Dan Savage, you are my hero. Not only are you the purveyor of fine, no-nonsense sex and relationship advice, with your new It Gets Better project, you've stepped into the role of social leader and engenderer of change. Sir, I salute you.
For those of you not blessed with a free NOW magazine, Dan Savage has highlighted the recent rash of teen suicides brought on by bullying. The teens in question were either gay or being perceived as gay and subsequently harassed, leaving them feeling like they had no choice except ending their own lives to escape the pressures and torments. Which is sad, because, as Savage says, it gets better.
Never having been a queer teen, I can't speak to the horrors of high school for a nascent homo. I can only imagine that coming out when you're what, twelve? Thirteen? Sixteen? Later? Younger? It can't be easy. We straight kids get to slip under the radar, but the gay kids have to stand up and say, "You know what? Not only am I interested in sex and relationships at what seems like a preposterously young age (although, like, come on: kids think about sex), but I'm going to do them in ways that huge chunks of the population actively decry." That can't be easy. Staying closeted seems to come with a whole other set of problems, including the lying and self-loathing, and it's often a precursor to fleeing town the day after graduation.
Being a teenager isn't easy, no matter whose junk you want to touch. It's a time when kids separate from their parents, and becoming unstuck from your family takes a huge amount of psychic work. Some kids are good at, bidding their parents adieu in a painless way that involves, I don't know, turtleneck sweaters and hugging. Many, many of us are not quite so lovely. I was angry and ill-mannered at eighteen, all eating disorder and rage. Many of my friends can attest to the same huge, unfocused anger: drug use was heavy, sexual misconduct was everywhere, there was self-mutilation, and kids who left home and who got kicked out. It wasn't idyllic small town. Being eighteen is like getting a post-doc in fury for some people, and I was summa cum laude.
Most of us got our acts together, either by growing out of it and finding alternate, healthier ways of dealing with ourselves and our families, or by getting the help we needed (hello, CAMH, my old friend). Some of us were left to flounder, slowing sinking into darker waters as our drug choices became addictions and our relationships became strange. And for teens who are hiding huge parts of who they are, or made to feel ashamed or afraid of who they are, I can only imagine that the waters are that much darker.
Which is why Savage's project is so important. He's asked gay adults to create YouTube videos and post them on his channel, talking about how they had a rough go of it in their teen years, and how much better it got once they left the close-minded fear of high school or the side-long glances of their unwelcoming hometown. They talk about how they, too, once wanted to end their lives, because of the homophobia of their peers or the so-called adults around them. And how glad they are that they didn't, because suicide would have robbed them of their lovers, their husbands and wives, their children, their travels, the family members who grew to accept them, their chosen families and the friends who rely on them and love them. And it would have robbed them of the chance to escape their unhappy teenage years and become the people they were trying to be all along.
Savage can be irreverent about a lot of things - Google "santorum" (or, for you weak of stomach, don't) - but he's been candid in the past about how coming out was hard for him, and his family. His husband went through the same horrible process, and their touching video highlights how glad they are that that part of their lives is over. In the early 80s, there weren't the same resources that are available now, but gay and lesbian teens and young adults still face higher suicide rates than the rest of their peers. Knowing there's a whole community of Dan Savages out there, rooting for you to make it through your ridiculous, awful, high school years, might make a difference. Seeing that it gets better, even if it's not good now, might save a life.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
The Post In The Machine
Recently, I opened up my email inbox to find a little surprise: a missive from a particularly toxic ex-boyfriend. "Hello," it said cheerily, and I said "Really?" out loud into my empty apartment. Of course, it turned out to be spam; in the age of multiple email accounts, sad old Hotmail has been abandoned in favour of its sleeker competitors like Gmail. It leaves these accounts to rot like fruit on the digital vine, and sometimes, a bug gets in.
It gave me a shock, though, to see that pop up. The years I've spent living in Toronto, I've always had at least ten housemates, and a lot of them just up and disappear at the end of the school year - they fly to Reykjavik or London or move back to Oakville - and their mail (90% of which is cell-phone bills that will never, ever get paid) piles up at the door. For years. And this little spamlet sort of reminded me of that. These abandoned nodes of human communication, filtered through technologies that don't pay attention to whether or not anyone is listening on the other end.
I've written before about reclaiming your music after a breakup - the need to weed out all "our" songs from your playlists, lest they cause a crying jag in line at Loblaws. And there are myriad blocking options on all our various websites: Facebook lets you shield yourself from folks, rendering yourself invisible to them, and most email servers will shunt unwanted messages right into your spam folder. If you so desire, you never have to see your former lovers again...online, at least. I'm making no promises about running into them in Loblaws, you crying your eyes out as your iPod plays Prince.
I tried very hard, after my first big-deal breakup, to shield myself from my ex's presence. I avoided parties he attended, I took alternates routes that didn't take me past his house (which was tough, since we lived three blocks apart), and I sure as hell deleted him from my online accounts. MySpace, Facebook, and two or three email accounts all felt the wrath of my post-breakup purging. Toronto isn't a huge city, and we've since found each other in the same room a few times, assiduously avoiding eye contact. But on the internet, I didn't see him at all.
