Hate-Watching the Walking Dead

Although they're not "spoilers" as such, plot points of recent episodes will be discussed. Be advised.

As established by thinky types on the Internet (and accepted by yours truly) we're living in a golden age of television. I am, of course, spending these burnished years watching a bunch of irritable characters I don't like, engaged in actions that make little sense, during an hour that leaves me bored nearly every week. Yes, The Walking Dead has become the only TV show I regularly watch, and I have no idea why. I didn't even want to start watching it. I had read the first two dozen issues of the comic, which started strong before devolving into a travel diary with the occasional disemboweling. Also: the kind of retrograde sexual politics that really make you appreciate how progressive Dawn of the Dead was - in 1978.

So I should have known better, but then I also bought a ticket to Sex and the City 2. Sometimes I don't make healthy lifestyle choices. The pilot was pretty tight, but The Walking Dead soon became The Talky Living, as debates over whether to go on living in a dead world, and whether to value survival over morals, were endlessly rehashed. Characters were tweaked from scene to scene, seemingly just so these arguments could have legs. And outside of lead Sheriff Rick, his wife Lori, and best frenemy Shane, the characters are tragically, yet hilariously underdeveloped. Whenever the action drags, just try and figure out what T-Dog, the sole surviving black member of the group, does whenever he's not on screen. That's about 98% of each episode. Is he basketweaving his way through the zombie apocalypse? God, I hope so. But in spite of all these problems, I keep on watching. Shamefully, it's probably for the gore. In a world of Downton Abbeys and The Good Wifes, there must be room for a decent zombie chomp. And The Walking Dead can still engage by making it an unexpected corpse, from turning Sophia into a child zombie, to gutting Dale last week. Until it runs out of people to kill off, or the budget gets cut to the point where all deaths happen offscreen, I'll still be watching, waiting like a thirteen-year-old boy for the good bits to go splat.

Mr. Nice Goon

Another year, another English Canadian film is anointed by some mysterious marketing power. The francophones can be counted on to support their movies, but we anglos need prodding. We need the kind of prolonged campaign that covers every surface in Toronto with marketing, the kind of offensive usually only mustered by the CBC for its comedies (ie, the reason why when I sleep, I dream of Mr. D, which may be why I also wake up screaming.) This year's candidate seems to be Goon, judging from bus stop ad saturation. Sadly, it's not an adaptation of the cult horror comic. Instead, it's about Doug, played by Sean William Scott, a loveable hulk with fists of steel and a brain of cotton candy. Doug finds his calling on the ice as an enforcer, getting on the rink only to mash somebody's face into pudding. I might have found the movie funnier in another year. But after a season dominated by player safety and concussions, a season which also started with a string of dead enforcers, it's hard to chuckle. I may have even found it funnier on another day, but the theatre was almost empty that weeknight. But even playing a decade ago to a full house, Goon would have some issues. Scott's endearing, and Liev Schreiber as Doug's more philosophical rival goon is great, but they're both in a movie that's mostly predictable. An example: Doug's disapproving father is trying to save face at shul, using his other, doctor son. But that's before this other son bounds away to meet up with his partner. I immediately calculated the likelihood that the partner was either another man (90%), or a ridiculously trashy shiksa (10%). And lo, the partner arrived, and verily, he was fabulous. Sadly, Slap Shot still does it better, and it's almost 40 years old.

Domestic Friday: Marmelade Cake and Wellington's Special Pale Ale

Ah, marmelade cake. It's so good it survives even my accidental screw-ups. Like the slight charring of the edges. Or my dislike of fiddling with parchment paper, so the top and bottom both become a little too brown. Whatever, it all looks fine if you take the time to pose it just so in the afternoon light. Don't worry, I'm usually drinking my tea out of the same mug I've used for the past two days, and the only plate is the shirt that catches my crumbs. But I figured I would make the effort for you guys.

The recipe is Lucy Waverman's, printed years ago in the Globe and Mail. I've reproduced it below, just in case the Globe ever takes it down. Take her advice though, and put the effort into cutting out the parchment paper. You won't have to fluff your cake as much I did.


Ingredients:
Cake:

• 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 cup room temperature butter
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup Seville orange marmalade
• 1 teaspoon grated orange rind
• 2 eggs

Glaze:

• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 1/4 cup orange juice

1. Preheat oven to 350 F. Place parchment paper on base of an 8-inch round cake pan. Butter sides of pan (I would grease the underside of the parchment paper first too.)
2. Sift flour, baking powder and salt into a large bowl.
3. Add butter, sugar, marmalade, rind and eggs. Beat with an electric mixer until well mixed. Spoon batter into prepared cake pan (it's pretty thick).
4. Bake for 45 to 50 minutes in middle of oven or until a toothpick comes out clean. *Place a layer of parchment paper over top of the cake during the final 15 minutes of baking to keep if from becoming too brown.*
5. Bring sugar and orange juice to boil. Remove from heat. Prick holes in cake (or stab it with a fork!!) and brush with glaze. Cool for 30 minutes, then remove cake from pan and let it cool some more.
It tastes wonderful with tea, but give this cake its due and skip the bags for loose tea leaves.

