Who wouldn't want to run away and join the circus?

Last week my friends and I went to the circus. Not the typical thing to do on a Friday night, I know, but an activity with its own brand of romantic allure.

The event was put on by the Arts Umbrella Teen and Adult Circus School. A circus school!? That sounded almost as delicious as a circus "academy". It was in one of the PNE buildings....the Winter Garden building I think. When we took our seats, the performance area was set up with various long, silken doohickies, I now know are called "tissu". These were the first things that caught my attention. I've seen Cirque du Soleil after all....well, on the television anyway. Then I noticed the trapezes, two that looked like they were not meant for swinging (a single and a double), and one set up in the centre of the ring, which looked like it was definitely set up for some high-flyin' fun. Everywhere those blue gym mats ensured the safety of the brave acrobats, bringing me back to my days as a gymnast, days when the death-defying feats that I performed made me long for the simple and relatively safe life of the humble acrobat.

The show ran about an hour and a half long. There was a very loose Christmasy, or at least wintery theme and plot, but all that was very secondary to the performances themselves. As I expected the performers were teens and adults, far more adults than teens though. Seriously, what's wrong with the youth of today? Don't any kids dream about running away and joining the circus? I did when I was young (back when it was actually possible). Hell, I still do. After the show I picked up an application form. I plan to fill it out any day now.

Each acrobat performed to a different piece of music. My favourite was a small, Asian woman working the tissu to the seductive tunes of Santa Baby. She really made shimmying up a long piece of fabric look naughty. But although the tissu work looks beautiful and fun, my favourite event was the single, high trapeze. I remember when I use to watch this real reality show ( as opposed to the pseudo-reality shows) called Circus. I just followed a real circus around as it made it's way back and fourth across this great land of ours. It showed the circus being composed of mainly families, the children usually following in the footsteps of their parents. I remember this one episode when this young girl, maybe thirteen years old, started the single high trapeze for the first time, and the comment that it was the single hardest event to master. It doesn't look dangerous, not as dangerous as the flying trapeze, cause it just sits there. But the amount of strength and control that goes into manipulating your body around this stationary object while making your motions appear fluid and effortless is mind-boggling. It's like the uneven bars....without the swinging.

I thoroughly enjoyed myself. However, even if had been crap I would have thoroughly enjoyed myself. I mean, if anyone had asked me what I was doing that night I could have said in a very haughty tone, "I'm going to the circus! What are you doing?" As I said, there is something very romantic about the circus. Maybe it's the allure of traveling the open road in a gypsy caravan. Or maybe it's because it's such an old art. Personally, I think it's because deep down inside we all like the look of a bum in spandex.

Eastside couple hosts killer Halloween party

Although it's true that if Eastside folks are known for anything it's for hosting smashing parties, the Halloween-themed gem hosted last Friday at a certain small, red, mod-styled apartment took the proverbial cake. The hosts scored on all three levels: ambiance, food, and a guest-list that would leave any party host drooling.

The guest-list read as a who's-who of the political left, as well as the creme de la creme of the Save-on-foods set. The party seemed to defy the 6:1 ratio of inviting; for every six people who are invited only one will actually bother to show up. Indeed, at this party, which most people would climb over their bedridden grandmothers to be invited to, the ratio was more like 2:1. Very impressive for such a sought-after time-slot as the Friday before Halloween. All the guests were fashionably late, and the hosts would not have had it any other way. Said the hostess, "If people would have turned up on time I would have died, I mean really actually died. Anybody who's anybody knows that in order for a party to be a success guests must leisurely start to arrive at least an hour and a half after the invitation says. That and I was still struggling with the hors d'oeuvres at one hour past the start time."

And let's talk about those hors d'oeuvres. These were sumptuous morsels you would have climbed over your comatose grandmother just to nibble on. Orgasmic stuffed mushrooms. Goosebump-giving four-layer guacamole dip. Caramel apples to write home about. I mean really, really good stuff. The spread also defied the party leftover ratio. Basically, there were no leftovers. (Greedy buggers!)

Finally, what these particular hosts do best is ambiance. From the charismatic croonings of B.A. Johnston to the intricate lighting plan, this party had it all. The hosts did a tremendous job of taking the tiny, cramped space they had to work with, and opening it up in a way to facilitate conversation and mingling. And mingling was had, let me assure you of that. The decor was done by the hostess herself to the themes of pumpkins, creepy crawlies, and communism. All these themes intertwined effortlessly throughout the apartment.

I have been to perhaps thousands of eastside Halloween parties in my twenty-five-year career (and to some of those I was actually invited), but I have never had the pleasure, the honour, the....um.... honour of reviewing one so perfect, so well-attended, so life-altering as this one. Folks, let me tell you to keep your ears to the ground, and if this couple grants us all the consideration of hosting another fabulous party make it your life's work to get yourself on the guest list. And then be two hours late. Because that's just what we do.

