Even though Peter Travers basically peeds his pants over it, I was sort of hesitant to see The Social Network when it came out in theatres. I wasn't convinced that a movie about Facebook would be all that engaging - although Facebook itself can hold my attention for hours at a time. Jesse Eisenberg staring menacingly at me behind the tagline "You don't get to 500 milion friends without making a few enemies" on every available subway ad, billboard and magazine spread took me a little aback.
DVDs (and cookies) are basically my version of catnip, but I was hesitant. The Facebook movie could have gone so horribly wrong, but it had been nominated for an Oscar, and Eisenberg had been nominated for best actor, so there was a chance that my pea-brained first assumptions would be off the mark. So I settled in with my mug of ice cream and my preconceived notions, and you know what? The movie was good. It wasn't the American masterpiece that Travers claims - anything with CGI cold-weather breath that bad can't be a cinematic Rembrandt. But was it enjoyable? Sure. Engaging? You bet. Did I fall madly in love with it and want to leave my family to travel in its touring caravan? Well....
The movie opens with Mark and his erstwhile girlfriend Erica in the middle of a pub. He's a douche - all condescending because she goes to some school that isn't Harvard. She's sweet, gamely trying to keep up with him, even though he's clearly more invested in looking smart/being right than he is in, say, Erica's feelings. It's a great scene, because we get to see her as she comes to her senses and storms out, and he sits there like a befuddled chump. I think the audience is supposed to feel pity for him - here he is, Mark Zuckerberg, who can't even hold onto a BU girl. Pfft. (It's kind of unclear what BU actually is, but I'm going to assume it's the same school from the Van Wilder movies and so let's all move on.)
After that, there's the Winklevoss twins, Fashmash, Trent Reznor's much-lauded score, rowing crew, two different lawsuits, some cold-blooded business dealing, Justin Timberlake, crazy girlfriends, appletinis, pouting, heaps of moral ambiguity, underaged bong hits, and Eisenberg's ubiquitous GAP hoodie. It's a collage of college, coding, how social trends hit the masses (according to the movie, Zuckerberg, who had exactly one friend in Eduardo Saverin, managed to spam his Harvard classmates with a link so popular it went overnight-viral, which is a little like the nerd version of the ugly girl who goes to the prom without her glasses and is suddenly the belle of the ball), and how money and betrayal apparently go hand in hand for suddenly-successful young people.
I liked it, but I didn't l.o.v.e. it. What really killed it for me, though, was the final scene. The Social Network isn't really a spoiler-alert type of deal - the major plot points can be Googled fairly readily - but for those of you who like your emotional reveals untainted, avert your eyes.
Look, I like David Fincher as much as the next Fight Club-watching girl. I saw Seven when I was way too young, and haven't really seen many of his other movies. But I trust Fincher not to walk a trite line. So was I disappointed in the ending? Yes. Fincher's final scene was of Zuckerberg sitting alone at the enormous conference table, hitting refresh on Erica's Facebook page. All the whys and wherefores of Facebook were tidily summed up into "He did it for a girl."
BARF. Come on. While I can appreciate that Zuckerberg, as the world's youngest billionaire, is going to doubt his dating life for the rest of his days ("Does she like me for me, or because I control the most successful socializing method since the phone line?"), I sincerely doubt that he did it all for the nooky. Zuckerberg, boy genius, prince of the internet, man in the high castle, emotional retard and/or thieving bastard, built the Facebook to get into his ex's head? And it does a disservice to all the unstable, untrustworthy weirdos we've spent the last couple hours with to suggest that's the case.
The movie is all about presentation - who are we? What's the difference between The Truth, and what we present to others, both online and in person? There's a nice breakup scene in the film, when the crazy girlfriend starts haranguing the unfortunate chap about why, online, his relationship status is "single." I feel like an older generation would be all "BFD, yo." but I found myself nodding in recognition. I've had those conversations with boyfriends - how much of yourself, of us, do you want people to see?
The whole "what's really happening?" issue is compounded by the movie's coyness regarding Z-man intellectual property theft. And by leaving the coding relatively unintelligible, Fincher cuts us off from what's happening online. The movie comes down to, who do we like more? Mark? Eduardo? The Winklevosses? Sean Parker? Erica? Who presents the best on paper, and who comes off as a jerk? And does it matter, in the long run? Even if Zuckerberg is a huge pompous ass, I'm not likely to meet him. I'll use his free website and continue to fret re: relationship status, and the world will keep spinning, and Peter Travers will find another movie to soil himself over, and we'll all add each other on Facebook until the next big thing comes along.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Small Pleasures
I know it's a lazy way through a blog post, but friends, it's been a hectic week. I'm still recovering from my own personal economic recession, my friend's cat has diabetes, I worked almost 50 hours last week, and it's currently -22 with the windchill in El Toro. So what better time to focus on the little things? And what better format than a little blog post, filled with tiny reminders that things are not always sucky?
For instance: I've been listening to a lot of Robyn's latest album, which is a glossy, poppy and somehow strangely personal album about breakups and being alone. There are several killer tracks on this record, which isn't getting the commercial sales it totally deserves, but one of my favourites has her proclaiming about "she's still your friend," only, and I'm not sure if this is because Robyn is Swedish or because she's just like that, it comes out as "fwiend." This obviously just kills me. It's like the song is being sung by a child, or Elmer Fudd. In other words: yes.
For instance: I've been listening to a lot of Robyn's latest album, which is a glossy, poppy and somehow strangely personal album about breakups and being alone. There are several killer tracks on this record, which isn't getting the commercial sales it totally deserves, but one of my favourites has her proclaiming about "she's still your friend," only, and I'm not sure if this is because Robyn is Swedish or because she's just like that, it comes out as "fwiend." This obviously just kills me. It's like the song is being sung by a child, or Elmer Fudd. In other words: yes.
