Rock-a-Doodle

Further evidence that fits of nostalgia are never a good thing. I have been having fragmented memories of a movie from my childhood involving an elvis-like rooster, and a flood. So, I googled "rock rooster movie" and immediately found Rock-a-Doodle.

As with many things from childhood, this movie, when viewed from the eyes of adulthood is TERRIBLE. More than that, its DISTURBING.

The movie features a cast consisting of:

* A neurotic pig
* A crack-head magpie with a lasagna fetish, and claustrophobia.
* A dog who can't tie his damn shoes.
* An evil overlord Owl who does cross-stitch in his spare time
* A slutty pheasant who subsists on valium
* An Elvis impersonating Rooster.
* Owls of varying sizes (they get large and shrink for no real reason).
*A bad mother: *shakes fever stricken son* EDMOND, EDMOND SWEETIE WAKE UP
*An abused and mentally unstable owl nephew
*A main character who gets turned into a kitten for no real reason, wears a davey jones cap, has a horrible speech impediment, and dies from it.
And a mouse. . .there was a mouse.

Moral of the story? Don't walk down memory lane.

Flywheel

So, every so often, I enjoy watching a REALLY BAD Christian movie. I think part of the reason I enjoy this is because I spent four months too many working at Western Canada's largest distributor of Christian books' warehouse. Anyway, Christian movies (with the exception of veggie tales, which can actually be delightfully witty, and stfu if you think otherwise) have a penchant for being terribly written, and even more poorly acted.

Flywheel, the enthralling tale of a crooked used car salesman turned straight, is no exception.

The movie begins with some epic piano music in the opening credits. It should be noted that this epic piano music DOES NOT STOP AT ALL anywhere throughout the movie. The main character, Jay, has trouble taking his morning shit? You can be damn sure that has its own musical score in soaring piano notes. This is funny enough in itself. What makes the movie even more funny is the fact that it's set in Arkansas, and the actors are all definitely untrained, and most certainly from the south.

Its like if the cast of the Honey Boo Boo show were sort of able to read and sort of act off of a script that had been written by a man who had watched nothing but television preachers and eaten nothing but Chik-fil-a for his entire adult life. Realism abounds as these bible belt idiots fumble through their lines, laugh like wheeeeweeee, make constipated faces and resort to psalms when at a loss for better words (which is frequently). One part did have me laughing out loud, though, and that's when our used car salesman gets his ASS CHEWED by some sassy old black lady and her even older, even blacker mother. That was totally worth it. (Magical African American Friend, anyone?)

The funniest part of this movie, however, is that it was made in 2003, and yet manages to pull itself together with all of the low-budget graininess, bad musical scores, and value-village wardrobe of a B-movie in the 1980's. Now, I don't know how many of my readers have been down south, but the big bible belters do seem to be stuck in the 80's, so , I suppose, realism strikes again. 

Somehow, Flywheel manages to go on in this manner for TWO hours. Don't worry, I was multitasking heavily, so it wasn't two hours of my life wasted. Anyway, its always nice to have the reminder of why I never want to ever get back in the business of selling christian shit again in my life. 

Session 9

Was in the mood for a scary movie tonight, so Scott suggested Session 9, a psychological horror flick centered on a team of (interestingly) asbestos removers as they work in an abandoned insane asylum. First off, major props for making asbestos part of a horror film in an abandoned building. Realism ftw. The building they were working in was pretty damn cool too. It sorta set my inner archivist alive with the desire to salvage mental patient records (which could never be opened to the  public anyway, but meh). Municipal archives were also mentioned in the movie. So, props for that too. 

The main character was inexplicably Irish (?). His best friend was named Phil, this guy: 

Session 9

Who you may better recognize as this guy: 

CSI Miami

I know, I know, CSI to asbestos remover is a hard mental leap to make, but if you squint real hard, you can almost see the similarities between the two characters.

Moving on, the movie had a number of elements which make psychological horror one of my favorite genres. The cinematography was great, the setting suitably eerie, the characters just realistic enough (I especially loved mullet kid), the subplots twisty and leaving you hungry for more,  the background music just subtle enough to keep you on edge, and a nice slow buildup. 

