H: Reading Material

February fades, tilting toward Spring. What have I been doing all this time?

Writing futilely, writing productively, reading, working, watching Lost, seeing friends. Having ideas, being stuck inside myself. Trying to reach Greece in my dreams.

Every now and again I feel like Max is still around. That sick smell that accompanied his presence in his last months lingers, if not in our house then definitely in my mind. I can recall, with great ease, for now, the lazy rhythm of his paws descending stairs, and the trying clicking of his attempts to get back up. Sometimes, when I pass through the living room late at night I feel like I should turn on the lights and check for poop, or when I get up in the morning I glance over in the direction of where he'd parked himself for his last lap.

I'll never forget him because of how much he annoyed me, long before he was immobile but well after he had lost his sight. The way he would pace anxiously back and forth in the basement, uncertain what he was looking for, bumping his nose into everything and stumbling often. He had a knack for getting trapped in the corners of my junkpiles or under my desk/chair. After a while, I developed a knack for coaxing him back up the stairs. Those are things that stay with you. Also: and he had long since given up on this by the end, but his fiery rifle-like bark at any stranger at our door.

Having been liberated, against my will, from the pressing concern of my second play, I am free to pursue other projects. It isn't that I don't want to finish it: quite the opposite. But in the process of writing, one sometimes gets a yen for other projects. The only thing that keeps a writer on task, especially a larger project, sometimes is the promise of a reward at the end. A payment, or some determined destination. You write with more dedication when you know what is to become of it. I wrote Summer at Sixteen in about 10 days, knowing that upon completion, I'd be paid a hundred bucks. It wasn't a great screenplay, but it didn't totally suck, and it was 110 pages or so.

So now I'm just scattering my creative energies, seeing what happens. I already re-wrote Insomniac, knowing it still has a ways to go. I wrote another story I'm proud of in concept if not totally satisfied in execution. I've got others I feel I must rebuild from the ground up, others that need mere restoration. Re-writing everything. Who'd have thought the kid who once said "If it came out that way the first time, it was meant to be that way," would be so fixated on rewrites? I've learned, in the years since, I'm not Kerouac. It's a lesson a lot of people ought to learn. I'm not Kerouac or anybody else. It's like a ridiculous kid's show message: be the best me I can be.

Today was an understandably uneventful day at work. It was already a fairly quiet day, and then business plunged off a cliff at 3 when the hockey game started. Periodically one of us would go out to the Olympic lounge (the center court of the mall) to check the score. We got out just in time for me to get to the lounge catch the end of the third period when the American team snagged a last-minute goal to send the game into overtime. I walked home in a hurry and got in the door in time to catch the game-winning goal for my country, which was a great way for us to win our record-breaking Olympics and feel some serious national pride.

I need to time manage. Whenever I have time, I just try to level myself out and forget that I have a certain number of papers due in the near future (at least count that certain number was three.)

I'm going to cut myself off there. Like much of my life, this thread is going nowhere special, and is taking a long while to get there. My hope for March is that I find a way to properly express myself. Yeesh. So many posts in this month were start-and-stop affairs.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

G: Terminology

Slow month for the blog. I have been busy. I'm only going to get busier.

One of the weirder moments at the last family gathering (well over a week ago) was when I remarked on Aunt Karen's interesting flatware, and everyone else commented on my unique word choice. Flatware. Not that they were like "Why did you say FLATWARE and not UTENSILS?" just that "Wow, you know that word?" Um yeah guys, I'm a writer, I know things. We've been over this.

I wanna talk a bit about people talking like experts about things they don't know, can't know, or don't know to the extent they believe they do. And in the process, I am going to talk like an expert about something I don't really know. I was watching the Canada-USA hockey game back on Sunday, and when I tuned in US was up 2-1 or somesuch, in the midst of the first period. And it looked to me like Canada was blowing it big time, like they were not playing the level of hockey their opponents were, the level their fans and countrymen would expect.

And make no mistake, I admit to being the least hockey-interested Canadian I probably know. Most of my hockey awareness comes from D2: The Mighty Ducks. I resent the Leafs for being an insanely popular team despite their history of ineptitude. I also prefer baseball, which also makes me different from all Canadians. So I don't really know much about how the game of hockey is played. but it seemed to me that the Canadian team was doing a bad job playing this game.

After the first period, though, the Canadian commentators pointed out that even though the US were winning, Canada was out-playing them, keeping control of the puck and out-shooting them. So I think, fair enough, but when they have the puck, they can't get it past the goalie, and when the US gets the puck, they really have no problem. And we were losing. So from my perspective, the USA was winning handily. But what do I know? I just admitted to not being a big hockey fan.

Still. It seemed like a couple of indicators were the fact that in the first period, goalie Martin Brodeur swing his stick at the puck like he was the Star Wars kid. And then three players bumped into each other while practically standing still. That was the low point of hockey. I don't mean that was the low point of the game, I mean it was the low point of the entire history of the sport of hockey.

I exaggerate, but it was fairly ridiculous. So when the game was over and the US won what was, admittedly, not a blowout (not points-wise anyway, but the sheer number of shots deflected by the American goalie were ridiculous) I thought "Okay, the US played a really good game and the Canadians played like a bunch of noobs," so I kind of resented later commentary that it was a good game of hockey, because I still didn't see it. And in any case, Canada bounced back against Germany and Russia.

But such is life. Sometimes we must surrender to the authorities. Sometimes not.

I was reading a few lists written by writers. "Rules for writing," although I doubt any of the writers themselves take the notion that there are "rules" for writing. Many of the writers participating included some kind of note that said "Feel free to ignore my rules or make your own if it pleases you," because in my view, the best writing is whatever works. And you can guide someone through what works best for you, what works best historically, but it is not necessarily what always works or the only thing that works.

Now, you'd be an idiot to disregard these rules altogether on that basis, but they're there for your consideration, not your unquestioning obedience. So when Elmore Leonard says "Don't use any verb to connote speech other than said," he probably means it, but think about why, exactly. He explains that the line of dialogue belongs to the character, and by slipping a less natural verb in there, you're taking it away, putting yourself between the character and the reader. Not to mention using varied words like "shouted, stated, spoke," is the hallmark of (bad) fanfic-type writing. Now, I don't think there's anything wrong with specifying when a character is yelling or crying or adding or interrupting, but be careful. It's all about context and exactly how much of the narrator you want your reader to see. Lately I've been favouring verbless dialogue:

"Line of dialogue."
"Response."
"Question?"
"Answer," the second character answered, just to re-orient the reader.
"Allow me to interject," added a third character.