The weather is being cold and stubbornly refuses to thaw, and everyone's getting a little stir-crazy. For me, I'm jonesing for some physical activity. For the past two months, I've been lying on my boyfriend's couch, stuffing my maw with ice cream and slowing oozing out of my pants. Now I'm just for some bike rides and after-work runs, and waiting for the spring to, um, spring. Until then, I'm trying to focus on the little pleasures.
So, here we go: tiny pleasures to make these last couple weeks of winter just a tiny bit more livable.
- The pleasure of a deal. Last week, I trekked over to a new-to-me Salvation Army thrift store and managed to score about $500 bucks worth of clothes, including two pairs of brand-new shoes, one of which were a pair of Hush Puppy winter boots, for 33 dollars, including five cents for the bag. The thrill of new things for about 90% less than the usual price was intoxicating.
- The pleasure of a new thing. So drunk on savings was I that I also went to Winners (their tag line is very convincing) and picked up some new hosiery. I wear skirts about 28 days of the month and brand new black tights are like getting new blank canvases: the ideal starting point for all my work outfits and weekend get-ups. Plus, they're microfiber, which = soft.
- The pleasure of nostalgia. I have a weird soft spot for children's media: I love me some Marlo Thomas, and The Iron Giant is easily in my top ten flicks of all time. Watching The Corpse Bride this weekend was a nice treat, because it rides the line between kid's movie - (it's animated!) and oddly macabre (it's about dead people!?) Plus, I think it's inspired me to paint my room with its spooky colour scheme. It's all light blues, ghoulish day-glo greens and matte charcoals. I think it would be quite fetching, and a lovely departure from my current colour scheme (beige, and in need of a scrub).
- The pleasure of nature. Take, for example, sunshine. Come on. Who doesn't love the sun?And one of the few upsides of having these freezing late-winter days is that the sun is less and less shy this time of year.
- The glycemic bump of an afternoon snack.This brings pleasure in myriad ways: by 4 o'clock, I usually feel like I'm going to fall over, fall asleep or am slowly going blind. The restorative powers of, say, some yogurt and fruit, is nothing short of miraculous. Other snacks I favour include slices of deli meat and half a pepper, or apple slices dipped in peanut butter. Deliciousness comes in many forms.
- The Little Things, in all their glories. Totally kicking a difficult spreadsheet's ass. Finding a new and exciting website that opens up a new perspective on a thorny issue. Having tomorrow's lunch ready tonight. Getting an email from a friend you haven't heard from in a while. Nutella on toast. Sliced banana in cereal. Girly movies with your girly roommates. Cuddling. Being woken up by the cat. Rediscovering old favourites (I had fresh mango for the first time in years and it totally moved me). Catching yourself staring at your girlfriend as she walks across the room, even though you've been together for four years and have seen her in every state, including actively throwing up, and realizing that she's still the one for you. Catching your boyfriend while he does that. Personal phone calls at work. Lunch with your mom. All the little bibs and bobs that make the day a lovely, if imperfect, exercise in Appreciating The Good.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Franco, Meet Oscar
Oh, James. Can I call you James? You seem like a Jimmy to me, somehow. Maybe a Jimmy-Jams, to your friends. In any case, you may not have many Hollywood friends left after Sunday night's Oscar's telecast, in which you half-assed the notion of the "celebration" to a billion people worldwide, stranded Anne Hathaway on the Isle of Mug, and were upstaged by Kirk Douglas and Melissa Leo in rapid succession.
It's not totally your fault. I think you would have been more at home hosting, say, the Independent Spirit awards, which are held the night before the Academy Awards and cater to a slightly less sequins-and-tulle sort of crowd. Barring that, you would have made a charming and disarming presenter, offering a lopsided smile to those of us who don't buy the Hollywood machine straight-out but still, you know, love the magic of the movies. You were great in 127 Hours, and I've given you props in the past for your weirdo-awesome factor. But Jim-Jam, you totally pooped the bed when you hosted the Oscars.
There has been a ton of press about how this year's Oscars ceremony was, like, "the worst one ever!" and how a lot of the blame has been laid at the feet of you and your pretty co-host. Frankly, I'm not so sure. The dynamic of having some young, hip things hosting what is basically the stodgiest room in the county was flawed from the get-go, and Hathaway and Franco's places in the Hollywood pecking order aren't so well-established as to be a no-brainer. It's true that hosting the show can be a career-maker (look at Billy Crystal, arguable the best and most beloved host of the past generation) or a deal-breaker (ahem, Hugh Jackman), and these young stars might have thought to themselves, "Hm, a billion people watching? Every director, casting agent and producer in the galaxy tuning in? A chance to look unbelievably glam in every country with a television set? Sold!" but the reality was an unfunny and too-long (again) ceremony that James Franco helped not a whit.
It was clear to the people watching at home (or, like us, at the Bloor cinema) that Franco was undergoing a transformation during the awards. He started off funny: he was irascibly game in the opening sequence, an Inception-inspired romp through Alec Baldwin's brain. By the time he emerged in drag, he was looking a little pained...and by the final musical number, a jarring rendition by P.S. 122's legally adorable and Bennetton-worthy ethnically diverse youth choir, he was making shifty eyes at the wings, as though he couldn't wait to bolt for the limo and get drunk as a lord at the Vanity Fair party. His own hesitations around the Oscars were coming though loud and clear, and it was disheartening that a man nominated for best actor couldn't even muster up the pretense of enjoying his own show.
