I Need a Step Stool...Again!

 Does anybody else require a stepstool to climb onto their bed, or is that just me?

The older I've gotten, the higher the bed. What is up with that?

Kids' beds are close to the ground, presumably to cushion any fall or wayward sleepwalking incident that might occur in the wee hours. Other than my brother's childhood bunk beds, I never remember having to jump out of bed and land on two feet with the grace of a gymnastic dismount. But our current bed is so far off the ground, I worry that one roll in the wrong direction could cause catastrophic hip dysplasia. 

Beds have gotten bigger, heavier, and most definitely, higher off the ground.

When we first discussed our current condo refresh, our bedroom was at the centre of our plans. We wanted to make the space more comfortable and definitely homier. At the core of our discussions was the bed. We knew that we needed a new mattress. Ours had a divot in it so deep that we'd meet in the middle of the bed every morning at four. Before we even started to design a new bedroom space, we went mattress shopping. This kind of purchase is awkward at the best of times but in the middle of a global pandemic, it is downright bizarre. We made our way over to Sleep Country because I refused to purchase a mattress on the internet. If that renders me ancient, I will take the hit. I simply could not imagine not trying it out before buying. So there we were, masked at Sleep Country, given our own personal pandemic-friendly pillows, test-driving every mattress in the store. (If your mind is wandering into lurid places right now, just stop. We simulated sleep and nothing else. My God, you people are incredibly base.) 

Mattress chosen, we made arrangements for delivery long before we knew what would be happening with the bedroom redo. And the truth is, we are very happy with it. It is incredibly comfortable and most importantly, it is devoid of divots. But, in our old bed frame, sitting atop of our old and still very serviceable boxspring, it is at least a couple of centimetres higher off the ground. For the normal-sized amongst you, that probably doesn't sound like a huge deal, but for someone who needs every single centimetre to survive comfortably in the world, this raising of the bed is massive. Since we have been confined to the two bedrooms over the last couple of weeks while the painter and contractor have been doing their thing in the main living quarters, I have become acutely aware of how fricking high off the ground our bed is and have taken to using a stepstool to climb aboard. (We don't have other sitting places in our bedroom.) The height always seems worse on the days when my workouts consist of running the stairs in our building. Yes, I am that idiot in the stairwell who is running up and down the fire stairs several times a week to maintain my sanity level. Everybody needs new routines and hobbies right now, right? Well, when my legs are jello-ed from the stairs, climbing onto a bed on stilts is like trying to climb Everest with lo-mein legs. 

A new bed frame is on order but it probably won't be here until the end of January. The problem with refreshing your space during a pandemic is that a lot of other people had the same idea. Much of our new furniture and fixtures won't be coming until the new year. It's not really an issue. It isn't like we are entertaining or anything. But the bed? The bed matters. The bed is the oasis. I'd rather not have to scale it like Spiderman in order to get into it. 

A few photo updates. 

New Wall Colour

No more wasps in the loo

My Bar Mitzvah Renovation

 I started this blog almost thirteen years ago to the day. 

In 2007, while we were still residing in the North Jewish Ghetto, we decided to embark upon a major home renovation that would upend our lives for about two months. While the kitchen was being torn out, walls removed, and floors replaced, I decided to use Facebook as a way to keep my mom, who was snowbirding in Florida, updated on the progress. I would post a few pictures every day and I would add some glib story about how the mess was affecting our lives. Within days of those first posts, I began receiving comments from friends and family. People forget how much fun Facebook comments were back then. It was goofy and connective, a wee bit of fun to pass the time,  not at all like the dumpster fire it can be today. Even so, I decided to move the daily renovation posts off of Facebook and onto this space on Blogger. It offered me far more flexibility than Facebook could back then. I never foresaw using this space to brain dump other musings but that is exactly what occurred.  Over time, and long after those renovations were completed, this blog became an online journal for me. I never really cared all that much if people read it because it was a way for me to express myself, even if people didn't agree. My space, my opinions, and everybody else be damned. 

My postings here have fluctuated over these last thirteen years. I have used the space as a travel journal for a myriad of trips, a sharing area for vegetarian cooking successes and disasters, a political venting arena,  and I've even had a go at trying my hand at amateur movie critic once or twice. I have enjoyed the writing challenge and I have rarely regretted anything that I've posted. I have gone on posting binges and have also gone months into a posting desert. And...I'm good with all of it.

So, on this the Bar Mitzvah of my blog, I find it incredibly amusing that I am once again posting about a home renovation. The symmetry is painfully obvious and needn't be discussed and if I had planned it to be this way, it wouldn't have happened. 

