Major Tom as rendered by Shiny Toy Guns

The other night as I dozed before the television set, I was suddenly struck with longing. I woke up, shook my head and realized what had hit me: some car company was employing a clever remake of Peter Schilling's Major Tom.

A little history: Peter Schilling was a contemporary of Nena's, both of whose management capitalized on that brief, surreal window in the 80s when "the New Wave" received a second, larger shot at life via video. "Major Tom" was Schilling's international hit, a song of desire, desolation and alienation (and, possibly, adultery and substance abuse) that was nearly undone by a goofy video.

It's a little unnerving to see kids these days take a shine to music I've almost completely forgotten, even though I once laced up my ALDO certified Italian shoes to dance to it. Unnerving, but also invigorating. I think Shiny Toy Guns gets the hunger at the core of "Major Tom." I won't be buying the car attached to the song, but I don't mind visiting their site and offering some scant info to get the "free" download. This is commercialism I can buy into.

Playing At Fitness

This month's ish of Men's Health describes a fitness camp in the rain-forests of Brazil. It can be read online, but the link, unfortunately, doesn't include any of the photos in the magazine. Basically, campers (all male) pay to strip down to their surfer shorts and run around the jungle like they're Tarzan.

You could not pay me enough to join a group like that. First of all, I hate group exercise; I hate to exercise in front of anyone. Restricting the group to men is a further disincentive. Add the flaky element of "let's pretend" ("We're warriors!" "We're an elite corps of primates!" "We're all Tarzan!") and you've just described my idea of Hell.

And yet, and yet ... there is an aspect of "play" that I miss in my fitness routine (such as it is). Years ago I took an early morning Aikido class at the YMCA. I had mixed feelings about the experience which became decidedly un-mixed the morning I was dropped on my head by a Russian black-belt (silver lining: the Russian knew a terrific chiropractor). I didn't much enjoy the grappling, but I had nothing but love for the warm-up.

This consisted of breathing exercises, followed by stretching, followed by tumbling. It lasted about 12 minutes, and by the end of it the entire body felt ready for anything (short of being dropped on the head). The breathing and the stretching I can do easily enough on my own, but the tumbling is another matter. A large space is required, and floor mats are recommended. And to be honest, there is something thrilling about a group of 20 people hitting the floor in unison.

Hm. Maybe I need to start my own "fitness camp" (emphasis on camp -- second definition) in the verdant forests of Ontario?

Stem Research

One of the locals asked if I wanted to join his cycling club. They're a bunch of guys whose median age is 44, who plow through a given stretch of woods when the moon is full. I thanked him for the invite, but turned him down. I would have jumped at the opportunity in my 20s; in my 40s it sounds like a short path to humiliation and serious injury.

My winter cycling consists of 15 minute stints on a magnetic resistance trainer, usually doing variations on sprints and only occasionally working a 20-plus minute aerobic spread (i.e., dying of boredom). Since I'm not climbing in and out of the saddle to navigate hilly terrain, I am discovering that the Jake is just a little long for my grasp: my shoulders and neck can get pretty stiff after the longer sessions. I'm hoping a shorter stem (7.5 cm, down from 10.5) will fix that problem.

The Power Toboggan

The guy who fixed our roof came into the cafe the other day. He was trussed up in three different braces. I gaped. "What happened to you?"

"Aw, snowmobiling. I jumped over a driveway and landed wrong. Then the next guy landed on me."

So far as snowmobiles are concerned, my first impulse is to be a scold. They are very popular in this part of the world. On any day of the week we're likely to see a 14-year-old kid rip through town, well past the speed limit.

But I hold my tongue. I was 14 once, too. And I jumped at any chance to use the family snowmobile: a 1970 Arctic Cat Panther.



My youngest uncle persuaded my grandfather to drop money on this machine when it was still new. It was a noisy two-stroke monster that couldn't break 40 mph. It was heavy, and gallingly dependable. By the time my uncle left town for university, my grandfather was only too happy to let my family take the snowmobile off his yard. I was 12-years-old by then, and only too happy to give it a go on ours.

I had a couple of friends with similar machines. My father would drop me and the snowmobile off at the outskirts of town, and off I'd go with my buds, cutting trails into acres of pristine snow. I also had friends with newer, snazzier, faster machines, but for some reason I never got together with them.

My love affair with snowmobiling began to cool as I grew older. The trouble started one Saturday when my father took me on a tour of snowmobile dealerships. We had no interest in actually buying anything -- we were just curious to see what was on the market. The long and short of it was that for a few thousand unavailable dollars we could purchase a lighter machine capable of reaching speeds in excess of 100 mph.

Also, it wouldn't be too much longer before I turned 16 and could drive a real vehicle -- one with over 350 cubic inches and eight cylinders under the hood. The snowmobile, seemingly in tune with my fickle affections, began to act up. If I pushed the accelerator, she responded only to a point, then cut out and died.

We took it to mechanics. We took apart the carburetor and replaced all the gaskets and aeration screws. We propped the rear on a cinder block and fiddled with the carburetor settings for hours. Nothing seemed to work.