It was obvious that the producers for the show had gambled on a number of youthful gags - the Autotuned remixes and the smirky, MTV Movie Awards-esque opening sequence. But it was telling that the older generation were the ones who were actually bringing the class and glamour to the event. Anyone who wasn't charmed by Kirk Douglas probably dug Leo's f-bomb, and I found myself loving David Seidler, who opened with the line, "My father always said I was a late bloomer." Seidler, who is 73, had the crowd firmly on his side as he shouted out fellow stutterers, and the moment was delightful.
So how do you fix a problem like Oscar? Ricky Gervais was panned at the Golden Globes, derided as being "too mean" and for making really obvious, stale jokes. In the past decade, comedians like Jon Stewart and Ellen Degeneres have suited up and cracked wise at the expense of Uma, Oprah, and whoever else is in the front row (this includes the perpetually grinning, forever besunglassed and ever-widening Jack Nicholson, who was probably too busy off flirting with Jeff Bridges's babe of a wife to notice Franco's wilting host), but none have been asked back with the same regularity as, say, Bob Hope. Or Billy Crystal. Or the Rat Pack, who hosted like, fifteen years in a row.
It's clear that the host needs to be more expansive, more inclusive. Franco's dismissive "Congraulations, nerds," to the winners of the technical awards was a jab at all the creative tech work that, it should be noted, has fattened a lot of wallets in the past year. Where would Inception have been without its special effects? And Black Swan? Toy Story 3? Come on! I digress. A good host makes everyone feel included: even the winners for, say, best Short Documentary Film get their moment in the sun, without getting played off or mocked. And the teasing should be good-natured, not mean. We all know it's a long show. We all watch it anyway, hoping to see something interesting and fun, something that makes the magic of Hollywood a real thing, not just some fake concept Entertainment Weekly shoves down our throats, along with box office figures and blatant payola.
As much as I grimace at this, Hathaway wasn't the weak link she could have been. She was funny and beautiful, trying to cover both her end of things and her lazy co-host's. With the right partner, she would be fine, and I'd love to see her parlay this into a more comedienne-esque persona. Maybe once he gets a few major film credits under his belt, Jon Hamm could be the Donny to her Marie. Maybe it's time Tom Hanks and his freakishly lineless eyes got up there and used his star power to give the Oscars back some glow. Maybe George Clooney, who is funny, smart and a Major Movie Star. Maybe Billy Crystal could do it, although he's starting to look more and more like the ancient character he played in The Princess Bride, and I don't want to scare the kids. But Franco? No. I'm sorry! I genuinely like you! But you should stick with the short stories and the multiple PhDs and leave the generous hosting to a man who can actually muster up a damn.
It's not totally your fault. I think you would have been more at home hosting, say, the Independent Spirit awards, which are held the night before the Academy Awards and cater to a slightly less sequins-and-tulle sort of crowd. Barring that, you would have made a charming and disarming presenter, offering a lopsided smile to those of us who don't buy the Hollywood machine straight-out but still, you know, love the magic of the movies. You were great in 127 Hours, and I've given you props in the past for your weirdo-awesome factor. But Jim-Jam, you totally pooped the bed when you hosted the Oscars.
There has been a ton of press about how this year's Oscars ceremony was, like, "the worst one ever!" and how a lot of the blame has been laid at the feet of you and your pretty co-host. Frankly, I'm not so sure. The dynamic of having some young, hip things hosting what is basically the stodgiest room in the county was flawed from the get-go, and Hathaway and Franco's places in the Hollywood pecking order aren't so well-established as to be a no-brainer. It's true that hosting the show can be a career-maker (look at Billy Crystal, arguable the best and most beloved host of the past generation) or a deal-breaker (ahem, Hugh Jackman), and these young stars might have thought to themselves, "Hm, a billion people watching? Every director, casting agent and producer in the galaxy tuning in? A chance to look unbelievably glam in every country with a television set? Sold!" but the reality was an unfunny and too-long (again) ceremony that James Franco helped not a whit.
It was clear to the people watching at home (or, like us, at the Bloor cinema) that Franco was undergoing a transformation during the awards. He started off funny: he was irascibly game in the opening sequence, an Inception-inspired romp through Alec Baldwin's brain. By the time he emerged in drag, he was looking a little pained...and by the final musical number, a jarring rendition by P.S. 122's legally adorable and Bennetton-worthy ethnically diverse youth choir, he was making shifty eyes at the wings, as though he couldn't wait to bolt for the limo and get drunk as a lord at the Vanity Fair party. His own hesitations around the Oscars were coming though loud and clear, and it was disheartening that a man nominated for best actor couldn't even muster up the pretense of enjoying his own show.
It was obvious that the producers for the show had gambled on a number of youthful gags - the Autotuned remixes and the smirky, MTV Movie Awards-esque opening sequence. But it was telling that the older generation were the ones who were actually bringing the class and glamour to the event. Anyone who wasn't charmed by Kirk Douglas probably dug Leo's f-bomb, and I found myself loving David Seidler, who opened with the line, "My father always said I was a late bloomer." Seidler, who is 73, had the crowd firmly on his side as he shouted out fellow stutterers, and the moment was delightful.
So how do you fix a problem like Oscar? Ricky Gervais was panned at the Golden Globes, derided as being "too mean" and for making really obvious, stale jokes. In the past decade, comedians like Jon Stewart and Ellen Degeneres have suited up and cracked wise at the expense of Uma, Oprah, and whoever else is in the front row (this includes the perpetually grinning, forever besunglassed and ever-widening Jack Nicholson, who was probably too busy off flirting with Jeff Bridges's babe of a wife to notice Franco's wilting host), but none have been asked back with the same regularity as, say, Bob Hope. Or Billy Crystal. Or the Rat Pack, who hosted like, fifteen years in a row.