Yes, we are doing a minor refresh of our newish space...four years after moving in...in the middle of a global pandemic. There is a lot to unpack about that sentence but suffice it to say that when we planned to finally do some upgrades to our downtown condo, we didn't anticipate the entire world shutting down because of a plague. We aren't knocking down walls or shifting living space but we are doing a full painting of the place, some upgrades to the bedroom, and a complete gutting of the powder room which I have always loathed and described as a "French provincial apiary". (The previous owners had stencilled some kind of wasps on the wall. It gave me swarming nightmares every single time I walked into it.) 

But a minor refresh is also very displacing, even at the best of times. This is especially so when you simply don't have any space to which to be displaced and you have to maintain a safe distance from all workers. (Yes, everybody is masked all the time!) We discussed the possibility of decamping to a downtown hotel but, you know...global pandemic. Our comfort level isn't quite at the "let's stay in a room where hundreds have stayed before and possibly coughed on the pillows" degree of calm. We may yet get to that place if our living and working together in a small spare bedroom surrounded by all of our dislocated artwork and the granddaughter's toys become too much of a strain on a thirty-five-year-old marriage devoid of all filters. The original plan from the contractor was for them to work on one area of the condo at a time and allow us to rotate around the space. But that idea seems to have flown out the window along with the last remnants of autumn as they clearly want to get in, finish, and get out of here as quickly as possible. 

Global pandemic!

Oh...did I mention that they have shut off the heat and hot water in our building today because they are installing a new boiler system? 

Global pandemic in a condominium.

And so, we are hunkered down together in a room with no windows, no working television, masked whenever we need the kitchen, handwashing at an accelerated rate, smelling like a gymnasium after a group of adolescent boys because we can't shower, and desperately hoping that we don't kill each other in our sleep before we have had a chance to revel in the extermination of the wasps. Like everybody else celebrating a Bar Mitzvah this year, we are doing it in a new and decidedly different way. 

Keep you all posted. In the meantime, here are some Bar Mitzvah photos.

Enlarge that last photo and check out the stinging insects.

I Watched Borat 2 So You Don't Have to.

I watched the new Borat movie with The Husband last night in order to divert my attention from the ulcer-inducing debate. I have a few thoughts. 

A few caveats are necessary. 

1. I hated the first Borat movie. I couldn't get through even half of it. I am not a lover of gross-out comedy and I revile "bodily fluid comedy" even more. The scene in Something About Mary that involved semen was positively repellent to me.

2. While Borat has never been on the top of my movie favourites, I do recognize the social satirizing genius that is Sacha Baron Cohen. From Ali G, to Borat, to Bruno, to his underrated HBO series Who is America? I am in continual amazement at the number of real-life idiot-savants who gladly offer themselves up to him as tributes for his burning dung pile of moronic self-owning schtick. I also think that Mr. Cohen is a fine dramatic actor who has done yeoman's work in Les Misérables, Sweeney Todd, Hugo, The Spy, and most recently, as Yippie founder Abbie Hoffman in The Trial of the Chicago 7. My distaste for Borat has very little to do with Sacha Baron Cohen.

3. The Husband and both sons loved the first Borat. I think it is a Y-chromosome thing that seems to increase the enjoyment the more fluent you are in Hebrew. 

With all of that clearly understood, I sat with The Husband as he dove in headfirst. The movie itself is everything that I expected it to be. It is crude, massively politically-incorrect, and at times, flat out physically disgusting. The plot, (I use this term loosely) is based on the premise that our favourite Kazakhstanian reporter must redeem himself from the shitshow and embarrassment he caused during his last foray into the United States. He wants to get as close to the hierarchy of power as he can so that he might offer up his fifteen-year-old daughter as a vestal virgin-type gift to whatever scumbag Republican politician or Trump-adjacent skank will take the bait. His redneck odyssey takes him to some of America's most hollow and soulless places and he meets up with a variety of lead paint eating, mouthbreathers who if they were cast in a Hollywood movie, every producer would turn them down because they are so ridiculous and unbelievable. I still cannot believe that these assholes exist but, exist they do and they are more than willing to prostrate themselves with unspeakable embarrassment to Cohen/Borat. And therein lies, why this film, as ugly as it is, matters so very much ten days out from the most important world election of our time. It is crucial that we know what kind of lunacy and hypocrisy are taking place in areas outside of our own personal bubbles and it is even more crucial that we expose it. Nowhere in the film is that more important than the lurid and horribly ugly scene involving the President's free lawyer, Rudy Giuliani. 

