Hot Takes: My Job Application to become a Globe and Mail Columnist

Margaret Wente and I have reached an understanding. I avoid reading her columns and pretend that she doesn't exist; she doesn't care to know that I exist. In this way, we have achieved harmony, balance, and a meaningful reduction in the number of times I cry blood while reading her column. 

But sometimes, in spite of myself, I read it. Usually because she's said something so outrageous that my friends will complain about it, and they'll ask me if I've read it too. I tell them about the understanding, but even as I say that I won't be giving the Globe and Mail the pleasure of my clicks, I inevitably click on her column. 

Before the blood tears come, there's at least one thing that always gives me satisfaction. As a young women with a university degree in the humanities, I'm used to being somewhere in the third quartile of Canada's societal power rankings. Jobs are scarce, good pay almost extinct; I occupy so little space in the public consciousness that many Torontonians will try to walk right through me on a sidewalk and are shocked when my shoulder checks them. However, in Wente-land, this is not the case. There, I am part of a dangerous cabal plotting to rule over a ruined Canada with not one but two iron fists. One is poised over a Rape Culture Alert button, while the other repeatedly checks the "sociology" field instead of "petroleum engineering" on every university application. 

Margaret Wente had us, or at least a particular segment of us, in her sights again last Tuesday. She managed to build a whole column around the presentations at this year's Congress of the Social Sciences and Humanities without attending any of them. This is the columnist's equivalent of giving a book report without having done the required reading. The offences she found at Congress included daring to critically study video games (an industry worth an insignificant 25 PLUS BILLION DOLLARS) and making "the virtues of everything indigenous" a theme (a particularly galling statement since the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was wrapping up in Ottawa at the same time as Congress was happening). I suppose gender is never explicitly mentioned in her column, but notice what's in the titles of the presentations she mentions by name ("breasts", "female sex tourism", "lesbians") and check who is presenting them. Add in the context of Wente's previous column on the gender wage gap, and... the subtext is practically text. 

Oh, what could I say to Wente about this column if we ever stared each other down in an elevator? That people who worked hard to research and prepare for their presentation deserve more than a glib dismissal by a known plagiarist? That it doesn't make sense to complain about scholars focusing too little on Northrop Frye and Jane Austen when they are hardly "practical studies that will pay off in a good career" like she praises the "aspirational children of new Canadians" for pursuing? That SHUT UP, WENTE, YOU HACK??? No, cathartic as the latter might be, I'm not going to beat her. I'm going to join her!

Because if she can make a living wage with her contrarian word spew (eruptions occur twice a week), I want the same deal. It's only fair. We both have English degrees, so she knows I am fit for nothing else. Here are the three writing samples I'll be sending to the Globe:

Column Preview #1

Column Title: Young Women: What Is to Be Done?

Synopsis: I don't trust young women. They're asking to be treated like real people, and one of them was mean to me once. It's okay, I can say this stuff because I am also a young woman. 

Hot Take: Young women have it easy, it's young white men who have it hard. 

Sample Sentence: "The woman--more of a girl, really--hit me with her tote bag as she left, and I knew there was a  Feminist Geographies of Public Space class somewhere on her transcript."

Column Preview #2

Column Title: I Read a Book

Synopsis: I read a Book about Something. I will then condense the author's arguments, use them to make my argument for me, and apply no criticism to their work.

Hot Take: Everything you thought about a thing was WRONG because I read a Book that said so. 

Sample Sentence: "Global warming, it turns out, will be barely warm enough to steep a proper cup of tea, as Book Author points out in the Book whose product description I read most of on Amazon."

Column Preview #3

Column Title: True Patriot Love and Hook-Ups: My Canadian Election

Synopsis: I discuss the upcoming election entirely on the terms of an extended and increasingly tortured Tinder metaphor. Because I am a young woman, and we like apps. 

Hot Take: I'm not going to swipe right on anyone, because I need to learn to love myself first--and so does Canada. 

Sample Sentence: "Mulcair's beard is rich and his baritone is practically platinum, but you know he would just endlessly debate you about Bill C-51 via chat before you even had a first date at Terroni."

Salary-wise, I want whatever Wente's getting. And if the Globe adds another grand, I'll even wear a low-cut shirt when my columnist photo is taken. 

Canada Reads Thinkpieces

1. A Book I Did Not Like
The last time I paid much attention to Canada Reads was back in 2011. I was still living in BC, in an apartment that didn't have Internet, or a real oven. Listening made me feel connected to the east I had left, at least until some of the panelists started saying asinine things about graphic novels.

So it made me feel connected for all of an episode. Yes, this was the season where Jeff Lemire's Essex County was a contender, at least until Ali Velshi reminded us all that it's not "Canada Looks at Pictures." Well, okay then. Apparently, it's "Canada Reads Deeply Unfunny Funny Books" instead.

Yes, I finally got around to reading the eventual winner, The Best Laid Plans, except I did so three years too late. I should have waited longer, preferably forever. By chapter two, I had started to hate the narrator, by midpoint the book, and by the end I mostly just loathed myself for being able just to put the book down and walk away. The hero (one Angus McLintock) lurches from unlikely political triumph to triumph, layering the Scottish tics on so thick he basically ends up as Scrooge McDuck with an MP's office. While Angus has too much personality (he plays chess, is a stickler for proper grammar, builds hovercraft etc etc) the narrator has none. At least that's an improvement over the narrator's love interest. All she gets to do is talk about Canada's Senate (bad) and have elided sex with the narrator (presumably worse). When it comes to earnest Canadian content, my personal hell would probably be to listen to this on audiobook while my eyes are propped open, Clockwork Orange-style, to watch Murdoch Mysteries on loop. Gah!

2. A Person I Don't Like Now
Because I am a generous, sharing sort, I then complained loudly about a four-year-old book to anyone who would listen. Since this period coincided with the ongoing  Jian Ghomeshi story, the conversation would often shift to the ex-Canada Reads host.

"Martha," my brother told me, "you should really take down that comic."

My brother was referring to this comic, which was a half-joke on autobiographical indie comics, and a half-joke on myself. If you don't want to subject yourself to my art, it chronicles my failed attempt to talk books with CBC's Shelagh Rogers, and how that ended many dreams including that of producing the next CBC host, Banff Hunter-Ghomeshi.

