Gilligan and Me

I listened to a show on the radio last night about post-modern literature. I have to admit that I have no idea what post-modern literature is because I’m not that well educated nor do I know much about literature and its divisions. As it is, all I can tell you about literature is that Shakespeare wrote plays. Otherwise, I have no idea what’s been going on or which category a particular author falls into.

I looked up Post-modern literature on Wikipedia and they tell me that Douglas Copeland is a Post-modernist writer. It took me three years to read Douglas Copeland’s ‘Generation X’, and it was supposed to be about me. I don’t remember much of it, though.
I also read that Dave Eggers published ‘A heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius’ in 2000 but I still haven’t gotten around to reading it yet. Actually, until a short while ago I’d never heard of him.
It’s fair to say that I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on around me.

The radio program was a piece written by a post-modernist author whose name I can’t remember. My brain sieve has a gaping whole in it, I guess.
It seems that in the never ending journey of self-discovery, we, as a people, have mastered self-referential satire and assigned it a domain. I got worried for a minute, wondering if I had ever written any self-referential satire. I wondered, then, if it might be a bad thing. I wondered that if I ever accidentally write self-referential satire, must I call myself a post-modernist? I hope not. If so, I’d have to do some research on what it means and care, or something.

I copied this from Wikipedia, after searching for Post-modernism.

In a nutshell, the pro-postmodernism argument runs that economic and technological conditions of our age have given rise to a decentralized, media-dominated society in which ideas are simulacra and only inter-referential representations and copies of each other, with no real original, stable or objective source for communication and meaning. Globalization, brought on by innovations in communication, manufacturing and transportation, is often cited as one force which has driven the decentralized modern life, creating a culturally pluralistic and interconnected global society lacking any single dominant center of political power, communication, or intellectual production.

The thing I find interesting about this is that it’s only two sentences.

I got this one from the Wiki posting on Post-Modern literature.

Neo-Existential writers have also focused more on the post-modern end of Neo-Existentialism, creating stream of consciousness narratives that depict the confusion of post-modern, neo existential angst, as well as the bitter resignation to a blind, uncaring corporate world which alienates individuals from their own individual meaning so that rather than becoming to be "something" (the actualization of their potential), they become rather "nothing" (by the disvaluing and disregard of their potential they are never able to actualize themselves in society as productive members of a process directed towards an end), they become a mere tool to be used and dispensed with as needed.

That’s one sentence. I bet the same guy wrote both of these entries. He writes a long sentence, that guy.

Now, where was I going with this?

Oh, yeah. I like sitting through the trailers when I rent a movie so that when someone brings one up in a conversation I can pretend that I’ve seen it just by mentioning a scene or two. It’s not quite lying, and it’s better than having to watch all those movies. Am I a post-modernist or am I just lazy? And, in the end, does anyone, apart from the people who produce long winded and confusing radio documentaries, care one way or the other?

I feel like Gilligan when he discovered that the Skipper, the Professor and Ginger were kidnapped by aliens and replaced with body-doubles intent on wreaking havoc on the island. Luckily, Gilligan was just too stupid and the aliens gave up in frustration.

A Vince Guaraldi Christmas

For so many of us Christmas isn't complete unless we can revisit some of the music we grew up listening to at this time of year. For me the only album that gets a complete and attentive listen is Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas.

There's a story about how the pairing of an up and coming jazz pianist and the creator of one of America's favourite cartoons came about. Apparently after hearing a live Guaraldi track on the radio, Peanuts creator Charles Schultz told his driver to turn around and take him to a nearby club so that he could meet the musician. What came from that meeting was a soundtrack, recorded in 1964, for Schultz's first Peanuts special, A Boy Named Charlie Brown. When Schultz began to put together a Christmas special, Guaraldi was the obvious choice. Since then the Peanuts gang and Guaraldi have been inseparable.

