The Avengers Trailer, or Iron Man and His Marketable Friends

Was there any need to actually make a teaser trailer for The Avengers? Most likely anyone who needs to know about The Avengers- a demographic that consists of anyone who loves air conditioning, loves theatre popcorn, likes movies and tolerates paying up to $13 to enjoy any of the former- is already planning to do it. From Hulk to Captain America, they've had entire films that were essentially teaser trailers for this movie. But here it is.

Of course, Iron Man hogs the trailer, but his movies did the best, so why not? The explosions look competent, and I'm glad they brought Loki back from the Thor movie. But poor Hawkeye is barely in it, although maybe they're just saving Jeremy Renner for the Oscar campaign. And seeing Scarlett Johansson really makes me wish they had found a way to work the Scarlet Witch in as well. Sure, maybe they're going with the genetically enhanced version of the Black Widow, but the ability to look Vogue cover-ready for decades is pretty lame when you're standing next to a Norse god and a big green bag of testosterone. Even Hawkeye gets a crossbow.

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.

The Mysteries of S.

When I switched my cell number in Victoria for a local number, I never imagined I would be gaining a fraction of somebody else's life, along with the new area code. The other person is named S___. Here are a few things I know about him: at some point in the past few years, a woman caused him some kind of heartache that he's still bitter about. Random girls call him from clubs at 4 in the morning. And he enjoyed the services of a masseuse, but not necessarily of the Swedish variety. Don't worry, I'm not stalking him. It's just that a few days ago I received the following text:

"Note to all my faves.. I'm getting out of the business.. going from full service to straight massage..last day is Oct 3rd so pre book an appt now or you will miss out..thanks its been a wild ride :)"

At first, I wanted to text back "OH HAS IT NOW?", to make up for all the times I refrained from answering "Pardon me, but this is MRS. S____ SPEAKING" after yet another drunk girl searching to get laid woke me up past midnight. But I didn't. Every one of these cases of digital eavesdropping was unintentional- I never asked the girls to call, or the ex to text looking for a Thanksgiving reconciliation. But I still felt like I was intruding each time they happened.

Because here are a few things I don't know about S____: what he looks like. How old he is. What his last name might be. And since I do not know all these boring, but public, facts, I feel like I have no right to anything private. All I did was pick up the phone number he abandoned, and now poor Shane is missing out on his last chance for a wild ride.

Back to the Roost

What personal business did I leave off the blog in the past month? Well, my internship in Victoria ended, and although I briefly entertained the notion of trying to stay out in the West Coast, I just as quickly decided to pack my (over airplane regulations) bags and head back East.

This decision lead to many things. A few nights spent sleeping in the living room. Dressing out of suitcases. The purchase of unemployment rum*. Ten days spent no more than a metre apart from my parents. And now, a return to Guelph.

Yep, I'm back at the homestead - a strange mid-sized city, an hour and change away from Toronto, and somewhere over the crest of my sanity. I did a whole series on Guelph artifacts last year. If you want the official version, the city of Guelph's website is this way. Library memberships have been renewed and subscriptions set up at the comic book store, but I keep on hoping a magical job offer will arrive before Animal Man #2, so I can move to Toronto. But don't tell the Guelpherati that, or I'll be barred from The Bookshelf's cinema.

*Depending on my mood, said rum was also named either "employment insurance rum, hooray" or "poverty rum of despair". You can decide which mood went with which name.

Me vs. Game of Thrones

I resisted watching Game of Thrones for a few months, mostly on the strength of my HBO-related bitterness.

Also: my home Internet connection is really slow.

But one day I was bored, and my roommates were out, so the Internet connection was limping towards "reasonable" status. I made myself a BLT sandwich, opened a beer, and started the show. I watched one episode, and snickered. Barely halfway through the first episode, and there was just boobs a-jiggling all over my screen: yep, it's HBO. But then I watched another. And then I tried to watch a third one... but something happened while streaming and I missed the last fifteen minutes of the episode.

This led to many attempts to finish watching those last fifteen minutes. Who knows what could have happened during that time? The men could have started getting naked as well!! But by then the roommates were home and the connection had returned to its normal, 1994-like state. Which would have been awesome if I was interested in ASCII porn, but since I wanted the finest in boobies that HBO had to offer, it simply would not do. After the third attempt, it wasn't even about watching Game of Thrones: it was about beating the Internet and therefore winning the game of life.

Which is what I did the next morning. Sadly, there was no trophy for winning the game of life. Just the realization that, as enjoyable as Game of Thrones is, what with Sean Bean, Peter Dinklage, and wolf puppies, it's not worth battling the forces of connectivity/chaos. And also, instead of angrily pounding at my keyboard because I am waiting seconds (perhaps just milliseconds) longer than I want to for free TV, I could try something else. Like opening a book.

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.

The Father, Son and the Holy Guilt Trip

I'm not a religious person. In fact, I'm an atheist. But, on the atheist colour scale where, say, Christopher Hitchens would be a garish shade of scarlet, I'm an inoffensive beige. In simple terms: I will not refuse to say grace around the family Thanksgiving table, but I will quietly think about gravy while mumbling the words.

Still, the beliefs of some believers do confuse me. For example, a recent Facebook post from a vague acquaintance that popped up in my news feed:

♥ I personally believe in Jesus Christ. I asked Jesus, "How much do you love me?" Jesus replies, "This much." And stretched his arms on the cross and died.

Jesus!! (for lack of a secular higher power to appeal to. ) My thought was less "What a powerful sacrifice our Lord made" and more "I should call a crisis line for this person Jesus is talking to." This just makes Him sound like the kind of abusive jerk who uses threats of suicide as emotional blackmail to keep his girlfriends from leaving him. Which does add another layer to Degrassi Season 5, circa 1991: "Claude Tanner as Christian Allegory."

I died for your sins, Caitlin Ryan!

I Love Legends Comics

Pictured: Nerd Alley

There's a particular section of Victoria's Johnson Street, from Douglas to, say, Government that I've taken to calling Nerd Alley. It features two comic book stores, a collectible store (in other words, a toy store for items that are not to be toyed with), two stores for WarHammer figure painters, and one used bookstore. Even the bookstore focuses on the occult, SciFi, and Ayn Rand. If they only added a bubble tea place to the block, it would be possible for any nerd to live, quite happily, in a block-square area of town.

Or at least it would be possible for me to live in a one-block radius, if I didn't hate Ayn Rand and her brand of cuckoo con-objectivism so much. But, from 5:15pm to 5:40pm on Wednesdays, I do anyways. That's because it's New Comic Book Day, and I have an unofficial appointment to be at my preferred of the two comic book stores at that time, begging for the latest issue of Sweet Tooth. Legends Comics is the best, because there are no action figures or licensed T-shirts, just comic books and graphic novels crammed into every conceivable corner and surface. The one area which doesn't have some kind of literature on it is only there, so you can park your coffee and not spill anything on the paper that's everywhere else.

Along with their stock, Legends also has Gareth and Lloyd, the owners. Gareth knows my name and always tells me that I'm awesome. Lloyd, on the other hand, still asks me if I live in town. This is in spite of the fact he's heard Gareth say I'm awesome at least a half-dozen times, so he should know that A. I live in Victoria, and B. am awesome. You might think this means I like Lloyd less than Gareth, but that's not true. Okay, so Gareth does have an edge, but that's as much for his expert lettering on The Perogy Cat as for his weekly validation of my worth. Really, G and L are the yin and the yang of customer-proprietor relationships. On the one hand, the soothing mother's milk where somebody knows your name and the books you like. On the other, the bracing two buck chuck of mild indifference that you yearn to impress away.

I might even be making progress on the latter: Lloyd now knows my name, and even dug through boxes to find an issue of this month's The Unwritten for me. This is a book I've found uneven in the past, alternately gripping and perplexing, but this month's instalment had my complete attention. There's a plot featuring an intelligent, brittle pulp fiction writer, blessed with a schnozz, and the hard-boiled man who loves her. For self-evident reasons, I'm a sucker for those.

Adventures in Arduino

In my youth, I decided that computers were not for me. This was a decision that likely coincided with my "Victoriana" phase, also known as the time in my life when I saved up my allowance to buy an antique inkwell. I had a quill (and a slate, dear God) to go with that inkwell. Fortunately my parents intervened before I ended up in pinafores and stockings, like a time refugee from Miss Tavistock's Home for Wayward Children, but the damage to my technical capabilities had already been done.

The past 10 months have been my attempt to overcome my technophobia, with mixed results. I mean, if it was still 1994, I think I could now make a pretty bitching webpage. On the other hand, and in the present day, I broke the 3D printer at the workshop when I tried using it. But at least now I have an Arduino.

Arduinos are really neat, open-source microcontrollers. And, as far as I can gather from my obsessive reading of the Make: Magazine blog, their main uses include somewhat creepy robots and the automation of fairly routine actions. Thus, my two-step Arduino Plan: 1. Use it to wind balls of yarn for me, and 2. Power my killbot, who will smite my enemies. But first, I started with a simpler, more manageable project: making it blink my nickname in morse code using an LED. Today, "MARTY MARTY MARTY," tomorrow the world/Vancouver Island.

Book Covers I Have Loved: A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

The hardback Penguin Classics, designed by the eerily talented Coralie Bickford-Smith, have been celebrated ever since the first set was released. And yes, they're lovely, but they're also a pretty cover on a cheap binding. Stiff and prone to cracking, I would wager that a standard paperback Penguin Classic would hold up better than their clothbound cousins. But I will make an exception for their version of A Tale of Two Cities.

Blame the knitting. Yes, I've actually read A Tale of Two Cities, so I know that knitting doesn't have the most positive connotation in the novel. But you can blame the knitting and my Madame Defarge-like vengeful streak for not really caring. This book cover is amazing, touching upon the passage of time, guillotine blades, doubles, and my favourite fibre art, all at once.