tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32612739478440263482024-03-13T15:44:43.274-07:00middlemicromanagerStandinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-76859232290345822822012-10-29T08:27:00.001-07:002012-10-29T08:27:31.924-07:00A little self praise.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-88872067739447415042012-10-29T06:56:00.001-07:002012-10-31T02:42:27.265-07:00CodaWith a cup of coffee to my left, Monday morning beckons, the day after I worked the annual "Open House" event at my university. I was surprisingly upbeat when I dragged myself to the office yesterday. I lapsed only briefly, snapping at a co-worker for giving me a series of tasks to do without saying "Good Morning" first. I must admit, it was pretty repugnant of me to lower myself to concerns over formal propriety. She was actually quite stressed, as volunteers who promised to help her set up the information tables didn't show. Perhaps there were too many Halloween parties and their after effects to absorb. Imagining careful disguises, these invisible volunteers were able to perform- in the purest sense of Comedia dell'Arte- a one act play of seduction that ignored their deficiencies of personality and appearance, bedding an object of affection in a rapture of rambling drunken confessions, sloppy coitus, and later, regret. Sleeping past the moment when they could realistically perform perfunctory acts of personal hygiene and stagger onto Campus, they chose instead not to diminish the glow of the preceding evening in their wretched state. Regardless of the reason, they failed to show and my co-worker was left to do most of the work herself. For my theatrical part, I was prepared to take the stage to inform inquisitive parents and their children about the programs we offer. Ever the serious actor, such lowly requests were too much for my ego to bear, hence the reproachment. How precious of me. I also informed a tour guide with a full audience that giving a seminar to Psychology students ( one she attended) should never include jokes at the beginning, middle, or end of the presentation. Another cheap shot, again unwarranted. Maybe I was resentful at having to skip a day of rest. <br />
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I love watching the dynamics between generations - when two parents are present I am curious about how their mix of genes created the child that stands before me, not quite ready for adulthood, but ready to leave their juvenile adolescence and the insipid politics of high school behind them. One frequently notices the oddest of contradictions - the face of the mother and the personality of the father - a dangerous mix as it can yield irrational expectations. I met future students who will not survive the Residence experience and will be targeted as aloof or weird by their fellow students. I also met those who will glide into their new academic environment as if a room had been reserved for them at birth, a consolation prize for slicing the umbilical cord. We had many student volunteers who did show - I remember many of them when they first began their studies. They too were a wide eyed with expectations, some of which were met, may of which were not. Victims of broken relationships, poor program choices, social awkwardness, and administrative red tape, they will leave this school shortly, older and more cynical. I wonder how we failed them - I promise a lot at these orientation events - the classic carnival barker and huckster salesman ready to sell you a good Banlon shirt from the trunk of my finned Chevy. I always tell students not to give their parents more news than they can handle - I do the same thing when trying not to damper the enthusiasm they have about attending university, especially ours. Still, there is little regret. Life is not simple and even amidst the burled wood, oil paintings, and polished brass work of the venue for this event. There is still some tarnish that you might as well learn to overlook.<br />
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<br />Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-3084537251277223502012-10-22T06:59:00.000-07:002012-10-31T02:43:34.811-07:00On reading.....About 16 years ago, on his 80th birthday, I walked across town to deliver my father's final birthday present. He died a few weeks later, and our parting was not an amicable one. I think of him still, sometimes with a tinge of nostalgia, sometimes with resentment or a bit of both. When tilting to the nostalgic side, I think of his quotes. Some may not have been his, but he made a convincing they were.. One in particular was a reply to my mother who chided him for not having many friends. My dad looked at her dryly and said "Why listen to the words of fools when I can read the words of kings?" Adjusting for gender, that statement stayed with me. He was an avid reader, as our mountain of books- where most men would place bowling trophies and underwear- would attest. In the end, it may have played a part in his demise. When my parents bought a condominium in 1994, the reduction in space from their old, dilapidated, but roomy apartment required him to get rid of most of his collection. True, there were guides to accounting practices from 1954 and triple copies of "On the Road" and "Our Lady of the Flowers", but a lot of great works of fiction, cultural theory, history, art history, theatre, and political science had to go. It broke him. He became depressed, clinically so, and it took months of treatment for him to accept his new house and the aesthetics of surroundings based more on the scenery of Mount Royal and varnished wood than a sea of paper and stale glue. I say aesthetics honestly - he certainly didn't have time to catalogue the mess, and spent most of his final years reading newspapers and magazines. Had he lived longer, he would have been a geriatric convert to the Internet, no doubt.<br />
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His love of books hurt him in another way - he became quite the hermit and misanthrope, rarely seeking the company of anyone other than my mother and occasionally me. I think he would have benefited from a few more actual friends. Still, I can see why he caught the isolation bug. I just finished one outstanding novel, <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/arts/books/story/2012/10/10/qwf-award-noms.html">"Carnival"</a> by local writer, Rawi Hage, and have quickly been absorbed in another, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/125001476X">"The Marriage Plot"</a>, by Jeffrey Eugenides. Despite it's mixed reviews, I find it truly entertaining. I guess it has a lot to do with having been a college student in the early 80's- the music, dress, political issues, and eternal love triangles of the emerging story bring me back to a more innocent time of youthful folly, and the dilemma of students facing life after their undergrad degree is something I face daily. It also makes the people around me, strangers mostly, more annoying. I love my immediately family, my students, and am sympathetic to the shared flaws of my family of co-workers. Everyone else astounds me with their selfishness, general rudeness, self-importance and ignorance. A waitress undercharged me by ten dollars yesterday and was astonished when I didn't pocket the money. I'm in debt like many others but know she has to be in worse straits if she is waitressing at a tacky restaurant on a miserable, industrial boulevard. For others -content in ripping her off- I guess it's a way of clawing back from a society that taxes us to death and preys on our low self-esteem to sell us things we don't need. I know I should just "let go" and show empathy for those who struggle in silence as I do. Everyone just seems so miserable, yet arrogant about how it can't be their fault. I believe in taking ownership of personal failure. Writers and kings do it so eloquently, as this little passage from "The Marriage Plot" will attest:<br />
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<i>"Some people majored in English to prepare for law school. Others became journalists. The smartest guy in the honours program, Adam Vogel, a child of academics, was planning on getting a Ph.D. and becoming an academic himself. That left a large contingent of people majoring in English by default. Because they weren't left-brained enough for science, because history was too dry, philosophy too difficult, geology too petroleum-oriented, and math too mathematical -because they weren't musical, artistic, financially motivated, or really all that smart, these people were pursuing university degrees doing something no different from what they'd done in first grade: reading stories. English was what people who didn't know what to major in majored in."