Of the album's twelve tracks, there are six interpretive renditions of familiar Christmas classics done like no other could have. O Tannenbaum is the opening track and takes off from the simple piano beginning, adding in Fred Marshall on bass and Jerry Granelli on drums, to become a swinging glide through a winter wonderland of be-bop and blues.
What Child Is This, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Beethoven's Fur Elise, The Christmas Song (a peaceful piano solo) and the late addition of Greensleeves round out the traditional songs. These recordings, in my mind, rescue what could be derivative manipulations simply because Guaraldi handles them with care, revealing the beauty of each song as might have been intended.

But it's the original compositions that raise the hair on the back of my arms. My Little Drum, with it's syncopated drumming, adding a smattering of Guaraldi's Latin influences, along with the drone of Guaraldi's left hand evokes a tension that melts away with the children's chorus of "oohs". And it never fails to make me think of the Peanuts kids with their heads raised to the sky.
Linus and Lucy makes another appearance here, the original done for the 'Boy Named Charlie Brown' album and is the first song anyone thinks of when you say 'Peanuts'.
After that the instrumental Christmas Time is Here takes us on a meditative stroll, later accompanied by children's voices, through a landscape of twinkling piano and shuffling rhythms.
The two tracks that stand out for me, though, are Skating and Christmas is Coming. Skating is an upbeat trip-along that evokes memories of unblemished ice surfaces and falling snow. It's full of joy and wonder and you can hear in Guaraldi's playing his sense of humour and his love of simple melodies and rhythm.
If Christmas is Coming doesn't make your feet move, you're dead. It's upbeat and bouncy, while the middle blues progression will make you bust out the air-bass guitar. These two tracks alone are worth the price of admission.

Christmas is a time when it's not hard to find maudlin renditions of carols belted out by this year's newest singing sensation but for my money there's no need to buy another Christmas album if you already own this one. Get it out and listen to it.
You might not be able to separate the music from the visions of the Peanut's kids it evokes but that doesn't hinder the fun, the joy or the wonder at hearing Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas. For me it brings home what Christmas is all about.

People Get Ready

With the finality of a slap to the face, winter has arrived in the capital. And I find myself a little unprepared, as usual. This occurred to me this morning as I tried to scrape the windows of the car with a stick and was late for an appointment. Yeah, winter has arrived.
Having waited for the indisputable truth in the form of icy roads and freezing temperatures, just in case winter might have been waylaid in Manitoba, I held off gathering up the supplies that any straight shooting Ontarian needs to survive until the spring.
Judging from the fifty-fifty appearance of the average person on the street, half wearing fur and hip boots, the others, running shoes and wind breakers, I know I’m not alone. A lot of us just need to see winter to believe it’s actually here. Call it denial or stupidity, it really amounts to the same thing doesn’t it?
It’s time for the box of emergency supplies to go back in the car. Luckily, I forgot to take it out last spring, so the extra blanket, pocket warmers and salt/sand mixture are still taking up most of my trunk space. It’s the other things, like a good pair of boots, a pair of gloves and a scarf that I need now.
It’s also time to remember how to drive on snowy roads, how to walk on icy sidewalks and how to smile when your face is frozen in place. And above all it’s important to remember that we’re all in the same boat. Ice boat. Whatever.
The disposition of the average person goes straight into the toilet in winter so I think it’s important to do a little extra work in front of the mirror before you head off to work. This will do you some good, I promise.
As you stand, blearily looking at your mottled and pale complexion, your toothbrush half in and half out of your mouth, imagine that it’s forty below outside. Imagine that the car is buried under four feet of snow and that your breath will likely freeze into little clouds of ice as you meander your way around snow banks as high as your head. Prepare yourself mentally for it. You’ll almost always be pleasantly surprised when you do go outside, if you don’t just give up and go back to bed.