Sometimes paired with an action. "Listen to this," the character said, brushing her hair to one side.

It's good advice. If you can do well without it, do. Another one was to avoid describing the characters' physical appearance, which I found interesting. The idea is to let the reader decide how they look, based on how they speak. But again, hardly an all-encompassing tactic. The writer of the rule cites "Hills Like White Elephants," which is pretty indisputably an excellent story, and consists almost entirely of dialogue, but not every story is, wants to be, or could possibly be "Hills Like White Elephants." Some characters obsess over appearances. Some have more important things on their minds (such as the American and the girl in "White Elephants.")

I'm learning, and I'm learning by practice, which leads me to the only "rule" I've ever set for myself, the one all writers ought to obey. Writers write. I am writing right now about stuff I am writing or intend to write. And in a sense, this writing is writing, but it's not the writing I mean. I look at my colleagues Blake and Andy and I see two extremely productive writers, and it's not for nothing. That's the way to do it. I write when I can, which right now is not as often as I'd like, but I do find the time. I re-wrote my old story "The Insomniac" this past weekend, something I'd been intending to do for months, years even. I started it first when I was 18, and it was good for my experience level, for what of the world I'd seen. (That's the other thing: writers read, they get aware of what others are doing, at least to start with. Nobody's in a vacuum here guys.) Facing facts, my prose was pretty shitty back then. I had neat ideas but I was really amateurish about how I went about them. Even now I'm still struggling to shake it off, but seeing a problem I seek to rectify it. This could only happen once I'd read more great stories. The first story I wrote that I was really satisfied with -- I could probably do it better but when I wrote it I felt it was a cut above my other stuff -- was "The Curb Appeal" which I wrote after extensive lessons on Joyce and Hemingway.

So I re-wrote the Insomniac to strip it of what I consider to be my amateurish tendencies in there. Excessively flowery description, reliance on bad simile and metaphor. What I've learned is that metaphor is best when applied to the tone of the story, rather than the syntax. At least, that's what works for me. Description is often just writer-wank. The reader is more interested in what is happening. This, I take from my experience as a reader. The description can enhance it, or if done badly, get in the way.

So anyway. Lists are funny things. I was reading this book last week, I was at the library killing time and I happened to find myself in the self-help section, and for obvious reasons this book catches my eye: Ten Myths Men Believe About Women. That wasn't the title of the book, for purposes of my discussion it is, because that was the name of the section I flipped through. and I find it fascinating, because as much as many men do believe things like that (Women are emotional, women are obsessed with commitment and take away men's freedom) in compiling such a list, it was necessary for the writer to assume the position that men - some men, all men, most men, great men through history, I don't know - believe those things. I think the truth is more complicated on both sides. For the record, she also happened to make some amazingly broad generalizations about both genders. I happen to think women, as with men, should be taken with the level of nuance they express in themselves. You can't say "Women are like this." You can't complain about men saying "Women are like that" by saying "Actually, women are like this, and it's because of such-and-such." making her assertions about men believing women to be emotional, she had to therefore assert that men are not in touch with our emotions, which we often aren't but sometimes are. Being in touch with one's emotions doesn't mean crying. It means understanding why one might cry.

Maybe.

Also puzzling was the list of "Women's greatest turn-offs/turn-ons" which I found remarkable. there was some truth in there but again, you can't generalize. The big one at the end of each list, respectively, were "Men who don't love us"/"Men who love us." Which is about the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever felt the need to point out. Everyone wants to be loved, lady. But you can't market that as a turn-on.

Last girl I was with -- and I use that term loosely, so you can interpret it however you like -- completely rejected any talk of love, because that wasn't what it was about. In this case, I suspect her greatest turn-on was stimulation of the erogenous zones, but I can't really be certain.

But look. I don't know what I'm talking about. That should be clear as crystal by this point. I am eager to learn, but there are things that will never be truly mastered, including the lively art of writing and the livelier art of seduction. I just try to practice, when I can, and learn from my mistakes.

Yes, of course women don't like their heads being pushed toward the groin. If a man does that to you, he probably can't be salvaged, ladies.

About a month ago I got a music paper back, and I did shitty on it. and it bothered me. Really. What bothered me in large part was, in addition to my own disappointment in myself, being put in what I perceived to be a position where I could not succeed. The paper, a thousand word "response," was due in the very second class, after we'd had very little time to acclimate our ways of thinking to match what was expected. Very possible a lot of people did well, but there seemed like no way I was going to, and that upset me.

A few weeks later, paper #2 was due, and though I didn't give myself as much time as I ought to have, I worked what i considered to be reasonably hard on it. Today, before getting the paper back, there was a test (Prof plays a song, we answer prescribed questions. Sort of a bell-ringer, a concept Vasa just explained to me the other night.) I think I did well on the test, as I was able to really interact with the material.

The paper was a different story. taking what I did badly on the last one into account, I was hoping for a B-. The last paper I got back in film, I'd hoped for a C+ (I thought it was utter shit) and got a B-, indicating that although it was by no means a great paper, it was worth at least a 70 for effort. So I said to myself "B-, I can be happy with. B- would be good." So this second music paper, on jazz, which I had read up on and tried to interact with without really being able to hear the music, AND summarize a very nuanced and complicated history in only a thousand words or so? Straight B.

I haven't read most of the notes, but the funny thing bout this class is the way the markers, even if they give you a good mark, (and in this scenario, I consider a B a good mark,) will interact with the points you bring up. And I think "that's a good point, but not only had I not thought of that, there wasn't really any room to address that complicated situation." When you have 5 pages double-spaced, to make a thesis and support it, you find yourself making generalizations.

When you have a whole book to address the complications of a woman's fickle heart, you can probably stand to address the complexity.

That'll bring you up to speed, as it is now Thursday afternoon and the test was at 10. More stuff happened of course, but it's too much to address in just this already-lengthy blog post. Maybe later. Now lunch.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

F: Give what you can

It has been a busy goddamn week.

Busy, uneventful, exhausting, boring.

Stressful, relaxing.

The opposite but also the same.

Get me?

