SAINTS PRESERVE US

A New World Order Man

I write today in praise of Elon Musk. In my estimation he’s right up there with Sir Hugo Drax, raking the moon.

Elon’s biographical facts as entered in Wikipedia may very well be true. He is a citizen of the globe who holds three passports. He is a billionaire some 20 times over. He ranks number 21 on the Forbes list of the world’s most powerful people.

He dreams of changing the very course of humanity. Those of us who cannot join his quest to colonize Mars will at least be able to drive electric cars on Earth even as Elon launches Tesla sedans into space on Falcon rockets.

He makes cryptic, drug-addled public pronouncements. His tweets are rash and unfiltered. He is snippy and dismissive on quarterly calls with business analysts. Why, the fools don’t recognize his genius; they’re as blind and ignorant as those lawyers clogging up the works at the Securities and Exchange Commission.

What’s not to love about a rich and powerful, and apparently unstable, megalomaniac who builds rockets and was blessed with an actual birth name worthy of a fictional James Bond villain?

I adore you, Elon Musk; I want to be one of your henchmen. Please send me a snug-fitting spandex SpaceX onesie, New Era logo cap and ray gun.

SAINTS PRESERVE US

The Condiment of Revelations

When a multi-national food or beverage company can’t leave well enough alone, it’s called a category extension. The resulting brand mutant is always touted as incredibly convenient to harried gatekeepers – those who make the purchasing decisions in a grocery store on behalf of their households. Consequently, the average shopper roams aisles lined with shelves arrayed with some wrong-headed and gut-wrenching choices.

Sometimes I think chemists could be more gainfully employed other than experimenting with synthesizing processes to swirl jam or honey into peanut butter jars, infusing lime flavouring into cola or dusting potato chips with powdered sour cream and onion dip. The marketing implications are insulting: I’m too lazy or stupid to open two jars to make a quick sandwich; I’m too lazy or stupid to slice a lime to spritz my soda; I’m too lazy or stupid to open a tub of chip dip. Those are valid corporate assumptions because these days we buy back our own free tap water repackaged in attractively tinted plastic bottles. We’ll buy anything. Conversely, “What the fuck are they thinking?” is also a fair question on our part.

3G is not archaic Huawei telecommunications hardware. It is a private-equity firm based in Brazil whose lean and young staff came of age watching slasher flicks. In Canada it has destroyed incalculable brand equity of the Tim Hortons coffee chain by cutting corners, raising prices and alienating franchisees. Globally it’s the stingy chaperone of the corporate fiasco that is Kraft Heinz. This shotgun marriage of processed food behemoths has cost the reputation of modern capitalist wizard Warren Buffett (Jimmy’s cousin) some $3-billion. The combined value of the two companies pre-merger and the new entity’s value following 3G’s gutting are like a Led Zeppelin song, they remain the same.

The solution pitched to Wall Street analysts and shareholders is a bastard condiment. Mayochup will refloat the ship, right it and turn the whole damn thing around. Mayonnaise and ketchup should never mingle unless they accidentally encounter each other on a hamburger, let alone be glopped together in a single squeeze bottle. Mayochup is not without misguided precedent because somebody in research and development once thought a compound called dijonnaise was an inspired idea, innovative even.

There are fundamental flaws in the concept of pre-packaged convenience. Logic dictates that should the consumer desire a combination of condiment flavours with their food, both the retailer and the supplier would prefer they’re acquired in multiple transactions at the cash register rather than as a single purchase for less money. The reactionary whiff of desperation around mayochup suggests something else: the post-war hegemony of big brands is past its sell-by date. I would argue that End Times loom for the likes of Kraft Heinz simply because of time itself, that notorious thief always advancing up Main Street restlessly going from house to house, creeping through garden gates.