But it's sort like that pile of mail that keeps coming. Even though the intended recipient is long gone, the feelings are still floating around. They're not particularly useful, in the way that an unpaid Fido bill isn't useful, but they're still there. They clog up the systems (postal, internet-al [That's not a thing --Ed.] and emotional), and they make things just a little bit shittier.
And there are still feelings. Don't get me wrong: they're not capital-F Feelings, which implies romance and love and standing outside his window with a boombox hoisted over my head. They're more like small-f feelings: opinions + feelings, both formulated from experiences both good and bad, mashed together and leaving me with the preference for not seeing that ex-boyfriend over being friends. My thoughts about him now aren't lovely, like getting a postcard from a globe-trotting gal-pal who thought of you while she was in Ireland; they're more like Fido bills addressed to someone you once knew. Or like spam in your inbox. It's annoying, sure, but it's also a fact of life. Mail's still going to come, the feelings are still there. And blocking it out doesn't mean it's not still waiting in your spam folder, an unsettling reminder of love that has been returned to sender.
It gave me a shock, though, to see that pop up. The years I've spent living in Toronto, I've always had at least ten housemates, and a lot of them just up and disappear at the end of the school year - they fly to Reykjavik or London or move back to Oakville - and their mail (90% of which is cell-phone bills that will never, ever get paid) piles up at the door. For years. And this little spamlet sort of reminded me of that. These abandoned nodes of human communication, filtered through technologies that don't pay attention to whether or not anyone is listening on the other end.
I've written before about reclaiming your music after a breakup - the need to weed out all "our" songs from your playlists, lest they cause a crying jag in line at Loblaws. And there are myriad blocking options on all our various websites: Facebook lets you shield yourself from folks, rendering yourself invisible to them, and most email servers will shunt unwanted messages right into your spam folder. If you so desire, you never have to see your former lovers again...online, at least. I'm making no promises about running into them in Loblaws, you crying your eyes out as your iPod plays Prince.
I tried very hard, after my first big-deal breakup, to shield myself from my ex's presence. I avoided parties he attended, I took alternates routes that didn't take me past his house (which was tough, since we lived three blocks apart), and I sure as hell deleted him from my online accounts. MySpace, Facebook, and two or three email accounts all felt the wrath of my post-breakup purging. Toronto isn't a huge city, and we've since found each other in the same room a few times, assiduously avoiding eye contact. But on the internet, I didn't see him at all.
But it's sort like that pile of mail that keeps coming. Even though the intended recipient is long gone, the feelings are still floating around. They're not particularly useful, in the way that an unpaid Fido bill isn't useful, but they're still there. They clog up the systems (postal, internet-al [That's not a thing --Ed.] and emotional), and they make things just a little bit shittier.
And there are still feelings. Don't get me wrong: they're not capital-F Feelings, which implies romance and love and standing outside his window with a boombox hoisted over my head. They're more like small-f feelings: opinions + feelings, both formulated from experiences both good and bad, mashed together and leaving me with the preference for not seeing that ex-boyfriend over being friends. My thoughts about him now aren't lovely, like getting a postcard from a globe-trotting gal-pal who thought of you while she was in Ireland; they're more like Fido bills addressed to someone you once knew. Or like spam in your inbox. It's annoying, sure, but it's also a fact of life. Mail's still going to come, the feelings are still there. And blocking it out doesn't mean it's not still waiting in your spam folder, an unsettling reminder of love that has been returned to sender.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Cycle Of Le Cyc
Last night I went to the DVD release party/show for Le Cyc, a project presented by Polydactyl Hearts. It was an animation (sort of)/music hybrid, performed in a church, under the direction of the Wavelength music collective, featuring attractive young people from Guelph. It was totally a hipster paradise. Good hipsters, when they die, go to Polydactyl Hearts shows.
I sound like I'm shitting on, which I'm totally not. It was right up my alley: the main event was a presentation of Le Cyc, a series of sketches that have been inked with coffee and red wine and then matched to a song cycle. It's about an evil leg-stealing man, a mechanical parrot, a bicycle race and a triumphant return. Set in a future/alternate reality where people must pedal bicycles to generate power, it obviously appealed to my sci-fi, DIY, and bikey sides. The drawings were very cool, and the lead singer did different voices for the characters, including the very best evil laugh I've ever heard.
Crafts make me feel a little self-consciously hip. Obviously, I've done 'em. In high school, I used to meticulously bead images and words onto shirts, including an insanely intricate face and my dad's favourite, a tank top that said "Nobody likes you" in a child-like scrawl. I beaded and knit and made collages, I sewed (poorly) and I never thought twice about it. It was just something to keep my hands busy.
In the last few years, and it's since died down a little, there was an explosion of crafty hipsters throughout the land. Ladies (and it did seem to be mostly ladies) used traditional crafts to celebrate their own nerdiness, or to give the finger to traditional assumptions about gender roles. They launched crafting collectives and crafting shows to sell their wares. Bust includes a monthly craft for its readers, ranging from sweaters to Damien Hirst knock-offs. Hell, the entire Etsy empire (and its gleeful court jesters) is based on the idea that hand-made = good.
