All I Want for Christmas...

Dear Santa,
I’m writing to inform you that you can skip over my house this year. It’s not that I don’t believe in you, or that I have anything against toy-making elves or airborne, cloven-hooved creatures. It’s not a comment on your cookie belly, or the nose that makes you look like you visit the liquor cabinet at every stop. It’s really nothing personal at all.

A few days ago, it was decided that we wouldn’t do stockings this year. My poor mother, a very generous soul, has spent more than thirty years running around like a wind up toy on crack, trying to find enough cute little things to appease all of us, and she’s pooped. I don’t blame her. I also heard that someone had been trampled to death by shoppers in a fit of holiday-induced mayhem. And then I heard about people shooting each other at a toy store.

I think we’re all pooped. We’re all pooped from tearing all over town to find gifts that will ultimately get shelved in other people’s closets. We’re pooped from making seven kinds of cookies and three kinds of potatoes and ten batches of eggnog. We’re pooped from untangling lights and screaming carols and walking around with holly-jolly fake smiles on our faces. It’s cold outside, and we’re all a little low on cash, and I think we all just need to sit still and have a nap.

So this year, Santa, I’m doing research. I’m looking through travel guides to find somewhere that people don’t turn into angry apes in red and green toques, and get drunk at office parties. I’m looking for a place where people don’t hate themselves for gaining five pounds here and there, and they don’t inflict lead fruitcake on each other. I’m going to spend a little while there, figuring out the true meaning of “peace on earth” and “silent night”. If you’d like to join me, you’re welcome to. I’ll keep a seat warm for you, and I’ll put on some hot chocolate. You don’t even need to bring presents.

Hugs to Mrs. Clause,
Amy

Hooray for Gross!

I’m on my third book by Mary Roach and I’m riveted. It’s called Bonk, and it’s a very graphic account of the anatomy of sex. Having taught gender studies, I’m not easily rattled, but I have to admit this makes me slightly queasy. I keep looking over at my dearest love, imagining his reaction to such medical monstrosities (in one section, Roach apologizes to her male readers for the shock and revulsion they’ll likely feel). This is my third book by Mary Roach in a month. For each one, I’ve stayed up late reading, my dreams filled with all manner of depravity.

Okay, I’m a sick person. I’m exactly the type of deranged, but harmless reader to whom Mary Roach and her contemporaries cater. I love this stuff, not the Hollywood fake blood and guts brand of horror, but the revolting wonders that only the human body can provide. I’ve passed thirty and I still love potty humour and playing the “which would you rather…” game. Whatever part of my brain controls propriety never grew in properly.

Perhaps it’s because I come from a family that doesn’t stand on ceremony. Perhaps it’s because I have friends with small children that leak (as small children do). Perhaps it’s because I have a dog, and have been the target of projectile everything.

What I’ve realized over the years is that “gross” is the great uniting factor for human kind. At the end of the day, we are six billion runny noses, and six billion rumbling stomachs. We can disagree over world politics, or environmental issues, but we’re irrevocably linked by the fact that most of our feet stink. Our cultures and histories are vast and varied, but we’re all familiar with pimples and sweaty pits. We can sleep tight knowing that on the other side of the world, someone else is sneezing and shedding skin flakes and carting around entire villages of microscopic organisms. Taro Gomi summed it up nicely with her literary masterpiece, Everyone Poops. Ah, the humanity of it all!

Velvet, Feathers and the Next Generation

I’m crazy about Halloween. Every year, I dress up, I perch myself on the front porch with a stack of processed sugar, and I wait for the crowds to descend. This year didn’t disappoint. There were witches and wizards, an entire zoo of furry creatures, things with wings and things with fangs. One kid even made herself into a pink Cadillac and toted around a bulky, cumbersome contraption with sincere commitment and dedication. Parents showed up as Captain Jack Sparrow, hockey heroes and other colourful characters.

Stuck in amongst the crowds were a handful of pint-sized pimps. Yup, boys too young to stay alone at home were dressed up in full pimp get-up, complete with purple fur jackets, feathered hats and platform shoes. One of them, ironically, was tailed by his little sister, who was dressed as a princess and sporting as much pink tulle and rhinestones as her little frame could carry. Trick or treat took on a different meaning.