If you have seen the still photographs that are wandering around the intertubes of Rudy lying on his back on a hotel bed with his left hand down his pants seemingly fondling his junk, you will have already formed an opinion of what might have occurred. When I tell you that it is so much worse in the film and it is only by the grace of Sacha Baron Cohen interrupting the escapade, that Rudy is saved from his lurid self. If Mr. Cohen has done anything during this film, it is to expose Rudy for the fucktard that he is and to put an end to any credibility of "October Surprise" he might peddle. I have absolutely no doubt that if Cohen had let the scene play out, we might have had to bear witness to the dick pic to end all dick pics.

There is a lot about the virus and the botched CoVid response and given that Cohen filmed this during the summer across the US, he was able to really make the film feel timely. The one thing that I did notice is that he had to get far more elaborate with his costumes. He is definitely far more recognizable than ever before and he had to really lay on the make-up, wigs, fat suits, and facial hair in order to conceal his identity. Too many people are on to him and his gags. 

The film is short, only an hour and a half, and is clumsy in its editing because it was so obviously rushed to Amazon Prime before the election. I would urge you to watch it because there is a genius method to the madness and it is incredibly timely. But if you are looking for fine art, this is surely not the film. That said, The Husband roared with laughter and he absolutely loved it. There goes that Y-chromosome thing again.

Save a Cowboy, Riding a Horse at TIFF

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3)+1.  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

We have been very happy to participate in TIFF this year. Knowing that the pandemic has laid waste to the entertainment industry and that audience participation in any way, shape, or form is a huge challenge, we were excited to do something that would lend our support to the creative arts. The fact that TIFF was offering a digital menu for the first time and that we could view many of the offerings from the safe comfort of our living room, was a blessing. Yes, there is no question that we are missing the collective experience of viewing a brand-spanking-new film with like-minded people. We are bereft of the excitement that goes with in-person questions and answers from the directors and actors and worst of all, we are really saddened by the lack of buzz and excitement that exists up and down King Street during the festival. TIFF is a huge money-maker for the city and it is our neighbourhood's summer festival. There is a melancholy this year that just cannot be understood unless you have experienced it. 

It is why I cannot understand why the powers that be at TIFF have made the digital theatre so onerous. You would think that this year, of all years, they would want to introduce their product to new festival-goers. Grab them now and get them again next year. Rather, they have messed people around so much that it lends credence to the argument that the festival has become far too elitist. They have limited digital tickets and actually sell-out many films which totally baffles me. You would think that they would want to try and recoup some of the financial losses that they certainly are suffering through. Also, unlike in-person viewings, the digital theatre offerings only have a 24-hour window. If you miss it, you are out of luck. There isn't a possibility, at least as of yet, to view desired films outside of those designated windows. Again, with only fifty films that are being screened, it seems like killing off the financial genie. And, once again, the technology of screening these films is confusing and less than optimum. There are a whole lot of hoops to jump through to get the film off the computer link and onto a TV-sized screen. It really isn't easy but I live with a techie, thanks to the Divine Spirit.

In that vein, we decided to add one more movie to our TIFF lineup and purchased digital tickets for last evening's showing of Concrete Cowboy. To be perfectly honest, this film had me at Idris Elba. Aside from his extraordinary talent, he makes the backs of my knees sweat. I'm having a bit of the vapours right now as I'm recalling him in his tight cowboy jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt. Oh, my. The movie takes the typical "absent father trying to mentor a hostile teenage son" genre and puts it in front of the backdrop of a rarely seen subculture of Philadelphia; that of the urban black cowboys who keep and care for horses right in the middle of the city. Who knew? Certainly not me. The first viewing of Elba's Harp's apartment, with a white stallion occupying the living room, was simply jarring. Horses. In the poorest neighbourhoods of Philly. With urban stables. As the story advances, we learn that this lifestyle has existed in the community for over a hundred years and that the generational pull of the people who find peace there has historical and cultural significance. 15-year-old Caleb McLaughlin, all lanky arms and legs since his Netflix's Stranger Things days, plays troubled teen, Cole who is dumped on his father's doorstep after yet another mishap at school. Through a series of predictable tough-love incidents, Cole bonds with an angry horse at the Fletcher Street stables and learns difficult lessons from the streets of his new home. It is all very predictable but it has Idris Elba on a horse, so...yeah. Bringing in some of the real Fletcher Street cowboys into the cast was a smart move by director Ricky Staub. The depth of their feelings to their vanishing heritage is obvious on the screen.

I love hearing stories of people and places that have been existing outside of my bubble. Concrete Cowboy acts as the vessel for just such a unique story. I kind of wish that the father/son dynamic was less formulaic and that the lessons learned less obvious. 