Yes, there was a time that I found Jian to be sort of attractive, instead of just a fucked-up abuser enabled by the CBC and our prevalent rape culture. I'm not going to pretend that it didn't happen. And though I can say that I soured on him about two years after reading that comic, it wasn't because of the rumours. It also says something about how common they must have been if even I, the least connected person in Toronto, heard something eventually. I had just grown to dislike his interviews, and so when I heard that he liked younger women, and was far too creepy in pursuing him, I wasn't even concerned. Instead, I shrugged, like "Can you expect more from a man with that much cultural capital?" Of course I should have been, and I should have expected nothing more or less than the basic requirement of consent.

3. What I Read Now
That's all I have to say about Jian Ghomeshi, not because there isn't more to it, but because so much of it has already been covered in so many ways. Why women don't report, how our conversation about that in the strict terms of stigma ignores other factors, why people believed him, what the CBC knew, what they hid, the political economy of the situation, and even the ethics of his lawyers. I collected many of these articles for my friend in a spreadsheet on Friday, so she could use them in an article for her legal clinic. The spreadsheet contained dates, titles, authors, publications and key topics. I had to stop when I reached fifty entries. It was only a few hours of work, and more articles could have easily been found.

As a feminist, I had already been reading about many of these issues, but without the specifics of Jian. That may be why I feel so burned out right now. At least it's made people talk about sexual asault and reporting, I tell myself; at least more people now say the word "rape" when they talk about Bill Cosby. Even the prospect of a Ghomeshi-free Canada Reads is promising. But I still worry about the others that are still out there, and if we'll talk and write about them the same way when we find out.

Dispatches from Blue Valley

I've been struggling to write a few posts for the last few days. First, I wanted to write about detective shows, and violence, and how my Mom's fearful reaction to them both - she had just been for a visit and insisted on securing all windows and doors - affects me. But I couldn't.

Because I am depressed as fuck.

And then I struggled with writing about that too. Writing about all of that, the Big D, makes me angry. It's like the bitterness has become cystic, and writing slices it open. It might be cathartic, but the result is unpleasant. I also have a policy, a mostly reliable one, of not posting anything written through tears. The emotional tone is so embarassing the morning after, and there are so many typos that need to be fixed, that it's not worth the bother.

So I looked at the half-finished but already overwrought post, and deleted everything until the "fuck." There it is. I am depressed now, but I also know, as the benefit of so many trips to the emotional valley, that I won't be sometime soon.

Better luck tomorrow.

Bike Cavalrywoman Declares War On Lazy Columns

If you need to crap out a column for one of Canada's newspapers, you have some choices. You can take the Wente path, and attack the big money liberal arts complex for the thousands of injustices (critical geography studies!) it perpetrates every day. But if you find yourself too ground down by Big Academia's clog heel to manage that, just write about bicycles.

R: My terror-mobile, temporarily not terrorizing some bipeds

Bicycles! There they are, the rulers of the road, nay, sidewalks even, each one to a man or woman clad in twin vestments of spandex and smugness. Please see this column by Rosie DiManno for proof, or perhaps the accompanying comments section, as there are literally DOZENS of anecdotes of asshole cyclists presented. Clearly, these thugs need to be stopped, or perhaps dispatched by streetcars, so the streets can be safe again. 

If the public safety aspect of these sort of columns doesn't grab you, think of the publicity. Complaining about cyclists is sure to net you many comments and even more page clicks, as the most rabid cyclists and cyclist-haters. So ka-ching, ka-ching, which conveniently rhymes with the ka-clunk, ka-clunk a cyclist's body makes as it is run over.

But let's return to the DiMannofesta: "... those who drive and those who pedal can wipe each other off the face of the city’s streets in this mutual roadkill rush to attrition and Toronto would be better off for it." For, you see, cyclists are "arguably the most sanctimonious breed on the planet: I cycle therefore I am divine." 

But nobody is more "divine" than an "ambulatory biped" like her, who walks everywhere. Everywhere, except when she's in a cab or on a bus. I'm not sure who will drive either of these vehicles once Toronto streets run red with the blood of drivers and cyclists. The roads will belong to the pedestrians then, or more likely, the rickshaws.

DiManno is also not entitled like those awful cyclists when she has to catch a bus on her street. "Public transit users need to either squeeze up against buildings or stand in the bike lane — which will get you a blast of invective from the cyclists." She just thinks she can use a lane designed for a flow of traffic as a bus stop waiting lounge: most certainly not entitled. 

In fact, cyclists are so awful that, DiManno tell us, "They have risen to No. 1 on my list of People Who Should Be Shot." Thanks to my intrepid reporting skills, I have found this very list:

Some might say that using violence for rhetorical impact as cyclists die on the streets is a tad... tasteless. They might even add that calling people who bike "ped-aphiles" - like pedophiles, ya know - isn't all that classy either. DiManno would probably come back and say that you don't know anything about taste, as you are probably a ped-aphile wearing a "stupid aerodynamic helmet." These helmets, by the way, will be the first thing online commentators will ask if you wearing if you do get hit by a car.

I am a sexual predator with a bounty on my head - I mean, a cyclist. I stop at red lights, make (often shaky) hand turning signals, and if I don't feel comfortable making a left hand turn, I get off my bike and walk it through through the crosswalk. According to DiManno and some of her commentators, I do not exist. And yet, I persist, not just in existing, but also in biking to work almost every day. 

I do so in the face of distracted pedestrians who wander into bike lanes or even just out into the road itself. I do so in the face of fellow cyclists, who salmon and shoal, pass suddenly without ringing their bell, and glide through red lights while I wait like a chump, or use the sidewalks while I brave the roads. I do so in the face of drivers who cut me off, open their doors without looking for traffic, barely give me a centimeter when they pass, or yell at me to get to the right when I'm in the left-hand side of the lane to make a left-hand turn.  

Not that I am a bright and pure beacon of perfect cycling myself. 

I have made mistakes on my bike. Turns out taxis can go into the bike lane to pick up passengers, so my apologies, Taxi I Yelled At Once. I tried getting around a bus once when I was impatient, and ended up in the wrong lane with nowhere to go. I have salmoned on small side streets, though if I do ever get an $85 fine for doing so, I'll remember with some bitterness the bike cops I saw going the wrong way down Augusta. And that driver who yelled at me for exercising my right to be in the left-hand side to make a left-hand turn? I probably did fellow cyclists no favours by calling her a jackass and screaming at her that I was making a turn.

