...taken by my friend Dane
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Ireland's Many Histories
Bloody conflicts have long served as backdrops for narratives in books and in film. I have encountered two recent releases that have caught my attention by their personal stories being told with Northern Ireland’s Troubles as a backdrop: the book, A Great Feast of Light by John Doyle and the film Breakfast on Pluto. Having grown up with Irish parents, going back to "the old country" during our holidays, I always find it interesting to discover the experiences of Irish writers and characters.
John Doyle’s new book, A Great Feast of Light: Growing Up Irish in the Television Age chronicles his childhood in Ireland. Although Doyle, a television critic for the Globe and Mail, chooses the arrival of television and Ireland’s negotiation of it as his central theme, the Troubles serve as a stark backdrop to the newly discovered “feast of light”. Instead of hearing of the Catholic marches and protests on the wireless, the Doyle family was able to watch events unfold before their eyes, linking them to their fellow countrymen. Not only were they linked to the protests, but to the clashes with police and the British army, and to the bombings that plagued Ireland during the Troubles. And it was television that informed Doyle about the bombings in Dublin that happened as he was on the train (or bus - I can't remember and I've lent the book to someone else). Much of Doyle’s book is taken up with his descriptions of going to school, but then rushing home to catch such programs as I Love Lucy; the Donna Reed Show; Upstairs, Downstairs; the Late Late Show and various American Westerns. His discovery of Monty Python is another pivotal moment in the book. However, Ireland’s post-war history is an ever-present foil to the glitzy and fictitious world of television.
Breakfast on Pluto, originally a book by Patrick McCabe and now a film directed by Neil Jordan (The Crying Game) is another recent example of a personal story being told against the backdrop of the Troubles. Patrick “Kitten” Braden (played by Cillian Murphy) is a transgender boy living in a town “just over the border” (I assumed it was in the north, but my mother pointed out that the Garda – the Republic of Ireland police – came to the rescue during a bomb scene, although why the south was being bombed is another question). Throughout the movie, Kitten’s exploration of his sexuality and search for his mother are framed by the unfolding violence in Britain and Northern Ireland. 
He forms a relationship with an IRA gun-running rocker and watches his childhood friend Irwin build ties with the Republican Army. He is later accused of bombing a London nightclub, based solely on his accent and dress habits.
The history of Ireland figures prominently in both of these works, but at their core, they are personal stories of human experience. I look back on my childhood, with summers spent in Belfast where my grandparents lived (and my mother grew up), and can now see how it, too was framed by the Troubles. As a child, I barely knew the politics contributing to the disputes, but I do remember parts of the conflict touching my life.
One memory I have is of driving around Belfast (around 1984) and coming to a stop at a red light. I looked out the window and came face to face with the end of a machine gun, carried by a policeman. I’d never seen such heavily armed people in my life. The man was simply patrolling the area, but it still struck me as ominous. The incident was brief, and hardly impacting, but it connected me to the Troubles.
My other memory connected me more directly to the conflict in Northern Ireland. My grandparents lived in south Belfast, next door to a judge. The IRA called in a car bomb threat one day and the surrounding buildings were evacuated - except for my grandmother who had been presumed to have been out. In fact, she was in her kitchen making apple pies. The bomb exploded and blew out the front of my grandparents’ house. Luckily, the kitchen was in the back of the house and like a well-trained World War II Londoner, my grandmother dove underneath the kitchen table. Although frightened, she was unhurt, though she never made another apple pie, and the front of the house was rebuilt. However, that story still exists in my family’s lore as a normal day brought into relief by the Troubles.
