Zig-a-zig-ah!

Last Spice Girls shows, ever, for ever and ever, until the end of time, and forever, and ever* were this week in Toronto. I went to one, and it was probably the most fun a human being can have and still be legal.

Almost as great was getting referred to as a Spice Girls "expert" in Eye. Read this!

*band reserves the right to reform for a boatload of money at a later date.

This is sincerely great, but I am not good with sincerity.

I'm as PoMo-ironic as anyone, but this is amazing.

We live in the age of self-help: we have the luxury, in the West anyway, of thinking about ourselves and our problems - our mostly internal problems - more than any other group of people in history.

For the most part, we don't till the land. We live long lives. We have food, and shelter, and the basics. Even those of us who live in comparative squalor - not the very poor or the homeless, but people who, economically speaking, are in the lower classes, do okay compared to say, your typical African today, or your typical North American 150 years ago. You're reading this, and that means that you've got the Internet, and some time, and some space. Those things are all pretty amazing and pretty luxurious compared to what our lives could be like.

I mention this briefly because, in the strictest, most Maslowian sense of it all, out hierarchy of needs is pretty well developed. We have the luxury - or the curse - of a massive amount of self-reflexion, and because of that I think we focus on problems that we shouldn't focus on.

Which brings me back to the whole self-help thing. the good part of it is that most of the industry just repeats essential truths, and these are things we need to hear over and over and remind ourselves of often. Life is okay. Be good to people. For the most part, the work you put in is directly correlative to the result achieved. these are good things to know and to hear. But we move away from these things as we get more and more wrapped up in this quest for self-knowledge: we spin more and more intricate webs of self-thought, and all of a sudden we are thinking about our problems too much, until we become our problems. the fundamental truths, the really simple things get lost, and the problem becomes the thing, instead of the solution.

So I find it really amazing when someone can present these truths, these same lessons, the things we should all know but convince ourselves aren't as important as our problems, in a way that cuts through all the crap. Here's a guy who's done it.

His name is Randy Pausch, and this is his "last lecture," a tradition in which an academic hypothesizes the last lecture they would ever give if they knew they were going to die.



Randy is going to die. He has inoperable cancer and a few months to live. About a million people have viewed his full, hour-long lecture online already: this is an 11-minute version, and I found it genuinely inspiring. Now, it's from an episode of Oprah: she is both the best and worst aspects of the self-help industry rolled into one ginormous brand, but this, for me, is what it is: a man with everything who is going to lose it all and chooses to live each day focusing on what he has, not what he is going to lose. I find that genuinely inspiring, and I'm not moved by much. If he can do it - this guy who is going to leave his three young children soon for no good reason other than his pancreas sucks - then I can too, right?

So I recommend that you watch this. If you've got an hour, you can see the full-length version here. In case you don't have the 11 minutes that this shorter version takes, here are the big lessons in a nutshell: choose people over things; work hard and the rest will come; decide to have fun every day; live your life the right way and things will sort themselves out for the most part.

I don't know why I need a dying man to tell me that, but I'm glad he did.

Grammys 2008: Softer, Worse, Slower, Weaker

I promised I wasn't going to blog about this, but the Hancock apologists are getting to me. Here's why the Grammys suck. Or mostly suck.

Look, I realise that this is a nearly impossible job for the people at NARAS: 400 awards are given out in all sorts of categories and there is simply no way to please all music lovers. And I get that. Heck, there's no way to even give out ten percent of the awards live. Most are presented in the form of an on-screen text update, like a sports ticker or those weird notes that appear over an interview on the Larry King show.

The Grammy organizers are painfully aware of how tough their job is every year, I think: everything about this year's show was about bridging the old and the new. Stars from different eras performed together; modern interpretations of classics were celebrated; and this new-fangled "text messaging" techgnology was promoted, for a contest, by someone who was once on "Silver Spoons." Come together, right now, over Jason Bateman.

But my goodness, they have to figure something out. There has got to be a better way. I may be a little too focused on the value of newness to music, but there is a reason for that: the awards are given out for the best recordings of the year and the sort of music that gets me excited is something that feels fresh to my ears.

Not that I don't have an appreciation for the classics. I'm as big a fan of vintage Abba as the next guy. But let's take a look at the show.

The broadcast kicked off with a duet between Frank Sinatra and Alicia Keys. One of these people is dead; the other should know better. This isn't just a bad idea: it was a bad idea when Natalie Cole did it fifteen years ago and a bad idea on each of the Sinatra Duets albums (it was only his career that was dead at the time). But the industry, so beleaguered of late, would come off a little better to me if it didn't kick off its biggest night of the year by reminding us that the business was healthier 50 years ago. They actually left Frank in black and white, which is something: had the Grammys been on a Ted Turner network, he probably would have colorised. And let's be honest: Frank would never stand behind someone else's piano. He'd have sucker-punched Keys or had someone do it for him and taken centre stage.

