The Apocalypse is Here

J-What is engaged. To a girl. While you absorb this information, here’s a (probable) photo of J-What’s groomsmen:

West Ham United 0 – 1 Manchester United: Poor, Poor Jeff

Poor J-What: in December he made the very basic (yet ultimately irretrievable) mistake of attending a soccer match, which immediately made him into a long-long supporter. Unfortunately for him the club to which he’s attached his hopes and dreams is none other than Liverpool F.C., which means J-What’s currently cresting atop the Scouse Boom/Bust Cycle. Meanwhile, Manchester United haven’t conceded a league goal since…November 8, a string of thirteen consecutive matches. Their 1-0 win over West Ham was their eighth of the season. Ryan Giggs was the goalscorer; his sumptuous strike made Giggs the only player to score in every year of the Premier League’s existence. United are two points clear of Liverpool atop the table. Their long-standing “game-in-hand” against Fulham is next week, and assuming United beat Fulham and Blackburn (which is likely, given that both games are at home) they’ll open up an eight-point gap before Liverpool’s next match. Jeff, meanwhile, will be left to rue his decision to follow a team that counts Lucas Leiva among its ranks.

(Still, you’ve gotta love the famous Scouse wit: that Virgin Trains ad is brilliant.)

As for me, I’m back in Calgary and–all being well–staying put for the foreseeable future. I’m done with work-related travel…I mean, as much as I love the free flights home it’s not exactly relaxing, and in many ways it’s the exact opposite. Still, last week’s visit enabled me to listen to J-What’s informed opinions regarding a Premier League match. This from the guy who once said he’d sooner visit Tropicana Field than go to a soccer game.

Invading the Eastern Seaboard in T-Minus Four Days

In t-minus four days–that’s this Friday in case you’re too lazy to count to four–three intrepid travelers are executing a carefully-planned invasion of the United States’ Eastern Seaboard. First, in a cunning attempt to keep the authorities off our trail, we’re driving to Buffalo; then, and only then, are we allowing ourselves to board an aircraft which will take us directly to Boston. Once we’ve established our bearings we’re heading straight into enemy territory: Fenway Park.

Our mission’s objective: to rain hellfire and brimstone on the entire Boston Red Sox organization. Should that fail, we’ll settle for heckling David Ortiz and Daisuke Matsuzaka and wishing them ill-fortune in combat versus the Atlanta Braves. Once we’ve achieved these objectives–we’re giving ourselves two days at Fenway in order to ensure success–we’ll be packing our bags, hopping stealthily aboard a bus, and heading south to New York City, where on Sunday we’ll be launching an unprovoked assault on neutral ground: Shea Stadium in Flushing Meadow.

We’ve even managed to convince a local to grant us access to his side’s headquarters, which includes a trio of ducats to a scorched-earth combat session between the New York Mets and the New York Yankees (which you’ll be able to see for yourselves on Sunday Night Baseball). Once we’re finished at Shea, likely with Flaming Red having spent three hours casting furtive glances at Mets’ third baseman David Wright, we’ll head back into New York, then up north to the Death Star. I’m referring, of course, to Yankee Stadium.

Here, our cunning plan involves disguising ourselves as locals (i.e., Yankee fans), then shouting expletives at a team of would-be marauders (i.e., the Boston Red Sox). Our vantage point (i.e., the bleachers) should give us laughingly simple access to some of the enemy’s weaker forces (i.e., J.D. Drew), as well as provide invaluable insight into the workings of one of the very cells we’re trying to infiltrate. Should this fail, we’ll simply reconvene at a mutually agreeable time and place–most likely the Rogers Centre the following week–for continued negotiations.

In the meantime we’re making last-minute travel arrangements. If any of you know of any reliable sherpas who can carry our bags for us in any of our destination points, we implore you to contact us directly so we can begin negotiations. Otherwise, check this space for regular updates on our progress.

Fashion’s the Reason Why I Was There

I went to Ozzfest today.

I wasn’t planning on it–but then on Saturday J-What dangled a spare ticket in front of me. I decided right then and there that I didn’t want to miss what might potentially be System of a Down’s final Toronto performance–it will certainly be their last for quite some time–and so I capitulated. Tonight, then, I found myself walking towards the Molson Amphitheatre wondering what it would be like seeing an eponymous music festival without the person after whom it was named performing. (The Coherent One is headlining a few of this year’s Ozzfest dates, but for the most part SOAD is handling those duties.)

By the time I arrived, well after the festival’s 3pm start time, Disturbed (who were second-to-last) were performing their first song. Dave Draiman (whose name I didn’t know until Adam mentioned it just now) isn’t a singer so much as a rock n’ roll cult leader; for the second half of Distrubed set the band’s visuals (quasi-fascist red-and-white banners) reinforced that idea. Their set was solid, even though I won’t remember what a single one of their songs sounded like in the morning; I do know that they busted out a Genesis cover (a revelation which will probably make Jeff Gulley’s head explode), but only because Jeff Whatley told me what it was. Predictably, “Down with the Sickness” closed. That’s really all I’ve got to say about that.

