tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63102528911829099242024-03-13T06:27:08.455-06:00We Are AmusedThe professional weblog of Jeremy A. Cook, Bard. Anything here is free to share, so please do so.
<a href="http://www.jeremyacook.ca/">www.jeremyacook.ca</a>Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-59434223871281998132017-09-27T13:29:00.000-06:002017-09-27T13:29:29.105-06:00Lee As Pain<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> When I was in Grade 11, I drew a
picture of Robert E. Lee in pencil. The photo copied is a perfect capture of
the man’s eyes, of their mixture of stern command and sadness. I drew this picture
because I admired him. I hung it in my highschool locker.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wZm5-TFmWjo/Wcv7ugNGB2I/AAAAAAAAA3w/nGHplJMF8-4a7_xz7RypKQJ579TK-9QtgCLcBGAs/s1600/Robert%2BE.%2BLee.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="248" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wZm5-TFmWjo/Wcv7ugNGB2I/AAAAAAAAA3w/nGHplJMF8-4a7_xz7RypKQJ579TK-9QtgCLcBGAs/s1600/Robert%2BE.%2BLee.bmp" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> Twenty-five years later, a group
of white men, also admirers of Lee, gathered in Charlottesville, Virginia to
protest the removal of his statue from the newly-named Emancipation Park. They clashed
with counter-protesters, and one of them drove his car into a crowd, murdering
a 32-year-old mother. At a press conference, The President spluttered some
words in Lee’s defense, asking reporters if they also wished to pull down
statues of other slave-owners like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span lang="EN-US"> In his lifetime, Lee was a
central figure of The United States’ Civil War, and his story is one of heroic
contradictions. He was a soldier who abhorred violence, and totally obedient
until he betrayed his country. He was a racist slave-owner who disliked
slavery. He commanded the Confederate Army in its most glorious victories and
ignominious failures. For Northerners, he was both traitor and honored
adversary. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">His
legend began in The Civil War, but it has been rewritten many times since. After
the war, he joined the American pantheon of heroes. Politicians used him as a
symbol of reconciliation between North and South, a hero to salve the wounded
pride and sorrow of a defeated South. He became an avatar of the Lost Cause, a
narrative of the Civil War that highlights noble soldiers defending their homes
and State’s Rights, while downplaying or ignoring slavery. In many ways, Lee <i>is</i> The Lost Cause, a noble soldier who
fought for his homeland, while disliking slavery and secession. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">Lee
has also become an icon for intolerance. Former Confederate soldiers, such as
Nathan Bedford Forrest, formed the Ku Klux Klan to thwart The Reconstruction
and punish newly-freed slaves. Their numbers swelled in the 1920s and 30s. They
were joined by Neo-Nazis and other white supremacists in Charlottesville. To
them, Lee is a hero of the white race, who battled a tide of uppity niggers,
race-traitors and weaklings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">A
new Lee narrative is circulating. You can find it easily by Googling “Who was
Robert E. Lee”, and finding one of the many copy-paste articles about his
history. It casts Lee as a cruel slaver. Here, he is a blunderer who just
couldn’t figure out them gol-dern military tactics, his greatest victories
credited to the even-greater incompetence of his rival, George McClellan. It
goes out of its way to point out that Lee wouldn’t have wanted monuments of
himself. Its sole aim is to justify the removal of statues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">All
over the South, Confederate statues are being removed, including images of Lee
in Charlottesville, New Orleans, and Baltimore. To the architects of this
movement, Lee is a symbol of the violent racism that caused the Civil War, and
endures today. The public statues of Lee, mounted on Traveller, are a reminder
of the humiliation and suffering of slavery, and the enduring institutional
racism that came after. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">None
of the narratives about Lee is completely true. Too many stories claim him. Only
Lee knew the full narrative of Lee, but we can come close to discovering his
true character by studying history. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">If
you take the time to read many different accounts, you will see a creature of
perfect physical and moral discipline, tortured by his own deficiencies. You
will meet a truly gentle person who was also a killer. You will see a man
unlearning outdated military tactics, and quietly mourning thousands of deaths
he caused. You see him take responsibility for failure, and his soft-spoken
humility. You must reconcile a man of such heroic character fighting on the
wrong side of history, for an immoral government founded by proud and greedy
men. You will come to learn the pain behind those stern, sad eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">In
1861, Lee was forced to make a terrible choice. He could either command the
Union Army, or return home to fight for his native Virginia. His choice was
personally heartrending. And yet, Lee’s personal pain at his decision to fight
for the Confederacy caused far more external pain. It filled thousands of
surgeons’ buckets with sawed-off limbs. It crowded thousands of graveyards. Would
the Confederacy have lasted long without his talents? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">The
pain did not end after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. It spoke through
generations, inspiring some, and inciting others to violence. Rip down all the
statues of Jefferson Davis, Alexander Stephens, Roger Taney, Braxton Bragg, or
the rest of those Confederate losers, and it will elicit hardly a peep from the
public. Target Lee, and it’s a different story. It is no coincidence that the
violence of August 12<sup>th</sup> was fought over his statue. One hundred and
fifty years after the Civil War ended, people are still dying because of Robert
E. Lee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US">In
Grade 11, I made a monument to Lee in my locker. Knowing what I do now, would I
keep that pencil drawing on display? That’s a tough one. When I drew that
picture, I didn’t give a thought to slavery. I admired Lee’s self-control and
self-denial, his cunning in battle, and his resolve in overwhelming adversity. But,
if I could explain to myself that other people might think it an endorsement of
slavery, or that I was a Klansman, I would be embarrassed. I’d be defensive,
then guilty. Then I’d probably take it down. The process would be painful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What a cruel thing is war; to
separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and
happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred
instead of love for our neighbours, and to devastate the fair face of this
beautiful world!” ~ Robert E. Lee</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-50049035958660731562016-08-03T15:21:00.001-06:002016-08-03T15:22:20.538-06:00Privileged in Toronto<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kk49cBFzck0/V6JgNRfXwnI/AAAAAAAAA3A/_lL7-bGgIEUlRxzK-6dFl7FBZ3CbqU-fwCLcB/s1600/Toronto_Skyline_September_2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kk49cBFzck0/V6JgNRfXwnI/AAAAAAAAA3A/_lL7-bGgIEUlRxzK-6dFl7FBZ3CbqU-fwCLcB/s320/Toronto_Skyline_September_2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a red, folding audience chair of Studio Theatre at Toronto’s Harbourfront Centre sits a white man. He is in the wrong place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is attending an event at the Canadian Writer’s Summit of 2016, titled “Grants for Writers.” But the white man should have read the summit’s website more carefully. If he had, he would have learned that this event is about the Ontario Arts Council. He’s from Saskatchewan. When he finds out, he feels dumb, but decides to stick around anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack Illingworth, Literary Officer for the OAC, sits at a folding table, centre-stage. In his opening remarks, he thanks the Mississauga First Nation, on whose traditional lands downtown Toronto is built, for hosting. This is not the first time the white man has heard these words. Writer Lawrence Hill began his keynote address with them. At the time, the white man thought these words were a nice concession to First Nations people. Toronto is progressive, and the writing community is at the vanguard of The Culture of Inclusion. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time, however, the speech strikes the white man as meaningless. If The Mississauga First Nation asked Jack Illingworth to vacate his house, would he be waxing this eloquent? Would he thank them for the previous use of their ancestral homeland and pack his bags? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Desperation rises from the audience like stink-lines. Destitute writers itch to discover the secret of the elusive Arts Grant. Every one of Mr. Illingworth’s ums, hesitations, and miscellaneous speech disfluencies ramp the tension. He pauses to take questions, and hands flutter. Complaining ensues. Illingworth apologizes, then commiserates, saying how hard it was to write all those rejection letters. Funding has been shrinking for decades and people who deserve grants cannot get them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another writer queries Illingworth about a new OAC policy: “Is it true blind juries will be abolished for arts grants?” The embattled Literary Officer confirms. “Why?” asks another woman, without raising her hand. Because, says Illingworth, blind juries overwhelmingly choose projects from privileged artists. The crowd gasps. Soon, the OAC will consider an artist’s background, colour, creed and culture as well as their project. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tired and troubled, the white man leaves the talk early. He strides down crowded York Street to the Union Station Subway, pondering. How can privilege penetrate a blind jury? Are white men really that good at manipulating the system? Is the new OAC policy fair? Is it discrimination? Is it legal? Will blind juries be eliminated in Saskatchewan? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His survival instinct stirs. He’s a writer, and when he sells a story, he makes an average of $25, USD if he’s lucky. That’s no way to make a living. He needs an arts grant, and fears extra competition. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning of the summit, the white man is in the wrong place again. The panel discussion he was most anticipating was “Writing from a Remote Area”. His home village, on the remoteness scale, ranks somewhere between Midway Atoll and Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. He cannot wait to hear some valuable tips. Arriving late at the outdoor tent, he sits in the front row and readies his notebook. He should have read the website more carefully. The panel begins: in French. Apparently, in Toronto, the word “remote” means “Quebec”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disappointed and feeling stupid, he wanders until he finds a panel discussion about collaboration. He tries to take notes, but cannot. His mind wages civil war. His survival instinct rages, combining with self-hatred and his sense of dislocation. The Culture of Inclusion threatens him. He feels: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<ol>
<li>Stupid, useless and hopeless</li>
<li>Excluded and ignored at the prevailing culture at the summit because it threatens his survival. It calls him privileged, when he feels he is not. It has no interest in his stories because of who he is. It reinforces itself with catchphrases like "European narratives" and "colonialism", and its perpetrators compete with each other to see how loud they can clap when they are mentioned. </li>
<li>Furious with himself for thinking a series of bigoted thoughts (which I will not publish here)</li>
<li>Angry with truly privileged people - the ones who get all the grants. </li>
<li>Like he wants to go home and quit writing forever. </li>
<li>Like he is in the wrong place. </li>
</ol>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The white man tells himself to shut up; these are the thoughts of a victim and a bigot. But he cannot bottle them. Trembling, he flees the panel during question-period and eats a sad lunch at the café overlooking Toronto Harbour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Willing himself past the old power plant to the Fleck Dance Theatre, he trudges to his next event, “The First Page Challenge”. He has anonymously submitted the first page of a short story to the organizers. An agent, an editor and a professional writer will critique it and judge whether they would keep reading or put it down. He dreads this event, for his self-esteem is in the toilet, and he is sure his writing will be lambasted. He enters the dim theatre anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two hours later, the white man emerges, transformed. He received accolades from the onstage panel. His writing is good. Again he is competent and capable. Again the universe is a place of abundance. His survival is threatened by nobody. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most important, the encouragement has restored his clarity. He remembers his list of itemized complaints against the summit, Toronto and the Culture of Inclusion, and sees that he was only a tourist in it. Some people live that list. Every day they struggle against privilege and feel like they are in the wrong place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The white man’s day at the summit concludes at a reception. Some kind of LGBTQ awards are being presented. He’s not sure which: he didn’t read the website that carefully. Again the Mississauga First Nation is thanked, and again he notes overenthusiastic applause when the names of past winners are listed, but it doesn’t bother him. It is only encouragement. Encouragement helped him at exactly the right time. It is the antidote to bigotry and hatred. If he had not received it at his critical moment, he might still be thinking that white men are victims. He joins the loud clapping. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man in a dress accepts his award at the podium. The white man stifles a chuckle, not because men in dresses are funny, but because he cannot imagine this scene back home in Saskatchewan. Yet he knows that if The Culture of Inclusion is so entrenched in Toronto, Canada’s most important city, it will be mainstream in Saskatchewan in a few years. When that happens, it will change how writers interact with funding agencies and with government. It may mean preferential treatment for some. It might mean the end of blind juries for arts grants. It may be more difficult for the white man to get the money he needs to write for a living. Even though they are privileged, men like him will feel persecuted. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The privilege-party must be crashed, and space must be cleared at the table. Though painful, it is necessary. The white man vows encourage everybody he can, privileged or not, during the process. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That evening, the white man decides to walk to his lodgings instead of taking the subway. His route takes him across Bay Street, through the throngs of Yonge street, and along the circus that is Bloor. He absorbs Toronto, and sees every conceivable culture, class, flag, and self-identifying gender during his stroll. He is a lone human amongst millions, but feels inclusion in the smiles he meets on the street. He is in the right place. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-30172805816071909332016-05-05T22:59:00.000-06:002016-05-05T23:01:04.276-06:00What is Magic?<div>
During World War I, three Portuguese kids met the Virgin Mary. I'm not sure why people paid attention. Kids say a lot of dumb stuff. My kid, for instance, claimed to have an invisible sister named Marceline last month. I laughed at her, and I was correct to do so. Early 20th-Century Portugal was a different time and place, and for whatever reason, these kids were big news. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-55Z0YMd8FTA/VywbY2dhxaI/AAAAAAAAA2U/5UEJ-T3H39YO0-UeLJNPfWy4m0faKiEEQCLcB/s1600/Fatima-Children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-55Z0YMd8FTA/VywbY2dhxaI/AAAAAAAAA2U/5UEJ-T3H39YO0-UeLJNPfWy4m0faKiEEQCLcB/s320/Fatima-Children.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The kids told people to go hang out in a field and await a miracle. And over the course of months, people waited. About a hundred thousand of them travelled to Cova da Iria. Newspapers sent reporters to cover the event. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then, on October 13, 1917, something happened. Nobody is sure what. The Catholic Church now refers to this event as "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miracle_of_the_Sun">The Miracle of the Sun</a>". Of the people who experienced it: </div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>One third of them saw something freaky happen to the sun. It flashed different colours, or zig-zagged across the sky, or two suns appeared. </li>
<li>One third of them experienced conflicting weirdness, like their wet clothes drying spontaneously. </li>
<li>And a third of them saw a bunch of crazy idiots losing their minds over nothing. </li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T1cJUF-V7cA/Vywcw0tWXxI/AAAAAAAAA2g/0NtDvO2sW2Y76AUHStkF8BAq7d5kANvYACLcB/s1600/Charlie%2BRocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T1cJUF-V7cA/Vywcw0tWXxI/AAAAAAAAA2g/0NtDvO2sW2Y76AUHStkF8BAq7d5kANvYACLcB/s320/Charlie%2BRocks.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>
My grandpa Charlie, were he alive for me to ask, would tell me that those religious nutcases saw what they wanted to see. He was a rocket scientist and physicist, and science was his faith. Religion and magic are the realms of crooks and crazies, he might say. He would have said that atmospheric dust created the illusion of The Miracle of the Sun, or that the loonies saw a parhelion rainbow, or maybe they were just staring at the sun for too long and hurt their eyes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Charlie failed to get any of his kids to become scientists. But I inherited his sceptical mind. In the aughts, I was burned by unsourced left-wing, libertarian websites, and I honed my bullshit sensor. I like my ability to sniff the false garbage that circulates on Facebook, and I like the idea that we can prove stuff by testing it. I like the label of "sceptic". </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I also want to believe in magic. When I was a kid, I loved the stories of trolls lurking under mountains in <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/DAulaires-Book-Trolls-Ingri-dAulaire/dp/1590172175">D'Aulaire's Book of Trolls</a>. In my twenties, I became entranced with H.P. Lovecraft's tales and their moral that unspeakable terror lies beyond the borders of human knowledge. Now, I write my own stories, and all of them are supernatural. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That, and I've seen some weird shit. I had an out-of-body experience when I stopped breathing on an operating table. I've seen ghosts. I've felt tingling energy flowing through a woman's fingers into my back. I've stepped into rooms and glades, knowing that their was an invisible presence with me. These are not the words of a sceptic. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I desperately want magic to be real. My senses tell me that it is. Yet science consistently refutes ghosts and energy and chi. My cousin once shared somebody's theory with me that since science never detects the supernatural, it must be very rare. Brain misinterpretation of data and mental illness, however, are very common. Therefore, most people who see supernatural things are either mistaken or crazy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So that's me. I couldn't have seen my dead friend Nick looking down from his old apartment window on Broadway. I saw some other guy who looked like him and my brain filled in the rest. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
At this point, I want to repeat a phrase beloved by alternative and pseudo-scientific therapies everywhere. If you're a sceptic, you'll hate this: "(fill in the blank) harnesses the body's remarkable ability to heal itself." This phrase makes my skin crawl. But it's pretty much the only scientific evidence for magic that I can think of. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm talking about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Placebo">the placebo effect</a>. If you give a sugar pill to a group of people and tell them it will cure their illness, a bunch of them will get better. Who do placebos affect? <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_K._Beecher">Henry K. Beecher</a>, the scientist who practically wrote the book on the placebo effect, said that they affect about one in three people. Here's another funny one. There's also such a thing as a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nocebo">noncebo</a>. This is a harmless substance that, if the patient believes it is bad, will have detrimental effects. </div>
<div>
<br />