For more information on The Troubles in Northern Ireland, go to:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Troubles
John Doyle’s new book, A Great Feast of Light: Growing Up Irish in the Television Age chronicles his childhood in Ireland. Although Doyle, a television critic for the Globe and Mail, chooses the arrival of television and Ireland’s negotiation of it as his central theme, the Troubles serve as a stark backdrop to the newly discovered “feast of light”. Instead of hearing of the Catholic marches and protests on the wireless, the Doyle family was able to watch events unfold before their eyes, linking them to their fellow countrymen. Not only were they linked to the protests, but to the clashes with police and the British army, and to the bombings that plagued Ireland during the Troubles. And it was television that informed Doyle about the bombings in Dublin that happened as he was on the train (or bus - I can't remember and I've lent the book to someone else). Much of Doyle’s book is taken up with his descriptions of going to school, but then rushing home to catch such programs as I Love Lucy; the Donna Reed Show; Upstairs, Downstairs; the Late Late Show and various American Westerns. His discovery of Monty Python is another pivotal moment in the book. However, Ireland’s post-war history is an ever-present foil to the glitzy and fictitious world of television.
Breakfast on Pluto, originally a book by Patrick McCabe and now a film directed by Neil Jordan (The Crying Game) is another recent example of a personal story being told against the backdrop of the Troubles. Patrick “Kitten” Braden (played by Cillian Murphy) is a transgender boy living in a town “just over the border” (I assumed it was in the north, but my mother pointed out that the Garda – the Republic of Ireland police – came to the rescue during a bomb scene, although why the south was being bombed is another question). Throughout the movie, Kitten’s exploration of his sexuality and search for his mother are framed by the unfolding violence in Britain and Northern Ireland. 
He forms a relationship with an IRA gun-running rocker and watches his childhood friend Irwin build ties with the Republican Army. He is later accused of bombing a London nightclub, based solely on his accent and dress habits.The history of Ireland figures prominently in both of these works, but at their core, they are personal stories of human experience. I look back on my childhood, with summers spent in Belfast where my grandparents lived (and my mother grew up), and can now see how it, too was framed by the Troubles. As a child, I barely knew the politics contributing to the disputes, but I do remember parts of the conflict touching my life.
One memory I have is of driving around Belfast (around 1984) and coming to a stop at a red light. I looked out the window and came face to face with the end of a machine gun, carried by a policeman. I’d never seen such heavily armed people in my life. The man was simply patrolling the area, but it still struck me as ominous. The incident was brief, and hardly impacting, but it connected me to the Troubles.
My other memory connected me more directly to the conflict in Northern Ireland. My grandparents lived in south Belfast, next door to a judge. The IRA called in a car bomb threat one day and the surrounding buildings were evacuated - except for my grandmother who had been presumed to have been out. In fact, she was in her kitchen making apple pies. The bomb exploded and blew out the front of my grandparents’ house. Luckily, the kitchen was in the back of the house and like a well-trained World War II Londoner, my grandmother dove underneath the kitchen table. Although frightened, she was unhurt, though she never made another apple pie, and the front of the house was rebuilt. However, that story still exists in my family’s lore as a normal day brought into relief by the Troubles.
For more information on The Troubles in Northern Ireland, go to:
Monday, February 27, 2006
Freedom of Expression vs. Empathy
This week, Sir Trevor Phillips, the Chairman of the Commission for Racial Equality in Britain, said that Muslims living in Britain had be tolerant of things that offended them as Britain is a democracy where people “sort things out by voting, not by violence and intimidation.” He also said that freedom of speech applied to religious leaders who preach against homosexuality and that British society needs to be tolerant of that form of self-expression, also. See the BBC story here:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/4752804.stm
Now my politics lean well into the left and I believe in freedom of speech just as much as the next liberal, but I wonder at what point do we draw a line in the sand and say, “this was meant to offend.” Think of the hundreds of dodgy generalizations you’ve made about a race or religion in your life. Most of these are kept very private so as not to offend. Where is our basic human empathy in making light of Islam’s central figure? Sure, argue about terrorism, discuss the concept of jihad, analyze the tenets of Islam – but what is the point, other than to marginalize a specific group by laughing at them, of drawing Mohammed with a bomb-turban?
One wonders the reaction the public would have if political cartoons were published denigrating people of African descent in some fashion. I wonder how Sir Trevor Phillips, who is of African heritage, would take to that sort of political cartoon. It's difficult to say exactly how it would make me feel, being a white female. However I can tell you that I would be quite offended if cartoons started appearing in the media, portraying women as the weaker, less intelligent sex.
