Gold
Gold is the power of the history of the city. It has a golden age, a golden glow, and golden bodies. Gold is why people come, gold is why people return, gold is why Beirut exists. Its golden memories give the city its life. These memories are so pervasive and so convincing and so obscuring that everyone—everyone, from the youngest child to the oldest man—can recall the glory days as if they had lived them. Foreigners too recall their own glory days—the line of taxis waiting outside the Commodore, where correspondents would drink Black Label and wait for disaster to strike. The specter of Beirut’s formerly high caliber of war continues to lure journalists to this day.
They call the 1960s the "golden years," which fits. Photos from back then are sepia. The storytellers say that old Beirut imported more gold and jewels than any other foreign product. Its people tell stories of scents and sounds, carnal stories that fit our empty spaces like tailored puzzle pieces, tuned to our deepest and guiltiest wants.
We all know personally the qualities of the city’s modern gold: it’s the baking warm glow of the sandstone of the French Embassy, peeking distantly through the flowers bubbling over its walls. It is the glint of sunlight on the Mediterranean Sea and of excavated Corinthian columns. It is also the golden glow of burning phosphorous, the golden glow of whiskey, the golden glow of wealth and celebrity temporarily gracing its shores, the golden glow of stately homes and beautiful streets and distant mountains.
But its color has always just been a façade; it’s always been dirty. When the next war comes, the storytellers will look back at these years, our years, through the golden lens of optimism and see only the north side of Corniche al Mazraa, see only the 6 pm glow of the setting Mediterranean sun and hear only the soft, belly-shaking conversation of harmless men sitting on vegetable crates in Hamra’s endearingly dirty streets. They won’t remember the mountains of trash pushing into the sea, they will forget the unpleasantness south of the city. They’ll forget the bandanaed gangs of bored unemployed boys zooming around on their mopeds and causing occasional death. We’ll forget all that, too, because those too uneducated to write down bad memories will be the first to be killed or deadened, leaving this weighty task to the privileged few whose understanding of the city evolved from the commanding view from their twentieth story balcony gleaming shiny white tile from the sweat of seven Filipina maids.
Like a phosphorescent flare streaking down from heaven during an Israeli attack, Beirut glows gold. It is bedecked with gold like its women are with jewelry, like its buildings are with pockmarks, like its beaches are with trash.
So when all of what we know is gone, they will remember the golden time. They will remember themselves and how their hopes and dreams were right, and they will remember that everyone else fucked everything up because they just didn’t realize that it should have been done this way, and it will go on again and again.
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Prisoners of art
Bernard Khoury and Akram Zaatari at Beirut Art Center
by Tim Fitzsimons, NOW Staff
Are Lebanese artists prisoners of war? A provocative new exhibit by renowned Lebanese architect Bernard Khoury posits that they are. In a show at the Beirut Art Center on display through October 3, Khoury uses images from various Lebanese artists, including himself, to suggest that contemporary Lebanese art is trapped in an endless cycle of reference to the 15-year civil war. However, if Khoury illustrates the dilemma facing contemporary Lebanese artists, a divergent – if in final calculation complimentary – exhibit is being shown simultaneously at the center. “Earth of Endless Secrets” by Lebanese artist Akram Zaatari suggests a possible way out.
The architect’s apparatus
Bernard Khoury is perhaps the most internationally acclaimed architect currently working in Lebanon, and he has produced some of the few icons of post-war design in Lebanon. Khoury’s most feted buildings, the Gemmayzeh restaurant Centrale and the Karantina night club BO18, are critiques, with Centrale riffing off quaint notions of preserving Beirut’s architectural heritage, while BO18 confronts the legacy of the civil war directly though its location on the site of a famous massacre and by employing coffins as its central motif. Those buildings made Khoury an international star, but they also helped pigeonhole Lebanese contemporary art in the eyes of foreigners, who seemed to say, “If it’s not about the war, we’re not interested.” In his exhibit at the Beirut Art Center, Khoury attempts to take the ax to that somewhat-debilitating association.
“Prisoner of War”, described in the catalogue as an “apparatus”, is a man-sized sculpture that resembles a miniature version of an iconic and sinister-looking American stealth bomber, without the wings. It sits on the floor bathed in light. Behind it, a video of the sculpture in motion plays on the wall.