I've been suffering half-post syndrome a lot lately. After Tuesday's news, I half-wrote a very angsty "what am I doing I have no direction or motivation" post, which I aborted when I realized that I always double back on such feelings, so despite the fact that the week marched on, I took a bit of an SWP hiatus to get my bearings. Get a bit of perspective.

Listen, I won't deny that it's annoying, how I've spent a lot of time trying to get this play right - and in another go I might've gotten it - but now who knows what the future holds. I hate to break my mojo on the new play but this is going to have to be the case at least for now. Prose and academia demands my attention.

On Monday, Aunt Lori was telling me, when I expressed my self-deprecating but earnest anxiety about the future, Aunt Lori affirmed her belief that if you do what you love, the money will follow. It's the kind of thing that, even if I couldn't believe it about myself, I'm glad to hear. It's encouraging.

The week sort of sunk away from me, with Monday being dedicated to the gathering, Wednesday featuring a comic run, a dentist appointment, and then a trip out to Philthy's to visit Cait. I was glad to see her and we got along like old times. I don't know what it is about me, but I'm hardwired to deal well with extreme women. Women who make no secret of their sexuality and chemical predilections. It's not that I prefer those types of women - quite honestly I don't know what use I'd be to one of them - but they bring something out of me that is a lot more fun.

The problem with the night was that she was also being paid much attention by a league of over-thirty (as in years-old, not in number) darts players more desperate for her attention than I was (and considering I went all the way out there to see her, you'd think there must be some desperation at least.)

We drank a lot, largely because every time she bought I drink I ended up with one too, despite my earlier thought that I shouldn't drink much since I was working the next morning at 9. That day ended up going relatively smoothly, though. I spent the whole day counting Blu-Rays. Literally, for 8 hours. I ended up dreaming about them.

Friday was the day I ended up getting most of my relaxation in. Watched movies, did some drawing. That night was Lebowski night. I clipped my $10 off coupon and CB, Chris Ferg, Pat, Adam and I headed down to Classic Bowl, then to the Monk, in CB's new car with not-so-well-functioning brakes. We talked a lot of things, particularly Half-Past and the possibility of a No Way My Life re-mount. Lots of White Russians were consumed - I more or less hectored the gang into a third round, although if they didn't want 'em they wouldn't have taken 'em.

At the end of the night, all tabs settled, I wound up with a counterfeit fiver, according to our waitress. And Pat owes me $7, so I've got to remember that next time he's in town. I considered dropping the five in my deposit at work the next day, but I ended up trying it at the newsstand (for chocolate bars, because I'm an adult like that.)

Saturday and Sunday, the typical weekend shifts. Apparently, Jamie is no longer with us at HMV due to health issues, so we've got a few new staffmates. Not from the temp pool, which is slightly disheartening, but such is life. One girl I've met, so it's nice to have a female coworker again, and some other dude I have yet to meet.

Wednesday night, Cait related to me her relief to be done with HMV, that obviously it was not the ideal job (true) and she was built for her current job. Corporate whore though I am, I've never found a job as rewarding as this one, and I'm happy for her, but I would obviously like to have someone like her around to joke with.

But things are what they are.

I still need time to clear my head. Between the aptly-named Family day, and the Dentist, and work, I had only a few waking hours to get a grip on life. The sad thing is, I've already reached the point of the year where I must confront final papers: first in film, then in drama and the rest of my classes follow.

In search of refreshed music, I bought three albums today: Kooks, which sounds good but lacks certain spiritual qualities; Hawksley Workman, is very busy, maybe overly so, except for the single that played on HMV radio. The real winner was Hollerado's Record in a Bag, which follows through enthusiastically and splendidly on the promise of Juliette (which also plays on HMV radio.) Juliette may be more-or-less the best song on the album, (I haven't confirmed this with a second listen,) but the bulk of the material is up to par, peppy and bright, but smart and sometimes sardonic, the way our generation generally is. Hooky as all motherfuck and without much pretension. Nearly up there with Locksley, just when I was getting tired waiting for the next Locksley album (due out in March.) It plays like a 2010 extrapolation of Third Eye Blind, with all the postgrunge cynicism of Generation X drained to make way for weary romanticism.

Hollerado. Record in a Bag. Investigate. Currently retainling for $10 even.

Anyway. I may have some creative writing in me before I go to bed tonight. I should probably also do some reading. Middlesex, the book we've been assigned (a considerable tome) is an interesting book but I haven't had the kind of time I ought to have.

Sigh.

Lots more later, believe it.

Keep on rockin
-Scott

E: Sit right there and listen

I believe language, both in speaking and in literature, as well as the language of film and that of bodies, is the art of finding the quickest route from the idea to the representation. The easiest way of conveying an idea. It may be one of those Sausseurian ideas I've absorbed and internalized to the point where I can't be sure if it's really me talking, but I know one thing: it's the reason why I hate a certain webcomic tat, for purposes of sentimental attachment, I can't bring myself to stop reading. It complicates not only its story, but its method of telling that story.

My belief in this concept is complicated somewhat by the fact that, in my writing: in SWP, in my prose and even my play, I often take a long time to get from start to finish, I often spin off in tangents just to see where they go (see my last post.) I'm currently attempting to build a novel around a series of related-but-threadlike tangents. A lot of my prose, especially my early stuff, invokes a number of obtrusive metaphors. Seriously, I read my old stuff and wonder to myself why the fucker that's writing it can't just say exactly what a thing is: everything has to exist as a symbol for something else. But the excessive metaphors aren't what I'm getting at. In fact, they're just a metaphor. Metaphor as metaphor. Dig it. Extreme meta-literariness.

It's the story of the shortest route from my brain to the audience. That is, the staging of my next play.

I was suffering from what might be thought of as a mild case of writer's block, although that's not something I'd ever attest to. I perceive writer's block as being something that keeps a writer from having an idea what to write. I know what I want to write but sometimes I have trouble accessing that part of my brain that knows just how to say it. I was having trouble with this particular scene between two characters, that I just wasn't finding the right voice for, the right pathway to the point. It was just spinning its wheels, and while I wanted to use the scene to change or at least complicate the audience's perception of one character, it was really just reinforcing her two-dimensionality.