It’s old-fashioned, I know, but I always saw Halloween as an opportunity to indulge in a bit of wish fulfillment. It was an occasion on which the phrase “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be a…” was taken seriously. Over the years, I’ve tried on gypsy, punk rocker, rabbit, wizard, cupid, Captain Hook, fairy, pumpkin, and this year, Rosie the Riveter. I never really counted on “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to participate in the sex trade” being part of the dialogue. I didn’t realize there were parents comfortable with the idea of their sons becoming involved in the selling of other humans.

The whole notion of “monster” is being redefined. Creatures oozing pus and sporting six-inch claws are so passé. No one trembles at the idea of things that go bump in the night. The most terrifying entities by far are the ones that turn up on the news, and on dark street corners.

We Don’t Care What You Think…Most of the Time.

It seems to be very popular for news websites to open up a forum so that visitors can comment on just about anything they read. It’s not just for editorials either. This weekend, I saw a variety of rants and raves sitting below a simple list of stores and attractions that would be open on Thanksgiving. A degree in journalism is no longer required in order to see one’s thoughts in print (or online). A cheeky username and a crummy dial-up connection are all that’s needed in order to air your dirty laundry for the entire world to see, spelling mistakes and all.

And I’m fine with that, for a variety of reasons. First of all, I’m thrilled that at least a small portion of the general population is literate, and is indeed reading something. Second, I’m tickled pink that the idea of freedom of expression has become so cliché in Canada that people will sound off without even thinking twice. In some parts of the world, failing to keep your pie hole shut is a good way to get dead.

What really disturbs me is that tomorrow, when all of us will be asked for our opinion on a variety of issues of national importance, a good chunk of would-be editorialists will curl up into a little ball and fail to leave the house. More Canadians will know what happened on 90210 than what happened in the federal election. And then on Wednesday, when the media waxes philosophical about all the evils the new government is about to commit, they’ll be back on the net, shoving their two cents down everyone’s throats

Most non-voters fail to realize that an election is just the act of asking a lot of people for their opinions. Okay, it stinks that the ballot box isn’t a magic hole into which we throw wishes. Checking off a bubble on a piece of paper does not guarantee that when we wake up the next day the Blue Fairy will have fixed everything just the way we like it. When was democracy ever a matter of simple cause and effect? Nonetheless, the rest of my country is asking me what I think, about money, about other people, and about myself. They’re spending a non-trivial chunk of our taxes to ask me, and it will take less time for me to tell them than it will for me to take a shower. If I don’t vote, then I’ll be a big fat hypocrite. I’d like to spend those years feeling good about indulging in the same self-righteous ranting as the rest of the online commentators.

Yet Another Thing to Hate About Computers

Let’s play a game. Everyone think of something that really bugs you about computers and shout it out loud. I hear rants about auto-formatting, random crashes, the blue screen of death and slow start-up time. Some of you will cite pop-up ads and viruses, or the whole “should have saved more often” diatribe. Others will gripe that spell checkers are useless, and that memory keys have a way of becoming lost more often than car keys. I sympathize. And I have a new reason to despise our electronic side-kicks.

Computers don’t swear. How did I come across this new knowledge? What has led me to believe that my machine is a big ole’ prude? Presently, I’m in the process of dictating a bunch of stories into the word processor, using a magical piece of software that “understands” English and converts my squeaky recitations into printable documents. For the most part, it works, and I’ve managed to save myself from carpal tunnel hell.

However, it seems to have no knowledge of profanity, and being the saucy lass that I am, I need a few choice expletives in order to express myself in writing. I’ve typed them in manually, and repeatedly “trained” the software to respond to my voice when I say them. The computer stubbornly refuses to acknowledge. It will accept words like “Churros” and “Geisha” and “Gloopy”, but puts its fingers in its ears as soon as I tell it to type anything of the four-letter variety. This, in turn, makes me yell even more disgusting things into the microphone. The computer then warps them into acceptable, but inaccurate phrases.