The captions for the work, under the faux-militaristic heading “Concept of Operation”, reads: “The POW is a self-propelled apparatus for the use of returning Prisoners of War to enemy lines.” The screen behind the sculpture plays a video of this journey from the two cameras fitted in the front windows of the apparatus. The two feeds, much like two eyes, show a ground-level view as a POW shuffles over rubble to commands of “Straight! Right! Left!” being shouted in Arabic.
The sculpture on the floor at BAC is empty, but the video and the description create for the viewer an understanding that is based on its imagined use. There is no view out, so as “prisoners” return across enemy lines, they are forced to act as an intelligence-collecting tool: the ultimate Trojan Horses. The prisoner always remains blind to, yet protected from, his surroundings.
On their own, Khoury’s apparatus and video – which were designed for a different exhibition in Italy – are perplexing. It is only in the third piece, “Catherine Wants to Know”, which Khoury designed especially for the current exhibit, that the thrust of his message becomes apparent. The photomontage consists of images of the civil war by well-known Lebanese artists. We see the Cedars in snow with skiing soldiers floating down the slopes, the mountains and the city in war, soldiers by the sea, a military jeep, painted colored balloons, Khoury’s own BO18, children by the beach, and, finally, the POW sculpture in use with human arms emerging from under it – a landscape of the war. The cumulative effect is to elucidate and mock the plight of the contemporary Lebanese artist, trapped in a cycle of endless reference to the civil war.
The artist’s answer
At first glance Akram Zaatari would seem to be just the sort of artist Khoury is critiquing in “Catherine Wants to Know”. Indeed, Google Zataari’s name and the first hit describes him as “exploring Lebanon's postwar condition through collecting testimonies and various documents…”
Zaatari’s focus on a Lebanese prisoner of Israel would seem to be subscribing to the dichotomy Khoury mocks; that Lebanese artists must address the war in some manner or another unless they want to be ignored. But by taking an almost microscopic focus to the experiences of a single individual, Zaatari’s “Earth of Endless Secrets: Writing for a Posterior Time” transcends the conflict itself.
The exhibit, the other half of which is featured at Sfeir-Semler Gallery, is a photographed correspondence of a single prisoner, Nabih Awada, a former member of the Communist resistance in Lebanon. Nawada was first imprisoned by Israel when he was 16 and didn’t regain his freedom until a decade later.
“Secrets” consists of two series of photographed documents: “Neruda’s Garden”, which features images of Awada’s letters to his family and theirs to him; and “Untold”, which features Awada’s correspondence with his fellow prisoners and a video.
In one sense the work has a documentary interest independent of its artistic merits. For instance, in the “Untold” video, Awada writes a letter to Samir Kantar, the most infamous of the Lebanese prisoners held by Israel, which he put into a capsule, making reference to the way in which secret messages were passed through furtive prison kisses. Also in “Untold”, 48 photographs of prisoners with notes scribbled on back are displayed, showcasing correspondences from prisoners to Awada, or “Neruda”, his revolutionary nickname.
While many of the messages displayed reflect the emotions we associate with detention, namely boredom and misery, others are unexpectedly comical: “Comrade Nabih… A revolutionary greeting… I offer you this portrait of me… I ask you to accept this one even if it’s ugly… If you like it, then welcome. Otherwise, goodbye… Finally, please accept my cold salutations, kneaded in a mountain of ice. Peace, Ali Balhas, Askalan Prison, July 21, 1995.”
The photo-notes were permitted only after a 1993 hunger strike forced the hand of the Israeli captors, and there is a certain irony in the notion that a decision by a random Israeli bureaucrat is partly responsible for the window into the world of resistance prisoners of Israel that Zaatari has put together.
The most affecting images are in “Neruda’s Garden”. Written on Red Cross stationery—prisoners are warned in bold letters at the top of each page not to discuss anything other than personal family matters—Awada’s letters to his mother are tender and meticulously illustrated.
In addition, Zaatari features two large photos of the collected correspondences, from both sides of the divide. In the photo, his mother’s worn satchel holds his letters from prison, but the viewer notices the care with which the notes are folded and meticulously organized. Like the folder Awada created to hold his mother’s letters, her satchel and the thoughts it contained were the one connection she had to him, and so she cared for it in his absence, endowing it and its contents with his missing personality.