I disagree with Sir Phillips further in that I don’t think hatred against any group of people should be proliferated. I think it is fine to live by your own moral code where you think homosexuality is a sin, but to actively condemn those who are gay (or any other subgroup denounced in a set of moral values) is wrong.
I want to live in a world where freedom of expression exists, but where we realize how our actions will affect other people and act accordingly. It is a fundamental lesson I teach to my students throughout the year, a lesson that needs to be remembered by the powers-that-be.
Now my politics lean well into the left and I believe in freedom of speech just as much as the next liberal, but I wonder at what point do we draw a line in the sand and say, “this was meant to offend.” Think of the hundreds of dodgy generalizations you’ve made about a race or religion in your life. Most of these are kept very private so as not to offend. Where is our basic human empathy in making light of Islam’s central figure? Sure, argue about terrorism, discuss the concept of jihad, analyze the tenets of Islam – but what is the point, other than to marginalize a specific group by laughing at them, of drawing Mohammed with a bomb-turban?
One wonders the reaction the public would have if political cartoons were published denigrating people of African descent in some fashion. I wonder how Sir Trevor Phillips, who is of African heritage, would take to that sort of political cartoon. It's difficult to say exactly how it would make me feel, being a white female. However I can tell you that I would be quite offended if cartoons started appearing in the media, portraying women as the weaker, less intelligent sex.
I disagree with Sir Phillips further in that I don’t think hatred against any group of people should be proliferated. I think it is fine to live by your own moral code where you think homosexuality is a sin, but to actively condemn those who are gay (or any other subgroup denounced in a set of moral values) is wrong.
I want to live in a world where freedom of expression exists, but where we realize how our actions will affect other people and act accordingly. It is a fundamental lesson I teach to my students throughout the year, a lesson that needs to be remembered by the powers-that-be.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Leah, Me and the Banal Blogosphere
A week into this blog business and I’m beginning to learn many things about the virtual “blogosphere”. Anyone can start up a blog on any subject they choose. I’ve seen blogs focusing on celebrity news, one that keeps track of sports scores and several that publish photographs.
There is; however, a large number of people who use their webspace to create a diurnal register of personal minutiae (“Rob told me he didn’t like my haircut. He said that heavyset women should wear their hair long. I told him that we weren’t dating anymore, so he had no say in the matter”).* And there is an inordinate amount of photographs of people’s pets.
In her column** this week, Leah McLaren decides to log out of the blogosphere due to the fact that it is “spectacularly boring.” Couldn’t agree with her more for a large part of the blogs out there. However, I do disagree with her contention that bloggers blog because what they have to say is unfit for publication. I don’t think a lot of bloggers have any intention of attempting to publish what they’ve written on their blog in print media. The sole purpose of many blogs is to document and thus validate the lives of the bloggers. They probably don’t have anyone else listening to what they have to say and the internet provides a vast and incalculable audience.
If you read my previous post about Ms. McLaren, you might be starting to wonder if I have asked myself the question, do I blog because I can’t get published? (Do I teach because I can’t do?)
My intention from the start was to get myself writing more frequently and to hone my skills. I maintain a blog for much of the same reasons as David Eddie, a writer mentioned in the column: blogging is “a good way to limber up.” Just as athletes stretch and jog to warm up, writers practise their craft through a less regulated and stylized medium.
So am I a spiteful blogger? Am I one of those “bitter unpublished writers venomously slagging published ones”?
No. I simply document the daily trivialities that occur in my life which include, but are not limited to, reading and responding to other pieces of writing.
----------------------------
*paraphrased from an actual blog author navigated quickly away from; name has been changed due to author’s faulty memory
**Leah's Feb. 25th column available here:
Leah McLaren
PS. Here’s a picture of my friend’s dog – isn’t she so cute?!?!
There is; however, a large number of people who use their webspace to create a diurnal register of personal minutiae (“Rob told me he didn’t like my haircut. He said that heavyset women should wear their hair long. I told him that we weren’t dating anymore, so he had no say in the matter”).* And there is an inordinate amount of photographs of people’s pets.