They say the Coen Brothers wrote Barton Fink (a movie about a type of writer's block) while having similar such problems with their movie Miller's Crossing. I take a similar tact: I wrote chapters of a book I've been working on over and over for years, then tackled a short story I've wanted to rewrite forever. Today I set down to take on that scene, and for a while I was still getting the same nothing until I suddenly just, well, I hit the right strand. I mean, here's how it works, more or less: a line, or a monologue, or a story, occurs to you, and then you build a bridge in dialogue, so instead of making it up as you go along, you find the path. Durr. I've said it like three different times. The final outcome of this little exchange was probably not exactly what I had envisioned, but it at least gives a far more profound insight to the character's motivations. I liken it to what I call the "Platypus conversation" in Half-Past.

The "Platypus conversation" is an exchange between Beth and Perry in Half-Past (you'd know this if you'd seen the play.) It is literally a transcript (with embellishments) of an actual (and surprisingly heated) conversation I had had a few weeks earlier, with Manda, about whether Platypi were mammals or what. Prior to my writing this scene, and reaching back 6 years to the origin of the play, Beth was a non-character, an uninteresting presence that existed just to justify the scenario. No real thought went into who this girl was and why Mark might like her, he just did. Alyssa, in her turn at the character in the movie, did an admirable job sifting through regrettable dialogue (she complained to me, rightly, that the character said the word "totally" too much in one scene, that's how much thought had gone into the character.)

What the Platypus conversation did was open up the character: it became the light that illuminated who she really was. More than that, it helped inspire me to write what I consider to be the best moment of the play, Beth's "I'm fucking with you" line. So, for this character in the new play, I found what I consider to be that Rosetta stone of her personality, even if it doesn't fully explain her, it adds dimensionality to her.

I was pleased with this minor but significant advancement in the writing process, which will help the rest of the play, then broke for Lost. Awesome episode by the way. Then, something happened that kinda took the wind out of my sails. I won't explain exactly what happened, but it amounts to... this play isn't happening. Not this year, anyway.

It's nobody's fault, but it's a regrettable situation. Last summer was such a transcendent experience. Listening to those opening chords of Through & Through & Through by Joel Plaskett puts me back in that place, fills me with an almost inexplicable sense of well-being. I was understandably eager to repeat the accomplishment. I felt like I was getting near a worthwhile product with the new play (whose name, for superstitious reasons, I have been reluctant to type, even though pretty much the worst possibility has already happened.)

I was left with three options. One: do the play with another director, which I am not keen on: I don't know enough people in the Hamilton theater scene to pull that move and I'm not interested in excluding Cary from the process since this play is largely the product of his collaborative effort. Two: Do nothing, which is the most likely, and also the least appealing option, because it means there is literally nothing for me to do, nothing to show for myself, and I go back to being some other schmo. Three: Do something else, with someone else.

It didn't seem possible, or likely, that I'd go with number three, but after a bit of meditation it occurred to me that there was a very real opportunity here. Not to write something new: I started banging out a script based on an idea I had last week, but didn't like the results I was getting (and the last thing I need is yet another writing project.) I haven't killed it, because it's out there, which means it's viable. But the million dollar idea came to me after I was sitting back in frustration over my attempt to bang out a quick, quirky scenario that plays of known theatrical meta-tropes.

No. Way. My. Life.

In breaking the news about his inability to do the new play, Cary suggested I try something with Chris. And I conceded it wouldn't be a bad idea: not for this play, though. A giant ensemble in two acts isn't really Chris' speed, I don't think. Cary explained his motivation for wanting a whole night to himself (and the need to keep the population of the play up to maintain that.) I don't think Chris' take is the same, hence the two-main-characters-and-a-couple-extras structure of Now Way My Life, our highly successful collaborative effort with Pat. I asked Chris, and he was immediately warm to the idea, either of NWML or something new, so suddenly things were looking up.

And that's how you take the shortest route to the stage: by going with something you've already written. And as excited as I was to write something that would take the whole night, there's a certain comfort in being matched with another play to broaden the potential audience to include people who wouldn't have already seen it.

I won't be getting the same feeling from this project as I did from Half-Past, that's for sure. This isn't as personal or as important-seeming, it's just a jokey scene about a couple of dopey gangsters. It also doesn't need as much preoparation, as the bulk of the dialogue is handled by two of the guys who wrote and already performed it, assuming we can get Pat in on it. It's not going to hit the notes I wanted to hit with the new play, but it's a lot of laughs and a pretty decently-written scenario, and it's something I'm proud to have helped with, and would be glad to get back out there.

I'm happy with this decision. It seems like a bit of a compromise, but it works, and works well. There's still an extremely unlikely chance I'll be able to get something else written, too: I'm not without ideas, or at least, something. My main problem is that this somewhat damages my motivation to write the other play, just when I was closing in on completion. I may keep going, but I work best when I have some kind of endzone to work toward. Hopefully there's no such drop in productivity. That said, it doesn't hurt to relieve me of that pressure.

In all things, balance.

I'm done for the night. Gonna head to bed, read some. Got a dentist appointment, not psyched about that. I'm cutting down on sugar, but that was a recent decision so he's probably not going to see the full result, which means I'll be getting guilt, maybe a few fillings for my trouble. I know the fillings are my own fault. Also I ate popcorn tonight, which I know is stupid, but it was Lost, and I was hungry. So I'm gonna go floss. I've been flossing at least a bit, so hopefully there won't be a lot in the way of blood. Sigh.

I'm working on it.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

D: Expect it in an instant

I want to tell you about Andy, and in doing so, tell you something about myself you should probably already know.

I don't think Andy has the ability to read people, which may in fact be his greatest asset as a salesman.

If the dude is even aware of the idea that some people simply don't want to hear his shit, he clearly doesn't care. He is the epitome of being yourself, which is probably why I bear him so much (good-natured) ill-will. He is my opposite. Here is this piece of meat with absolutely no pretense of self-consciousness. He knows a lot of people don't want to buy the cash-crashers but he still pushes them with a confidence I could never approach because of this difference. It's part of his state of being: he just is, and other people have to deal with it.

I'm not like that. Most people aren't, but I'm really not like that, I'm the guy who has to deal with everyone else on the planet, who seeks to communicate on a level approximating what I think that person is like. Andy recites the exact same spiel, with gusto, to every customer who comes to his till. He'll seal up some air in a pocket of shrink wrap and offer to sell it to anyone who comes his way. Today it was a shred of a five dollar bill. It's not faked in any way, not a contrived routine, it's the most genuine expression of self I've ever heard: that's his natural state of being.