However, the movie was also lacking a major element which I think is in some ways essential to pulling off good psych horror (she says pedantically). That is the potential for a supernatural alternative, to keep the audience guessing. It was made quite clear throughout the film that nothing supernatural could possibly be happening in the abandoned mental institution. I mean, for gossakes, when the lights flickered and the power went out, we were shown the generator running out of gas. No mystery there. I think it is important that psych horror have some *potential* for the supernatural to be there. . .bizarre hallucinations, tales of hauntings, weird reflections in mirrors as a red herring for the audience. Without that, the only challenge is in figuring out who's psyche we are inside of (in the case of Session 9, we are given ample and obvious clues, so even that mystery is taken from us), and once that has been discovered, all that is left is to lay money down on who will be the first and the last to die, and how the deaths will occur. Once again, props to Session 9 for the murder method, very cool. 

Given that the two biggest "mysteries" of psych horror were given away fairly early on (the reality of the situation, and whodunit), the subplots took precedence, as with the unraveling of the story of one of the former inmates of the asylum, or the bizarre love triangle between Phil, Hank, and Amy. I would almost like to see the story of the former inmate as its own movie. Shit was creepy. The slow tension buildup was well done, though the payoff in terms of gore at the end was a little disappointing. However, overall, I liked the way the movie dealt with psychotic meltdown, and how it is perceived both by the one undergoing it, and those around him. That part was very well done, and it seemed fairly well researched by the writer. 

Another interesting note: Women are completely absent in the real time of this film. They exist only as flashbacks, on the other end of the phone, or in conversation. I'm sure there's some sort of deeper meaning in there, but I'm not sure what it is. 

So, overall, not the best psych horror I've seen in terms of scare factor, but if you're going for realism in setting, story, and mental illness, this might be a good place to look.  

Sandwich Art

I'm a Subway fan. I'll admit it. Its not because the food is great (its mediocre), its not because the service is great (although I do have people who recognize me as a "regular" at the subway on campus, which is kinda nice), its not because the price is great (its not), and its not because I'm trying to lose weight (I am, but Subway definitely does not factor in). I like subway because my dad buys me subway cards, as a gift, and mails them to me.

Having a "trio" with a warm cookie, that was bought with a gift card from home makes me feel less alone, I guess. Cheesy, right? Also, who am I to argue with free food.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm here to talk about Subway "Sandwich Artist's" sometimes alarming art, the way we fall in line with it, and the uniqueness of Subway in Quebec.

First, Subway in Quebec. Their combo is a trio (though this isn't just a Subway thing). Their sandwich du jour selection (known to us simple folks as Subathaday) has a great deal more variety than what I am used to in Saskatchewan. In Saskatchewan, it ranges from Ham, to BMT, to roast beef, right up to (of course) tuna salad on a Friday. Here, bbq pork is thrown into the mix, as well as Wednesday's (todays) unique offering: fruits de mer.

Sidebar: fruits de mer : fruits of the sea (known to us simple folks as seafood)
             pomme de terre: apple of the earth (known to us simple folks as 'potato')
* I am not certain why the French language has this propensity to add a touch of poetry to the names for such unpoetical things as crabs and potatoes, but what the hell, right?

Back to Subway, and the sandwich art.

So, I sidle up to the counter, and mutter "Subathaday, sizzinch . . .brown" in my (no doubt terrible) western accent. The girl slops some (raw? lightly cooked? preserved? I dunno) crab meat onto the bun and hastily asks "cheddar or swiss?"

"Swiss," I respond automatically, though honestly the notion of having dairy on a seafood sandwich is somehow stomach turning. She took me off guard! I answered by rote. To my horror, she passes off my sandwich to the guy running the toaster oven. I watch as the sandwich goes in, envisioning the cheese covered, unhappy, possibly rancid pile of fishmeat that will come out. The guy behind me happily orders extra cheese on his fruits de mer, and his goes in the toaster too.

My sandwich emerges, looking like something an Italian hacked up, and now I am at the veggie station. "Everything except the cucumbers and green peppers" I say, in a state of despair, knowing nothing can salvage my sandwich now.

"Dressing?"

"Ranch" comes my helpless reply. Ranch dressing is spurted on top of my (I swear it is moving) pile of crabmeat and melted cheese, the lid is put on the sandwich, and the sandwich is safely bound in its wrapper, and tucked away in a sandwich bag condom. Presumably so it cannot escape.

I obtain my cookies, my drink, and make my way out of the restaurant to find a sunny place to sit and eat. (Ironically, when I go to sit down, my sandwich really does make a run for it, almost spilling out of the bag). But when I eat it, its not so bad. In fact, it tastes pretty much like every other damn subway sandwich I have ever had.

Which brought me to contemplate the role of the sandwich artist. The sandwich artist, is very much like the artist who covers himself in paint and throws himself at a white wall. The pattern may be ugly, little thought or craft goes into it, and yet somehow, some customer somewhere is going to be satisfied.

Eat fresh, guys.

Shakespeare in the Park

I had my first real theatre experience in Montreal last night. Sadly, I neglected to take pictures. I did take a picture of the program which I intended to post with this post, but sadly, I also neglected to recharge the battery after leaving the thing on for a couple hours the other day. Ooops.

So, my commentary will have to suffice, without any sort of visuals.

Shakespeare in the park is a tradition that happens in many parks all over the world. Happily, it is also a tradition in my own backyard park in Westmount, as I found out upon my return from Austin. On offer this year was The Taming of the Shrew, a play I've seen once, but had never read, so I will be unable to comment on the faithfulness to the script, though I do know they cleverly cut it short when it began to rain towards the end of the second half.

The stage was simple (as outdoor stages must be) but effective, and well lent to the humorous nature of the play, with a hole in the center of the stage frequently being used to garner laughs from the audience, and also as an effective portal for quick entries and exits. Props were minimal, but also put to good use. For those of you unfamiliar, Shrew is one of the comedies, which, of course, means everyone winds up married by the end. Spoilers! Not really.

The costumes were a bizarre, vibrant mix of time periods, which might best be described as a thrift store raid, ranging from a 1920's-esque smoking jacket, to the country home uniform of an English gentleman (tweed cap, scarf, macintosh) to a full on baby blue disco suit, worn by the incredibly lanky Petruchio (take a moment, and picture it please, baby blue disco pants on four and a half foot long freaking legs).

Casting was excellent, with actors being well physically matched to their characters (caricatures?). Hortensio, Bianca's long time suitor, who also happens to be something of a fool, was played by an adorably short redhead by the name of Stephen Joffe. This in contrast to Petruchio, Bianca's sister Kate's husband and "tamer", who was, as I said, absurdly tall, which perfectly matched the absurd, witty, over the top nature of the character. The actor, Alex McCooeye, definitely knew how to make good use of his lanky body to best comedic effect. Think Jack Skellington or Watanuki from XXXholic.  Kate, the shrew herself, was also well cast, a bundle of sex and sass (and the actress hailed from Saskatchewan!). The play also did a new take on the character of Bianca, which I appreciated. The "humble" "beautiful" maid was also something of a spoiled brat, and absolutely flip. Very much a stereotypical "baby of  the family". 

Although the play was almost painfully over the top at first, which made me a little uncomfortable, once I got into it, I found that the over-the-top-ness was actually incredibly well-suited to the Shakespearean comedy. The extravagance of the acting made the wordplay much easier to follow, and much more enjoyable. The extra "modern" jokes thrown in (like Hortensio strumming a broken ukulele and singing "O bianca, thou breakest my heart, thou shakest mine confidence daily" after the fashion of Simon and Garfunkel)  added to the essence of the Shakespearean play rather than took away from it. I felt like the actors had opportunity to put a lot of themselves and their own humor into the characters, and it came off very nicely. Petruchio's servant Curtis was especially well done in this regard.

 Too frequently, Shakespeare is taken too seriously, and we forget the nature of the audience he would initially have been catering to. These would have been the largely uneducated masses, who only came for a good laugh and a good time. This production of Taming of the Shrew truly got back to that essence of the Shakespearean comedy.

I would also like to applaud the actors, as they are currently halfway through an absolutely grueling  schedule of performances, beginning on July 19th and continuing through August 19th, with stagings occurring in parks all over Montreal. This is an incredibly high energy show, with women being tossed around like sacks of flour, dancing, singing, and a whole lot of screaming. Already the wear was starting to show a bit in their voices, so I wish them luck in powering through the next couple weeks of performances.

Overall, well done. I am hoping to start following the Repercussion Theatre company more closely, as I have been somewhat starved for theatre since coming to Montreal, and this has just served to whet rather than sate my appetite.

The Hungry Thing

Was thinking today of what my favorite "monster" book was as a child, and The Hungry Thing by Jan Slepian and Ann Seidler came to mind. Its the story of this gluttonous monster with a speaking impediment who strolls into town and asks for things like "Gollypops" instead of "Lollipops", and generally causes good-natured confusion and befuddlement in the townspeople, save for one little boy who comes to act as interpreter in the quest to feed the bottomless pit on legs. (synopsis in a sentence). Now that I think about it, this critter is like a less creepy version of the gooey Noh monster in Spirited away. 