Dawn and The Husband give Concrete Cowboy two middling YUPS. The YUPS are for the unique backdrop and for Idris Elba. The actual story is missing something.

TIFF-ing One Night In Miami

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered how films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

I am always in awe of the variety of voices I hear when attending TIFF. Sometimes, they come from audience members as they dissect a just-seen film. At times, I hear the words of the critics, whose job it is to lacerate art without a moment's hesitation. (I often wonder if we have been sitting inside the same theatre.) But it is the voices of the filmmakers themselves that intrigue me the most; the projects they choose, the stories they seem compelled to tell. And even though this year, I am unable to share in the communal experience of watching these fascinating new narratives unfold, I am still in awe of the bright and extraordinarily talented directors who have pushed through the confines of the pandemic to get their creations out into the public square. TIFF usually isn't the place where the next superhero flick is screened. It is a forum for the stories that fly under the radar of blockbuster-obsessed Hollywood movers and shakers. It is the space where the audience gets to see and comes to understand the blood, sweat, and tears that have gone into bringing art to life. 

I think that this struggle was exactly what we saw last night during our screening of One Night in Miami.... (Yes, the ellipses are part of the title. They inform the viewer that the struggle is ongoing.) This film is actor/director Regina King's feature debut, based on the stage play by Kemp Powers, who also wrote the screenplay for the movie. It is a fictionalized account of a meeting in 1964 of real-life friends Muhammad Ali, Malcolm X, Sam Cooke, and Jim Brown. King and Kemp bring together these strong, principled, and activist black men into one room during one of the most fraught periods of civil-rights history and have them discuss their responsibilities, not only to their respective areas of expertise but to their community as a whole. One Night in Miami... imagines a night in February 1964, when these four friends gather in a motel room to celebrate the stunning knockout of Sonny Liston by a raw but brash 22-year-old Cassius Clay. While most of the group is hoping to party, the banter, led by the sober Malcolm, eventually digs deep into the fraught questions surrounding all of them in their respective professions. That two of the group would be dead within a year by the violence that still swirls throughout the black community, is an overtone that is not lost at all. 

The film was shot before the murder of George Floyd this summer and feels uncomfortably timely given the incidents and protests that have followed. King refuses to allow comfort to her audience. She wants them to feel off-balance and claustrophobic so as not to be able to escape the very hard discussions. Unfortunately, there is something missing from the film. Maybe it is the feeling of expanse that a movie should have. The four men are confined to one room for most of it and King tries to have them wander the premises at times, but there is a stasis to their surroundings that chokes off some of the best dialogue. I can absolutely imagine this piece on a stage whereby the actors' powerful performances take over the spotlight. Every single one of these men is stellar in their respective roles. I was particularly enamoured with Hamilton alum Leslie Odoms Jr. as Sam Cooke. The man could sing the phonebook and I'd be with him.

We liked One Night in Miami... but left the home theatre wanting more from it. Regina King has more talent in her fingernail that most people could possibly hope for in three lifetimes and she asks the hard questions facing black celebrities today. I just wanted a few more answers.

Dawn and The Husband are both MEH on this film but understand that it is worth seeing.

See You Down the Road at TIFF

Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered the way in which films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

There is a bleakness and profound sadness that can be seen in Fern's face in the opening moments of Nomadland. It is the visage of somebody who has seen pain and loss and understands them both to her core. But there is something else as well. There is a fulsome determination to move forward by a woman who has been left completely alone by circumstance and needs to find a way to survive. Her fierce need for independence is tempered by the community of nomads she meets on the road (most of them played in the film by actual members of the American nomadic fraternity) and the series of temp jobs she must take in order to keep her head above water. 

Frances McDormand's Fern is a woman who all at once grieves her previous life but also comes to embrace the road ahead. Her face, seemingly elastic as only the features of a person who is weathered by time and conditions can be, is like a roadmap into her deepest emotions. She smiles at her new friends, is touched by their acceptance of her, and shows real impatience when a fellow traveller takes a shine to her. She is on the lowest side of this sliding economic scale of nomads but it doesn't make her less than in the eyes of the community. In a question and answer section given after the premiere, McDormand is emphatic in her discussion of the real-life nomads.

"Each individual who goes on the road has to be self-reliant,” she said, “but they do gather for Rubber Tyre Rendezvous because they need community for knowledge. I guess you would call it a socialist situation, where it’s all for one and one for all. The choice of van they use for their mobile lives has a lot to do with the economic disparities in our country, but Chloe (director Zhao) is not trying to make a political statement. Instead, we are leading you to a community which is making very difficult decisions for themselves and she is telling their story.”