What is central to placebos and noncebos is that they hinge on belief. They help or harm because people believe they will. The reason it works is something to do with expectation, but the science seems really fuzzy. The point is that your health is, to a large part, subjective. If you truly believe that acupuncture, reiki, or cutting gluten out of your diet will make you healthy, it might. Even if you think that you will be healed by sneaking into the Vatican and taking a draught from the Pope's toilet, there is a one in three chance that it will work. Belief! <br />
<br />
So let me express my own beliefs. I believe that the placebo effect is magic. I believe that the Miracle of the Sun was magic. I believe that ghosts and chi energy are magic. And I believe that these things can exist alongside science. <br />
<br />
The immanent physician, Dean Ornish, made a quote about science that I like. He said, "A valid scientific theory is predictive, verifiable, and replicable. To me, that's beautiful." In the spirit of that, allow me to give magic the same treatment. <br />
<br />
<b>Magic is unpredictable, unverifiable, and subjective. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4PLf7G5yGUs/Vywj7Igd1zI/AAAAAAAAA2w/TG3quvwzYj8u_waPF_SjHW4Z9nQX5-5EgCLcB/s1600/The%2Bmagician.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4PLf7G5yGUs/Vywj7Igd1zI/AAAAAAAAA2w/TG3quvwzYj8u_waPF_SjHW4Z9nQX5-5EgCLcB/s320/The%2Bmagician.jpg" width="186" /></a></b></div>
<br />
<br />
Magic can never be quantified by science, because there is never any guarantee that it will work, even in the hands a master. When it works, it sometimes doesn't work as advertised. Furthermore, because magic is subjective, the presence of sceptical minds makes it less likely to work. One person will see two suns rising and be moved to prostrate tears, while another will observe nothing. <br />
<br />
Science is great. It has elevated our humble species. We live longer, we build astounding things, and we rule the planet. It provides a great baseline for existing on earth. <br />
<br />
However, sometimes weird shit happens. When magic occurs, it is awe-inspiring, terrifying and cathartic. It is wonder at seeing two suns rise. It is inexplicable terror in a lonely place that makes your heart pound. It is a terminal cancer patient beating the disease. It can change your life, or become your reason for living. If you refuse to believe in miracles, it makes them less likely to happen to you. <br />
<br />
So believe. </div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-21936976214065632402015-10-17T11:56:00.000-06:002015-10-17T11:56:38.580-06:00HarperocracyI'm a mess. <br />
<br />
It has been about four years since I wrote anything about Stephen Harper. It's election time, so I feel I must say something. That something is, “I told you so.” <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lbeT8GStA3o/ViKLSVh4cDI/AAAAAAAAA2E/-KiahV5TH24/s1600/Jeremy%2BHarper%2BHitler.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lbeT8GStA3o/ViKLSVh4cDI/AAAAAAAAA2E/-KiahV5TH24/s320/Jeremy%2BHarper%2BHitler.png" width="259" /></a></div>
Four years ago, I wrote that until now, Stephen Harper has been playing nicey-nice. He needed to compromise his vision because Parliament checked his power. I told the world, on this very blog, that if he is given a majority government, we will finally see his true agenda. And I was right. <br />
<br />
In Canada, we have a tradition of parliamentary politeness. Our politicians must appear composed and prime-ministerial. In the past, I've tried to sound at least respectable, too. But I'm through being reasonable. I can quote a bunch of facts, but it would just be regurgitation of information expressed by others more eloquent than me. I feel I have to honour the raging emotions in me to find relief. This election has taught me that votes are not won by intellect. Emotions are the true currency of politics. So I will say what all three of Stephen Harper's opponents desperately wish to say about Stephen Harper's agenda, but cannot. <br />
<br />
Stephen Harper is evil. <br />
<br />
Not just evil, but Eeeeevil. Like, “Devil”, except he's so evil that he had the letter D's citizenship revoked. <br />
<br />
What is evil? Most definitions say that an evil person is a transgressor. Harper is a proud transgressor. Our country has a British parliamentary tradition, with many unwritten rules and things that are “just not done, old boy”. But Harper does them, and he does them to win. <br />
<br />
“But Jeremy,” you say, “It's easy to denounce someone is evil if you disagree with them.” I will admit that Stephen Harper's policies are disagreeable to me. But it isn't just that I disagree with him. There's something else. You see, he is not a stupid man.<br />
<br />
It is easy for me to laugh at conservative buffoons like former Toronto mayor Rob Ford. They rush from catastrophe to catastrophe, blurting embarrassing things and flailing at anything they perceive as weird. Such men are conservative out of ignorance. Not Stephen Harper. His conservatism is informed and cynical. I believe he may be a genius. <br />
<br />
It is a calculating, shrewd genius. It is an intellect that seeks control. He wields power by breaking rules and surprising his foes. <br />
<br />
Carl Jung would say that I believe Stephen Harper is evil because I see my shadow-self reflected in him. The things I hate most about Harper - his ruthlessness, his sneakiness, his control-freakishness, his ambition - are qualities I have and hate in myself. I too yearn to rule with guile and cunning, to paint my vision upon Canada while quietly grinding the faces of my vanquished foes in open sewer drainpipes. <br />
<br />
If this is so, it takes one to know one. Take it from me, a man who struggles with grandiose dreams of narcissistic power and vengeance: Canada is Stephen Harper's game of Civilization IV, and to him, we are all just units. He has the cheat codes and loves using them on us. <br />
<br />
Since the election was called, dread has been welling in me. What if he wins again? It keeps me awake at night. I am so scared. How can I live in Canada for four more years, watching him gut programs I care about, like national parks and the CBC? What else that I love will be on his chopping block? How much more damage can his corporate friends do to the planet under his watch? How can I listen to him and his weasels thwarting the House of Commons with their empty talking points, barely concealing their Duper's Delight? <br />
<br />
His supporters bother me too. I have family members and acquaintances who love Harper. Despite the glut of information about his evil, how he has been hurting us all, there is always some distracting, emotionally-charged rumour going around about “How the NDPs have a guy who did the same thing as Duffy but didn't pay it back” or “there are these Sikhs down the road who just came to Canada and they're getting our health care and how is that fair” or “I heard there's this woman who collects ten welfare cheques under different names”. Where are these stories coming from? The ignorant believe them and their anger keeps them ignorant. They get more angry at a made-up story than a far more expensive, and factual, story about tar sands companies getting free billions from Harper. <br />
<br />
Just today I was at an auto dealership and overheard some slick-looking greyhair joking with the guy behind the desk: “At least it's better than the government, where you put money in and don't get any services back!” Interesting. How about I break your pretty face so you can collect some free healthcare? You ungrateful fucking barbarian. <br />
<br />
I may have mentioned I'm a mess. The thought of Harper in office again twists my stomach. I sometimes feel like I'm having a panic attack. Some days I want to stay in bed. Other days, I carry my fear with me, slouching under it like a heavy camping backpack. <br />
<br />
So, to sum up, Harper is evil, don't vote for him. Although, the way the internet works, you will likely not see this post unless you already agree with me. I have one prayer, offered to God, or the Universe, or Eris, or Elvis, or the uncaring stars, or anybody, anything that will listen. Please please, oh please, let us not be so goddamn stupid this time. Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-64212973586749427912015-03-29T11:42:00.002-06:002015-03-29T11:42:46.974-06:00For RickyOn February 12th, 2015, Richard Enns went into the hospital for the last time. I saw him at my mother's house the day before. With painful steps, he hobbled from the bathroom to the kitchen and opened a container of apple sauce, mumbling. After he finished eating, he addressed a vacant chair in the living room.<br />
<br />
"God, that was cold. When you get down to that hambone, you feel it. That sucker hurts."<br />
<br />
"What was that, Ricky?" I asked.<br />
<br />
His eyes focused on me, and with tiny steps, he staggered forward. The nonsense switch in his brain shut off, and with clarity and lucidity, he explained what the doctors were going to do to him the next day. The first shunt in his liver hadn't quite done the trick, he said. The tumour was pressing on a vein and fluid was still collecting in his body. A second shunt might divert the fluid so he could live comfortably for another few months.<br />
<br />
He refused my arm to help him to bed. He told me he had to sleep, would take a few more steps, and turn to tell me something else. Rick loved talking, and that was obvious from the first moments I met him.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
Suzi took me to Nipawin to meet her parents for the first time in the summer of 2006. Her dad had arranged a motorboat ride on Tobin Lake. It was the first time I had ever been in a real motorboat. My parents had always paddled canoes when I was growing up, and on the one occasion they rented a motorboat, it was old and doddered across the lake with a disappointing chug-chug-chug.<br />
<br />
Rick's boat roared forward. I felt pine wind rush past, felt spray on my hands. The sunlight on the lake dazzled me. I tried to play it cool, but I could see Rick watching me. He saw my grin, and knew I was pleased. I had fallen into his trap: he loved arranging vehicular excursions into the woods north of Nipawin, and just watching his victims smile.<br />
<br />
He landed on a beach and I stepped from the boat. I found a driftwood pole on the shore and claimed it. Both ends were gnawed by beaver teeth. It was a good pole, the kind that vibrated a musical note when dropped. I explained to Rick that I needed a new walking stick and wanted a souvenir to help me remember such a perfect day.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MOq9RkW-_ok/VRgyCLAHT8I/AAAAAAAAA08/lU-1n0Avw0g/s1600/Ricky%2Bboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MOq9RkW-_ok/VRgyCLAHT8I/AAAAAAAAA08/lU-1n0Avw0g/s1600/Ricky%2Bboat.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
I eventually lost that walking stick. What stayed was an image: Rick beaming behind his tinted glasses, the tiller in one hand, and his crummy shi-tzu, Amos, cradled in the other arm. He seemed a perfect man in that moment, in cool control of his world, pleased to be sharing happiness with others.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I brought my 4-year old daughter with me to the hospital after his operation. He beamed, just like he had on the boat, when he saw her. He explained to the nurse who was changing his shirt, "This is my girlfriend, Zoey." The nurse raised an eyebrow at me.<br />
<br />
"My name's Kara," corrected my daughter.<br />
<br />
The nurse was done in a moment, and I sat near his bedside. "So, ya takin' off, Jerry?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"No, I just got here. I'll hang out and keep you company for awhile,"<br />
<br />
We held awkward conversation. Mostly, he watched Kara play in the window. She talked about icebergs forming on the roof of the hospital. "That little girl... sure is astute," he said, before drifting away to sleep. It was the last thing I ever heard him say.<br />
<br />
"Is he always confused like this?" asked the nurse as I was leaving.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it's the encephalopathy," I replied. "It's been worse lately."<br />
<br />
The nurse queried me about his medical history, because Rick had been unable to answer the questions himself before the operation. "Liver cancer of course," I said. "And hepatitis C and the encephalopathy. Type II diabetes. History of alcoholism."<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
In 2013 I went for a drive to Lost River and Teddington with Rick. I had expressed interest in his family history, and after loaning me a book on Mennonites in Canada, he invited me to view the land where he had spent his childhood.<br />
<br />
The land southwest of Nipawin was deep green, and rain threatened to delay the new harvest. A muddy grid road blazed west through low hills, sheltered by patches of aspen, then curved south, away from the Saskatchewan river. Kara twittered to herself in the backseat of the car.<br />
<br />
Only a church and cemetery remain standing in Teddington. But as we drove the grids, he pointed to a patch of poplars and said, "That's where the brown church was, the old one. We used to go there until they built the new one. It was kinda scary." He would talk about this or that farmhouse that used to stand, and the names of people who lived there. He talked about slaughtering day, when all the Mennonites from the countryside would converge on somebody's farm and slaughter their animals, then have a great feast.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IvKgUIL55Sc/VRgyjKg1ADI/AAAAAAAAA1E/V9GVGAoxMTQ/s1600/Ricky%2Bboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IvKgUIL55Sc/VRgyjKg1ADI/AAAAAAAAA1E/V9GVGAoxMTQ/s1600/Ricky%2Bboy.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></a></div>
In the cemetery, we came across the new grave of his stepmother. Somebody had half-buried a stuffed animal in the mounded earth. Kara's eyes lit, and she rushed to grab it, but I stopped her, for it looked like it had erupted from the grave, decaying, pink and soggy, then expired in the mud.<br />
Rick's mother died of tuberculosis in 1948, when he was two years old. His father needed somebody to help raise his two boys, and he remarried quickly. Rick remembered his new mother chasing him and his brother with a butcher knife. She would beat them if they spoke German in the home. She instilled in him a sense of fear, sadness and anger that would last him the rest of his days.<br />
<br />
As we walked through the Teddington cemetery and he groused about his stepmother, I saw his life anew. He started his life as a wounded little farmboy, and could have stayed a wounded little farmboy in this dying little community. But somehow he broke free and started thinking for himself, despite his pain. Yes, he used and abused substances, including alcohol, to dull that pain. Yes, he got into fights and got in trouble with the law. And he could not help inflicting some of that anger and pain onto his own children. But as we walked in the graveyard, I saw him in his new equilibrium, conscious of his own pain and his failings, but somehow having found a twisted little bit of contentedness. He had found a woman to love him. He had made peace with his children. He had seen rough times, but they were over, and now life was quiet and happy.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
A day after the operation, Rick was kept in the hospital. An infection had developed in the fluid in his abdomen. In the following days, he drifted in and out of wakefulness, speaking less and less, mumbling and putting his hands to his face, battling internal demons.<br />
<br />
The doctors soon ceased the antibiotics. His liver and kidneys had failed, his immune system was destroyed. All that could be done was watch him drift away.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
A lifetime of intemperance had given Rick hepatitis C and diabetes, but by the time I got to know him, his greatest sin was liking hockey too much. He would often alarm me by quietly watching the game on his computer with a set of headphones, then bark "YEAH!" when his team scored.<br />
<br />
He ate mounds of sweets, oil and salt, damn his internal organs. He managed his blood sugar with injected insulin, and the various other complaints of his body with a bag full of drugs and vitamins.<br />
<br />
Rick mislabelled his uncommon problem-solving talent as “common-sense”. He clearly saw solutions and mentally worked his way backwards, not stopping until his vision was satisfied. Most stubborn people build a cocoon of ignorance around themselves, but Rick's curiosity would always coax him out.<br />
<br />
His office was filled with old electronics that he had taken apart or upgraded. He bought game consoles to hijack them and get free games. All his computers had their protective cases open, exposing wires and components.<br />
<br />
In 2013, he created a little still out of a pot and a large plastic bucket, brewing and drinking his own alcohol. He was so proud as he showed me the various flavour packets he added to make amaretto, rum or rye. When I visited, he offered me alcohol from his still, and for some reason, I refused him most of the time. I promised him that I would get drunk with him some day.<br />
<br />
That day will never come now. As he drank from his little still, the alcohol assaulted his scarred liver, accelerating the growth of the tumour inside it. The tumour squeezed his hepatic arteries, causing him pain, depression, lack of energy, fluid retention, and eventually, starvation.<br />
<br />
By Christmas of 2014, his skin hung loose on his crooked form. He cradled a bloated bellyful of fluid. It was obvious that he was dying. And then he smiled. In his mouth gleamed a new set of dentures. It was so absurd that I felt sick.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
It was a years-long fading, crowned with disconcerting indignities. In his confusion, he accidentally crushed our canoe, backing into it with a trailer. He gave up on the “piss stain” he wanted to leave on the world, his straw-bale house. As he lost control of his life, he got overly worried about international terrorism and immigration. He began spending hours in the bathroom. He couldn't work anymore, forgetting what he as doing mid-chore. He spent more time in bed, then was bedridden. Reality abandoned him.<br />
<br />
On February 18, 2015, he breathed his last breath in his hospital bed. By his order, he was not resuscitated. His last words were either, “Hey buddy,” or “Oh, fuck.” With his earthly remains chilling in the hospital morgue, all I had left of him were questions.<br />
<br />
The night of his death, I tried to understand where he went. I tried to figure out why he was. I tried to distil some essence of him, some lesson to be learned from his life and death. I talked to my wife about it.<br />
<br />
"I don't even fucking care about that," she chided, lost in greater grief. "What's the point? Why do you want to make it simple? It was his life!"<br />
<br />
She's right, of course. I am a writer, and a dealer in stories. Stories comfort me, because they make the world simpler. By trying to make his life conform into a simple "life story", I was robbing it of some of its meaning. It is messy and contradictory. It needs an epic, not 1800 words.<br />
<br />
He was by turns a clever thinker and a bigot. He was a loving father and a cruel father. He could be a stubborn asshole, but he never stopped learning. He got under my skin, he pushed me, he made me think. I pitied him and I admired him. I resent him for not preserving his life, yet I feel that his death was good, that a restless soul found peace.<br />
<br />
I love him and I scorn him and I love him. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-53181097114671462342015-02-13T13:17:00.001-07:002015-02-13T13:17:18.861-07:00On Being a Writer, and other Silliness<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was eight years ago,
around this time of year, that I put in my notice at SaskTel. I was
going to be a professional screenwriter, and I couldn't have work
interfering with my time anymore. I was going to do like Stephen
King and many other writers told me was the only way to become a
professional writer: I would devote myself to the craft, and write
like it was a full-time job. In the meantime, my generous
girlfriend, Suzi, had offered me a place to stay for free and buy me
food.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Fast forward to last
summer. I was not earning a living as a professional writer. My
wife had been working to support me for years, and wanted the freedom
to realize her dream of becoming a BodyTalk practitioner. So I took
a job as a scheduler.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ncmcJmJIOXU/VN5aVeyLsII/AAAAAAAAA0Q/erSEPe4SI3o/s1600/meghan_bd-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ncmcJmJIOXU/VN5aVeyLsII/AAAAAAAAA0Q/erSEPe4SI3o/s1600/meghan_bd-13.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Jennifer Sparrowhawk, <a href="http://kindredcities.tumblr.com/">http://kindredcities.tumblr.com/</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was good to be
earning regular money again, but at night, my dark other would come
and whisper things to me. So much for your great experiment, he
said. You are not a professional writer, and therefore you are a
failure. You wasted years of your life for nothing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That voice in my head
often tells me rotten things like that, so it's usually a terrible
idea to listen to him. But it's hard not to notice, because the
things he says are based in truth. I had set out on a quest to be a
working writer, and I wasn't, so... mission failed, right? There are
any number of intellectual arguments to counter this, but the voice
that says, “You are a failure” is based in deep, unconscious
emotion, and impervious to intellectual attack.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The mission isn't over.
