07.09.07
Gothic Confidential
Or… Confessional, perhaps. The truth is, I’ve never belonged to one of those identifiable sub-cultures – never been a punk or a hippie activist or a goth or even a member of a superculture like preppies or yuppies or, as we all took to calling them, “normals.” I’ve never been quite geeky enough to be a geek (though, definitely nerdy enough to point out that a true geek is a circus performer who bites the heads of animals, most frequently chickens, and that, therefore, Alice Cooper was actually a geek). I’ve never fit into the superculture, never been quite ‘up’ on the stars (though always did like astrology) and never really knew the details of the megakillers on trial (except relating to the war in Iraq but that’s another post altogether isn’t it, and Bush isn’t on trial…yet).
This is not to say that I didn’t want to fit in, that I don’t yearn for community and belonging, but that i have too many arms to fit in the dolly mold. I’ve accepted I’ll never be quite like them (whoever and whatever they are), but that I can still love and be loved by them.
So, where’s the confession? It’s here: there’s one culture I love to observe. More than Rockabilly Punks and the burlesque girls who entertain them, more than the spelt-bread and quinoa-eating natural foodsies, more than the chunk-streak-hair lululemon-wearing tarts who adorn robson street like some kind of rapidly proliferating fungus, I love the Goths.
I love that they are an international community of people who all think they are alone in their misery. I love their sardonic self-obsession, their sarcastic humour and their deathlier-than-thou aspect. I love their aggressive self-consciousness, their total devotion to fashion and music, and their complete subjugation of non-goth-compliant personality traits.
I love the bravery it takes to walk down the street and know normals are staring (and real punks are scoffing). I mean, this is probably the one subculture that can cause both laughter and fear at the same time.
I float near them without their knowing. Venus Flytrap isn’t aware of the gnat nearby. I cannot help it. I saw a pair of them leaving the station the other day and when they took the stairs instead of the escalator, I couldn’t help but follow. I stare openly. I drink in their platform boots and skinny black-jeans, their layered shades of black velour and polyester shirting and their long stringy purposefully unkempt hair. I loved their hats – a bowler and a top hat, and their matching nightmare-before-christmas bags. I can’t help but whisper under my breath ‘where are you going, little goths’ and then catch myself, realizing I am sounding very, very creepy.
I especially love that goths on facebook try to seem as morosely sexy as possible. They are perfecting the art of kohl-rimmed eyes that say both ‘come hither’ and ‘one day we shall all turn to dust’. The girls love to take pictures of themselves from above, so all you see is forehead and eyes, and their sad, tiny mouths are turned into Louise Brooks. The boys do the same, I suppose hoping to express their disinterest in footballer masculinity by evoking allusions to proto-goth electronic musicians of the late seventies and early to mid eigthies.
When I was in school, I chose a few goths to follow around, whenever I saw them walk across the concourse, I followed them. I enjoyed them from afar. When I was in Calgary I’d go the club and watch the elastic boy-goth dance with the long chain around his neck, spider legs and arms arcing in ecstatic expression. He wore pain like one of those bright-orange vests city workers wear so cars don’t hit them.
I think as long as we have an idea of normal, we’ll have self-marginalizing homogenized sets of individuals using clothing, music, and weltanschauung to create an alternative. What I love most about the goths, and what makes me stalk them, is their protest against this culture’s requirement of happiness and contentment as the only allowable emotion. Like the Jesters in the King’s Court, they too provide a valuable service. They remind us that lurking beneath the cover of zoloft, success-though-a-whitened-smile, and yoga-ballet, the darkness awaits. It’s the only way to have balance in the world.
07.02.07
Happy Canada Day
I never was able to draw a maple leaf. In school it was an inevitable challenge: make your own Canadian Flag for Canada Day – I think I’ve made them out of construction paper, or from paper with paints or laurentian pencil crayons or crayola wax crayons. They all looked lopsided and strange. It may be my aversion to measuring that was the problem. There are 11 points and 12 angles on the sugar maple leaf excluding the stem. I would dutifully draw them all, knowing that nine of them are on the top, and that there are two more sticking out at the bottom somewhere near the stem, which inevitably I wouldn’t have room to draw. Not to mention the unusual division of space: those two red bars take up the two outer quarters of the rectangle, while the leaf itself takes up half. Now, I much preferred, as a child and as an adult, either flags that were in even thirds such as the French or Italian flag, or the complex geometric challenge of the Union Jack.