It's clear that the host needs to be more expansive, more inclusive. Franco's dismissive "Congraulations, nerds," to the winners of the technical awards was a jab at all the creative tech work that, it should be noted, has fattened a lot of wallets in the past year. Where would Inception have been without its special effects? And Black Swan? Toy Story 3? Come on! I digress. A good host makes everyone feel included: even the winners for, say, best Short Documentary Film get their moment in the sun, without getting played off or mocked. And the teasing should be good-natured, not mean. We all know it's a long show. We all watch it anyway, hoping to see something interesting and fun, something that makes the magic of Hollywood a real thing, not just some fake concept Entertainment Weekly shoves down our throats, along with box office figures and blatant payola.
As much as I grimace at this, Hathaway wasn't the weak link she could have been. She was funny and beautiful, trying to cover both her end of things and her lazy co-host's. With the right partner, she would be fine, and I'd love to see her parlay this into a more comedienne-esque persona. Maybe once he gets a few major film credits under his belt, Jon Hamm could be the Donny to her Marie. Maybe it's time Tom Hanks and his freakishly lineless eyes got up there and used his star power to give the Oscars back some glow. Maybe George Clooney, who is funny, smart and a Major Movie Star. Maybe Billy Crystal could do it, although he's starting to look more and more like the ancient character he played in The Princess Bride, and I don't want to scare the kids. But Franco? No. I'm sorry! I genuinely like you! But you should stick with the short stories and the multiple PhDs and leave the generous hosting to a man who can actually muster up a damn.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Busting A Nut
Womens magazines that actually seem to like women are few and far between. Forget Cosmopolitan and its ilk: that's all about how the sex you're having is lackluster and boring, and what you really need to be A Real Woman is beachy, tousled hair, a tropical-print dress, a boyfriend who was chiseled out of granite, and a sex life that would exhaust bunnies. Oh, plus a career. And endless nights on the town. And embarrassing moments! All the while avoiding the pitfalls of whatever Scare Of The Month Cosmo has drummed up: abortion clinic arsonists one month, home-invading date rapists, the terrors of aspartame and secret cancers that will invade your body and make you sterile, fat, and ugly.
I miss Jane, which was funny, raunchy and had great clothes that sometimes (gasp!) came from chains or department stores. If Cosmo is that girl who posts pictures on Facebook of her enormous engagement ring and her fifteen sorority sisters all posing in front of a sunset during their all-inclusive vacay to Veradero, then Jane was that girl from your office with chipped nail polish and a snarky sense of humor.
But Jane is gone and JanePratt.com is stagnating in some lonely corner of the internet. What's a magazine-loving girl to do? Shameless is geared towards a slightly younger crowd, and the voice of Bitch can be, well, a little bitchy. I love women's magazines, but I don't always need a stridently feminist voice in my readings. Bitch is great for when I want to feel righteously affronted, in the same way that I read Utne when I feel like vegging out and feeling groovy (and out of its intensely American loop), but for the times I feel like being a girl, a woman, a babe and a bitch, Bust fills that niche in all kinds of ways.
Where Jane leaned heavily on celebs, Bust takes a cool-nerd approach. Recent cover girls have included Sofia Coppola and Portia di Rossi, neither of whom do massive box office, but who have a je ne sais quoi regardless. Between the covers of the most recent issue, readers can find travelogues, recipes, sex surveys, interviews with various entertainers, thoughtful articles, comics, and reviews. It's all done with a femme viewpoint, is queer-friendly, and the fashion and photography is accessible and well-designed.
So why don't I read Bust more often? It fills a void that was left behind by other glossies, but it's sufficiently aspirational that I don't feel like I'm reading someone's crappy basement DIY 'zine. It's radical in its politics, likes to talk about sex, and exposes me to interesting women and cool movements. But there are issues, too. It's a little skimpy on content. I guess the biggest problem is that I feel like an outsider when I read it, and I am, like, the definition of its demographic.
Magazines should invite their audience in - even though I'm not a dude, I occasionally read GQ and have a blast. It's funny to read, handsome to look at, and meaty to hold. Their feature articles are great, long, 8000-word monsters about Iraqi war vets or dramatic rescues at sea. When I read Wired, I feel like the articles I don't really care about - tech reviews! So! Many! Tech reviews! - are balanced by interesting and esoteric articles about things I didn't even know I was curious about. Bust, while it's trying really hard, just leaves me sort of...meh?
The thing is, and I hate myself for even suggesting it, but here we go anyway: Bust isn't hilarious. GQ? Funny. Wired? Funny! Bust? Not so funny. Us chicks already suffer from a dearth of humor in our lives. According to Leah McLaren, it's because we're too busy nursing and being offended at poop jokes. I think she's terrible, but she does have a point: there aren't a ton of ladies out there whose stock in trade is "the funny girl." We're pretty, well-dressed, sexy, honest...but funny? Nah.
Which is boring. And it doesn't have to be that way. I think jokes about breastfeeding are boring and weird, in the same way that I think jokes about buttholes and foreskins are boring and weird. I don't think I'm alone in this, and there are dudes out there whose noses wrinkle up when someone cracks a joke about Dutch ovens. And Bust could totally bust out of their earnest-girl editorial voice and learn how to take a leaner, funnier stance on things. Maybe add a few pages to their feature articles - I was seriously disappointed by the lightweight article about the women who crusade against ladies who watch porn, because that seems insanely interesting - and try for some non-Etsy advertisers. I know ardent Bust readers would loathe changes in their mag, and I feel for them. But Bust has the potential to be a great, powerful counterpoint to Cosmo's ridiculous consumerism: a magazine with a zesty feminist appeal, a smart and funny editorial voice, and that has become a place for women who truly do have something to "get off their chests" a place to be heard and seen.