I'm still writing. I'll be headed to a week-long writing retreat at
St. Peter's Abbey in Muenster in a couple weeks, in fact. I'm full
of short stories and working on a novel. I still love what I do, so
my dark other can take a hike. However, this is a good time for
reflection on the closing of a chapter in my personal story.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What did I get from all
that time without a regular job? Let me tell you, it was great to be
freed from drudgery. I loved to wake when I pleased and go to bed
when I wished. I was lucky that I got to taste that freedom in my
prime, when most people have to wait until they retire. But there
were also difficulties that I didn't expect. Believe it or not,
having these obstacles actually made life as a freelance writer, and
I hesitate to use this word, difficult!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>It was Hard to find
Motivation</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Writing full time... in
theory, it's an easy thing to do. There are any number of activities
I used to fill my time. Aside from from actual writing, there are
writing exercises which took me out my regular writing patterns and
taught me to compose in different ways. Then there was reading, for
learning the craft, for research, and for enjoyment. As a
screenwriter, I could also just watch movies. I could blog. I could
market myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So why is it that so
many of my hours were sacrificed to dark goddess, Facebook? Why is
it that so many quests were completed in Oblivion, Dragon Ages 1 and
2, Red Dead Redemption and Skyrim, while my own quest went
unfulfilled? Why did I spend so many hours feeling bad about writing
instead of actually writing?
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Good question. It
would appear that it is way easier to work when somebody is telling
me what to do. I made lots of plans. I was my own boss. At one
point I planned my days. I stuck to it for a week, but my habits
slipped and I stopped. My dark other popped by and told me I was a
failure for being unable to follow my own plan. I felt bad, and I
wrote less.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
How did I overcome this
obstacle? I didn't, exactly. I slowly, slowly got better at working
on my own, for longer periods of time. I also had to learn to stop
beating myself up if I didn't hold my discipline, because some days,
I couldn't. As hard as I tried, I couldn't wave a magic writer-wand
and become disciplined. Over a period of years, I just kept trying,
succeeding and failing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the end, I am not a
model of self-discipline. I still love goofing off, ignoring my
goals, and playing video games. But I also know how to write better,
I know how to write more quickly, and I can spend an afternoon doing
it without worrying if I'm doing it right.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>I Hated not being
Self-Sufficient</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was lucky during this
period. My girlfriend, who would later become my wife, was my
patron. She looked after my needs, so I never had to worry about my
next meal like many of my starving-artist brethren.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But like them, I didn't
make much money. Less than a year after I quit my job at SaskTel, I
depleted the savings in my bank account. I had gone from being my
own man to being a dependant. I was no longer a self-sufficient good
citizen. I was a drain on the woman I loved. Quietly, I began to
feel terrible about myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
While I worried about
my discipline and writing habits on a daily basis, my feelings of
financial inferiority sneaked up and inflicted a more insidious
wound. I was unmanned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So how did I deal with
this issue? Once again, I didn't really. I guess I got tired of it
and got a job. And here I am. I'm still writing, but at least now
I'm making some money. How long will I continue at this job? That
depends on my own whims and the whims of fate. For now, I'm happy
with the compromise.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>I got Dopey
</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When spending so much
time working with my right brain, and without the activity of a
regular job to stimulate the left, I became imprecise. I spent so
much time in my head that I stopped paying attention to the real
world. And with these things, time became less important.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At SaskTel, I carried a
calendar and cellphone with me everywhere I went. I always knew the
date and time. As a writer, days began to melt together. I lost
track of the date and the day of the week. Hours would drift past
without me noticing. I forgot appointments and promises. I would
forget what I was doing. Math got more difficult.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It seems funny to me
that I should go from this state into being a scheduler, but life is
odd. Time and the real-world have come back to me. And with my
scheduling job limiting my life, time has become more important. My
days seem packed with activity, even my days off. And somehow, I
seem smarter.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Marketing was Harder
than I Thought it Would Be</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It will be fine, I told
myself, I can do it. Marketing will come naturally. But when it
actually came showing my creations to the world, for years I
discovered that I couldn't actually manage it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For a start, my
self-esteem was in the sewer. How could I, an undisciplined,
financially insolvent failure produce anything worth reading? I was
inexperienced. Even if I had something worth showing, how was I
supposed to interrupt the lives of total strangers and ask them to
read my work? If my writing was bad, they would surely resent the
time I wasted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Coupled with this was
the fear of rejection. When I first started writing, I thought I was
good at taking criticism. But I wasn't. I would be devastated for
days, weeks, months after I heard it. If I put my work into the
world and heard criticism or even silence, I took it very personally.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This was a difficult
one to overcome. But, unlike many of my problems, I think I've
actually fixed this issue. The only way to break through this wall
of fear was to actually do it. I did it cautiously at first, with
short stories and screenplay competitions. I would submit my work
one piece at a time and wait expectantly for the results. If my work
did well, I felt great and did it again. If my work was rejected, I
would be devastated and wouldn't submit again for months. But
eventually I got used to the fear of rejection. It became easier to
ask. I began to submit more frequently and it became easy. I've had
two stories published in the last year, and I see no reason why there
will not be more.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>When I Wrote More, I
Failed More</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Part of practising
writing is to become better. And this happened. I can say that I am
a better writer than I was eight years ago. However, what surprised
me is that by increasing my writing volume, I also increased my
output of failures.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After abandoning a
screenplay project because I could see it was going nowhere, in 2009
I started laying the groundwork of my Necromantic States of America
project. I spent a year worldbuilding. Then I started writing my
fourth screenplay. The process was painful. I put everything I had
into it, and I told myself that THIS WAS THE ONE. I would sell this
one. I would break out with this one. It took me two years to
complete.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I submitted it to
screenplay competitions and waited. The results slowly trickled in,
and I began to see what I had long suspected: my inner critic had
been correct. I had written something which, at the very best,
nobody understood, at the worst, was bad.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was heartbroken. My
previous screenplays had finished well in the competitions. How
could I have written something bad, something into which I had poured
so much love? My dark other told me that I had wasted my life. “I'm
thirty-six!” I told my wife through tears one night. “I can't
afford another fucking three-year learning experience!” In the
months that followed, I couldn't write at all. I considered going
back to school for a career, and abandoning writing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't abandon
writing, obviously. It was just as it was, a fucking three-year
learning experience. And one of the things I learned is something I
should have already known: they can't all be winners. Continuing to
write increases my chances of success, but inevitably, I will write
stinkers. And that's okay. That screenplay is still written, and
one day, maybe I'll come back to it and improve it. Or not!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Being a Writer is
Bullshit
</b></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I mentioned before,
I had ideas about what exactly it means to be a writer. A quote I
heard in Throw Momma from the Train stuck with me, “A writer
writes. Always.” I took that literally. I heard many writers,
including Stephen King, say that you should write like it's a
full-time job. Ray Bradbury told me to sell lots of short stories
and make it big that way. Katherine Atwell Herbert told me, in her
soul-crushing book, The Perfect Screenplay, to move to Los Angeles;
it is the only way to be successful as a screenwriter. Writers
worked in coffee shops. They drank tea and listened to CBC, and wore
sweaters. All you had to do is try really hard, and you could be
one.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I couldn't and didn't
do these things. Yet my dark other used them as an excuse to skewer
me. “You're not a writer,” it said. “You're a fraud. Look at
all the time you've been given and you squander it. You'll never be
a writer at this rate.” My preconceptions about being a writer
became a way for my subconscious to torture me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sometime last spring, I
came to a shocking conclusion: being a writer is bullshit. I found
that I could just BE. If that being included writing, I was happy.
Once freed from the preconceptions of being a writer, I could do
other things like hanging out with my kid, like playing video games,
like housework, or like getting a paying job, all without guilt. Why
does it matter if I'm A Writer if I enjoy my life? I still write.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
---</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This post was
difficult. I had to revisit a lot of old shame and fear. But I
think it was necessary to mark that time in my life and see its good
and evils. Thank you for reading this far. Be sure that I'm doing
okay, I'm feeling good, and that just because I'm getting a paycheque
doesn't mean I've given up my dream. </div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-3317572718933193732014-08-12T15:10:00.000-06:002014-08-13T21:14:00.163-06:00Robin Williams, Sadness, and the Lie of SuccessAfter a day of musical rehearsing which should have been enjoyable, I got home last night feeling like I wanted to be somebody else. I laid in bed and wondered to myself why everything has to be such an effort. I wanted life to be easy. Then, my wife, who was browsing Facebook, told me that Robin Williams committed suicide and I cried. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Uj9q7bVYliU/U-p_WocoEdI/AAAAAAAAAz4/KHdb_mf-nNs/s1600/Robin%2BWilliams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Uj9q7bVYliU/U-p_WocoEdI/AAAAAAAAAz4/KHdb_mf-nNs/s1600/Robin%2BWilliams.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
<div>
Robin Williams was not my favourite comedian, nor celebrity. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rik_Mayall">Rik Mayall</a> died recently, for instance, whose comic work I hold in higher esteem. While upset, I was not moved to tears. Normally, a dead celebrity produces a shoulder shrug and a "meh". In fact, I've spent much of my life chortling at Robin Williams' roles in sappy dramas like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patch_Adams_(film)">Patch Adams</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/What_Dreams_May_Come_(film)">What Dreams May Come</a>, and that concentration camp movie, the name of which I care not to remember. Yet I cried when he died. Here's why. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The first reason is obvious. He spent so much of his life trying to cheer people with his comedy, to improve lives, and make life on earth better. Those dramatic roles he chose were often inspirational people who taught us the importance of joy, laughter, and life. To suicide himself seems to render his work fraudulent, like he was lying to us the whole time and in the end, sadness wins. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is not as simple as that. His death should not be the entire meaning of his life. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He battled depression. I know what that's like. I know what it's like to obsess over joy and sadness. The depressed always do. We wonder why we're not as happy as we should be, we wonder when we'll stop being sad, and we worry about the happiness ending. An evil self-critic is constantly nattering at us. Yet when that voice is silenced, the joy we taste is overwhelming. Its memory sustains us through the brutal times. I suspect, though I'll never know for sure: the non-depressed do not, and cannot, appreciate joy the way our fellowship of the sad experiences it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In short, he was more than just a sad clown. Yes, that was really Robin Williams rolling on the ground, weeping and pouring gasoline on himself in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_to_smoochy">Death to Smoochy</a>. He drew on his personal despair to make the role of "Rainbow" Randolph real, so real that many viewers were disturbed. But that was also him in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_poet%27s_society">Dead Poet's Society</a>, drawing on his energy as a nurturer, trying to help us live and see through all the bullshit that makes us unhappy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, this is not what made me cry. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What made me cry is this: Robin Williams had a huge house and tons of money. He had talent. He had fame. He had children. He had work whenever he wanted it. He had professional respect. His acting roles inspired and moved millions of people. In short, he had success. Yet he still hated himself. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
His death exposes a great lie: Success = Happiness. I was taught that if I strove to improve myself and my lot in life, my reward would be happiness. But it's just not true. Wealth, fame and power did not save Robin Williams, and it cannot save me or you or anybody else. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is either the saddest thing ever, or the most freeing. It's sad because I will constantly be duelling my personal demons. But it's freeing as well, because I now see how little Success actually matters, and how little Failure matters conversely. I can stop worrying about it. A life of happiness can be lived without them. This leaves me with more time to pursue actual happiness instead of stuff that doesn't matter. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I lay in bed last night, talking about Robin Williams with my life, I could see how easily I could die like him. Someday, I could hate myself so much, be so full of despair and regret, that I asphyxiate myself. If that day comes, it won't matter how famous or rich I am. But just thinking about it has made that future seem more dim and distant. I can be happy this instant, regardless of the success of my career. Right now, the trees are green, the cat is fuzzy, my kid wipes the table by herself, and I love them all just a little bit more. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When Robin Williams killed himself, he was not thinking about me or my happiness. Yet his life and death have touched me and instructed me in a profound way that none of his movie roles ever could. Thank you and farewell, O Captain, my Captain. </div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-14999969091673454992014-04-16T16:23:00.000-06:002014-04-16T17:43:11.258-06:00Life is but a DreamThey say that vulnerability is the new strength. I'll share, then. <br />
<br />
In winter of last year, I succumbed to depression. It was really a shame, because things were going swell. I was exercising daily, writing well, and fulfilling my promises as father, husband and home-maker. Yet, I began to feel a tiny tug of anxiety, like a discordant note on a piccolo that shrieked in my mind every few minutes. It was the first tone in a pathetic symphony that I play every year when the sun departs. I didn't want to believe it was happening again, and tried as long as I could to hold my life together. I had big plans for the winter, after all. Then, a couple weeks before Christmas, it all collapsed. No more writing, no more exercise. Only the barest minimum of parenting duties pulled me from my bedsheet hideaway. While functioning, I was exhausted, forgetful and dopey. Life was a boring fever dream, full of disinterest and worry. <br />
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JWetSyF12ZU/U07w4Pj4uzI/AAAAAAAAAzg/oNYsgh_Mmcs/s1600/Melencolia+I,+by+Albrecht+Durer.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JWetSyF12ZU/U07w4Pj4uzI/AAAAAAAAAzg/oNYsgh_Mmcs/s1600/Melencolia+I,+by+Albrecht+Durer.gif" height="400" width="303" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I clawed my way out of that depression. I enrolled in an online depression therapy program offered by the University of Regina, learned techniques to cope like deep-breathing, thought challenging and graded exposure. My personal trainer introduced me to yoga and helped me stay active. As spring dawned, the bout subsided. I borrowed a light therapy box from a friend. I have an arsenal of new skills to deal with my depression when it returns. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's over. And yet, as I try to understand this annoying-as-shit condition that I battle, I must make a painful admission. It's getting worse. Winter has always been a trigger for me, but the last few years, it has seemed darker and more hopeless. Last year, I managed to delay symptoms until December, but when they hit, they were merciless. Some days I felt like my every limb was tethered to a talking 100-pound weight that periodically said, "You're not good enough." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, why? Seriously, what the fuck? Why should it be getting worse when in the last few years, I have become a landowner, I have seized my destiny as a freelance writer, I witnessed the birth of one who can only be described as the perfect daughter, my band is doing great, and my every comfort is assured? <br />
<br />
There are many reasons, but the last I discovered only recently, and it was the most devastating. I was watching an episode of reimagining of Battlestar Galactica with my wife. This, as many of you know, is a good show. When I watched the first season of this show in 2005, I was enthralled by it. Yet as I rewatched it, I was bored. What had changed? Not the show: it can't change. I had changed. And I wasn't enjoying it because I was waiting for it to be over. <br />
<br />
And what was I waiting for? Nothing. I had no plans for the next hour. Eventually, I would put my kid to bed. Yet in that stark moment of realization, I knew I would be mentally absent through her bedtime routine, waiting for my own bedtime. Then, as I put myself to bed, I would be waiting for sleep. Then, in the morning I would read Facebook, waiting to be less groggy. I would shower, waiting to eat. I would play with my daughter, waiting for her nap so I could get some work done. Each hour was a preamble for the next, each day a trial to be endured before the next. And so rolled the weeks, months and years, waiting for some indistinct moment in the future when I will be happy. <br />
<br />
It was terrifying to realize that almost all my moments on earth were spent waiting. For, in the process of waiting, I was never present. I was not living. In moments when I should have been happy, I was anticipating the next moment when I would be sad. Joy vanished. I became intolerant of times when society expects me to wait, such as traffic or a boardgame with friends. Existence was a foggy limbo, lingering for an unfulfilled promise. Every aspect of my life became polluted with waiting: I just have to wait for tomorrow and I'll be less tired, I just have to wait for Kara to be of school-age and then I'll have more time for work, I just have to wait for my writing talent to be discovered and then I'll have money, I just have to wait for winter to end and then I'll be happy. But really, humanity's only true promise is delivered by the Grim Reaper, and he does not deal in happiness. <br />