Apparently, they chose the maple leaf because it was easier to draw than the alternatives.
The maple leaf continued to elude me when I made my first cheesecake in grade 9 for Canada Day from an article in the Vancouver Sun. It had a maple leaf on it, constructed entirely out of evenly sliced and strategically layered genetically modified strawberries. It should have been predictable that in my hands the fruity maple leaf would more resemble a blood spatter. The cheesecake tasted good, though.
I’ve always wanted to actually celebrate Canada Day, like with a barbecue and mile-high desserts, some kind of neat drinks and sentimental songs. I can see it in my mind’s eye, as clearly as my child mind could see the straight lines, 11 points and 12 angles of government-issue maple leaves. Somehow, though, when it comes to bringing that image into reality, my hand wobbles and I lose count and end up drawing an amorphous blob bearing similarity to a hedgehog, or forgetting to go to the store or invite people over.
I’m starting to think that our traditional celebration is of the perpetual Canadian identity crisis. A nation in its teenagehood that cannot conceptualize an individualized or positive future, our citizens struggle to depict its central symbols. For today, we will be taking it easy. Perhaps have brunch with friends or go swimming. Maybe we’ll bake a cake and I’ll get my daughter to inscribe a maple leaf in shakey lines of pink icing, or paint it on in long splats of pureed raspberry.
01.28.07
We are in MAUI
Here’s a recap of the last 24 hours. Left work and we finally got out of town to the border. There’s a futuristic nightmare and I suppose it’ll get worse. 15 minutes to cross which isn’t bad, but the interrogation and the machine that photographs you on your way through, the checking of our plates and the surly man’s questions – I can only just imagine what it’s like for others more target-able than our cutesy cuddly little nuclear unit.
We drove through seattle, I point out the on ramps and off ramps and over ramps the interwoven network of freeways that, to me, means we are in america. Somehow it seems different, just knowing we are on someone else’s soil. (Something happening to me lately is the poetic layering of history and life, walking in the downtown eastside i feel like i’ve got the jawbones and noses of the missing women, or of the ones whose parts were found on picktons farm, driving through seattle i am acutely aware of being in a country that is at war). We saw 4 police cars between seattle and tacoma. they were out busy that night. Then we roll in to the Days Inn, a cheap-ass motel where the room gave me asthma and stank of haywater, whatever hay water is. Use your imagination, but when the sign on the door said “business special class room” you know you’re in trouble. Our neighbours had been partying at the nextdoor bar (the one with too many neon bar signs in the window), were up until 3 so we didn’t sleep. In the morning we had a self-serve continental breakfast which we ate, gratefully, despite the sogginess of the make-your-own waffle and the wateriness of the from-last-night coffee.
We were shuttled to the airport by a surly man with some kind of problem driving – no matter the roadway, he could make you feel unsafe. Our luggage was escorted by a cheery gentleman with a graduate degree and an airport uniform, chatty the whole time and helpful in guiding us. HIs brother has dual citizenship, he says, lives in KOE-QUIT-LAM. Sings the Canadian anthem going north and the Star Spangled Banner going south. His unexpected and unasked-for helpfulness leads to the inevitable hissing whispered discussion “what do we tip? do we tip? how much?” “I don’t know!!” and still, have no idea if we did tip him.
The Flight Was Long and Turbulent. Literally. Our landing was actually frightening as we bounced and skidded and tilted our rollicking way down the runway until screeching to a stop. There was a communal peal of terrified laughter, fading down into a sigh of relief.
Once in Maui, we’ve met surly Transport Authority People, bitchy car rental receptionists, monosyllabic car rental service teenagers, and grumpy security officers. It appeared that no one who lives here is actually HAPPY, until we stopped in at starbucks for a much-needed iced coffee. There two tanned and mellow, hairy boys who love to surf and look like they could be from tofino or long beach or anywhere but here, let us take how much time we wanted, made nice coffee for us and were the soul of an island welcome. Hopefully a sign of things to come.