I’m not stupid or naïve. I know computers don’t feel or think at all, which makes the not swearing part seem pretty reasonable. However, mine doesn’t want me to swear either, and if I’m to avoid picking it up and using it as a tennis racket every time something frustrates me, I need a machine that tolerates and supports my potty-mouth. If anyone at Microsoft is listening…

Not So Super. Get Used To It.

This has been a summer of movie superheroes. We’ve been introduced to ultra-rich and ultra-clever Ironman, and reunited with dark and mysterious Batman. Yeah, there’s been a do-over for that enormous green guy as well. Sure, they’re human, but also endowed with such power, such talent that they can’t help but serve the world. It’s entertaining, but also somewhat disappointing. Nowhere in the bunch (except for maybe the uber-crusty Hancock), are there super-losers, individuals with flaws that can save humanity from itself. If like cures like, and the best way to fight fire is with fire, shouldn’t we be brandishing bad habits as weapons? Wouldn’t it be more productive (not to mention convenient) to use our all-too-ready weaknesses? If to err is human, then wouldn’t a complete screw-up be the best candidate for superhuman status?

Surely, there has to be room in the pantheon for poor saps who can’t parallel park. Might two left feet count as deadly weapons? When will human kind make proper use of the tone deaf, the stinky and those who can’t seem to find matching socks? We’re sitting on a veritable goldmine of super-human capital here, and we’re looking to well-sculpted aliens in tights to save us.

I’m currently cultivating my own superhero identity, based solely on my shortcomings. Henceforth, I shall be known as “The Nerve”, capable of channelling the nervous vigour that makes me bite my nails and check the stove three times, into more productive activities. I will spend my sleepless nights monitoring the weak and vulnerable. Instead of reorganizing my Tupperware when I have ants in my pants, I will incapacitate evil-doers with my mile-high stack of “to do” lists. My anxious giggle will serve as a primal call to others of my ilk. I will be clumsy and forgetful and decidedly human, and that will be more than enough to save the planet.

But I won’t wear tights. Seriously.

How to Make Food with Your Back Porch

It ain’t no hanging garden of Babylon. It’s a few cheapo rectangular planters, a couple of bags of dirt, and a handful of spindly, but determined little plants. In a few weeks, if the weather cooperates, and the gods smile kindly on me, it will yield enough fancy-schmancy tomatoes to feed two people for a few weeks. Maybe there will be enough basil to make a few tablespoons of pesto. Maybe we’ll get a handful of apples and grapes before the birds and the bugs decide to chow down.

This shouldn’t excite me this much, but it does. Learning that your house is not only good for shelter, warmth and the occasional video game, but can also be used to grow food is a revelation. A few years ago, while the real estate agent nodded and smiled, and the previous owner spoke of the recently-replaced water heater, I stared out of the back window and envisioned my own personal produce aisle. There would be fresh herbs, edible flowers and a respectable crop of wild strawberries amongst the shrubs. I would float out the sliding door, like Donna Reed in yoga pants, and gather bundles of fragrant fauna in my arms. All of this from a kid who grew up in the country, and whose parents were “green thumbs”…it’s almost enough to make a gal break into verses of “This Land is Your Land”.

This unruly cornucopia is my pride and joy. Perhaps I’m not yet ready for a chicken coop, or my own chevre-producing goat, but peeking out at the tiny wannabe vegetables makes me feel like a regular Jenny Appleseed. E-I-E-I-O!

For George

As a kid, I used to sit up late on Sunday night and listen to comedy skits on the radio (yes, kiddies, I used a radio, and my pet dinosaur loved it too). When I was supposed to be finishing my homework or, God forbid, sleeping, I was filling my head with the words of modern philosophers, off-coloured sages who saw society with a critical eye and a sharp tongue. Of course George Carlin was among them (no self-respecting DJ would leave him out). I think, even twenty years later, if someone played George’s “Wonderful WINO” bit for me, I could probably still sing along. With his boundless energy, his general appreciation for silliness, and his beard, I think he reminded me a little of my dad…if my dad was the type to rant and swear in front of millions.