In her column** this week, Leah McLaren decides to log out of the blogosphere due to the fact that it is “spectacularly boring.” Couldn’t agree with her more for a large part of the blogs out there. However, I do disagree with her contention that bloggers blog because what they have to say is unfit for publication. I don’t think a lot of bloggers have any intention of attempting to publish what they’ve written on their blog in print media. The sole purpose of many blogs is to document and thus validate the lives of the bloggers. They probably don’t have anyone else listening to what they have to say and the internet provides a vast and incalculable audience.
If you read my previous post about Ms. McLaren, you might be starting to wonder if I have asked myself the question, do I blog because I can’t get published? (Do I teach because I can’t do?)
My intention from the start was to get myself writing more frequently and to hone my skills. I maintain a blog for much of the same reasons as David Eddie, a writer mentioned in the column: blogging is “a good way to limber up.” Just as athletes stretch and jog to warm up, writers practise their craft through a less regulated and stylized medium.
So am I a spiteful blogger? Am I one of those “bitter unpublished writers venomously slagging published ones”?
No. I simply document the daily trivialities that occur in my life which include, but are not limited to, reading and responding to other pieces of writing.
----------------------------
*paraphrased from an actual blog author navigated quickly away from; name has been changed due to author’s faulty memory
**Leah's Feb. 25th column available here:
PS. Here’s a picture of my friend’s dog – isn’t she so cute?!?!
Friday, February 24, 2006
Weird Reality
A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
Reality TV
Okay, I wrote this last year, but it's still sort of current...
We recently began another season of Survivor, the lead up to which was a series of attention-grabbing adverts promising to turn all our previous expectations of the show completely upside down. Boy-oh-boy, was I excited when I sat down with my bowl of popcorn, ready to be blown away!
Well, the kernels stayed safely in the bowl and my expectations remained right side up. All they’ve done so far is, well, kick two people off right away and have both tribes on the same beach. For one night. And then it was back to regular old Survivor, which still does pretty well in the ratings.
Reality shows have succeeded for the same reason that soap operas are still on the air: we like to watch other people’s lives and other people’s problems. It is human nature to feel that ineluctable pull to examine the scene of an accident. Reality shows have provided a vehicle for us to watch how others solve their daily tribulations. And what better way for producers to make money than to allow unpaid “actors” to improvise for the camera, choosing to put their cash into careful editing instead.
My criticism of these types of shows is that the term reality is something of a misnomer. The cast and situations are always carefully constructed, just like the ubiquitous studio game shows of the 1980s. Today’s reality shows are just updated versions of the flashy games of skill like the Price is Right or Wheel of Fortune, the few differences being programmes today tend to be filmed in exotic locations, there is more focus on the interaction of the contestants, and instead of winning a fridge, the prize is an exorbitant amount of money. You half expect host Jeff Probst to remind us to spay and neuter our pets before he zooms off on his motorboat.
Contestants on today’s reality shows are always attractive and in most cases, look good in little clothing – obviously needed for the tropical settings of Survivor, The Amazing Race, Fear Factor etc. There is always a caricatured mix of people, often including a few strong, dominating personalities, the quiet, independent types and some just plain weirdos. The shows’ producers set up situations which an average person would likely never encounter in their lifetime. I suppose it is these elevated situations that draw in millions of viewers each night.
Take, for example, The Bachelorette. Who gets to date 25 men at once without a single one of them objecting? Now, biology does dictate that the general premise should work: a bunch of men competing to possibly pass on their DNA with a genetically superior female (she’s healthy, attractive, young). However, love and that societal construct of marriage negate the biology. Really - what are the chances of finding love in a pool of (albeit attractive and successful) 25 men? I have friends who have less success in a pool of thousands on Lavalife. Because it is a game show, the contestants have to keep trying to win, even if, presumably, they are not in love with Jen Schefft.