“Secrets” draw attention away from the loud, postwar hysteria to the silent little economy of emotions that persists in spite the best efforts of his jailors. By focusing on unadorned evidence, Zaatari creates a work that is more interested in the human condition in captivity than any broader political argument.
View of the Beirut Art Center
While I finish my review of the new Beirut Art Center exhibition (mostly good, you'll soon be able to read why), here is a photo of the opening.
The opening at Beirut Art Center.
I took these pictures early in the evening. It really filled up and was quite the social sight to see. But before the evening even began, there was an old man on crutches who had been taking advantage of the free wine for a lot longer than anyone else.
Keep your eyes peeled for the review, which I will post here by Monday.
Bureaucracy
Today I attempted to set right my visa overstay, which was met with fun bureaucracy at General Security. In order to leave Lebanon, I cannot simply renew my visa before my departure a week from Friday. I must either leave before Wednesday, July 27, which will be within the one month grace period of my overstay, or I must go to Syria before that. So, in order to leave Lebanon, I must leave Lebanon, or else they will not let me leave Lebanon. Perfect sense, right?
While searching for answers on the General Security website, I came across this gem of bureaucratic mumbojumbo. I have highlighted the best parts. Apparently "artist" and "masseuse" means erotic dancer. My translation: if you marry a Lebanese man, as long as you're not a dancer in a super nightclub, you can leave with an overstayed visa. If you are a dancer, you must have not shown your face in Lebanon for a year before you will get any special treatment.
The following cases are exempted from all the conditions concerning the address, the round trip ticket, and the prematurely approval from the General Directorate of the General Security:
- The wife of a Lebanese man, who didn’t work previously as an artist or a masseuse, after presenting a document proving the marriage.
- The wife of a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon or a holder of a valid identity card under consideration and who didn’t work previously as an artist or a masseuse, after presenting a document asserting the marriage.
- The wife of a Syrian man accompanying him and who didn't work previously as an artist or masseuses in Lebanon, provided that the marriage is written on the husband’s family register or by presenting a document proving the marriage.
- The coming females who didn’t work previously as artists or masseuses in Lebanon, accompanying one of the parents, one of the brothers, the husband, or a son.
- The mother in law of a Lebanese man, after presenting a document asserting the kinship.
- The females coming within official delegations, or those holding private, special or diplomatic passports.
- The wife of a Lebanese man who already has worked as an artist or a masseuse and left Lebanon for a period of more than one year, if she is accompanied by one or more children from this marriage after presenting the documents proving the marriage.
- The wife of a foreigner non Arabic man who has already worked as an artist or a masseuse and had left Lebanon for a period more than one year, provided that she is in his company and that she holds a document proving the marriage.
- People entering Lebanon via direct, prematurely, or consulate visas are allowed to enter the Syrian territories and to return to Lebanon within the period of the visa’s validity and within 5 days.
A Beirut night
Begins like this:
Travel to Zico House, an artist's collective on Spears Street. There, an event combining freestyle rap with freestyle drawing is going on. Watch for a bit, have a drink, then leave.
Travel to Gemmayzeh, where you have another drink at a rooftop bar with a retracting cylindrical ceiling. Note that they have repositioned the bar so that the retracting roof is now over your head. Leave.
Walk across the still-to-be-completed downtown area to the "Egg" or "Dome," the bombed out cinema in the center of the city. Recently, it has been hired out to various events, including the electronic concert during Fete de la Musique. This evening, it is hired out for a(nother) Michael Jackson event.
Inside, about twenty people stood around in a vast spherical space, still haggard from the old days when men peered from the air vents to snipe at what was once the war's front line. Chunks of the ceiling were missing, as were all of the seats, and here and there on the stuccoed ceiling little holes and chunks were missing, from who knows what sort of damage.
They were playing DVDs of Michael Jackson music videos very loudly, and the effect was sort of overwhelming. His videos are entrancing and even more so on a gigantic silver screen. The falsetto reverberated in the vast, empty space, and the apocalyptic feeling of this half-destroyed, half-resuscitated cinema was further enhanced.
Click through to see the full versions of these photos until I figure out how to do an HTML scroll frame.
- A panorama of the Beirut dome, an old cinema that was destroyed during the civil war.
(In this photo, you'll see on the left some barriers used to separate the construction area from the street, a bombed out church [this is all looking south], the rebuilt areas of downtown [west], the Dome, and the Hariri mosque [north].)