Which it is. But it's also painfully hip, encapsulating so much of the hipster "thing:" it's one-of-a-kind, it's bound to be a little bit pricier and harder to track down than your standard Urban Outfitters fare, lending it that "I just picked it up in Berlin" aura. Clearly, you could make it yourself, but it's also way hip to frame your purchase of a feathered hairpiece as if you're a patron of the arts, a heady experience for mostly-broke 20-somethings with an extra twenty bucks to spend on accessories. Crafting also has a child-like element to it; even though a lot of these products end up being intricate and complex, the word "craft" hearkens the mind back to rainy summer camp days when a bunch of hyperactive eleven-year-olds would be engrossed in making God's Eyes before playing dodgeball and then snacks. Adults create art; children do crafts.
So, is it revolutionary for folks to make things? Sure, in the same way that urban homesteading is revolutionary or artists collectives are revolutionary. Go back a hundred years, and the things that are bleeding edge now were standard-issue then: people farmed, and people joined co-ops, and people used their own hair to make crafts. Most people have at least one hobby that's active: cooking, designing teeshirts, writing television reviews, fixing bikes, opening bars, starting book clubs, gardening, raising ferrets, playing a sport, building a ham radio. And so on. Whatever it is requires creativity, production, and attention to detail. When so much of our world is premade and easy (hello, Ikea!), we like a pastime that presents a little bit of a challenge.
Art schools, in the past few years, have tried to marry the highbrow aspects of ART with the hands-on layperson elements of CRAFT, with varying degrees of success. OCAD's Material Art and Design program allows students to study jewelry design, ceramics and fiber arts, while SCAD and FIT offer programs that might help a budding crafter sell their wares, but don't necessarily teach the skills. There are resources, but crafts are usually given the short shrift in the big arts family. Art that's seen as do-able by your average housewife or teenager is often not really seen as art at all.
Which is why I like projects like Le Cyc: it's such a nice example of the DIY thing. While any chump can knit a sweater, it takes a different level of hands-on to create a musical animation (or animated musical) about dystopian bike societies. But Le Cyc and Polydactyl Hearts retain their crafty vibe. While undeniably homespun, Le Cyc transcends its hipster-made crafty roots and becomes, against all odds, art.
I sound like I'm shitting on, which I'm totally not. It was right up my alley: the main event was a presentation of Le Cyc, a series of sketches that have been inked with coffee and red wine and then matched to a song cycle. It's about an evil leg-stealing man, a mechanical parrot, a bicycle race and a triumphant return. Set in a future/alternate reality where people must pedal bicycles to generate power, it obviously appealed to my sci-fi, DIY, and bikey sides. The drawings were very cool, and the lead singer did different voices for the characters, including the very best evil laugh I've ever heard.
Crafts make me feel a little self-consciously hip. Obviously, I've done 'em. In high school, I used to meticulously bead images and words onto shirts, including an insanely intricate face and my dad's favourite, a tank top that said "Nobody likes you" in a child-like scrawl. I beaded and knit and made collages, I sewed (poorly) and I never thought twice about it. It was just something to keep my hands busy.
In the last few years, and it's since died down a little, there was an explosion of crafty hipsters throughout the land. Ladies (and it did seem to be mostly ladies) used traditional crafts to celebrate their own nerdiness, or to give the finger to traditional assumptions about gender roles. They launched crafting collectives and crafting shows to sell their wares. Bust includes a monthly craft for its readers, ranging from sweaters to Damien Hirst knock-offs. Hell, the entire Etsy empire (and its gleeful court jesters) is based on the idea that hand-made = good.
Which it is. But it's also painfully hip, encapsulating so much of the hipster "thing:" it's one-of-a-kind, it's bound to be a little bit pricier and harder to track down than your standard Urban Outfitters fare, lending it that "I just picked it up in Berlin" aura. Clearly, you could make it yourself, but it's also way hip to frame your purchase of a feathered hairpiece as if you're a patron of the arts, a heady experience for mostly-broke 20-somethings with an extra twenty bucks to spend on accessories. Crafting also has a child-like element to it; even though a lot of these products end up being intricate and complex, the word "craft" hearkens the mind back to rainy summer camp days when a bunch of hyperactive eleven-year-olds would be engrossed in making God's Eyes before playing dodgeball and then snacks. Adults create art; children do crafts.
So, is it revolutionary for folks to make things? Sure, in the same way that urban homesteading is revolutionary or artists collectives are revolutionary. Go back a hundred years, and the things that are bleeding edge now were standard-issue then: people farmed, and people joined co-ops, and people used their own hair to make crafts. Most people have at least one hobby that's active: cooking, designing teeshirts, writing television reviews, fixing bikes, opening bars, starting book clubs, gardening, raising ferrets, playing a sport, building a ham radio. And so on. Whatever it is requires creativity, production, and attention to detail. When so much of our world is premade and easy (hello, Ikea!), we like a pastime that presents a little bit of a challenge.
Art schools, in the past few years, have tried to marry the highbrow aspects of ART with the hands-on layperson elements of CRAFT, with varying degrees of success. OCAD's Material Art and Design program allows students to study jewelry design, ceramics and fiber arts, while SCAD and FIT offer programs that might help a budding crafter sell their wares, but don't necessarily teach the skills. There are resources, but crafts are usually given the short shrift in the big arts family. Art that's seen as do-able by your average housewife or teenager is often not really seen as art at all.