George’s wisdom followed me into my adulthood. I can remember watching his piece on acquiring “Stuff” while unpacking in a new house. I applauded when he appeared in Kevin Smith films, as an overly-ambitious Cardinal, then a hitchhiker with a plan, and then a grandfather willing to do even surrealist theatre for the love of his family. George’s mantra “I’m just looking for a little consistency, that’s all” stuck in my head as I tried to teach students about logical fallacies and forming decent arguments. Like most people, I still think of his list of things you can’t say in the media, and wonder why we’re so hung up on mere words. After spending a great deal of my life studying some of the greatest thinkers in the world, an old man with a grade nine education and a potty mouth seems to have proven what I’ve always thought- that good ideas and the ability to pull things apart don’t come with a fancy piece of paper. They come through a genuine desire to see things as they are, and what they could be.

And so, I raise a glass (or perhaps a middle finger) to George. Here’s hoping there’s such a thing as reincarnation.

Power of the Pigtails

When I was five, they were crooked. My poor mother would straighten and adjust them, wetting my hair, tightening the elastics, but they stubbornly refused to be symmetrical. I would learn, years later, that my head was actually crooked. No matter. Balanced or not, I loved having them. I loved the array of plastic do-dads one could stick on them. I loved the way they swung and jiggled of their own volition. I loved the way my head had suddenly become a little more interesting, as if some wee landscaper had carved topiaries or stuck in a water feature. The pigtails had power.

I’m not sure when or where I lost them. Probably around the same time the word “cool” took on the same heavy significance as words like “entropy” or “fiscal responsibility”. Probably around the same time as I shot up six inches in six months, and felt like enough of a sideshow freak without things sticking out of my lumpy cranium, pointing to my mismatched body parts like flashing arrows. They made a brief appearance here and there, usually as a more sophisticated pony tail in the back, the same one my now-husband used to flick with a pencil in grade 11 math (flirting was so much simpler then). For the most part, I let them sag around my shoulders, a limp reflection of my teenage angst.

The final nail in the coffin came after my first year of university, when it was time to join the sensible ranks of the adults. Uncelebrated for years, they met their fate on the linoleum floor of a salon, and to avoid feeling guilty, I kept telling people to cut shorter and shorter. I traded my bobbled elastics for something as bleak as “hair product”.

A few weeks ago, ignoring my advanced age, they reappeared. They took advantage of my new, “Why not?” approach to my hair. It was mostly intended to get them out of my face while I worked, to make sure they didn’t wind up in someone’s dinner. There was a familiar pull, a feeling of lightness as they were lifted off my neck and into small rubber bands. I’m not sure if it was the cool breeze on my exposed skin, or perhaps the increased blood flow to my scalp, but the effect was euphoric. They were much shorter than they had been 30 years ago, and despite the help of modern cosmetic chemistry, there were a few wiry, silver ones mixed in. Nonetheless, we recognized each other immediately. They still bounced when I walked, and pointed to my face. Happily, they were still a little crooked too.

Chicks Rule: Then and Now

Well, Hillary’s conceded defeat (for now), there are still fewer women PhDs than men, and the ruling female class in Hollywood seem to prefer pink cell phones and bite-sized doggies to the ability to speak polysyllabically. Some weeks, things just don’t look good for the X chromosome. When I feel myself sinking into despair, I do several things. First, I engage in a rousing round of Wii boxing. Then, I find excuses to use power tools. Finally, I look into the annals of history and dig for women who knew how to fling their weight around long before it became fashionable (and then apparently became unfashionable again).

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Wu Zetian, otherwise known as Empress Wu. She walked, or rather shoved her way onto the scene during China’s Tang dynasty (618-906 AD), during which women were not required to bind their feet, or be entirely submissive, but were nonetheless far from achieving any sort of equality. Confucianism, the religion of choice at the time, deemed it unnatural and unthinkable for women to assume positions of power. One may envy of her reputation as a “good catch”, achieved by the tender age of thirteen. One may sympathize with the loss of her first husband, the emperor, and puzzle over her agreement to enter a convent following his passing. What really grabs the attention, however, are the events that followed. With her knowledge of music, literature and art, she charmed her late husband’s son, the new emperor, and began an ambitious ascent to power that would rival any cut-throat corporate takeover. Wu was a concubine at first, but managed to claw her way to first wife, a feat that involved framing the current empress for the murder of a child that Wu herself had orchestrated. Finding that she had outlived and outlasted both father and son, she boosted herself to the top of the imperial ladder, outranking even her own children, the direct heirs to the throne. Her most impressive act as empress was to change the national religion from Confucianism to Buddhism, a daunting task, but for obvious reasons, a wise and necessary one. Wu’s special brand of tough love yielded years of cultural growth, military success and economic prosperity. With only will, determination, and a generous helping of cold-blooded nastiness, Wu transformed herself from just another poor little rich girl into the ruler of one of the most powerful and paternalistic cultures of its time.