This is the list of things I need to make winter a little more bearable:

1. Long underwear. There’s nothing sexy about these things but the same thing could be said for frostbite.

2. New hat, new mitts, new scarf. And they don’t have to match contrary to what my mother might tell you.

3. A bottle or two of Jack Daniels. Actually lowers your body temperature but I’ll be drunk and won’t notice that my toes are gone.

4. Firewood. I don’t have a fireplace but it might be necessary to improvise at some point. Remember the ice storm?

5. A steady succession of nubile young women to keep me warm. Actually, this does a body good at any time of year.

6. A list of emergency numbers. Dial-a-bottle, Season’s Pizza, etc.

7. One of those big rescue dogs. Always a good idea to have fresh meat on hand.

8. A flare gun. I probably won’t need one but I still think they’re cool. Might be useful to start the fire.

I’m sure I’ll come up with a few more things to add as the winds pick up and sky is blotted out by blizzards but that should be a good start.
Like I said, if you prepare for the worst then winter’s not so bad. Of course it hasn’t actually gone much below freezing yet but you can bet it’s coming. Maybe I should get two dogs.

Parade of Liars

The line of cars was endless. Hundreds of them, bumper to bumper, heading south and out of the city. I wish I could show you a picture of it because it wasn't until I saw it for myself, in the early darkness, with all those headlights pointed at me, that I realized that Ottawans don't give a damn about environmental concerns.
You tell me. Nearly every car I passed had only one person in it. I guess the discomfort that people feel at waiting to be picked up somewhere outside the city to carpool in to a central location has something to do with the loss of freedom of movement. It could be that we're lousy conversationalists first thing in the morning or that being twenty minutes early is too much to sacrifice for the overall health of our environment.
It could be that the word environment has lost its meaning because we say it over and over again, in magazines, on the radio and in newspapers.
Perhaps we should talk about ecosystems because while the effects of hundreds of cars trundling past seems a little removed from our concerns about global warming and fresh water supplies, we certainly don't need to go far to discover what effect this has on ecosystems like the Rideau river.
I know a few people who live along that river and they say it's been too polluted to swim safely in for years. The only thing left is to put the boat in and roar up and down the river and admire the perfect lawns and enormous houses that have supplanted the flora and fauna.
The reason I know that most of us feel some sort of embarrassment about our disregard for environmental issues is that no one will come right out and say, "I don't give a shit about the environment if it means I have to give up my car, my boat, my green lawn and my right to manipulate the world for my own purposes."
It's okay. You can do it. It beats mouthing the words, in sync with the leftist, save the whale do-gooders while privately and actively destroying our resources.
C'mon, I'm a hypocrite too. I pretend to care about recycling and then throw tin cans in the garbage. And then I act outraged when George Bush criticizes Kyoto. Join the revolution. It's all about giving up the pretense that you care.
If you're wondering who would join such a cause, just wander outside the city at five o'clock and take a seat at the side of the road. Then watch the parade of liars pass by who will, with one mouth, deride big industry for their lack of concern for the environment and with the other mouth defend their right to consume, pollute and destroy their own ecosystems because they feel uncomfortable and inconvenienced.
It will make you feel sick, too.

Hello? Is This Mr. and/or Mrs. Thompson?

I may find myself alone when I say that I feel sorry for telemarketers. I feel sorry for them because they have to call at intentionally awkward times, stick doggedly to their scripts, and can't allow themselves to respond to the ridicule that most people heap upon them. A lot of people hate their jobs but very few of us have jobs that make people hate us.

With that in mind, I try to act civilized when the phone rings right after that first bite of dinner. The callers have quotas and, as one telemarketer told me (presumably that call wasn't recorded), that each call must last a minimum amount of time for them to be paid. Whether that's true or not I haven't been able to verify. When their spiel is done I politely tell them I'm not interested and hang up. I haven't always been so considerate.