Speaking as the guy who has to stand next to him for most of my shift, I hate it. I do. I wish I didn't have to watch him clowning for every customer, because while the customer gets to walk away saying "I had a unique experience today" I go home thinking "I watched a guy bother 50 people about a shred of a five dollar bill."

That's why Karen hired him, I can see now. At first I just thought he was an idiot, but now I know he's just annoying yet stupendous salesman. By comparison, I was hired because I am able to work the floor like it's my home, I know where nearly everything is, I know how to get people what they want. Andy knows how to convince people to get things they didn't want. Fate has made us into an incredible team. We complement each other. I still don't like having to stand next to him all day.

I hate to hate on the guy. He is a genuinely nice guy and I know he means well. I still largely resent the fact that, in spite of and now I see largely due to his lack of self-consciousness, he got the job and my friend didn't. He is an asset to the store. When he's on the floor he has this spaced-out deer-in-headlights look. Guy comes in looking for his customer order, Andy goes out to the floor. He asks me where the item is, without mentioning it was a CO so I go racing about, where could it be, where could it be, before I realize, is it, yes, it's a customer order, why didn't you say so? "Oh, yeah, I didn't notice." This is a guy who was 45 minutes late for a shift last week because he was napping.

I had this customer, she wanted a DVD, we didn't have it. Later she finds herself at his till and after that process, she comes back to me to see if I can locate another store with that DVD and while I'm playfully bantering with her, he busts back into the conversation because he forgot he wanted to try to sell her the scrap of the fiver.

I don't like being interrupted. Eric and I used to get into crazyass arguments that escalated just because he interrupted me. I don't like being interrupted when I'm talking to nice girls at the store, especially not by that guy and especially not for that.

One day I am seriously going to freak out on someone for interrupting me. There was this moment on Thursday, after we screened Do The Right Thing in class, I was walking to the TTC with Martina and this guy Charlie (we saw Avatar with him) and as we were discussing the presentation of racism and all the contextual details of the film and as I was responding to his point about the film after waiting patiently for him to stop talking, he steps back in to embellish his point, clearly speaking directly to her (maybe he's got a thing for her, which would maybe be nice.) And when he was done, Marti was nice enough to say "Yeah, um, I think Scott was saying something."

I wanted to snap (at him, not at her) "Oh, am I allowed to talk now?"

I'm not someone who dominates a conversation. Never have been, never will be, despite the number of pixels spilled on this blog over the years. I'm a listener. I do love to hear what other people have to say, but I hate it when other people make it difficult for me to join in when I have something to add. When people keep talking on and on while I try to jump in, that's partly me not being able to assert myself properly. My bad, I get it. But interruptions? I can't stomach that shit. Real sore spot.

But by now I've gotten really far away from my original point, which was fairly pointless anyway. Just fascinated by this dude's behaviour.

I was never the class clown. I've been jokey my whole life but, especially in maturity, I've grown into more of a straight man/deadpan role. I don't want to be the guy who needs the laughs, but I'm not above a cheap snipe even a new episode of Lost where I watch with Vasa and several dues I know, and who are not strangers, but who don't really see me as part of their social circle, because I show up one night a week to watch TV and provide mildly enjoyable presence.

This post has spun way out from what I thought I was gonna write, and though I stayed mostly on topic (or at lest on train of thought) I don't think I ended up making the point I intended to make, which had less to do with Andy and salesmanship than to relating to people, to what I said about "reading" people. You figure it out.

Oddly enough, for a post that takes place on February 14th and that I am generally a bitter guy, (and it seems like I will take any opportunity to bemoan my romantic life) this post has avoided typical romantic bitching. I'm not really feeling it all that badly today, to be honest: this, I decided in a conversation with Robyn, which she was kind enough to initiate. I have indulged in an exaggerated sense of bitterness what with all the happily-coupleds flaunting it all over Facebook, because I generally feel like I'm within my rights to scorn happy people in general. But I don't feel that bad about myself right now, which is weird, I think.

Sooner or later I'll get back to hopeless despair, I think. Right now I'm more focussed on mild annoyance. There are layers, you know.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

C: You think you know somebody

It's been very hard for me to settle down and write a blog entry lately. there are numerous unsurprising reasons for this. Work exhausts. Papers have come due lately. I'm still trying to do some real writing. There's hardly been a moment in the last week when I've had the ability to just sit down and lay it all out.

And when I have, the result has not always been so pretty.

I generally pride myself on being, you know, open and raw with my, er, emotional state. By and large I don't see the use in writing about myself in this format if I'm not going to be honest about it. and so you get a lot of me miserable, a lot of me frustrated, lonely, sad, tired guy. Angry at the world because of my limitations, because of problems I bring on myself. i had about a half a post written up along those lines, back on Sunday night. I got to the halfway point, kept going back and restarting, before realizing I just didn't want to express that sentiment. It's funny, you know. It's one thing to have a feeling but it's another to elect to express it in that way. I usually do, and I'm not about suppressing one's emotions, but occasionally some very wise words echo in my ears, spoken by a girl who probably just wanted me to quit being a whiny bitch, and moreover, just leave (her specifically) alone.

"Nobody likes a mopey person."

Look, that sounds harsh, but it's a very apt way of distilling the problem of self-representation and one's place in society. You can only appeal to people's pity so much before it grows tiring, and it's a lesson I learned in grade 10, then spent about 2 years learning to apply.

So I didn't want to burden whatever readers I may have with the same old self-loathing I've been nursing since I was 15. I opted, this time around, to work past it on my own, and lay off expressing myself too overtly until after it was done with, if ti was done with. and then there was the problem of finding time to write.

So it was Sunday and I was working, and as sometimes happens, a pretty girl comes in and I get all angsty because I can't (bring myself to) do anything for her but be like "Durrr need help finding anything." Even though I don't really want to do anything more, it just happened to be at a time when actual human contact would've been nice. When she gets to the counter, Andy turns on his dopey charm and gets her laughing, and that's what set me off. Not hating Andy, but hating myself.

It was the next day I snapped out of it thanks to a very similar incident. I was at work, with only Andy to keep me company, as Alan was in the back doing Adam's job while Adam was off taking a test to be a cop, or something. I had one of those weird sobering moments when Karen, as she was preparing to leave, outlined what we needed to get done that day, said the words "You're in charge out here tonight." Guh. Obviously, between me and Andy, I'm the one who takes the leadership role, because I've got more experience and a brain that is less souplike (indeed it is the soupiness that enables his success with women, I believe.) He arrived 45 minutes late because he slept in napping.