</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-65241409354827055822012-10-19T06:29:00.000-07:002012-10-19T07:13:56.544-07:00Welcome<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It shouldn't matter, but it does. Most Canadians with any sort of cultural acumen know Sarah Polley. As a child, she was Sara in <a href="http://www.roadtoavonlea.com/">Road to Avonlea</a>, before growing up and becoming first a serious actress, then an astonishingly gifted young film maker, directing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ct7eXP-ivAk">"Away From Her"</a>, a film about a couple torn apart by dementia. She also made a fairly good pitch for the title of "authentic", pulling her name out of a short film when she found out it was used as a margarine <a href="http://www.torontolife.com/daily/daily-dish/culinary-curiosities/2010/03/04/sarah-polley-takes-name-off-latest-short-film-when-it-turns-out-to-be-a-margarine-ad/">ad</a>. I admit to having been a little perturbed when she named her most recent feature film, "Take This Waltz", and ode to the famous Leonard Cohen song. While I'll admit to being a big fan, I find this fetish with our local poet and song writing hero to be a bit tiresome at times. Still, I plan to see it. With this in mind, the mention of her name, even at 5:30 in the morning while I answer anxious student e-mails and chase away hungry cats, still elicits attention. This morning, my local radio show was discussing her latest effort, the documentary, "Stories We Tell". In it, Sarah reveals her biological father to be Harry Gulkin, producer of Canadian films such as "Lies My Father Told Me" and "Two Solitudes". Born in the same Montreal Jewish ghetto as my parents, Harry's brother and sister and law ate at our apartment when I was a child- my parent's friendship with them was not an enduring one, but I always remembered their name and its association with 'Lies", a film about a boy and his rags collecting merchant grandfather, which closely approximated their childhood Ok, Sarah is not a Jew, even I know that. My own son, by the virtue of his Catholic mother is not either, but suddenly there is a feeling that Ms Polley is part of the "club" so to speak. Cynically, neither of us could not even begin to understand what it was like to grow up in the huddled masses of first generation Jews in Montreal- battling anti-Semitism, the embarrassment of their immigrant parents, poverty, and wondering in awe what life in Mr Cohen's side of town (Westmount) was like. Only my parents' anecdotes allowed " the light to get in' (thanks Leonard). Perhaps her biological father told her stories too- he is still alive and in need of a Wikipedia page as I speak. Nevertheless, knowing that we share the same roots and can trace our fairly recent ancestry back to the Shtetls of Russia is an anthropologists dream, demonstrating the phenomenon of kinship. I once went to a university lecture from a former performance artist turned academic about collective unconsciousness in Judaism. I always greet these events with a combination of scorn, intimidation and curiosity. Some academics in attendance slept, while other members of the local Jewish community were there for the free food. Still, maybe there's something to this after all.<br />
<br />Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-87095724971879997482012-10-16T11:56:00.000-07:002012-10-17T18:06:10.868-07:00Step Up, Step Back<b><i>"Be aware of how much 'space' you are taking up in a conversation and when you need to let others have space to voice their opinion".</i></b><br />
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Yup, I'm in trouble. One hour away from facilitating a table on helping university students at a <a href="http://www.mcgill.ca/channels/event/consultation-fair-focus-academic-advising-and-graduate-supervision-218227">"Consultation Fair"</a> and I realize my deficiency in one key area. My whole life has been about "stepping up" and "being up", compensating for being too short, too plain, or any other perceived inadequacy that I felt the need to account for by being loud and proud. This is new territory for me- academic group dynamics. I was just getting used to my white, male, cis, privilege when all of a sudden I remembered what a loud mouth I am. In the "real" world outside the leafy campuses and tweedy professors of collegiate life, shouting to be heard is the norm. Reservation leads to solitude and lack of participation leads to cobwebs and people forgetting your name. This ain't real though. Mouthy not mousy, I have to be on my best behaviour It's not that I don't respect the opinions of others, I just love the sound of my own voice. I really have to get over it. There are a lot of people who genuinely make me laugh - so hard in fact, it becomes embarrassing when the brilliance of another's wit leaves you smirking on the Metro, the last bastion of the mad person with a bus pass. Ok, I'm ready - these kids have a lot to say. They make my job a joy every day, full of ambition and ideas and little fear of failure. I can't understand why some staff feel the need to be rude to students. Is there not a "hubris of youth"? Was it not so long ago that they obsessed over the right music and the right politics and the right art and the right sex? I guess amnesia is an antidote for some. I can't forget that I've had it pretty good - no divorces, children to support that don't live under my roof, good health, and a youthful spirit that makes me want to fill the space with my own ambition and ideas. STEP UP, STEP BACK!!!<br />
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<br />Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-27254374477798981872012-10-12T06:57:00.000-07:002012-10-12T06:57:05.874-07:00The Champions of Self Congratulation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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They announced the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize for 2012: <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/european-union-awarded-2012-nobel-peace-prize/article4608140/">http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/world/european-union-awarded-2012-nobel-peace-prize/article4608140/</a><br />
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Yes indeed, the European Union, a fractious union of countries with different ethnic groups, economies and religions, gathered under one currency, are the purveyors of non-violence for this year. I see this in it's subtextual form. By the way, forgive the pretension of the "s-word". I am in full costume this morning, two weeks before Halloween: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwqvkldO2AiUeq6yk_OjtLgTtH6y5fgiqZ0b8JFwazEeIkE0YiwxH5iPdyn8kIyZl4-xuFRk67zws9xgKX8FTgXY8mC2QFqCocFIUwVvgBy2oWKyG6KYPgSux5VQukchQvZVwWmkedotk/s1600/Oct+12,+2012+9:38:18+AM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwqvkldO2AiUeq6yk_OjtLgTtH6y5fgiqZ0b8JFwazEeIkE0YiwxH5iPdyn8kIyZl4-xuFRk67zws9xgKX8FTgXY8mC2QFqCocFIUwVvgBy2oWKyG6KYPgSux5VQukchQvZVwWmkedotk/s320/Oct+12,+2012+9:38:18+AM.jpg" width="320" /></a> I also have to meet with some potential donors to the University and their daughter, and want to look the part. It's funny how "professorial" and "hipster" can converge aesthetically, separated only by age (I'm too old for the latter).<br />
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Anyway, back to the domain of my ancestors, Mother/Father/ Europe. In subtext, the real meaning of this award is "Thank you Europe, for looking deeply into your hearts and not killing each other on a mass scale, something you have been accustomed to once or twice a century or so". Thanks for dumping the Hitlers, Stalins, and Mussolinis, the Francos and Salazars and various other enemies of democracy. Sure it took you a few years after 1945 to get it right. The last two Princes of Iberian slaughter only met their demise in the 70's, Eastern Europe erupted in bloodshed in only the last twenty years, and anyone visiting Central Europe these days has to tiptoe around without disclosing their ethnic background for fear of reprisal. Yeah, it ain't perfect, but the colonial wars are more or less over, if you don't count their legacy that will last long after. I do give them some credit. They have tried, abolishing the death penalty, trying to unify economically, and generally attempting to match their external civility and good manners with less oppressive regimes that have attempted to emancipate women, aid the poor and dispossessed, improve the environment, and build bike paths. Recent events in Greece and Spain prove there is a long way to go, BUT, if neither country embraces the far Left or far Right to a great degree, it's a good sign. Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-87805040632024522242012-10-11T07:01:00.003-07:002012-10-11T07:01:54.414-07:00Spot on....<br />
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<a href="http://www.cbc.ca/asithappens/features/2012/10/10/american-britishisms/">http://www.cbc.ca/asithappens/features/2012/10/10/american-britishisms/</a><br />
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Listen carefully....it was bound to happen. Americans, many of whom are bored and embarrassed by a culture viewed by many as crass and infantile, have forsaken Larry the Cable Guy and Jersey Shore in favour of the linguistic style of their former colonial masters, whose tea and blood they happily spilled in the Boston Harbour a few centuries ago. Blame it on the Harry Potter series, an almost sexy royal couple, or the delicate soap opera. Downton Abbey, or just accept the fact that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglophile">Anglophilia</a> is just simply a hard fetish to break. I confess to being a bit of one too - perhaps it was my dad, indoctrinated by a legion of benevolent British teachers, anxious to bring civilization to the colonies in the 1920's, or maybe it was just a love of music during my coming of age in the 1980's, where almost everything British was cool:<br />
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Like many of the colonized, I am not above the odd act of rebellion. I often like taking the piss (Anglicism?) out of England every now and then. I recently wrote a reference letter for a student who was applying to British schools, chiding them for their ridiculously strict admissions policies, while knowing all the while that back at the home front we are not much better. Canadians often infuriate me with their obsession over the Queen and the Royals in general, and I know I would not likely fit into polite, British society, bearing a loud voice, an absence of manners, and a general ambivalence towards soccer/football. Still, as I whip out my first Salvation Army tweed jacket of the season and drink from my David Bowie mug, warm thoughts of snogging in a London flat seem just spot on right now....Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-86460402122246416942012-10-10T18:02:00.000-07:002012-10-10T18:05:13.933-07:00The Art of Selling Doctors...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I considered myself to be a pretty good advisor before the Madmen phenomenon took root. I could take a student's personal statement and extract the best parts of it, turning the anxious aspiring medical student into a confident world traveller and volunteer. My track record was decent, correcting the odd split infinitive and run on sentence. Then something happened. I became addicted to the world of Don Draper, digesting five seasons of blue cheese salad wedges, martinis, and cheesier affairs with such devotion, I huddled around my computer just to watch the most recent season (illegally) from a website in India. When I returned from a three week vacation, I was a changed man. I didn't start buying Brooks Brothers suits or coveting icy blondes, but suddenly I had mastered the art of the sell. Looking deeply into a student's eyes, I saw a product that needed a pitch. Working with only a resume and some polite boasting as my "creative", I became an ad man for future surgeons and paediatricians, who were brought up to feel empowered, but not permitted to show it to any degree. Thus here I sit perched, legs crossed across my large wood veneer desk, coaxing humanity, compassion, and leadership out of two dimensional pieces of paper representing those who will one day play gods in surgical theatres and community clinics. Your internal organs or aching bones may thank me one day. <br />