Which is why I like projects like Le Cyc: it's such a nice example of the DIY thing. While any chump can knit a sweater, it takes a different level of hands-on to create a musical animation (or animated musical) about dystopian bike societies. But Le Cyc and Polydactyl Hearts retain their crafty vibe. While undeniably homespun, Le Cyc transcends its hipster-made crafty roots and becomes, against all odds, art.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Put Another Dime In The Jukebox, Baby
GQ, that bastion of good taste and promoter of $150 handkerchiefs, has compiled for its lucky readers a list of the 25 Sexiest Women In Rock: a nine-page spread celebrating the feminine spirit in the unabashedly ball-filled world of rock and/or roll. Loosely historical, sort of chronological, definitely pictorial, the article highlights the "brashest, ballsiest, most beautiful women to ever step up to the mike."
Aw, man. Or woman, I guess. I know any time a men's magazine does a spread on women-in-rock, nobody's going to be 100% happy. On the plus side, it's a chance to celebrate some gold-standard performers, showcase some new voices, and indulge in nostalgia for boners and guitar solos of yesteryear. GQ's collection of kicks off in 1965 with Cher and wraps up in 2009 with Katy Perry, with broads like Carly Simon, Tina Turner, Chan Marshall and Lauryn Hill providing the meaty middle.
On the other hand, these kinds of articles often fetishize the women for being attractive without mentioning what that cost them. I'm no women's-libber type, but it's hard for me to take seriously articles that talk about Fiona Apple's prettiness in her video for "Criminal" but don't mention that she was an anorexic teenager. The article's authors gloss over Nico's 15-year addiction to heroin in favour of highlighting her Nazi-Germany and teen-model past. Marianne Faithful, presented in GQ's pages as a fashion idol, Jagger-blower and sexual goddess, actually released more than 20 albums. They mention Chan "Cat Power" Marshall's notorious meltdowns, but since she's now happily and healthily releasing critically acclaimed albums, she's safer than someone like Lauryn Hill, who's profile doesn't mention her more recent disappearance from the public eye. Hill's blurb instead, again, focuses on her looks and her "raw talent" in equal amounts.
I'm not naive enough to think that the music industry is all about talent: there's a reason record labels have marketing departments. But for each of the legitimately strong, ballsy women who are featured - Grace Jones, Chrissie Hynde, Joan Jett - there's a face who's known more for her bedfellow, addictions, fashion sense or childhood than for her musical output. Women whose notoriety outshines their talent.
GQ, which has a vested interest in showcasing pretty girls of all ages and eras on their pages, because it's a men's magazine and men tend to like pretty girls, slips a few surprises into their list. Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon is featured, alongside a portrait that doesn't show her face. Cher shows up, reminding people that before she was a punchline, she was a powerhouse. Grace Jones, who is both sexy and terrifying, snarls at us from her photo. But so many of the women on these pages are seen as soft, delicate, damaged: Apple, Nico, Faithful, Michelle Phillips, Stevie Nicks.
It's interesting to note that most of these delicate little flowers are from the '60s and '70s. By the '80s and '90s, instrument-playing ladies are dominating the list. Women like Chrissie Hynde and the Bangles' Susanna Hoffs are showing up, playing their own instruments and sassing the fans with a new brand of self-aware sexuality. In the 2000s, MIA and redheaded powerhouses Neko Case and Jenny Lewis (both of whom have successfully navigated the leap from band member to solo artist) wouldn't be caught dead hanging off some rock-star stud's bedframe: they make it on their own terms.
I don't doubt that Nico and Francoise Hardy and their delicate, damaged brethren have far-reaching influence in the music world. I just wish GQ had talked about it. These dames are attractive, even the ones that claim not to be (Chrissie Hynde? Are you insane? Do you even own a mirror? If you aren't a babe, then I'm Quasimodo. Jesus. Not the point), and yes, they're sexy. But I would argue that their sexiness stems not from their looks - even though they're all babes - but from their ability to handle their instruments, their voices, and themselves in a world where a female bass player is noteworthy.
I realize also that this is sort of a matter of taste: some men, when weighing the merits of both sexy and musically talented, are going to prefer the wholesomeness of Linda Rhonstadt to the ferocity of Grace Jones. Some are going to prefer the loony sheen of Katy Perry to the deconstructedness textures of MIA. That's fine. But a female musician is still a musician, and ignoring her talent in favour of her looks or her tragic/notorious/titillating life story does her a major disservice. Talk about the soaring range, the commanding stage presence, the devoted fan base, the record-breaking sales, the critical rejection, the bold costumes, the underhanded management, the whatever story is relevant to the music.
Show me women who have taken their suffering, their objectification by men, their sexual damage, their addictions, eating disorders, psychotic fits, and other ravagements of their life stories, and turned that into powerful rock and roll. I will respect the hell out of them. That's commanding. That's sexy. That beats the hell out of a pair of icy blue eyes or being the object of Bob Dylan's lust any day of the week.
Aw, man. Or woman, I guess. I know any time a men's magazine does a spread on women-in-rock, nobody's going to be 100% happy. On the plus side, it's a chance to celebrate some gold-standard performers, showcase some new voices, and indulge in nostalgia for boners and guitar solos of yesteryear. GQ's collection of kicks off in 1965 with Cher and wraps up in 2009 with Katy Perry, with broads like Carly Simon, Tina Turner, Chan Marshall and Lauryn Hill providing the meaty middle.