So here's me, getting things done, staying at the cash mostly because Andy hasn't been given a till (so much the better for new release stocking) when this girl comes in and asks when Paranormal Activity is coming out. I recognize her, she works at the Koodo kiosk, and she uses a form of familiarity that is not uncommon among mall workers. And since Paranormal Activity has already been out for several weeks, I take her over to it, and we strike up a conversation when she asks for recommendations. I haven't got any -- horror isn't exactly my forte, but I do know a few of the titles off the top of my head. so I show her this horror-spoof-pastiche starring (or featuring, or something) Flight of the Conchords (both members and their manager Rhys Darby) and she takes it and I ask her to let me know how it is.

This entire exchange lasted, oh, maybe five or six minutes during which we also exchanged thoughts on zombies and as I was cashing her out, that her boyfriend had something of a man-crush on Leonardo DiCaprio, as one of the cash-crashers was Romeo + Juliet. Now, this, I don't mind. Like I implied earlier, I really don't give a damn about actually succeeding with random girls right now, I just want to be able to access the part of my brain that has anything to say other than "Durr can I help you find anything" (I guess the "durr" isn't helping.) When she left, Andy remarked that I "had a moment" with that one, but I played it off. It was probably just the first time he'd seen me really be... someone.

That's what I miss about working with Cait. Of all the coworkers, she was really the only one I could joke around with, relate to, be myself. I'm not as sharp without her around.

Sunday night I wound up writing a 2000-word paper on The Things They Carried, which I think is probably a decent paper, at least I hope it was because I actually put in what I consider to be substantial effort, especially compared to some of my previous output. Strung together a thesis, topic statements and everything. Then on Monday I found out that the paper wasn't due 'til Wednesday, so, go me for being bad at time management and still it works out. Today, I had another paper due, a response on jazz. I hadn't read the article prior to last night, and was angsting over how I was going to write a convincing paper on a subject about which I knew nothing and felt no connection. Even if it was only 2 pages.

Well I started by reading the article. And I was going along, making some points about what the author was saying about the history of jazz, jazz criticism, the driving narrative and how it was being discerned at the time. And to some degree it touched on the concept of Jazz as art music but was largely staying away from it. Eventually he got to a point where he was discussing the emergence of bebop, and how by considering bebop as part of the jazz narrative, it helped to establish an overarching theme of what jazz meant, defined by an idea rather than a sound. So I read this and I'm thinking to myself "Hm, it seems like bebop is basically what enabled jazz to qualify as art music," and then he said pretty much that exact sentence. And then not only did it become clear, but it struck me that I was actually understanding this article, being able to anticipate, more or less, what the point was.

So that really helps in writing a paper about something, when you, you know, understand it. Shit, I got a solid B on my film history paper last year and I didn't really understand the readings I did for that.

so I was able to write the paper more or less to explicate this point, complete with context and quotes, some hopefully I can redeem myself after my embarrassing effort on the "culture industry" paper.

I feel like I'm finally starting to rehabilitate myself. I'd gotten into some really bad habits, and enabled myself to stay imprisoned in them even as I was aware. And I may not suddenly be getting A's, but I think I'm getting to a point where I can refocus my efforts more along the lines of what I was producing back in first year. I can remember when Cobb said, most people get to University and they notice they're not getting A's anymore and having to work toward adapting. The opposite was true for me. I came in at an advantage, pre-adapted, and got lazy. time to take responsibility. There's already been a marked improvement in my mood.

I'm also attempting to cut back on soft drinks. I'm starting by not drinking them outside the house. It's a lifestyle change I've long sensed I would eventually get around to, but never felt up to. I've been committed to coffee as a way of life for over three years, I don't need the caffeine. For the time being I'll continue to drink it at home, but I'm phasing in new juice-drinking habits there too.

So, I'm actually trying to, in some way, better myself. It's uncharacteristic, but I thought I'd give it a try.

Reading week is looking good.

Keep on rockin
-Scott

B: Do your best

It's been awfully difficult for me to find a moment to sit down and sort out my thoughts this week. Oddly enough, it's not the finding o a minute that has proved difficult, but the sorting of thoughts. My mind feels like jelly, as it often does. Increasingly, as I have made myself aware of how good some people are at writing, I find myself very down on my own abilities. There are a few aspects of writing that I think would really improve the scope of what I can do -- research, and rewriting.

There are some stories, you know, that I just worry that I would never be able to tell, because I lack the ability to originate them. But in the end, I still write what I write. It becomes important for me to simply power through the theory and abstraction and get back into the concrete business of writing what I write.

My mind started feeling like jelly last night after I dared dip into Armond White's reviews. If you've never read Armond White, I don't recommend you start. One must have a certain (enormous) level of mental preparation before tackling his work. I find him fascinating. His tastes are astonishingly specific. Not even narrow, because indeed he is capable of lauding a film like The Hurt Locker, as well as trivial crap like Transformers Revenge of the Fallen, yet he hated Avatar and District 9. Here is a man who is not out to echo the sentiments of his reader. He has a specific viewpoint and he intends to share it.

Of course, I think he's an obnoxious jerkass. While I have always maintained that the main thesis of a review is whether or not the reviewer enjoyed the work in question - more importantly, whether he thinks it would be enjoyed by others - Mr. White has some very particular criteria for what he enjoys. He applies social theories (I believe) to everything. Lowbrow entertainment becomes brilliant for its light touch of these theories, weightier stuff is judged harshly for addressing it ways he doe snot find suitable. He is all analysis and no heart. In my, aherm, humble opinion, anyhow.

When he hates something, he holds a grudge against it. He'll refer to it in unrelated later reviews (many of us do this) or use his hatred of it to promote a similar (or often unrelated) film he liked (we all do this too.) I find his usage of it curious, though: in complimenting A Serious Man (the new Coen Bros. film) he felt the need to situate it as superior to Judd Apatow's films' version of Jewishness. Whether that's an apt comparison (and my hunch tells me it isn't) I'm not sure it was necessary. He embraces that ditch of "Everyone lvoes it but I hate it so I'll rip it to shreds" I described weeks back. If you're curious about his work, look him up at Rotten Tomatoes and play a drinking game: pick a favourite recent movies. Guess whether Armond liked it. Take a drink if you're wrong. Here's a cheat sheet.

