Everyone, even the most morose person, enjoys laughing. And while I certainly like a good sophisticated comedy, I am also a sucker for dumb and/or gross comedy. As indicated previously, my favourite movie of the last few years was "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle", and other recent Neanderthal pleasures include the first two "American Pie" movies (but not the dreadful "American Wedding"), "Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back" and, of course, "The Lizzie McGuire Movie" (just kidding about that last one). Give me topless nubile young women, bodily fluids both human and non-human, and huge amounts of alcohol and/or controlled substances, and I'm good for 90 minutes plus of fun, fun, fun.

Today, while buying produce at Dominion, I came across a bin full of videos being blown off for under $4 each. I tend to but DVDs these days, but at that price you have to at least look. I ended up with three movies. The first, for $1.99, was the Steve Martin-Lily Tomlin masterpiece "All of Me". This is an amazing movie that I saw when first released in 1984, and several viewings in the years since, although not recently. A while back I heard a rumour that it was being remade, and if true then that's just wrong. The movies that should be remade are those that had some great elements (starting with an excellent script) but ultimately failed, whether through bad casting or the wrong director. "All of Me", while no "Citizen Kane", is a flawless comedy, sophisticated one moment, pure slapstick the next, with two masters at the top of their game joined by a fine supporting cast, most notably Richard Libertini. It's also rated PG, allowing me to share with my children something wonderful from the guy they know only as the father in "Cheaper by the Dozen". How the mighty do fall.

The second movie was "Ben-Hur", for $3.99, and I couldn't resist. This used to be a staple of my Easter season viewing, although it has again been a few years. I don't know how the girls will hold up under its length, but they'll certainly get a chance.

But the movie I watched this afternoon was the third film, "National Lampoon's Van Wilder". This has been a movie on my to-see list for a few years, although opportunity never presented itself. It definitely wasn't going to make the cut for family movie night. Last Sunday, while channel surfing before settling down for the evening, I landed on Sex TV, and instead of the usual soft core movies with only slightly attractive people or pseudo-documentaries about porn stars or new developments in bedroom toys, I watched the first 15 minutes of "Van Wilder" and was sold. When I saw it in the bin today for $3.99, it was coming home. My girls were out at a Christmas party, so I got to spend the afternoon splitting a gut, at eclairs filled with dog semen, at a sexual encounter ruined by excessive use of massage oil, at a girlfriend's colon-emptying revenge on a cheating beau. In other words, topless nubile young women, bodily fluids both human and non-human, and huge amounts of alcohol and/or controlled substances. Plus, Kal "Kumar" Penn, Chris "Shermanator" Owen and Curtis "Booger" Armstrong. No wonder I enjoyed this movie so much.

In honour of Van Wilder himself, I offer a few poignant quotes, courtesy, as always, of www.imdb.com, the greatest movie site in the world: "Are you stalking me? Because that would be super." "Worrying is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere." "I know Ms. Pac-Man is special. She's fun. She's cute. She swallows." "Her name's Naomi. That's 'I moan' backwards." "Hey look. I read the damn article all right. But don't tell anyone because if word gets out that I read my reputation shot to hell." "We'll be accepting donations in the form of cash, visa, and full frontal nudity." Yet again proving that quotes taken out of context aren't all that funny. But I'm laughing my ass off as I read them, and highly recommend this film to anyone in need of a good not-so-clean chuckle.