On the other hand, these kinds of articles often fetishize the women for being attractive without mentioning what that cost them. I'm no women's-libber type, but it's hard for me to take seriously articles that talk about Fiona Apple's prettiness in her video for "Criminal" but don't mention that she was an anorexic teenager. The article's authors gloss over Nico's 15-year addiction to heroin in favour of highlighting her Nazi-Germany and teen-model past. Marianne Faithful, presented in GQ's pages as a fashion idol, Jagger-blower and sexual goddess, actually released more than 20 albums. They mention Chan "Cat Power" Marshall's notorious meltdowns, but since she's now happily and healthily releasing critically acclaimed albums, she's safer than someone like Lauryn Hill, who's profile doesn't mention her more recent disappearance from the public eye. Hill's blurb instead, again, focuses on her looks and her "raw talent" in equal amounts.
I'm not naive enough to think that the music industry is all about talent: there's a reason record labels have marketing departments. But for each of the legitimately strong, ballsy women who are featured - Grace Jones, Chrissie Hynde, Joan Jett - there's a face who's known more for her bedfellow, addictions, fashion sense or childhood than for her musical output. Women whose notoriety outshines their talent.
GQ, which has a vested interest in showcasing pretty girls of all ages and eras on their pages, because it's a men's magazine and men tend to like pretty girls, slips a few surprises into their list. Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon is featured, alongside a portrait that doesn't show her face. Cher shows up, reminding people that before she was a punchline, she was a powerhouse. Grace Jones, who is both sexy and terrifying, snarls at us from her photo. But so many of the women on these pages are seen as soft, delicate, damaged: Apple, Nico, Faithful, Michelle Phillips, Stevie Nicks.
It's interesting to note that most of these delicate little flowers are from the '60s and '70s. By the '80s and '90s, instrument-playing ladies are dominating the list. Women like Chrissie Hynde and the Bangles' Susanna Hoffs are showing up, playing their own instruments and sassing the fans with a new brand of self-aware sexuality. In the 2000s, MIA and redheaded powerhouses Neko Case and Jenny Lewis (both of whom have successfully navigated the leap from band member to solo artist) wouldn't be caught dead hanging off some rock-star stud's bedframe: they make it on their own terms.
I don't doubt that Nico and Francoise Hardy and their delicate, damaged brethren have far-reaching influence in the music world. I just wish GQ had talked about it. These dames are attractive, even the ones that claim not to be (Chrissie Hynde? Are you insane? Do you even own a mirror? If you aren't a babe, then I'm Quasimodo. Jesus. Not the point), and yes, they're sexy. But I would argue that their sexiness stems not from their looks - even though they're all babes - but from their ability to handle their instruments, their voices, and themselves in a world where a female bass player is noteworthy.
I realize also that this is sort of a matter of taste: some men, when weighing the merits of both sexy and musically talented, are going to prefer the wholesomeness of Linda Rhonstadt to the ferocity of Grace Jones. Some are going to prefer the loony sheen of Katy Perry to the deconstructedness textures of MIA. That's fine. But a female musician is still a musician, and ignoring her talent in favour of her looks or her tragic/notorious/titillating life story does her a major disservice. Talk about the soaring range, the commanding stage presence, the devoted fan base, the record-breaking sales, the critical rejection, the bold costumes, the underhanded management, the whatever story is relevant to the music.
Show me women who have taken their suffering, their objectification by men, their sexual damage, their addictions, eating disorders, psychotic fits, and other ravagements of their life stories, and turned that into powerful rock and roll. I will respect the hell out of them. That's commanding. That's sexy. That beats the hell out of a pair of icy blue eyes or being the object of Bob Dylan's lust any day of the week.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Bread In The River
So, apparently there's a Jewish custom called tashlich (or tashlikh, because everything in Judaism has at least two spellings) that rubs me the right way. I'm not Jewish, but I'm also not gay and I still go to the parade every year, so don't turn your nose up at me for appropriating customs that aren't mine. Canada: melting pot or tossed salad? Cultural mosaic or full of mooses? Really, why not all of them? We live in mysterious times, with the only thing holding us back from 24/7 exposure to every culture all the time is the fact that commuting to Scarborough is sort of a drag.
So, right, back to my fake Jewosity. Tashlich is when, according to Wikipedia, "the previous year's sins are symbolically 'cast off' by reciting a section from Micah that makes allusions to the symbolic casting off of sins, into a large, natural body of flowing water (such as a river, lake, sea or ocean)." Traditionally done the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah (aka New Years Eve for Jews, which falls in September for those of us following a Gregorian calendar), the version I know about has the person casting off his or her sins also throwing bread into the water.
I love this. First of all, I love traditions. My all-time favourite tradition is my family's three-generations-long habit of of seeing a movie and eating Chinese food on New Year's Day. I love that my grandparents did this, my parents do this, I do this. My family moved a lot when I was growing up; by the time I started high school, I had lived in five different cities in two countries and three different provinces. It was nice to have continuity from year to year.
In the Christian ideology, your sins have been taken care of by Jesus - he ripped your ticket for you. Your stupid sinning soul has been rectified and washed clean by JC, which rocks if you're good at Christianity. It's less effective if you, like me, suffer from curiosity about what would possess a person to do that kind of thing - I'm sure if Jesus met me, he would be all, "I died for everyone's sins, except hers," which would be a huge bummer. Additionally, I have a guilty conscience about just about everything I've ever done. From the big ticket items like becoming involved with other women's boyfriends, to the less damning things like frittering away my Thursdays watching America's Funniest Home Videos, I have often felt crappy about my choices.