Whew. Now I feel better.

Taking One for the Team: How Starving Artists Support the Economy

Bashing the “artsy” set is nothing new. More than two thousand years ago, Plato took a swing, accusing art in general of being distracting, deceptive, and responsible for encouraging would-be philosopher kings to engage their lower passions. In the eras that followed, those armed with pen, paintbrush or pipes continued to be kicked in the proverbial stones, deemed pariahs during their lifetimes, dying penniless, and then having friends and family make millions from their work thereafter. Hundreds of years after that, there lived a certain student of the Humanities who was unfortunate enough to have her “Intro to Shakespeare” class in the engineering building. A semester was spent trying to make a twenty-pound anthology look inconspicuous as she tried to fly through the halls unnoticed.

Let’s face it: we live in a culture that defines the value of art by how well it matches the sofa, or how many pairs of sneakers it sells. It’s not a well-funded venture, and in many circles, isn’t even considered a “real job”. But I can’t abide people accusing us of failing to contribute to the fiduciary well-being of the country. What many nay-sayers fail to realize, is the significant contribution that artists of all shapes and sizes make to the economy, despite the lack of steady income (or any income, for that matter). Here are but a few of the many ways in which we shoulder our financial burden:

Caffeine. Creativity does not follow a nine-to-five schedule, and as such, it requires a significant amount of supplementary brain juice. In many cases, artists work both sides of the coffee counter. I once met an architectural designer who could create non-stop for two days at a time (not a wink of sleep), with the aid of a 24 of Red Bull. At two bucks a can, that ain’t chump change. Don’t even get me started on how much chocolate goes into the production of a manuscript.

Supplies. You can’t get someone to buy a pair of jeans that doesn’t make their butt look great. You can’t sell a car that has a reputation for stalling at red lights. You can, however, get a writer to pay ten dollars for a pen that doesn’t give them hand cramps. You can also sell a painter very expensive tubes of goo that might never amount to anything special. You can squeeze a small fortune out of vocalists for sheet music that’s way out of their range. Add in guitar picks, cake make-up, head shots, etc…you do the math. There’s really no such thing as discount ballet slippers or 2-for-1 trombones.

Postage. Sad to say that most of the arts have not yet moved into the internet age. Submissions and communications are usually done the old fashioned way, using trucks, sorting machines, and brave people in uniform. You can run out of deodorant, or ramen noodles, or even laundry detergent, and your life as an artist need not cease. Run out of stamps, however, and you’re screwed. Every time I hear someone say that old-fashioned letters are going the way of the dinosaur, I smile knowingly and inform them that they probably have a ten or twenty year buffer from the publishing industry.

Not bad, for a bunch of people who live off Kraft dinner, and routinely search the couch for spare change. Vive l’economie boheme!

God Is In The Details: Mysticism for the Cosmically Clueless

I’ll admit that spiritually speaking, I’m still groping my way through the universe. My soul may have been around the block a few times, but with respect to its understanding of the how and what and why of my existence, it still has a great deal of homework to do. I’ve always taken comfort in the philosophy of William James, who created a very long laundry list of characteristics for mystical experience, but who also insisted that contact with the divine was not reserved for the high and mighty. In his view, normal, every day folks had equal access to the great hereafter, and being human and curious were sufficient conditions for finding it.

I regard those looking to “prove” all of this with great scepticism. I’m convinced that whatever else is “out there”, It wouldn’t be foolish enough to make Itself detectable through our pathetic Radio Shack gadgets. I’m fairly certain that if orbs and light streaks in photographs prove anything, it’s that the spiritual world likes to pull faces and moon us. If the state of our universe proves anything, it’s that whatever or whoever is in charge has an incredible capacity for humour, and a keen sense of irony.