I grew up passing cold callers on to my mother. At first, I passed them to her because I wasn't the one with my hands on the family purse, but after listening to my mother decimate caller after caller it became something of a game to me. My mother was a woman who didn't appreciate her time being wasted by telemarketers and she had no problem explaining that to these salesmen and women, using some extremely colourful language. She would hang up the phone and look at me, waiting for an explanation, and all I could do was laugh.

It wasn't until I did some volunteering with the Canadian Cancer Society that I learned what it's like to be on the other end of the line with someone, like my mother, who resents the intrusion. I accepted the chore, believing that everyone understands what an important function these people play in the fight against a truly horrific disease. I learned quickly that compassion is in short supply when your dinner is growing cold.

As a result of the growing number of calls I have been getting lately, I looked into how to get myself off these call lists. It isn't easy. The most straightforward advice comes from Junkbusters.com

All you have to do is send a letter, templates of which you can find on their website, and send it to anyone you've ever given personal information to, asking to be removed from their mailing lists. This includes, incredibly, your bank, your credit card company, the hydro company, the water company, the cable company, the stores you shop in, the business' you order supplies from and the dating service you use to drum up dates. And when you're returning all those Christmas gifts, and filling out those long and intrusive return forms that most business' use to deter people from trying it again, don't forget to tell them that you don't want your information sold. Whew. Did I forget anybody?

The buying and selling of personal information to telemarketers has been going on since Nadji Tehrani trademarked the word Telemarketing. Mr. Tehrani discovered, in the seventies, that convincing people to advertise in his trade magazines was cheaper and easier if he did it over the phone. As the venerable grand-daddy of annoyance, he has a special place in my heart.

The CRTC has a page which explains how the entire process runs. Go here to fill out a form from the Canadian Marketing Association to have your information removed from marketing lists, although I have to express some doubt about giving these people any more ammunition. It's a bit like hiring a fox to guard your hen house.

In the event that none of these tactics work, I have a plan. It involves asking my mother a teach a class on phone etiquette when dealing with telemarketers. It won't be pretty. I think she's actually made up some of the more colourful descriptors I've heard her use, so you'll need a pad and pen to write these down. Unfortunately the class won't have anything to do with spam. Even my mother hasn't been able to come up with a solution for that particular form of torture.

All's Well That Ends Well

I came across an unfamiliar term the other day. Geoengineering. For those of you who already know what it is, try to take it easy on me. I'm new to the subject.

In the broadest sense, I guess geoengineering is a word that describes what might be our last chance of surviving beyond the end of this century. I think it's also a term that might show up in the platforms of near-future politicians, as the question is put to a vote. It's probably going to be the cause of our ultimate destruction, if you believe the dire warnings the environmentalists are handing out, and if we do nothing we'll be in the same boat anyway, say the supporters.

It is becoming generally accepted that our efforts to reduce green-house gas emissions is a case of too little too late. There have been a number global summits to investigate various methods to expedite the cooling of the planet and our greatest minds have come up with some astounding ideas. The crazier sounding initiatives range from seeding the atmosphere to launching giant mirrors into orbit and dumping iron into the oceans, all in an effort to turn down the temperature of the planet. Supporters tells us that these tactics might be the only way we will live to see the next century. Detractors point to our less that illustrious history of managing a world wide eco-system and suggest that we'll likely just finish off the planet faster than we could under normal circumstances. And then there are the conspiracy theorists who claim that most of the wild and woolly ideas that have surfaced over the last half century are already well under way.

The reaction to these ideas, for the average guy like me, ranges from complete suspicion to wishful thinking. If it is true that CO2 emissions will cause a considerable warming of the planet, then I suppose we should try to stop it. If it's too late to stop it what do we do? Do we kiss the kids goodnight and make one last call to Florida before the state disappears under the waves, or do we agree to tackle the problem from a fresh point of view.

It's no surprise to anyone that we have made a mess of things, but do we try to fix it or do we put our heads between our knees? Will we finally accept that we've been managing the planet badly and take steps to preserve what we have or will we wade quietly into the ocean and leave what's left for the next species to rise to dominance.