Naturally, I love the idea of casting off your shittiness and giving yourself a clean slate for the year. Not so much that the tradition allows you to ignore your sins - I don't think that's the point, really. But the idea that they no longer have to weigh you down as you work to right them? I think that's important. A little levity in the soul region can make all the difference in approaching your particular failings. Long-overdue apologies become easier. Confessions bubble up in the throat. Delayed conversations become more pressing. Without the guilt of the sin weighing on our minds, we can address why we transgressed in the first place.
I've often felt like autumn is a New Years kind of time, anyway. The leaves change, the kids head back to school, and we start to hunker down for the winter. It's a renewal - spring is an awakening, a bursting-forth of new and exciting things - but fall underscores the things we do and the people we are. If we can recommit to being ourselves, but better - cleaner - then why shouldn't we? Okay, fine dispense with the bread and the Biblical recitations, if you must. But clean out your soul.
So, right, back to my fake Jewosity. Tashlich is when, according to Wikipedia, "the previous year's sins are symbolically 'cast off' by reciting a section from Micah that makes allusions to the symbolic casting off of sins, into a large, natural body of flowing water (such as a river, lake, sea or ocean)." Traditionally done the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah (aka New Years Eve for Jews, which falls in September for those of us following a Gregorian calendar), the version I know about has the person casting off his or her sins also throwing bread into the water.
I love this. First of all, I love traditions. My all-time favourite tradition is my family's three-generations-long habit of of seeing a movie and eating Chinese food on New Year's Day. I love that my grandparents did this, my parents do this, I do this. My family moved a lot when I was growing up; by the time I started high school, I had lived in five different cities in two countries and three different provinces. It was nice to have continuity from year to year.
In the Christian ideology, your sins have been taken care of by Jesus - he ripped your ticket for you. Your stupid sinning soul has been rectified and washed clean by JC, which rocks if you're good at Christianity. It's less effective if you, like me, suffer from curiosity about what would possess a person to do that kind of thing - I'm sure if Jesus met me, he would be all, "I died for everyone's sins, except hers," which would be a huge bummer. Additionally, I have a guilty conscience about just about everything I've ever done. From the big ticket items like becoming involved with other women's boyfriends, to the less damning things like frittering away my Thursdays watching America's Funniest Home Videos, I have often felt crappy about my choices.
Naturally, I love the idea of casting off your shittiness and giving yourself a clean slate for the year. Not so much that the tradition allows you to ignore your sins - I don't think that's the point, really. But the idea that they no longer have to weigh you down as you work to right them? I think that's important. A little levity in the soul region can make all the difference in approaching your particular failings. Long-overdue apologies become easier. Confessions bubble up in the throat. Delayed conversations become more pressing. Without the guilt of the sin weighing on our minds, we can address why we transgressed in the first place.
I've often felt like autumn is a New Years kind of time, anyway. The leaves change, the kids head back to school, and we start to hunker down for the winter. It's a renewal - spring is an awakening, a bursting-forth of new and exciting things - but fall underscores the things we do and the people we are. If we can recommit to being ourselves, but better - cleaner - then why shouldn't we? Okay, fine dispense with the bread and the Biblical recitations, if you must. But clean out your soul.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
No Flash Photography, Please
There are certain people I expect to have cultivated a talent, one that involves not staring, fish-mouthed and gaping, into a camera lens: folks like models, actors, politicians, and Galen Weston, who are professionally in front of the camera all the time. For the rest of us schmucks, however, it can be a challenge to figure out how to live in a world with cameras and not look deranged.
I suffer from being relatively attractive in person and looking like a pale, bloated mess when caught on film. I realize (although it sometimes takes some work to remember) that those who are being photographed on the red carpets of the world generally show up having showered and been made up and tanned and so on, and that a huge part of their job description is to actually be good-looking. So they get waxed, buffed, trimmed, dyed, shellacked, propped up on spindly high heels or receive a carefully mussed hairdo, and then they go out and have their pictures taken.
Adding to the mind-fuckery is the fact that many of these photographed people really are genetically blessed: Angelina Jolie, who, despite owning an Oscar, really does nothing for me with her snooty, slitty-eyed acting style, is an example of a person who is gorgeous, who could be famous just for being pretty, but who also happens to be famous for doing stuff (acting, adopting the United Colours of Bennetton advertising campaigns) where being pretty is a corollary. She's not the only one. All the models-turned-actors out there were first trained is being really, really good-looking, and then in emoting. So we get all these people in magazines and on websites who have been trained in the dark arts of looking really good, pretending to be civilians not experienced with being professionally attractive.
Like 90% of the population, I am not what you might consider a photogenic lady. I'm not fishing for compliments - I think most people are better looking when they're talking animatedly about something they love. However, the odds of a camera flash capturing us in a moment when we're being passionate, funny, smart and pretty aren't really all that high. It can be disheartening to wake up from a night out, and have the photos reveal that the camera flash rendered my shirt transparent, or that my eye makeup read more as "blind Russian whore" than "classy smoky eye," not to mention all the spastic facial expressions I wear during a typical night out at the bar/Icycle races/karaoke place/Legion.