I don't even begrudge his opinions because they're so astonishingly-argued. I just disapprove of his approach to film viewing in general. He's not really a film critic, he's a social critic who works in pictures. And at this point in my university career, I've just about had it with that attitude.

It reminded me of a moment in my American Fiction class, which I had been enjoying and still enjoy, when my Prof was talking about the Human Stain, and how Zuckerman, the fictional "writer" of the book (standing in for Philip Roth) appropriated a female character's voice, Faunia, for certain passages. She theorized that it may be a heteronormative expression of Zuckerman's lust for the male character of Coleman Silk, whom Faunia seduces/is seduced by/fucks. And I just didn't buy it, because it didn't seem like it was part of the narrative, at least not an important part. Must it be that, in all literature, when two male characters get along well, they secretly, subconsciously, want to fuck each other? And what about Lester Farley, whose voice Zuckerman also appropriates for some very stirring passages, and who ultimately (spoiler alert) kills Coleman. Does this mean that Zuckerman also wanted to kill Coleman, whom he wanted to fuck? Doubly, since he ALSO appropriates the voice of Delphine Roux, who secretly has the hots for it, denying it to herself, but admitting it through the deeds Zuckerman has her commit. Indeed, this is likely merely a case of a narrator playing God, trying to be all-seeing and yet admitting that he is not.

But this isn't abuot academia: I expect that stuff in school. This is about the newspaper reviews. Like, look, I may not always agree with Robert Christgau, but I respect his opininos because I get where he's coming from with them: I think his User's Gudie to the Consumer Guide is one of the best, succinct lessons on criticism not only of music but in general -- and it's not really about criticism. The best two working critics I've read (and I can't really say that's a ton but I know what makes them good) are Christgau and Roger Ebert, because of everyone I've read, they're the ones that understand the balance between the high-minded "What does it mean to be good?" and the middle-to-low-minded "Will I want it or not?" a conundrum that faces everyone who has ever had an opinion to share. Smart critics care about the people reading their work, but don't pander to them.

What I'm saying, I guess, is that Armond White's writing is pretty useless to the (average) person reading his work, who just wants to know what to see at the cineplex. Yet it is rather valuable as a second opinion. You read Ebert or Roeper or any conventional critic, and they like a movie, and then you read Armond, and find out why it might suck. Since Armond's perspective, however, is distantly removed from this hypothetical average viewer, his opinion isn't really all that useful. It's a sad fact. He's a (borderline narcissistic, if I had to make an amateurish diagnosis) intellectual spinning his wheels for nobody's benefit but his own.

So anyway, that was part of it. I'm all over the place lately, with work and school and all. Barely a moment to catch my breath.

Tuesday was a red-letter day (in a good-way. That's a positive expression, right?) After composing what I consider to be (knock on wood) a rather good paper on Victoria Station (well, it could actually be crap but I have faith in it for now) in a hurry (this could be my downfall) I counted the minutes through a class on a rather good Pinter play called The Homecoming. Although it may be redundant, on a scale of critical acclaim, to specify a Pinter play as "rather good," I mean to say, I enjoyed it. Beckett's Endgame was good, but I wouldn't admit it so freely, because it was not personally to my taste. Pinter was more in line with that, and even its conventionally ambiguously unreal closing scene works for me because somehow it seems germane (love that word) to the structure of the play. He's earned the right to break the entire concept of the family unit down. This isn't a reflection on Beckett, just praise for Pinter. He does the legwork. Gives you characters.

A lot of what I read comes to me through the lens of what I write, have written, or would like to be writing sooner or later. Not a healthy habit.

Anyway. I was counting the minutes because I had planned to go over to Vasa's to watch Lost as soon as class let out at 8:20. Once I got there, there was a bit of a scramble for where we would watch it but ultimately we found a place in good time.

Oh Lost. I have had so many thoughts about that episode since Tuersday; not just about the episode itself, but about Lost as a phenomenon, as a cultural moment, as an experience never to be repeated. Think about it, if you're a Lost fan (and if not, feel free to disregard.) At the end of this final season, the experience and nature of being a Lost fan will have completely changed. It's not going to be some show that was good and ended, it's going to e a show that is no longer around to ponder over and speculate. It'll be an impenetrable brick. All those precious answers you've been salivating over, will either be answered soon, or never. And if it's never, then they just won't matter. But look at it this way. Once Lost is in the rear-view mirror, whatever the conclusion is, will be a foregone conclusion to all repeat viewings; this is already a tangible shift in watching the first four seasons. No longer an abstract concept, the end of Lost will be, well, the end of Lost.

Imagine going into Empire Strikes Back not knowing Vader was Luke's father. It will never be that way again.

Anyway, it was quite an experience, hampered somewhat by the fact that there was a girl hanging around the room (and sitting, chilling, watching) who had never seen the show. So, obviously, at points, we had to acknowledge this fact, and admit that yeah, it's a little crazy even if you know the backstory. But it really harshed the general vibe when she would ask, "Wait, is that guy dead, or what?" We don't know. We don't really know anything.

So anyway. That was the high point of the week. B. got home from England on Thursday, he was asleep by the time I got in, and remained so until about 10, at which point he got up and we talked for a few hours about London and all those other things that had gone on this week.

Friday, Martina dragged me out to see Avatar. I went in wary that some had considered it a life-changing experience (it was Marti's third time seeing it) and that some (such as my colleague Blake M. Petit) loathed it. The most common criticism, of course, underlining the similariries ripoff from Pocahontas or Dances With Wolves, or whatever other mighty white man/noble savage parable you like. I like The Road to El Dorado, myself, but it is not nearly as close.

So what did I think? as a visual experience, one of a kind, a real treat for the big screen. Will inevitably have decreased impact on home viewings (I've never watched any of the Lord of the Rings movies at home partly because of this, and lack of time/attention.) Not so much for the funny-looking animals as for the imaginative environments, set-pieces, action scenes, and just the general world it creates. A terrific piece of invention. Too bad there isn't a better story in it.

Yeah, it's not all that inspired a script. Plot is by the numbers, characters lack depth, dialogue usually corny, structure uncreative. Star Wars, at least the first one, falls into many of the same traps, but by not attaching the story to any important social commentary, it didn't falter. Avatar's social commentary is too clumsy to be taken seriously. Yes, environmentalism is awesome and we should take care of the planet and not kill blue people. It was disheartening to see that only a hundred and fifty years in the future, human beings are 150 times as big of assholes as they are now. Give us some credit, we ARE trying.