Serenity

Okay, this is a crappy picture. I can't remember how I used a picture from the web before. It's small and blurry, but this is a picture from Serenity, unequivocally the most bestest movie of all time.

Now you're probably saying to yourself, "Surely, she jests. She's probably just overly-elated that the big movie producers-that-be took a cancelled television show that she pined over, and made a movie, thereby providing a much-needed relief from her painful withdrawals." Well, you would be right. But what kind of person talks like that...surely?...jest?

Yes it's true. Joss Whedon has done the impossible. He has taken a cancelled television that was (and I'm putting it mildly here) the greatest television show on earth, and made a movie that did not suck. How many people can do that. Let's count them. Hmmm...None! He took his beloved Firefly, and did not ruin it, did not compromise it, did not whore it. It's a nice change.

Serenity is not a science-fiction/western; it is a compelling story that happens to take place in the future, in dusty one-horse towns, and in space. The dialogue is clever, and intelligent and never makes me want to squirm. When things get too intense the movie has an amazing ability to laugh at itself without being ridiculous or without becoming a parody. It's as serious and as funny as life usually is; it doesn't disrupt this balance. The film has all the effects, music and violence that gives you that nice adrenaline rush without being superfluous or illogical.

The story continues from the series, so I would suggest you all go out and rent the DVD's before plunking down and seeing the film. I thought the movie did a good job at catching all the first-timers up, but since I've seen all the episodes it's hard for me to judge that. The story in the film reveals to us the mystery of River, which was just one of the many mysteries hinted to us during the ill-fated Firefly. There are still many mysterious, and hopefully many movies to come. Basically, the plot follows the exploits of a gang of very rounded and fleshy (I mean that as a metaphor describing the depth of their character development, not literally as in they're all fat) characters who are trying to make it in a universe of ever-increasing monopoly and imperialism. The captain, Mal, and his first mate, Chloe, are veterans of the Independent/Alliance wars (you can guess what side they were on). They and their crew and passengers eke out a mostly illegal living trying to dodge the Alliance, a feat that becomes all the more difficult when the Alliance discover that a young girl who escaped their clutches and who poses a severely great threat to them, River Tam, is one of Serenity's passengers. The question becomes why is this seventeen-year-old girl such a threat to the great intergalactic beast that is the Alliance.

I can't write a proper review because I love it so much all I can do is gush. And gushing does not make for good writing. But ignore it and go see the movie anyway.

The History of Music

Everybody has their own personal history of music. Everyone knows who it was who made them realize that music existed, and that it was important...very, very important. I can trace my history of music all the way back to when I was just a lass.

In the beginning, I lived in a world of Raffi, Charlotte Diamond and Fred Penner. The highlight of my young life was getting Charlotte's autograph at the Peace March Rally down by the beach on Burrard Inlet. I don't know what it was that attracted me to these particular artists, but they did all play guitar and sing about ducks and frogs and shit. That was probably the appeal for me. At the same time, there were labour songs. Fuck! Of course there were labour songs. As long as there's been labour there's been labour songs. I remember them being sung on the impromptu stage in my grandparents' backyard in Surrey at fundraisers for The Pacific Tribune - that good old commie labour paper.

The next stage came when I opened my eyes (well, ears...actually, I didn't open anything...it's mearly a metaphor for becoming aware), and realized that my parents listened to their own music. Anything they listened to on their records I listened to as well. The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Michael Jackson (it was the '80's, and I lived to dance), the Guess Who, and Janis Joplin. Always Janis Joplin. I wanted to sing just like her, but I'd have to smoke about 400 cigarettes a day, and have a rock glass of Southern Comfort with my cornflakes every morning for the next 50 years to be able to build up that kind of gravel in my voice.

Moving along to the early '90's I branched out into the popular music of the time. I bought my first tape. It was Paula Abdul. It was 1991 afterall, and as I said as a young wipper-snapper I did love to dance (as was the custom at the time). Then in the mid-'90's I discovered Much Music. I was a teenager, so I followed my hormones and they led me to the beautiful boys of Brit Pop. My fantasy was to run away to England and sing with the Damon Albarns and Thom Yorkes of the world about bank holidays and crummy roach-infested council flats.

Ten years have passed since then, and my musical development progressed in much the same way. But the big turning point for me came when I stopped just mindlessly listening to the noise around me and started to learn that some of that really good noise came from the same people. I learned about repetoires, and went out and actively sought some of the good stuff. Throughout my whole history of music a big chunk of that consistantly good noise has been produced by the Tragically Hip. As long as I can remember music I can remember their music. They have and have always had the kind of sound that reminds me of barbeques I use to go to in the backyards of my parents' friends. Backyards with wild grass growing over the hollowed-out carcasses of dead cars, empty beer cans and greasy tools. Working-class poets. The one musical constant in most people's lives. I mean c'mon, can you remember a time before The Hip?