We are staying in a two-bedroom and loft condo close to the beach – it’s lovely, just what you’d expect from a place like this. Bamboo furniture and occasional lamps, large pineapple shaped cookie jar in the centre of glass-topped bamboo table. The prices of fruits and vegetables here is appalling. A small head of romaine is 2.19. An english cucumber??? a luxury item at 3.19. The per pound cost of nectarines is 3.00. In fact everything is incredibly costly. But the barbecued chicken is barbecued in soy sauce honey and ginger and still costs 5.99, same as at superstore. There’s some gorgeous specialty sauces I want to try, too. The price of internet is criminal, so my computer searches for wireless and every couple seconds gets 1 bar of wireless access. Hey, it’s enough to copy and paste the blog entry in.
The last note before I pass out to sleep is this: we open Ember’s bag and get a cute note inside from the Transportation Security Authority, that HER bag was chosen for a random check. Fell over laughing at the sight of MMMM Cookies and fairy bear and all the KID stuff they opened and looked at. Imagined the TSA officers sitting around for storytime.
Travelling here we’ve been grateful at every tiny pittance we receive, from the 1/4 cup oversalted pretzels and single cup serving of cola, to the dry bun turkey sandwich and oreo cookies, to Hawaiian Air actually unfolding our stroller for us at the gate so upon departure, we could drop our twisting, grumpy, crying baby into it and she could ride along without too much trouble. hopefully the rest of the trip we’ll get larger servings of luck. 
11.30.06
Public Affairs Television In Canada
Notes and Comments on a random article read the other day while on lunch at work… Canadian Journal of Communications Volume 26 Number 3 2001
“Public Service Broadcasting as a Modern Project: A Case Study of Early
Public-Affairs Television in Canada” by David Hogarth (York University)
Hogarth discusses the policy makers and designers of Canadian public
television. The 1950s Canadian television audience was hoped to be
disciplined, attentive viewers who would use the television medium to
learn about and understand the Canada in which they live. This in sharp
contrast to the fantasy-living, casual American viewer who was in it for
the entertainment only, and also to the overly serious
information-broadcasting of the UK. The Canadian audience member would
need to give the television their undivided attention, yet to not make a
casual habit of their viewing.
The goal was to stop the family of the 50s from playing bridge, poker,
gossiping, and living the rest of their lives for the duration of the
show (interesting to me that the television is perceived as a
simultaneous atmospheric device that can be ignored as desired, but
would be turned on constantly). The policy makers seemed concerned with
the uncontrolled modes of reception and the desire for entertainment,
the two main barriers to information transmission – for this reason they
considered a ‘middle ground’ approach that would mix entertainment
and instruction in a new television genre.
The Magazine format, covering a diverse subject and field range from
rock and roll to instruction to health to fashion to current events,
made meaningful by a single host, was the format of choice. Under strict
regulation in terms of editing style (no jump cuts for fear of overly
confusing the viewer), sound and musical cues, the programs cultivated
the reporters as protagonists in a real life drama [links to the First
Iraq War and the reports from trapped reporters, now in the Second Iraq
War the reporters are participants, no longer permitted to report but
rather become news themselves as they are abducted and murdered].
In 1956 one critic said that the CBC was determined to cover absolutely
everything in every possible way, which left “established public
service hierarchies of knowledge and representation in question if not
in ruins.” The encouragement of affective involvement on the part of
the viewer, combined with commercial pressures, led to a style of
editorial programming that had more in common with the American
programming than originally hoped for. The best a producer could hope
for was low-key engagement, the fine line between audience stimulation
and techno-fatigue or even schizoid dissociation. This fine line I
particularly find interesting. The schizoid dissociation has indeed come
to pass – we can watch anything impassively and then we are spurred to
action, confusion, and mental illness in the everyday. The only peace we
can have is when we watch. It is like something from the darkest of
futures, a technophobic science fiction setup from the 1920s, or like an
upcoming episode of Dr. Who.
I would also like to see a comparison between the American public
television policy – how policy and profit worked together or conflicted
to create the systems we have seen today. I’m sure there is a strong
difference between the Canadian and American perspectives on Television
especially because the technological innovation did not come from our
country. We had, as usual, the luxury of reaction and not the triumph of
invention.