You could also drink some beer. This blog will not judge you. This week's beer is a shout-out to my hometown of Guelph. Wellington Brewery is Ontario's, and apparently, Canada's oldest indie. Founded in 1985, it is still going strong in the G-spot, as well as wherever its distinctive rubber boot taps can be found. The Special Pale Ale is, surprisingly, mild on the hops. It's good for drinking in quantity, but if you're expecting a West Coast-style IPA, you'll probably want more bitterness. But then nothing will ever make you happy, will it?

Paths to Resilience

Back when my work days were rated X, I used to try and start every one of them in a state of pitched over-excitement. It was fake, of course. But I figured that if I went in at 9am as if I was high on life and/or cocaine, I could leave at 5pm feeling only mildly disgusted with the human condition. Lately, though, it seems like I've lost that ability. I wake up feeling cursed. Not cursed like I'll turn into a werewolf when the moon is full, or cursed like a streetcar is going to run over my leg before noon. But I am becoming increasingly worried that nothing will work out right that day (or ever.) So I have moved on to stage two of dealing with this. And that, by the way, is repeating Albert Camus' quote that "In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." Unfortunately, the best I could muster today was muttering "Invincible summer! Invincible summer! INVINCIBLE SUMMER!!" as the wind strafed my face with ice pellets. At least there's always stage three: baking a marmelade cake.

Domestic Monday: Striped Socks and a Spring Bock

Well, looks like you guys will get a two-fer (but not a two-four) of these domestic posts this week. The lateness of this one comes from the bad case of knitting blahs I've been battling for the past few weeks. I thought it was just post-holiday malaise, but I think I've discovered the true root: TOO MANY DAMN SOCKS.

I discovered my half-finished Broadripples after one completed sock and its matching ball of yarn spent no less than FIVE YEARS buried under my stash. I thought I would be able to finish these in days. They're knit at a relatively large gauge for socks, the pattern is more exciting than plain stockinette, and my shame would drive me forward. But not so much. Two weeks later, they're finally finished. I did start the second sock from the wrong end of the ball, so the colours don't match up. Oh well. After five years, asking for perfection would be asking for a little much. But finishing this long-abandoned pair has made me realize that I'm bored with socks. I've knit too many of them, and not enough sweaters. And that is why I came back from Guelph with a suitcase full of yarn.

I haven't had any trouble finding good beer though, and this week I'm here to tell you about Amsterdam's Spring Bock. Bocks are malty, lightly hopped lagers that are usually dark in colour and high in alcohol. Amsterdam releases this one every spring, and you can cellar your bottle for another year, or just drink it right now. It goes down smoothly and ends by tasting a little like burnt marshmallow, so watch out - or else that 7% ABV will get you.

Whit Stillman's Back!: Damsels in Distress

Glad tidings from the trailer front, for once - it appears Whit Stillman has made another movie. If you haven't seen a Stillman film yet, describing them would probably not encourage you to do so. He mostly shoots wealthy folks who have the emotional maturity of pre-teens, but the vocabularies of tenured English professors. And yet - Stillman doesn't let his fondness for these hapless youths stop him from recording their antics with all the dedication of an anthropologist. You can check out Metropolitan or The Last Days of Disco. Disco is particularly recommended, for the stellar duds the costumer designer found for Kate Beckinsale.

The trailer for Damsels in Distress isn't that promising, but Stillman's meandering tone would always be a difficult fit for a two-minute format. I'm willing to wait until April 6th to give my final judgment. I'll be there in theatres, with my tap shoes on.

How to Be a Sophisticate: Or, Lessons Learned from City Living

On the right, a sophistcated female. On the left, me. Note the difference.

I have been a busy student since moving to Toronto. And this time I'm not talking about my stats class, I'm talking about style. I wanted to know what separated me from the other girls here. Were we not both human? Do we not both bleed red? Well, we probably do, but I'm sure the other girls look much better doing so. My problem is that I'm not sophisticated, just endearing. But that hasn't stopped me from learning why I'm not, so I could share my observations with you. Who knows - you may have to go Toronto someday, and you'll want to blend in with the ruling cultural class. My first lesson in sophistication was a swift one. And it is that a small head is a necessary condition. Small heads can bear more hair and make every neck look long. The problem is that my head is large. Massive. Unnatural, even. So, as other girls gracefully stride down Queen West, I waddle forward, a honeydew melon atop a pea coat.