So I don’t look for the almighty (whoever he/she/they/it may be) in burning bushes, or statues that cry, or in strangely shaped pit stains on my shirt. The cement Buddha in the garden, the likeness of Ganesha in the living room and the Menorah in with the holiday decorations are hopeful declarations of my desire to learn, but they’re not the basis of my faith.

I let myself off the hook and try to see connections to the universe all of the little things over which I stumble on a daily basis. I feel a connection to my ancestors when I bite into a butter tart (my paternal grandmother’s signature dish). I’m sure someone is watching my back whenever “Putting on the Ritz” comes on the radio (another benevolent late relative’s favourite). I smile when the dog stares at nothing in particular on the other side of the room and wags. I read “true” ghost stories with the same vigour with which others grant celebrity tabloids.

I’m not looking for certainty, or tangible evidence, or even profound revelatory experience. What I crave, and what I treasure, are the same things that make-up James’ checklist: small moments of clarity and connection, and the sense that I’m not alone in the universe. I felt this one afternoon in the subway, on my way home from a job I despised, in the midst of a quarter-life crisis. A violinist and keyboard player were filling the station with a respectable rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. It may have been the echo, or the warm summer breeze, or the nagging persistence of twenty-something angst looking to relieve itself, but something happened. I had a fleeting, but very clear sense that this wasn’t it. There was so much more to come, and I wasn’t the only being frustrated by the long search. The most comforting aspect of the experience was that revelation wasn’t beyond me. Order and balance, wherever it came from, would find me eventually. And all I had to do was go about my business.

My Six-Word Memoir

My Childhood: better late than never.

(as posted on http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/archive.php)

Saving the World Through Cookies

I bake…a lot. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. For me baking serves as stress release, meditation and cardiovascular exercise all at once (you should see me go). Everything about baking is cathartic. I pour over nearly-pornographic photos of pastries in cookbooks. I use the dry goods section of Bulk Barn to indulge in the fantasy that I’m a spice merchant exploring the Far East for undiscovered flavours. I emerge, warrior-like, from double-batches of this or that, covered in flour, hair tousled and voice hoarse from screaming along to Zydeco music. Given that I’ve a sweet tooth and am determined to leave this world without any insulin in my body, I’m also partial to stuffing myself like a mummy with whatever is hot from the oven.

In recent years, however, I’ve found that baking also serves a social function. It’s one of the few vestiges of human kindness that hasn’t been sullied by the media, or wracked by political correctness, or slime-coated by ingratitude. Compliment someone on their outfit, and they’ll probably think you’re hitting on them (or secretly mocking them). Put change in an expired parking meter, and you’ll get a nifty fine. Give a choking soul the Heimlich, and they’re likely to sue you for bruising their ribs. Offer someone a free something or other, and they’ll berate you for charging them a fair price thereafter.

In the land of cookies, and tarts, and various puffs and mousses, things work differently. Even the most macho, gladiatorial men can be brought to tears if you reproduce the cake their Granny used to make for their birthday. The snooty co-worker who won’t speak to you will smile (in spite of themselves), if you present them with a steaming, fresh cinnamon bun. Hell, even dogs know the difference between bland kibble and something homemade in the shape of a bone.

Blood sugar can scare off hypothermia. Chocolate produces happy chemicals in the brain. Berries keep you young (in more ways than one). We were biologically destined to eat dessert. It’s truly amazing, the way that warm, gooey treats turn us from snarling miscreants into big purple dinosaurs. Everyone’s got their button to be pushed, and if you really want to see the grace that lies within all people, you’ll do what I do. You’ll worship at an altar occupied by a Kitchenaide mixer and a convection oven. You’ll make certain that your hands are always anointed with butter and the scent of vanilla. You’ll greet your fellow carbon-based life forms, not with harsh words and a scowl, but with something sticky and brimming with confectionary benediction. You’ll feel human again when they shut up and eat, and smile, like nice people are supposed to.