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Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-68286279786973109132012-10-09T08:22:00.002-07:002012-10-11T00:27:41.617-07:00To Those Who Aren't Around Anymore...Wow, has it been two years since I last blogged? So much and so little has happened - life appears to be like that in many ways. The ephemeral excitement of a brief and wondrous event fades like the prospects of an upstart politician suddenly exposed as a philanderer or fraud. Anyway, despite the morbid title, this is not a tribute to people who are no longer alive. When I was on Facebook, I had an annoying habit of mourning the famous and dead a little too selfishly - it was not that I had really thought about them recently, it was more a case of being upset that they weren't around any more, even if that meant they were sick, miserable, or generally settling nicely into old age without being concerned about whether a legion of fans was concerned about their lack of output as writers, actors, musicians, etc...<br />
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Naw, this is more of an ode to co-workers who have helped to define my last 22 years at <a href="http://www.mcgill.ca/">McGill University</a>. For starters, I miss the old porter in the Arts Building - the canny and eternally suspicious Pietro, catching lazy cleaners by putting invisible tape on the stairs and always fretting about the position of the red carpet, that could or could not be welcoming depending on the student and his/her problem. I also miss Maggie, the carping, saucy file clerk, proud of her tattooed sons, "teeth in a glass" and sexual appetite. She fit the mould of the proverbial "old days", when seemingly we worked with fewer rules, fewer worries, and less control by the feckless administration. I also wonder what happened to our local Sandinista, <a href="http://www.lajornadanet.com/diario/archivo/2012/marzo/13/3.php">Charlotte Egner</a>- whose voyage from San Francisco hippie to revolutionary leader to office clerk was both fascinating and humbling. Ahh, the passage of time can be a toxic catalyst of personal regret. No need to fret about what "could have happened". Better to relish the future and maybe a more frequent post now and then. I saw<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/27680529@N02/6793106852/"> this</a> over the weekend. The beauty of Art is in the manner of telling a story with one piece that numerous treaties, treatises, tricks and treats and humanities classes can spend decades trying to describe. What a great way to spend part of a great weekend in Montreal.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-40458703157062970682010-10-11T05:54:00.000-07:002010-10-11T06:58:28.996-07:00No Turkey, No Cry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5lGBb_pgxXIuszAaVFkY4MVzHVe6md0XGkZgozGx73Oxt1xN-4Bs0OuonYi6tZluXRQE6pMQ2J27Vxg18YnvIwvRiFZggAsmGH27c89F4qjyDD1gAS3wfcZQBgu9xhbRcge4L_dmiMV4/s1600/rockwell_thanksgiving1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5lGBb_pgxXIuszAaVFkY4MVzHVe6md0XGkZgozGx73Oxt1xN-4Bs0OuonYi6tZluXRQE6pMQ2J27Vxg18YnvIwvRiFZggAsmGH27c89F4qjyDD1gAS3wfcZQBgu9xhbRcge4L_dmiMV4/s320/rockwell_thanksgiving1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526783278722058898" /></a><br />Ok, let's face it-this Canadian Thanksgiving weekend sucked. I am immediately aware that it was not a pleasant experience for many Canadians, specifically for those without enough financial resources to afford a decent meal, or for whom the thought of a cohesive family unit is just a dream, destroyed cruelly by death, divorce, poverty, incarceration, etc... That said, these attributes don't apply to me, and like many of us celebrating the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thanksgiving_(Canada)">harvest</a>, I was eagerly anticipating three days of indulgent overeating, consumption of alcohol and added family time. It was not to be. My wife decided to visit her parents alone at the last minute, as my father in law is celebrating his 80th birthday, which may sadly be his last. I have seen him deteriorate tragically over the past few years, riddled with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parkinsons">Parkinson's Disease</a>, diabetes, and the long term effects of the hard living he experienced before coming to Canada. In perhaps a simplistic way, it brings home the comments uttered by Neil Young in "My My Hey Hey":<div><br /></div><div><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tY5x8pF512k?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tY5x8pF512k?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br /><br />Ironically, I saw my own father's decline at the same time fourteen years ago, and in his own words, "the loss of dignity is appalling". Maybe it is better to "burn out than fade away" and I hope my eventual demise is sudden, quick, and without warning. Morbid shit, I must say. Ok, back to Thanksgiving. Left with little money until my next paycheque and a six year old to entertain, I was suddenly transformed into a divorced dad with weekend custody, tramping the city with Jake, and immediately aware of our collective cuteness and ability to play to the crowd of bemused commuters and bored cashiers with antics reminiscent of the type of the independent film that inspires the artistically inclined kid hater to procreate:<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pxBu4_mnmFg?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pxBu4_mnmFg?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Cheap hustlers of people's emotions in reality, Jake and I have our share of disagreements more typical of the average father and son relationship than the fun loving noisy duo in the back of the bus would imply. Still, "playing dressup" is part of what keeps kids entertained, isn't it? In the end, Thanksgiving dinner was takeout and beer shared with my elderly mother, whose bum leg I have propped up of late with an ornate African cane; a conversation piece for another ham in the family. The thought of my 82 year old mother salivating over a Molson M is fun in the same way <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2010/SHOWBIZ/celebrity.news.gossip/10/05/betty.white.desire.ppl/">Betty White is worshiped </a>- the old "hip grandma" icon complete with attempts at poetry in her retirement group and a diligent dedication to tai chi. As a further enticement, I convinced her that its unique formula that produces "microcarbination" is not a cheap marketing ploy by the purveyors of mediocre lager, but somewhat medicinal, likely producing less gas. Pseudo science at it's best! The evening was not a completely redemptive experience, but enough to allow me to be "thankful" for a few things: My son is healthy, my mother is continuing to flourish despite her constant pain, and I don't need Norman Rockwell to understand the meaning of family. Happy Thanksgiving.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-46842940422875525382010-04-12T04:55:00.000-07:002010-04-12T07:00:37.507-07:00Remembering Those I Never Met<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2nHocN-crEiGFKG0lcyFLfQJl2K7ju2V9HPAaeAyyU-6pjd9iFT5hkKsLxZk6NIujyGiE0yXajjUNdoWu2ZDQ1YWuH1vl_77jNg-0OKvlAcmgI3C4_T9_SmjsajFcbwUzxApqYUmKJY/s1600/Dora+Bertha+Lena++Minna+Cantor+c++1922.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459218417801172882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 218px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2nHocN-crEiGFKG0lcyFLfQJl2K7ju2V9HPAaeAyyU-6pjd9iFT5hkKsLxZk6NIujyGiE0yXajjUNdoWu2ZDQ1YWuH1vl_77jNg-0OKvlAcmgI3C4_T9_SmjsajFcbwUzxApqYUmKJY/s320/Dora+Bertha+Lena++Minna+Cantor+c++1922.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A simple photo of four sisters around a table, circa 1922. These women are four of my maternal great aunts, who were living in Riga, Latvia at the time. My grandfather spoke little of his past; in trying to earn a living as a musician in Montreal, there was no time to dwell on history. Raising three kids during the Great Depression meant frequent moves, many different jobs, and bills often left unpaid. From the scant details passed down from him and other relatives, life in the Baltic region of Europe was lousy for a number of Jews in the early part of the 20th century. Other than poverty, there was abuse from the state, exclusion from many opportunities afforded other citizens (if they dared consider themselves that way) and when opportunities dried up, exile.<br /><br />Two of the sisters did just that. Dora, first from the left, wound up in South Afica, while and Lena, third from the left, escaped with my grandfather and another brother to Montreal, creating a branch of Cantors that left its mark musically as musicians in the Montreal Symphony Orchestra. The other two sisters, Bertha and Minha, both died at the hands of the Nazi's in the 1940's. As such, they are the closest relatives I have who perished in this way.<br /><br />Today is Holocaust Rememberance Day. Events will take place in many North American Cities to remember the persecution of the Jews during the Second World War. For a long time, the term Holocaust was almost sacred, referring only to one people and one event. In recent years it has become more common to refer to it as "The Nazi" Holocaust, as history has revealed that the concept of organized genocide is almost as old as organized society in itself.