Let me point out that science and science fiction have been pointing to former idea for years. The idea of colonizing other planets, of manipulating their atmospheres, to terra-form and settle down somewhere else has been in our collective imagination for a long, long time. So why not do it here, while we have the chance? Or do we commit to scrubbing down the moon so that when this place goes up we've got somewhere else to go? Does the idea of living in a bubble disturb you so much that you'd go willingly down the road to extinction?

Of course the most important question of all is who do we believe? I have to admit that my faith in anything that either governments or politicians have to say is so thin that they could tell me my house was on fire and I wouldn't even bother to look for a hose.

So, here is a series of questions that I find myself lacking enough information on to give an intelligent answer to:

1. Who's right? Will the Kyoto Accord be enough? Or do I start saving for a radiation suit?

2. What can we do? Do we accept our mission to take over perpetual management of the atmosphere and deal with the repercussions later? Or do we hold a public gathering and sigh a collective "Oh shit." to the universe.

3. Does this golf cart make me look fat? And how many hours will it take me to get to New York at 35 kilometers an hour?

My answer to all of the above is "How the hell should I know?" I've got more than enough on my plate. The car needs new brakes, I haven't even thought of starting my Christmas shopping and if my neighbour doesn't stop walking around in her high heels at three in the morning I'm really gonna lose it.

A Surprised Woman

Maryon Pearson, the wife of former Prime Minister Lester B. "Mike" Pearson, once said that "Behind every successful man is a surprised woman." Considering his accomplishments, in and out of the political arena, one wonders what there is to be surprised about.

While he was, reportedly, a humble man it was his skill as a mediator that made him so successful as a diplomat, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and, later, as the President of the United Nations General Assembly.
Pearson's role as a diplomat enlarged Canada's reputation in the arena of global politics and it was his creation of the United Nations Emergency Force that averted a war during the Suez Canal crisis. For that he won Canada's first Nobel Peace prize in 1957. The blue berets worn by peacekeeping troops all over the world reflect his role as the father of modern peacekeeping and, at the time, cemented his status in diplomatic circles.
It is ironic that his reputation as a peaceful man became a hindrance when, at last, he became Prime Minister of his country in 1963. In a poll conducted later, most people considered him a better diplomat than politician. During his time as Prime Minister he was often at odds with public sentiment and the continuing embarrassments and scandals that plagued his party marked him as ineffective, something which his politically savvy opponent John Diefenbaker mercilessly attacked him for.

Despite a personality that was, perhaps, unsuited to politics, and his five year stint at the head of the struggling minority Liberal government, Pearson was able to push through legislation that defines this country to this day. The Canada Pension Plan, universal health care, government funded student loans, a new Canadian flag, the model of today's immigration system and official bilingualism are all remnants of Pearson's idealism and perseverance.

Pearson's personal accomplishments in diplomacy, for which he is fondly remembered, and his tenure as Prime Minister, for which he is criticized as having been lack-luster and publicly awkward, is perhaps why, behind him, stood a surprised woman. Maryon Pearson was vocal in her disappointment when her husband accepted the office of Prime Minister at a time when most men are thinking of retirement. Nonetheless, Pearson led this country until 1968, when he retired from politics and began to teach at Carleton University and to write his memoirs. Considering that few Prime Ministers come to office with such extraordinary credentials, it is perhaps not very surprising that fewer still will be remembered as being truly great Canadians.

Winter Wonderland

Every year, around the first snowfall, I promise to dig out my skates and make some use of the Rideau Canal. For the better part of the last twenty years I have lived within walking distance of the world's longest outdoor skating rink but despite this I can count, on one hand, the number of times I've been on it. I don't handle the cold weather very well and it has been suggested to me, on more than one occasion, that if I had something to do during the long months of winter, I wouldn't be such a miserable lout.