One of my favourite moments in reality TV was a few weeks ago on The Bachelorette when Fabrice stepped forward during the Rose Ceremony and told Jen he wanted out. Never before on a reality TV show have I seen such reality. Here was a guy admitting, you know what? I don’t really like you that much and the glory just ain’t worth it, baby. Bravo, Fabrice, bravo. This is what actual real life is like.
So how about an actual reality show? Where sometimes no one wins. Where the Supernanny does not tame the unruly children in the space of a couple of days. Where the young, hot twins don’t make it to Rio before the old, but experienced couple. Where Jen Schefft says, “Actually, I’ve decided to go out with the cute camera guy instead.”
Now that kind of TV would certainly turn my expectations upside down.
We recently began another season of Survivor, the lead up to which was a series of attention-grabbing adverts promising to turn all our previous expectations of the show completely upside down. Boy-oh-boy, was I excited when I sat down with my bowl of popcorn, ready to be blown away!
Well, the kernels stayed safely in the bowl and my expectations remained right side up. All they’ve done so far is, well, kick two people off right away and have both tribes on the same beach. For one night. And then it was back to regular old Survivor, which still does pretty well in the ratings.
Reality shows have succeeded for the same reason that soap operas are still on the air: we like to watch other people’s lives and other people’s problems. It is human nature to feel that ineluctable pull to examine the scene of an accident. Reality shows have provided a vehicle for us to watch how others solve their daily tribulations. And what better way for producers to make money than to allow unpaid “actors” to improvise for the camera, choosing to put their cash into careful editing instead.
My criticism of these types of shows is that the term reality is something of a misnomer. The cast and situations are always carefully constructed, just like the ubiquitous studio game shows of the 1980s. Today’s reality shows are just updated versions of the flashy games of skill like the Price is Right or Wheel of Fortune, the few differences being programmes today tend to be filmed in exotic locations, there is more focus on the interaction of the contestants, and instead of winning a fridge, the prize is an exorbitant amount of money. You half expect host Jeff Probst to remind us to spay and neuter our pets before he zooms off on his motorboat.
Contestants on today’s reality shows are always attractive and in most cases, look good in little clothing – obviously needed for the tropical settings of Survivor, The Amazing Race, Fear Factor etc. There is always a caricatured mix of people, often including a few strong, dominating personalities, the quiet, independent types and some just plain weirdos. The shows’ producers set up situations which an average person would likely never encounter in their lifetime. I suppose it is these elevated situations that draw in millions of viewers each night.
Take, for example, The Bachelorette. Who gets to date 25 men at once without a single one of them objecting? Now, biology does dictate that the general premise should work: a bunch of men competing to possibly pass on their DNA with a genetically superior female (she’s healthy, attractive, young). However, love and that societal construct of marriage negate the biology. Really - what are the chances of finding love in a pool of (albeit attractive and successful) 25 men? I have friends who have less success in a pool of thousands on Lavalife. Because it is a game show, the contestants have to keep trying to win, even if, presumably, they are not in love with Jen Schefft.
One of my favourite moments in reality TV was a few weeks ago on The Bachelorette when Fabrice stepped forward during the Rose Ceremony and told Jen he wanted out. Never before on a reality TV show have I seen such reality. Here was a guy admitting, you know what? I don’t really like you that much and the glory just ain’t worth it, baby. Bravo, Fabrice, bravo. This is what actual real life is like.
So how about an actual reality show? Where sometimes no one wins. Where the Supernanny does not tame the unruly children in the space of a couple of days. Where the young, hot twins don’t make it to Rio before the old, but experienced couple. Where Jen Schefft says, “Actually, I’ve decided to go out with the cute camera guy instead.”
Now that kind of TV would certainly turn my expectations upside down.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Narcissism, Be Damned!
I have been told (by more than one person) that writing a blog is a self-absorbed activity and my inclusion of silly pictures of myself only serves to proliferate this assertion.
So here are some photos - that do not involve me. I got them from the BBC website and they're both stunning.
Vietnamese Fruit Boat
Prayers at a Buddhist Temple
So here are some photos - that do not involve me. I got them from the BBC website and they're both stunning.