<br /><br />After the recent death of the Polish president and many of his cabinent and senior politicans in a <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/world/story/2010/04/12/poland-plane-crash-warsaw.html">plane crash</a>, I sent my condolences to my Polish friends on Facebook. What ensued was an angry exchange between the descendant of Polish Jews and a Polish person currently living in England. There was the misguided opinion that all non-Jewish Poles had a hand in the Holocaust, and that these politicians, mostly middle aged men born after the war, deserved their fate. Amidst the acrimonony, it was revealed that both friends had families that suffered horribly during this period. Millions of non Jewish Poles were murdered - as a matter of fact, the whole purpose of the Polish delegation was to commemorate a massacre that had been hidded by the Soviets for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katyn_massacre">decades</a>.<br /><br />In this respect, I mourn the loss of all people during this period in history - there are likely too many photos like this one, and as we think of those whose stories were never told, it is too easy to ascribe blame to others, when the concept of "other" results from a habit of continuously dividing and categorizing ourselves as human beings.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-54897793620288955332010-04-02T04:37:00.000-07:002010-04-02T07:08:59.080-07:00Our Obsession with Self-Destructive Genius<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6cZGGgj3X-0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6cZGGgj3X-0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><div><br /></div><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serge_Gainsbourg">Serge Gainsbourg</a> lived a fascinating, conflicting life. The son of Jewish parents who escaped Russia during the 1917 revolution, Lucien Ginzburg - ironically his parents changed his name to sound more "French"- wore a yellow star in the streets of his adopted Paris, during the Nazi occupation of France in 1940. After escaping to Limoges for the remainder of the Second World War, Serge would live the life of an obscure musician and artist, until finally gaining fame in the late 1950's. He would spend the remainder of his life outraging and tantalizing the country that once reluctantly agreed to call him a "citizen". There were few subjects dared to avoid - his 1969 song "Je T'aime" recorded with his much younger girlfriend, Jane Birkin, caused a scandal for its blatant sexuality, although forty years later, it would hardly raise an eyebrow. He mocked Nazism, and the hypocrisy of becoming a French icon after the horrors of his childhood in an album called "Rock around the Bunker". He nevertheless became a French icon, and his fascinating life is now celebrated in a film that opens in Montreal today, on what would have been his 82nd birthday. <a href="http://www.gainsbourg-lefilm.com/">"Gainsbourg - Vie Heroique" </a> traces his journey from childhood painter to legend, complete with his association with famous women like Brigitte Bardot and Juliette Greco, and culminating with his downfall, dying of a hear attack at the age of 62. As an ex-social smoker, moderate drinker, sporadic excerciser, and vain seeker of eternal youth, his path of self-destruction fascinates me. The fear of offending has always kept me in check, violated only occasionally by an off-colour comment meant to shock my peers and superiors. Perhaps my relatively closeted live failed to ingnite the type of outrage that Gainsbourg's early stigmatization surely did. Perhaps it's just a personality trait or lack of talent. Either way, I am forever the voyeur, staring into the public window of lives ended too soon, but which fortunately leave behind a legacy of music, art, and mannerisms that conspicuously safe individuals can appreciate and immitate. I can't wait to see this one.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-51356907275588394002009-08-29T03:34:00.000-07:002009-08-29T07:38:34.098-07:00Social Engineering for the Better<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkDrVzTBo7vO8io9dY7ylYaLtftWNPcN2L2Ga0oBH41r4P1IiIBeBslMcq81AxCYEgDDWcAUWXSBwgASmtUHlvZ0GLjuQv-bMJbFKzsgs80pgpni9ii08Xld5Zr1t3gzgK3mwmEa6mrE/s1600-h/happy_face.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkDrVzTBo7vO8io9dY7ylYaLtftWNPcN2L2Ga0oBH41r4P1IiIBeBslMcq81AxCYEgDDWcAUWXSBwgASmtUHlvZ0GLjuQv-bMJbFKzsgs80pgpni9ii08Xld5Zr1t3gzgK3mwmEa6mrE/s320/happy_face.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375333427058684386" /></a><br /><br />I have spent the past week tirelessly advising, entertaining, and sharing classroom space with the latest group of university freshmen, born roughly a year or two before the dawn of the world wide web and subsequent promulgation of little soap boxes like this one. As I see these kids shuffle from one administrative or recreational event to another, I can't help but notice how level-headed, pleasant, and decent everyone seems. I could be wrong, but I'm starting to wonder if the elementary and high schools are getting it right. <br /><br />When I was a kid, the education system seemed to be struggling to change an ancient curriculum that focused on rote memorization, biased history, uninspired science, and bullying. Attempts were made to focus on encouraging creativity, but it was hard for our twenty and thirtysomething teachers-most of whom with the same negative experiences in school-to do much more than keep order in the class without screaming like drill sargents and resorting to insulting us to make sure we didn't express our ideas out of turn. No wonder we hit the playground with venom, teasing and bullying one another and chiding those who didn't fit it. As the playwrite <a href="http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.com/index.cfm?PgNm=TCE&Params=A1ARTA0002759">David Fennario</a> once said, we learned how to show up on time, take orders, and shut up. It was as if we were being prepared for the next war that never came. A dozen or so years of this turned us quite cynical and contemptuous of authority. By the time I was of Freshman age, professors seemed less like mentors and more like objects to avoid on a road leading nowhere.<br /><br />Things have changed. There are still numerous problems with the education system, especially for those who lack the opportunity to pass through the gates of the institution where I work. Yet for those who shared the same university dreams I had, more effort has been made to make the journey a pleasant and enjoyable one. Children are treated more as people and less as objects, and group projects encourage teamwork and creativity with less competition and more collaboration. In the wake of Columbine, bullying is less tolerated, and teachers have learned to maintain order without resorting to humiliation. They have changed too. Gone are the militaristic men and pious bachelorettes of decades gone by. With a greater sense of mutual respect, it's not surprising that new college students enter their classroom and dorms with more enthusiasm about changing the world and less negativity towards those who will help them get there. Now if only their parents could just relax a little....(more later).Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-86215599611033713132008-11-24T09:00:00.000-08:002008-11-24T12:06:40.933-08:00What happened to just doing it?Here is an upcoming event at McGill:<br /><br />McGill Centre for Research and Teaching on Women<br /> Seminar Series <br /><br />Ellen Waterman<br />School of Fine Art and Music<br />University of Guelph <br /><br />Naked Intimacy: Improvisation, Eroticism, and Gender <br /><br />Wednesday, November 26, 2008<br />4:00 – 6:00 pm, Leacock 927 <br /><br />Eroticism is the realm of our most urgent desires that leads to the transgression of boundaries, ecstatic identification with others, and ultimately a confrontation with the self. Creative improvisation is an experimental and collaborative form of musical performance. What do these domains have in common? Both are characterized by an incessant confrontation with now that leads to the “naked intimacy” of intense communication. What are the roles of bodies, instruments and performance spaces in constructing representations of the erotic, and how are they articulated through improvisation? How do musicians negotiate representations of the erotic in their work? When and how are these representations gendered – and with what effects for musicians? Drawing on dissonant theories of eroticism by Luce Irigaray and Georges Bataille, this presentation explores a “feminist erotics of creative improvisation” through the fascinating music of violist Charlotte Hug. <br /><br />I love when the topic of sex becomes completely intellectualized. It makes me think of the first cinematic collaboration between Dudley Moore and Peter Cook - the little known "Bedazzled". Here is the scene that never fails to crack me up. I think we've all been there:<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4zErKwk95Mc&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4zErKwk95Mc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />I have to admit; the Dudley Moore of the swinging 60's in England seems infinitely more impressive than the slapstick comedian who would become famous in movies such as <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078721/">"10". </a>I guess the Brits were a little more sophisticated, given their penchant for witty comedies. A nice take on the tale of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faust">Faust</a>, that most people probably missed. Ignorant as I am, I can't place the Irish intellectual Moore is imitating, but I imagine it to be an amalgamation of several authors, poets and academic types. Such is life on a busy Monday after an active weekend, when I am looking to revamp the glib devil in me.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-83237306684127419112008-11-12T10:30:00.000-08:002008-11-12T10:53:57.008-08:00The Passing of the New Man for the New Age<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWRsQD-04ZK7oNK78hfjnNN3L9SgwoBBDg1QTnRTjNfCgA8nqQTkzRvuJ9hCL1UCb8Ohw98TVicvuh6wjir4UGw7gzjxRr9z3GJYnQ9gkhj3wyapvrQUj2qP8e3VquLMZ8qKs6qEU9S5Q/s1600-h/emru.