Inside the dome
Inside, you see the view from the screen.
Tweetup in Gemmayzeh
A few days ago, I went to a Twitter meetup - or "tweetup" - in Gemmayzeh at the invitation of my more Twitter savvy friend, Josie (or, @josiensor on Twitter).
Though I am a Twitter user myself, I was surprised that I found the whole thing to be very fun - I met a bunch of Beirut's bloggers, (Blogging Beirut, Plus 961, others I think), a few AUB students, and others.
She wrote it up for the Daily Star. I am going to copy the article here since it will disappear to the Daily Star's terrible pay-only archives in a day or two, but the link is here.
Growing social phenomenon unites Beirut strangers at Gemmayzeh sushi bar
By Josie Ensor
Daily Star staff
Friday, June 26, 2009
BEIRUT: Have you ever been to a dinner party where you don't know a single person? The scenario sounds terrifying, and frankly not too likely, but it is becoming a regular occurrence in Beirut. I went to my first Lebanese 'tweetup' last night at a sushi bar in Gemmayzeh and found myself in just this situation.
“Fete de la Musique” starts off a rocking Beirut summer
Rapper Malikah dishes rhythm at Martyr’s Square at Beirut’s Fete de la Musique.
The Lebanese tend to be cautious before being optimistic. Take this month's parliamentary elections: everyone expected everyone else to be in the streets fighting over the votes, and so they stayed home. The result? No violence, but also empty restaurants.
Good news here is also tempered with caution. Once a top world tourist destination, Beirut has worked on regaining that mantle since the end of the civil war in 1991. Downtown has been rebuilt by Solidere, but it is routinely criticized for being comatose and Disneylike. Occasional spasms of political violence have emptied the city and downtown’s wide pedestrian-only streets, leaving only a few Sukleen men (metaphorical tumbleweeds) to remind visitors of how barren it looks when abandoned.
But Beirut has always bounced back. Last summer was largely successful, and May’s events faded from the collective psyche as normalcy seemed to settle over the city. And this year, after being named the top destination for 2009 by the New York Times, Beirut breathed a deliberately soft sigh of relief, wondering if for the first time in years its summer would be free of the events that have in the past so quickly turned lives upside down. It’s difficult to forget that the last time a summer was going as swimmingly, Israel attacked and scuttled much more than just the lucrative summer tourists.
So far, this young summer has passed – ominously, luckily, unexpectedly – calmly. And last night, summer’s first and longest day, the solstice, Beirut played host to an international music festival that demonstrated that the country is well on its way to having a perfect summer. Fete de la Musique, an international music festival organized through France’s Culture Ministry, was enough of a success that I am willing to go out on a limb and call this summer for Lebanon and for Beirut.
Talking to: Blogger Qifa Nabki
Blogger Elias Muhanna, man behind the blog "Qifa Nabki".
Elias Muhanna, the man behind the blog Qifa Nabki, is a Lebanese blogger whose commentary has appeared in The National, Foreign Policy and other publications. In the run-up to the Lebanese parliamentary elections, Muhanna and his blog were cited and quoted widely in both the blogosphere and the mainstream media. His posts provide unique analysis of Lebanon’s politics for readers around the world, with witty reflections on the possibilities for cabinet formations, and even revealing taxi conversations.
Muhanna, a PhD candidate in Near Eastern Studies at Harvard University, sat down with NOW to discuss Qifa Nabki and what the elections mean for Lebanon.
What is your background?
Elias Muhanna: My family lives here, I’m Lebanese and my mother is American. [I] lived here during the beginning of the civil war and then my family left in the early 80s, and I grew up mostly between Lebanon and Cyprus, so living in Cyprus but coming back and forth during the war. [I] went to college in the US, and… am doing graduate school now. [After I get my PhD,] I’d like to get an academic job and work as a professor, that’s my goal… if I could get a job at AUB, I wouldn’t turn it down; that would be great.
How long have you been writing the blog?
Muhanna: I began the blog in the beginning of October [2008]…my dissertation process began last year…the research for the dissertation began roughly around the time I started the blog.
How did you get into blogging?