Nomadland is a visually stunning film with a score that perfectly captures the vistas from the road. It is a film that is almost poetic in how it captures this story of an average woman doing something that most of us would think to be extraordinary and yet, isn't. Chloe Zhao has created a masterpiece and Frances McDormand is absolutely one of the finest actors of her generation. 

We didn't go out of our way to choose films helmed by women directors this year at TIFF but rather, TIFF is going out of its way to feature more women behind the camera. It is to all of our benefits in hearing stories told with a different lens and a different arc. I chose Nomadland as one of our films this year because Frances McDormand is one of The Husband's favourite actors. It doesn't hurt that she is Coen Brothers-adjacent, but mostly it is that she is truly brilliant in her versatility and never hedges in her painful acting choices. To tell more about this magnificent film would be to spoil it for all of you who must see it when it is widely distributed in December.

Nomadland is at the highest level of two YUPS. We simply loved this movie.

Going Tiff-ing at Home This Year

 Editor's Note: For the fourth consecutive year, Dawn and The Husband will be spending a few nights attending the Toronto International Film Festival, known to the locals as TIFF. While they can now proudly call themselves seasoned veterans at this madness, CoVid-19 has altered the way in which films will be screened this year. TIFF has also dramatically scaled back their roster and as such, they have selected a very modest number of films, (3).  Because they are old and congregating in a movie theatre is anathema in this pandemic time, all films will be screened from the comfort of their living room complete with popcorn, a few homemade treats, and lights appropriately dimmed. The only phone call that will be answered during the viewing of these world premieres is from Molly because grandchildren rule. TIFF still serves as a tremendous distraction from the world's ills, the impending High Holidays, and an asshole would-be dictator whose names rhyme with Dump. The next several posts will focus exclusively on TIFF and will offer very quick bullet point reviews for the world premiere movies seen. 

I really missed summer in Toronto this year. What is usually a time filled with neighbourhood festivals, street food fiestas, live music performances, and abundant theatre choices, my city was devoid of all character with only a handful of patios open and most people taking solace with picnics in the parks or friend's backyards. The buzz that accompanies the downtown core was absent this year and there was a palpable sadness as we walked along the main streets in our area and counted the legion of For Lease signs. There were heatwaves but little sizzle as my city seemed paralyzed by the ongoing effects of this miserable pandemic. So, when TIFF announced that they would find a way to operate a scaled-back version of the festival, we knew that we would find a way to participate, even if it meant refraining from in-person theatre screenings. Honestly, the idea of sitting in a Cineplex, even with appropriate distancing and masking, gives me the dry heaves. TIFF is showing some films in traditional settings but they are also offering drive-in options and in-home digital broadcasts, perfect for the cautiously lazy movie lover. The Husband was a bit concerned with the techy side of this idea. TIFF has never been known for excellence in its web purchasing or online fare. What if the hardware and software weren't compatible with our limited home theatre? After checking out the necessary requirements, we decided to take a chance with the purchases and scheduled ourselves accordingly. 

Our first film this year comes from a talented young director born and raised here in Toronto, Emma Seligman. Shiva Baby began life as an 8-minute short that was Ms. Seligman's thesis from NYU's renowned film school. The 2020 expanded version focuses on twenty-something Danielle, a confused and seemingly rudderless student, who comes face to face with every bad decision she has ever made during a short shiva visit she makes with her family. It is a caustically funny film and often cringe-worthy in that way that makes your teeth ache but you can't stop watching. Seligman expertly moves between the family relationships that shape and torment us and the series of anxiety-ridden chaos that Danielle has manufactured for herself. Seligman calls her film a comedy of discomfort. Polly Draper (thirtysomething) is excellent as Danielle's self-involved and aggravating Jewish mother. She might be in the awards mix this season if the movie gets a wide enough distribution. Rachel Sennott is a young actress to watch.

The Husband wondered if non-Jews would understand the claustrophobia and exhaustion that a shiva visit can often impose. I didn't feel that the cultural overtones were disqualifying for those who are not members of the Tribe because I think that any family gathering could adequately stand-in for the shiva. I mean, we never even meet the mourners in the film, rather it is all about the visiting family who can't seem to get out of each other's way. 

This TIFF experience is definitely different and not as planned, but that didn't take away from our enjoyment of a very good and self-assured debut from a vibrant young director. We are glad that we decided to support one of our favourite festivals in the city once again, even if we had to find a new way to do it.

Shiva Baby gets two enthusiastic YUPS from both Dawn and The Husband.