I miss Jane, which was funny, raunchy and had great clothes that sometimes (gasp!) came from chains or department stores. If Cosmo is that girl who posts pictures on Facebook of her enormous engagement ring and her fifteen sorority sisters all posing in front of a sunset during their all-inclusive vacay to Veradero, then Jane was that girl from your office with chipped nail polish and a snarky sense of humor.
But Jane is gone and JanePratt.com is stagnating in some lonely corner of the internet. What's a magazine-loving girl to do? Shameless is geared towards a slightly younger crowd, and the voice of Bitch can be, well, a little bitchy. I love women's magazines, but I don't always need a stridently feminist voice in my readings. Bitch is great for when I want to feel righteously affronted, in the same way that I read Utne when I feel like vegging out and feeling groovy (and out of its intensely American loop), but for the times I feel like being a girl, a woman, a babe and a bitch, Bust fills that niche in all kinds of ways.
Where Jane leaned heavily on celebs, Bust takes a cool-nerd approach. Recent cover girls have included Sofia Coppola and Portia di Rossi, neither of whom do massive box office, but who have a je ne sais quoi regardless. Between the covers of the most recent issue, readers can find travelogues, recipes, sex surveys, interviews with various entertainers, thoughtful articles, comics, and reviews. It's all done with a femme viewpoint, is queer-friendly, and the fashion and photography is accessible and well-designed.
So why don't I read Bust more often? It fills a void that was left behind by other glossies, but it's sufficiently aspirational that I don't feel like I'm reading someone's crappy basement DIY 'zine. It's radical in its politics, likes to talk about sex, and exposes me to interesting women and cool movements. But there are issues, too. It's a little skimpy on content. I guess the biggest problem is that I feel like an outsider when I read it, and I am, like, the definition of its demographic.
Magazines should invite their audience in - even though I'm not a dude, I occasionally read GQ and have a blast. It's funny to read, handsome to look at, and meaty to hold. Their feature articles are great, long, 8000-word monsters about Iraqi war vets or dramatic rescues at sea. When I read Wired, I feel like the articles I don't really care about - tech reviews! So! Many! Tech reviews! - are balanced by interesting and esoteric articles about things I didn't even know I was curious about. Bust, while it's trying really hard, just leaves me sort of...meh?
The thing is, and I hate myself for even suggesting it, but here we go anyway: Bust isn't hilarious. GQ? Funny. Wired? Funny! Bust? Not so funny. Us chicks already suffer from a dearth of humor in our lives. According to Leah McLaren, it's because we're too busy nursing and being offended at poop jokes. I think she's terrible, but she does have a point: there aren't a ton of ladies out there whose stock in trade is "the funny girl." We're pretty, well-dressed, sexy, honest...but funny? Nah.
Which is boring. And it doesn't have to be that way. I think jokes about breastfeeding are boring and weird, in the same way that I think jokes about buttholes and foreskins are boring and weird. I don't think I'm alone in this, and there are dudes out there whose noses wrinkle up when someone cracks a joke about Dutch ovens. And Bust could totally bust out of their earnest-girl editorial voice and learn how to take a leaner, funnier stance on things. Maybe add a few pages to their feature articles - I was seriously disappointed by the lightweight article about the women who crusade against ladies who watch porn, because that seems insanely interesting - and try for some non-Etsy advertisers. I know ardent Bust readers would loathe changes in their mag, and I feel for them. But Bust has the potential to be a great, powerful counterpoint to Cosmo's ridiculous consumerism: a magazine with a zesty feminist appeal, a smart and funny editorial voice, and that has become a place for women who truly do have something to "get off their chests" a place to be heard and seen.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Hosting With The Most...ing
Come Dine With Me Canada is both gross and grossly addictive. Five strangers throw dinner parties for each other, vying for a thousand bucks in cash and the title of best host. The entrants come from all walks of life, ranging from strippers to florists and from PR professionals and coffee shop owners, and their homes range from designer condos to fake-English cottages. They start as strangers, getting to know each other over the course of the five dinner parties, which comes with its own pitfalls. As we all know from watching other reality programming, the kind of personality that signs up for reality television can be sort of tough to handle, and Come Dine With Me Canada is no exception.
The combination of food, competition and bitchy strangers is kind of perfect. The talking-heads sections, when they interview the contestants individually, are contrasted with the group dynamic. Dishes that are praised to the host's face are trashed in private, and at the end of the night, each contestant rates the host on a scale of one to ten, taking into account the host's entertainments (one woman played the tuba for her guests, leading to barely-contained laughing fits at her expense), cooking chops, and all-over style. The host with the high peer-given marks takes home the cash and the bragging rights.
It's gross – all the disgusting behind-the-scenes mistakes are captured on camera, including entrees that make a pitstop on the kitchen floor and cat hair that gets mixed into the crab cakes. Hosts strive for originality in their presentation, so veal, lamb, and foie gras are prepared, testing guest's ethical commitments. Some folks refuse the dishes, leaving the hosts stranded with hungry, annoyed guests. The flip side is that some guests swallow their morals/taste buds along with the milk-fed veal, leaving them resentful and their hosts blissfully unaware...until the score comes in.