Rather, in listing all of the things I have to deal with on the road, I want to show that there are entitled, careless individuals in every transportation class. And yet it's somehow always the cyclists who get put through the columnist grinder. 

Cars hit pedestrians: some people blame pedestrians for wearing dark clothes, or trying to rush the countdown. At the very worst I hear that driver is a problem, and they should never be behind the wheel of the car. But if one careless cyclist runs a stop sign and levels a pedestrian, well, all cyclists are dangerous, entitled terrors who must be checked immediately (perhaps shot on sight.)

What these columns like this miss isn't just a real solution, but the real problem. If we can't share the road safely and efficiently, then something is broken. Let's fix it. Rosie DiManno believes that the place for bicycles "should not be any North American metropolis never designed for bicycle-right-of-way." As if a city is a rigid structure, instead of a dynamic organism that can change and adapt. People can too. Build better infrastructure, apply the law well, change it if it doesn't make sense. Then educate drivers, cyclists and pedestrians on what is expected of them, and what others can do. 

But don't write another useless column like this one. Rosie DiManno: I might not yell GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY A--HOLE! as you stride through the bike lane and towards the cab that, as a 100% biped, you are somehow using. I will grit my teeth, and maybe glare, as I brake. But I will yell at you to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM YOUR KEYBOARD.

Sometimes National Post Op-Eds Annoy. And That's More Than OK

This week Men's Rights Advocates in Edmonton crawled out from their Reddit subforum, and they brought some posters with them. Following Sexual Assault Voices of Edmonton's "Don't Be that Guy" campaign, they decided the world needed a matching "Don't Be That Girl", even if they didn't need to take any new photos for it. So they took the "Guy" pics, and with a little Photoshop magic, added the following statements: 

• "Just because you regret a one-night stand doesn’t mean it wasn’t consensual. Lying about sexual assault = crime"
• "Women who drink are not responsible for their actions, especially when sex is involved. Double standards"
• "Just because she's easy doesn't mean you shouldn't fear false rape accusations. Lying about sexual assault = an unpunished crime."

Reaction was - as the Men's Rights Advocates probably hoped - quick and loud. The story was picked up by the CBC and The National Post. The latter also found a female voice to speak out for the forgotten ones. For those who had been silenced and misrepresented for so long. For... the Men's Rights Advocates. In a column titled "Sometimes, assault accusations are false. A little awareness is OK," Robyn Urback let the feminists know that "... despite the tactless presentation, the message remains fair: Sometimes, women falsely accuse men of rape." And I would agree with that. Sometimes, that happens. Does that happen often enough to warrant an ad campaign equating false rape accusations with rape itself? An event that's possible, though improbable, compared to a crime of depressing prevalence that's likely to go unreported, according to this StatsCan doc, nine out of ten times? Or is this just another example of rape culture, a campaign which does nothing to support the falsely accused, and everything to tell women they're "responsible" - a word picked directly from one of the posters - for their own drunkenness, for their assault, and for having the audacity to just be women at all?

Now I did it. I used that phrase, "rape culture," which marks me as something more sinister than just a simple feminist, tapping ineffectually away on her keyboard. Because, according to Urback, "there’s also another sort of “rape culture” whereby any sort of critical analysis of an accusation is immediately rejected as “victim blaming.” And it looks like I'm a part of it. 

Pictured: one of two rape cultures from Mad Max III: Beyond Thunderdome. 

Which one? Couldn't tell ya.

I guess Urback thinks we're in some kind of Rape Thunderdome - Two rape cultures enter, one leaves! - but that little joke is not enough for this insulting column. I am pissed the fuck off that anyone can find something to salvage in this offensive campaign. I want Robyn Urback's work broken down to its component parts, and each of those then dismantled one by one.

And yet, that's too much for just one person to handle. Fortunately, an awesome friend of mine, Maggie Gordon, can slice Urback's assertion that "Statistics show that false accusations of sexual assaults occur about as frequently as false accusations of other crimes — somewhere between two and four per cent" to shreds in her excellent blog post, "Conversations about False Rape Allegations are Generally Full of Bullshit." And anyone with a basic grasp of figures should find something shady when Urback says that there are "countless stories of innocent lives being derailed by illegitimate accusations" and then mentions exactly two, neither of which happened in Edmonton, the target of this campaign.

I'll just take a look at Urback's argument that "the new posters around Edmonton inadvertently bring attention to their [people falsely accused of rape's] plight." Because they don't. They just don't. Urback herself does a better job of this. You won't see any victims of false accusations, or figures on imprisonment, in these posters. Just photos of anonymous women, called out for ruining men's lives. At least Urback found two anecdotes for her column. The idea that this isn't about men at all is obvious from the text as well, particularly in the third poster I mentioned. It starts off seemingly directed at at a male reader (Just because she's easy) before returning to tell the now female reader not to "be that girl." The second poster also does a poor job of sharing any sort of message about wrongfully convicted men - whining about double standards doesn't do much, except make you seem petulant. So, Robyn Urback, a little awareness is probably OK, but these posters don't even contain that. Perhaps you could try a little bit of self-awareness, and admit you're just searching for pageviews. 

And I'll do the same, and admit I regret the handful I'll send you through this post.

Drawing Catwoman: Too Big Not to Fail

Image credit: Tucker Stone, The Comics Journal

That... thing comes from Catwoman #8. Now, I have a few problems with the image, but somehow it's the little ones - and not the glaring, anatomically incorrect ones - that niggle most. WHY ARE THERE TINY CAT CHARMS ON THE STRINGS OF HER BIKINI BOTTOM? First of all, the strings. The strings. Why? Now, I may not be a sexy cat burglar myself, but I think they might pose some practical issues. For example, they might unravel right over a laser sensor. That's both embarrassing and unprofessional. Then, the charms. I always figured Catwoman was a confident thirty-year-old woman with some BDSM tendencies, not somebody with the same tastes as a teenaged girl. On the other side, are there charms that express her dedication to chess club and marching band? And oh yes: I almost forgot about the breasts.