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWRsQD-04ZK7oNK78hfjnNN3L9SgwoBBDg1QTnRTjNfCgA8nqQTkzRvuJ9hCL1UCb8Ohw98TVicvuh6wjir4UGw7gzjxRr9z3GJYnQ9gkhj3wyapvrQUj2qP8e3VquLMZ8qKs6qEU9S5Q/s320/emru.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267840244892337714" /></a><br /><br />emru@cam.org<br /><br />I still remember this e-mail address, fifteen years after using it for the first time. In 1993, the World Wide Web as it was known, was a new phenomenon. In the basement of the bookstore where I worked,my fellow luddites spoke of the new techniology that would allow for communication from computer to computer, adding a sense of dynamism to what was viewed by most of us as a dull, static piece of office equipment. I would soon change jobs and have a chance to use this new tool, and Emru Townsend was the first person I knew to have his own e-mail account. We were never close friends, but I saw him on occasion until marriage and fatherhood pushed us closer to our families and closest friends, and further from people in our single male periphery who would be great to have a beer with.<br /><br />I remember a night on a Bishop Street bar, when Emru and I spoke of past loves and current interests, and the remarkable anarchistic personality of Bugs Bunny. He was funny and brilliant, and his enthusiasm for the technological world helped to spread the word to those of us who saw it as the domain of cybergeeks, computer programmers, and isolated gamers. He made "tech" cool in a lot of ways, largely with his enthusiasm for the subject, which he expressed with candour, knowledge, and an understanding of his less well informed audience.<br /><br /><br />In the past year, I followed Emru's fight to receive a stem cell transplant closely, receiving weekly updates from a Facebook group run by his sister Tamu, someone I had also fallen out of touch with this decade. There was so much drama, as he beat the impossible odds to find an appropriate donor only to have Leukemia claim him last night at the age of 38. Thirty-eight. It is ridiculously unfair to take such a smart, funny, decent guy and loving father, not to mention husband, son and sister away from us. I think of his wife and child and all of the people he touched over his short life. I think of Tamu and all of her efforts, and the number of people who signed up (and still can) to be potential donors of stem cells because of the campaign <a href="http://www.healemru.com/index-en.php">"Heal Emru".</a><br />I also think of the Bush administration and the roadblocks they placed in the way of research in order to satisfy the evangelical zeal of many of their supporters. As they are ready to leave office, I hope only that their influence fades with the end of a disastrous legacy, while Emru's memory lives on. Thanks for the time, even if it was ever so brief.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-88793749178363267202008-11-11T06:07:00.000-08:002008-11-11T06:59:05.355-08:00The Issue of Quebec Politics of Division, or Why Mario Dumont is an Asshole.A true test of character is often demonstrated by how one acts when they are under stress or in an uncomfortable situation. In the case of the two oppostion political parties in Quebec - the Action Democratique (ADQ) and the Parti Quebeçois (PQ) - character is certainly not at a premium. With both parties fairing poorly since Liberal Party leader Jean Charest decided that people in Quebec have a perpetual election fetish (not), he decided to break the deadlock in minority rule, provincial politics by calling an election on December 8, hoping that only the rich and powerful (many of his supporters) will feel enfranchised enough to go to the polls, while people whose lives are essentially unaffected will stay home. While this may prove to be an example of disatrous folly (another naked emperor, Robert Bourassa, did the same thing in 1976 and ushered in the first PQ government), it has also picked at the scab of the debate on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reasonable_accommodation">reasonable accommodation </a>that seemed only recently to be healing.<br /><br />With a new Quebec school curriculum promising courses in world religions, ethics, and culture, ADQ leader Mario Dumont has decided to reopen the aforementioned debate by challening the effect it will have on children who will be deprived of an understanding of their own origins. <br /><br />"The people who thought up this course are the same people who fight through all kind of roundabout ways to ensure there aren't any Christmas trees in the classroom," Dumont let fly to a room full of parents opposed to the new course.<br /><br />"Children in primary school must first forge their own identity. You must learn about yourself to then be open towards others."<br /><br />Funny, this never worked in the past. Many people who had a wonderful sense of their own history and culture used this as a springboard to destroy those who they felt did not belong. On November 11, we honour those who have died in past wars on Rememberance Day. Wars are often fought for money and power, but also to vanquish a perceived enemy who does not share cultural and religious values. It is also the anniversary of <a href="http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/kristallnacht.html">Kristallnacht </a>, another example of how a dominant people, despite having a perceived strong sense of their own identity, used this as a conduit to destroy a minority whose religious and cultural values differed from theirs. Identity is not the issue - I would bet self-esteem has a lot more to do with it. Monsieur Dumont should concentrate on examples of how Quebec has demonstrated tolerance and acceptance in the past as a sprinboard to understanding how the knowledge of other cultural and religious norms should be part of a sense of being truly "Quebeçois". Funny, for a man who attended the wonderfully multicultural Concordia University in Montreal, one has a sense that his politics of division reflect less his own experience and personal view, and more the cynical vision of a power hungry politician who feels his unsophisticated electorate cannot handle anything else but the tired old "us vs.them" scenario. Sadly, I have met many West End Anglophones with the same ideals, not to mention English Canadians and their view of Quebec in general. I think we all need to take the new course in question - it might help us to understand how our collective vision of ourselves and the world is fundamentally the same.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-57990225748024746232008-11-03T06:54:00.000-08:002008-11-03T07:20:24.184-08:00Who's Got Time to Write?As I write this, I am listening to "The Current" a CBC morning news show that covers interesting current events and newsworthy topics. Typically, one day before the American election, they are discussing it in depth, including the local (Montreal) radio show that "pranked" Sarah Palin:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QbEwKcs-7Hc&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QbEwKcs-7Hc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><strong></strong><br /><br />A political junkie, I can't keep away from this election, checking Google every now and then, <a href="http://www.fivethirtyeight.com/">fivethirtyeight.com</a><br />I am full of hope for a change in government that will affect the world profoundly, and envision myself walking through the streets of NDG, looking at smiling faces, happy to see the end of both Republican and white hegemony in American politics. I am trying not to be subsumed by paranoia and fear, knowing that political abnormalities appeared in the 2000 and 2004 election results. I am also trying to get a grip, knowing how elections can be compromised. I remember voting in the Quebec referendum in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1995_Quebec_referendum">1995</a>, watching as voters in my federalist riding waited in line for hours as poll clerks took their sweet time stuffing ballots, finding a loophole (speed) that was not mandated by their job descriptions or electoral law. I am glad at least that many Americans - canny voters used to intimidation and inefficiency - have voted early. Let's hope it works and regardless of the result, it was a real consensus. I also hope the percentage of those who vote increases, as more people feel that their voice can count.<br /><br />On the weekend I saw <a href="http://www.centaurtheatre.com/scorched.html">"Scorched"</a> a play about the horrific results of civil war and how lives are destroyed for generations. It was riveting, so much so that many sublime, grey haired patrons of the Centaur Theatre left at the end of the first act. This was not a play to be celebrated with tea and a sandwich at a quaint Old Montreal cafe afterwards. My wife and I drove home somewhat relived that our son will hopefully never raise a machine gun in anger, or commit acts on a woman or child unbearable horiffic to contemplate. We also felt eternally grateful that circumstances led our respective families to settle in Canada, where we enjoy the democratic freedoms of our neighbours in the US. Many aspects of true democracy have been compromised no doubt, as there are voices in both countries that are condemned to the silence that comes with a lack of political or economic power. Still, there is much to appreciate and one hopes tomorrow's results will be a testimonial to that. I can't wait.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-17724560694226478712008-10-28T06:16:00.000-07:002008-10-28T06:47:40.419-07:00No Really, How Can't I Be of Service?<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6wtfNE4z6a8&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6wtfNE4z6a8&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />This is probably my favourite scene from just about any movie I've ever watched. In 1969, "Five Easy Pieces" was partially an attack against the rules of a dysfunctional society that was plundering its people into a violent conflict overseas, and a call to a young generation to stand up to the opressiveness of parents, professors, and the establishment, otherwise know as "The Man. In 2008, it looks more like a reality tv show. In the past few weeks, a number of friends and I have been astonished by the bad service we are experiencing in restaurants. In particular, staff who ignore people waiting patiently to order, waiters who act dismissively towards parents and their children, and dolts at front counter receptionist positions - lucky enough to have a job in my opinion - who feel the need to cross examine visitors as if they are B-movies actors in a legal thriller that isn't too thrilling.