Carrie Underwood - a big winner last year and one of the bright lights in the music industry - performed "Before He Cheats," one of the all time great justifications for vandalism. Carrie is incredibly pretty: so much so that she can single-handedly make football players lose games, but even she can't carry off a shiny one-piece shirt/shorts combo. The folks from Stomp were on stage with her to help perform: I guess it's not such a big leap, to go from playing a washboard and whistling into a jug to banging garbage can lids around. Still, weird. But I do love that finger-tap-on-top-of-the-microphone that Carrie Underwood does, now: it's her signature move and it requires very little exertion. That's how you keep up a relentless touring schedule, kids.

Prince presented the first award of the evening to Alicia Keys, and she thanked God. Prince is God to me, so it seemed a bit redundant. My goodness, though, for a woman in her fifties Prince looks pretty good. Ba-dum-bum.

What's weird its that The Time then perform for the first time since anyone cared about them. This is super-odd for a number of reasons. One, Jimmy Jam is actually playing a keytar. Two, there are about five million bands who we'd be more excitied to see a reunion of. The Police reuinited this year! Led Zeppelin got back together! Men at Work haven't performed together in years! And we're getting a one-hit wonder. Oh, and three, I'm loving this version of "Jungle Love,". Oh-ee-oh-ee-oh! And then the recurring theme of old and new is introduced, again: Rihanna plays with them, bridging their song into something called "Umbrella" thatI had never heard before and then "Don't Stop The Music," a song of hers that samples another 20-year old song. Again, just to remind us that the past is present.

Rihanna, by the way, appears to be wearing an entire dead bird.


Tom Hanks then comes out to talk about space. No, wait, World War II. No, wait The Beatles. Oh, Tom, is there a boomer-era piece of cultural history you're not interested in? There is a tribute to The Beatles, both from Cirque du Soleil and the movie "Across the Universe," and shortly thereafter George Martin wins a Grammy. And it actually takes some people a few seconds to figure out whether or not they should stand and give an ovation. George Martin, people! Produced everything The Beatles ever did! Show some respect or they are going to let Ringo speak!

They let Ringo speak.

But no one lets Yoko speak, so that's good.

Miley Cyrus presents with Cyndi Lauper. To those of you who are under 30, Cyndi Lauper was once bigger than Madonna. To those of you who are over 30 and don't have tween daugthers, Miley Cyrus is the biggest star on the planet right now. Hit records, number one movie in America, popular TV show. She shines so bright she has actually managed to resurrect her Dad, Billy Ray Cyrus' career. This is the pop culture equivalent of losing someeone on the table and then getting them back.

Then Kanye West performs, with such energy that the lights have to be dimmed because he is quite literally glowing. Kanye is talented, and dangerous, and awesome. He is rock 'n' roll, if rock 'n' roll had rap in it. There is a massive pyramid-structure behind him that I originally thought
was there just to contain his ego, but it in fact contains Daft Punk. Everyone rocks out until Kanye finishes with a truly emotional performance of a song for his recently departed mother. The hottest moment and the most touching, from the biggest force working in music today. If he asked, I would be his black Kate Moss. Tonight.

Cher introduces a duet between Beyonce and Tina Turner: if the Scissor Sisters were on hand it would be a gay perfect storm. Or maybe we could get Elton John on piano. There is a massive "Tina and Beyonce" marquee over the two of them as they perform, as if once needs to be reminded of who they are. There is a really weird sort of spoken jazz intro thing, as Beyonce does some weird sort of tribute to Tina Turner before she comes out. Of course, included in her little intro is a line about how, in the history of African-American female singers there was only one "queen," that being Tina.

So I think to myself, how does the "Queen of Soul," Aretha Franklin, who is scheduled to perform on the same stage in less than an hour feel about this? Well done, Grammy people! Next time, show the woman some R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

Get it?

That being said, I don't love Beyonce, but I think she is the quintessence of star power, and may be the most joyous performer working in music right now. She just appears so very happy to sharing the stage with Tina. This is why it's a great thing for our pop stars to have workaholic, emotionally abusive parents. All the joy they never get to feel in life comes out on stage. Tina, by the way, is almost 70 and just extraordinary. This has been a good year for her: Ike Turner died and...no, that's it.

Too soon?