<br />
This waiting bullshit stops now. So many times, I have heard people say that you must grasp your happiness in each moment. I think I finally understand that now. Each time I realize that I'm waiting, I challenge that thought and try to engage my senses, somehow, to remind myself that I'm alive and each moment is mine. Even in a supermarket checkout, where I am expected to wait, I can still talk to people, still admire some pretty woman on a magazine cover, still whistle a tune. <br />
<br />
Old thought patterns die hard, and breaking those habits is difficult. But I can already feel joy creeping back. It is so wonderful to resume enjoying things again, after so long being numb. Sometimes I get so filled with happiness that I cry. I wept over a song that Pinkie Pie sang on My Little Pony last week. <br />
<br />
I'm back, bitches. <br />
<br />
ps. If life seems like an unfulfilled promise, don't wait. Therapy is good. Seek it, and remember how to live again. Here's the service I used: https://www.onlinetherapyuser.ca/<br />
<br />
http://pharaohphobia.blogspot.com/</div>
Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-917665322287432942013-05-08T10:12:00.001-06:002013-05-08T14:03:58.084-06:00Book Review of "The Crying of Lot 49" by Thomas PynchonI consider myself a conspiracy theory connoisseur. On one hand I mock them because they're so silly. But I'm also fascinated by them because I love trying to understand why somebody could believe them. And I'm drawn to them because, at various times in my life, it has been convenient to think of myself as a victim. When the world seems full of conspirators controlling my life, it is easier to weather my failures. If I can blame my lethargy on water fluoridation and my lack of writing success on corporate cabals, I don't have to work to change myself. <br />
<br />
The last decade has seen an explosion in conspiracy theories. I'm very interested to see some oldies-but-goodies return to popular consciousness, such as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_World_Order_%28conspiracy_theory%29#Illuminati">the Bavarian Illuminati</a>. I'm also fascinated by some newcomers, such as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reptoid">the Reptoids</a>. Others have returned in new forms: the communist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Water_fluoridation_controversy">water fluoridators</a> of yesteryear have been re-imagined as corporate masterminds. Conspiracy literature has exploded as well, notably the novels of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dan_brown">Dan Brown</a>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Drhs7qe8Vzw/UYqK7MzbssI/AAAAAAAAAxg/01Y677UtR_Y/s1600/Lot+49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Drhs7qe8Vzw/UYqK7MzbssI/AAAAAAAAAxg/01Y677UtR_Y/s200/Lot+49.jpg" width="121" /></a></div>
Of greatest interest to me, however, is a small movement of public consciousness which derives ironic pleasure from the contemplation of conspiracy theories. The theories are cast in a silly light, with many, any and all conspiracies being true at the same time. It is given game-form in Steve Jackson Games' <a href="http://www.sjgames.com/illuminati/"><i>Illuminati</i></a>. In literature, it's <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Illuminatus-Trilogy-Pyramid-Golden-Leviathan/dp/0440539811/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1368043248&sr=8-1&keywords=the+illuminatus+trilogy"><i>The Illuminatus Trilogy</i></a>. This intellectual tree has borne hilarious fruit since the 80's, but the seed of the tree was planted in the 60's. The name of that seed is <i>The Crying of Lot 49</i>, a novella by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Pynchon">Thomas Pynchon</a>.<br />
<br />
Oedipa Maas learns that her ex-boyfriend Pierce has died and named her executor of his estate. She travels to San Narciso, California, to settle his affairs. As she does so, she begins linking clues, partly left by Pierce, others by happenstance. Soon, she becomes convinced of the existence of a secret mail-delivery system called W.A.S.T.E. An elaborate alternate history of Europe and the United States is spun, featuring armed conflict between the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thurn_und_Taxis">Thurn und Taxis</a> delivery company and the U.S. Postal System versus a group of evil postmen called the Tristero. As she learns more, the people she knows and loves are gradually eliminated or isolated.<br />
<br />
Pynchon's writing style is cerebral. It takes some work to decipher many of his sentences, not only because they can be structurally strange, but because some of them last for more than a page. Yet these sentences are not ponderous like those of previous authors who attempted ultra-long sentences. Rather, they're free-flowing and goofy. <br />
<br />
The point of this book is its journey, not its end. For the alternate history is funny and elaborately researched. There are a lot of silly moments that left me laughing. However, the ending is just not there. Without giving away anything, the story ends right before where a climax would have been in a normal book. After so much time spent fleshing the history of the Tristero, the book ends just before Oedipa has direct contact with it. This is, no doubt, intentional and some readers may gain a lot of postmodern pleasure from it. However, I love a good ending, so for me, I have to say that I saw what Pynchon was going for there, but I wanted more. <br />
<br />
What truly struck me about this book is that it seems like its from the wrong decade. The style is similar to the confused, acid-soaked writing that came from the 70's, yet it is ten years early. Truly, <i>The Crying of Lot 49</i> was a work ahead of its time. It might still be ahead of its time. I say all these nice things about it, yet I recognize that I didn't enjoy it that much.<br />
3 muted post-horns out of 5Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-7327506039883827042013-01-22T14:09:00.001-07:002013-01-22T14:11:27.472-07:00Book Review of "A Clash of Kings" by George R. R. Martin<i>A Game of Thrones</i>, the first book in George R. R. Martin's <i>A Song of Ice and Fire</i>, is about as perfect as fantasy fiction gets. I had high expectations when I picked up the second book, <i>A Clash of Kings</i>. Would it have the same beautiful characters? The same expectation-defying plot? The same attention to medieval life and battle? The same breathless page turns to see what happens next? <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-00fbL2F5teA/UP7-0Of_9SI/AAAAAAAAAww/tPOOph2RFlQ/s1600/A-Clash-of-Kings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-00fbL2F5teA/UP7-0Of_9SI/AAAAAAAAAww/tPOOph2RFlQ/s200/A-Clash-of-Kings.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>
The answer, sadly, is "no". But that doesn't mean that <i>Clash</i> isn't great. I'm still enamoured of Martin's universe and I've already picked up the next book in the series. <br />
<br />
I mentioned in my review of <i>Thrones</i> that Martin occasionally slipped into cliche in his description and fretted that in later volumes, after experiencing success, he might be less vigilant about editing his prefab phrases. This is, indeed, the case in <i>Clash</i>: the entire writing style seems less intensely accurate and more relaxed. The book is longer than the first and I suspect that, had Martin's editor or internal editor been more vigilant, certain events and passages could be removed to make the action tighter. <br />
<br />
In fact, the entire book seems less intense. This is evident in the first half. Martin takes time to prepare his massive conflicts, and his protagonists, mainly the Stark family, spend a lot of time being depressed and fretting over characters that we either don't care about or haven't met. I confess that I lost my copy of the book for half a year. If <i>Clash</i> had the been the manic page turner that was its predecessor, I would have been desperate to find it. But I wasn't. <br />
<br />
Well, I found <i>Clash of Kings</i> in the zippered top pocket of a suitcase I had laid in the basement. Eventually, the sails of this becalmed book fill. Once more I found myself swept into the battles, intrigues and surprises of the unhappy isle and its bloodsoaked throne. <br />
<br />
The book continues to follow the viewpoints of the same characters who survived the first book. Two more characters are featured, Davos Seaworth, a low-born smuggler turned knighted sea captain serving the now-dead-king's brother, and Theon Greyjoy, a hostage returned to the Viking-esque, brooding, troublemaking Greyjoy family. Unfortunately, I didn't like either of these characters much. Davos is dull. Theon chapters are hard to read because he's an infuriating dink. However, their antics were far overshadowed as my favourite characters, Tyrion Lannister, the Stark girls, and Daenarys Targaryen continued to brighten the book. <br />
<br />
I won't get into the details of all the awesome stuff that happens. If you loved the first book, you will find the second worthy. It's just not quite as perfect. <br />
4 off-camera battles out of 5<br />
<br />
http://pharaohphobia.blogspot.com/Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-48630214126731089302012-11-28T17:41:00.000-07:002012-11-28T21:37:45.255-07:00Epistemic Closure and MeIn his article, <a href="http://www.theamericanconservative.com/articles/revenge-of-the-reality-based-community/">"Revenge of the Reality-Based Community"</a>, conservative Bruce Bartlett describes his fall from favour with America's Republican Party. In it, he uses the term "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistemic_closure">epistemic closure</a>". In his context, he uses the term to describe a state of affairs where forms of cognitive dissonance can be comfortably ignored within a bubble of like-minded friends and Fox News. Basically, he argues that conservatives have created a system where they can ignore not just contradictory viewpoints, but evidence, science and yea, reality itself. This is not just an issue for Bruce Bartlett and conservatives. It's everywhere. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D_h784b7FeQ/ULauZRlse-I/AAAAAAAAAv8/ORuSxZImdR0/s1600/Apple+colorclassic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D_h784b7FeQ/ULauZRlse-I/AAAAAAAAAv8/ORuSxZImdR0/s200/Apple+colorclassic.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
One of the things I try not to take for granted is the stunning rise, during the youth of my generation, of the internet. As a shy high school student, I called the internet for the first time in a computer lab in my high school. The computer went shhhhh boing eeeboing-boing. It was all text-based. Now the internet is an essential service. It's the flagship invention of our Information Age. As a writer I can research any topic without leaving my home. As a consumer, I could watch movies on Netflix all day and never see them all. And as a Man I can... do other stuff.<br />
<br />
The Truth, as based on evidence and scientific findings, has never been more available. Yet people seem more confused than ever. For my lifetime has also seen the rise of something sinister: extremist politics. Since that day in the early 90's when the school's computer went boing-boing, the world seems to have filled with evangelical Christians, fundamentalist Muslims, radical free-marketeers, paranoid left-wingers and conspiracy theorists. These groups were around when I was a kid. However, what makes them more powerful today is that they can pick up a keyboard and find hundreds of people to agree with them. They can live their lives avoiding cognitive dissonance and differing viewpoints, digging themselves deeper in layer-upon-layer of justifications, gradually believing stranger and more incorrect things. I know how easy it is to get caught in this world, because ten years ago I was One Of Them.<br />
<br />
It all starts with not wanting to be wrong. In 2001, the world's political landscape changed suddenly when The World Trade Center in New York was destroyed. Sitting American President George W. Bush experienced a huge upswing in popularity. I hated that. His presidency was already infamous for its stupidity and dishonesty, so when he said that a cell of fanatic Muslims was responsible for the attacks, I doubted him. I wondered if, because he benefited from the attacks, he might be responsible. I turned to the internet to satisfy my doubt and found thousands of viewpoints that reinforced what I already wanted to believe: "I am not wrong in doubting".<br />
<br />
This was my gateway into the world of epistemic closure that is far-left conspiracy theory. Every conspiracy theory needs three things: an antagonist, followers who feel victimized, and a will to believe. For small-c right-wingers, the antagonist is a vast organization that includes corrupt politicians, communists, media outlets and hordes of deluded thralls. Small-c left-wingers blame different organizations. Fanatic Christians and Muslims believe the Devil is at the centre of the conspiracy. Others think it's freemasons, extra-terrestrial intelligences, or a race of reptile men.<br />
<br />
I was in the small-c left wing camp. I felt I was the victim of a group of shadowy rich men who continuously tread on my rights as a human, elect and bribe politicians, control dishonest media outlets and make a mockery of democracy. As I write this, this theory doesn't sound so crazy. That's how a conspiracy gets you: it starts somewhere real. William Randolph Hearst was a rich man who influenced politics with money, owned yellow media outlets and drove America to war. Rupert Murdoch, with his ownership of Fox News, is Hearst's modern counterpart. The world is full of rich men who love to wield their power. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dOF8e7Rq80I/ULaubZ-O8YI/AAAAAAAAAwE/HrtFjZhWa40/s1600/NWO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dOF8e7Rq80I/ULaubZ-O8YI/AAAAAAAAAwE/HrtFjZhWa40/s200/NWO.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I lived in this world for several years. Every day I would log on to <a href="http://whatreallyhappened.com/">whatreallyhappened.com</a> and check out the array of news sources which spanned mainstream outlets, to hazy sites like <a href="http://infowars.com/">infowars.com</a> and <a href="http://prisonplanet.com/">prisonplanet.com</a>, to sketchy publications like <a href="http://english.pravda.ru/">Pravda</a> and the official media outlet of Saddam Hussein's government, to the lowest level of left-wing newsmaking: angry bloggers sitting in their basements making stuff up. I was angry, too. Who wouldn't be angry in a world where 9-11 was an inside-job by the American government? Or Al-qaeda is an invention of Israel's Mossad? Or hundreds of American soldiers die daily in Iraq and are not reported? <br />
<br />
I wanted this world to be true. It wasn't just about being right or not being wrong. Believing in a story like this added meaning to my life: I felt like I was doing something important in opposing the conspiracy. And believing in the conspiracy made me feel smarter than everybody else. <br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, I stopped. I was tired of being angry and powerless. I was reading something claiming that yet another group was responsible for 9-11. At this point, I had heard that 9-11 had been engineered by Al-qaeda, the CIA, the NSA, NORAD, the Bush White House, the Mossad, the Israeli Army, Cubans or the Rothschilds. "So which group is it?!" I exclaimed. And I had no answer. For you see, I didn't know. I wasn't there and I didn't see. I would never really know, it was beyond my power to know, and it was not my responsibility to know.<br />
<br />
That was step one of my recovery and it felt great. My anger dropped away so suddenly that I sighed. I stepped out of my house into the sunlight, breathed warm autumn air and felt great. <br />
<br />
Step two of my recovery was a little more difficult. At this stage I looked at my past beliefs and realized that not only did I not know what happened, but my past claims were most likely wrong. It hurt to admit. In trying to add significance and importance to my life, I engaged in insignificant and unimportant activity. In trying to be smarter than everybody else, I became ignorant. In trying so hard to be right, I was wrong. <br />
<br />
Step three was a little easier. I realized that there are people in the world who knew what happened. These are people who are trained to know. There are intelligence experts all over the world who agreed Al-qaeda is responsible. There was also Al-qaeda itself, that claimed responsibility for orchestrating the attacks and training the pilots. The simplest explanation was that these people were right. <br />
<br />
It's easy to fall into the trap of epistemic closure. I feel embarrassed about the things I thought and said, but I have to remind myself how easy it is to believe incorrect information in the age of the internet. It's even easier now. On Facebook, an article with a crazy title goes viral quickly and people will share it without checking sources. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-amW6SKj0VqM/ULarz8s3HBI/AAAAAAAAAvs/XSc2pflBwWU/s1600/reptoid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-amW6SKj0VqM/ULarz8s3HBI/AAAAAAAAAvs/XSc2pflBwWU/s1600/reptoid.jpg" /></a></div>
Let's take a look at this shitty internet situation. <a href="https://www.google.ca/#hl=en&safe=off&tbo=d&output=search&sclient=psy-ab&q=reptoid&oq=reptoid&gs_l=hp.3..0l4.2332.3714.0.3883.7.7.0.0.0.0.196.1172.0j7.7.0.les%3B..0.0...1c.1.kRto6MZLhKg&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.r_qf.&fp=530d58b647ccbf03&bpcl=38897761&biw=1342&bih=877">I just Googled the word "reptoid"</a>. Here are the first ten results.<br />
<br />
Result 1: Wikipedia. Anybody can edit Wikipedia. Because of this, it has a reputation for inaccuracy. Unfortunately, it's the only search result that is critical of the idea that reptoids control the world.<br />
<br />
Results 2, 3, 5 and 6: Conspiracy websites Reptoid Research Center, the Reptoid Wiki and the Alien Research Wiki. These sites will tell you that a conspiracy of anthropomorphic, maneating reptiles are masquerading as humans and ruling the world.<br />
<br />
Results 7 and 8: YouTube videos of reptoids Johnny Depp and Alex Jones supposedly shapeshifting. (The Alex Jones shapeshifting video is especially silly: yet another example of conspiracy theorists claiming other conspiracy theorists are part of the conspiracy)<br />
<br />
Results 4 and 9: results unrelated to the reptoid conspiracy. A guy nicknamed reptoid has weird photos and a Swedish magazine is named "Reptoid". <br />
<br />
Result 10: Urban Dictionary. Absolutely useless for anything. It's uninformative, not funny and fuck fuck fuck I hate Urban Dictionary. <br />
<br />
Here is the point I'm trying to illustrate. If somebody tells you that Queen Elizabeth II is a shapeshifting flesh-eating reptile, it's difficult to find proof on Google that she's not. The only sane site on the first page is the perpetually-scorned Wikipedia. To search further, you will have to wade through scores of unsourced frightmongering conspiracy sites, irrelevant links, broken links, advertisements, mirror sites and porn to find something useful.<br />
<br />
It's the Information Age, people. Why is it so hard to find sourced evidence that reptoids don't exist? It should be front-row, centre. Instead, Google has provided me with a series of results that will support an unhealthy belief-system, hedged by random crap. The Information Age was supposed to disseminate knowledge. Instead we have a multimedia minefield where banner ads decorate the desperate squeals of mentally-ill persons trying to be correct. <br />
<br />
There has to be a better way. How about this, Google? How about letting media outlets, universities and research companies register as "scientific" or "sourced", and if you search with a specific Google setting, these results will come up first? If Google can SafeSearch porn, it can help the world filter its bullshit, ads and inane yammering. <br />
<br />
In honour of this occasion, I am going back over my posts on this blog and deleting one that was poorly-sourced and spreading misinformation. I won't tell you which one, though. It's still hard to admit that I've been wrong.<br />
<br />
http://pharaohphobia.blogspot.comCherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-311238051430589632012-11-25T14:06:00.002-07:002012-11-25T14:18:29.185-07:00Book Review of "Sacred Origins of Profound Things" by Charles Panati<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Panati">Charles Panati</a> is a renaissance man. He's published books on history, the supernatural, science, word origins, and my favourite: his tome about endings, which covers sundry topics ranging from death to disease to extinction. This book, <i>Sacred Origins of Profound Things: The Stories Behind the Rites and Rituals of the World's Religions</i>, is about the divine. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O7DGeXFu07A/ULKGwf4b1TI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/FvY-EChYPbM/s1600/Sacred+Origins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O7DGeXFu07A/ULKGwf4b1TI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/FvY-EChYPbM/s320/Sacred+Origins.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>