Vietnamese Fruit Boat
Prayers at a Buddhist Temple
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Who I Hate, But Must Attend To
We all have those moments - like driving by a road accident - when our rational side says, nothing to see here, move along, but our hedonistic side forces our senses to the scene. We know that indulging in an activity is bad for us, but we do it anyway out of a secret desire to see how bad it can actually be.
There are two such activities that I indulge in on a regular basis, my brain both hating and secretly enjoying each. I always complain about them afterwards, but still I come back to them. These activities are: reading Leah McLaren's column in the Style section of the Globe and Mail on Saturday and listening to the Dean Blundell Show on 102.1 The Edge on weekday mornings.
Leah McLaren
I will fully admit that the green-eyed monster doth mock when it comes to Leah. She has the job I want: she writes a column in a national newspaper AND she found a publisher for her book. Some have argued that nepotism got her the column and the column got her the book deal. They must be bitter...
But come on - that column about jeans and sitting in the bathtub (Feb. 11) was just so...inconsequential. One would like to think that anyone writing for a major newspaper would have some serious education and experience behind them, but these qualities rarely shine through in her column. Granted, she's writing in the Style section, but I put more stock in what Jeanne Beker writes about bikinis than what Leah writes about Botox because Jeanne can back up anything she writes with a wealth of experience.
Yet every week I read the girl and every week I roll my eyes and think, "I could be doing this! Why can't the Globe hire me?" I am not interested in the goings-on at her farm. I don't care what she thinks of silent dating. I think her move to London was a safe and structured way for her to become "well-travelled" and "cosmopolitan". And my god, did you really write a novel about a 35-year-old woman whose eggs are on the outs?
I gave her credit for her column on the smugs (Jan. 21). Leah describes a list of the different types of smug people (giving credit a bit too late, in my opinion, to Helen Fielding who created the term "Smug Marrieds" for her series of novels about Bridget Jones). There were smug singles, smug healthys, smug parents; all with a mini-description. She ended her column with a description of smug columnists: "the kind who criticize the social crimes of others while implying that they are somehow above the fray, this high-handed breed would never own up to feelings of smugness. Except as a clever way to end a column." It was a clever way to end the column. But it was the one bit of cleverness I've seen out of a profusion of ephemera.
And perhaps this is why I still read Leah: somewhere in the bastion of banality (now there's a phrase she'd use!), I am hoping for some little clever connection, some little clue as to why it's her, and not me writing that column.
Dean Blundell et al
The great cougar hunt? The ugly contest? And now the best ass contest? Exactly how juvenile are Torontonians able to go at 8 o'clock in the morning?
Apparently, quite so. I thought we'd worked this out of our system with Howard Stern on Q107. These guys are like the table of jocks in the high school cafeteria that eyeball and chuckle when lesser mortals pass by. They find humour in waving in the background of Breakfast Television's weather report, discussions of J.D. Fortune's (new lead singer of INXS) genitalia with his ex-girlfriend and making fun of poor Eduardo, a frequent caller.
Dean, Todd and…that other guy…seem to have trouble treating women as equals. They once did a segment called “Cheerleader Math” where Todd attended a cheerleading audition and asked math questions, airing only the incorrect answers from the women.
Yet every morning, my radio is tuned to this crew of obnoxious arseholes. And every morning I laugh out loud at their conversations. I enjoy their off-colour humour – up until a point, but they always seem to take it just one step too far. Like the hammered guy at a party who thinks it’s totally okay to pee in the plant in the corner, these boys cross the line of social niceties way too early in the morning.
And when they do cross the line, my rational side says, "Change the dial! Go back to Humble Howard!" However, my hedonistic side keeps attending, listening for more coarse and twisted bits of the Dean Blundell morning show, seeing just how bad it can be.
There are two such activities that I indulge in on a regular basis, my brain both hating and secretly enjoying each. I always complain about them afterwards, but still I come back to them. These activities are: reading Leah McLaren's column in the Style section of the Globe and Mail on Saturday and listening to the Dean Blundell Show on 102.1 The Edge on weekday mornings.