The W Network runs marathons on the weekend, subjecting viewers to the kind of television experience that sort of leaves you pinned to the couch. It's fun, because the contestants are Canadian and the houses that host the parties are scattered throughout the country's cities. It's low-impact reality TV: nobody is bouncing off padded piglets into chocolate "mud" water...although some of the desserts might be described as such.
it's fun to see all the different takes on what "a perfect dinner party" means. For some, the flavour of the evening comes not from what's on the plate, but what's in the mouth: a pithy bon mot is worth its weight in truffle oil. Promptness is key, with many hosts losing points for failing to bring out main courses before midnight. And homemade dishes are essential: cheating with store-bought or pre-mixed is deeply frowned upon. But it also comes from being a gracious host. People fail to engage with their guests, telling "jokes" that aren't funny and guzzling too much booze. And guests behave badly, storming off to smoke snooty cigarettes while the hosts fumble in the kitchen. The show doesn't have an element of sabotage, and guests rate their hosts with an degree of good humour, so rewards often are well-deserved and the host who places last has usually screwed up his evening to a monumental degree.
In a world where the old-fashioned dinner party is sort of on the wane - when's the last time you got invited for a formal sit-down occasion? - it's refreshing to see. Maybe I'm too young to really get invited to all these fancy dinner parties, because the ones I attend are usually some variation on the BYOB vegan potluck. While that's not a bad thing, there are only so many forkfuls of soy cheeze I can muster before I crave a hot dog. Maybe when I get older, my friends and I will start making enough money to be able to afford to dole out the cost of a dinner party - pour the wine, roast the beef, scoop the ice cream, and host the hell out of an evening.
Until then, I'll be taking pointers from these poor unfortunate souls: make sure to serve your guests in a timely fashion, make sure you don't get too drunk while you braise the carrots, and consider food allergies and preferences before you serve up the peanut-encrusted lamb. Moreover, a little graciousness goes a long way. Even if you're a prim-and-proper kind of fella, keeping a game face on when your guests start working blue is hosting with the most. Every dinner party has the element of surprise, be it the roast plopped unceremoniously on the floor or the guest who drinks too much shiraz and vomits in the credenza. Dealing with both with style and aplomb is the mark of a great host, and worth more than a stack of twenties any day of the week.
The combination of food, competition and bitchy strangers is kind of perfect. The talking-heads sections, when they interview the contestants individually, are contrasted with the group dynamic. Dishes that are praised to the host's face are trashed in private, and at the end of the night, each contestant rates the host on a scale of one to ten, taking into account the host's entertainments (one woman played the tuba for her guests, leading to barely-contained laughing fits at her expense), cooking chops, and all-over style. The host with the high peer-given marks takes home the cash and the bragging rights.
It's gross – all the disgusting behind-the-scenes mistakes are captured on camera, including entrees that make a pitstop on the kitchen floor and cat hair that gets mixed into the crab cakes. Hosts strive for originality in their presentation, so veal, lamb, and foie gras are prepared, testing guest's ethical commitments. Some folks refuse the dishes, leaving the hosts stranded with hungry, annoyed guests. The flip side is that some guests swallow their morals/taste buds along with the milk-fed veal, leaving them resentful and their hosts blissfully unaware...until the score comes in.
The W Network runs marathons on the weekend, subjecting viewers to the kind of television experience that sort of leaves you pinned to the couch. It's fun, because the contestants are Canadian and the houses that host the parties are scattered throughout the country's cities. It's low-impact reality TV: nobody is bouncing off padded piglets into chocolate "mud" water...although some of the desserts might be described as such.
it's fun to see all the different takes on what "a perfect dinner party" means. For some, the flavour of the evening comes not from what's on the plate, but what's in the mouth: a pithy bon mot is worth its weight in truffle oil. Promptness is key, with many hosts losing points for failing to bring out main courses before midnight. And homemade dishes are essential: cheating with store-bought or pre-mixed is deeply frowned upon. But it also comes from being a gracious host. People fail to engage with their guests, telling "jokes" that aren't funny and guzzling too much booze. And guests behave badly, storming off to smoke snooty cigarettes while the hosts fumble in the kitchen. The show doesn't have an element of sabotage, and guests rate their hosts with an degree of good humour, so rewards often are well-deserved and the host who places last has usually screwed up his evening to a monumental degree.
In a world where the old-fashioned dinner party is sort of on the wane - when's the last time you got invited for a formal sit-down occasion? - it's refreshing to see. Maybe I'm too young to really get invited to all these fancy dinner parties, because the ones I attend are usually some variation on the BYOB vegan potluck. While that's not a bad thing, there are only so many forkfuls of soy cheeze I can muster before I crave a hot dog. Maybe when I get older, my friends and I will start making enough money to be able to afford to dole out the cost of a dinner party - pour the wine, roast the beef, scoop the ice cream, and host the hell out of an evening.
Until then, I'll be taking pointers from these poor unfortunate souls: make sure to serve your guests in a timely fashion, make sure you don't get too drunk while you braise the carrots, and consider food allergies and preferences before you serve up the peanut-encrusted lamb. Moreover, a little graciousness goes a long way. Even if you're a prim-and-proper kind of fella, keeping a game face on when your guests start working blue is hosting with the most. Every dinner party has the element of surprise, be it the roast plopped unceremoniously on the floor or the guest who drinks too much shiraz and vomits in the credenza. Dealing with both with style and aplomb is the mark of a great host, and worth more than a stack of twenties any day of the week.
Friday, February 18, 2011
The Great Create
This week, in a fit of being broke, bored and emotionally off-kilter - a menstrual period and a full moon in the same seven days? Universe, you can test my patience a little - I wandered into a bookstore just to see the sights. I had already been to one earlier in the week, a discount warehouse that's great for synergistic deals (sometimes, you don't know you need some Buddhist meditations until you're standing in the aisles of your favourite wordery, giving your best thousand-yard stare as your soul flops like a fish on a dock), but I stopped into an actual bookstore, one that sells non-remaindered books, and sort of breathed the air there for a while.