Now, talking about the depiction of women in superhero comics isn't the freshest topic in circulation. It's been so churned over, that critics and artists have reached some kind of uneasy detente over the matter. Women will continue to be drawn like they don't need rib cages, and people who don't like it can pass over the spandex for any D and Q title. That's not the point of this post. Rather, I wanted to figure out why this image bothered me more than some of the first drawings of Catwoman I saw as a young, fresh comic book fan. Those were dark years. Those... were the Balent years. For the uninitiated, Jim Balent was the main artist on Catwoman's solo title back in the late '90s, and a firm believer that female anatomy included beach balls embedded just below the neck. Here's an example of his sensibility:

And yet, swimsuit issue Catwoman irritates me more. Jim Balent's vision was so ridiculous that it could be interpreted a clever parody if you were feeling generous, harmless silliness if you weren't. But this Catwoman is just realistic enough to irritate, just realistic enough that it doesn't seem patently ridiculous. It seems achievable. Furthermore, the artist, Adriana Melo, is a woman. Female writers or artists are still a minority on mainstream titles, but when we do get representation, this is the product? I know I should take a deep breath and give Melo the benefit of the doubt. I can't fight for more female creatives, only to dictate what they can produce. And I'm not so naive as to forget Melo was probably working under certain (DD-sized) expectations. But still. At least give Catwoman a form-fitting wetsuit and lose the girly charms. Otherwise, we might have to call Balent back in, that is if he's not too busy haunting vaginas.

Paperback Hater: My Reply to Emily Keeler

Have book covers become too pretty? Look at books like The Eat-Clean Diet: Fast Fat-loss That Lasts Forever! and you might say no, but that doesn't stop Emily Keeler from saying yes in a recent article for the Toronto Standard. Two series in particular are too sexy for her bookshelf: Jillian Tamaki's Threads collection, and Coralie Bickford-Smith's redesigned Fitzgeralds, both produced for Penguin. I read the article reluctantly, ready to be offended. If you're a longtime reader of my blog (I think there may be six of you by now!) you probably know that I like book covers. I like them a lot. I'll point out ones I think are particularly pretty on a semi-regular basis, and Bickford-Smith's work has appeared twice. So I tried to strain the petty bitterness out of any meaningful critique I could offer on Keeler's piece, but by the end my most coherent thought was still "GIRL, PLEASE." Time has cooled my ire, though, and allowed me to expand on that emotion.

My first issue is Keeler's apparent belief that the book as design object, or even a marker of taste, dates to Penguin hiring Tamaki. But the book as fetish object has a longer history than the book as utilitarian good. The latter needed several factors to appear and collide for it to become a phenomenon. Mass production, greater literacy and more disposable income, among others. Before, people who learned to read, then found time to do so regularly were generally either religious or rather rich. Sometimes, they even farmed out the pages to professional bookbinders, who returned beautifully tooled and gilded pieces of art. This process persisted even past the automation of bookbinding. If Keeler believes The Last Tycoon is overdesigned, she may want to avert her eyes from this pyrotechnic book cover, circa 1900. And when it comes to taste, as Bourdieu said, "Taste classifies, and it classifies the classifier." He also said this in 1984, 27 years before the "beautiful books" which Keeler sees as becoming "consumable objects that describe the taste of the reader who proudly, tastefully, displays them" were getting laid out in InDesign.

I'm also not sure that "The lush redesigns fetishize these books, render them décor rather than literature." Do they? Really? Are publishers the new authors, back when it was assumed that the author packed meaning into the text, which readers then decoded to find the One True Interpretation? A company may say a book's collectible in the copy, but that doesn't guarantee that it will never be read. Books are multi-functional that way. They'll always be "literature" if they can be opened, contain words, and if you're not using the highest-browed meaning of the term. The only guaranteed way of turning books from literature to décor is to strip the covers and sew the pages together in a stack, which is exactly what Restoration Hardware did in 2010, but isn't what Penguin did here. Michael Maranda might know a little something about décor though. Keeler likes his work on Selected Business Correspondence, where a "whole sheaf of letters is bound and placed in an embossed manilla folder." That sounds like an object guaranteed to become décor, if only because once you've spent $40 on it, you'll want to limit your chances of bending the letters or tearing the envelope as you stuff them back in. Perhaps it's better just to click through the free PDF online.

For the record, each of the Fitzgerald redesigns costs less than $30, and all of them will survive a few readings out here in the physical world.

Try Not to Analyze the Hype

SOPA would be a terrible, terrible thing. My friend Max thinks so, and I believe him. If you're Canadian, you can sign this call to action. If you're American, sign this petition or contact your congressperson directly. The pressure seems to be working, so keep it up. Plus, it's always fun to make Rupert Murdoch angry.

The past week has been a bad one for two people. If, in fact, they are people, and not just constructs built by the online commentary-critical complex to suits its needs. In the sporting world: Tim Tebow, mediocre quarterback, Jockey spokesman, litmus test for your thoughts on religion/the universe at large. From the music sphere: Lana Del Rey. One got spanked 45-10 by Tom Brady and the Patriots, ending the playoff run of the Denver Broncos, while the other mumbled her way through an SNL appearance. I can't say that I bear any personal ill will to either of these fine young Americans - well, maybe Tebow, a little, based mostly on that Super Bowl anti-choice ad - but I was glad as the implosions played out.

In a few months, Lana del Rey generated the kind of media studies analysis Madonna writhed around for years to make possible, and Tebow hit that sweet, sweet intersection of sports, religion and the American news cycle. Klosterman wrote about him, the New Yorker wrote about him, even Canada discovered him and wrote about him, but the article was kind of awful, so let's ignore it. With both of these kids, I resented the constant churning of the explaining machine. My response to them is not a mirror of my feelings on larger issues. And why concentrate on religion, or "authenticity," when the question of whether Tim or Lana are decent at what they do should be tackled first. Actually, in Del Rey's case, WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THOSE LIPS ought to be issue number one. At the height of Tebowmania, the NFL produced photos of what Tim Tebow's babies would look like with various celebrities. Using the same cutting-edge technology the NFL has at its disposal - that is, a free site - I have created Lana Tel Bow. Because clearly, they belong together.

I majored in cultural studies, I have my license to analyze, but there's a difference between that which illuminates, and that which strives for profundity but only gets page views. Here's to getting a break from the latter.