An Ode to Bootsy Collins

Anyone old enough to remember “Ally McBeal”, anyone who’s gone through sufficient therapy to block that disturbing dancing baby, probably remembers her “pips”. On the advice of her own therapist, Ally envisions an entourage of soulful supporters, complete with Motown-smooth rhythm, and messages of comfort and support. As she makes her way through her oh-so-dramatic daily life, she is trailed by her very own built-in support posse, a crew of yeah-sayers ready with reassurance and some old-school soul. Her skirt may have been obscenely short, and her ribcage all-too-apparent, but Ally did know the value of the Greek chorus.

Well, things have changed since the age of the single, female lawyer, and I daresay, life in the big city has become even more trying. Pips, as fabulous as they are, don’t seem adequate back-up for these trying times. Multi-part harmony, powder blue tuxedos and synchronized side-stepping just don’t seem to cut it anymore. We need to call in the big guns, the heavy hitter, the imaginary sidekick who can alleviate the doldrums integrally linked to the twenty-first century.

I nominate Bootsy Collins. I vote for an invisible support system worthy of the likes of George Clinton. I opt for a Jiminy Cricket bold enough to sport giant glitter sunglasses and a sequin-spotted mad hatter top hat. My anxieties will be quelled only by phrases like “Shizle my izle, kazizle!” As I walk through this cruel world, I will hold my head high and avoid despair, just as long as I can hear the faint clunk of obscene platform shoes and the funky wa-wa of a star-shaped guitar. Long live the funk!

Apple Say, Monkey Do: Confessions of an Itunes Harlot

The black and white photo of Friedrich Nietzsche in my front hallway is mocking me. He won’t even turn his head to acknowledge me when I come in the door. Okay, in the picture he’s turned sideways, doing his signature hair-pulling, moustache-twitching, brow-furrowing, bitter misanthrope pose, but there’s a nasty new vibe coming from him. Good Old Freddy is pissed at me because I’ve become a sheep. After years of resisting convention, reading Shakespeare for fun, refusing to buy impractical footwear or watch any movie entitled “Jackass”, I’ve tragically fallen in line.

Worse than a sheep, I’ve become a tramp. Months ago, I purchased a tiny little musical, metal square thing, hoping it would help me focus while I worked, and now I’m a first-rate trollop. I’ll download anything the media passes in front of me. Stuff I hear in the background of sitcoms. Stuff I hear in the car on the way to work. Hell, I download stuff I hear being used to sell odour eaters.

A year ago, I was one of those “I only listen to quality music.” jerks who scoffed at anyone who was a fan of pre-fab stuff. Okay, I listened to crap then too, but I didn’t make it public knowledge. A few weeks ago, I heard the Spice Girls would never reunite again, and I felt myself compelled to click a couple of buttons. I’m now the proud owner of an electronic version of “Wannabe”. Hadn’t I already freed myself from these shackles eons ago when I gave my copy of that CD away (when not even a second-hand place would buy it)? Hadn’t I risen above all of this and become my own, spice-free individual? BAAAA!

My inner Uberfrau is silenced every time I sell the space between my ears for the low, low price of a buck. For less than the cost of a cup of tea, they can have me listening to just about anything. My new cultural identity is tied to a device smaller than my credit card, which, incidentally, has also been dragged into this sad perversion of human individuality. Well, Freddy my friend, you can shove it in your Will to Power. George Michael’s greatest hits is coming out soon, and my mouse finger is itchy.

I Believe!

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and today, he was hanging out in a humble cafeteria. I’ll admit, he looked like he was on vacation. In lieu of the red suit with the stylish black patent belt and matching boots, he was sporting baggy jeans and a flannel shirt. He did, however, have the long white beard and an impressive mane to match, along with the trademark spectacles.

What really gave him away, however, was what he did for the woman in line behind me, the one with the very sensible, nutritious lunch who was digging desperately in her bag for a wallet that just didn’t want to materialize. With more subtlety than jollity, he put his cup of black coffee down next to her tray and offered to pay for her lunch. Her incredulous, but grateful look was met with “It’s okay, I just got paid. (giggle, giggle) You can pay me back if and when you see me again. (giggle, giggle).” A hungry, overworked woman got to tuck into her salad, a noted saint got to retain his halo, and along with my banana bread, I had a side of human kindness (a rare delicacy these days). Bon appetit!