Okay, Andy Williams presents, flanked by Nelly Furtado and Rosalyn Sanchez. and not all the Viagra in the world can help him. Three classical musicians have a chance to play with the Foo Fighters and America texts in votes for...the hot violinist chick. Shocking. Kanye West accepts his award for rap album of the year, reminds everyone that he's the greatest, still throws out props to Mark ronson and Amy Winehouse, shames the orchestra into not playing over him while he thanks his mother, while simultaneously releasing three more singles and baking a cheese souffle.

Aretha Franklin leads a gospel choir in a tribute to Cab Calloway, dressed in yellow. Actually, she looks more like a giant grapefruit from the old Fruit of the Loom commercials, but whatever. She may have eaten Beyonce for that earlier slight.

But goodness, can she sing. I may well convert to whatever religion it is she's singing for, I'm so impressed.

Stevie Wonder then introduces Alicia Keys and she gives her second performance of the evening - but this one is for real. "No One," one of the biggest songs of the last year, starts of small and then gets bigger than it's ever been. This performance is so good it survives the introduction of John Mayer and that "I just came" face he makes when he plays the guitar.

We get more Ringo, at this point, but it's okay. He gives an award to Vince Gill who quips, "I just got an award given to me by a Beatle...have you had that happen yet Kanye?" and the place goes nuts.

There's a classical-slash-jazzy Gershwin tribute, Andrea Bocelli and Josh Groban sing together so I watch a little "American Gladiators," because it's anything is better than that, and soon enough Amy Winehouse is performing live...via satellite, from London. Now, not that someone with a history of abusing stimulants should ever be forced to perform at 4am their time, but this sort of works. Partially it's the sheer danger of it - Amy could knock it out of the park, or collapse, or pull an eight ball out of her hairdo and snort the entire thing. She does pretty well, and looks genuinely stunned to win Record of the Year for "Rehab" minutes later. Or maybe the three synapses left in her head can only produce the one facial expression.

So we've had our moments of danger, and sex, and newness, but they are few and far between this year. The show ends with a performance from John Fogerty, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard. Legends all, don't get me wrong. Lewis looks like he's grown an extra set of jowls (the better to hide a 14 year-old cousin in) and Little Richard has the greatest mullet wig I have ever seen on him. It's probably made of two separate pieces that each have their own brain, like an Octopus' tentacles. Shortly thereafter, Herbie Hancock wins Album of the Year for his jazzy reinterpretation of Joni Mitchell songs, "River: The Joni Letters."

Look, this may be a great album. I doubt it: it came in at number 81 on the Village Voice's year end aggregate critics' "Pazz and Jop" poll, which is a pretty good indication of what the intelligensia are thinking. I get that this is entirely objective, what people feel about music, but the Grammys totally blew it...again. Kanye West's album deserved to win, almost the same way "The Return of the King" did for the Lord of the Rings trilogy. A strong work in its own righ,t it was also the culmination of an impressive artistic triptych. And so it was with Kanye West's "Graduation." But the people at NARAS have an amazing history of making safe choices for Album of the Year. Ray Charles beat Kanye three years ago. Steely Dan (STEELY DAN!!!!) beat Eminem a few years before that. And now, Herbie Hancock (a legend in the industry, etc.) wins for an album almost no one bought and no one championed. Yes, Herbie's great. I hear you all. He's been doing this for forever, he's a jazz pioneer, and "Rockit" had that great video and nearly inspired me to break my neck on a piece of cardboard while trying to headstand. I say nearly: my common sense prevailed. Not so at the Grammys this year. Voters, many of whom I might guess didn't even hear the album, voted for the safest choice, and it bothers me. Vintage Joni Mitchell wouldn't have stood for this: they paved paradise, and put up a parking lot.

Sarah Silverman is F*ucking Matt Damon!

This is legitimately funny (as opposed to most of the children I've fathered, who are illegitimate and not very funny.) Sarah Silverman, on Kimmel last night (that's what she said!) performing a little sketch about...well, you know.

Two larger trends here: one, there is an increasing meta-level to comedy that requires the viewer to understand larger pieces of context. Silverman and Kimmel are dating, of course, and that's a big part of the joke. She's telling her boyfriend, with some help, that she's screwing the Sexiest Man Alive (tm) on his own talk show; and two, the internet-driven ddemand for short pieces of forwardable (or bloggable!) comedy.



Regardless, it's very funny, and cements Matt Damon's status as one of the best A-listers out there. Never been in rehab, doesn't do the paparrazzi thing; married and apparently faithful; makes good movies; and makes fun of himself. I'll take it.

Damaged Goods

I already know you didn’t watch the two best dramas on TV last year. Were they too tough for you?