Why I Quit on this Kai Nagata Article, Or: Honey, Press Delete Sometimes

Hey, remember Kai Nagata? He wrote that article about why he quit his CTV gig, which got sent around to most of Canada, pissing off a few, being shared by many more, and likely read in its entirety by none. This is because Kai, who I am sure is an articulate, well-dressed young man in person, gets a bit windy when place in front of the keyboard.

His "Why I Quit My Job" post comes in at just over 3,000 words, about twice the length of the average New York Times news article. My brain has interpreted this as a sign to give Nagata's words as much weight as anything I've read lately about the Euro zone crisis or Occupy Wall Street. Although, full disclosure: both Nagata's quarterlife crisis and world events take up a fraction of my mental real estate when compared to pictures and/or videos of corgis. Arf.
Since that went viral, Kai got himself hired by The Tyee, an independent lefty-ish online magazine based out of B.C. And, as The Tyee likely mandates from all of its columnists, he grew out the contractual beard. But, long in facial hair as Kai may now be, he is even longer in print. And "Why Harper Wants You to Know that He Loves Hockey", his most recent article, is a few hundred words longer than his most famous post.

But maybe Kai Nagata is just stretching out his rhetorical muscles online, in preparation for lecturing us all through the medium of CPAC. In short: he wants to be the prime minister. The first third of the article is Kai comparing himself to Harper on the three things Harper is supposed to love most- hockey, the military, and Tim Horton's- and then detailing how he wins each contest. Harper says he loves hockey? Well, Kai Nagata played hockey with a ragtag band of scrappy Vancouver kids so ethnically diverse CBC is probably casting for a commercial right now. Harper loves the military? Well, Kai was actually in the army... reserves. Harper loves himself some Timmy's? Well, Kai HAS A TIM HORTON'S TRAVEL MUG. Suck it, creepy lips Steve!! Something's riding shotgun in the cup holder of Kai's car, and it's a little something called AUTHENTICITY.
It was a competition that Harper was bound to fail, because Stephen Harper... is a robot*. And robots cannot truly be said to understand the human emotion we call "love", even when we're talking about a sweet, sweet double-double. But still, I don't think winning these games makes Nagata a better Prime Minister, or even a better Canadian. Nagata is not writing about how a politician fails to live up to the standards of being a useful public servant, but instead on how they're failing to be the author, and by the end it starts reading like so much literature for a campaign that's only happening inside the writer's mind.

And it's also, sadly, a way of letting the other side win, by letting them set the terms of the debate. You might eat more Timbits than Harper (or care more for immigrants than Jason Kenney, or like Dan Mangan more genuinely than James Moore, etc. etc.), you might have won that battle, but it's a pretty hollow victory when you're still yelling their talking points than talking about what really matters.

But my irritation at the structure of Kai Nagata's piece has obscured, for me and for this post, the important observations he makes about the message Harper is selling, and the techniques he's using in the process. However, it's hard to find them under the heaps of Naga-trivia. So, some suggestions to The Tyee: hire an editor, put Kai on a 1,500 word limit and tell him to talk about himself less and listen more. And maybe shaving that beard would be a good idea too.

*Note: I do not think that Stephen Harper is a robot, just a truly regrettable prime minister.

This is What *I* Want You to Think: An Anti-Conspiracy Theory Rant

Before moving to B.C., I found conspiracy theories to be quaint and wacky little things. Oh the joy I felt at seeing a conspiracy theorist in the wild once, eyes a-darting and hands a-fluttering, explaining to a friend how the American government had been the ones responsible for the Oklahoma City bombings. But that was in Montréal, where most of the people were too cynical to trust the government, but also too cynical to trust a poorly-edited website instead. So he was a novelty.

Out here he would have been about as common as a seagull. Conspiracy theories are party conversation in Victoria. I would rather have malicious gossip and petty cattiness. I may even prefer talking about the weather. Instead, I have heard that:

• The U.S. didn't really kill bin Laden
• The U.S. (or at least the FBI, CIA, etc) did kill JFK
• Chemtrails are a real thing
• The government and university scientists are also bouncing radio waves off of those chemtrails to control our weather
  
• We should be growing all our vegetables using hydroponics as the Fukishima disaster has irradiated all of our land
• Bobby Fischer was the victim of a Cold War-era plot that lead to his exile
• D.S.K. was framed
  

All of this conspiracy talk has lead me to develop a ratings system for the theories. "Probably Wrong, But Understandable" is a level 1. Level 2 is "getting wacky." Level 3 is "WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS." Here's how I've rated the former theories:

• The U.S. didn't really kill bin Laden (1)
  
• The U.S. (or at least the FBI, CIA, etc) did kill JFK (2)
  
• Chemtrails are a real thing (2)
  
• The government and university scientists are also bouncing radio waves off of those chemtrails to control our weather (3)
  
• We should be growing all our vegetables using hydroponics as the Fukishima disaster has irradiated all of our land (2)
• Bobby Fischer was the victim of a Cold War-era plot that lead to his exile (1)
• DSK was framed (1)
  

This ratings system can also be applied to various 9/11 conspiracy theories:

• The U.S. knew 9/11 was going to happen, but did nothing to stop it (1)
• The U.S. blew up the planes themselves (2)
• The U.S. strapped propulsion engines to the top of the buildings, there were no planes at all and the JEWS WERE INVOLVED SOMEHOW (3+)

I know I shouldn't care, but I do. Not enough to argue with them-mostly because Beer #6 is when I'm accused of thinking what THEY want me to think, and Beer #5 is when I actually stopped thinking, whether for myself or others. But two reasons and a hangover usually lead to some irritation the next morning.

First reason: conspiracy theories are a waste of effort. Skepticism is a sign of a healthy democracy, but these beliefs are just more blind faith with a different end in mind. Governments and corporations do enough heinous things in the broad daylight that you don't have to waste your time chasing after shadows. Complain about corporate tax loopholes instead of chemtrails. All you need is a tax code and some filings, instead of a shaky grasp of physics and meteorology. These issues are a sideshow to genuine social problems.

Second reason: these theories come down to emotion winning out over logic. Talk to a few of these true believers for a while, and there's a pattern. Step 1: Something doesn't "feel" right about event X. Step 2: They go on the Internet. Step 3: They search out theories that validate their own "feelings" about event X. Step 4: They corner you so that you, too, may begin to see the light. Feelings aren't facts. Don't turn one into the other and call it a plot. It's just bad research. With the increasingly fearful and combative state of politics both here in Canada and down south, less emotion is exactly what we need.