Leah McLaren
I will fully admit that the green-eyed monster doth mock when it comes to Leah. She has the job I want: she writes a column in a national newspaper AND she found a publisher for her book. Some have argued that nepotism got her the column and the column got her the book deal. They must be bitter...
But come on - that column about jeans and sitting in the bathtub (Feb. 11) was just so...inconsequential. One would like to think that anyone writing for a major newspaper would have some serious education and experience behind them, but these qualities rarely shine through in her column. Granted, she's writing in the Style section, but I put more stock in what Jeanne Beker writes about bikinis than what Leah writes about Botox because Jeanne can back up anything she writes with a wealth of experience.
Yet every week I read the girl and every week I roll my eyes and think, "I could be doing this! Why can't the Globe hire me?" I am not interested in the goings-on at her farm. I don't care what she thinks of silent dating. I think her move to London was a safe and structured way for her to become "well-travelled" and "cosmopolitan". And my god, did you really write a novel about a 35-year-old woman whose eggs are on the outs?
I gave her credit for her column on the smugs (Jan. 21). Leah describes a list of the different types of smug people (giving credit a bit too late, in my opinion, to Helen Fielding who created the term "Smug Marrieds" for her series of novels about Bridget Jones). There were smug singles, smug healthys, smug parents; all with a mini-description. She ended her column with a description of smug columnists: "the kind who criticize the social crimes of others while implying that they are somehow above the fray, this high-handed breed would never own up to feelings of smugness. Except as a clever way to end a column." It was a clever way to end the column. But it was the one bit of cleverness I've seen out of a profusion of ephemera.
And perhaps this is why I still read Leah: somewhere in the bastion of banality (now there's a phrase she'd use!), I am hoping for some little clever connection, some little clue as to why it's her, and not me writing that column.
Dean Blundell et al
The great cougar hunt? The ugly contest? And now the best ass contest? Exactly how juvenile are Torontonians able to go at 8 o'clock in the morning?
Apparently, quite so. I thought we'd worked this out of our system with Howard Stern on Q107. These guys are like the table of jocks in the high school cafeteria that eyeball and chuckle when lesser mortals pass by. They find humour in waving in the background of Breakfast Television's weather report, discussions of J.D. Fortune's (new lead singer of INXS) genitalia with his ex-girlfriend and making fun of poor Eduardo, a frequent caller.
Dean, Todd and…that other guy…seem to have trouble treating women as equals. They once did a segment called “Cheerleader Math” where Todd attended a cheerleading audition and asked math questions, airing only the incorrect answers from the women.
Yet every morning, my radio is tuned to this crew of obnoxious arseholes. And every morning I laugh out loud at their conversations. I enjoy their off-colour humour – up until a point, but they always seem to take it just one step too far. Like the hammered guy at a party who thinks it’s totally okay to pee in the plant in the corner, these boys cross the line of social niceties way too early in the morning.
And when they do cross the line, my rational side says, "Change the dial! Go back to Humble Howard!" However, my hedonistic side keeps attending, listening for more coarse and twisted bits of the Dean Blundell morning show, seeing just how bad it can be.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
My Tattoo
At the moment, my tattoo has a seven-year history from its inception on a cold, February day to its recent symbolism at the end of a failed relationship. It has been admired and reviled, displayed proudly and concealed stealthily. What many may see as a fad or a trend has actually shaped my life more than one would expect.
It all started around the age of eighteen when my friends and I started discussing how cool it would be to get a tattoo. We talked about what we’d get (first I wanted a rose, then a Maple Leaf, then a Celtic cross), where we’d get it (on the ankle or breast, then on the shoulder blade) and who would do it (we actually paid a visit to the only female tattoo artist in Toronto one August afternoon). In the five years between being eighteen and my last year of university, my requirements changed and I finally decided on the Chinese symbol of the Year of the Tiger – the year I was born in, as well as, coincidently, the year I got the tattoo – to be inked on my lower back. But this was all just an idea in my head until one February day when I was on my way home after classes.