Although I generally loathe most Christmas specials, there are some that I enjoy. Three that come to mind are the first of the two British cartoons featuring Robbie the Reindeer (as opposed to the celeb-filled American version), the original animated Grinch and "Arthur's Perfect Christmas". But my all-time favourite is "A Charlie Brown Christmas", which yesterday marked the 40th anniversary of its original airing. I haven't watched it for a few years - odd, considering my children are now 7 and 10. I think it has simply been washed away by the noise from the wall-to-wall specials that dominate television now. Where and when I grew up, we had three channels only: CBC, CTV and CBC French. Once you started attending school, children's programming was a rare and wondrous thing, and every opportunity had to be grabbed before it escaped. Now, my children not only have access to every major network, along with specialty channels like Family, YTV and Teletoon, but we also have channels from other regions. If you miss your show on Family at 4:00 p.m., that's okay, because it's on Family West at 7:00. Plus, with so much air time to fill, these shows are frequently repeated on the same channel, as well as appearing on multiple channels. When I was a boy, if you missed "A Charlie Brown Christmas" on CBC on Tuesday, December 11, 1973 at 7:30 p.m., then you weren't going to have another chance to see it until sometime in December 1974. Now that's must see TV!

As with most worthwhile things, there was great resistence to the program, for its use of jazz, for quoting from the Bible, for the absence of a laugh track. But the show stands as a triumph in its simple message of fellowship, love and integrity over dishonest and self-serving consumerism. It is a Christmas special that people of any faith or lack thereof can enjoy for its simple pleasures.

If only I had stopped there.

Out of curiosity, which to my mind is the best use for the web, I started checking out links for the show, ending up on The Official Peanuts Website, www.snoopy.com/. I really wish I hadn't. On June 21, 2005, United Media, the company in charge of marketing the Peanuts brand, issued a press release listing their retail "partners" in promoting the 40th anniversary airing. These include such companies as Urban Outfitters, Hallmark, Blockbuster, Wal-Mart and such major publishers as Random House. So, let me get this straight. A show that celebrates the spirit of Christmas over materialism is being shilled as just another product by corporations such as Wal-Mart, which if my understanding is correct does everything it can to prevent its employees from earning a wage over the course of a normal-length work week that would enable them to buy those very products at any store other than Wal-Mart. Charlie Brown's sad little tree looks weaker every day.

Then, almost adding insult to injury, is a blurb exhorting retailers "Don't miss out on the 40th Anniversary of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" in 2006". Not when there are t-shirts and greeting cards to be sold.

Look, I'm no innocent. I know the world is for sale, and I'm on the frequent-buyer plan. I long ago knew that TV shows, including "A Charlie Brown Christmas", have been getting shorter and shorter in order to cram in more ads. That is one of the many reasons why people such as myself who can afford to pay a bit more stopped watching most network television and moved to cable. Even my beloved "24", which purports to cram an hour of real time into each 60-minute episode, probably never ran an episode that was longer than 50 minutes, and I have heard recently that the actual screen time could be as low as 45 minutes. If that's the case, maybe they should change the name to "18", since we're losing as much as six hours of Jack's day each season. On the other hand, maybe that's when he eats and goes to the bathroom.

But "A Charlie Brown Christmas" should not be for sale. It is one of the last pure things in a world that seems to get cheaper and dirtier by the day. The Peanuts brand is apparently worth $1.3 billion in retail sales each year. That's a lot of cash, and I can't see how moving a few fewer water globes or fast-food kid's meals will significantly damage the company's bottom line. But this relentless shilling is damaging the image of the product itself, at least with this viewer, and I can't imagine there aren't others who don't feel the same way.

I'm not a religious man, but I do believe I am a spiritual man, and I have a hard time negotiating my way through the notion that there isn't a god or some higher being behind all this. Some evening over the next two weeks, I will sit down with my family and watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas". I will forget about United Media and their partners, and I will try not to tell my children about the bits that have been cut to make way for more ads. I will let them enjoy the show's message, as summed up in these words from Linus, and I will hold them very close:

"And there were in the same country shepherds, abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them! And they were sore afraid ... And the angel said unto them, "Fear not! For, behold, I bring you tidings o great joy, which shall be to all my people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ, the Lord."

"And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger." And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the Heavenly Host praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the Highest, and on Earth peace, and good will toward men."

"That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

Amen.