Grudgingly, I'll admit that there's a chance, if slim, that some of these theories might be true. Or maybe the story's so good that it might as well be so. Thanks to my comic book reading habit, I spent most of my adult life believing that FDR knew that Pearl Harbor was going to happen- it was that handy of a narrative. But you know what they say about broken clocks and blind squirrels. They're right, they find nuts, but not often enough to start watching the skies and writing off exploding jets.

Feminine Hygiene: Anna Faris, A New Yorker Article, and Some Feminist Ire

This photo of Anna Faris is either from one of the Scary Movies or a romantic comedy, but the scariest thing is that it works equally well for both.

I like Anna Faris-somehow I survived an entire Scary Movie and concluded that she was the best part of it -but her recent New Yorker profile ("Funny Like a Guy: Anna Faris and Hollywood's Image Problem") has me confused about whether I want her to succeed or not. Sisterhood is powerful, but bitterness lasts forever. Especially the bitterness of wishing, for once, that having "guys want to nail her" would not matter if a woman wants to do comedy.

A "leading agent" tells that to the writer on page 54, and the entire article is full of sad, sad quotes like that one. It should be news to none of you that women- even attractive, white, straight, thin blonde women with breast implants like Faris- do not rule Hollywood. But in this article, that situation is presented so starkly that it left me wanting a drink, matches for my DVD collection, and a good book to read before the cops came to arrest me for arson.

Also notable: Keenan Ivory Wayans's belief that what holds women back from being funny is their innate vanity, because "If Will Ferrell is a girl, and she's got a belly and a hairy back, she's not running down the street naked." Actually, Keenan, if I may pipe up... I'm no Hollywood insider, but I don't think that's what's stopping hairy, fat women from running down the street to the box office bank. Rather it's the legion of American assholes who would surely rise uponce she did, to complain about how she had the audacity to kill their boners.

Which brings me to my least-favourite part of the article, a part I have termed "The Magical Slut Number." For most of the profile, Faris is shown wrapping up What's Your Number?, a romantic comedy and (the article hints) hopefully her big, international break-out role. In the film, a woman reads an article in Marie Claire that says anyone who's slept with more than some arbitrary number of guys will never get married. Unfortunately, she's at that limit. Thus, the plot: tracking down randoms in order to find Mr. Right, ignoring that he's actually right down the hall. God knows, like all women, I conduct every facet of my life in accordance with a magazine with lower circulation than Cosmo.

But what would that arbitrary number be? According to New Regency's Hutch Parker "We thought, would twenty guys be too many for the audience to relate to her?... But if you take that number down- and we though about fifteen, or even twelve- it makes the film less bold." The Magic Slut Number! Too low, and you're not wild enough! Too high, and you scare people. Now, some might say that 20 is not that high of a number for a woman in her thirties. After all, femininity embraced Sex and the City, where even uptight Charlotte probably got her ticket punched more than 20 times in five seasons, much less one lifetime. And New Regency would probably say back to you that you're the kind of dirty whore they don't want in the movie theatre anyway.

At least there was one benefit to reading this article. If some guy ever says to me that the whole "Stud/Slut" double standard does not exist, and is only something angry women bring up while drunk at parties (as I do believe Chuck Klosterman stated, in some form, in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs), I have ammunition. "Twenty," I will yell, "TWENTY." And then I will mutely point to Anna Faris's face on a bus stop poster.

An Open Letter to North America Regarding The Charlie Sheen Situation

Dear North America,

I'll begin this letter by sharing a personal anecdote. When Charlie Sheen exploded/imploded into media consciousness a few weeks back, my reaction was as follows: hearty chuckle, followed by an "Oh, that Charlie Sheen, he's so wacky", followed by "Actually, no, he has a history of spousal abuse, some serious issues, and is also responsible for the well-being of several children, a task he's clearly ill-prepared for. This isn't wacky. This is fucking SAD."

Evidently, this was not the reaction shared by many of you. You followed him on Twitter, you made his quotes into catchphrases, and you probably continued to watch re-runs of Two And A Half Men, although maybe it was 7pm on a Tuesday, you were tired, and the remote had fallen behind the couch, so I suppose it's justifiable. But mostly, when he took his meltdown on tour, you bought tickets.

And, the result was not good. Sheen was booed during his first show, with most of the audience fleeing and many of them demanding refunds. Let's look at a few quotes from this Associated Press article about Sheen's debacle in Detroit. "'It's kind of like a NASCAR race. You're just tuning in because you're just waiting for the accident to happen,' said Prentice, 37." "Adam Hawke said he bought a ticket for the same reason. 'He might be doing something really crazy,' said Hawke, 47, who works in the construction business and lives in Michigan. 'He's a wreck. That's half the draw.'"

To which I say: NO REFUNDS FOR ANY OF YOU. If you wanted a wreck, an accident, there it is. Sheen didn't let you down, he delivered exactly what you loved weeks ago, except this time there was no protective screen. His physical presence made you confront his humanity- and you realized that what's funny on YouTube isn't necessarily so funny when it's being yelled at you in a bus stop or on stage.

And since you so badly want to see a human being flame out, I'm glad that pleasure has a high price tag: at least $45 dollars, plus two hours in a room with a bitter man in a bowling shirt.

Cordially yours,
Portagitron.

In Defense Of Sam Worthington

Max Rambles has thrown down the Worthington-hating gauntlet, and I am ready to pick it up. Someone has to defend our cement-mugged hero, so here goes.

I TOLERATE SAM WORTHINGTON

Why do people hate Sam Worthington for the sins of his directors (and screenwriters?) He's a competent actor, who had the misfortune of being saddled with some of the worst dialogue committed to screen since Lucas stopped making prequels. Take his work in Terminator, particularly the Lifetime Terminators for Women scene by the campfire. You could try replacing him with any great actor from past to present, Olivier to Day Lewis and even they would look ridiculous trying to emote with a former Lakers girl snuggled in their armpit.

Or Avatar. He's so barely on screen with his real face, that hating on him in the movie is kind of like hating on the various voice actors in Disney movies. Now, I don't remember much of the movie because I was too busy fighting Imax and 3D-derived nausea to follow the plot (such as it was,) but I remember being impressed by Worthington's earlier scenes conveying wonder at being able to float weightlessly in space and bitterness at being earth and chair-bound the rest of the time. It even broke through the thin veneer of CGI that covered everything in that movie.

