Following my latest viewing of “the core” I got all nostalgic. As well considering Mother Natures recent fussiness in Samoa, I figure there's no time like the present to address my entirely rational fears.

After calculating the formulaic ingredients when baking an epic natural disaster film, I took a genuine interest in probability and scrounged up some actual facts and figures re: The West Coast.

What you need to know:

Getting earthquake ready? Do you have visions of impending doom? Visions of film classics such as the the Day After Tomorrow and Armageddon dancing in your head? If you answered yes to any of these feeble questions you’re in luck. Brace yourself for a natural disaster reminiscent of Indonesia 2005. Vancouver Island is scheduled for a revamp. A revamp that involves being wiped clean off the planet. Time for my dear Islanders to head for higher ground.

According to my sources the West Coast is slated for a gargantuan quake of devastating proportions. If I’ve got this straight, the Juan de Fuca and Cascadia plates are experiencing some growing pains. These pains are manifesting themselves in tremors (see: Kevin Bacon filmography IMDB http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000102/) about 300 fathoms * deep off the coast of Vancouver Island. Hollywood lives for this crap. In fact, come to think of it I’m a little surprised there hasn’t been a film produced called “Boxing Day Blues: December 26th”. Ack.

At any rate, earth is getting restless and not a bit cranky. And we are going to be the lucky recipients of a 9 point something on the Richter scale. Good ol’ Richter. I didn’t think earthquakes were detectable, but apparently seismography has advanced leaps and bounds since the 1984 National Geographic I nosed through. Now is the time to stock up on canned goods and start filling pots with water.

Seriously though. The stats are less than alarming. Out of six of the largest quakes to hit BC only five of those quakes (spanning 100 years and ranging in magnitude from 7.1 to 9.0) maybe four people died in direct correlation to the disaster, one of those died in Seattle due to a heart attack. These facts should comfort you. Hopefully your fear has subsided and instead been replaced by panic as you bob hopelessly over what was the Empress Hotel.

* A fathom is a unit of length in the Imperial system (and the derived U.S. customary units), used especially for measuring the depth of water.

There are 2 yards (6 feet) in a fathom

To Catch a Thief

I just love it when a man smacks an hysterical broad to shut her up. Ahhhhhh the 50’s. The era that time forgot. Which Brings me to my first Film Review.

Cary Grant plays John Robbie. He sports a tan that would make George Hamilton jealous, and appears suave yet casual in an exceedingly French get-up. (curently avialable at LARK on Main st.) John Robbie is an exquisitely refined American (so much so that he affects an accent of indeterminate origins. English? Upper West Side? Who can say?) who has begrudgingly retired from cat burglary and finds himself leading an agreeable, albeit sleepy lifestyle on the French Riviera. Cannes in particular. Cannes, where sunglasses are necessary well after the hour of 8:30 pm.

Life becomes less hum drum when the ‘cat burglar’ after years of being dormant, strikes again. JR is the obvious suspect. Enter smart-alec meddling American heiress, in the form of Grace “I’m impossibly Attractive” Kelly.

Through a chance deliberate encounter John Robbie becomes easily and quickly acquainted with heiress Francie Stevens and her chaperone/come mother, presumably, Mrs. Stevens. Naturally over a few gallons of Champagne there brews an immediate chemistry slash tension between Mr. Robbie and Miss Stevens, despite the 20 year age gap. The three of them make a lovely couple. Him, her and her battalion of diamonds. A ‘retired’ thief meets a blasé, careless heiress? What could possibly go wrong? Four minutes later, their first kiss is accompanied by a text book fireworks montage, as the ‘explosions’ get bigger, brighter and more elaborate, Miss Stevens finds herself that much closer to smittendom.

With some feeble plot getting in the way of the real story, which is Cary Grant and Grace Kelly making babies, We find ourselves watching what turns into more than a game of cat and mouse but a murder mystery. * foreboding music * The underlying theme being diamonds, like a moth to a flame.