My mother died on the first of the year. Honest to God, one of my fondest memories of Mom is her making Kraft Dinner for me when I was a kid, Mom gagging over the saucepan the moment she opened the pouch of processed cheese food powder and inhaled its reek. She called what are now known as Kraft Singles “rat trap cheese.” In those days I enjoyed Heinz tinned spaghetti as a hot lunch on a cold winter’s day. Mom made wonderful egg salad sandwiches but never with “disgusting” Kraft Miracle Whip salad dressing. The only cookbook in the house described lasagna as “exotic foreign fare.”

I was born in February 1960, about six weeks into the sociological cut-off of the baby boom. As I aged and my palate became more sophisticated I shed the brands that fed me; nostalgia doesn’t taste so good. And so I harbour no warm and fuzzies for Kraft Heinz products unless they’ve overstayed their welcome in the refrigerator. Even worse for the conglomerate, my cohort and I are getting on and as such are attempting to eat food we perceive as better for us; we who are imprisoned in our sagging, deteriorating bodies. Oh, by the way, we’re dying off too - maybe because we ate their products growing up. The grand old brands will soon follow us down.

These are days of mergers and acquisitions, immediate supply chains, software solutions and synergies. I pay attention to the advertising and business news but I’ve little clue as to who owns what company or which brand anymore. 3G for instance owns Tim Hortons (at this moment) but operates the stores through a middle party called Restaurant Brands International (RBI). Timmy’s used to be owned by the Wendy’s hamburger chain which is now the property of fuck if I know.

Classic brands, whether on the shelf or on the street, have become commodities to be bought and sold. Ever-changing ownership dilutes their heritage, uniqueness, and ultimately their quality. Warren Buffett could be almost old enough to have trod the Earth with H.J. Heinz and so I wonder if he longs for a simpler and sepia era, perhaps one with a reddish tint, those halcyon days when a mere 57 varieties of pickles and food products would suffice.

Signs of the times seem to indicate too that wobbly boomers have not been automatically replaced on the conveyor belt by subsequent generations of customers. There’s a righteous cynical sabot in the gears of mass production. It took a while but it’s becoming increasingly apparent that the message of the anti-globalization protests which coloured the final years of the last century has resonated with today’s newly minted adults. The new rank and file refuses to abide by the established consumer canon. The rules of engagement have changed.

Younger people today aren’t buying into the old ways. They will not be patronized. Corporations are now being called to account for their ethics and business practices; profit itself isn’t criminal but the exponential cost of a healthy margin to the well-being of the environment and the citizens of the planet might be. These youthful aficionados of Amazon and apps, such a sought-after demographic, aren’t shopping Main Street for anything, especially goop like mayochup. Their embrace of the digital marketplace has in turn fostered the growth of boutique brands who promote a more authentic experience to intrigued consumers; a promise of the real, a promise most major brands cannot match.          

The Kraft and Heinz boardroom coupling has birthed what’s known as a nothing burger in contemporary slang. And what a whopper it is. There’s no other way to garnish this. A few squirts of maychup ain’t the fixin’s required.

Copies of my latest novel The Garage Sailor are still available and ready to ship. Get aboard at Megeoff.com.

HUMAN WRECKAGE

The Thrill of the Hunt

The Brick and Whiskey is a newish addition to Edmonton’s pub and live music scene. It has been around three or four years and found its legs, carved its niche, early on. The B&W is on Whyte Avenue but some distance from the hipster portion of the strip as it lies nestled in a tired strip mall beyond the Mill Creek Ravine. The décor is generic drinking establishment but the beer lines aren’t skunky and the reasonably priced food is a few notches above chain pub fare. Not an obvious venue for Heaven on Earth as it was for me for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoon.

Ann and I probably don’t need any more recorded music in the house, disks of vinyl or aluminum. There is plenty here already, enough to see us out. Then again, who does not want more of what they love? Moderation is for Methodists and Lutherans. The B&W Sunday hosted a record fair: buy, sell, trade. We turned up a few minutes after the event was underway. I found Ann a stool at the bar and then hunted down another one to squeeze in beside her, face to face with a faux brick pillar and six inches of forearm space. Ann ordered a spicy Caesar and an appetizer; I requested the first of two pints of Trad.