One day many years ago, while sitting in a bar on Valentine's Day with one of my friends instead of being with my girlfriend (which tells you everything you need to know about why that particular relationship didn't last more than a few months longer), talk got around to the classic "Seinfeld" episode with Keith Hernandez and the second spitter on the grassy knoll. I mentioned that Ken Dryden had written that it seemed every American above a certain age could tell you where they were they learned John Kennedy had been shot, and that the Canadian equivalent was when Paul Henderson scored the winning goal against Russia in the 1972 Summit Series. My friend, Dutch by birth and a relatively recent arrival to Canada, didn't appreciate the comparison. But from a nearby table I could see a hand raising slowly, as a man roughly my age sought my attention to confirm that statement, offering his own Henderson story, which was punctuated by his girlfriend spitting out, "You promised you wouldn't talk about hockey!"

I wonder how many more Valentine's they celebrated together.

Perhaps I would have had more luck with my Dutch friend if I had asked if he remembered where he was when he heard John Lennon had been killed, because as time passes it seems more and more that this was a benchmark moment for many people in the same way as Kennedy's shooting and Henderson's goal. I certainly remember where I was 25 years ago tomorrow, when news reached my ears of events in New York the evening before: in bed, where so many of my best tales begin and end.

The Beatles were my first band, one to which I was introduced by my youngish uncles on lazy Sunday afternoons at my grandmother's house. We didn't own a record player until roughly 1974, so my early aural experiences were limited to the radio, which my father controlled, and my uncles' record collection, of which I remember nothing but The Beatles. They had the two double compilation records, running from I believe 1962 to 1966 and 1967 to 1970. My favorite song was "Ticket to Ride" and my least "Let It Be", which made me think of church and Jesus and just left me feeling creepy all over. I worshipped the Fab Four.

Then, one day, one of my uncles said we could no longer play the records because The Beatles had split up. I didn't know that this was part of the deal, and was mightily upset. I now suspect they had already long been split up when this conversation took place, and either my uncle was only now becoming aware of it or else only now was starting to feel betrayed by it. More likely, he had already moved on to Lynyrd Skynyrd or the Allman Brothers, and just didn't want to tell his young nephew that he didn't like The Beatles anymore. Since I accepted his answer without question, it was certainly the correct course.

By the time we did get a record player, my first album purchase was an Elvis Presley collection, and I never did buy any music by The Beatles until their number one hits collection came out on CD two or three years back. But I never stopped singing the songs. Ask my daughters, who for years have been blessed on a semi-regular basis to the wake up call of "A Day in the Life":

Woke up, got out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head.

In December 1980, my favourite song was John Lennon's "(Just Like) Starting Over", one of the more upbeat but not cloying songs I had ever heard. This was a man who had found the peace he deserved, and it was great to have him back on the radio. I had almost forgotten about Lennon, swayed as I was by Paul McCartney's prolific although, sadly, mostly mediocre output. But Lennon was back, and the future was bright.

Mark David Chapman, of course, had other ideas.

On Tuesday, December 9, 1980, I was lying in bed two days after my return from a triumph with my teammates in the first round of the high school television quiz show "Reach for the Top". I was not, however, in very good shape. On the previous Friday, I had left the hotel we were staying in to visit one of my uncles. While we waited for his wife to return from work, he introduced me to the wonders of smoking hashish, and I vaguely recall singing the praises of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" album to this fan of guitar-heavy blues rock. The next morning, I was still very stoned during our first match, yet it was my best performance of the weekend as I led our team in scoring. That evening, after a second victory advanced us to the finals of our flight, we celebrated at a Greek-Mexican restaurant, where our teacher supervisors ordered sangria by the pitcher, which our team - two 17 year olds, 16 year old me, and a pair of 15 year olds - drank with relish. I can't imagine what they were thinking or how many laws the teachers and restaurant collectively broke, but we weren't complaining. So, on Sunday, I was hungover, and with little experience at that point with either drugs or alcohol (and, frankly, little experience with drugs after), I was still at less than maximum capacity on Tuesday morning. So when I reached over to flip on my radio to catch the sports, I briefly thought that what I was hearing about John Lennon was in fact the product of my fuzzy mind. Sadly, it was not.