Conveniently there is an enormous costume party being thrown in a gruesome villa on the Riviera this season. And even more conveniently 80% of the ‘Who’s Who List of 1955 will be in attendance, no doubt dripping in jewels. What cat {burglar} could possibly resist cream like that? Insert gratuitous flouncey evening gown scene. Fifteen minutes later, cut to the long awaited chase scene. John Robbie clumsily leaps across roof top’s laid with predictably slippery and loose terra-cotta tiles, in hot pursuit of what may or may not be the real cat burglar. . . . . . shots are fired . . . . . . it’s touch and go . . . . . . . what will happen next!?

Oh Mr. Hitchcock, the webs you weave……

current events

I Don’t watch the news, I certainly don’t watch Nancy Grace, and the closest I get to reading the newspaper is the horoscopes slotted into every local-ish publication I stumble upon. What I do do, is turn on the BBC channel and listen to the intro for the world news report. It has a very comforting familiar tune, and as soon as the boop boop boop stops I change the channel. I’d like to get it on loop. My point is, I’m not up on world current events . . . . at all.

I am however understanding what all the fuss around True Blood is. I mean, I get it. I get it because I went through an eerily similar phase back in the 90’s. Back when Brad Pitt, Gary Oldman, and Tom Cruise materialized in theaters. Actually it was even before then. It was Ann Rice (the books), it was Poppy Z. Brite. Friends, If you like Vampire erotica, (and by the constant absence of True Blood at every Rogers and Blockbuster video in a 10 mile radius for the past 3 weeks, I think you do.) look up Poppy Z. Brite’s earlier stuff, I admit, it borders on violently raunchy, and I only got though two of her books. Having preached all that, I myself have not read the Sookie Stackhouse series. Color me embarrassed.

I’m not even going to touch on the pre-pubescent vampire series that’s made it to the big screen. But it makes me wonder? Do vampires go in and out of style like shoulder pads? (not a welcome resurgence by the way) I’ve noticed my rejuvenated interest in the blood thirsty has coincided neatly with my love of The Cult. Yes, I love them. Back in ‘94 I went through my Ian Astbury/vampire stage. In art school I decided it was entirely appropriate to primarily paint large canvases depicting a vampire who resembled rather closely the lead singer of The Cult. Some times he’d be “fangs out” sometimes, a little more demure (because that’s a typical vampire trait) maybe I should say mysterious. After that got tiresome, and I have no doubt that it did, I began including renditions of a delectable looking blonde with heaving cleavage to these magnificent works of art. Good grief. Seriously, it’s embarrassing.

I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I am rather successfully reliving my youth. The Cult played last week about an hour outside of the city. Christ knows why? They played in what can only be described as a barn. A big barn, yes. But a barn none the less. A barn filled to the brim with red-necks. Age-ed red-necks, men and women. Hair, bad-taste and too many beers. Why on earth was The Cult playing in the middle of nowhere? Why were they playing in a venue where in 3 weeks time the country folk in the surrounding area would be displaying their prize squashes and heifers? WHY!!!??? It doesn’t matter I suppose. It doesn’t matter because I went t see them anyway. I went to get a damn t-shirt and to catch Ian Astbury’s attention with my smoldering gaze. I went with my best friend, because we, the two of us are fans. The last time we saw The Cult was Tuesday February 14th Valentines Day 1995. It was the first snow, and I didn’t have a jacket. Not that I needed a jacket inside The PNE Forum, no, I had my enormous backpack strapped to my front.. That kept me pretty effing warm.

I’ve told my Cult story from last week so many times, that maybe I’ll save it for another time. Just remind me to tell you about the fire extinguisher incident, two dreadful and insulting pick-up lines and the fact that a lead singer in his late 40’s remains sexy, despite love handles and ill fitting sweatshirt.

I’m just happy that I feel young again. Like the life force of a vampire coursing through my veins, this renewed obsession for my favorite band and it’s delightful partnering with a child-hood passion has been rather invigorating. All I need now is a trip to Paris and a wander through the Père Lachaise Cemetery and the transformation to age 21 will be complete. Delightful.