I do, however, have more to say about the audience during Disturbed’s set–specifically the Undignified Rock Cougar standing next to us. You know exactly the kind of woman I’m talking about–but you’re probably having trouble placing her at Ozzfest. You’d expect to see her at, say, a Rolling Stones concert, tossing her panties in the general direction of Keith Richards. You would not expect to see her singing along to every single one of Disturbed’s songs, then screaming: “I love you guys! I love you more than anyone!” On top of this, she also played an entire band’s worth of air instruments; her drumming was particularly noteworthy, since her flailing arms were constantly bashing me in the sides. What’s even more impressive is that her and her date left after Disturbed! A cougar who’s also the world’s biggest Disturbed fan: who’ve thunk it?

J-What and I were also witness to a truly exceptional rock out two rows in front of us. I’ve witnessed epic rock outs before; it comes with the territory, not to mention the company I keep (see: HLP Paul and the infamous KoRn bootleg). But never have I seen a rock out include a potential mating ritual involving a shirtless twenty year-old guy in a Toronto Blue Jays cap and an excruciatingly haggared older woman. I have no idea how it didn’t end in full-blown intercourse–none. Although it could have been because he too busy physically reenacting every word to every single Disturbed song.

So. The histrionics dispensed with, we settled in for the main event. Ozzfest was an all-day thing, but I knew I couldn’t possibly stand eight hours’ worth of metal. By virtue of arriving as late as I did, Ozzfest felt less like a festival and more like a normal System of a Down concert. Which was fine with me: at the end of the day they’re one of my favourite bands, and I hadn’t seen them since Hypnotize was released last year. Predictably, they opened with “Soldier Side (intro)”, then blew straight into “Attack” and “B.Y.O.B.”. The sonic assault was relentless, apart from a mid-set lull which featured lots of singing from Daron Malakian. The setlist was similar to last September’s show at the Air Canada Centre, with the notable exception of the new songs (“Holy Mountain” was a highlight, the wretched “Lonely Day” a decided low point in the proceedings). They also played “Old School Hollywood” and “Radio/Video,” the two songs from Mezmerize that weren’t played on their fall tour.

During the latter, I willingly engaged in a full-on Rock Bray with the kid sitting next to me. Again, you can probably imagine what I’m referring to: the climactic moment in a “rawk” song during which a higher order impels you to lean back, close your eyes, belt out the final word and, most likely, hold your metal salute highly and proudly. On the word “Lisa,” I did this; he did this; and then we caught each other in our Rock Bray crossfire, and we belted it out together. Prior to tonight my ultimate Rock Bray was with HLP Paul’s friend Other Steve–also, incidentally, at a System of a Down concert (during “Chop Suey!” if I recall correctly). But tonight’s blew that one out of the water; it was the Rock Bray by which all future Rock Brays will be measured. By the way, I’m never having sex again.

System closed–again, predictably–with “Sugar”, and then the lights came up and (I’m not joking) “Dreamer” by Ozzy Osbourne signaled the end of the show. Thus ended my initial Ozzfest experience…and not surprisingly, it was generally positive. Spending an entire day worshiping at the altar of heavy metal music probably isn’t my cup of tea (in retrospect, it might have been a good thing that I didn’t get the job working on the sequel to Metalheads). But spending an evening in good company (thanks again for the ticket, J-What!), enjoying a band I didn’t really know and capping it all off with a solid performance from a band I genuinely like…that I can deal with. And even if it didn’t include Ozzy Osbourne or his cohorts, the rest was metal enough to compensate.

Lord of the Rings

Just got back from Lord of the Rings, the show which is meant to save commercial theatre in Toronto. The verdict: it’s really, really good. Critical response was lukewarm at best; I’m here to report that the critics are, as usual, full of shit. I’m not a fan of Lord of the Rings in general; I haven’t got past the fourth page of J.R.R. Tolkein’s novel, and consider at least two of Peter Jackson’s movies to be utter crap (man, I can’t wait for the comments that statement generates). So I wasn’t exactly thrilled by the prospect of sitting through a four-hour stage adapation. In actuality, not being a fan of the show’s source material probably worked to my advantage: instead of sitting there analyzing what was different, I simply sat there watching it unfold. The staging is out-of-this-world; seriously, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The cast, meanwhile, is excellent. Brent Carver, whose Gandalf has been much-maligned, is actually really good, but the real star is Michel Terriault, who inhabits Gollum so completely he eventually takes over the entire show.

J-What–easily the biggest Lord of the Rings fan I know–is seeing the show tomorrow. Jeff? Consider this to be your official call-out to write a 5,000-word exegesis on Lord of the Rings, the stage production, with a particular focus on how it differs from other versions of the story. We both know it’s coming…now you know I’m waiting for it.