That evening, the television was full of coverage of John Lennon's career, and I watched as much as I could. It still didn't seem real, and when I was reminded today about McCartney's first public statement that Lennon's death was a drag (for which he was pilloried endlessly by people who didn't think for a moment that there can be no acceptable response to the loss of a person who was, in some ways, a soulmate), I can say that I felt the same way. I wasn't hurt, I wasn't sad. I was bummed out, because this great artist whose musical life had given me so much pleasure was no more. I miss the last 25 years of Lennon music (although not Ono's contributions to same), but I remain grateful for the almost 20 before that. That's what we should remember today, and be thankful. I know I'm going to spend this afternoon listening to The Beatles, and be thrilled that I was given the opportunity to do so.

Rest in peace, John.

On the subject of Christmas music, led me add The Rovers' "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" to the list of approved tunes, although even that will be unbearable by the 25th. As well, although the clips I've heard tell me the tunes are dreadful, the cover of Diana Krall's Christmas album, first viewed today, joins Mariah in the holiday hall of fame. One of my co-workers told me to check it out, and I found it on the web while she waited by my desk. When she said isn't the picture horrible, I told her that it actually put me in a very giving mood.

I think I was set up.

Here's the picture: http://www.dianakrall.com/

By the way, I happen to own two Diana Krall albums and enjoy them as a change of pace. And her husband is my all-time favorite musician. But Elvis could do a Christmas album and I wouldn't go near it. I have his country and classical CDs, plus the one he did with an opera singer, so you can tell I am a serious fan, but I draw the line at a new wave "Jingle Bells".

I don't give to beggars. It's just one of those things I won't do, like voting NDP or eating raw fish. Okay, I have done both of those once, but to paraphrase Voltaire, if I do it once I'm a philosopher, if I do it twice I'm a pervert. I may indeed be a pervert, but I have more enjoyable perversions than the NDP and sushi.

It isn't easy ignoring beggars, because I do feel for them. I am sure that some of them are quite legitimate, people who have been kicked in the teeth by life and reduced to their present state in the struggle to survive. But how do you separate these from the con artists and careerists? I remember when the famous "shaky lady" was outed by Mike Strobel of the Sun. Some people were offended at his invasion of her privacy. I'm sorry, but when you make a public spectacle of yourself for money, you abandon the right to privacy, as athletes, entertainers and politicians are well aware. I was thankful that I could ignore another panhandler in good conscience.

We don't have much in the way of begging in my neighbourhood, although it comes and goes. We're a little off the mainstream of the city for that. But I work in downtown Toronto, where beggars proliferate. Surprisingly, we only seem to have two working my line of travel between the subway and my office and back. On the street in the morning is a man, probably in his 40s like myself, in a bright yellow waterproof jacket. The first time I saw him, I thought he was a worker who stopped for a smoke break, until his hand darted out. I don't think I've ever heard him ask for money, but the request is certainly understood by all. He must be doing okay, because he has been around for most of the last month or two. He disappeared for a bit, and when he returned I was actually relieved to see that he was okay. I've been staying on the indoor route this week since it's gotten colder, but I think I'll go outside tomorrow morning to check if he's still there.

After work, in the tunnel between my office and the subway is a woman, 50 or so, whose never-changing pitch is "Can you spare some change?" It's said very firmly, with no hint of shame or anxiety. I expect she is a veteran at this, and I don't even look at her. But the man's silence seems to suggest embarrassment at his lot, or maybe he's just a better actor than she is. I can't say I don't appreciate her approach. If you're going to beg, it's far too late to be feeling shame. It's about survival now, and I respect that. But I won't support it.