Muhanna: I had spent a lot of time reading a lot of blogs [about Lebanon and Syria]. Arab-Israeli stuff too… I disagreed with a lot of what people were saying in the comment sections, and I sort of wanted to debate the issues, and I ended up making a lot of friends… and discovering that many of the contributors were extremely intelligent and had a lot of arguments that I never even encountered or considered. There are certain things that we would still disagree about, but a lot of those people I now count as close friends, and we are respectful of each other’s positions... So, I did a lot of that kind of thing and I thought I’d like to start my own.
What’s the story with the logo?
Muhanna: It’s a detail from a painting that I discovered and I really liked... Since then, I felt kind of sheepish about the fact that it had become the head of Qifa Nabki’s blog and so I actually got in contact with the artist to see if he would be willing to sell me that painting… and so this summer I will actually, hopefully, be able to purchase [it].
What does Qifa Nabki mean?
Muhanna: Qifa Nabki is the first two words of maybe the most famous pre-Islamic classical Arabic poem, and it means, literally “Halt, you two, and let us weep.” It’s sort of the iconic image that begins a lot of classical Arabic poetry, where the poet, this desert nomad, is traveling through the desert with some companions and he happens upon the place where his beloved’s tribe had been encamped and she and her tribe have since moved on… He says to his companions: “Let us stop and let us weep for the memory of a beloved,” and it became a standard trope of a lot of this poetry, and to anyone who has studied Arabic poetry, it’s instantly recognizable, so it’s almost like calling a blog “To be or not to be.”
How popular is the site?
Muhanna: It began with a smattering of hits, and gradually over time – I think because of the elections, there’s a lot of interest, and these things just build, I guess. Every month there have been more and more hits.
What do you think about the media situation in Lebanon today?
Muhanna: I wish there were more responsible media outlets providing more balanced criticism on both sides of the aisle. You can’t find that anywhere. The pro-March 14 media are strident in their support of March 14, [and] the pro-opposition media is incredibly partisan as well… nobody seems to be looking at both sides and criticizing them in a balanced fashion. That’s what I’m aiming for on the blog, but I don’t know how successful I’ve been.
Do you think these were Lebanon’s first free elections since 1975?
Muhanna: I definitely think this is the first free election in decades. To me, 2005 was a one-issue election; it was basically a referendum on Syria. It was run using the 2000 electoral law, which had so many problems in it, and then the way the cabinet was formed and the way the various players participated… it was a disaster. This election, although it was still very much waged on the basis of sectarian language and clan… there was sort of a more issue-based approach, even if the issues were only a couple, like Hezbollah’s weapons and the state vs. reform… But more importantly, there was real competition. We didn’t know who would win this election, and that’s a big thing.
Does the opposition view the results as a backlash against their policies or demography?
Muhanna: I wouldn’t be surprised that some people would think that [Free Patriotic Movement leader MP Michel] Aoun was hurt by his alliance [with Hezbollah]. It’s clear from the numbers that the places in which he won, he didn’t win by nearly as much. I think over the next couple of weeks both sides are going to feel each other out… Nobody really wants to rush into a standoff or a deal; they want to get a sense of each other’s red lines, and try to come up, if a veto [the obstructing-third vote] is not in the offering, some other kind of thing.
What about the calm on elections day?
Muhanna: Another thing that Paul Salem said yesterday [at a Carnegie Center post-election debriefing] was “the fact that in an Arab country, ordinary citizens could determine who is going to govern and who is going to sit in the opposition, all on a quiet Sunday, is a pretty remarkable thing.” I think everybody was shocked by just how amazingly low-key it was. Last weekend was totally chill. There wasn’t even that much celebration afterward.
Is there a battle over the obstructing veto looming?
Muhanna: As of right now, it’s not looking like there’s going to be a huge battle over the veto...which is kind of weird. What was it about this particular result that convinced people to climb down a little bit? If March 14 had won by 70 seats instead of 71, would [March 8] have said, “oh well we’re going to go after the veto.”
Why has Hezbollah acted so conciliatory?
Muhanna: I don’t know, that’s a really good question… There are a lot of factors in play. First of all, [the veto] is totally unconstitutional. In the past there was a debate whose basic premise was when Hezbollah joined the government, the Siniora government back in 2005, they did so under an agreement that was made, under the cabinet decree… Now the situation is totally different and Hezbollah understands that. March 14 didn’t need Hezbollah’s help to get elected, nor did they need the help of the president or independents. They were a non-factor. So it’s difficult to make the case now that you’re for a veto when there is no constitutional basis for it. So I think this is why they are being more conciliatory. Who knows, maybe behind closed doors they have no intention of giving it up.