They could've complicated the issue, made it so there was something the Navi DID want for (apart from a charming white dude in a blue man suit to show them how to make war awesome) or made the evil General even slightly more complex so that we could see something of ourselves (our worst sides) in him, rather than monstrous inhuman humans.

I could go on. I could catalog a lot of reasons why this is not a very well-written movie. Conceptually though, it's untouchable. A great use of technology that can and should never be repeated (okay, there'll be a sequel -- let's see if they pull an Empire or a Matrix Reloaded.) The script infractions are proportionately less important than the technical feats, so if you like your movies flashy, this is your game. Armond White, understandably, hated it. Everything it wanted to do well, it did; there's just a lot that falls outside that category.

It's the second-best film from 2009 about a man turning into an alien.

I often find that the ideology of a science fiction film, at least a good sci-fi, is less important than the flat-out content. What is War of the Worlds about? War. No judgments there. There was no concrete metaphor in Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Director Don Siegel was famously evasive about what the Body Snatchers might stand for, likening more to a vague sense of dread than, say, the communists.) I like District 9 because the depth of its message is "You shouldn't treat people like that, apartheid is wrong." It's not a very complex message. It uses apartheid as a setpiece for an action adventure story. You can tell it's not very lifelike because it sets a story about humans being assholes re: apartheid in the one frigging country on Earth with a tangible legacy of it, that should've learned firsthand. But hey, this is an alternate history, and after all, they're dealing with weird-looking aliens here.

But yeah. I loved District 9. Avatar was the second-best movie of 2009 about a guy turning into an alien. Like a Hemingway story, it doesn't preach at you, it merely presents a scenario with good attention to detail, and you can draw the conclusion yourself. Armond hated that one too.

Anyway. That's what the theme of this week has been. I owe CX some stuff, including an article about the Oscars, which is why I was looking at Armond's stuff. I thought it'd funny to get opinions from this wacko who hated 7 of the 10 Best Picture nominees. I didn't count on it being brilliant. No, I mean, it's not necessarily brilliant, but it's more than coherent, and there's nothing funny about that.

Gotta write, write, write this weekend. Got em a paper due in Am Fic. Not going to do so well on it, but I'll give it the try.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

A: Break it good

Trying to stave off one of those lonely, self-important nights where I bemoan the fact that there's nobody to talk to.

The weekend dashed by in a haze of work. One thing I've learned is that the customer is often not right, and that's why my job exists. Oftentimes, maybe once a week or so, someone will find their circumstances utterly unacceptable and choose to take it out on the poor lackeys who make, well, not enough to put up with this shit. We're people too. A guy was utterly convinced we were screwing him because his DVD didn't work and we can't offer a cash refund, only an exchange. Blew his lid. Did we make the merchandise? "You don't care about your customers, you don't stand by your product." Sure we care about our customers, we want them to get the DVD they wanted. We stand by our products, we're confident it's not so shitty that this happens all the time, and give you a new one free of charge when it does. We can't just hand you back your cash because you no longer want the DVD you bought, just because one copy out of thousands pressed was defective. You've got to meet us halfway.

I mean hey, I had to return Lost season 3 because of a defect, and still it only works on my fancy DVD player, not my in-TV one. No explanation for that. But I didn't take it out on HMV, and not just because I hoped to work there again.

Deep breath, kid. The weird thing is, when the guy came in (I had spoken to him on the phone, and the three of us working that night spoke with him at the counter) I felt a sense of closure (he got his replacement) but Alan was a bit more... I dunno, shaken up about it.

It's weird, the things that stick with you.

When I was a kid, my dad had this expression: don't look at me in that tone of voice. He would use it when we'd look pleadingly at him, pouting. It was his subtle way of telling us to man up; he wasn't a hard guy by any stretch of the imagination, but he came from a long line of British stiff upper lip, and that lineage was kind of broken at our generation. I would root that in my mom, who is not the coolest customer out there.

Always been hesitant to put my dad into words. He's complicated. Pragmatic, usually capable of seeing multiple sides of an issue. Many situations, I can't tell how he's going to react. Some situations, I know exactly how he's going to react. The one time I got suspended at school, the part that upset me the most was knowing his reaction. What I actually did to get suspended was, if not cool in and of itself, at least one of those things you can look back at and say you learned something about yourself.

I thought it was a stupid turn of phrase, "don't look at me in that tone of voice." I'd hear it and go, "You can't look at someone with your voice." It's only now -- and literally, I mean like, today -- that I thought back on it and realized the rather subtle work of poetry that phrase was, and I'm pretty sure he came up with it himself. To my knowledge that is his most creative contribution to the world of language. I like it now.

I have no idea how people like my parents end up raising kids like me and my brothers. Eric and I were talking it out early in the year, when he was still around. We came to the conclusion that, whatever else we may think of our dad, he isn't a boring guy. Sometimes he is, but he helps cultivate an environment of unboringness. He's not wacky or anything, he's very normal. Growing up, and especially after he and my mom split, the weirdest moments were the ones where he actually parented. I'm not saying he was necessarily a buddy type either, he was just a guy who would be around, and if something went wrong, or if we went over the line, he'd take care of it somehow. He represented the threat of being parented.

At the end of my shift today, the four of us (Me, Taylor, Adam, Alan) were discussing how one could conceivably steal something from the store, and how stupid you'd have to be to try that. I shoplifted once from the convenience store. I also ran a scheme to get more candy on Halloween. As far as I can recall, those two candy-related transgressions, and my one suspension, were the only times I ever got fire and brimstone from him. My current behaviour is largely motivated by a desire to never again feel the way I did on those occasions. And I'm at the age where it seems unlikely that my dad will ever come in through the door bellowing "SCOTT. (MIDDLENAME.) WILLIAMS." That was the feeling of guilt. THAT has stuck with me. Somehow, and I have no idea how I did it, and I'm not sure if he knows either, he managed to create himself as a figure I would, at all costs, be afraid to disappoint. And that, my lads and ladies, is parenting.

I've managed a meager amount of writing output. Puffed up my script considerably. I don't love the additions, they feel somewhat disconnected. The whole thing may need another pass, but I'm proceeding, just to see how it ties together for Cary.

Someday I'll get my act together. I should go to bed, relatively early morning tomorrow.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto