The Super Bowl, Brought To You By "Life"

Who's Tim Tebow? He's more than a quaterback with a charmingly alliterative name. He's not just a Gators player who's been vocal about his decision to wait until marriage. He's the beefy star of a television commercial, and it isn't for Nike shows or Campbell's Chunky soup. Instead, he's stumping against choice, er, sorry, making a commercial to his commitment to "life."

As a feminist with a mild interest in football, I've been more than a little intrigued by the whole controversy. The ad hasn't been released yet, but it's apparently going to be about Tim Tebow and his mother. While doing missionary work in the Phillippines and expecting Tim, Pam contracted dysentery and then developed a placental abruption as a result of the treatment, so she was advised to terminate the pregnancy. She didn't and you can see the happy ending right here.


My issues with the ad are many. Going through a pregnancy in spite of a placental abruption can be dangerous and your chances of ending up with a healthy baby, much less a Heisman-winner, aren't guaranteed. Also, abortion is illegal in the Phillippines, so Pam was getting an option the rest of the country still lacks, where women have the choice about life made for them and sometimes die as a result.

I also have some concerns that go above the content of the commercial. Although I loathe Focus on the Family, if CBS doesn't have a policy in place banning issue ads during the Super Bowl and FOF wants to pony up a cool 3 mil, then run their ad. Sure, I would take their commitment to "life" more seriously if they used that hunk of cash to actually improve the lives of children post-birth, but whatever.

However, that only applies if CBS is just as willing to broadcast ads from the other side of political spectrum, particularly pro-choice spots. And if their reaction to something as innocous as a gay dating site is any indication, they wouldn't be even if Planned Parenthood magically raised 3 million to blow on 30 seconds of air time.

Furthermore, CBS was apparently involved in the development of the ad. I really think that transgresses an acceptable relationship between a network and an advertiser, and only adds to what an already unbalanced fight. Now FOF not only had 3 million bucks to wave around, but they have all the benefits of CBS' resources and experience as well.

I don't think this necessarily points to some shifty conservative agenda on the part of CBS though. Who knows, that could exist, but it's also better business sense on their part to support the anti-abortion side. I haven't sifted through the stats, but I have a feeling that their side would be more likely to organize boycotts of the game and other advertisers if there was such a PP spot, whereas the other side wouldn't. And even if they did, that group would largely be composed of women, generally not the target audience of any of those ads.

Somehow, though, the controversy and all the complaints have only made the issue worse. I really think this ad could have disappeared from public consciousness if I didn't come with so much hype. But instead of CBS being in the shit, it's NOW. There are columns like this one accusing that organization and feminists in general as trying to suppress any kind of disagreement, as if we really present such a unified front. Not only are we trying to mete out our groupthink to the masses, but we're judging Pam Tebow on her choice. Why, isn't that ironic (in the Alanis Morrisette definition of the term)? such people huff. Well, no, it isn't. I'm not judging Pam Tebow's choice when it comes to her pregnancy with Tim, but I am questioning her choice to try and limit those of other women. And I'm questioning CBS' choice to air that ad and not the one for Man Crunch.

And I am questioning whether to watch the stupid game at all, but since I'm Canadian, all the ads will be replaced when it's simulcast anyway. So I'll be watching a spot for Bob's Discount Carpet Warehouse somewhere out in Scarborough instead of this insanity.

Garter Stitch Mission Accomplished

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this in the blog before, but February is tied with November as my least favourite month. November because it is grey and dreary without having the benefit of being winter and February because of the flocked velvet terror that reigns until the 14th. So, this week has been a little blah for me. To help me get back into the blogging swing of things, here are crappy cellphone pics of the baby sweater I was knitting way back. The red thing is a ladybug button.

Yes, I forgot to take photos with a real camera before bringing it into work. And yes, you all must suffer the consequences.

I think the sweater turned out adorable-looking. I am concerned that the hood is too shallow and the arms are too long, and that there needs to be many, many more buttons, but you know what's tedious? Making buttons loops. Particularly so if you're not sure if the damn thing will fit. So if I get it back for repair work, there will be better photos.

As for the pattern, well, I really think there can be such a thing as too much garter stitch. The ridges, oh, THE RIDGES.

Stitch After Stitch

I would just like to remind you all that I knit. For example, I knit cables. In wooly yarns. Using patterns from Elizabeth Zimmerman. Yes, this is the January Aran, and hopefully the cardigan version at that. I've been knitting on it steadily since before Christmas and now have a hefty tube that will hopefully be ready for shoulders and sleeves soon. Unfortunately, I've had to put it aside for the moment to concentrate on this:

A baby cardigan, for a co-worker. He's the new dad of what I assume is a handsome and tech-savvy young boy and so something small and knitted was in order. Since the Dad has fixed many of my computer problems at work and is an all-around awesome fellow, it couldn't be too boring. However, it couldn't take too long either. So, another Zimmerman pattern is in the works, a baby Tomten Jacket. It's sort of an ugly-looking pile of garter stitch at the moment, but I will show you finished pics if it ends up being neat.

I also have very heretical beefs with EZ's pattern-writing, but that's for another post.

Classic Video Bin: Meet Me Tonight At Atlantic City

When I hear the words Atlantic City, I used to think of the Bruce Springsteen song. Then I might have remembered that it's an actual place and only after that something about it being a movie, starring Susan Sarandon and lemons. I decided to try and change the order of things a bit last week and actually watch the movie.

However, I was ready to turn it off after the first 10 minutes. That's because, with its ambient music and high number of characters, I was reminded of Nashville. Now there's a movie I'll admit intellectually is a great film, but never want to watch ever again. However, I soldiered on and found that those seemingly disparate characters end up collecting together in a story that's more of a traditional narrative than the sprawling Nashville. Also, the movie has in Burt Lancaster something Nashville doesn't: someone who can deliver an amazing, magnetic, movie-driving performance. Sorry, Lily Tomlin.

He plays Lou, who acts like he was a big-time gangster back in the day, but who just seems like a petty criminal with a chivalry problem. He lives in a rundown hotel that will probably be torn down for a new casino, along with the aging beauty queen he tends to and Sally, Susan Sarandon's wannabe dealer and oyster bar waitress. Soon, Sally's husband and spacey sister show up, with her sister knocked up and her husband packing stolen drugs. After that, the characters all try to make it, hoping to use the drugs as a shortcut.

The husband wants to sell the drugs to make some money, while Lou wants to sell them to take care of and impress Sally. He watches her cut lemons and rub them on her body after work. She just wants to get the oyster smell off while he seems to be having a half-religious and half-sexual vision of organic renewal.

That's the tension, even more so than the question of whether they'll be caught and rubbed out, that drives the rest of the movie. Sally is practical, she wants to do things and improve herself in very objective, financial terms. Lou is a dreamer and wants to recapture that lawless past he never really had. Naturally, things go sour, but since Lou's beauty queen is also living in the past - essentially, her gloriously set-decorated, frilly apartment- things go a little sweet as well. It might not be the cleanest, happiest movie you will ever see, it's certainly not the very best, but it's good enough.

Greed vs. Need

My foray into church-going was brief and forced, and I can remember little but the fact that powdered peach drink is one of the most repulsive substances yet recorded. Morally, it left me a little unfinished. Now I've got a guilt complex, but none of the convenient religiously-related means of expiating it, from prayer to confession.

As a recent example, the devastating earthquake in Haiti has sent me probing, because it coincided with my need for new running shoes. How much should I give, when there's a crisis of such a magnitude? I felt like I couldn't give less than the cost of the pair of shoes. If I did, I would be conceiving of people's lives in fractions of shoes, which seemed heartless, especially when those could have been stitched together at one of the free trade zones in Haiti*. Those allowed companies to profit from the availability of cheap labour, without doing anything to strengthen the country's infrastructure or government. The weakness of both has only worsened the effect of the earthquake.

On the other hand, I couldn't afford both, at least not without having a dull, rather frugal month. And I did need new running shoes, although I could have lived with the many other shoes I own, many of which cost the equivalent of several pairs of the shoes under consideration. Although I am now an atheist, I briefly considered the possibility of an afterlife. What would be my defense if I was brought before some kind of court, and told to account for how I decided the piles of fashionable impracticality on the one side balanced out the abject human suffering on the other? I had to admit that, on many levels, I was not a righteous woman.

Once I established that, I bought the shoes. Then I did what many people have done when they felt they could no longer trust some deity to be perfectly objective. I decided to have faith in chance, so I flipped a coin. Heads, I would donate all of the money I had spent on shoes and tails, half of it. I'll let you guess where it landed.

If you would like to donate money to Haiti Earthquake Relief without this kind of stress, please check out one of the organizations on this list. You can take a measure of the devastation here, or listen to our Governor-General, Michaëlle Jean's, heartbreaking response here.

*Turns out it was a likely bet that my shoes were manufactured in China. Also, garments are usually produced in those free trade zones, but still.

Book Covers I Have Loved: Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy

Designer: David Pearson, for Picador UK. Buy here.

I'm not Cormac McCarthy's biggest fan, to be diplomatic about it. I find him at once terse and overwritten, pretentious and abrupt. I just want him to decide once and for all if his characters are supposed to be plain-speaking cowboys or walking, talking Rogets.

I do love this new cover for Blood Meridian though. It looks just enough like wanted posters from the Old West to recall the time period, but the fill on the font looks like burned-out film stock, so we already know we're in for a more modern and unpleasant take on the Western than a nostalgic trip out West.

It's part of a series of re-designs of McCarthy's entire work by David Pearson, which I first saw on the delightful Caustic Cover Critic. You can see the rest there. I don't think they all work. For example, as the CC pointed out, The Road looks a lot like Pearson's Kierkegaard cover - to my mind, too much. But I love this. Maybe it's time to give McCarthy another shot.

On a related note: check out my pal Max's thoughts on the book to film adaptation of The Road.

Francophilia, Jr: Youth In Revolt

Is Michael Cera a real boy? I'm beginning to wonder if he's not unlike that little girl vampire from Interview With A Vampire - cursed to remain a child for all time. I just got back from seeing Youth In Revolt and although he must be around my age, he still looks like someone getting their first sex ed class.

As for the movie itself, it's surprisingly endearing, in spite of Cera's uncanny presence. He plays poor Nick Twisp, who wants to get laid, preferably to the blonde intellectual wannabe who lives down the trailer park lane. It's the same plot you've seen in every teen sex comedy, but since this hero fancies himself a "voracious reader" the dialogue has an off kilter charm. It's what comes from teenagers who know how to define words but not how to use them.

I don't think I would be spoiling much to say he succeeds, cherries are popped and so on. Of course it's because he's manned up, or homme-d it so to speak, after creating a quasi-French thug persona who lets him express his violent side. I suppose on some level it's not the most positive message to send to people, that the only way to get the girl in bed is to be a douchebag outside it. Among other things, he burns down part of a town and slips sleeping pills in his crush's drink.

It might also be painfully nostalgic for some of you. When you're in high school, particularly a generic public school, it doesn't take much to feel like you have superior taste. If you've sat through a Fellini movie and own a record player, that's enough. For example, the crush du jour for the brainy chicks at my school established his cred just by putting up a photo of Chet Baker in his locker. Also: wearing a felt hat. And then once you find someone who shares those interests, mistaking that compatibility for true love is even easier. This movie gets that level of taste just right and it can be a little awkward when high school still feels like it was just a few minutes ago.

Dance, Not Stand By

Semi-regular posting should resume tomorrow, which should be a day when I don't have a mountain of dishes staring at me, a movie to go to, people to see or six Indian dishes to cook. Until then, enjoy this verrrry exciting and somewhat offensive French disco song.

The Resolutioning

Well, last year I decided to stick to five resolutions and hope that number would be reasonable enough. Let's see how I did:

Protagitron's Resolutions for 2009

1. Learn how to cook Indian food Done!
   
2. Read all of Remembrance of Things Past Er, 50% Done!
   
3. Graduate Done!
   
4. Visit New York City Done, with the postcards to prove it!
   
5. Be more frugal Done! No, wait, d'oh. D'oh indeed.

Well, that's 3.5/5, or 70%. Since that's a firm B, I think I'm in a good place to tack on another resolution for the new decade. Drum roll, folks, it's

Protagitron's Resolutions for 2010

1. Watch Kieslowski's Decalogue
2. Learn how to make worthy holibshi
3. Visit Portland all by myself
4. Knit 5 sweaters
   
5. Be more frugal
   

I swear the last one will happen this year. For real. I totally mean to start that savings account with the next paycheque... as long as there isn't any good yarn on sale.

In The Attic: Not VC Andrews Related, Sadly

Don't let this fool you.

People, I come to you with a warning.

DO NOT TRUST THOSE CZECHS.

While the wingnuts down South were concerned about the Socialists, they were missing out on the real threat: Czech infiltration of the Montreal art cinema scene. Don't believe me? Check out the write-up for In The Attic Cinema Du Parc posted:

IN THE ATTIC is a full-length animated film for children, but also adults who haven't lost touch with their inner child, their sense of imagination or joy of playing.

Awww, you might be thinking, doesnt that sound precious? Why, it's like Wallace And Gromit meets The Velvet Revolution. Childlike whimsy with a dash of intellectualism, so you don't feel guilty about going out to the movies instead of picking up your Havel.

You would be wrong. Every part of that blurb was a damn dirty lie.

First, this is not a movie for children. It has a golden bust in sunglasses with detachable arms and lecherous intentions towards a plump, blonde doll. In an early scene, he gives her an obscene phone call. That's right, pack the juice boxes for the kiddies, because they'll love that.

The most hilarious and child-unfriendly moment comes after the evil bust's insectoid scientist has built a perfect replica of the doll. The bust calls all of his evil minions together to celebrate, and as the hordes of mask-faced bugs look on, he hits the music lights up the disco ball and the bass starts thumping. But the scene isn't over until the doll spoon feeds him jam.

I haven't tried any drugs that would make that make sense yet, but I'm pretty sure that if I did I would not be legally allowed to feed them to children. And taking them to this movie afterwards would move the charge from child endangerment to abuse.

The movie wasn't a complete waste and some aspects of the animation were inventive. I'm just not sure why they bothered, if they were only going to deliver a meandering head trip.