I was walking by a tattoo parlour in downtown Hamilton and decided to walk in just to check out prices. The large, bearded man in a leather vest and jeans quoted me a price for the tattooing ($80) and for drawing up an original design ($15). He then told me to bring the picture of the symbol in and he would get going on the design. And just like that, I had entered into the world of the tattooed.
The next day, I came back with the picture, which was in the Chinese Zodiac section of a book entitled Encyclopedia of Prediction. I have since asked several people fluent in Mandarin and Cantonese to decipher my tattoo, and none of them have recognized the symbol that adorns my back. However, the Year of the Tiger is what the symbol means to me, so I tend to leave out the scriptural technicalities when answering questions about the meaning of my design.
I returned to the tattoo shop the following day and the woman at the front showed me the drawing of my tattoo. It seemed larger than I had expected, but at this point, I had put myself into the hands of the tattoo parlour staff. She told me that if I waited five minutes, the bearded gentleman in the leather vest and jeans would be able to ink me next. I had originally intended my foray into the shop as merely a fact-finding mission, and now it was turning into an actual event. I stayed on the wave and took a seat.
The process took less than an hour and at its worst, felt like a cat scratching my back. I had it done on my lower back, off to the left, in a patch of fatty tissue, which I’m told hurts less than on muscle or bone. Other people I’ve spoken to who have tattoos have told me horror stories about the pain, but it tends to be men with these tales of agony – perhaps because men tend to get tattoos on their bony shoulders or muscular arms, or maybe their pain threshold is just lower.
When my artist was finished, he directed me to a mirror across the room where I was able to see the final product – my blackened skin sprouting beads of blood, surrounded by a patch of redness on the encircling pale skin. “Looks good,” I said, returning to have its picture taken and then a patch placed over it.
For the next week, I couldn’t get the tattoo wet and had to replace the dressing daily, rubbing in Polysporin, for fear of infection. After a week, I was able to unveil it to the world, but more importantly, wash it. As I did, black scabby bits of ink and skin flaked off in the shower. I dutifully moisturized, as advised by the woman at the tattoo shop, and soon, my design was completely healed and ready to be displayed.
I haven’t, however, displayed my tattoo that often. Part of the reason I got it done where I did was because of its unassuming area. The only time it is viewed publicly, is when I’m in a bikini. Only those who know me well will see it in any other scenario. I don’t see my tattoo as a fashion accessory, but as a part of my personality.
It was this part of my personality that proved to be too much for one boyfriend. He claimed, at the end of it all, that he couldn’t marry someone with a tattoo. He didn’t want the mother of his children to have to explain to them why she had a tattoo – he saw them as cheap and classless. He claimed that he was not judging me, it was everyone else that would be judging me, and he didn’t want to have to deal with it.
Now despite the ridiculousness of his thinking, I still loved him greatly at the time, and to break up over a tattoo seemed silly. And maybe there were all sorts of other things about me and the relationship he was not willing to discuss, instead finding it simpler to focus on one aspect of me that was disagreeable. He tried to rationalize my decision, I considered having it removed (a lengthy and expensive process I have discovered – it took $95 and less than an hour to have it done, it would take several thousand dollars and 5-10 hour-long sessions to have it removed). At the end of the day, the issue came down to him not being satisfied with a symbol that meant so much more. We parted ways. I see it now as a symbol of the victory of personality over aesthetics. I could have had it removed for him, but that would mean fundamentally changing something about me for someone else – he should have been in love with all of me, faults, mistakes and everything.
So, my tattoo has served many functions: act of rebellion, conversation piece, artistic expression, and now, bad boyfriend radar.
The Inaugural Post
Everyone seems to have a blog these days and since my personal mandate is to keep up with the trends (within 5 years or so - I got my first CD in '97), I thought it was high time I unleashed my musings upon the internet.
Really what I want is my own column in a national newspaper that pays me the salary of a surgeon for 300 or so words a week. For some reason, this has not happened to me yet. So I'm getting my practice in here, at my very own blog: Because I Said So.
Enjoy!
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