I have compared living in Ottawa, during the winter months, to the necessity of hibernation in the animal world. The long nights and short days, huddled around whatever source of heat you can find, poking the mountains of snow with a stick to locate the car, adding twenty pounds of clothing, preferably fur, every time you need to step outside and resigning yourself to being perpetually damp, despite the dry air, gives me, in my mind, the right to complain, often and loudly, that winter sucks. The remedy for this, according to my sadistic friends, is to find some form of entertainment that will take my mind off of it. And skating, according to the millions of people who descend on Ottawa every winter, to glide up and down the canal, sipping hot chocolate and munching on Beavertails, is a sure way to beat the season.

In the early nineteenth century, the British government, worried about our land hungry neighbours to the south, decided to construct a secure waterway, linking the port of Montreal to the mills in Kingston. It was thought that a canal system, running right through the dense and difficult terrain, would provide an easily defended supply line and construction began, after years of surveying, in 1827.

Of course, by the time it was done we didn't need it anymore.

So, with nothing better to do while they waited for warmer weather, a few adventurous sorts strapped a couple of blades to their feet and, in true Canadian fashion, built an industry out of their misfortune.

Ottawa is a town that loves its festivals and even I have to admit that the sight of the ice sculptures, the miles of twinkling lights, the smell of wood fires and the faces of so many awe-struck tourists can inspire a bit of nationalistic pride in my frozen heart.

So, here we go again.

I promise that this year I will suffer the pain of balancing on two impossible narrow steel blades, suck up the cold-induced aching of my joints and fingers, hide my embarrassment at being circled by roving bands of teenagers, deriding my inferior skating abilities and enjoy the canal, not as it was originally intended, perhaps, but as it is currently acclaimed, in an effort to appease all those people who would normally have to put up with me being crabby and miserable for the next four months.

You never know. If I can rediscover my childlike enthusiasm for the season, I might be able to emerge from my self-imposed solitude, next spring, with a smile and a new found delight in what otherwise might be a hopelessly long sojourn through that dark suffering of the soul we call winter.

A Mighty Wind

I grew up being force fed the standardized Bob Dylan story, learned of his triumphs and trials at the hands of both the industry and the fans, been forced to nod in mock-appreciation, so as to avert bloodshed, whenever one of his songs came on the radio and tried, oh lord how I tried, to keep a straight face every time a rabid fan quoted his lyrics to me with their eyes rolled back in their heads in an orgasmic reaction to his nearly non-sensical ramblings. Yeah, I know who Bob Dylan is.

And while I will defend the tone of the above comments I would also like to point out that I do like some of his recorded songs. I won't, however, go to see him in concert again. I was there, the last time he was in town and I'd like to tell you that I have never been more angered by a musician's contempt for his fans. I suppose you could make a case for any number of reasons why he sucks so badly in concert but an excuse is still an excuse. The show lasted for close to two hours, I was told later, but after about forty-five minutes of confused and marble-mouthed renditions I'd had enough. It was a wall of confusion and even when I did recognize a song, straining as I was to block out the incoherent noise that seemed to come from everywhere on the stage, it was only because I managed to catch a phrase or two of the lyrics, which were the closest thing to scripture for so many of my friends, at the time.

You didn't ask for my opinion but here it is anyway. Don't bother going to the Scotia Bank Centre on the 5th. In this day and age, when the majors are scrambling to find even a single that merits the millions pumped into them, I'm not surprised that they still allow this guy to make records. His reputation and his near god-like status means a sure thing when it comes to making money.

Should he stop? Hell, no. I need the constant reminder of his sad-sack presence in order to keep fresh the perversions of the music business. The times may have been a changin' when he first picked up a guitar, but since then time seems to have come to a complete and irrevocable standstill when it comes to what passes for quality in arena rock.

If you do go, pay attention to Dave Grohl and company. New? Subversive? Nope, but a damn good rock band and that's really all I"m looking for.