Did anyone else read this book as a child? What were your favorite childhood monsters? I think I mostly liked this book for the same reason I liked the Redwall books a little later on . . .for the food. . .

STFU I like to eat! 

Barefoot Gen

**Warning, contains some links to unsettling images**

Last night I watched Barefoot Gen, (1983 movie) which is the story of a young boy's experiences in Hiroshima during the latter part of the war, including, and following the atomic bombing.

Barefoot Gen is based (loosely) on the real life experiences of the original manga's original author, Keiji Nakazawa, and it manages to be both unflinching, heartfelt, and retain a sort of hopeful innocence that was totally unexpected, for me. That's not to say that Barefoot Gen sugarcoats the war, or the horrors of the atomic bombing. Far from it. 80's styled animation or no, there were some scenes that made me feel a little queasy, like the group of half-dead radiation victims stumbling blindly in search of help, one mother with a charred baby on her back.

However, even as the movie reminds us of the horrors of war, and the terrible pains human beings can inflict on one another, it staunchly refuses to point fingers. Americans are not demonized, nor are the Japanese or anyone else. The only place where blame is laid is with those on both sides who are hungry for bloodshed for its own sake.

Despite the movie's dark gruesomeness, as we watch half of Gen's family killed, watch the people of Hiroshima suffer through extreme burns, radiation sickness, and malnutrition, it manages to end on a note of hope, and of love, as Gen resolves to strive for a better future in the memory of those he has lost.

However, just to keep myself from getting too upbeat about it, I also spent an hour looking at actual images of victims of the bombings. I know that might sound a little twisted, and maybe it is, but for me I find that if I look at this kind of horror and really think about it hard at least once a year, it really puts things into perspective. My own physical, mental, and emotional problems seem so small in comparison to the suffering gone through by the real life counterparts of Gen and his family, that I really reinforce my own desire to become a better, more understanding, less sensitive, and less self-pitying individual.

Is using the suffering of others in this way self serving? Maybe. But hey, if I'm going to be self-serving, I might as well do it to the good.

Primeval

Decided to poke around in a British TV show featuring one of my favorite English cuties, this guy:

Derrrrrp! 

And a less derpy screencap of Andrew Lee Potts:

Also featuring this gal: 

So what's not to love? (Well, apart from the poor animation of the "monsters", and rather bland writing). 

The story revolves around the opening of a number of wormholes to prehistoric times, which allow various kinds of scaleys and creepy crawlies through to wreak havoc upon human kind. Our heroes, a professor on a quest to find his missing wife, his assistant, a conspiracy theorist geeky student (guess who plays that), and a girl with a way with reptiles (see pink undies above) work along with government agents to study these critters, and keep them from doing harm. 

While not overwhelmingly *good*, its not overwhelmingly *bad* either. And, I'll admit it, its kinda addictive in a lighthearted sorta way. 

Anyway, more screencaps! 

My two favorite characters 

Plus the other two

Things I've Learned This Week

* Jogging can be fun!
* I don't actually know how to jog. I run. Like a cross country runner. Or a demented gazelle. CURSE YOU MR. BUSWELL!!!
*Bon Cop Bad Cop is an awesome movie. An English/French/100% Canadian hybrid, that perfectly combines comedy with the macabre, with some damn fine acting-- Watch it!
* Final Fantasy: The Spirit Within is an awesome animated movie, which makes you think about science vs. magic vs. faith (without intending to). All star voice cast. Watch it!
* Lords of Dogtown is an awesome (and unflinching)  movie about the early days of the skateboarding culture in California. Watch it!
* Red State is an awesome Kevin Smith Movie, that manages to be horror, and tense cop film and tongue-in-cheek social-commentary all rolled into one. Watch it! 
*You can never watch too many good movies in one weekend.
* Robert Downey Jr. can't always save a film (Due Date)
* My boyfriend can fly.
* (My boyfriend can fly when he's not falling down and breaking things)
* Wet weather is depressing.
* The student clinic here is super fast during the summer.
* The most difficult part of the day is remembering to take the garbage out.
* I am sad that I was born too late for Christian Slater. 
* I have an arch nemesis in the form of an Asian dude in a black leather jacket, black leather pants, with a utility pouch on his thigh, who glares at me, making direct eye contact through the bus window as I travel past him. . .
* Too much candy is a beautiful thing. 

