Wig Bubbles

At 19, when not at home avoiding school and work, John Lennon could be found in Hamburg, Germany, performing for locals by mocking the disabled, goosestepping about the stage and calling the audience Nazis. And possibly pissing on nuns and beating up a sailor or two.

A rock and roll legend in the making, folks.

In recent weeks, a 19-year-old pop star has been much maligned by a mocking media (alliteration, that), in an enthusiastic display of mass schadenfreude. This filthy-rich teen has seemingly gone off the rails, reportedly egging a neighbour’s house and allegedly engaging in a bit of drunken drag-racing on a deserted street. Oh, and smoking the dope. Unacceptable behaviour from a North American teenaged boy, right? Certainly, not activities to which any of us can relate. Here’s hoping they throw the book at this delinquent. Continue reading →

Not so many lifetimes ago I was the manager at a local used-record store. While there, I learned a handful of valuable life-lessons, such as: don’t buy CDs from sketchy guys carrying gym bags; people who enter the store carrying skates never buy anything; and, uh, you’d be surprised what you can sell if you play it to a crowded store. I’m sure I learned other things, but the one that comes to mind at the moment is that not everyone likes The Beatles. (Or, as CBC News would put it, “But not everyone agrees that The Beatles were good…”) Andy, the store’s owner, never tired of expressing his loathing for the quartet and all it stood for.

Not that he hated The Beatles, per se. He will acknowledge the band’s influence and has likely tapped a toe or two to their songs. What he hated were the fans. Or, at least, certain fans. The ones fond of interrupting record-store owner’s train of thought by asking for the German issue of a Beatles album that features Ringo hitting the hi-hat at the start of All My Loving. Or the Penny Lane 45 with the piccolo trumpet finale. Or the mono edition of the band’s self-titled 1968 album. (No fanatical collector would lower himself to calling it the “White Album.”) Continue reading →

My morning walks with our resident record reviewer frequently involve a brief visit to a house a block from ours. It is home to a pair of huskies that are at all times outside in a fenced-in yard. OK, on the coldest nights — e.g., the last few — the dogs are brought inside. Otherwise, these siblings are all about outdoor living.

When he’s in the mood, Snorri will trudge through the snow, whining his way to the fence that separates him from his would-be pals. Both dogs can be counted on to mosey over to check him out. One routinely whines in response; the other feigns disdain over the whole rather pathetic situation

One day, the thought occasionally occurs to me, there will be but one husky to greet us. Such is our mortal existence. I cannot help but wonder what losing that lifelong companion will do to the survivor. Companions since birth, separated by inevitable consequence. I hope that day will not come for a while. Continue reading →