I'm not hard-hearted. We give to charities, so I at least know that any money I donate is blown is on administration rather than alcohol or drugs. But until someone develops a way to distinguish the legitimately needy from the professionals, the dimes are staying in my pocket.

I own an mp3 player, but it isn't an iPod. It's a Dell, a Jukebox I believe, 30 GB, and it's a fine piece of machinery. When I bought it, I did so in consideration of all the factors that a reasonable and practical then-40-year-old would consider. I already owned a Dell computer and knew it would be a well-made player. It synced up perfectly with Musicmatch, a staple at the time of my home audio experience. It was easily the best-priced 30 GB model I could find (although one week after ordering this was no longer so - oh, well). And I could purchase it online, without the inconvenience of dealing with arrogant audio- or technophiles who would try to make me feel ignorant about technology at the same they tried to fleece me into spending more money. It was a perfect synthesis of practicality all wrapped up in one very impractical purchase.

Sure, I considered the iPod itself. In design, it is easily the most aesthetically pleasing mp3 player out there. The sleek white case, nifty little earbuds (which just look cool even if, as I have been told, they are the weakest part of the product) - plus the hallowed Apple name. As a member of the PC world by necessity, I have always been curious about the Apple computers and their supposedly superior performance and user-friendliness, and if I ever have some mad money to invest in technology, Steve Jobs is getting it. But I held back when confronted with the iPod. First, it is so obvious what it is that the player is a clear target for thieves, whereas my Dell is less ostentatious. And its very ubiquity lessens significantly the cool factor, given the proliferation of borderline senior citizens riding the TTC oblivious to their surroundings while listening to Michael Buble or Josh Groban. By going outside the mainstream for my player, I was being a rebel.

But a funny thing has happened in recent months. Despite a glitch-free seven months of use, despite doubling as personal player and in-office sound system, despite accepting without protest the addition of tracks by such non-entities as Hilary Duff and Jesse McCartney for my daughters' listening pleasure - despite, in essence, serving me above and beyond the call of duty for an electronic device - I no longer love my Dell.

I want an iPod.

This isn't one of those midlife crisis things. I'm not like those men who abandon a beautiful wife for a sometimes-less-beautiful-but-always-much-younger mistress just because she's a fresh new face. I remember a conversation I once had, some 20 years ago, with my stepbrother Ken. He was on his second wife by then, and we were discussing women and marriage and sex - you know, guy stuff. Ken had a rather rollicking romantic past, but he was telling me that this was all behind him. Looking at his home, his children, his wife, he was pleased with his life. Sure, he met women all the time who he was attracted to. But he didn't see the point of infidelity, because his marriage would break up and he would lose everything he had only to discover in a few years time that what he wanted was a wife, children and home. So why chase other women? It was poignant and powerful, and it made a real impression on me. Until, of course, a few years later when Ken left his wife for another woman, with whom he now has a home and children. Ken's then-wife was quite attractive, although she was also possibly the most boring woman I have ever met. His new wife (well, nine years new) is, from the accounts of others, possibly the dumbest woman they have ever met. Nice to see Ken still pursuing extremes.

Anyhow, with the iPod it isn't the beautiful new face angle that attracts me. It's the accessories. There are so many cool toys to connect your iPod to, to cover it with (socks, for God's sake!), to share it with others. The latest one to catch my eye is the Bose SoundDock, the hype for which is presently blanketing St. George subway station. I don't own a very good home stereo, my rationale being that it would be a wasteful purchase as long as I live in an apartment. I have long said, and in fact stated this to my wife this past weekend, that my first serious investment once we get our own house is a kick-ass stereo. So my attraction to something that could convert my very personal player into a nice intermediate step while I await future audio glory is natural. However, I do not own an iPod. I own a Dell. Go to www.dell.ca, and check out their toys. It does not inspire one to fits of rapture.

