Me & Woody Allen

Everyone romanticizes themselves.

Some more than others, but at the end of the day, we all have this idea of ourselves that is fairly rosier than reality. I feel like for most of us, we fancy ourselves as characters in a Woody Allen movie. Especially us, the college kids. The one that toss words around like 'avante garde' and 'troubled' and 'fundamentally'. It is this demographic that would like to see themselves, would like to be the very absent-minded, intellectual, complicated, romantic failures who say terrible, witty things and make reference to old Swedish films. Who have neurotic tendencies that come across as endearing, who are old souls, who write novels, who seem 'above it all' and live in severely cultured cities where they see a therapist twice a week to deal with the weight of their own genius.

Sadly, there is a problem with this illusion comes about when you realize two things: firstly, these characters, these fantastic pillars of taste and knowledge and modern living, are in and of themselves idealized versions of Woody Allen, the creator himself. We're constantly trying to make things come out perfectly in art because it's really difficult to do that in life. The characters you see, especially the male leads, are Allen's romanticized versions of himself, brought to life through snappy dialogue and celluloid. The difference between me and Woody Allen, is that Allen is able to project his romanticized self to an audience, who then accept, fall in love with, and eventually aspire to be that version of Allen, even if they don't realize it. Basically what I'm saying is, Allen gets away with it, where as, I don't.

The second epiphany is that ironically, almost brutally so, the characters that Allen creates wouldn't even know who Woody Allen is, let alone go to see his movies. Except for perhaps Woody Allen himself, and even then I'm sure that he probably wouldn't enjoy them, and would go on about how the main character was unlikable.

Woody Allen in 'Annie Hall' would have fucking hated 'Annie Hall'.

Me & My Dad & Bob Seger

It’s 10 AM on a Thursday morning in Ottawa. As “Main Street” by Bob Seger plays in the cafe, the memory comes flooding back of the last time I heard this song...


A few nights before Christmas last year, Dad dragged me down to our seedy and centipede infested basement in Woodstock to show me what he’d been working on for weeks. Past all the boxes that had yet to be unpacked (and possibly never would be) was Dads make shift workshop...a downgrade from our previously spacious garage that was all his.

Amongst all the half taken apart (of half constructed, depending on how you looked at it) speakers and other audio equipment and tools that littered the small space, was a fully operational turntable, complete with an equalizer and a set of speakers. The entire ensemble sat proudly in the middle of all the works in progress, turntable on top of equalizer, speakers on either side. A set up that was obviously meticulously planned.

The whole thing looked like it belonged in the 1970‘s. Vintage grills adorned the speakers, while the equalizer had blue accents and silver knobs. The wood on everything matched...maybe it was Maple or something, I can never remember what different types of wood look like. I do remember that it was all the same type though, and that it looked really nice, all of it uniform and intentional. It almost looked like it had all been made from the same tree. One tree, one perfect system, one little family of equipment.

As Dad began to tell me the different features of the thing, turning knobs on and off as he went, I listened with curiosity and genuine impress at what he had made. I always knew that Dad was good with this kind of stuff, but to make a something that works out of nothing is a concept that is entirely beyond my comprehension or ability (something that was always painfully obvious growing up). Admittedly, I only understood a portion of what he was explaining, but it didn’t dilute my intrigue.

It was around this time that Dad dropped a Bob Seger record onto the thing to christen it. Seger was one of Dad's all time favourites, and therefore, I had a soft spot for Bob, too. Funny how the music our parents listen to stays with us no matter how old we get. We either loathe it for the rest of our lives or love it, and for me, it's the latter. From The Who to Peter Gabriel, I always loved whatever Dad played.

The opening chords started in, loud and intentional, distinct but with that warm tone only vinyl paired with an excellent system can achieve. It was at this time that Dad told me that he wasn’t going to sell the set like he had planned on. Instead, Dad said, he had made the entire thing for me. Merry Christmas. As Main Street filled the basement, I realized that this was one of the first times in a long time that we had something that we both enjoyed, and that we had both found something (finally something, after seventeen years) that we could do together, bond over, enjoy.

And so it was that despite all the fights and the tears and all the phone calls that never got made and all the missed visits and the general bullshit that had gone on over the years, here we were, listening to that dusty Bob Seger album in the basement of a house that had never felt like home to me, and never would...but at least for half a second, it felt inhabitable, and almost warm.
The record revolved and the speakers did their job, and for at least two minutes, we were father and daughter, at peace for a little while, even if that peace would only last for a moment.

I imagine that maybe moments like this are common for ‘normal’ parents and kids, but for me, moments like this don't happen, and it’s one of the few good memories I have left of Dad and me.