“How are we going to work this?”

“We’ll alternate,” I said. “Go in shifts.” How great is this, I thought, record crate diving in a pub with my best friend?

The only collectible I have actively though casually sought through the decades is the Rolling Stones’ debut release on Rolling Stones Records: the ‘Brown Sugar’ maxi-single. The B-side couples ‘Bitch’ with a live version of Chuck Berry’s ‘Let It Rock’ recorded during their 1970 European tour. We have all three songs in our Stones library of course, and versions uncountable, beyond the capability of a Lotus 1-2-3 spreadsheet, but not in that 45 format and configuration. The relic has become something of a personal fetish; I want one even if it’s unplayable. Actually, what I’m really seeking at the swap is far more sensuous and ethereal: I want to study the large format graphic design of the sleeves, smell the damp cardboard and the shag carpet dust of maple-paneled rumpus rooms, and then revel in the surprising 16mm montage flashbacks they provoke.

Partisans of a particular sports team and other more peculiar cultists comprehend the comfort derived from being surrounded by like-minded misguided souls. Lou Reed would’ve turned 77 last Saturday. He muttered about New York, “Ah, but remember the city is a funny place, something like a circus or a sewer.” When I croak ‘Coney Island Baby’ in the shower I substitute “world” for “city.” And so, the fellowship of strangers remains a reassuring lifeline to the rest of humanity even if the link is a mere used record album.

The fellow flipping through the bin next to me paused at Van Morrison’s Moondance. “I listened to this just this morning.”

I said, “‘And It Stoned Me.’ Was there ever a better opening track on any album anywhere? Great album.”

He said, “Astral Weeks is his best.” He showed me the sleeve to make his point.

“My favourite of his is Saint Dominic’s Preview,” I replied. “Title track, epic genius.”

A third fellow, younger than my fleeting companion and me, chimed in, “Is Saint Dominic’s Preview there?”

I said, “No, it’s not.” I wondered how any Van Morrison fan could not own an absolutely essential title in the Caledonia canon.

I excused myself and got back to work. I came across a Bobbie Gentry album in stereo and realized the kudzu gothic of ‘Ode to Billie Joe’ cried out for the enhancing ticks and pops that only a stylus can provide. I bought two more albums, ones we already have, ones I’ve paid for at least twice before. The upper corners of Big Hits (High Tide and Green Grass) had been chewed either by a rabbit, a cat or a mouse, possibly all three, but the photo album featuring the young Stones pasted inside the gatefold sleeve was still intact. The LP itself is mono, the glorious sound of my sister’s suitcase Fleetwood with the penny taped on the tone arm and the hi-fi Dad built from a kit and then installed in the dining room. And bless Rod Stewart’s cotton socks, I shelled out five dollars for Every Picture Tells a Story simply for the gatefold cover which I’d never seen before; his wry liner notes charmed me and my wallet.

The second best part about browsing and buying records is the subsequent post-coital languor. I don’t really know what that is because I was raised a Catholic boy but I imagine it’s got something to do with ashtrays and stomachs. Anyway, I love to examine and handle my haul before I get home and play it. I retook my stool, reintroduced myself to my beer and tagged Ann the way wrestlers do; her turn in the ring. I wished it was still legal to smoke in pubs.

I was contemplating Bobbie Gentry as Capitol presented her in 1967 (I was in grade one) in what could easily be misconstrued as a dirty and sinful way when Ann called my name. She beckoned me over with a Quicksilver Messenger Service semaphore sleeve, Happy Trails.

“Jim (Ann’s older brother) had this one. He played it constantly. I loved this album.”

“Buy it.”

“But it’s ten dollars.”

“I’ve got a ten. We may never find it again in such good condition. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it. Get it.”