Though this book is about world religions, Panati's interest seems to be attracted by the Roman Catholic Church and Judaism. By comparison, Islam, Buddhism, Hindu and the Protestant and Orthodox Christians are given only passing mention. Even so, the scope of this book is massive, covering how humans understood the gods, The God, Satan, the afterlife, religious garments and dogma for thousands of years. <br />
<br />
Panati's tone attempts to be impartial, but it's difficult. Some of the rationalizations, bizarre interpretations, circular thinking, and blunders made by religions in the past are simply difficult for a modern reader to take seriously. Also, Panati cannot resist a good digression and will often interrupt his narrative to tell a funny story.<br />
<br />
I started reading this book in January of 2012. Eleven months later, I'm finally finished. At 500+ big pages, this book is a massive commitment. It wasn't always an interesting journey, particularly the chapter about Catholic vestments, but I have returned much wiser. I was unaware, for instance, of the amount of non-biblical story that generations of Catholic thinkers have heaped upon the Biblical Mary, mother of God.<br />
<br />
The Bible says a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virgin_mary">teenager named Mary</a> was betrothed to a man named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Joseph">Joseph</a>, though she did not "know him". An angel named Michael appears and tells her she is/will be with God's child. She then gives birth to Jesus. Jesus is raised by his mother, amongst <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brothers_of_Jesus">brothers and sisters</a>, until he gets killed by Romans. Mary sees him briefly after he returns to life, and then she vanishes from the pages of the Bible. Let's assume that "not knowing" Joseph is a correct linguistic interpretation. She is the Virgin Mary, after all, and it would be cruel to dissect her greatest miracle, carrying the Son of God <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parthenogenesis">without having sex</a>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fviVvqPPVb0/ULKHIVzXRVI/AAAAAAAAAvY/7HG-6TqqE20/s1600/Virgin+Mary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fviVvqPPVb0/ULKHIVzXRVI/AAAAAAAAAvY/7HG-6TqqE20/s200/Virgin+Mary.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
At some point in the early Christian church's history, it started to get more prudish than its Jewish fathers. Then it got a little more prudish, then ridiculously prudish. Sex, female anatomy, burst hymen, and birth became abhorrent to Christian thinkers. They blamed femalekind for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Original_sin">original sin</a>, which bore as its wicked fruit, sex. From this viewpoint, 2000 years-worth of story was interpreted or invented onto the Bible's original text. Some of this tale is dogma, some of it merely widely believed by those in the know: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Joachim">Mary's parents</a> didn't enjoy having sex, so therefore Mary was born into the world without original sin. Jesus didn't have a vaginal birth, rather, he was magically C-sectioned in a ray of light out of her womb, keeping her hymen intact. Her maidenhead remained intact after Jesus' birth as well, as it turns out all those brothers and sisters were Joseph's from a previous marriage. When she died, her body laid in the ground for a couple days without decomposing, because <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Incorruptibility">bacteria and graveworms don't eat virtuous people</a>. Then she crawled out of her tomb and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assumption_of_Mary">ascended</a>. These days, she ventures out of heaven to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lady_of_Fatima">tell children to build shrines and convert Russia to Catholicism</a>.<br />
<br />
That's interesting. I did not know that. If this sort of thing appeals to you, you'll love this book. Without a doubt, many readers may experience cognitive dissonance, particularly Catholics who may be surprised at the things they are REQUIRED to believe. As I mentioned before, the book is very long and has boring bits. Luckily, it's written to easily choose which chapters to read, and you can put it down for long periods if you so wish. Therefore I rate this book, speaking Infallibly of course:<br />
4 self-inflicted stigmata out of 5<br />
-----<br />
<br />
In other news, I put the finishing touches on my fourth screenplay, "The Rising". Also, <i>Rosie's Knife</i> was finally published in the final issue of Dark Recesses Magazine. Read it here: <a href="http://www.cuttingblock.net/darkrecesses.html">http://www.cuttingblock.net/darkrecesses.html</a>. It's been a good month!<br />
<br />
http://pharaohphobia.blogspot.com/Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-51796825257451093352012-10-01T22:41:00.000-06:002012-10-04T12:00:41.322-06:00Knocking the WindowpaneIf pride cometh before the fall, you can expect my next drop to shatter my skull (again). <a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/The-Residuals/266190196783440?fref=ts">The Residuals</a> will soon celebrate our album, Knocking the Windowpane, at our <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Residuals/266190196783440?fref=ts#!/events/100204900138436/">CD release party</a>. The event is at the <a href="http://www.woodsalehouse.com/">Woods Ale House</a>, October 6th, (2012), at 9:00 PM. There will be a concert, CD signing, and a free Paddockwood beverage for your $5 entrance free. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QebPewdIAw0/UG21bDGO3BI/AAAAAAAAAto/_1ceEaw9SOM/s1600/IMG_5704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QebPewdIAw0/UG21bDGO3BI/AAAAAAAAAto/_1ceEaw9SOM/s200/IMG_5704.JPG" width="140" /></a></div>
So how am I feeling? A year ago this album was just a frightening concept for my ego and pocketbook. Now I don't care if we ever sell another copy. Listening to the culmination of all that effort in my car, seeing Kara tap her feet in the back seat is reward enough. <br />
<br />
And what an experience! When we entered <a href="http://www.pulsworksstudio.com/">PulsWorks studio</a> in December of last year, we were worried. Some of us were terrified. We were rehearsed and prepared, but as we sat before the microphones in the centre of the room, we were tense. Were we making the right decision in our choice of studio? The standard amount one can expect to pay to record an album is $10,000, but we were budgeted for half that amount. Would our miserliness ruin our work? Would we mess up and cause a fiasco? Were we good enough to record an album? <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GWbs-mcyAww/UG22cLmAu3I/AAAAAAAAAtw/BLybaJm3nOo/s1600/IMG_5787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="164" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GWbs-mcyAww/UG22cLmAu3I/AAAAAAAAAtw/BLybaJm3nOo/s320/IMG_5787.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Indeed, nothing seemed to go right those first hours. As we struggled through Patsy Geary's Jig and Miss McLeod's Reel, fingers fumbled, trembling hands strummed uncertain chords and tempers rose. Ted's pipes squawked in the dropping humidity. (We preserved a relic of our frustration at the beginning of the Patsy Geary Set track: Ted's drones fail to deploy and he growls, "Oh, you son of a gun.")<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kM6UFP8fkf8/UG228PW5sMI/AAAAAAAAAt4/7oH1daMvJo8/s1600/IMG_5732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kM6UFP8fkf8/UG228PW5sMI/AAAAAAAAAt4/7oH1daMvJo8/s200/IMG_5732.JPG" width="161" /></a></div>
At the end of that day, we decided to try one last track. It was Rick's song, The Blue Diamond Mines, a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Ritchie">Jean Ritchie</a> ballad about working coal mines. For four brief minutes, everything went right. We had a near-perfect one-take wonder instrumental track. "It's a good thing we did that," said Rob, "Because if we hadn't, there wouldn't be a second day of recording." <br />
<br />
Over the next months, we got better at recording. We relaxed. We started to have fun. And we also ripped through tracks with confidence and the good musicianship I've come to expect from my band. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wLm71pEG5m4/UG23TaGIZAI/AAAAAAAAAuA/KkgOGKiERpw/s1600/IMAG0314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wLm71pEG5m4/UG23TaGIZAI/AAAAAAAAAuA/KkgOGKiERpw/s200/IMAG0314.jpg" width="118" /></a></div>
Soon, our instrumental tracks were recorded. We left the big room we chose for its acoustics and entered a tiny padded room. That was a fun day! It's cliche, but we all experienced shock at hearing our voices in high fidelity (do I really sound like that?) We recovered quickly and completed all of our songs in record time! (notice the hilarious double-meaning there?) <br />
<br />
Next came editing. Rob and I joined our engineer, Brady, in the studio to turn our work from kinda good into perfect. It's amazing what a good sound engineer can do. It's not just adding echoes. The three of us surfed all of our music for not just the best takes, but the best sections of each take. Seemlessly, Brady cut the rotten bits out, substituted good bits, and subtly blended the result so it didn't sound dumb. His wonderful gadgets and gizmos were also able to easily change the duration of sung lyrics so that we sounded way tighter than we actually are. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0d_bZtjqSfA/UG3G6LoAcxI/AAAAAAAAAuw/QnfLQTmO36o/s1600/IMG_5822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0d_bZtjqSfA/UG3G6LoAcxI/AAAAAAAAAuw/QnfLQTmO36o/s320/IMG_5822.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Perhaps some ultra-traditionalists are pumping their shillelaghs in the air in fury exclaiming, "Editing? Why would ye want ta do dat terrible t'ing?" It's worth noting that all the editing we did used pure "us", just the best of us. No <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pitch_correction">pitch correction tools</a> were used. Each track was recorded with all instruments in the same room, playing at the same time. Also, no animals were harmed. Also, go to hell you stereotypical conservative Irish straw-men! <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BRP8fuMhd-A/UG3Hm1g2eRI/AAAAAAAAAu4/0xKmU75RY6Y/s1600/IMG_5775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BRP8fuMhd-A/UG3Hm1g2eRI/AAAAAAAAAu4/0xKmU75RY6Y/s200/IMG_5775.JPG" width="140" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rob recorded his tracks from prison</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, one summer day, the recording and editing was finished. I remember it because it was the day before my birthday. Also, I fell down my front steps at home from exhaustion as the tension left my body. As I was lying on cement at the bottom of my deck unable to move from fatigue, relief, and also pain from my twisted ankle, it became apparent that I was carrying a burden of stress from this project. <br />
<br />
At the time, I thought the stress was over, but there was more fun in my future. There was the manufacture to arrange and make sure it would be in Saskatoon by FolkFest. There was the booklet to design. And also licensing. Ohhh, the licensing. Take it from me, if you're going to record an album, make sure you either write your own songs or borrow from the public domain. 8 cents per song per album may not seem like a lot of money to pay in licensing fees, but you pay tenfold in time-wasting as you fill out forms and hunt for composers on the internet.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aTtN7t36_I0/UG24NDff0CI/AAAAAAAAAuI/GgYLEzkaE-k/s1600/Knocking+the+Window+Pane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aTtN7t36_I0/UG24NDff0CI/AAAAAAAAAuI/GgYLEzkaE-k/s200/Knocking+the+Window+Pane.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
Regardless of troubles, our baby is here. I can be critical and severe, particularly regarding music, PARTICULARLY my own music, but I actually like our album! My peeps tried their damndest and they succeeded in producing one hour of pleasing music. What's it like? Think <a href="http://www.greatbigsea.com/">Great Big Sea</a> minus the drum kit and minus the cheesy songs designed to get them laid. Or maybe imagine what <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dubliners">the Dubliners</a> could have done if they drank less. <br />
<br />
Knocking the Windowpane truly redefines Irish traditional music. Nay! Music itself! Junk your other CDs, dismantle the recording industry, disband the Metropolitan Opera, send Bob Dylan to the gibbet, throw the Black Eyed Peas to the wall, dig up the corpses of the great composers and burn them. You won't need 'em after you buy Knocking the Windowpane. Am I over-selling this? Perhaps. But I still think the Black Eyed Peas should be executed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qpyi9UXzqpM/UG28lk2Wa4I/AAAAAAAAAuc/6lcIBuofxlk/s1600/IMAG0320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qpyi9UXzqpM/UG28lk2Wa4I/AAAAAAAAAuc/6lcIBuofxlk/s200/IMAG0320.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
As the result of our hard rehearsing, our act is better. We've doubled and trebled the number of gigs we've been playing. However, for the Residuals, our big project is over and now we have time for some rest. Rest, in this instance, means learning new material, enjoying alcoholic beverages in moderation and generally not worrying about stuff. It feels good. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://pharaohphobia.blogspot.ca/">http://pharaohphobia.blogspot.ca/</a>Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-51111502970561061882012-08-31T23:37:00.001-06:002012-08-31T23:38:52.566-06:00Book Review of 'Tis by Frank McCourtFrank McCourt is a writer and teacher. In Ireland, he spent his childhood in poverty. In the dark lanes of Limerick, he and his family suffered through starvation and disease. He watched several siblings die. Then, as a teenager, the woman he was working for died and he stole money from her purse. The money paid his fare across the Atlantic to New York on a freighter.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_F3ZL_BSTMA/UEGTNbmR1_I/AAAAAAAAAtQ/LD8VPXeamio/s1600/tis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_F3ZL_BSTMA/UEGTNbmR1_I/AAAAAAAAAtQ/LD8VPXeamio/s200/tis.jpg" width="137" /></a></div>
This was the subject of McCourt's earlier memoir, <i>Angela's Ashes</i>. The next chapter of his life, <i>'Tis</i>, picks up where <i>Angela's Ashes</i> left off: the freighter crossing the Atlantic, and spans the next forty years of his life. It follows his life as he cleans ashtrays at the Biltmore hotel, joins the army, unloads ships and struggles to become a teacher despite his poor education. His amusing descriptions of his trials and the odd characters he meets form the basis of his memoir. <br />
<br />
The book truly allows you to live inside Frank McCourt's insecure skin and experience the life of an Irish immigrant in New York. It has laughs and groans of embarrassment. That he has bettered himself and lived a remarkable life I cannot deny. My life is undeniably better for having read his story. Yet I have to say that when I think of this book, I feel a little cold. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's just the ordering of events that bothers me. I'm not sure what <i>'Tis</i> is about. Is it about the triumph of an immigrant in America? Is it about a son who cannot remove himself from the shadow of his alcoholic father? Is it about learning how to teach? Is it about all of them and I'm an idiot for trying to force a moral or theme on this remarkable life?<br />
<br />
Also, the book suffers from a lack of quotation marks. I hate that. I like knowing for sure when somebody is talking. <br />
<br />
If you've read <i>Angela's Ashes</i> or watched the movie, this book will have appeal as you get to explore Frank McCourt's life further. Teachers and historians will also get a kick out of it. For me, it had great parts. Many great parts. The sum of its parts is multiplied by a figure I don't understand.<br />
3 1/2 cringing face-palms out of 5Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-35459096851242403402012-07-23T22:28:00.000-06:002012-07-23T22:32:42.835-06:00Movie Review of NashvilleThe 59th movie on AFI's list is the Robert Altman film Nashville. It's a typical Altman film with a giant ensemble cast, realistic dialogue and a rambling plot. It follows a few days in Nashville's country and gospel music industry in the 1970's. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tJ0zbxjmp1A/UA4j9wIMKmI/AAAAAAAAAs0/GPqIhtEptDA/s1600/Nashville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tJ0zbxjmp1A/UA4j9wIMKmI/AAAAAAAAAs0/GPqIhtEptDA/s1600/Nashville.jpg" /></a></div>
I wasn't a huge Robert Altman fan before I saw this film, and I'm still not. You would think that with realistic characters and authentic-sounding dialogue, a film would be interesting. But Nashville is not. I would even say that it is unspeakably dull. Because the camera's attention wanders in and out of characters' conversations and doesn't cut during the boring parts, my attention span did the editing for Robert Altman by drifting in and out of the movie. Things my wife was doing, the antics of household cats, the weather, and lint between my toes at various times were more interesting to me than the action on-screen. <br />
<br />
The movie's music is meant to be a snapshot of the real Nashville's music in the 1970's. And boy-howdy, country music was in a bad place back then. On the scaffolding of cowboy ballads, folk music and songs about unfaithful wives was built a teetering Babylon of maddening pretention where untrained singers screeched above full orchestras, when early synthesizers beeped and booped next to the howl of slide guitar, when nauseating, nasal male voices told you in no uncertain lyrics exactly what to think. The lumbering adult-contemporary beast opened wide its maw, gobbled Hank Williams Jr. and took a shit on 70's culture. That rhinestone-encrusted piece-a'-shit was country music from this era. <br />
<br />
Nashville is many things bad. It's a black comedy that isn't very funny. It's a snapshot of a musical genre that deserves infamy and scorn. It's another reason I have to curse Robert Altman's name and progeny, and yet another selection from the supposed 70's golden age of cinema that just bores not just the hell, snot and shit out of me, but the lymph, earwax and spinal fluid. <br />
<br />
In conclusion: Fuck. Nashville. <br />
1/2 a repetative refrain of "It Don't Worry Me" out of 100Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-72402763401292636532012-07-19T03:08:00.000-06:002012-07-19T15:52:37.780-06:00Stripper, Censor, Gamer, GuyI'm a man. I intend to remain so. Therefore, when it comes to women's issues, I can sympathize, but not empathize. I do know what it is like to be prejudged. It is with great care that I approach this next subject. I really don't want to embarrass myself. Here goes. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-StU7s_caxlI/UAfDz29VJKI/AAAAAAAAAsU/uLkQHtxdN9c/s1600/Cammy_-_Street_Fighter_IV_by_Homaredou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-StU7s_caxlI/UAfDz29VJKI/AAAAAAAAAsU/uLkQHtxdN9c/s320/Cammy_-_Street_Fighter_IV_by_Homaredou.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>
Awhile ago I read <a href="http://sexism,%20also%20known%20as%20gender%20discrimination%20or%20sex%20discrimination,%20is%20defined%20as%20prejudice%20or%20discrimination%20based%20on%20sex;%20or%20conditions%20or%20attitudes%20that%20foster%20stereotypes%20of%20social%20roles%20based%20on%20sex/">"Video Games and The Male Gaze"</a> on Gamesutra. It echoes a growing theme: today's video game industry is misogynistic. Video game creators are 90% male and games are targeted to a huge male audience. Furthermore, fanatic sexists inside and outside the industry are making life difficult for female gamers and creators. I suggest you read the article before you proceed with this post. <br />
<br />
I agree that male chauvinism ought not to be tolerated as a witness or victim. I agree that sexist themes are common in video games. I also become enraged when I read some of things that men have written on message boards and forums that humiliate both their female targets and themselves. Yet something about this article really bothers me. <br />
<br />