I haven't seen Clash of the Titans yet, because I just don't have the constitution for another 3D "experience." But it seems like he's the least of that movie's problems, considering the supposedly god-awful 3D conversion it has suffered. At least he's no Harry Hamlin. Thanks to his bricklaying background, Worthington at least looks like he can lift a sword. And thanks to his buzz cut, I'm not concerned he's rent a small tear in the ozone layer, like a certain Hamlin bouffant.

I find Worthington to be a good compromise between the 'roided-up dude stars of yesteryear and the current crop of baby-faced actors I'm supposed to take seriously as men of action. I am a 5"1-inch person who loses daily battles against jar lids, but I still think I can take on Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire. Possibly at the same time. I'm not so eager to cross Sam Worthington though. In short, he's Bruce Willis with a soul graft.

Even if your personal feelings differ though, I think we can all agree that judging based on three movies that, shall we say, offer little material for the actor's craft is a little harsh. Let him appear in something that wasn't filmed in front of the green screen and let's see what he can do. If not that, maybe we can least find him an action film that hasn't had a lobotomy, so we can see whether he's the next Harrison Ford - or just another Mark Hamill.

Setting The Paper Of Record Straight

This Sunday morning was spent like many others. I woke up, shoved the nearest edible item in my mouth and turned on my computer to read the New York Times. Not to follow the passage of the health care bill or learn about Iran's nuclear program. Instead, I clicked on the Styles tab and got right to the fluff, namely Modern Love. I don't know whether I like the column better when it's something touching and original (this article about being a lonely Mormon missionary) or an emotional train wreck I'm reading about at a safe distance (almost everything else.)

So imagine my joy to find out from Pop Culture Junk Mail that Slate has been running a series of Modern Love rebuttals, where the subjects of the essays finally get their revenge and get to see their side in print. It's funny to imagine the possibilities of a feedback loop here. Someone writes an article about how they had to ditch their emotionally stunted boyfriend, that boyfriend writes about what it felt like to see his life in print, then the original author can write about what it felt like to read the reaction, and then... and so on and so on until somebody makes a movie or at least gets a book deal.

But the reality is actually more interesting. I particularly liked the first one, which reminded me of the intro to this recent episode of This American life, which pointed out that - unlike pretty much every other section of the paper - the weddings and celebrations page doesn't have to present a fair and balanced take on the facts. Or even try. The first husband is not called for comment when his wife marries the man she left him for, he becomes an anecdote. The drug-addicted daughter doesn't get to give her reasons, no when she's just the mechanism for personal growth.

So when you read Modern Love, you begin to feel as if the authors are piggybacking off the objective reputation the rest of the paper has earned. Their hope that if they're published, their version of the break-up or the parenting crisis will become definitive, almost sweats off the page. It's nice to see that torn down in messy essays that don't have the Times polish and which remind us that someone's got to pay for our emotional epiphanies.

365 Days of Something

I know this whole x- in a year thing has been building up on blogs for a while. Whether it's living biblically, living sustainably or just cooking your way through a lot of butter, it seems like we can only be productive people - or at least earn a book deal - if we're doing it in a calendar year. I noticed it, but didn't really care until I read a little article about a NPR staffer who baked a cake a week for a year and, yes, ended up with a book deal. Something inside me broke, and it wasn't just because I was hungry.

Since there has already been tons of blog posts and newspaper articles deconstructing and analyzing this trend, I won't do that.

Instead, I'm going to try and figure out how to get my ass on this gravy train before it pulls out of the station.

1. Live like it's 1805 FOR A YEAR.
Pros: Everyone likes Austen. Ever since her pop culture revival in the 1990s, people can't seem to get enough of those high-waisted gowns and deep, deeply repressed emotions. Plus, I already have the dress.
Cons: Waiting at home because nobody careed about the "Lady Q. Protagitron will be receiving at home from 10-11" cards that I had made up might get old fast. Also, I might not be able to make rent if I quit me job because "it is beneath the dignity of the daughter of a gentleman to labour."

2. Read a Russian classic a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: If this lady can "read" a book a day for a year, I can do her one better. I'll read nothing but Russian, in the original Russian for a whole year. All the books must way 10 pounds each and end with the protagonist's soul being crushed under the wheels of their society. Book deal about books here I come (book?)
Cons: I know Russian. Except for the Russian word for refigerator, and I figure the number of books focused entirely around Firgidaires and originally written in Russian is a small, small number.

3. Eat a different animal a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: Getting back to nature is big and food writing is even bigger. I will take my reader on a adventure through my stomach and around the world as I soak up culinary knowledge and expand my horizons by butchering a different, and probably adorable, animal each day.
Cons: While January would be a breeze what with beef on the 1st and chicken on the 2nd, I feel like my commitment to the project would waver sometime around day #321 when I realize I need to cleave a steak from the back of a platypus.

4. Sleep with a different guy a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: I really need to get out more, and maybe I would meet a nice fellow. Make some babies. Get another book out of motherhood.
Cons: Herpes.

5. Watch an episode of the Simpsons a day FOR A YEAR
Pros: The Simpsons, although perhaps now but a shadow of its former self, might be one of the most influential and quotable shows to ever hit the airwaves. What will be revealed about our society me through as we I regard life through it's prism?
Cons: This is already my life. As well as everybody 20-30 years old with the tv on and nothing better to do.

Alright, so I can't come up with anything. It looks like all the good ones, or at least all of the tasty ones, have been taken. Or maybe I'm just starting to think that this year thing is a comforting way of keeping change clean. Of packaging our growth into convenient time periods we can plan for it to start and to end. I don't know. Give me a year to think about it.

The Good, The Bad and the Funny

And another good thing: this amazing birthday present I got from my old roommate Katie*. The books are A Tale of Two Cities, Jane Eyre, The Maltese Falcon, Ghost World, Anna Karenina, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. They're on top of a pile of birthday books from another amazing friend. Am I that predictable? Yes.