Maybe it is in fact a midlife crisis. Regardless, I'm trying to hold out. I only have a one-year warranty on the Dell, which almost certainly guarantees that it will die before next summer. I am a patient and frugal man, and I will not hasten it's demise. But I will not mourn it either. We all want to go mainstream once in awhile, because rebellion is very exhausting. And while my Dell has served me well, it is not, as I frequently remind my daughter, an iPod.

I was finally able to catch the last episode from season two of "Entourage" on The Movie Network last night, and I was not disappointed. This series is far from perfect, but it never fails to entertain. Three of the main characters are arrested adolescents, and the one adult in the entourage is something of a whiner. On the fringes is the always-annoying Debi Mazar as a publicist. But the reason to watch is Jeremy Piven as uber-agent Ari Gold. Before "Entourage", everyone had seen Piven at work, but very few had a clue who he was. I personally have seen, according to www.imdb.com, 16 films in which Piven appeared, including two ("Serendipity" and "Chasing Liberty") in which he was easily the best thing in an admittedly sorry film. (As for why I saw those films, the reasons are, respectively, John Cusack and my children. And, yes, I have forgiven Cusack for this rubbish. My children are not so fortunate.) If he got any press before this, it was for "Cupid", a failed TV series. But with "Entourage", Piven has made his mark. I can't really do justice to Ari by trying to describe him. Thanks to IMDB, I can share a few great (clean) Ari quotes:

"You fire a guy you create a rival. You fire a woman you create a housewife."

* * *

Ari: From now on ask my permission before you bang one of my assistants.
Eric: How'd you know that?
Ari: 'Cause I know all. And I could have told you that this would end badly. Now I gotta to fire her so you don't feel weird.
Eric: No. Don't fire her.
Ari: All right. Well, I'll just sexually harass her until she quits.

* * *

While listening to his daughter sing:
Ari: [to his wife] Is it me or is her voice getting worse?
Ari's Wife: Ari!
Ari: It doesn't mean that I don't love her but she's just awful baby!

* * *

Lloyd: Ari, swear to me that you will never again say anything offensive to me about my race or my sexual orientation.
Ari: I can't swear to that, but I promise I will always apologize after.

* * * * *

And, finally, my favorite Ari moment. Hyperaroused after his Viagra kicks in, with a tentpole to prove it, his wife deserts their bed after he takes a business call, leading to:

"Come on! I'm like R. Kelly at recess here!"

There are lots of other great quotes from the show on IMDB, although the language is not for the sensitive. The show is almost enough on its own to justify subscribing to The Movie Network, and it even has some Cancon to keep the CRTC happy in Emmanuelle Chriqui.

I've been working on a long appraisal of the Harry Potter films that simply isn't ready for the light of day. Plus, I have my wife in the room with me as I write this, and when she isn't talking to me and distracting me from my thoughts, I can sense her disapproval. She has concluded that the reason I won't let her read this blog is because I am writing bad things about her. Conflicting with this is that I have told her she can read it, but she isn't allowed to get upset about anything I write. She declined my offer, choosing to disapprove on principal rather than over anything concrete that I might write. Yes, she is 100% female, thankfully.

* * * * *

I rewatched part of "The Return of the King" this afternoon while pressing my shirts, and even now, after more than a dozen viewings, there are still moments that thrill me. The shot of the armies of Rohan as they bear down on the Orcs outside of Minas Tirith. The peoples of Gondor and Rohan bowing to the four hobbits after their final triumph. Aragorn's speech to his soldiers outside the black gates. Sam's go-for-it moment with Rosie after their return to the Shire. Eowen's defeat of the Witch King - "I am no man". Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli leaping off the pirate ship to face a horde of Orcs, and then a moment later when the ghosts emerge behind them. Sam's final return to his young family. And many, many more. Truly one of the great films, and not even my favorite in the series ("The Two Towers" wins that prize).

The downside of so many viewings is that my seven-year-old now does a bang-on Gollum imitation, which she used to terrorize her little friends at school the other day. Sure beats the hell out of those Barney songs she used to sing.