Much like libraries, bookstores are a place of possibility for me. I really like writing this blog, and one day dream of catapulting myself out of the entry-level jobs I've been taking for the past few years and into something a little more, shall we say, creatively-oriented. Writing makes me happy, in a way that solving paper jams in the 400-pound printer does not. Being in a bookstore helps to reawaken those desires, held off and on since high school, to become a Real Live Writer Person.
I'm both lucky and cursed, because I have friends and acquaintances who are out there, writing for actual publications like The Walrus and The Globe and Mail. It makes me smile those weird smiles where your teeth hurt. You know? Where your genuine happiness is edged with grief and jealousy, so the happiness is all corroded and shitty? Yeah. I love my friends, and I'm happy for them, and part of me recognizes that I don't really want those particular bylines (journalism elicits a big fat "naaaaah" out of me, although my friends who have j-school degrees are all doing very well), but some of me is just in agony. I guess part of being a writer-type person is learning how to deal with gut-destroying jealousy, in the same way that nurses get really adept at getting blood clots off their white shoes.
Humans need creative outlets, even if we don't end up being professionally creative. The preponderance of mommy-blogs, crafting magazines, scrapbook clubs, amateur theatre groups, adult choir groups, and other creative niches just goes to show that we, as a species, need a creative outlet. My ex managed to leapfrog from Guitar Hero to member of actual band. A pal of mine collages and makes gorgeous, bizarre paper cutouts. Other folks I know quilt and sew and knit, busying their hands with productive crafts. I write this here blog. I'm not sure if it will ever level-up and I'll get any money for producing words, but that's a question for the Ghost of Bloggers Future.
Creativity is encouraged in childhood: how many classrooms used arts and crafts to teach lessons? I'm thinking about dioramas depicting WWI invasions, or Thanksgiving turkeys made out of brown and yellow construction paper. Kids also naturally engage in creative play, like coming up with imaginary friends. Sending your children to go "play outside," often seen as a desperate last resort for harried parents, opens them up to a world where they make up the characters and the narrative. A dress-up box, a toy truck, a blank sheet of paper: all tools to make sure kids get the kind of make-believe play they need for cognitive development and socialization.
But as we trudge towards adulthood, our creative impulses become curbed, and we're often encouraged to bring creativity to the workplace, where our neural firings make someone else's paycheck. "Think outside the box"? Please. Not that there's anything wrong with being a creative person on the clock, but it often feels like all our talents and creative impulses should be harnessed in order to make some money. Sometimes, a girl just wants to collage.
As I wandered the bookstores this week, it occurred to me that my job doesn't really have any creative component, and that is a bit of an issue. I need balance, as I think most people do: while totally unstructured time leaves me slack-jawed in front of Facebook for nine hours straight, devoting all my energy to rote job functions isn't good, but in a different way. In my next life, I'm going to make creativity in the workplace number one with a bullet, because let's face it: I need it. We all do, really.
Much like libraries, bookstores are a place of possibility for me. I really like writing this blog, and one day dream of catapulting myself out of the entry-level jobs I've been taking for the past few years and into something a little more, shall we say, creatively-oriented. Writing makes me happy, in a way that solving paper jams in the 400-pound printer does not. Being in a bookstore helps to reawaken those desires, held off and on since high school, to become a Real Live Writer Person.
I'm both lucky and cursed, because I have friends and acquaintances who are out there, writing for actual publications like The Walrus and The Globe and Mail. It makes me smile those weird smiles where your teeth hurt. You know? Where your genuine happiness is edged with grief and jealousy, so the happiness is all corroded and shitty? Yeah. I love my friends, and I'm happy for them, and part of me recognizes that I don't really want those particular bylines (journalism elicits a big fat "naaaaah" out of me, although my friends who have j-school degrees are all doing very well), but some of me is just in agony. I guess part of being a writer-type person is learning how to deal with gut-destroying jealousy, in the same way that nurses get really adept at getting blood clots off their white shoes.
Humans need creative outlets, even if we don't end up being professionally creative. The preponderance of mommy-blogs, crafting magazines, scrapbook clubs, amateur theatre groups, adult choir groups, and other creative niches just goes to show that we, as a species, need a creative outlet. My ex managed to leapfrog from Guitar Hero to member of actual band. A pal of mine collages and makes gorgeous, bizarre paper cutouts. Other folks I know quilt and sew and knit, busying their hands with productive crafts. I write this here blog. I'm not sure if it will ever level-up and I'll get any money for producing words, but that's a question for the Ghost of Bloggers Future.
Creativity is encouraged in childhood: how many classrooms used arts and crafts to teach lessons? I'm thinking about dioramas depicting WWI invasions, or Thanksgiving turkeys made out of brown and yellow construction paper. Kids also naturally engage in creative play, like coming up with imaginary friends. Sending your children to go "play outside," often seen as a desperate last resort for harried parents, opens them up to a world where they make up the characters and the narrative. A dress-up box, a toy truck, a blank sheet of paper: all tools to make sure kids get the kind of make-believe play they need for cognitive development and socialization.
But as we trudge towards adulthood, our creative impulses become curbed, and we're often encouraged to bring creativity to the workplace, where our neural firings make someone else's paycheck. "Think outside the box"? Please. Not that there's anything wrong with being a creative person on the clock, but it often feels like all our talents and creative impulses should be harnessed in order to make some money. Sometimes, a girl just wants to collage.