Also, Hogarth very briefly described women’s daily television -
something I found interesting was that public policy makers seemed to
encourage the notion of women structuring their days around the
information delivering television set, while they discouraged the
predictability of television programming for the presumably male masses.
And then, when television programming was actually created for women
featuring the usual hallmarks of female-attractive production values:
personal, emotive stories with an individual and intimate basis [see
womens' surrealist films of the early 20th century in contrast to the
men's variants of the same], the critics attacked it for its lack of
instructional and informative value. I would be interested to see the
contrast between male and female contemporary critics’ reception of
television shows made for men, women, and the masses.
04.16.06
The Golden Egg
We’re in the midst of Spring Festival – eggs are prettily displayed in baskets and on shelves, a pot of pink mums has cheered up the kitchen table, and painted ceramic bunnies peek out from amongst the houseplants. There are lemon cookies we decorated with coloured honey glaze, depicting nascent animals: Chicks, Ducklings, Bunnies, and Eggs. Yesterday morning we awoke and coloured eggs with wax and dyes. Traditional foods include sweetly spiced, fruited rolls, fresh fruit salads with yogurt, and feasts. Tonight we had prime rib, cooked with garlic and the bounty of roasted winter vegetables. A reminder of what we leave behind as we enter spring.
Feast days continue tomorrow and the following day. This is a four-day festival and then all returns back to normal. So, we are halfway through. We give each other gifts of chocolate and garden plants. Today I was given a gold garden fork and shovel. The children raced to decipher clues until baskets of summer toys and candy were uncovered. In the morning our four year old will awake to learn that three shimmering gold eggs have been hidden in the house, and a search will commence while I make pancakes.
As I painted the three eggs gold and poured glitter on them, I thought about King Midas and his beloved daughter transformed to a statue as she embraced him. And of the golden goose and all her ridiculous followers. Of the young, good daughter in Mother Holle who is blessed for her thoughtfullness by a shower of golden coins that stick to her body, and the mixed additional blessing of gold coins dropping from her mouth with every word she spoke. This in sharp contrast to her poor sisters who were rewarded for their selfishness by accursed, sticky pitch over their persons and toads that leapt from their mouths with every word they spoke. Another Grimm – a short one, of the prodigal son who comes home to eat and is surprised to see a giant toad on the table. After one more final, cruel word to his father, the son is punished. The toad leaps onto his face and sits there, forevermore, eating one of every two bites the son tries to eat.
All hail the Easter Bunny and lunar festivals.
03.03.06
Canadiana
We ignore ourselves, don’t we? Canada’s oldest corporation, the Hudson’s Bay Company, is now 87% owned by Zucker, American. Oh the horror. Not that anyone mentally under 60 still shops there. Unless you’re me, of course. I love the Bay. Its stodginess and crappy cheesecake comforts me during the christmas rush. But they didn’t compete. They didn’t change, at least, not enough, to explore new styles of store. Now we’ll probably get Target, and have very unstodgy, poorly made temporary but stylish objects at worthy prices, and likely no cheesecake. So it’s all over the news, and there’s a mild, very Canadian, outcry over this. Canadian businesses should be protected, and all that.
But the truth here is that if we are going to express some essential ‘canadian-ness” we’ll need to start actually engaging and spending money on it. And those great Canadian tv shows and docudramas of the highest calibre have to stop being so damn dark. Why is it that the Canadian sense of humour is best exploited by the American entertainment industry? As an audience searching constantly for entertainment, we call for laughter and cheesecake tarts and a great peppermint mocha, we can’t be sitting in the mud and mire of the true stories of abuse and injustice and genocide and sarcasm. We don’t have time for that type of truth. We don’t even have time to watch commercials anymore.
So don’t go crying about how the bay has been sold out, or how canadian musicians have to go international before they’re noticed here, or how our tv is dominated by american shows. You choose where you shop, who you hear, what to watch, and what kind of things you buy in your everyday life. And if we don’t support the canadian industries and make the choice every day to put our money where our mouths are, we have no foundation for complaints as the commercial pillars of our society are systematically sold to the highest bidder.