I’ll cut to the chase: the two shows were “Damages,” the erstwhile legal thriller starring Glenn Close, and “Mad Men,” the early-60s drama set in a Madison Avenue ad agency. No hour-long dramas were better last year. But you didn’t watch them: these programs had small ratings, even by American cable standards: especially “Damages,” the darker of the two (it will be out in Canada later this year; "Mad Men" has been available to those of you who get AMC). And I’m guessing it’s that darkness that kept you away.

You see, as much as most of us claim to have a taste for some shadowy fare in our pop culture, this isn’t often the case. And it’s most difficult in the case of television – most of us don’t want to let these thoughts and feelings (or these people!) into our living rooms. Watch “House,” all you want, and pretend that he’s some gruff bastard, but just as sure as he’ll come up with his most brilliant diagnosis ever on the next episode, you know that at his core he’s a good guy. You root for him. And it’s always been this way, from the fat, working-class TV bigot, Archie Bunker – a fundamentally decent family man who eventually learned to accept people – to the other fat, working-class TV bigot, Andy Sipowicz – a fundamentally decent man who eventually learned to accept people.

Sure, we accept a little bit of darkness on “The Sopranos,” but Tony, our antihero, is a mobster. He kills people as a matter of course in his business. “Dexter” is pretty grim, but he’s a serial killer, so if it were as happy as an episode of “The Teletubbies” something would be terribly wrong. The genius of these shows is that they make you identify with the tiny good parts – or sometimes just the raw humanity – of bad people who do bad things. But we don’t really connect to their evilness: we’ve all got these darker thoughts, and, in fact, while “Dexter” and “The Sopranos” can be incredibly tough, they’re both safe prospects. These people are defined by their badness, and it’s easier to have killers and thieves be irredeemably bad than it is our lawyers and admen. I’d make a joke about lawyers and admen being worse, but I can’t start picking the low-hanging fruit yet.

So back to “Damages” and “Mad Men.” In the former, we meet Glenn Close’s Patty Hewes – a protagonist who we’re supposed to think will be part of that great TV lawyer tradition, a Perry Mason or Jack McCoy type – and she does the unthinkable: she ( oh, spoiler and sadness alert!) kills an innocent puppy to get a witness to co-operate. A puppy! On a scale of one to evil, that’s a 10! Still, Patty has a real job, a husband and a son. She’s might be a sociopath, but she’s a borderline sociopath, and it’s that part that makes us uncomfortable. We’ll never meet a Tony Soprano, and we’ll never meet a Dexter (well, we’ll never meet them twice.) But Patty Hewes? What if this woman was our lawyer? Worse, what if she was us?

John Hamm’s Don Draper, lead adman on “Mad Men,” isn’t quite as dangerous but he’s just as dark. He makes ads for a living, and his industry suits him perfectly: he’s entirely a construct, just an image of what he thinks a man should be. His name is fake, as is his backstory, and the way he presents himself: Don is running away from something and we’re not totally certain what it is for most of the series. He’s unable to really connect to his wife or kids even though it’s what he wants more than anything. He’s a shell, something hollow on the inside. In a way, he’s even scarier than a dog-killing lawyer, because he’s even more possible, more realistic: he’s the everyman, but the one who can’t quite tell the people close to him who he really is, what he’s feeling, where he’s vulnerable – and he doesn’t get redeemed.

We, and he, are never more aware of this than during his last pitch: to Kodak, for what at the time they refer to as "the wheel," the carousel slide projector.



Sure, that’s not as graphic as a mob hit or a killer with a scalpel, but it is possible – you could be that guy - and that’s even scarier. Maybe the reason you’re not watching is that you don’t need to: there might be a little bit of that darkness inside you, and you don’t want it reflected back.

Vote for us! We're freaky!

Adfreak, one of the big US ad blogs out there, picked our LostJaw anti-tobacco campaign as one of its choices for freakiest ad of the past year. So please click through, and vote for us (we're ad number 10, about an eighth of the way down the page as of this writing). It's a great campaign, and we're proud to have been a part of it, and we're super freaky.

R.I.P. Jacques Hébert.

Jacques Hébert passed away, at the grand age of 84. The man was notable for a bunch of youthy initiatives in Canada - he essentially created Canada World Youth and the unfortunately named Katimavik: these two programs were created in the 1970s and quite groundbreaking in the opportunites they afforded Canadian youth. He believed, as we do at Youthogaphy, that young people could effect massive change if given the right sorts of opportunities and learning. While I wasn't a fan of everything that he did - his 1986 21-day hunger strike to protest Katimavik's funding being dropped was a clever bit of pre-Atkins weight reduction but really over-dramatic and quite unnecessary, I think, in a country where there are so many other ways to protest - but these two programs sprung from the mind of a man who really felt that young people could be a valuable resource for world change. Rest in peace, Sir.