Is March 14 in a stronger place? Will Saad Hariri be prime minister?
Muhanna: The position is his to take. If he wants to be prime minister, there is no alternative to him. Everybody will accept him. I just don’t know if he wants to be prime minister… I still have a feeling that [Tripoli MP Najib] Mikati is going to step in. Mikati played a really excellent role in the transitional cabinet between when Omar Karami’s government fell back in 2005, and when March 14 won... And the fact that he has very strong ties to both Damascus and to Riyadh makes him an ideal fit for this period that we’re in right now. He’s incredibly eloquent; he’s just a very good speaker... It all comes down to the advice that Saad Hariri is getting. If he’s getting really good advice, I think he will choose Mikati and they have to start reaching out to the FPM.
This interview was originally published on NOW Lebanon on June 10, 2009.
A Night in Beirut
Wine Festival, Diamond Museum, May 30, 2009
Dinner in Beirut, May 29, 2009.
Lebanese Paintball Craze Springs from Harsh Reality
by Alice Fordham and Tim Fitzsimons, Special to the Globe and Mail
The patch of wasteland in the Hezbollah stronghold of south Beirut has a sign outside reading Special Forces. Inside, the ground is strewn with razor wire, crawling with uniformed youths and ringing with shots.
But it's not the Lebanese army at work: It's ultra-realistic paintball.
Lebanon's teenagers have grown up with war - among other conflicts the civil war that ripped the country apart until 1990, Syrian occupation until 2005 and the Israel-Hezbollah war in 2006 - but that hasn't put them off the latest Lebanese craze.
Open for five months, Special Forces is across the road from the square where the militant Islamist political group Hezbollah held a triumphant rally earlier this year, in the heart of the huge suburb of Dahiyeh. The area is patrolled not by Lebanese police, but by Hezbollah.
Special Forces is far from the only paintball company to have opened in Lebanon this year - they often have names like Terror Tactics - but it is particularly popular, said co-owner Mohammad Biab, 24, because it is so realistic.
"Experienced people," he said, smiling, "helped the design to look like a real battlefield."
It is a sprawling patch of rubble, set among bombed-out apartment blocks, casualties of the war between Hezbollah and Israel. But nearby, too, are the new buildings that have sprung up as a result of massive Hezbollah regeneration of the area, which has produced the kind of stability that fosters leisure activities like paintball.
The open-air combat zone has a large dug-out trench to crawl through, barrels to hide behind and strings of real razor wire that inexperienced combatants trip over because the visors on their helmets are nearly opaque.
Mr. Biab gives lectures on tactics before each round, and during play sits on a platform, shouting "go, go," and peppering slow players with "bullets." Every effort, he said, has been made to make the uniforms authentic and to ensure the imported guns look as realistic as possible.
Special Forces is booked up for weeks and people come from all over Lebanon, from Sunni and Christian areas and others besides, Mr. Biab said. Although in the streets outside, many women are veiled and modestly dressed, he said that gangs of girls and mixed groups often come, put on camouflage and stage shootouts.
Hadi, 20, a perspiring customer who travelled from central Beirut to be here, was fresh from his second tour of the combat zone. He said that he liked paintball because "instead of being aggressive on the streets, I can use some weapons here and have fun and I am not hurting people."
But it is not just profit that is motivating Mr. Biab and co-owner Louai Helbawi.
He believes that through paintball he can create in Lebanon a nation ready to defend itself. "The other side," he said, referring to Israel, "is an enemy whose people have to serve one month each year in the army, so the whole environment is prepared for war. So we have to make people prepared for war."
When other nations hear about the realism of the paintball in Lebanon, he hopes, they will know that this is a nation that knows how to defend itself.
Customers come for entertainment, said Mr. Diab, "but the hidden idea behind this is political."
However, he said, the tactics of paintball do not foster an aggressive attitude to battle. "The first time you go out and carry a gun," he said, "the main object that directly comes into your head is that you have to defend yourself from bullets.
"Then afterwards," he added, as Hadi and his friends kicked off their boots like old soldiers, "comes the entertainment."
This article was published in the Globe and Mail on October 28, 2008.