What bothers me is that it seems to broaden the definition of sexism to a level at which I become uncomfortable. It is a level that promotes shame in men. It is a level that seems to suggest censorship and self-censorship in art and expression. It is a definition of sexism that does not come from prejudging, degrading or hating women, but rather is the result of societal hangups about sex. It applies not just to "The Male Gaze" and video games, but other media and indeed real-life. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Af3gGF1o-HI/UAfGGhk5I-I/AAAAAAAAAsk/CcdGl6w8ZFA/s1600/Action+adventure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Af3gGF1o-HI/UAfGGhk5I-I/AAAAAAAAAsk/CcdGl6w8ZFA/s320/Action+adventure.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When a story is told, whether fiction or non-fiction, the good ones tend to involve remarkable things. We love to see, hear and read about a remarkable personality, a remarkably courageous act, weird happenings, an unspeakable evil, a huge explosion. We enjoy escaping our everyday lives to vicariously live an interesting life different from our own. Most people, for instance, would be very interested to vicariously experience the events of the picture embedded in this text block, even if they would intensely dislike actually experiencing it. <br />
<br />
Many people enjoy seeing uncommonly gorgeous women in their media for this reason. Another thing that doesn't happen very often in real life is seeing gorgeous women taking their clothes off, completely naked, or wearing sexy outfits. For instance, my life has a distinct lack of chainmail bikinis and I enjoy seeing women wear them as a result. <br />
<br />
Visual media allow also the viewer to stare. Our society has a huge stigma associated with staring at women's bodies. Enlightened types (like me) allow ourselves a glance at an appealing bit of exposed flesh but try not to be conspicuous and are mortified if caught. Women on the television, however, can be ogled until the frame changes and are never offended by a male gaze. <br />
<br />
Basically, our society has a huge pool of people who like to freely ogle scantily clad, beautiful women. (Have you noticed how I've been writing "people" instead of men? Am I not sexual-orientation-conscious?) Not just see them, but be them. I assume some female gamers enjoy the experience of roleplaying extremely sexy woman, but more importantly, many men seem to like pretending to be a sexy woman even if acknowledging it makes them uncomfortable. Millions of male Tomb Raider players can't be wrong. With so many people wanting to see and be sexy, of course game developers and film producers want to cash in. So, is it a bad thing? Brandon Sheffield, the author of "Video Games and the Male Gaze" and many like him say "yes". They say such images are sexist. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OS67ob8XVvs/UAeZ5otLr8I/AAAAAAAAAr8/Uh-DIIoxJys/s1600/Red_Sonja.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OS67ob8XVvs/UAeZ5otLr8I/AAAAAAAAAr8/Uh-DIIoxJys/s320/Red_Sonja.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
Is that true? Not necessarily. Wikipedia suggests that sexism is prejudging a person based on their gender, believing in gender supremacy, or holding people to gender stereotypes. Going by this definition, seeing a picture of Red Sonja and assuming she's a stupid whore is sexism. Showing her body, seeing her body and admiring her body are not sexist actions because doing so makes no judgment on her competencies or the content of her character. <br />
<br />
What I believe these people are actually objecting to is the fact that she IS sexy. They worry about how much skin is showing. They focus on how long cameras linger on certain shots. This is a deep-seated hangup that society has about sex. Our culture has taught us that sex is dirty, naughty and wrong. It has taught us to be ashamed of our bodies. It has taught us that female nudity equals sex. It teaches people that they are bad for looking. The solutions of the prudes inevitably force people to cover up and self-censor, stunt creativity and hide emotions rather than dealing with them. <br />
<br />
It is not sexism that is driving the demand for lovely naked women, nor the shame at seeing them. It is Victorianism. If our society was cool with casual nudity, as in naturist communities and some tribal settings, seeing a naked woman wouldn't be a huge deal, nor would filming a naked woman be an issue, nor rendering one from pixels. Remove the social stigma on nudity and you remove all the bullshit that comes with it. Yeah, it's not going to happen in my lifetime, but one can hope for the future. For now, we're stuck with the stigma. <br />
<br />
Seeking to titillate is not wrong, nor misogynist. It fulfills a societal desire, even if the taboo on nudity exaggerates it. However, returning to the example of Red Sonja, one can still criticize the thought process that went into the creation of her image on a non-sexist level. Most obviously, you might point out that her armour is going to get her killed. If she doesn't freeze to death immanently, that scale mail is going to guide a sword blow directly toward her heart. The urge to titillate has overridden logic. However, comic readers are willing to suspend their disbelief because they like looking at her. Once again, that is not wrong or misogynist. It's worth pointing out that Red Sonja is an accomplished swordswoman, is powerful, forces her will upon the world and has a rich and developed backstory. As tempting as it is to target her as a symbol of sexism, on her own, she is a fully-developed character with a preference for sexy, non-functional armour. <br />
<br />
The problem is that there are just too many characters who look like her. Just about every female video game character is designed to be sexy. This is where the misogyny comes in, as many of these characters are poorly-defined, with bust-lines deeper than their backstories. It falls neatly into the definition of sexism by pandering to established gender stereotypes. It seems odd that busty warrior-women in sexy costumes are a gender stereotype considering that I have never met one in person, but there it is. <br />
<br />
There are hundreds of butt-ugly, scarred, old, mud-spattered, hulking, weedy, or unappealing male characters to choose from. Women video game characters are confined to a single young, athletic figure with varying boob/ass size and hair colour. There's a world of different, real female body shapes and faces out there. That's why <a href="http://www.gamecareerguide.com/features/854/the_aesthetics_of_unique_video_.php?print=1">this article</a> excites me. The author/creator has carefully made female avatars/protagonists who blow the traditional only-sexy character out of the water. I would love to see more of what this mindset has to offer. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ane4HTe5jvg/UAfERiHhpfI/AAAAAAAAAsc/Hqnj1cg51XM/s1600/FemaleHeavy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="273" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ane4HTe5jvg/UAfERiHhpfI/AAAAAAAAAsc/Hqnj1cg51XM/s320/FemaleHeavy.png" width="320" /></a>I like seeing sexy women in my video games. I never want to see them go, and I suspect they never will. What I would like to do, as a consumer, is reward game developers, by giving them my money, who create awesome female characters. Sure, let them include many realistically-bouncy boobs. But I would like them to expand the definition of "sexy" to include several other body-types. I would like some female characters not to be sexy, or at least not have "sexy" be their chief descriptor. But most of all, I yearn for real characters that I can identify with, care for or hate, and maybe fall in love with as the story unfolds.<br />
<br />
The best defense against chauvinism is understanding, and the best way to understand somebody is to identify with them. If women in video games have true character with backstory, hopes, fears, and difficult decisions, people will identify with them. When understanding is achieved, distinctions of lingering camera frames and sexy armour vanish. <br />
<br />
----<br />
Here's an aside. <br />
<br />
A few years ago, when video game nudity was less common, Electronic Arts released a video game called "The Godfather II". It's basically a Grand Theft Auto clone about walking around frightening people, murdering them and taking their money. The combat system includes many bare-handed fighting and wrestling elements. It has rudimentary strategy elements as well. All-in-all, it was a real piece-a-shit, continuing the tradition started with the first Godfather game of horrifying Francis Ford Coppola.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VzGWKMEY6dI/UAe_09qToKI/AAAAAAAAAsI/oB_Y8AiNvN0/s1600/Godfather2gameCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VzGWKMEY6dI/UAe_09qToKI/AAAAAAAAAsI/oB_Y8AiNvN0/s320/Godfather2gameCover.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
Included in the game are strip clubs in which the protagonist can view and interact with topless strippers. You can sweet-talk them and slap their asses. You can also shoot them. But if you try to grab them, something interesting happens: they slap you and you are forced to let go. See it <a href="http://www.msxbox-world.com/xbox360/videos/stream/675/2921/the-godfather-ii/strippers-gameplay.html">here:</a> Oh yeah, it's not safe for work. <br />
<br />
No other characters in the game cause this automatic grab-rejection. Is it because the designers took to heart the phrase, "You should never hit a woman?" No, because you can grab fully-clothed women. Is it following the time-honoured tradition of "Never touch a stripper?" No, because you can still punch them to death.<br />
<br />
So why did they do it? Probably, and this is a guess here, the creators knew that if you could grab strippers, social media would be flooded with embarrassing videos of topless women being manhandled. They knew some concerned parent would see junior's video of himself pretending to hump a topless stripper and then murdering her, then come the outraged religious groups and censors and blah blah blah. They didn't want to deal with that. <br />
<br />
So... that's sexist, right? I mean, their paper-thin personalities and acceptance of ass-slaps makes the strippers a sexist presence to begin with. But the game singles out a group of women to protect for societal reasons, so it's more sexist? Or is it not sexist because it empowers the strippers with martial arts? Should EA be applauded for not allowing strippers to be grabbed or are they a bunch of cowardly hypocrites for making a murder-fantasy game and backing out because of nudity? Shouldn't the random murdering be the issue EA backs away from, not the presence of strippers? <br />
<br />
I dunno. I'm just a boy. <br />
http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.com/Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-72905893521721879842012-06-04T11:05:00.002-06:002012-06-04T11:05:16.938-06:00Movie Review of Duck SoupNumber 60 on AFI's list is Duck Soup, a 1933 Marx Brothers political satire. The action takes place in the fictional country Freedonia, where wealthy plutocrat Ms. Teasdale orders that Rufus T. Firefly, become leader of the country. Firefly, played by Groucho, proceeds to act like an asshole. Meanwhile, the leader of neighboring Sylvania hires a couple other Marx Brothers to spy on Firefly. They too proceed to act like assholes. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PnMgScJQUBE/T8zo1HTCBYI/AAAAAAAAAqs/8FQk3ptg8p4/s1600/Duck_Soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PnMgScJQUBE/T8zo1HTCBYI/AAAAAAAAAqs/8FQk3ptg8p4/s200/Duck_Soup.jpg" width="200" /></a>
Frankly, I have difficulty seeing how this movie is a political satire. To me, it seems more of a series of set pieces engineered to feature the brothers Marx acting like assholes. This isn't to say the movie is bad, I just think it's a little weak in the satire department. That's also not to say the assholic antics of the Marx Brothers aren't funny, either. When they act like assholes, they do so not because they're mean or angry. Their characters have no motivation other than to cause chaos for its own sake. <br />
<br />What this film has going for it is a series of quick-firing gags and physical comedy. Amongst these is the oft-imitated mirror gag in which Harpo seemlessly pretends to be Groucho's reflection in a mirror. What it lacks is a strong plot and, well, political satire. All in all, I've seen way funnier comedies and many more political satires that are funny because they're true. <br />
2 1/2 leg-lifts out of 5Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-83266600483679120132012-04-20T12:26:00.000-06:002012-04-20T12:26:18.883-06:00Book Review of "Neverwhere" by Neil GaimanNeil Gaiman is one of the most highly-acclaimed authors writing in the fantasy genre today. He is lucky enough to have several film and television adaptations of his work. In at least one case, he wrote a novel based on his own television miniseries. That novel is "Neverwhere".<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-APxut_NWVIc/T5GoAaoyoSI/AAAAAAAAAos/htft4YIahNA/s1600/Neverwhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-APxut_NWVIc/T5GoAaoyoSI/AAAAAAAAAos/htft4YIahNA/s200/Neverwhere.jpg" width="123" /></a></div>
The plot follows Richard Mayhew, a timid businessman living in London. He's going nowhere at his job. He's engaged to a controlling woman but doesn't seem to mind.<br />
<br />
One evening, on the way to an important dinner with his financee and her boss, he stops to help an exhausted street girl he finds bleeding on the sidewalk. He assists the harried girl into his apartment. Unfortunately for him, the girl is a dweller of London Below, a strange faerie realm that exists in the old tunnels, sewers and subway systems beneath the city. London Below is populated by street people, sewer dwellers, people who speak to rats, ragged courts of nobles and monsters. <br />
<br />
Simply by interacting with the girl, Door, he phases out of the reality of London Above and is forgotten by everybody he knew. Like the other residents of London Below, he is ignored by average people, and when noticed, dismissed quickly and forgetten. He loses his identity, machines stop working for him, and he becomes a nobody.<br />
<br />
Convinced that Door can help him return to his old life, he follows her into London Below, attaching himself to her quest to discover why her father was murdered. Accompanied by the bodyguard Hunter and a swashbuckling Marquis, they wander London Below for clues, all the while stalked by the ageless assassins Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar.<br />
<br />
"Neverwhere" is the second novel of Gaiman's I have read, the other being "American Gods". I am sorry to say that I am not very impressed. I say "sorry" because I very much want to love these books. "Neverwhere" treads literary territory that I love, steeped in history, fantasy, and the supernatural. Croup and Vandemar are villains straight from Dickens, inspiring fear and laughter at the same time. London Below is richly imagined. There are many, many things about this book to admire. <br />
<br />
What drags down Gaiman's book, for me, is his writing style. I found the narrative to be overly-cutesy. It is full of turns-of-phrase that sound wonderful when spoken aloud in conversational speech, but, on the page, need to be re-read to fully understand the meaning. This happens often enough that it becomes distracting and winking, as if to say, "Look at how funny I'm being." <br />
<br />
I also have issues with the plot. Richard is thrown into events which he, at first, does not understand, nor does the reader. As Door and her entourage travel the underworld, their wanderings at first seem aimless. Once the reader has gained an accurate idea of the quest, it seems a bit shallow. Typically, when characters go on a literary quest, there are consequences for their failure, such as a nation being overrun or the world ending. Not here, and it made me care less about the outcome. It is only until the climax of the book that we discover something awful could happen if they fail. And even then, it's still kind of unclear why or how the forces of evil will triumph and why it's so bad if they succeed in their plan. I won't say more for fear of spoilers. <br />
<br />
I am very interested to read a more-recent Neil Gaiman book to see if his narration has matured. As it stands, I am underwhelmed with his 90's novels and their weak narration, but love his work in more visual media such as movies and comics. Once again, I need to repeat that there are so many things about Neverwhere that are great. It therefore rends my heart to give it:<br />
3 lame-duck protagonists out of 5Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-28172526245204931792012-04-17T21:34:00.001-06:002012-04-20T12:26:44.202-06:00Movie Review of Sullivan's Travels...And another giant break between AFI movies. Anyway, we just watched #61 on AFI's list, a comedy called Sullivan's Travels. It was released in 1941, directed by Preston Sturges and stars Joel McCrea and Veronica Lake. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6_Oh7SRVOdM/T4402F2qooI/AAAAAAAAAoY/IWBPobFYlTQ/s1600/Sullivanstravelsposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6_Oh7SRVOdM/T4402F2qooI/AAAAAAAAAoY/IWBPobFYlTQ/s200/Sullivanstravelsposter.jpg" width="130" /></a></div>
The story is about a film director named Sullivan who has grown weary of making schlocky comedies and shallow musicals. He wants to direct a movie called O Brother, Where Art Thou?, an epic that captures the struggles and plight of the common man. His collegues chide him for knowing nothing about the struggles of the poor. Undeterred, he dons hobo clothes and runs away to sample life as a migrant worker. As he travels, he prompts people to talk about their troubles, but discovers nobody is in a big hurry to bemoan the plight of the common man. He meets "the Girl", many misadventures occur, many silent-movie comedies are referenced and many lines of dialogue are delivered snappily. <br />
<br />
As an aside, despite bizarre claims by old movie posters for this film which proclaim
that "Veronica Lake is on the Take", Veronica Lake at no point appears to be on the take. I can only assume that this genre-defying movie left studio publicists mystified as to how to market it. Scratching their heads in confusion, somebody suggested, "We need somethin' that rhymes, see! Who cares if it don't make sense?"<br />
<br />
***SPOILERS AHEAD***<br />
<br />
What makes this movie different is that it has a fourth act in its story structure. After Sullivan and the Girl spend an appropriate amount of time learning hardship and having zany adventures, they return to the studio in triumph. Normally, a movie might end here. However, Sullivan decides to don his hobo clothing and repay the poor he lived with a stack of $5 bills. He is promptly robbed at a trainyard and tossed unconscious onto a departing freight. His robber is mangled by a train and his corpse mistaken for him. Meanwhile, the groggy Sullivan lashes out at a railyard guard and is sentenced to six years hard labour.<br />
<br />
It is here that the film abruptly changes tone to a drama. Miserable, overworked and persecuted, he learns real suffering. He spends a day in the hotbox for reading a newspaper. At his lowest point, a revival congregation allows the chain gang to watch a Mickey Mouse cartoon in their church. All his troubles melt away as he howls with laughter at Pluto's antics. He realizes then that he doesn't want to direct O Brother, Where Art Thou? He sees that if he wants to help the common man, more good can be accomplished through laughter.<br />
<br />
<i>***</i>END SPOILER ZONE*** <br />
<br />
And that's the message of this movie, recalling the film's dedication at the beginning: <br />
<i>To the memory of those who made us laugh: the motley mountebanks, the
clowns, the buffoons, in all times and in all nations, whose efforts
have lightened our burden a little, this picture is affectionately
dedicated. </i><br />
<br />
It's a message that could have gone terribly wrong. For in order to tell the message that "laughter is the best medicine", the film loses all its laughs during the fourth act. It's risky business and some might accuse it of hypocrisy. However, in my opinion, the film pulls it off. Perhaps its hand is heavy, but it is moving in its own way.<br />
<br />
It's a pretty good film. The laughs vary from slapstick to wordplay to high-concept comedy.<br />
4 1/2 unscheduled returns to Hollywood out of 5Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-22691965671080101332012-04-03T23:06:00.001-06:002012-04-05T17:17:18.925-06:00Eyeball Soup for the Soul<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UVQwQmY8B6w/T3vIUleaEhI/AAAAAAAAAl0/gt-raaPYDfQ/s1600/eyeball%2Bsoup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="99" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UVQwQmY8B6w/T3vIUleaEhI/AAAAAAAAAl0/gt-raaPYDfQ/s200/eyeball%2Bsoup.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
For years, horror has been regarded as the lowest form of entertainment. Cultural elites believe horror is a playground for mankind's basest nature, where pubescent boys indulge their appetite for bloodletting and jiggling boobs. Church fathers regard it as a refuge of corruption where the innocent can be lured to sin by Satanism. Other people just think it's gross.<br />
<br />
Well, I'm here to tell you today that horror can make you a better person. For lurking within horror's black heart are ethics, humanity, hope, intellect and wisdom. You have to know where to look.
