learned from every tale; it's not enough that I succeed, everyone else must fail", which (as if you didn't know) was originally said by Attila the Hun. And ten cuts later the closing number, (Curried Soul 2.0), is instantly recognized by any Canadian listener as the theme to the CBC Radio 1 evening news show, "As it Happens". Originally written by Moe Koffman. Socalled's version won a CBC competition to update the theme two years ago. 
One of the things I love about living in Canada is the blend of cultures that cities like Montreal and Toronto offer, a potpourri of flavours, styles, foods and people. It's that love of mixing things that are considered separate that has led me to become a slavish follower of Yotam Ottolenghi's cooking, for Yotam is happy to mix an Israeli grains with Mexican spices and Italian accents. (Full disclosure: my refrigerator features a banner, WWYD: What Would Yotam Do? It helps me to break free of wimpy recipes.) And I realize that is exactly what People Watching does. It takes elements that have never been juxtaposed, because they so obviously belong to different worlds, and mixes them together in a way that not only works but makes the blend seem inevitable.

Another Montreal band, Arcade Fire, sang a few years ago about how "Now the music divides us into tribes", and it seemed true. In any high-school cafeteria, every student can identify which tables the hip-hop crew sit at, and which ones are reserved for the metal-heads. Once, in the 70's, I used assign my English class to play a song and talk about the lyrics. I liked the assignment because it let them value their culture, as opposed to teacher culture. I stopped doing it sometime towards the end of the 80s, because it had become too divisive. The tribes were pretty intolerant of each others' musics. People Watching  might retie those disparate stands. Perhaps that's claiming too much, but it sure sounds a whole lot like nothing you've ever heard. Ot maybe, a bit like everything you've ever heard. 

Peter Marmorek [userpic]


November 29th, 2014 (01:46 pm)

DakhaBrakha is a Ukranian quartet that might remind you of no one else, or maybe of everyone else. It’s hard to say.There’s a fierce percussive drumming on bass drums that puts one in mind of Kodo, the demon drummers of Japan. There’s a chelloist who produces a screeching background drone reminiscent of John Cale in the early Velvet Underground. Tabla playing suggests India, bird calls suggest the jungle, and the high keening vocals takes one back to 1990 and “Le Mystere des Voix Bulgares”, the Bulgarian folk choir that first introduced many of us to that sound. No wonder that DakhaBrakha refer to their style as ethno-chaos!

And then there’s the visual impact. One man, off to the side, and three women, wearing wedding dresses and tall black lamb-fur hats. One of them, Nina Garenetska, plays the cello, sometimes with a bow, sometimes plucking notes as though it were an acoustic bass. Iryna Kovalenko plays piano, jaw-harp, accordion, and drums; Olena Tsibulska plays tom-tom; and Marko Halanevych plays accordion and tabla. All of them played a variety of percussive instruments that come from India, Arabia, Africa, Austrailia, and Russia. Their name, DakhaBrakha, means give/take, and they do. They take from all over, and they give back a distillation of sonic energy that is astounding.

They have been around for a decade, having started in in 2004 at the Kyiv Centre of Contemporary Art with an original focus on Ukrainian folk music. The piercing vocals are sometimes in Ukrainian, sometimes in English, and can be, for example, from a traditional Carpathian song about a prospective bride’s less-than-stellar suitors (thank you, NY Times) or laments from funeral songs. But the sound is based on the intertwined harmonies of the three women’s voices, keening in a manner that is utterly haunting. Much of the music doesn’t have tunes, but rather works through complex rhythms and tempo changes. Part of that is the deliberately minimalist sound of the arrangements, which are percussive. That’s clear from the central role of the drumming but the accordions and piano were largely played rhythmically without many note changes, creating intricate frames for the heart of the vocals.

The audience, in Toronto’s stunning new Aga Khan Museum, reflected the diverse appeal of the band: in a full range of ages and ethnicities they ranged from a fully bedecked Eastern Orthodox priest to a pair of punkishly pierced lesbians. There were many Ukrainians who recognized traditional songs, even in their new clothes. Still, it would be wrong to think of DakhaBrakha as simply ethnic. They’re complexly ethnic: Rolling Stone hailed them as the Bonnaroo Festival’s “Best Break Out”, at the four day rock festival last year. At the Aga Khan Museum, they drew a series of standing ovations at the end of their show. The music is transcendent in two senses: it crosses the barriers of language and culture, and it moves the listeners beyond normal experience. DakhaBrakha may have roots in the soil of traditional Ukrainian folk music, but its powerful branches extend deep into the modern world. The Aga Khan Museum has as one of its goals to foster dialogue among different peoples, and DakhaBrakha is a classic example of how music can do just that.

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