Being forever banned from stylishness hasn't stopped me from learning other lessons, however. Even those with gigantic heads can benefit from the second lesson I've learned, which is that sophistication comes in only one colour, and that colour is black. Entire sections of Queen and King look like funeral processions when work lets out, as fleets of young professionals in black Canada Goose jackets, black duffel coats, black leggings and black boots stream out of work. I come here not to bury the look, but to identify it. It makes sense though. Black is slimming, clashes with nothing, and lets you go stealth at night.

The final lesson in sophistication, if you already have a big head and nothing black but a pair of polyester pants, is that you can always blow your hair out. Shiny hair that hovers in that liminal state between straight and wavy can make anyone look "right." Of course, sophisticated doesn't mean chic. I have seen some looks on the street that have made me stare out of the streetcar window and take notice, like the man with the mile-high top fade and puffy purple coat, and few of them have involved black.  But that sense of style is a rare thing, and sophisticated is a close-enough simulacrum, if you can afford a hair dryer.

Domestic Failday: Crappy Cooking and Trafalgar's Irish Ale

Instead of my default domestic activity, I was going to do something different. I was going to photograph my cooking. Then I would talk about how I lost my cooking mojo, but now I wanted to experience the joys of cooking for myself again, etc. etc. Cooking brings us together. Cooking will save the world. Unfortunately, it's hard to get all poetic about food when you've just produced a big pile of blah. Or, rather, a puddle of blah, as my attempt at making the Mushroom Curry from the original Moosewood Cookbook resulted in a big pot of spicy-flavoured water. Every so often, though, a mushroom floats by at its leisure.

Frankly, I blame those hippies at Moosewood. I'm not in Victoria anymore, so I can go back blaming hippies for everything. (Though to be fair to our hemp-wearing, kombucha-raising brethren, it was my fault for adding too much water.)

At least there's beer to dull the pain! I pulled this out of the fridge, telling my roommate that "this will make things allllll better." He seemed confused. "So, you're going to add more liquid to something that's already too liquidy?" "No," I replied, "I'm going to add more liquid to me." And indeed I did. Now, I know that's not the perfect glass to be serving a brown ale like this in, but post-dinner disaster, I didn't much care. Oh, the mushrooms I had sliced and the onions I had diced. After all that, my Irish Ale from Oakville's Trafalgar Ales and Meads (who also brewed this Smoked Oatmeal Stout) was going into the nearest glass. Let's all be glad it wasn't a sippy cup. It's a nice beer, not aggressive at all, and with a flavour that's more sweet than bitter. It also seems to sometimes appear under the name Celtic Pure Irish Ale, but I prefer the simpler name. It reminds me less of Michael Flatley.

Book Pile for February 16

1. Sure to be Depressing Novel: Darkness At Noon, Arthur Koestler
2. Mitford Fest Vol. 2: Love in a Cold Climate, Nancy Mitford
3. Mitford Fest Vol. 1: The Pursuit of Love, Nancy Mitford
4. Pretty Much Close Captioned This American Life Reading: Take the Cannoli, Sarah Vowell
5. The “Dipping My Toe into SciFi” Novel: The Chrysalids, John Wyndham
6. For My Ill-Advised Homesteading Dreams: Homegrown & Handmade, Deborah Niemann

Solving Racism, One Six Pack At a Time

A few weeks ago, I read a little item on The Onion's AV Club about 2 Broke Girls. After being accused of racism due to the half-dimensionality of the girls' Korean boss, 2 Broke Girls would add a "hot Asian guy" to make everything better. Since then, the idea of solving all problems of racism, power and privilege with a liberal application of Preparation S(exy) has made me think. What if other famous examples of racism could be hot-washed this way?

For example, in Gone with the Wind, hire Zoe Saldana to shoot some extra scenes, where she gets in a sexy catfight with Scarlett O'Hara. Petticoats will be torn!!! George Lucas can bring the same technology he used to add scenes to the Star Wars trilogy for those special editions, except this time he'll be using it for marginally less pointless reasons.

In Breakfast at Tiffany's, all scenes featuring Mickey Rooney's yellowface could be re-edited, with the video replaced by an intern shaking a picture of Takeshi Kaneshiro, freshly torn from a Japanese fashion magazine, at the camera.

Disney's Song of the South: Digitally insert a shirtless Shemar Moore into every scene.

Maybe now Disney will let this one out of the vault!

In 300, you could find some sexy Persian and... really, 300 has reached ab saturation, and any attempt to add more attractive men would not only leave the movie as anti-Iranian as ever, but also cause some kind of rift in the space-time continuum, creating a wormhole which smells strongly of body oil.