For a while I could ride it at half-throttle, but before too long she wouldn't let me coax her past a quarter-throttle. My younger sister wanted a tobogganing/snowmobile birthday party, and I was enlisted as the designated rider. I ferried eight-year-old girls around the tobogganing hill and through a copse of poplars. The girls seemed pleased with the experience, but beneath my balaclava I burned with shame as cross-country skiers glided effortlessly past me.

I don't remember how the snowmobile finally disappeared from our yard. I expect my father sold her, and passed the money back to his father. The fact that this event didn't even register on my personal radar indicates just how out of love I was with the "sport."

Still am, really. I think these things are a blight on our landscape and a menace to our ecosystem -- possibly even to our survival as a species.

But I have to admit: it was fun at the time.

"Mambo Italiano" -- Rosemary Clooney

What a gorgeous woman.



"Mambo Italiano" was today's randomizer pick, a peppy little novelty song that owes all its sexy snap to the young Rosemary Clooney's cheerful abandon. It depresses me a little to think she had to trot it out for audiences when she was an older woman. It's like asking the older, "Is That All There Is?" Peggy Lee to sing "How Much Is That Doggy In The Window?" But Clooney was an entertainer and a pro; if the song had become tedious to her she never let on.

So I'll amend my former declaration to: What a woman.

"Innocent" Ears

You said you'd always love me
You said you'd be my friend
You had your fingers crossed
You stuck it to me in the end

Innocence ... it's all you'll ever plead

Ah, Harlequin ... rescuing the pride of Winnipeg rockers in the 80s!



Burton Cummings was flying solo; The Guess Who were done; BTO was on the verge of paying the principal on the "Overdrive" ... what were the odds a Winnipeg band would ever pull us back into the arena for a rockin' good time?

The guitar-based, synth-friendly Harlequin accomplished that very stunt with mullet-coiffed élan.

Last night I was walkin'
And I, I saw you with my friend again
And you weren't both talking
Least I don't try to pretend

Yesterday as I wheezed to the melody it occurred to me that "innocence" was pretty much required from the listener for this song to work its magic. When I was 15 this was just the song to get me roller-skating: at the time, the odds of witnessing the object of my desire holding hands with any one of my friends were actually pretty good -- better, in fact, than my own. Now, almost 30 years later, this sort of song with its stilted lyrics would prompt me to switch stations.

In fact, it didn't take 30 years for my taste in music to change. The next track chosen by the randomizer was "Dirty Pool" by Stevie Ray Vaughn & Double Trouble. Same subject matter, better execution and only three short years' difference between 'em.

Post-Q Thoughts

CBC Radio One is an example of our tax-dollars being put to the best possible use in a given medium, and Q, as hosted by Jian Ghomeshi, is the cream of the crop. It may be "lighter" in content than Ideas, but it is every bit as thought-provocative. Consider the Nov 27 show (pod) which features back-to-back interviews with Gene Simmons and David Foster. Simmons has taken it upon himself to save the Canadian record industry; Foster took off for LA to become the hit-maker of the 80s and 90s.

Two impressions from the show:

(1) I don't know how this happens, but despite the fact that Simmons should be the dreariest (if not loathsome) personality on the planet, I end up (as ever) quite charmed by his performance. I'm not sure what he's likely to accomplish in his latest gambit, but I suppose we owe him at least some credit for the longevity of RUSH: Geddy Lee has said that opening for KISS in the 70s was all the education RUSH needed to survive. Lee & Co. saw firsthand that while the other KISS members were partying and packing their faces with drugs, Simmons was mostly sober and fastidiously working the business (when he wasn't, erm, "working" the groupies).

(2) In the musical component of the Foster interview, Foster off-handedly says he had to "do the math" before approaching the piano -- a statement that spoke volumes to me. I was a disaster at math all through my primary education. For reasons that still elude me, that all changed in my 30s. And music, at least as it is appreciated in the West, is chiefly a mathematical exercise: it can be basic math like Hank Williams and KISS, or it can be the more complex stuff like late Coltrane, or Branford Marsalis. Either way, the performer abandons rigor and structure at his (or her) own peril.

Addendum: There is a subtext to these conversations that I think is worth making explicit. Ghomeshi was, in a former life, one of the front-men for Moxy Früvous (w). I was loitering in the Toronto music scene back in the day when Ghomeshi's band was sharing the stage with The Barenaked Ladies. At the time I was sure Moxy Früvous would soar to much greater heights than the Ladies: when they both participated in public workshops, MF would improvise songs that were catchier, cleverer and funnier than TBL. MF eventually cultivated a respectable "college" crowd. As for the Ladies, well ....

Anyway, when Ghomeshi challenges Simmons on his notion of how Canadian musicians need to change the challenge arises from his history as a performer. I'm sure he has some trenchant thoughts re: the desirability and nature of fame and fortune. I'd love to hear him expound, but this show is not his platform -- he is only its able host.