As I wandered the bookstores this week, it occurred to me that my job doesn't really have any creative component, and that is a bit of an issue. I need balance, as I think most people do: while totally unstructured time leaves me slack-jawed in front of Facebook for nine hours straight, devoting all my energy to rote job functions isn't good, but in a different way. In my next life, I'm going to make creativity in the workplace number one with a bullet, because let's face it: I need it. We all do, really.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Love In The Time Of Valentine's Day
All right, let's get this over with. Valentine's Day is upon us, so let us make the traditional noises of contempt and get back to our regularly scheduled programming. Pink and red? Lame. Hearts? Barf. Candy and flowers? Snore. We all know the drill: Valentine's Day is a soulless Hallmark holiday created by merchandisers to fatten up the February sales ledger and hook millions of unsuspecting consumers into buying crap they don't need for people they probably don't even really love. Right? Okay. Where are my Cheetos??
Confession time: I secretly sort of like Valentine's Day. Not for the hype, and not for the pressure. We all know there's a lot of pressure around V-Day. If you're single, pop culture tries to make you feel like a total loser for not being able to get in on all the his-and-hers gifts, and like not dating someone is the K.O.D. for your social life. I've been single for most of my adult-life Valentine's Days, and there is a humiliation that comes out around that date. And it's not easy if you're in a relationship, either: finding a great gift that reflects your exact level of love/commitment is apparently like wading through water infested with tiny, romantically inclined sharks. One false move and you lose a toe....and you're sleeping on the couch.
When I was a kid, I used to come downstairs on February 14th to find a valentine from my mom waiting on the kitchen counter. It usually came with a little gift - a water bottle or a book, a thoughtful token of affection that just said, "Hey, kiddo, I love you, and I thought of you." To me, that is the beginning and end of what I want from Valentine's Day, and if I don't get it, it's not a disaster. My mom has given me a lot of love and a lot of traditions, and celebrating both with my parents (and one day, my kids) is the best kind of Valentine I could imagine.
It's weird that this whole mid-winter sub-industry of folks shilling lingerie, jewelry, flowers and sweets. To be honest, I'm not friends with a lot of buy-me-things women (you know the type: the girls who post pictures of their engagement rings on Facebook, who have a collection of party dresses from all the formals they attended when they were in a sorority, and who instinctively understand how bridal registries work. My genetic heritage includes a father who was once photographed wearing a ringer tee emblazoned with the slogan "Walkerton: where the men are men and the sheep are nervous" and a mom who sewed her own wedding dress. I come from granola-hipster stock, and man, I have done my parents proud), so I am a little mystified by how, exactly, one is supposed to "celebrate" your love for your mate by simultaneously wearing tiny clothes and eating fatty foods. I feel like V-Day is for folks who don't know how to use their words: the best thing a person can hear on Valentine's Day - and any other freaking day - is "I love having you in my life, and I adore the person you are, and I feel like a better person when I'm with you."
Can we make a pact? I don't want chocolate or flowers, and I really don't want an undergarment that incorporates a heart shape into its design. I feel that the insanity of Valentine's Day can be mitigated by a collective acknowledgment that nearly everyone has some kind of love in their life, be it romantic, familial, platonic, unrequited, or the special kind of love a man feels for a side of extra-crispy bacon. Can we just back up and celebrate those, too? And, uh, can we do it all year long?
Confession time: I secretly sort of like Valentine's Day. Not for the hype, and not for the pressure. We all know there's a lot of pressure around V-Day. If you're single, pop culture tries to make you feel like a total loser for not being able to get in on all the his-and-hers gifts, and like not dating someone is the K.O.D. for your social life. I've been single for most of my adult-life Valentine's Days, and there is a humiliation that comes out around that date. And it's not easy if you're in a relationship, either: finding a great gift that reflects your exact level of love/commitment is apparently like wading through water infested with tiny, romantically inclined sharks. One false move and you lose a toe....and you're sleeping on the couch.
When I was a kid, I used to come downstairs on February 14th to find a valentine from my mom waiting on the kitchen counter. It usually came with a little gift - a water bottle or a book, a thoughtful token of affection that just said, "Hey, kiddo, I love you, and I thought of you." To me, that is the beginning and end of what I want from Valentine's Day, and if I don't get it, it's not a disaster. My mom has given me a lot of love and a lot of traditions, and celebrating both with my parents (and one day, my kids) is the best kind of Valentine I could imagine.
It's weird that this whole mid-winter sub-industry of folks shilling lingerie, jewelry, flowers and sweets. To be honest, I'm not friends with a lot of buy-me-things women (you know the type: the girls who post pictures of their engagement rings on Facebook, who have a collection of party dresses from all the formals they attended when they were in a sorority, and who instinctively understand how bridal registries work. My genetic heritage includes a father who was once photographed wearing a ringer tee emblazoned with the slogan "Walkerton: where the men are men and the sheep are nervous" and a mom who sewed her own wedding dress. I come from granola-hipster stock, and man, I have done my parents proud), so I am a little mystified by how, exactly, one is supposed to "celebrate" your love for your mate by simultaneously wearing tiny clothes and eating fatty foods. I feel like V-Day is for folks who don't know how to use their words: the best thing a person can hear on Valentine's Day - and any other freaking day - is "I love having you in my life, and I adore the person you are, and I feel like a better person when I'm with you."
Can we make a pact? I don't want chocolate or flowers, and I really don't want an undergarment that incorporates a heart shape into its design. I feel that the insanity of Valentine's Day can be mitigated by a collective acknowledgment that nearly everyone has some kind of love in their life, be it romantic, familial, platonic, unrequited, or the special kind of love a man feels for a side of extra-crispy bacon. Can we just back up and celebrate those, too? And, uh, can we do it all year long?
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