i don't know.

When a conversation starts with "I don't usually tell people this, but I did wet the bed as an adult once." it's gonna be a good time.

a fall day.

From the park down the street. The one with the skate park in it.

polaroids of birds.

My friend Bee is frightened of birds.

Coopers' Camera

Think of your favorite Christmas movie. Think hard. Now, does it resemble even the hope of your actual childhood Christmases?

I’m gonna guess not so much.

My favorite Christmas time movie was Bad Santa, which tells you something about my abnormal view of an ideal yule time. Record setting uses of the word Fuck and anal sex in a holiday film is surely the making of a classic. Partially because of Billy Bob’s rudeness, but mostly because of sheer comedic brilliance of Warren P. Sonoda, Coopers’ Camera has usurped all other Christmas movies in my mind.

Truth is Santa and exhausted flying reindeer don’t exist. Jesus’ himself may not have existed, but family sure does. And families are always, by varied degrees, dysfunctional.

So begins the premise of Coopers’ Camera, from the self same folks that brought you Ham & Cheese. If you don’t know that movie, it is not entirely your fault, but please do rent it and I will agree not to go into a rant extolling the virtues of Canadian Cinema yet again.

If you were alive during the 1980’s, the feel of Coopers’ Camera will bring back some horrible memories for you, in handheld VHS quality. It did for me. The bad wallpaper, the overstuffed chesterfields, every male sporting some version of the mullet and/or a perm, those truly tragic acrylic sweaters that I received every Christmas for years and years… watching this immediately made my skin remember the oily feel of those sweaters with ski scenes or geometrically unrealistic giant snowflakes playing out across my chest, just below my acne ridden face.

I also remember having to fake being happy with every gift resulting in over compensating with glowing thanks for home made jeans and matching family fleece jackets with each of our names sewn in. It was a painful childhood, but clearly it could have been worse.

The film starts with a video camera being the main family gift, opened by a very pregnant and disappointed mom played by one of my favorite moms, Samantha Bee. Turns out all the gifts are horrible disappointments because Dad, (Gord Cooper played by Jason Jones) seems incapable of getting anything right, including an erection.

This is the comedy of discomfort. You have no doubt that you are watching a home video of the worst Christmas ever. Turns out that the camera, along with barely used tapes, was acquired in lieu of a loan owed by a local pervert played by Dave Foley and his penis. The audience is treated to the occasional ‘accidental’ clips from Foley’s taped sexcapades. 11 am on a Sunday morning is far too early to have a penis jump out at you, even for a very brief second, on the big screen, and I now understand why flashing is illegal. His ass got more screen time… but equally disturbing. I am happy to report that I am still a heterosexual having been tested by Foley’s enormous ass. Huzzah for average male nudity. I feel wonderfully buff in comparison.

This film is far too real at times. What is comedic to us as the viewer would actually be tragic at the time. This falls within my theory on family: Any given week in any given family goes from tragic to dull to briefly funny, but concentrated in a sitcom format, or, as in this case, to 92 minutes, creates comedy. I was laughing to hard to care if the Cooper family would survive the day, or indeed, what happened to the chain smoking grandma that disappeared to bed at noon. Personally, I suspect she passed away shortly before a tragically drunk Jason Jones starts sliding turkey and stuffing under her locked bedroom door. This was one lose end left over that I haven’t considered until just now.

I have to be very cautious in what I write here. It would be horribly irresponsible of me to give away too much in a review, such as this being the first time I have ever seen a grown man sitting on a toilet trying to poop on the big screen. (See what I mean?)

You know what it is about. You know that I like it very much. I am assured that it will see the big screen in November in some of those other big cities in Canada.

I watched the movie at the Vancouver International Film Festival and as with film festivals everywhere, the director is often in attendance. Warren P. Sonoda was indeed sitting at the back and answered some questions after the film.

I never really know what to ask. I really want to say something intelligent. I have any number of questions to ask, ranging from the technical boring things about cameras and aspect ratios and formats, (which only really serve to show off my knowledge and annoy everyone else who has a genuine question) to that eternal and pointless question to any artist “Where did you get your ideas from?”

So Mr. Sonoda, if should wander upon this blog, let it be known that I had no honest unselfish questions for you, but did want to thank you personally for making me remember and laughing until I had the tears on a Sunday morning. I have no schmoozing skills, and I worry that I’ll only end up begging you to hire me, which would be embarrassing for both of us.

fromage cottage.

the last few weeks in polaroids.

Pictures are faster than words.

Polaroids are the fastest.

My crew.

My spotter.

The best part of my old job.

Waited for planes a lot.

Party time!

Too much party time.

One comment too many.

Pensive pose on a ferry.

Punk love boat.

Not taken in 1978.

The business.

God of profit!

A fast, red machine for doing things.

Stuck up ducks.

Maximize cuteness for survival reasons.

Angry duck.

My new facebook profile picture.

paris hilton's new bff.

The best part of flying these days is the free teevee. I love teevee and I have no patience for the holier than thou attitude of those who claim to live without it. You may not own one, but you are influenced by it.

To me, it is another medium, a medium that demands funds and more people involved in creating it, and thus is more prone to shit art than say, a painting. So a viewer has to be more careful.

And so, here I am, writing from 40 000 feet while I watch something stunning on my personal television: Paris Hilton’s new BFF.

Wow.

This is unquestionably a waste of technology and media, however it is rather fun to watch absolute stupidity. I have only see it once before and the concept is a little alarming. A woman, whose only contribution to society is being very wealthy, decides to seek out a new friend. Paris has nothing to offer us other than someone to mock. Her joke on us is that she just doesn’t care.

The new friend has to be chosen from a bunch of college age girls and one gay boy. The gay boy wasn’t able to complete the challenge of dancing for shirtless frat boys on a stripper pole. Instead, he cried in the least masculine way possible, and by that I mean chewing on his scarf. (Yeah, I know, a scarf in the heat of a Las Vegas summer. And he's not even Québecois). None of the girls had an issue with stripping to their bikinis and seemed most concerned with letting the camera know that they are not actual strippers, but are bikini dancers. At that point, does it matter? Ladies, you are whoring your bodies at the word of a spoiled brat that you worship while cameras role. You have no dignity. Strippers actually have oodles more integrity than that.

All these small minded people are seriously competing for a vacuous friendship. At least, that is what it seems. I want to believe that some of these girls, maybe even the obviously stereotypical gay boy, are actually mocking the whole affair. Paris wants to find a for real friend as she has been burnt before, supposedly, so has decided that reality teevee is the venue to find someone ‘real’.

Oh, something happened. The gay boy didn’t get eliminated because he agreed to get his precious hair wet and swim out to Paris. If he is acting, he is marvelous. If he is for real, I am so sorry to the gay community for having to put up with yet another cliché prominently displayed in the media for every homophobe to mock and laugh at.

Watching this, I feel very guilty for giving this show any audience at all. I’m not sure why anyone would compete for anyone’s friendship. And it's on the much music station, whose audience is supposed to be 12 to 25. Good life lesson.

I also feel quite happy that if this shit has made it past many producers and various levels of editing and so forth, anything I make can be of at least slightly more important than Paris Hilton’s quest for the perfect friend.