S. J. Perelman, Part 1

S. J. Perelman was an American humourist, author, and screenwriter, whose works most frequently appeared in The New Yorker, and who was most famous for his scripts for the Marx Brother films. I just discovered this dude today, and intrigued, I took "The Best of S. J. Perelman" out of the library to read.

Omg, this guy is too funny. Rather than wax literary about *why* exactly he's funny, I think I am just going to throw down a few of the insanely random quotes that really make me giggle as I go along.

"She had the rippling muscles of a panther, the stolidity of a water buffalo, the lazy insolence of a shoe salesman. . ..as she bent down to lift her suitcase, she picked up the car by mistake and had it halfway down the slope before I pointed out her mistake."

"That Philomene was a manic-depressive in the downhill phase was, of course, instantly apparent to a boy of five Several boys of five, who happened to be standing aroud and were by way of being students of psychopathology, stated their belief to me in just those words"

"She was as dead as a stuffed mongoose"

" 'Soda?' offered Snubbers. I took it to please him, for Gabriel's cellar was reputedly excellent. A second later, I wished that I had drunk the cellar instead. Baking soda is hardly the thing after a three-hour bicycle trip"

"The outcome of the necking bee was as follows: Canadians 12, Visitors 6."

"Living almost entirely on cameo brooches and the few ptarmigan which fell to the ptrigger of his pfowlingpiece."

"If I ever see a postman trudging toward my house with a copy of the American Bee Journal, I'm going to lodge myself in the dead-air space between the walls, and no amount of small boys smeared with honey will ever get me out."

Restaurant Eduardo Duluth

Had a girls night out last night, and continued that elusive quest for good, reasonably priced restaurants in Montreal.

Restaurant Eduardo Duluth fits the bill.

 Located at 404 Avenue Duluth Est (which is a lively but not overwhelming street off of Saint Denis), Eduardo's is an Italian restaurant that has a distinctly family feel. Like a smiling Italian grandmother might walk up to your table and goad you on, "Eat! Eat!"

Don't be fooled by the less than stunning exterior: inside, Eduardo's is decorated in a very nifty, incredibly cozy "cottage" style of dark aged wood (wood errywhar!). There are a number of quirky little touches which add to the homey feel of the place: crayon drawings from child patrons up on the wall, and inexplicable cartoons of scaly monster things (think where the wild things are) on the bathroom doors.

Its also byob, which is great. Coming from SK, where a night drinking at a bar is bound to leave you bankrupt, and minus the left eye you used to pay for that last bottle of Keiths, I heartily approve of anywhere I am allowed to bring my own cheap alcohol and not pay restaurant prices.

And now for the food. We started with warmed and breaded cheese (fondue, minus the due?) which was soft and flavorful and delicious (and nummy, too), and some herbed bread, which seems to be a house specialty, and is quite good.

For mains, I ordered cheese tortellini with rose sauce. I won't lie, deciding what to eat was kinda interesting due to my stupidity when it comes to french, but I was pleased with my choice. The sauce was rich, tangy, and irresistable. The tortellini was packed with cheese. I ate all of it. OM NOM NOM. I'd like to go back and sample their spaghetti, I think.

Also, the prices are good. My share of the bill, all told, came to $13. It is so hard to find good food in Montreal that isn't expensive, but Eduardo's is one of those places. I will definitely try to get back there, perhaps on a shopping day sometime in the coming month.

In other news, hope everyone has a great long weekend! I have a park to go sit in. Ciao!

Eatz Encore

Despite the dubious name (Eatz Encore makes me feel a bit like I'm eating leftovers), this little deli/bakerty type shop thing has become one of my favorite places to pick up a lunch or a bit of dessert. They sell all kinds of baked goods, salads, soups, dinner-type dishes like lasagna . . . all with a home made taste minus the effort of making this shit yourself.

Also, the price is good. I got all of this, plus one bagel, for $8.00 for dinner:

LOOKA THE SIZE OF THAT CHICKEN SAMMICH. Also, best chicken sammich of my life k. Now, I don't want anyone complaining I never said anything good about Montreal food.

Check them out! 