Every genre has its own tropes, and it is in these ideas and cliches that horror's morality can be perceived. Here are the most common and what we can learn from them. They are simple moral lessons that we often forget.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>1. Characters Questing for Forbidden Knowledge bring Doom </b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PoHNcg5UVgU/T3vIsJE864I/AAAAAAAAAmA/IYx--0LHYkc/s1600/Frankenstein%2527s_monster_%2528Boris_Karloff%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PoHNcg5UVgU/T3vIsJE864I/AAAAAAAAAmA/IYx--0LHYkc/s200/Frankenstein%2527s_monster_%2528Boris_Karloff%2529.jpg" width="159" /></a></div>
This is usually how all the trouble starts. It can be somebody delving into evil tomes that should not be read by human eyes, a common theme in <a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=fZRnpV521IcC&pg=PA97&dq=%22Let+me+pray+that,+if+I+do+not+survive+this+manuscript%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=A1VhT9fdH4-10QHL7ZCQBw&ved=0CDAQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22Let%20me%20pray%20that%2C%20if%20I%20do%20not%20survive%20this%20manuscript%22&f=false">H.P. Lovecraft</a>. It can be scientists experimenting in realms of knowledge without considering the consequences, a theme commonly seen in Atomic Age horror.
However, it's not just in the concept that characters investigate things they should just leave alone. How many times have you stared at a movie screen and willed a character not to go into that house, not to go outside to see where the dog went, or just <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4touygu7-ZA&feature=related">DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR!?</a><br />
<br />
The reckless attitude of horror characters can best be shown in the <a href="http://www.film.com/movies/erics-bad-movies-bats-1999#fbid=fZUCFXobo3J">1999 piece a' shit, Bats</a>. When asked why he created a race of malevolent, super-powered bats, their creator answers, “Because I'm a scientist! That's what we do! We make things better!”
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Curiosity Eviscerated the Human </b><br />
The 21st century promises any number of humanity-threatening disasters, thanks to mankind's own ingenuity, inventiveness and curiosity. Millions of us could die as the result of <a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=zxQ_TqpXAK0C&pg=PT24&dq=%22would+create+conditions+in+Western+Europe+comparable+to+those+of+the+Sahara%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=AZ5qT8-TBcW30AGR5qm5Bg&sqi=2&ved=0CDAQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22would%20create%20conditions%20in%20Western%20Europe%20comparable%20to%20those%20of%20the%20Sahara%22&f=false">global warming</a>. Or <a href="http://www-rohan.sdsu.edu/faculty/vinge/misc/singularity.html">self-aware robots</a>. Or <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2008/mar/13/nanotechnology">self-replicating nanobots</a>. Or, of course, the old favourite <a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=tYKJsAEs1oQC&pg=RA1-PA14&dq=%22drastically+alter+the+ecosphere+that%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=pZ9qT4O_D5Hkggeb8tiUBg&ved=0CDIQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22drastically%20alter%20the%20ecosphere%20that%22&f=false">nuclear annihilation</a>.<br />
<br />
Horror asks us to consider why we're researching creepy stuff like crowd-control microwave cannons. It asks us to consider the implications of programming artificial intelligence that can learn. It asks us to think about the far-reaching consequences of building a nuclear reactor in, say, a place with lots of earthquakes and accompanying tsunamis.<br />
<br />
Are some forms of progress worth the danger and loss in human life and dignity.
At the very least, horror asks us to proceed with caution. So, to the scientist who is currently working on the project to invent the big red button that destroys the universe (and I know you're out there somewhere), please give some sober thought to inventing something actually helpful, like cars with sewage engines or a cure for pop music.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>2. The Skeptic</b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qCQK7gtxfE0/T3vL1nJfPfI/AAAAAAAAAmM/D57Wj52ohbA/s1600/dana%2Bscully.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qCQK7gtxfE0/T3vL1nJfPfI/AAAAAAAAAmM/D57Wj52ohbA/s200/dana%2Bscully.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<center><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qCQK7gtxfE0/T3vL1nJfPfI/AAAAAAAAAmM/D57Wj52ohbA/s1600/dana%2Bscully.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">"Mulder, there's no such thing as stuff."</a></center><br />
A stock character in the horror genre is the skeptic. Oftentimes, the protagonist begins the story as a skeptic. From a story perspective, the skeptic is an agent of the world that audiences find familiar, a world that is unpopulated by horrible, incomprehensible things. The skeptic sympathetically latches to old beliefs about reality even if something overtly supernatural kills somebody. They constantly try to convince other characters that they are safe. Their single most common line of dialogue is some permutation of, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PR7WW6200mg">There has to be a rational explanation for all this</a>.”<br />
<br />
Or, as Dr. Roger Fleming from The Lost Skeleton of Cadavera says, “Ranger Brad, I'm a scientist, I don't believe in anything.”<br />
<br />
As appealing as the Skeptic's arguments can be, unfortunately they are wrong wrong wrong. The monsters are real and they are dangerous. In order for Horror protagonists to deal with their new reality, they must stop listening to the skeptics and confront the problem. As for the skeptics themselves, they frequently discover the hard way that vampires are real.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Don't Cling to Old Ideas if they are Proven Incorrect </b><br />
<br />
I would like you to think about your least-favourite politician. How many times have you cursed this politician as being evil? Stupid? Corrupt? A liar? Have you ever been watching them speak and turned them off because their words make you furious? Have you ever shared an article about what a bad person this politician is with friends on Facebook and felt better as likes and sympathetic comments pour in?<br />
<br />
Yes, you have. Everybody does it. Your least-favourite politician represents a threat to your belief system. The anger you feel is the result of <a href="http://changingminds.org/explanations/theories/disconfirmation_bias.htm">cognitive dissonance</a>, the tiny voice in your head that whispers that you are wrong. We all hate this feeling and when we are presented with information that contradicts us, we spurn the messenger, downplay the information, or seek comfort with like-minded people.<br />
<br />
We may be right to do so, because sometimes other people really are deceitful or incorrect. However, somewhere in your life, right this instant, a there is something in your life that is making you unhappy. This issue may be difficult to see at first, but if you need hints, you need only think about stuff that makes you angry or tearful. Work from there.
What is your unhappy truth that you won't admit? It can be causing depression. It might even be killing you, such as if you are a smoker, alcoholic, or over-eater. Ignoring it isn't helping. Identify it. Your proverbial vampires can still hurt you, but to slay them, you have to know that they exist.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>3. Isolation</b><br />
More than any other genre, horror isolates its protagonists. This isolation can be physical, such as <a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=HSv2DXlbUxsC&pg=PA61&dq=%22the+descent%22+movie+review&hl=en&sa=X&ei=g6pqT_XkDYnqgQfskdWtBg&ved=0CFMQ6AEwBg#v=onepage&q&f=false">the uncharted wilderness cave of The Descent</a>. It can be social, such as when characters seek help from indifferent or hostile authorities, or worse yet, authorities who are in league with the baddies, such as <a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=k8iLpYdw6mMC&pg=PA32&dq=%22Where+you+gonna+go,+where+you+gonna+run,+where+you+gonna+hide?%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=nqZqT4KGJMqCgAfM7b2_Bg&ved=0CDIQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22Where%20you%20gonna%20go%2C%20where%20you%20gonna%20run%2C%20where%20you%20gonna%20hide%3F%22&f=false">Body-Snatchers</a>!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MVug6BW6_MQ/T3vM_DQgH2I/AAAAAAAAAmY/0sl4LPDPV40/s1600/game%2Bover%252C%2Bman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MVug6BW6_MQ/T3vM_DQgH2I/AAAAAAAAAmY/0sl4LPDPV40/s200/game%2Bover%252C%2Bman.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
The characters must know that no help is coming, not God, not the cavalry. If help is on the way, you can bet that it will be thwarted. Even when the protagonists ARE the cavalry, such as in Aliens, they will soon find themselves beyond help and hope. In that movie, the Colonial Marines, the universe's ultimate badasses, find themselves reduced to whiny, helpless children when their dropship crashes. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsx2vdn7gpY">Game over, man!</a><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Only You can Solve Your Problems</b><br />
Life is our horror flick. When it comes to our personal issues, we are as alone as any horror character. Remember that hidden, wicked truth about yourself that is lurking within your personality? Nobody can confront that issue but you. A therapist, counsellor or priest might assist you, but only you can actually take the steps to solve your problem.<br />
<br />
Self help-types agree:
<i> </i><br />
<i>The most important aspect of taking responsibility for your life is to acknowledge that your life is your responsibility. No one can live your life for you. You are in charge. No matter how hard you try to blame others for the events of your life, each event is the result of choices you made and are making. </i><a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=FgBLPFl96CsC&pg=PA212&dq=%22acknowledge+that+your+life+is+your+responsibility%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=PaxqT--GJ5DcggeM682nBg&ved=0CDAQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=%22acknowledge%20that%20your%20life%20is%20your%20responsibility%22&f=false">“Gatekeeper”, By S Miriam Clifford </a><br />
<br />
Once you have seen your truth, deal with it. You will take steps closer to the person you want to be. And when your life fades to black and humanity's ultimate monster, death, creeps upon your soul, you will not be the cringing idiot who claws at his deathbed and screams, "I'm not ready!" You'll be able to grunt something awesome like, "Take me, ya sonofabitch. I had a fuckin' good run!"
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>4. The Crazy Plan that Might Just Work</b><br />
Horror monsters are usually immune to conventional problem solving. If dealing with them were as simple as negotiation or shooting them, they wouldn't be scary. Luckily, they usually come with disastrous heels Achilles'. While common in other genres, a Crazy Plan that Might Just Work is almost required in any horror story.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h5EPvyXcu7M/T3vNtRWy7zI/AAAAAAAAAmk/nl-ii8W8E5o/s1600/dont%2Bcross%2Bthe%2Bstreams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h5EPvyXcu7M/T3vNtRWy7zI/AAAAAAAAAmk/nl-ii8W8E5o/s200/dont%2Bcross%2Bthe%2Bstreams.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
This exploitable weakness might be as simple as a vulnerability to silver. Or perhaps the portal to the other dimension can be sealed if the streams of the proton accelerator packs are crossed. Or maybe a virus can be <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116629/synopsis">downloaded into the invader's navigation system</a>. Whatever the solution, it possesses the power to completely neutralize the baddy and its minions.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Every Problem Has a Solution</b><br />
The message here is one of hope. The characters of horror movies often best the vilest, most violent and supernatural opponents the human imagination can dream. Their problems are so much worse than yours, yet they succeed. Every problem you face also has a solution for somebody clever enough to see it and brave enough to use it.<br />
<br />
To quote Stan Rogers, singing from beyond the grave:
<i> </i><br />
<i>Rise again, rise again—</i><br />
<i>though your heart it be broken
Or life about to end. </i><br />
<i>No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend, </i><br />
<i>Like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.</i><br />
<br />
<b>5. The Misunderstood Monster</b><br />
The last few years have seen a parade of movies involving dead little girls annoying protagonists with their antics, only to have the hero help them solve their murders. The Sixth Sense, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pC5OU5Y5ReY">Stir of Echoes</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vm4Fw2QElA4">What Lies Beneath</a> come to mind. They are a common manifestation of another stock character, the Misunderstood Monster.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5bnJ1b8oTNc/T3vO1VtuagI/AAAAAAAAAmw/YEKX-GAth0g/s1600/pale%2Bgreen%2Bpants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5bnJ1b8oTNc/T3vO1VtuagI/AAAAAAAAAmw/YEKX-GAth0g/s200/pale%2Bgreen%2Bpants.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
For me, the most memorable Misunderstood Monster of my childhood was the Pale Green Pants with Nobody Inside them, the antagonist of Dr. Seuss' story, “What was I Scared Of?” It's silly now, of course, but I know there are more than a few kids out there who found those pants terrifying. In the story, a hero of indeterminate species constantly meets the spooky pants in frightening locales, becoming progressively unnerved. Finally, he shouts for deliverance, only to discover that <a href="http://books.google.ca/books?id=Qp8adpAxx04C&pg=PT64&dq=%22just+as+strange+to+them+as+they+were+strange+to%22&hl=en&sa=X&ei=z65qT9vSNsTYgQeWitWIBg&ved=0CD0Q6AEwAg#v=onepage&q=%22just%20as%20strange%20to%20them%20as%20they%20were%20strange%20to%22&f=false">the Pants are terrified of him</a>:
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i> I never heard such whimpering </i><br />
<i>And I began to see </i><br />
<i>That I was just as strange to them </i><br />
<i>As they were strange to me </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>
In the case of the Pants, they become friends. Other monsters offer assistance or information to heroes after they discover the nature of the story's real enemy.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Losers Make Loyal Friends</b><br />
Professor Steven Reiss lists <a href="http://researchnews.osu.edu/archive/whoami.htm">16 basic desires that motivate all people</a>. Amongst them is Acceptance, the human need to be liked and understood by other people.<br />
<br />
Different people rank their desires in different order of importance, but chances are you know a socially inept person who needs Acceptance in a bad way. If you can practice tolerance and patience when dealing with these misunderstood freaks, you can win loyal allies.<br />
<br />
If you are a misunderstood freak yourself, you can always hope that somebody reading this post reaches out to you. In the meantime, there's always porn.<br />
<br />
<b>6. An Asshole Screws Everybody Over, Inviting Unfavourable Comparison to the Monsters</b><br />
Seen many zombie apocalypse movies? The best ones go like this: in the first act, the heroes run from the zombies. In the second act, they have found a sanctuary from the undead hordes that allows them to talk, love and argue in safety. While the zombies remain a threat, the heroes can deal with them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_gepMvtWY7s/T3vPYMhaJsI/AAAAAAAAAm8/q2mHVdSri7o/s1600/mister%2Bcooper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_gepMvtWY7s/T3vPYMhaJsI/AAAAAAAAAm8/q2mHVdSri7o/s200/mister%2Bcooper.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Then what happens at the beginning of the third act? An Asshole or Assholes screw everybody over. Mister Cooper refuses to open the door, then tries to take the gun away (Night of the Living Dead). Or Assholes on motorcycles let zombies into the mall (Dawn of the Dead). Or an Asshole-scientist is feeding soldiers to a zombie to make it tame, and when his faux-pas is discovered, Asshole-soldiers initiate a bloodbath (Day of the Dead).<br />
<br />
In short, while the zombies are dangerous, it is the conflicts between humans that destroy the community of survivors. When considering the horror genre in general, Perhaps Ellen Ripley says it best after company-man Burke locks her in a room with some Aliens in an unsuccessful attempt to cover his own ass:
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>"I don't know which species is worse. You don't see them fucking each other over for a goddamn percentage."</i>
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Play Nice and Share </b><br />
Last summer the world experienced the Occupy Protests. Large groups of people camped in public spaces everywhere to protest wealth inequality, amongst other things. One of their slogans was the phrase, “We are the 99%”, referring to figures that the top 1% of income earners are hogging all the wealth while everybody else is left with nothing. If you are unemployed, broke, or suffering from a disease you can't afford to treat, perhaps you know what they're talking about.