<br /><br />Here are some examples: On Saturday, my wife, son and I, accompanied by two other couples and their children, went to the Pointe-A-Caillere museum to see an exhibit on the history of Halloween. A pile of propagandistic rubble at its best - the opening film on the history of Montreal paints a ridiculously rosy picture of aboriginal/French relations - the Museum features one restaurant on the top floor. Anxious for our children to eat, we walked the four flights only to be greeted by an obnoxious waiter who smugly told us that we had not stumbled upon a cafeteria. The other parents - respectable, humanitarian professorial types - were well above the comments that lowly me was prepared to make. I place my hand on the waiter's shoulder, and politely told him to have a good life, since he clearly had not had one up to this point. I left in triumph.<br /><br />As luck would have it, it took only twenty-four hours to be ignored at a take out spot in my neighbourhood, where a father and son combination rudely pushed in front of me, and were served after I had been waiting for about ten minutes while the owner answered his phone. Frustrated, I swore angrily at the staff, slammed the menu on the table, stormed out, and closed the door with enough fury to lift customer's heads from their Pad Thai and Kung Pao chicken. I guess I will be placing phone orders with an ambiguous accent for the next little while. I reacted like a spoiled child, but I am quite frustrated with type of service that had poor Jack in such a rage two generations ago. People are worried about a lot of things these days - the economy being a major preoccupation. Still, with restaurant attendance dwindling, each customer should be seen as a valuable commodity not worth pissing off! <br /><br />I managed to hold my temper yesterday, as I was dropping off an application for a job for my wife. The receptionist, possibly on some heavy medication I hope I am never prescribed, proceeded to lecture me on where I was (Where the hell are you lady, Mars?), but I politely told her that I was aware of the address and merely wanted to penetrate the fortress like barriers preventing me from seeing the Area Personnel Officer. Trust me, if they hired her, there isn't that much need for security. Christ, I sound like such as asshole right now, so maybe I had best move on with my day.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-38809122194433873942008-10-20T06:16:00.000-07:002008-10-20T10:05:33.887-07:00Death of a Canadian Iconhttp://www.torontosun.com/entertainment/music/2008/10/15/7099261.html<br /><br />This past weekend was a somewhat morbid one. I was shocked to learn of the death of the son of a local used bookstore owner. Fit and healthy looking, he died reputedly of a heart attack, but rumours persist that something more suspicious is afloat. He was only 52, and seemingly in good shape otherwise. Drugs could have been involved, a lifestyle I could associate with NDG, but not with a guy who was slim and rode a neat bike. I also learned of the death of another 52year old, Frank Kerr, A.K.A Frankie Venom, of the Canadian punk band, <a href="http://www.teenagehead.ca/">Teenage Head</a>. I only saw them live once, at a Concordia University beer bash in the mid 80's, long after they had seemingly missed the boat to punk superstardom. I remember there being about fifty people left after five bands had performed on the sixth floor cafeteria, and I was likely nursing a warm beer and some sort of personal insecurity. For some odd reason I was also wearing a fedora, and our rather poor slam dancing skills(as moshing was known then) aroused the ire of the local Concordia press. Still, it was a great show, and Venom was the consumate performer, putting as much energy into a gig in front of a small bunch of posers as he would have on Queen St. in Toronto. <br /><br />There were a lot of rumours surrounding Head's failure to break into a major market, but they could have been as much heresay as the stories I hear about the guy from the bookstore. One had them missing a big concert because of a major car accident, that would have exposed them to a larger audience. Another told of their reluctance to change their name to "The Teenage Heads" to avoid the sexual connotation of the original name and allow them to break into the American market. Both are likely apocryphal to a degree. Punk music was never mainstream in the late 1970's, even if aging vocal proponents of it talk endlessly about its influence on popular culture. Essentially, these are the young rock critics of student newspapers then who have grown up and still find music meaningful to them. I love it, and hope to send my son to an <a href="http://www.emsb.qc.ca/en/schools_en/pages/elementary.asp?id=13">artsy elementary</a> school with parents of kids just like this. Those who didn't care then, and bought albums by Foreigner and Michael Jackson, still don't care about music now and are hence, silent. You don't see them writing books or blogging about the relative merits of the Ramones minimalism or the world music perogatives of The Talking Heads. Besides, influences are much easier to see in retrospect, right? Still, the death of someone I would emulate in the privacy of my air guitar/vocalist fantasies is a reminder that time passes in the most obvious of ways. To be fair, the band was more "punk" in attitude than in style. The Chuck Berry guitar riffs and party hard lyrics were as common to a typical bar band as the long feathered hair of the guitarist and bass player. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pub_rock_(UK)">Pub Rock </a>is more of an appropriate name, referring to the music from England that laid to rest the notion that fifty-seven musicians needed to appear on one track to make a song worth listening to.<br /><br />Anyway, Enjoy:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HZI6v8Z6Q6E&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HZI6v8Z6Q6E&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-75068867543834907512008-10-17T05:57:00.001-07:002008-10-17T06:27:40.986-07:00Ahhh Teamwork!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnPR56Y4eJsKtATEoOZoRObhQ7fEDjmWL93lmvw6akgMakwiphuEFlMVZ18fcDKy2WPi5n75VFVPEeFjgjj0vl8g2R6F985KryzVy9rUCNAyzGLepTebVvaLmZ2uSniaV9T7uc15KjFI/s1600-h/sousa_ped_day_oct_2008.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVnPR56Y4eJsKtATEoOZoRObhQ7fEDjmWL93lmvw6akgMakwiphuEFlMVZ18fcDKy2WPi5n75VFVPEeFjgjj0vl8g2R6F985KryzVy9rUCNAyzGLepTebVvaLmZ2uSniaV9T7uc15KjFI/s320/sousa_ped_day_oct_2008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258106394733490258" /></a><br /><br />My group of advisors and assistants, minus the man behind the cellphone camera. We are a very diverse group, albeit all white, which has only dawned on me as I write this. Nonetheless, we have managed to put aside ideological differences to create a team that works extremely well together through periods of frequent change and tremendous amounts of stress. We also collectively have demons too intense to discuss in this arena, but it has left us with a collective compassion for each other and the students we serve. Sometimes, there are glitches however. Recently, my boss asked us to support one of my colleagues for a remunerative university award. She is an incredible person. Her life has not been easy, as she has had a number of parenting challenges many people would, if given the chance, completely avoid. Without providing too many details, I need only look at the number of abandoned children with disabilties in the halfway houses in my neighbourhood who have grown to become abandoned adults. In any case, I have worked with her for ten years and she has been an incredibly hardworking, efficient, and reliable person who has often taught her superiors the rigours of their jobs without ever complaining. In fact, she rarely complains about anything, even though there are times when I am well aware that things piss her off. <br /><br />Having said this, my reaction to my boss' e-mail - albeit after a long day and only four hours of sleep - was less than stellar. In the comfort an isolation of my own home, I pouted, brooded, and plotted my annual escape to a mythical job and place that would offer me esteem and satisfaction. It didn't last. By the following morning I was feeling better and wrote a passionate letter which I hope will help her beat the other nominees. The question remains, why did I react that way? An interesting article, one of several citing Management theorist Robert Vecchio, ties it into <a href="http://www.canada.com/windsorstar/news/business/story.html?id=da9df131-959c-4fa7-9bbf-6640a656327f">self-esteem</a>. Knowing that I have the reputation as a great academic advisor who is loved by his students should be enough, no? Well it seems like it cuts a little deeper. My salary is meets the average for a university educated man in Quebec, but many people make a lot more money and I am frequently reminded of this by friends and family. I am forever battling the "potential monster" that pegged me as a genius with an unlimited future at around the age of five, when I declined an invitation to finger paint on newspaper, preferring instead to read the articles. Somewhere the brain train stopped and I am not sitting in a legal office with a six figure salary, or sipping cocktails with a trophy wife in Maui. However, I love what I do and am lucky to be working in a great environment with great people. Maybe it's time others stopped associating potential with monetary value that results from jobs traditonally associated with success. It would save a lot of my students disappointment when they do not get into law or medical school, and would push a lot more intelligent, creative people into "average" professions. I hope my colleage wins the award, and I hope I can also look more at the positive aspects of my life in the future. I have alot to be thankful for.