Welcome back, hockey.

Duarte left a Vintages magazine (avec scotch whisky feature) on my desk that made me realize: I have too much scotch at home. Let me rephrase: we’re not drinking it quickly enough. I suppose that’ll change with the temperature; whisky’s not really a summer drink. But if I remember correctly I have 15, 18 and 30 year old bottles of Macallan fine oak at home, not to mention half-finished bottles of Cardhu and Bruichladdich and god knows what else that I just can’t remember right now.

Speaking of hockey, I think I did ok in my NHL draft last night. Then again, I always think I did ok and I never win. Here’s the lineup:

• P. Forsberg
• B. Morrison
• M. Naslund
• B. Shanahan
• J. Jagr
• B. Hull
• S. Niedermayer
• S. Zubov
• W. Redden
• D. Tarnstrom
• P. Marleau
• D. Hasek
• J. Theodore
• S. Gagne (bench)
• P. Bondra (bench)

It seems like everyone has a cell phone…I mean, my mother & father each have one, fer chrissakes! It definitely seems like every tech savvy 30 year old has one, but I don’t. I like not having one. I used to have one, but I resented it then and it didn’t bother me at all to get rid of it. I have my blackberry — no voice capability, ’cause I work for a miserly company — which suits me since I’d rather communicate by email than phone anyway.

Plus, I’ll never (even accidentally) be the twat whose phone goes off in the middle of a movie.

“We’ve heard that a million monkeys at a million keyboards could produce the complete works of Shakespeare; now, thanks to the Internet, we know that is not true.” -Robert Wilensky

The finger still isn’t unsprained. Don’t know if it’s because I keep smacking it on things or if there’s something really wrong with it. I guess I’ll find out after I play ball tomorrow night.

I have an NHL fantasy league draft coming up. I think that, given my record with sports pools, I’ll just let the system make my picks for me.

I really don’t know why I’m reading the textbook for this IT course. Tonight it talked about these funky things called handhelds. Ooooooh…

Since watching No Direction Home I’ve been flooding my ears with Bob Dylan songs and various concerts. I could seriously listen to Bob and The Band play “Baby Let Me Follow You Down” on The Last Waltz a dozen times in a row and not get sick of it. Same with the Clancy Brothers singing “When The Ship Comes In”.

A History Of Violence (imdb | rotten tomatoes) got all kinds of buzz at the TIFF, and has some great reviews attached to it. Though it would have been nearly impossible, I wish I hadn’t read anything about the film before I watched it today. I knew where the shocking bits were about to happen, so it took some of the edge off. I say some because the movie has edge to spare, being Cronenberg and all. I was pleasantly surprised, actually; he didn’t go for the Cronenberg surreal, instead letting the frank brutality of the violence work on us for him. The analogy to recent US counter-terrorism action is clear, as is the broader historical truth that violence begets more violence. No, not begets; ensures. Demands.

There were also historical truths at play in No Direction Home (imdb | rotten tomatoes), which I finished watching this evening. This Arthur Schopenhauer quote, for example: “All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.” To see (and especially hear) the backlash against Bob Dylan‘s electric turn in the mid 60s — not just by the fans, but by his former fellow revolutionary musicians as well — was like seeing people in the first two phases of truth, not realizing that they were booing Dylan and questioning his musical integrity as he played (among other songs) what would later be recognized as the most significant musical document of the last half century: “Like A Rolling Stone”. But while the documentary focuses on those couple of years — between the infamous Newport Folk Festival and his motorcycle accident — the stories of how he came up, of who influenced him, of who he met along the way, of how he changed things, of how the world changed around him, of he loved and who he alienated, these are all emotional (especially, for me, three scenes: Dylan singing and playing the piano in a quiet room with Johnny Cash; a montage showing footage of JFK in Dallas the day he was shot while “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” plays; seeing Martin Luther King make his “I Have A Dream” speech during the march on Washington, which gets me pretty much every time anyway), and all fascinating.

Strange, I figured I’d hear Duarte’s whoop of elation clear across town this morning.

It sunk in yesterday that I have to submit my first assignment for this IT course by Thursday. And since Wednesday I’m out for drinks and Thursday is my date night with the NHL, I have to get it done in the next couple of days. Still, I’m not too worried. It’s so hilariously simple that I’m embarassed to tell you about it.

What a shame. The Catholic church has become a group of sad, sad little men. Such an enormous organization, capable of so much good, reduced to making petty hateful threats. Pathetic.

Stanzi, you need to click here. You’re welcome. [via]

But really, if you think about it…who else could play Keith Moon?

Here’s how I coped:

1. Yo La Tengo . “I Was The Fool Beside You For Too Long”
2. Pedro The Lion . “Criticism As Inspiration”
3. Neutral Milk Hotel . “Song Against Sex”
4. The New Pornographers . “Letter From An Occupant”
5. At The Drive-In . “Enfilade”
6. Bob Mould . “Sacrifice / Let There Be Peace”
7. Sonic Youth . “Theresa’s Sound World”
8. Final Fantasy . “The CN Tower Belongs To The Dead”
9. Guided By Voices . “The Enemy”
10. Iggy & The Stooges . “I Wanna Be Your Dog”
11. Les Savy Fav . “Tragic Monsters”
12. Cyndi Lauper & The Minus Five . “Midnight Radio”
13. …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead . “The Rest Will Follow”

Amen.

Wherever I go, there’s a repugnant Jake nearby; shrieking, kicking the table, bellowing its hot little face off. And sitting beside Jake is Jake’s moron parent, doting on his every noise, dribble and splurt, as though he’s somehow special or charming.

[via]