And so Ann did. We left shortly thereafter. We sat in our 12-year-old Honda CRV in the angled parking space waiting for the engine to warm in the extreme cold. There used to be a layer of insulation on the underside of the hood over the motor but neighbourhood squirrels have shredded it, fibreglassed their nests. We rolled down the side windows and lit cigarettes.

I said to Ann, “That was fun. Was it good for you?”

She said, “Yeah.”  

Copies of my latest novel The Garage Sailor are still available and ready to ship. Get aboard at Megeoff.com.

HUMAN WRECKAGE

The Siren Songs of Hell

One of the recent bishops of Rome came clean to the wavering faithful and finally admitted that Hell is a human construct. Still, Hell’s existence in some form gives me a forlorn hope: there may be an afterlife but it’s going to suck

I have throughout my life done many stupid, shameful, hurtful and harmful things. I was just following orders though God knows whose. Sometimes at night when I can’t get to sleep I scroll through the list of my transgressions. Guilty! I groan in the wee wee hours when there’s no ambient light leaking through the window blind. I understand that I have been largely the architect of my own Hell. J’accuse! Despair has suggested suicide a couple of times but never insisted.

I was born in midwinter. I am Canadian. I don’t believe it’s entirely irrational or illogical on my part to assume that I will die when there’s snow on the ground because the cold here can lock in for six months out of 12. Decent odds, 50-50. I’ve always pictured my Hell as a barren, nuclear winter wasteland. My naked, self-flagellated flesh burning in the liquid nitrogen freeze. Eternity’s going to hurt forever.

I will not suffer in silence. Because I’ve made my living for the most part sweating details (You too can channel your OCD into a lucrative career! Ask me how!), I’ve fretted over the soundtrack of meGeoff’s personal Hell, the music I’m doomed to scream along in agony with until the end of time and a few minutes after that because bad songs never seem to fade out. Initially I imagined the noise would be an endless loop of the overexposed high school warhorses I can no longer abide: Skynyrd’s Free Bird, Floyd’s Money, Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water, Hotel California by the Eagles and Led Zep’s Stairway to Heaven. Pop revisionism is a peculiar and persuasive thing and so I expanded my top five list to include tracks from the New Seekers, Carpenters and ABBA to jibe with Dante’s poetic circles.

There! Satan’s mix tape task done and dusted for him, or so I thought. But there’s something else insidious and hideous happening in music these days. In the past 48 hours I have heard Diana Krall croon Heart of Gold and Lisa Loeb somnambulantly warble All the Young Dudes. I have also been subjected to sparse, jazz-tinged arrangements of You Can’t Always Get What You Want, Life on Mars? and After the Goldrush by overly earnest and breathy singers I wish I’d never heard. What fresh, insipid Hell is this?

Perhaps I was overly hasty envisioning my Hell as a harsh, unnatural alien landscape. Now it might be akin to a berth on meGeoff’s voyage of the damned. I am on a cruise ship endlessly shuttling back and forth between Disneyland and Disneyworld. I’m alone in the cocktail lounge. I am in formal evening wear but my collar’s too tight and I cannot loosen my tie. The pianist quietly butchers every song I ever loved, in ascending order just so I’m aware that what is very bad is going to get even worse.

There are Tiffany lamps on the tables, pastel fabric coverings on the chairs, ersatz brass portholes and murals of salmon-peach-watermelon sunsets with grinning, leaping dolphins in the foreground framed by charcoal silhouettes of palm trees on the walls. The bar is open but there’s no stock, nothing on tap, nothing to be had. The guy who founded Lululemon helps himself to a seat at my table. He has an umbrella drink but he won't buy me one. Instead, he scolds me for not living, laughing, loving and flossing. I am trapped in the room in his company. I cannot escape him to smoke a last cigarette outside on deck before jumping overboard. I want to die again but that’s no longer an option. Oh, my soul, it’s going to be the longest, darkest night I’ve ever known in both my lives. 

Copies of my latest novel The Garage Sailor are still available and ready to ship. Get aboard at Megeoff.com.