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-2278170187313670092008-10-14T07:15:00.000-07:002008-10-14T07:44:42.829-07:00Voting DayI tried to explain the concept of voting to my son on the Metro platform this morning. I explained that as the heads of the household, a mother and father make decisions about things that will affect their children. I then explained that Canada, a concept Jake is gradually learning through exposure to subtle but warm indoctrination from programs like <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/kidscbc/">Kids CBC</a>, also requires someone to make decisions from everyone in the country, like a king. He knows the concept of kings, as they have the absolute power that four years olds covet. Tonight he will have a view of how the process takes place when he follows me into the voting booth in a church in NDG that has had its share of denominations as the demographics of the neighbourhood have changed somewhat. I expect him to be intensely bored, but will try to inject some humour into the old proceeding.<br /><br />At least the campaign was relatively civil. Down South, things are starting to become rather ugly. The Republican party, behind in every poll with one month to go before the election, are using the <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/visibleman/2008/10/the_conservatives_racebaiting.html">race card </a>in a very subtle, but ugly way. Knowing that a large number of Americans hold prejudicial views on race that simmer just below the surface of a society committed to brother- and sisterhood, using every possible reference to associate Barack Obama with people of the same skin colour who have carried out objectionable acts is a reckless and nasty replay of the old <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Scare">"red menace"</a> politics of the 1950's. Using his middle name - Hussein - as an indication that he really comes from "somewhere else" panders to the xenophobia implicit in American politics, most recently since the events of September 11, 2001. It's all pretty disgusting, and given a legacy of racial tension and violence associated with it, the Republican candidates are clearly willing to sacrifice social peace to extend the reign of their "kingdom" a little longer. Imagine what will happen if this tone continues in the campaign and the Democrats win by a small margin? Will there be an angry backlast amongst voters ressentful that their country was taken away from them? One hopes not.<br /><br />Cynics could tell me that since all candidates in the current Canadian election are white and Christian, no such rhetoric is possible. They could also point out the animosity between French and English over the past century and beyond. Still, there was a dignity in the discourse over the past campaign that never ventured beyond the political, and even in the course of history, a candidate's personal life and affiliations have only been used if they were relevant to statements they may have made about the economy or their political integrity. Pierre Elliot Trudeau at the height of linguistic tensions was never called more than a bicultural person letting his <a href="http://archives.cbc.ca/politics/federal_politics/topics/1938-12606/">English side dominate</a>. One could also argue that the comments made by Jacques Parizeau after the 1995 Referendum on Quebec sovereingty were similary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Money_and_the_ethnic_vote">volatile</a>. It seems innocent compared to what we are hearing today from Sarah Palin and John McCain, especially in the context of the relatively low body count due to political rhetoric in Canadian history. <br /><br />As I sit here impatiently waiting for my boss to finish voting - the polls opened at 9:30 - I am thankful for the inconvenience, and thankful that neither of us, nor the people in our riding, will be casting a ballot out of hate for the the colour of someone's skin.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-37605057086138276632008-10-11T14:28:00.000-07:002008-10-12T03:55:10.441-07:00Regrets, I've Had a Few....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAEqkJl876EpxOqjANJyXn0YLq7o8WguYH87xGmuEMjXAcpY4lrKivRKoL0o9ha1Zv8fBOeEOGAUVsFQSF-r786nWuIsARwwzqfJ_n6hna9-EkhqmLtuDxdTLeg2K_n2-ROiZrlPUgs4/s1600-h/200.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoAEqkJl876EpxOqjANJyXn0YLq7o8WguYH87xGmuEMjXAcpY4lrKivRKoL0o9ha1Zv8fBOeEOGAUVsFQSF-r786nWuIsARwwzqfJ_n6hna9-EkhqmLtuDxdTLeg2K_n2-ROiZrlPUgs4/s320/200.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256015559231052498" /></a><br /><br />Montreal, 1936. In the far corner of this gathering of the Montreal Russian Jewish community sit my grandparents, refugees from the hell of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_III_of_Russia">Czarist Russia </a>thirty years earlier. My father's parents were a mystery to me. I never knew my grandmother, as she died before my parents even met. I knew she was an actress in the <a href="http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1319/is_/ai_15172356">Yiddish Theatre</a>, spinning tales of betrayal, tragedy, and exaggerated pathos amidst the smell of salami and hard boiled eggs in a building brimming with what was then a vibrant language for people starting a new life in North America. My dad made his debut at the age of one, urinating on stage and therefore literally making a local splash on the theatrical scene. My grandfather died when I was two, so there are no memories of me bouncing on his knee, something apparently he delighted in doing. Small and tempestuous, he was at various times a Communist, a grocery store owner, and a dry cleaner who specialized in "French Pressing", which usually required my father to take customers' clothing out the back door to another shop for better service. His legendary temper apparently cost his uncle a finger, and my father almost his life. Still, they seemed to make the transition to a new life in Canada with the same hardships as their peers, and my dad would speak of them fondly.<br /><br />As I sit here writing this, my mom is visiting, talking eloquently about "Ghost Town" and the newest Woody Allen film, interest rates, and the passage of time, pretty much covering all four topics simultaneously. An hour ago it was the life of Jesus, and why a vote for the NDP is a wasted one. At eighty years of age, she is still sharp and lucid, articulate and intellectually curious, and I expect her to be around for a while yet. I'm lucky to have her. She has also taken to writing poetry, reflecting on a life unadventurous, but virtuous. A true performer like the mother-in-law she never met, she will always remain an enigma to me, keeping her real feelings hidden, and only allowing them to surface in times of great joy or anger. Living in Montreal during the Depression and suffering through both poverty and prejudice left her with an unwillingness to talk about the past, volunteering only the odd, angry snippet of a young person dealing with a lot of uncertainty and anger.<br /><br />I often wonder how my son Jake will one day speak of me. I wonder if he will remember the jokes I tell him, the endless piggybacks I have given and the awful fast food meals shared. I hope he won't remember the volatile temper and criticism that he has already experienced at the age of four. I am not a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_of_Tarsus">saint</a>. As I stumble upon old friends and family on Facebook, I realize that a lot of bridges have been burned, in some cases irreparably, owning more to impulsive behavior and immature folly than true maliciousness. I was a jerk for a good part of my life, selfish and self-centred, caring little about anyone who would not be useful fuel for my endless vanity and insecurity.<br /><br />Age has mellowed me somewhat, and the fact that I have a job that requires me to help people has made me realize the importance of charity and self-sacrifice. I can't get the "lost years" back, but there are many more to look forward to, and I hope to be around when Jake introduces me to his first love interest, has his first beer with me (mopping up small stains with his sleeve as I do), and decides to parade me to his employers one day as the cute, raunchy old fool that taught him to tie his shoes, shake after a pee, and flirt harmlessly with the opposite sex.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-85118014905144404812008-10-06T17:33:00.000-07:002008-10-12T03:57:53.682-07:00Crazy Eights<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWd5djBBlBTyi36EiDMLtduPc9qKmuOsHx8_LqkjMLCyrBDMLnAFo9ujaqSEkLdT1FaAfiojSI1u_CB3iLJF6uRfUGmHTlRDaXQvOLmgFZb7uKSzd3RSC55KRIZDpdnwqjvN_ulLXcMM/s1600-h/suepaul.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWd5djBBlBTyi36EiDMLtduPc9qKmuOsHx8_LqkjMLCyrBDMLnAFo9ujaqSEkLdT1FaAfiojSI1u_CB3iLJF6uRfUGmHTlRDaXQvOLmgFZb7uKSzd3RSC55KRIZDpdnwqjvN_ulLXcMM/s320/suepaul.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254203912468027618" /></a><br /><br />Tomorrow will mark the eight anniversary of my marriage. As I sit here typing with my son Jake seeking my attention, it is clear that I have much to be thankful for.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ756uzbccFLiftxtxVsMGSd0KH-FTGmQfbl3E6dUGCCenxxNWWzDdI7AkHZm0Eb1MHJyQ4pNu5ZvQlZiasovehuV0C_VtBy4bszJgmMIGU4VmdgG6ayYkDaCR8ucH8paCP6nPhe5svi0/s1600-h/Picture+0007.