Man, sorry to let my angry screed about Roman Polanski stay up there for so long. I meant to post something else, but I then life kept on getting in the way. Except for Thursday, since that was Day 4 of Project: Protagitron becomes a hermit and there was just no excuse. So without further ado, three little things about last week:

1. The Good: There's been a lot of this lately. I did nothing but knit and watch movies, curled up next to my cat, for four days. I had an amusing run-in with an old crush object, proving I am genetically incapable of pretending not see one convincingly. And pretty much the whole weekend so far has been awesome, from having curry with friends to seeing one of them kick ass playing lacrosse. Those girls aren't quite as nasty as womens rugby, but they're still pretty fierce. But so far, the biggest "good" has been seeing Dragonette with the delightful Poli and Amanda. We danced. Oh, how we danced. Except to music that was more like this. When I grow up, I want to have cheekbones like Martina Sorbara.

2. The Bad: I always thought the catty bitch thing was just a high school movie trope. And even then, the catty bitch always gets hers in the final act. But no! When I was on the bus, this horrendous girl behind me tore into some friend's girlfriend in a way that made me feel as if I had fallen into a John Hughes movie. It started off with "I just don't think her personality is sparkling enough to make up for how fat she is. I really think he's a chubby chaser," and then went on for ten minutes of the most vile shit I had ever heard. It was hard to choose which was the biggest turd sentence: "But personality comes in a lot of sizes. Why couldn't he get one that was thin?" or "She's like the pair of pants that're too big for him but he still wears." Really, honey? It's not like women don't get enough shit about their bodies already from the media, so just go on ahead and do the dirty work for them.

3. The Funny: I tend to speak quickly and somewhat sloppily. Usually this just leads to people asking "What?" a lot and my mom imploring me to speak properly. But the other day at work, my adorable desk neighbor asked: "Is that an accent, or is it just the way you talk?" Heh. The next time someone asks me "What?" I'm just going to plead it's my impenetrable Southwestern Ontario accent. Thick as pea soup, it is.

*She ordered from an Etsy seller, SophiesBeads, if you want to get your own.

Sympathy For The Director

Alright. So, when did I wake up into a world where the rape of anyone was okay, much less of a drugged thirteen year-old? As a feminist, I've come to terms with the fact that my stance on gender issues is not shared by most, but I still thought that raping a child was universally viewed as a bad thing. No matter how tragic the rapist's personal life might be, or how good his movies are.

Yes, I'm talking about the Roman Polanski mess. Everyone is, and most of them make me angry when they do. Surviving the Holocaust only to see your wife and unborn child slaughtered seems almost too cruel to be true. But that sympathy doesn't preclude from believing that rape is wrong and that he should serve a sentence. Or from thinking that a cushy life in France and an Oscar are not a substitute for jail time.

I know his judge was a nut, but that doesn't mean he wasn't guilty of a crime. The Holocaust and the Manson murders are mitigating factors. But unless he couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong at the time of the offence - and no evidence seems to indicate that - that doesn't mean he's innocent.

But here are some things that do mean something. The victim was below the age of consent, which means she could not give it. That makes it rape. She was drugged, which means she could not give consent. That's rape. And she said no. That's rape too. Any way you look at it, any definition or test you can come up with, you get the same result. And a host of other crimes or tragedies one has suffered doesn't mean it can all just go away.

Further reading: What Scorsese And All The Rest Know About Roman Polanski That Maybe You Don't - Allison Benedikt
Common Polanski Defenses, Refuted- Amanda Hess

Thoughts On A(n Unsturdy) Clothesline

The apartment dryer has died. I would mourn the passing, but really it's just meant my clothes are now full-on wet instead of a little damp, because the damn thing never really worked anyway. Unfortunately, I do need clothes. So, I've been taking advantage of one of the many benefits Point Saint Charles offers, besides an unparalleled collection of abandoned factories: CLOTHESLINES. Look, I know I'm getting a little weird and house-proud, but I love my clothesline. It makes me feel like a competent person to hang up laundry, although I have often forgotten it on the line and lost a few good towels that way. The clothes smell so good when they come off the line. Oh, and it's free and better for the environment.

Which, I feel conflicted about. I know that I should be more ecologically sound, part of a shift that our society should be making. Hell, I even listened to a frightening TVO lecture this morning about global warming, and how to current estimates we're working with are actually grossly optimistic. But it also annoys me that the steps shown and sold to us are so small, and so evasive of the real problems. This was part of the reason why I abandoned my Greening project, because I realized half of the steps involved buying new crap anyway. And the rest somehow led to a life without cheeseburgers, so no. It makes me want to slap every smug person carrying a reusable bag, especially when their bags loudly advertise that fact. Not because of the bag, necessarily, but because they probably didn't need what was in it anyway.

And then, I would have to deal with my own hypocrisy, because if my assault charge comes on a day like today, I would have shuffled over to my dep for overpriced ice cream and canned soup, probably sealed with the tears of Guatemalan orphans. And then carried my shame home in a reusable bag.

Grading the Schools

You might not know who Booker T and the MG's are, but you've probably heard this song on the soundtrack of any movie that needs an aural shortcut to "cool."

That's Green Onions, their first big hit. Even if you don't know that song, you've probably heard them on others; they were essentially the Stax Records house players, a label responsible for Otis Redding, Mavis Staples, and Isaac Hayes. So even when you don't think you're hearing them, you just might be. The Onion AV Club has a really interesting interview with the front man, Booker T. Jones. He has a new album coming out with Neil Young and the Drive-By Truckers, and I think analogheads should read why Jones is embracing new tech so thoroughly. However, what I found most interesting- and upsetting- wasn't anything about the production of the album, but Jones on the sad state of music education in the States:

"Musically, the opportunities for new bands are shrinking somewhat because as far as kids growing up who want to learn music, the opportunities are less than they were for me. I’m gonna donate some of my old instruments to the Tipitina’s Instrument Program in New Orleans, ’cause the schools are not financed well enough nowadays to provide band instruments like they were when I was in school. States are not financing music education like they used to. Opportunities for new bands and new musicians are not as good now."

Jones isn't talking about rich private schools, or even the feeder schools that masquerade as public, because those kids will be kept in horns and bassoons until the end of time. It's just the poor kids who'll get screwed over, and the new music tech won't save them either. With the equally shitty state of school funding in low-income areas for computers, they're equally screwed. Arts funding, or the lack of it, might not seem like much with school violence and outdated textbooks on the grounds. But reading Jones shows how much we're going lose this way, if we lose out on people like him.