The Roller Monologues

Women are supposed to shop together. We’re encouraged to go to the bathroom en masse. We’re expected to group-quilt, and clamour in hordes around Tupperware. In times gone by, women could be found chasing after small animals (or small humans) together, and chanting to the moon. Last weekend, the women of my tribe engaged in a long-standing ritual. We painted.

By painted, I don’t mean in any artistic sense (I’m a weak link where visual talent is concerned). Our gathering was not marked by circles of easels, bowls of shiny fruit and smears of vermillion and burnt umber. There was an apartment to be tamed, an unruly set of grey walls, and we came together to make it feel like home. In a ballet of grubby clothes and latex-acrylic, we danced, a trio of weird sisters. My mother governed the heavens, standing tip-toed on a chair and occasionally chiming “Shit, I dripped again.” My sister muscled the middle, wielding her roller pole like a javelin. Plumbing the depths behind furniture, I crawled along the trim on the floor.

All the while, we called to each other from opposite corners of each room:

“Damn, this colour looks good!”

“Did you watch John Stewart the other night?”

“Who do you have to kill to get a raise these days?”

And at some point, my mother made an astute observation. This is what we do. Some kinswomen knit, or have brunch, or watch the latest movie. We paint. Even when we don’t do it together, we still eagerly share battle stories. The shade of green that made my sister nauseated. My sponge-paint job that looked like blood spatters at a crime scene. My mother’s discovery that magic marker bleeds through every layer of paint that’s slopped on top of it. The rooms that do turn out are shown off as badges of honour, and garner appreciative “ooohs” and “aaaahs”.

One could blame this long-standing tradition on our fickle decorating tastes, or our collective need to move things around our dens. Maybe it’s our waspish need to avoid idle hands (the work of the devil), or our genetic predisposition to organize. Maybe all three of us were chameleons in a former life. Not one of us expected to wake up the next day without dried, crusty paint between her fingers, or without sore muscles. We did, however, leave my sister’s apartment confident that there would be a future call to arms, and we would follow the brush-shaped signal back to the coven. Probably as soon as my sister decided what colour the kitchen should be.

Somewhere in Paris, a short existentialist rolls over in his grave.

Last week, the Toronto Star published an article entitled “A Nation of Cheaters”, outlining our general refusal to prioritize honest, hard work over the Darwinian drive to “get ahead”. Reporter David Graham gives example after example of what Jean Paul Sartre would term bad faith, the cowardly and metaphysically unfounded practice of saddling anything and anyone else with the burden of one’s own actions. Point by point, the article describes our communal allergy to personal responsibility.

Coincidentally, I was having a week riddled with bad faith. A customer service rep on the phone followed the phrase “The part you need for your stove won’t be in until April” with “What do you expect us to do about it?” A drycleaner who made a perfectly good shirt vanish into the ether substituted a twenty-dollar bill for an apology. I was dealing with my regular onslaught of students claiming I was ruining their academic and professional future by not accepting their work three weeks late. In my head, I could picture Sartre, with his bad eye and his ever-present halo of cigarette smoke, shaking his head. There are weeks when I feel like an incredible sap for assuming that I’m responsible for my own actions, and an even bigger sap for hoping that others will share my views.

Graham’s article proposes that while outbreaks of irresponsibility are recurrent, they’re generally short-lived. I’m hopeful, but not all that optimistic. It’s really very comforting to put our responsibilities in a cute little bubble, float it away, and wait for it to explode (messily) over someone else’s head. Moreover, rewards for self-determination aren’t very tempting. Being willing to accept responsibility puts us at the bottom of the hill, the same steep climb down which the proverbial brown stuff rolls. Being at the receiving end of bad faith, having all of the non-believers taking numbers and lining up to pin their woes on you makes it difficult to avoid the temptation to utter “It’s not my fault either”.

Does this blog make by butt look big?

Nothing is as bothersome as a blank page, so in an effort to claim this blog as my own, and to get this freakish, Frankenstinian creature on its feet, I humbly offer this inaugural post. Smash imaginary bottle of champagne here.