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L7Gl0LJzkg0/T3vP6JpoI4I/AAAAAAAAAnU/Cn0Xd6mpKqM/s1600/Gini_Coefficient_World_CIA_Report_2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L7Gl0LJzkg0/T3vP6JpoI4I/AAAAAAAAAnU/Cn0Xd6mpKqM/s400/Gini_Coefficient_World_CIA_Report_2009.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
They have a point. Economic inequality would seem to be a bad thing. Places with low economic inequality include Europe and Canada. Compare that to places where inequality reigns, places like Botswana, Bolivia and the Central African Republic. Would you rather live in a place that has peace and prosperity, or a place that has old trucks careening through the streets, packed to the brim like a clown car full of AK-47-wielding child soldiers?<br />
<br />
Most people are not serial killers. However, we can still be monsters. Like that Asshole in the zombie movie, we become monsters when we follow selfish ends that harm other people, even indirectly. When our community is harmed, we are harmed. And someday, like a zombie horde, our selfish actions may bite us in the ass. The Romanovs were probably kicking themselves over that whole greed thing as they were being murdered by communists.<br />
<br />
Right now, people all over the world are suffering, not just in the first world. It's easy to dismiss these people as “lazy” or “drunks” or “criminals” or “terrorists”. And you would be right to do so, because amongst the ranks of the poor, there are many layabouts, drunks, criminals, and a smattering of anarchists. But a lot of them are not pretending. Those people, right now, are hungry, homeless, in pain and dying.<br />
<br />
Personally, I advocate <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Progressive_taxation">progressive taxation</a>. But that's just me and those of you who are a little more libertarian at heart may find that distasteful. So here's another idea: charity.<br />
<br />
Are you a millionaire? Or maybe even a just a half-millionaire? Somewhere in your life, you are considering a purchase you really don't need. Instead of a second summer-home, maybe a church charity beckons. Instead of a new yacht, some starving students out there would really appreciate you setting up a scholarship fund. Instead of buying that Hummer, rush down to the soup kitchen passing out $100 bills and giggling like an idiot. Spare that brother a dime.<br />
<br />
You might actually find it <a href="http://www.hbs.edu/research/pdf/10-012.pdf">spiritually rewarding</a>. You'll get pats on the back from your contemporaries and you may help avert a communist revolution. Also, <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=2+Corinthians+9%3A7&version=NIV">God will give you a personal thumbs up</a> upon entry into heaven. Everybody wins.<br />
<br />
<b>7. The Horror is Not Over</b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a24odeMlfIs/T3vS7dHxAPI/AAAAAAAAAng/J-CxlFUlO3U/s1600/freddy%2Bkrueger.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a24odeMlfIs/T3vS7dHxAPI/AAAAAAAAAng/J-CxlFUlO3U/s200/freddy%2Bkrueger.JPG" width="151" /></a></div>
Any lover of Horror cinema knows well the tiresome scene that happens at the end of hundreds of movies. It's the one where we see the monster's corpse and it opens its eyes. Or we see a bunch of baby crocodiles and O noes, what happens when those crocs grow up to be as big as the last one <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OcWkUD8aJtE">(Lake Placid)</a>. Or, surprise-surprise, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avSmTvxKRxo">Freddy returns for one more fatality</a>.<br />
<br />
You're supposed to be scared, see, because the scary stuff is still out there, man. This horror-standard has, no doubt, caused many a viewer to lie awake in bed with the light on, fretting and jumping at night noises.
<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Lesson: Evil Can Never Truly be Destroyed</b><br />
We got that sonofabitch, Adolf Hitler, the most evil man ever. Huzzah for us, we sent a murderous madman to hell.<br />
<br />
Now we just have to forget that the evil Joseph Stalin never paid for his crimes. We also have to forget about how Mao Zedong ravaged China. Now forget that hundreds of bloodthirsty dictators have emerged since 1945 in countries all over the world, bathing the earth in blood.<br />
<br />
But we cannot forget. For evil still lurks in the heart of our species. Evil dwells in the sneer of a miserly employer, the cackle of a snobby country-club madam and the baton of a racist cop. Evil will exist as long as there are humans.<br />
<br />
What does that mean for you? That's a complicated question, and it's up to you to answer. I will ask you these questions to help you ponder. What is evil? And, does somebody you know view you as evil? Are you okay with that?<br />
<br />
***<br />
That's enough observation for now. Every horror story has a moral, even if it's drowning under gallons of blood. Next time you pop in a crappy horror flick, ask yourself what it's trying to tell you.<br />
<br />
Or don't. Hey, look at the naked woman getting killed!<br />
<br />
http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.ca/Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-44336962484588456232012-03-23T17:28:00.001-06:002012-03-23T17:30:52.114-06:00My Letter to Premier Brad Wall in support of the Film Employment Tax CreditRecently, the Government of Saskatchewan announced its intention to axe the Film Employment Tax Credit. Here's how I feel about it. A copy has been sent to Brad Wall. If you agree, if you have worked in the business, if you have felt the positive effect of Saskatchewan's film industry, or even if you enjoyed watching Corner Gas, you really ought to contact the Premier yourself and ask him to continue the incentive. <br />
----<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iz2BczaQn1A/T20HmFxrR6I/AAAAAAAAAlE/vg0stbtE7Ek/s1600/FETC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="120" width="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iz2BczaQn1A/T20HmFxrR6I/AAAAAAAAAlE/vg0stbtE7Ek/s200/FETC.jpg" /></a></div>Dear Premier Wall, <br />
<br />
My name is J. Adrian Cook, writer and musician from Harris, Saskatchewan. <br />
<br />
I dread the end of the Film Employment Tax Credit. This is not because I am planning to film in Saskatchewan. My dread is also not for my writing career, though it may limit my options as a screenwriter. My dread is also not for my future on set, though I have been sustained in the past by roles as an extra and production assistant. My finances will not be directly stung. <br />
<br />
The reason for my dread is that I will say goodbye to so many friends. These are people who work in the film industry and whose livelihoods will be devastated. For years, they have made their living from foreign production companies enriching in our province. Now, these companies have little reason to film here. Their money will evaporate. If my friends wish to follow their dreams or even sustain themselves, they will have to move to Vancouver or Toronto. <br />
<br />
I am no economist. I cannot speculate on the monetary result of the cancellation of the incentive. However, I can accurately speculate what will happen to my friends. <br />
<br />
I am friends with screenwriters. For them, the end of the program will affect them slowly. Writers can write anywhere, but it helps to be near filming. Making film connections is important for them and if they cannot make them in Saskatchewan they will have to leave. <br />
<br />
I am friends with actors and grips. These people can find work in local professional theatre if they are lucky. However, this is a limited job market and it will not provide for them. They will leave sooner. <br />
My unluckiest friends are the directors, cameramen, and production assistants. For them, there is no substitute: they need film or they starve. They will leave soonest. <br />
<br />
I seem to recall the Saskatchewan Party criticizing previous NDP governments because of a brain drain. Ending the Film Employment Tax Credit will send hundreds of our brightest citizens packing. Me and my province will be poorer, lonelier and sadder. <br />
<br />
Please reconsider cutting this program. <br />
<br />
-J. Adrian CookCherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-50801388995370089442012-03-20T19:59:00.000-06:002012-03-20T19:59:02.764-06:00My Wonderful Band is Making me CrazyThe St. Patrick's Day season has ended. Traditionally, this is the busiest season for The Residuals. In fact, it's the reason The Residuals were originally formed: to satisfy the glut of demand for Irish music around March 17. After it's over, the band always enters a state of hibernation, emerging a month or two later to prepare for some isolated summer gig. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-65Y26vIPAy8/T2kzBJJZRvI/AAAAAAAAAkk/M6ZpqNq1ag4/s1600/Residuals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-65Y26vIPAy8/T2kzBJJZRvI/AAAAAAAAAkk/M6ZpqNq1ag4/s200/Residuals.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Always? Apparently not this time. This year we have a one-week hiatus and then we're back to work. We're hitting the studio again soon to continue recording our CD and we already have several gigs lined up for the rest of the year. <br />
<br />
I love it. I am so proud of my band right now. While the Residuals have been around for over ten years, our current lineup of players - myself, Ted Leighton, Rick Kroener, Rob McInnis and Meaghan Haughian - has only been together for three. Those three years have been a series of incredible leaps in musicianship for we five. As their skills improved, I've listened and smiled. I've seen layers of stage fright shed from them like onion skin. I've watched as each of them gained the confidence and talent to experiment and "play" when they're playing. <br />
<br />
Since December, we've been recording our as-yet unnamed CD and been busy with many gigs. As happy as I am to play with the Residuals, there is a pretty massive downside. As I discussed in <a href="http://pharoahphobia.blogspot.ca/2011/03/my-damn-fool-search-for-religion.html">this post</a>, music inspires feelings in me that prayer inspires in others. Between the few hours I spend playing, I'm waiting to play. <br />
<br />
The CD especially has me excited and I just can't wait to get into the studio. Yet I must wait. And I can't do anything about it. When I should be concentrating on the present, I'm instead anticipating the future. It sometimes makes me depressed. <br />
<br />
I just can't get enough of playing with my band. I want more gigs, more CDs, more victories! Touring would be awesome! And yet there lies the other problem. Everybody but me has jobs. There's no way they could ever go pro without quitting them. Or I could frame them and get them fired for misconduct, but that's a series of devious plots for later. <br />
<br />
For now, it seems the only answer is to just be less enthusiastic. I'm not sure that's possible. Many high-fives, fist-smashes, and hugs (where applicable) to my excellent Residuals for a best-ever St. Paddy's Day season! <br />
<br />
ps. during band introductions, Ted called me "The Always-Distracting Jeremy Cook". I've never thought about it, but I guess I am kind of distracting. Is that good or bad? <br />
<br />
pps. If you haven't already done so, Like <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Residuals/266190196783440">our fanpage on Facebook</a>.Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-78837142970618792042012-02-02T18:41:00.001-07:002012-02-02T20:45:54.054-07:00Nemesis Returns<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJbICVeuiAA/Tys3zEVX_nI/AAAAAAAAAjI/mCZnLcsLnk0/s1600/nemesis_by_tattarescu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="134" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJbICVeuiAA/Tys3zEVX_nI/AAAAAAAAAjI/mCZnLcsLnk0/s200/nemesis_by_tattarescu.jpg" /></a></div>Once again, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nemesis_%28mythology%29">Nemesis</a> has returned to punish my hubris. As a teenager, she haunted me. Again in University she dogged me. She is back and she will not rest until my career lies in ruins and my friends and family hate me. <br />
<br />
Her bargain is simple. I get to play a really fun strategy game. I get to be the leader of a tribe and raise them to a world-spanning empire. I develop their technologies and tinker with their government. But in exchange for playing with the lives of millions, Nemesis destroys my free time for daring to play the role of god. The bargain is unequal yet still I slaver for the game of the bitch-goddess. And as my talents go to waste and my social life collapses, she laughs. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6fx8efTRGto/Tysz21YMURI/AAAAAAAAAiw/AxL6yQwjPhE/s1600/Civ%2BI.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="175" width="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6fx8efTRGto/Tysz21YMURI/AAAAAAAAAiw/AxL6yQwjPhE/s200/Civ%2BI.gif" /><center>It says "Start", but not "End".</center></a></div>Her game is <a href="http://www.civilization.com/">Sid Meier's Civilization</a>. I first became hooked when the game was ported to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_nintendo">Super Nintendo</a>. If I close my eyes I can still hear every note of the endlessly cycling modern-era music, inspiring nausea. <br />
<br />
In 1997 I aquired Civilization II for my Mac. How many hours vanished into that void? I could not say. But when I returned to University I was playing it when I should have been studying. I must have been playing it in 1998 as well because I remember thinking to myself that I should be learning about Hinduism or practicing for the <a href="http://www.saskatoonsymphony.org/">Saskatoon Symphony</a>. Historical footnote: I got kicked out of the Symphony. Coincidence? <br />
<br />
I managed to dodge Civilization III in 2005 on virtue of it being a stanky retread of Civ II. <br />
<br />
But some of you may have noticed that I didn't write any blog posts this January. Eris protect me, Nemesis is back. And I'm not even playing the recently-released Civilization V. It's the old Civ IV and I'm helpless again. I am so powerless that I would rather be playing it that the latest addicto-thon for the PS3, Skyrim. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fo8Cai3Twu0/Tys2xKgiCAI/AAAAAAAAAi8/23hyCYQF5lU/s1600/Gilgamesh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="166" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fo8Cai3Twu0/Tys2xKgiCAI/AAAAAAAAAi8/23hyCYQF5lU/s200/Gilgamesh.jpg" /><center>Gilgamesh sez, "Dude, your baby's crying."</center></a></div>I told my wife I wouldn't be playing Civ IV single-player anymore the other day. But today I came down to my office to write. "I'll just check out the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carthaginian_Republic">Carthagenians</a>." An hour later, I said to myself, "You're playing this game. You should stop." Two hours later, I finally managed to regain control. Thank Eris I managed to halt myself before the sun set. If I had let myself, I would have played deep into the night and woken exhausted. <br />
<br />
Help. Me.Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-30033260170029838812011-12-26T19:27:00.000-07:002011-12-26T19:27:21.416-07:00Let's Do SomethingAs a man of independent mind, it has been a hard lesson learned that it takes two, baby. <br />
<br />
So let's do something. Yes, we may live in different places. Many things can be accomplished over the internet, by phone, or via weekend visits. It's a new year and I am mentally prepared to cooperate and collaborate. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SrfQWoFMH60/Tvkrq9aMRpI/AAAAAAAAAiY/lcAJuI_PFQg/s1600/liberty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="165" width="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SrfQWoFMH60/Tvkrq9aMRpI/AAAAAAAAAiY/lcAJuI_PFQg/s200/liberty.jpg" /></a></div>But what should we do? The hell if I know. Let's talk about it. Surely we have complimentary skill sets. We'll seek others within our friend circles with similar interests. If we all work together, we can accomplish something spectacular. Or maybe not! Maybe we'll just play something. Or maybe form a club or circle? <br />
<br />
Examples:<br />
A writing group, an artistic collaboration, a band, a company, a book club, a secret society, a gaming circle, a roleplaying campaign, a short-story compilation, a video-game clan, a child-care coop, or simply a group of drinking-buddies. <br />
<br />
Or perhaps you have your own ideas? Get in touch and we'll talk about it.Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310252891182909924.post-77505866106630723922011-12-20T20:12:00.000-07:002011-12-20T20:12:35.169-07:00Book Review of "You Only Live Twice" by Ian FlemingI have always hated <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_bond">James Bond</a>. 007, the icon, is known throughout the world because of his movies. Since the 60s, he's been suave, cool, irresistable to women, over-the-top and dangerous. I suppose his appeal is that men are supposed to want to be him. He gets any woman he wants and kills anybody he wants. If I met him I'd want to throttle him because he's so unpleasant. Frustratingly, he would kill me if I tried. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gxXa3teO0S4/TvFMkONPZPI/AAAAAAAAAh0/NzkKgWV30qM/s1600/You%2BOnly%2BLive%2BTwice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="136" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gxXa3teO0S4/TvFMkONPZPI/AAAAAAAAAh0/NzkKgWV30qM/s200/You%2BOnly%2BLive%2BTwice.jpg" /></a></div>So you might be surprised to know that I chose to read a James Bond novel. It's number twelve in the series, <i>You Only Live Twice.</i> I did it out of masochistic curiosity, just so you know. You might also be surprised to discover that Hollywood's James Bond does not resemble <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ian_Fleming">Ian Fleming</a>'s Bond whatsoever. <br />
<br />
Firstly, <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/You-Only-Live-Twice-Fleming/dp/0142003271/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1324436909&sr=1-1"><i>You Only Live Twice</i> (novel)</a> does not begin with an obnoxious action sequence that is supposed to make you vomit in entertainment. It begins with Bond moping after the death of his wife and a series of professional fuckups. In fact, Bond doesn't actually get into a fight until the end of the novel! <br />
<br />
Eventually Bond gets assigned to Japan to uncover some vital information (which is never revealed). We're just told the mission is impossible. Impossible it may be, but Bond gets sidetracked hanging out in brothels with his new Japanese drinking buddy. Then his buddy tells him to go murder some crazy Doctor Shatterhand. But first, they attend some more brothels. He does eventually discover Doctor Shatterhand's secret and penetrates his garden-fortress of death, but that's really only the last fifth of the story. It is such a strange book. It reads like a travel brochure punctuated with anti-Japanese slurs and hookers. <br />
<br />
And then there's Bond's personality itself. The literary Bond is not the gadget-laden, smooth-talking product placement we know and hate. Instead, he's hateful in a different way. Imagine if you can a chauvanistic, racist and old-fashioned Cambridge professor trapped in the body of a super-spy. He's also clearly an alcoholic. He wanders around the novel muttering stuff like, "I say, Tanaka, this damned lobster's still alive! Give me a rasher of bacon and hop to it, you damn slant-eyed tosser, wot?" For some reason, the Japanese find this behaviour endearing. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HW2_S1DQ0vo/TvFM2sDes9I/AAAAAAAAAiA/59S3GDiktuw/s1600/Daniel%2BCraig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="120" width="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HW2_S1DQ0vo/TvFM2sDes9I/AAAAAAAAAiA/59S3GDiktuw/s200/Daniel%2BCraig.jpg" /></a></div>It's not that I entirely dislike the idea literary-Bond. He's real in a way that Hollywood-Bond could never be. To be honest, I kind of enjoyed the exploits of this stodgy booze-hound as he swanks around Japan and I liked even more how much Hollywood could never, ever feature this Bond in a film and expect it to be a blockbuster. The <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0381061/">last two</a> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0830515/">Bond films</a> with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Craig">Daniel Craig</a> have tried to bury the campy 60's Bond and make him more realistic and like literary-Bond. But they don't even come close. This Bond is so irredeemably English that you'd expect to see him stumbling around some high-class function telling off-colour racist stories as annoyed guests tolerate him because he's little, cute and British. After about an hour his mortified wife bundles him off to bed. <br />
<br />
So, was the novel good? I guess, kind of. It is the only spy novel I've read and in that sense it's like nothing I've ever read before. I don't think I'll be in any hurry to pick up another Bond novel, but I can say I was glad for the experience. <br />
3 creepy sexual encounters out of 5<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BFAcRRS2Qy8/TvFM7xi098I/AAAAAAAAAiM/VscKP6rvNPE/s1600/Hollywood%2BYou%2BOnly%2BLive%2BTwice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="156" width="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BFAcRRS2Qy8/TvFM7xi098I/AAAAAAAAAiM/VscKP6rvNPE/s200/Hollywood%2BYou%2BOnly%2BLive%2BTwice.jpg" /></a></div>As a side-note, another reason I grabbed this book was my interest in comparing movie adaptations with their source material. After seeing this art from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0062512/">the movie</a> poster, I've decided not to bother with the movie for reasons that should be obvious to anyone.Cherubyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15531160474574566751noreply@blogger.com