4824 Sherbrook W.
Westmount, Quebec, h3z 1j8
514-482-1778

http://www.eatzencore.ca/

I need opinions

Here is an excerpt from T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland", easily one of my favorite poems of all time (call it pretentious, but it is what it is. I'm a slave to lushly dystopian imagery). Anyway, the poem is massively long, so I won't share it all here, but here's one of my favorite bits:

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back	215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives	220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,	225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.	230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,	235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;	240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall	245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;	250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,	255
And puts a record on the gramophone.

Because awkward sex is fun and stuff.

Anyway, I NEED OPINIONS!!!

Its sort of a goal of mine to make little arts of the entire poem at some point before I die (and yes, I have only gotten as far as the Sybil and "April is the cruellest month") So, what sort of art media would you envision this scene in? Collage? Cartoon? Sketch? Painting? Mixed media? I know I want to tackle it, I just don't know how.

Concert Night!

On Friday after I got in to Saskatoon, we went to a combined indie concert held at an Anglican church. Although the crowd is maybe not "my crowd", all three bands were good. I was already familiar with Andy Shauf's work, and the Fisticuffs and the Jordan Klassen band wowed me. This latter in particular did some very interesting things with their art. All three bands had a pleasant folksy feel, with Andy Shauf being the most mellow, Jordan Klassen's band being the most upbeat and up-tempo (though you wouldn't know that listening to the EP, lol), and the Fisticuffs falling somewhere in between. For anyone interested, I'm going to post a couple examples of the music we listened to. 

Andy Shauf - (From Regina, SK)  The Devil
The Fisticuffs - (From Saskatoon, SK) Would You
Jordan Klassen - (From Vancouver, B.C.) Kindness EP

The Dark Tower, or "A Study on Love/Obsession"

The Dark Tower, or “A Study on Love/Obsession”

Stevie and I have often joked that I could teach a Doctorate Level class on The Dark Tower Saga.  Oft referred to as Stephen King’s “Magnum Opus,” the Dark Tower has kept the Constant Reader entertained for the better part of three decades. 

 Spanning seven (well, eight, as of yesterday) volumes, short stories, tie-ins and a host of Marvel published comic books, it drew me in immediately.  I was fascinated by All-World, and the connections to our world.  The things that fell through the cracks, like the George Washington Bridge, or a Citgo pumping station.  The bizarre mixture of reality and unreality appealed to me in a way that no other book had – and I’m a long time fan of King.  Based largely on part in Robert Browning’s epic poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,” it is ultimately a tale of redemption, and of regaining lost love.

For those that wish to read, I’ll include the text of Browning’s poem here.  If you don’t, then skip over it:

I.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

II.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

III.

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

IV.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

V.

As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith,
``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')

VI.

While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

VII.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among ``The Band''---to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now---should I be fit?

VIII.

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

IX.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

X.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.

XI.

No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See
``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly,
``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,
``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''

XII.

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

XIII.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

XIV.

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

XV.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

XVI.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

XVII.

Giles then, the soul of honour---there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good---but the scene shifts---faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

XVIII.

Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

XIX.

A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof---to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

XX.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of route despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

XXI.

Which, while I forded,---good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
---It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

XXII.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage---

XXIII.

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

XXIV.

And more than that---a furlong on---why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel---that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

XXV.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood---
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

XXVI.

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

XXVII.

And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap---perchance the guide I sought.

XXVIII.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains---with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,---solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

XXIX.

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when---
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts---you're inside the den!

XXX.

Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

XXXI.

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counter-part
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

XXXII.

Not see? because of night perhaps?---why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,---
``Now stab and end the creature---to the heft!''

XXXIII.

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,---
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet, each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

XXXIV.

There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.''

See?  Fucking long.  I should take this time, to say that I *hate* epic poetry.  I can’t read it, it makes no sense to me, but given that I love the story that was extrapolated from it, I felt compelled to read it.  

Enough of this shit, back to our regularly scheduled program.

I have to thank my Baby Sister, for introducing me to The Dark Tower.  One Christmas, she bought me The Dark Tower II:  The Drawing of The Three.  I read it, and immediately was taken.  I devoured “DT:I” and “DT:III” as fast as I could, and then I stumbled across the same frustration that every would-be Gunslinger felt:

STEPHEN KING PUBLISHES THE BOOKS AT EXTREMELY IRREGULAR INTERVALS!