I used to be cute enough to be a child model. I was young, a baby, and it was in Japan. I doubt that I would have been adorable enough to break into the North American market, but my platinum hair and anti-social attitude charmed the Japanese casting directors. Children make ideal models because they generally have no concept of what a photographer is doing, and that not doing it will make for a weird photo. There's a catalog shot from the late '80s: a gaggle of kids on a dock, modeling swimsuits. According to my mom, the photographer told the models to "pretend you're asleep!" Since I, since birth, have been a stomach sleeper, I naturally flopped face-down on the dock, leaving the frustrated picture man and my harried mother trying to cajole me into a face-up pose like the other kidlets. The catalog went to print with a line of perfectly posed "sleeping" four year olds and then me, at the end, looking like I had maybe drowned.
We live in a world of digital cameras and Facebook, so our lives are documented and archived. Even the unflattering pictures, the ones where we accidentally give ourselves double chins, or our smiles are all gums, or our hair looks like we styled it with a Dustbuster, are out there. I look back at some of my photos, marvelling at how my weight has yo-yo'ed, wondering why I ever thought dying my hair was a smart move, rolling my eyes at my glasses...it's a wonder I haven't seppuku'ed myself over the sheer embarrassment of some of those frames.
So what's a non-photogenic person to do? Well, the phrase "build a bridge and get over it" comes to mind, but it's hard to think that way when you're trapped in the self-loathing cycle that feeling unattractive can trigger. The magazines and websites will encourage a girl to try for photogenicness: clean, brushed hair (I'm bad at that), a confidence boosting outfit, sassy eye makeup, and not getting so drunk you end up sloppily "posed" facedown in the backseat of a gypsy cab. The basics, really.
But pictures can be the best way to remember fun bike rides, or sweet moments with ex-boyfriends, or how much fun my friends are. There's a whole series of photo captions that make me laugh ("Let's look like we're lost in a foreign airport!"), even though my friends and I weren't 100% successful at pulling off our own art direction. And remembering that the point of the picture for us non-professionally attractive people is not how good we look, but how good we feel, can be liberating. If I ever find myself on a red carpet, you'd better believe that I will have been shined and painted to within an inch of my life...but since the carpets I usually find myself on are of the "friend's living room" variety, I think I'll just focus on having a good time.
I suffer from being relatively attractive in person and looking like a pale, bloated mess when caught on film. I realize (although it sometimes takes some work to remember) that those who are being photographed on the red carpets of the world generally show up having showered and been made up and tanned and so on, and that a huge part of their job description is to actually be good-looking. So they get waxed, buffed, trimmed, dyed, shellacked, propped up on spindly high heels or receive a carefully mussed hairdo, and then they go out and have their pictures taken.
Adding to the mind-fuckery is the fact that many of these photographed people really are genetically blessed: Angelina Jolie, who, despite owning an Oscar, really does nothing for me with her snooty, slitty-eyed acting style, is an example of a person who is gorgeous, who could be famous just for being pretty, but who also happens to be famous for doing stuff (acting, adopting the United Colours of Bennetton advertising campaigns) where being pretty is a corollary. She's not the only one. All the models-turned-actors out there were first trained is being really, really good-looking, and then in emoting. So we get all these people in magazines and on websites who have been trained in the dark arts of looking really good, pretending to be civilians not experienced with being professionally attractive.
Like 90% of the population, I am not what you might consider a photogenic lady. I'm not fishing for compliments - I think most people are better looking when they're talking animatedly about something they love. However, the odds of a camera flash capturing us in a moment when we're being passionate, funny, smart and pretty aren't really all that high. It can be disheartening to wake up from a night out, and have the photos reveal that the camera flash rendered my shirt transparent, or that my eye makeup read more as "blind Russian whore" than "classy smoky eye," not to mention all the spastic facial expressions I wear during a typical night out at the bar/Icycle races/karaoke place/Legion.
I used to be cute enough to be a child model. I was young, a baby, and it was in Japan. I doubt that I would have been adorable enough to break into the North American market, but my platinum hair and anti-social attitude charmed the Japanese casting directors. Children make ideal models because they generally have no concept of what a photographer is doing, and that not doing it will make for a weird photo. There's a catalog shot from the late '80s: a gaggle of kids on a dock, modeling swimsuits. According to my mom, the photographer told the models to "pretend you're asleep!" Since I, since birth, have been a stomach sleeper, I naturally flopped face-down on the dock, leaving the frustrated picture man and my harried mother trying to cajole me into a face-up pose like the other kidlets. The catalog went to print with a line of perfectly posed "sleeping" four year olds and then me, at the end, looking like I had maybe drowned.
We live in a world of digital cameras and Facebook, so our lives are documented and archived. Even the unflattering pictures, the ones where we accidentally give ourselves double chins, or our smiles are all gums, or our hair looks like we styled it with a Dustbuster, are out there. I look back at some of my photos, marvelling at how my weight has yo-yo'ed, wondering why I ever thought dying my hair was a smart move, rolling my eyes at my glasses...it's a wonder I haven't seppuku'ed myself over the sheer embarrassment of some of those frames.