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ756uzbccFLiftxtxVsMGSd0KH-FTGmQfbl3E6dUGCCenxxNWWzDdI7AkHZm0Eb1MHJyQ4pNu5ZvQlZiasovehuV0C_VtBy4bszJgmMIGU4VmdgG6ayYkDaCR8ucH8paCP6nPhe5svi0/s320/Picture+0007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254204787237859458" /></a><br /><br />It hasn't been easy. Both of us are headstrong and stubborn, opinionated, and damaged to the extent that the chips we carry on our respective narrow shoulders will be there indefinitely. We have had joyous moments and have also left bars in separate cabs, vowing never to speak to one another again. And this was after seeing a joyous,<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0211915/"> romantic film</a>, designed to inspire what a student once called "The precoital, seductive, mating, coupling dance." There has been great conversation amidst wine and candles, and loud arguments soaked in beer and garnished with the sight of two fourtysomethings dualling verbally in their underwear. Still, we will celebrate our eighth in traditional bronze and lace tomorrow, and will recount hopefully the best of times instead of the worst. Marriage and fatherhood are huge commitments and I have not always been up to the task emotionally. To my credit, I have changed a thousand diapers and have been knee deep in everything from snow to vomit and shit. I worked two jobs at one time, forsaking my business casual clothes for the uniform of a bookstore clerk, humbly answer questions about mediocre authors and selling bad romance novels to pleasant but lonely people. I have read stories, given baths, and watched hours of children's television programming aimed at primitive preschool Id-driven philosophy and geared to satisfy governments who want to leave no child behind. Still, I realize I could be a better husband and father. I wish I made more money and had fewer tantrums. I wish I could listen to my wife a little more and not provide advice she may not want in the first place. <br /><br />I guess I am a product of my time, a man not raised to be loyal to King, Country, or even the company I work for. Raised during the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/17/fashion/17narcissism.html">"me generation</a>", I have spent years worshipping at my own alter, seeking nirvana at the expense of the other monks around me. I am not alone. I am surrounded my many who are divorced or still single, holding their ideal mate to standards they would not ever meet themselves. <br />I see them in cafes, copping free internet time while their lattes cool, hoping their chat buddy is really only thirty-five, has no current attachment, and whose "few extra pounds" does not mean they need two seats on a flight. I hear stories of dating nightmares and boyfriends more concerned about the size of their pectoral muscles than imagining their significant other romantically naked in the moonlight. I see little sacrifice and a lot of self-justification, with an entire culture of magazines and films set to capitalize on those lonely people who need to be reinforced that their choice to go solo can be hip and cool, and will not lead them to be found ultimately sprawled dead on a couch surrounded by two dozen well-fed, indifferent cats in a filthy apartment.<br /><br />I guess it all comes down to a willingness to abandon the status quo. Two people can remain perpetually interesting to one another if they allow themselves to grow and take on new challenges. In the past few months I have started this blog, lost seventeen pounds, and am learning how to juggle plates, albeit not successfully. I am watching my son learn how to swim and understand the rudimentary rules of music. My wife for her part is planning to return to school and has made a short film. It may not cut down on taxi cab rides and beer runs at the depanneur, but the ensuing conversation, once sobriety reappears, will be certainly more interesting.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-83403597973823697222008-10-03T10:21:00.000-07:002008-10-12T04:03:47.961-07:00A Tale of Two Borders<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pj5MOQrR5mQ&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pj5MOQrR5mQ&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />Like most Canadians, it is difficult to follow a homegrown election campaign in the same year as a simultaneous American one. Like most people with a remote control, I spent yesterday evening switching between the American Vice Presidential debate and our very own, and before the theatre of it became horribly dull, I made a few curious observations. <br /><br /><br />At one point, while flipping channels rapidly like a late night seeker of dull talk shows, competitive poker or sexy infomercials, I almost convinced myself that all seven participants were in the same room, although this was clearly impossi<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/crdk8Vns2BU&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/crdk8Vns2BU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>ble for more than geographic reasons. Canadians don't handle sloganeering well. Could you imagine Elizabeth May talking about "Joe Six Pack" or being a "soccer mom"? Or imagine Jack Layton or Stephen Harper prattling on in an evangelical tone like Joe Biden, endlessly self-serving while showing their artifically whitened teeth like a cornered zoo animal protecting his food? No, we do things differently here. Canada is a place for the ironic, where no one is caught up in a nationalistic vision so Canadian that it would allow them to sound corny or unselfconsciously vapid. Jack Layton sounded committed if slightly obnoxious, Stephane Dion was hesitant but earnest and professorial, and Gilles Duceppe was like the unwanted relative who married out of his faith and has to come to a family dinner during a religious holiday. The newcomer, Ms. May, was truly refreshing, asking pointed questions and seeming to like the political process she knows she is barely part of. Mr. Harper was to his credit, as consistently calculating as he always is - chiding the others about spending too much money like the head of a household wondering why his credit card is at its limit. The roundtable discussion last night was really more reminiscent of a heated chat among Political Science undergraduates at a university cafeteria, save for the absence of coffee stains, trendy clothing, muffin crumbs, and ideology. <br /><br />Down South it's another story. The two Vice Presidential candidates delivered their sermons with enough zeal to inspire mass conversions or speaking in tongues, while curiously not saying anything substantial. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Where's_the_beef%3F">"Where's the Beef", </a>I thought, remembering a failed campaign slogan from the past. Joe Biden gnashed his teeth to avoid looking like an intellectual bully, surpressing every attempt to appear condescending towards his opponent. For her part, Sarah Palin, head unencumbered of any silly confusing things like ideas, stuck to her pronounciation of world leader's names brilliantly, casting the odd "Would ya do me?" wink at an audience she was aiming to appeal to or bring around to the GOP. While both surely benefitted from the exposure - the Democrat avoiding hyberbole and the Republican avoiding looking horribly dumb, it served more to reassure convinced voters that somebody will do something sometime somewhere, and not to worry. The undecided voter likely went to bed still confused, wondering why nothing remotely ressembling a political platform was revealed in either case. At least both countries have something in common.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261273947844026348.post-15871461060683569872008-10-01T05:50:00.001-07:002008-10-01T11:27:11.433-07:00Kiss and TellMaxime Bernier was not the best Minister of Foreign Affairs Canada has produced. This, despite a relatively good education and resume. His endless series of blunders - whether in Afghanistan, Haiti, or Italy - served to remind non Quebec Canadians of his limited scope on world affairs, and how a good suit and pleasant manner is not a replacement for tact and diplomacy. Something had to be done. Firing him would of course, humiliate Quebec, and serve to remind non-Federalists that Francophones are not taken seriously as a contentious force on the Canadian political scence. This would further alientate them and give grist to the Sovereigntist mill, and worse, might cost Prime Minister Harper a chance at a majority government. Enter Julie Couillard:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaIU8OtxH5o9EuPZSbiJDgGYl7HhqOQWpOI-6WPgEKf0snCnM1EsFFSs2LRqZpm4hI8pGaprxBmO27KGewgxZiJi8y3JeUGNzdWglZRBJ4efIMWsx1bt2Tx2TztHI3ZV8RXhqbjB6E3vQ/s1600-h/coulliard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaIU8OtxH5o9EuPZSbiJDgGYl7HhqOQWpOI-6WPgEKf0snCnM1EsFFSs2LRqZpm4hI8pGaprxBmO27KGewgxZiJi8y3JeUGNzdWglZRBJ4efIMWsx1bt2Tx2TztHI3ZV8RXhqbjB6E3vQ/s320/coulliard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5252168809931213314" /></a><br /><br />A self made woman and former biker from the tough Ville Emard section of Montreal, Julie was the love of Mr. Bernier's life for a short while. She was no doubt drawn to his power and good looks, he seemed to be drawn to her low cut dresses and the fact she was the kind of woman his mother would have warned him about. When their relationship ended, it was revealed that he had left top secret documents in their apartment - likely under well-thumbed copies of Harley Davidson magazines and Ici - and he was forced to resign. A convenient escape and far more appealing to the local electorate. Certainly the thought of a Quebec man being undone by love was in keeping with our concept of "Joie de Vivre", and far less embarassing than the revelation that a Quebec education, no matter how good, cannot prepare someone for the post of Foreign Affairs when they have been brought up thinking <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Dollard_des_Ormeaux">Dollard Des Ormeaux </a>was a more important historical figure than George Washington.<br /><br />Now miss Couillard is launching a literary career with her first book, <a href="http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/20080909/couillard_autobiography_080909/20080909?hub=TopStories">"My Story".</a> Rushed to publication before the October 14th election, this junk is a thinly disguised ploy by the opposition parties to further undermine the chances of a Conservative majority. It won't serve to do much more than tittilate those who would otherwise spend their $29,99 on a bad romance movie and greasy popcorn. In the greater sense, it illustrates the notion that if literature is art, perhaps the Tory policy of keeping real artists starving will undermine them just a little bit more.Standinginthemiddleoflifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11201129101332258372noreply@blogger.com0