According to Wikipedia the books were published in these years:

Series

1.    The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger (1982)

2.    The Dark Tower II: The Drawing of the Three (1987)

3.    The Dark Tower III: The Waste Lands (1991)

4.    The Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass (1997)—Locus Award nominee, 1998^[8]

5.    The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla (2003)—Locus Award nominee, 2004^[9]

6.    The Dark Tower VI: Song of Susannah (2004)—Locus Award nominee, 2005^[10]

7.    The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower (2004)—British Fantasy Award winner, 2005^[10]

8.    The Dark Tower: The Wind Through the Keyhole (2012)

You’ll notice, that books 5, 6, and 7 were published back to back.  It is here, that I diverge into the meaning of 19.

“It’s All Nineteen”

This has become a catchphrase of sorts, with Stevie and I.  A way of saying, “Everything is going according to plan, even if it’s not the plan we planned.” – if you dig.   It’s all Nineteen. 

The occurance of this number arose in The Dark Tower V: The Wolves of the Calla.  The significance is this:

On June 19, 1999 at about 4:30 p.m., King was walking on the shoulder of Route 5, in Lovell, Maine. Driver Bryan Smith, distracted by an unrestrained dog moving in the back of his minivan, struck King, who landed in a depression in the ground about 14 feet from the pavement of Route 5.^[15] According to Oxford County Sheriff deputy Matt Baker, King was hit from behind and some witnesses said the driver was not speeding, reckless, or drinking.^{[32]  (}http://en.wikipedia.og/wiki/Stephen_King)

King had treated The Dark Tower as a retreat until that point.  A place for him to go, to feel at home.  It wasn’t until this accident, that he realized that he owed a debt to those of us who had followed the Ka-Tet over the years.  Now, keep in mind, I don’t believe that any writer owes a single thing to his or her readers.  Write because you have to.  Not because you want a paycheck, or to make people happy.  I think he realized, finally . . . that the “Mean-Ass Patrol Boy” finally caught up with him.  As timeless as his works are (I fully believe that he will be taught alongside Shakespear, Dickens, Poe, and Hemmingway regularly in the future,) he is not.  I started reading The Dark Tower when I was seventeen (not quite nineteen).  I’m thirty-five now, and I’m noticing the gray in my hair.  I’m noticing the wrinkles where there were none.  However, as I recently learned, I will not fight my Patrol Boy.  I’ll embrace him.  I’ll learn from him – and hopefully, I’ll grow old with him.  He was introduced to me on September 21, 2005 (not June 19, 1999, but I met him all the same).  That fuck had a handful of chips with my name on them, but decided to not cash in.  Instead, he said, “Let’s see what this kid can do” – at twenty-eight, I was stuck forever at nineteen. 

Back on topic: 

September 21 was the release date for The Dark Tower VII:  The Dark Tower.  One of my three best friends brought a copy to the ICU, after I met my Patrol Boy, and left it there for me to read – not that I remember it, thank you Demerol.  I cheered, I screamed, I cried, and basically made the nurses think I was going batshit insane.  However, going back to All-World, and living with The Ka-Tet gave me a chance to heal.  It let me fade inside myself, and find a place where I could start healing. 

I should add, I remember nothing of my first reading of that book.  I had to go back months later, and read again.  I only remember telling the nurses all about it, as if the characters were real.  As if they were my friends.  To me, they were.  They still are.  Roland, Jake, Eddie, Susannah, and Oy, sweet Oy.  They were as much my friends, as my true friends who came to visit me were.  I’ll paraphrase King here, in that I followed Jake’s story longer than he’d been alive.  They weren’t just characters to me.  I knew them, as well as I knew myself.  I knew immediately why Jake understood “The Truth,”, and I knew about “The Great Sage and Eminent Junkie.”   I knew Detta Walker, and the dark recesses of that hateful bitches mind.  That being said, it wasn’t until Roland climbed the Tower, that I truly understood him.  I understood that he was a man whose regret was always in the fore of his mind. And I was the same.  I still regret the things I did in the past, but that is part of who I am.  It’s shaped me, and as unsavory as those things are, I wouldn’t change them.  I was once taken with addiction, and later a love of “Graf”.  

It’s still part of who I am. 

I realize now, that this has turned from a post into the Greatness (yes, big “G”,) of the Tower, into self reflection.   I simply want to say, that after I’ve rambled on this far, I truly thank my friends – Roland, Eddie, Jake, Susannah, Oy, Stephen King, Joshua, Jeremy, and Mitchell, for truly saving my life.