So what's a non-photogenic person to do? Well, the phrase "build a bridge and get over it" comes to mind, but it's hard to think that way when you're trapped in the self-loathing cycle that feeling unattractive can trigger. The magazines and websites will encourage a girl to try for photogenicness: clean, brushed hair (I'm bad at that), a confidence boosting outfit, sassy eye makeup, and not getting so drunk you end up sloppily "posed" facedown in the backseat of a gypsy cab. The basics, really.
But pictures can be the best way to remember fun bike rides, or sweet moments with ex-boyfriends, or how much fun my friends are. There's a whole series of photo captions that make me laugh ("Let's look like we're lost in a foreign airport!"), even though my friends and I weren't 100% successful at pulling off our own art direction. And remembering that the point of the picture for us non-professionally attractive people is not how good we look, but how good we feel, can be liberating. If I ever find myself on a red carpet, you'd better believe that I will have been shined and painted to within an inch of my life...but since the carpets I usually find myself on are of the "friend's living room" variety, I think I'll just focus on having a good time.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Flying High At The Avro
Last night was the launch party for Leslieville's newest watering hole and my own personal favourite bar in the world, The Avro. I might be a tiny bit biased, since it's owned and operated by one of my best friends, but I truly believe that The Avro, as a bar, offers Torontonians exactly everything they need, no matter what, all the time. I'm just saying. I don't think folks ought to be chancing that it isn't by patronizing any other bar in the GTA, with the possible exception of Bistro 422, which I love on its own merits.
I am just so goddamn proud of Rachel Conduit - the best friend/owner/operator in question - because there's some serious grit needed to open any kind of business. Lord knows I'm far too timid to try the same tactics. Whereas I have vague dreams of becoming some sort of "writer," maybe, in the future, my gal pal sat down, made a business plan and created a whole abstract experience. Colour me awed over here. That's impressive.
And the Avro is legitimately impressive on its own merits. Named for the Canadian aerospace powerhouse the Avro Arrow, on which Conduit's grandfather was an engineer, the cozy Queen Street East space offers an alternative to the pricey joints on the same stretch. It's not a sleek spot - some of the light fixtures are made from refurbished industrial refuse - but it's absolutely beautiful in a handmade, Canadian sort of way. Despite being a clothing store, like, six months ago, the Avro feels like an established place.
It's cozy. It's cheap without being cheap, because Conduit recognized that most of the bars in that 'hood ran to the expensive side of the spectrum. It's open late, because, with the notable and disgusting exception of Jilly's, the local peeler bar, most of the bars on that stretch close whenever the bartender's feet get tired, and that is early. Most importantly for a bar, it has an actual bar. I hate going to alleged "bars" like, oh, say, the Green Room in the Annex, and finding there's no bar there. Oh, sure, tables are fine, but I really do feel that any place purporting to be a boozehouse needs to have a place where bartender and patron meet. A long counter top for slinging drinks and gossiping about the locals is absolutely essential, and The Avro's was handmade and optimized for awesomeness.
The Avro keeps a variety of folks in mind: the young people who want an escape from the student-ghettoized Annex neighbourhood but aren't keen on shelling out seven bucks for a bottle of brew; the local folks who want a mellow night close to home; the customers who like to bar hop and take in the gamut of watering hole experiences; the people who want to support local under-30s in their bid for greatness; drinkers who want a well-designed experience to back up their booziness. And in each case, the bar is a success. Big mazel to The Avro and to Rachel. Fly high, Avro girl.
I am just so goddamn proud of Rachel Conduit - the best friend/owner/operator in question - because there's some serious grit needed to open any kind of business. Lord knows I'm far too timid to try the same tactics. Whereas I have vague dreams of becoming some sort of "writer," maybe, in the future, my gal pal sat down, made a business plan and created a whole abstract experience. Colour me awed over here. That's impressive.
And the Avro is legitimately impressive on its own merits. Named for the Canadian aerospace powerhouse the Avro Arrow, on which Conduit's grandfather was an engineer, the cozy Queen Street East space offers an alternative to the pricey joints on the same stretch. It's not a sleek spot - some of the light fixtures are made from refurbished industrial refuse - but it's absolutely beautiful in a handmade, Canadian sort of way. Despite being a clothing store, like, six months ago, the Avro feels like an established place.
It's cozy. It's cheap without being cheap, because Conduit recognized that most of the bars in that 'hood ran to the expensive side of the spectrum. It's open late, because, with the notable and disgusting exception of Jilly's, the local peeler bar, most of the bars on that stretch close whenever the bartender's feet get tired, and that is early. Most importantly for a bar, it has an actual bar. I hate going to alleged "bars" like, oh, say, the Green Room in the Annex, and finding there's no bar there. Oh, sure, tables are fine, but I really do feel that any place purporting to be a boozehouse needs to have a place where bartender and patron meet. A long counter top for slinging drinks and gossiping about the locals is absolutely essential, and The Avro's was handmade and optimized for awesomeness.
The Avro keeps a variety of folks in mind: the young people who want an escape from the student-ghettoized Annex neighbourhood but aren't keen on shelling out seven bucks for a bottle of brew; the local folks who want a mellow night close to home; the customers who like to bar hop and take in the gamut of watering hole experiences; the people who want to support local under-30s in their bid for greatness; drinkers who want a well-designed experience to back up their booziness. And in each case, the bar is a success. Big mazel to The Avro and to Rachel. Fly high, Avro girl.
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