So, the first season of The Republic of Doyle is done and dusted. The vacuum-tubes that comprise the CBC over-mind have deigned to renew it for a second season, but they haven't even begun to shoot that. It'll be Winter 2011 before we'll see anything new from the Republic. That's a lot of mullin' time. Until then, you can watch all twelve of the already-aireds via the link above.
So I s'pose it's time to get me review on b'ys.
Maybe I should start by explaining why I think Republic of Doyle is important. See, it's a comedy/drama detective show (let me get one statutory obligation out of the way: "like the Rockford Files!"), except it's set in North America's easternmost/oldest/charmingest town, Olde St. John's (Sin Jawns). Other than looking bloody flipping gawgeous (the camera crew deserves a medal), a show like this, with a Newfoundland setting, peopled with Newfoundland characters, is doing something really important.
What's that? Well: it's a Newfoundland show that is unmistakably a Newfoundland show, but the point of the show isn't that it's a Newfoundland show. Um. Did I say that in a way that's at all clear? No? Maybe if I say the words 'show' and 'Newfoundland' a few more times in close proximity.
In the past, there's been tv shows set / filmed here. Usually the NFLD card is played so hard all the other cards get lost in the shuffle or go flying off the table (and I'll be abandoning the 'deck of cards' metaphor about now, thanking it for its loyal service).
A lot of people have become annoyed by this. Particularly galling is how the cultural differences between NFLD and the Rest Of Canada were too often the punchline or the point. Imagine if the only representation of Welsh people in UK media was the fortnightly "Laughing At Welsh People (They Talk So Funny And Are So Thick) Variety Hour." It'd be a problem!
Shows like Codco and 22 Minutes did great service as political and cultural satire, and they often used Newfoundland's unique culture to do it. But it was many years before I realized that my laugh, a laugh of recognition and identification, was very different from the mainland laugh, which was often a laughing at.
This is one reason I am so glad that Doyle strikes the difficult but desperately needed balance, in terms of its cultural representation. The show is not shy about its Newfoundlandishness, but it's rarely unrealistically played up. I'd say the show is mature about its cultural depiction. It's not cringing and it's not blaring. It just feels naturally Newfoundland, even when it's being silly about it. It's a show that uses its setting, that would be fundamentally different if it was set somewhere else, but it's not a show about the place where it's set. I'm marooned in Toronto and I'm just as happy to see that as I am to see the colourful streetscapes and bleak hills of home.
Pardon me, got a bit sentimental there.
Anyway, I'll shove that all aside for the vitalest of vitals: is the show any bloody good?
Yes? I suppose? Thinking of the 12 episodes as a whole, I feel kindly disposed toward the series. It had a shaky start (the pilot was . . . mixed) and some less impressive episodes along the way. But it also had some really wonderful episodes too, and as a whole, from start to finish, it has a direction, it follows a line of development.
My personal choices for besties, as far as episodes go? In the order they aired: 4 (wrongful conviction, the brothers from Shea Heights with the senile mother) for the acting and the story; 9 (stolen Ziggy's chip truck and 709 Click) for the comedy and the development of Des's character; 12 (the finale) because Republic of Doyle put a lot on the table in just 11 episodes and managed to make it all come together in a way that was meaningful and affecting. It's a big cast, and, in that final episode, none of them felt superfluous; all of them seemed changed by the events preceding.
Maybe the accomplishment the Doyle crew can feel proudest of, though, is the show's ability to shift between comedy, drama, and suspense faster than a chameleon on amphetamines (if . . . those things . . . were colours?).
Early in the run, a lot of people (oh fuck it, mea culpa, it was me and my friends) made jokes about the ubiquitous "OH YEAH!" With every cut to commercial, this snippit of the themesong would play: a very Kool-Aid Man voice exclaims "Oh Yeah!" over a jaunty guitar cadence. Oh yeah!
Jake awkwardly witnesses a scene of elder abuse. OH YEAH!
They found a dead girl's body in the trunk of a car. OH YEAH!!
But this actually became forgivable as this strength within the show emerged: the light-hearted and the serious co-mingle in a way you rarely, rarely see, and the jarring "Oh Yeahs!" just might start to make sense. Even Buffy the Vampire Slayer, at times melodramatic and at times supremely silly, was more finnicky about keeping the show's two dominant moods distinct from each other. Not so Doyle.
By the time the finale came around, Republic of Doyle was flipping between an impressive pool of blood, an anxious hospital bedside, and the antics of Desmond Courtney PI and his charming assistant Tinny (Des, something like the show's mascot, can best be described as the charmingest idiot savant you've ever seen. Mark O'Brien plays him, and damn if I couldn't set my watch by his comedic timing).
So what else did I like? Toot toot, here comes the praise train.
Constable (later Sergeant) Leslie Bennet grew tremendously. I remember, after watching the first episode, thinking that Krystin Pellerin's inspiration for the character might have been a mannequin. A mannequin made out of wood. An annoying wooden mannequin. Yes, that seemed about right.
I trolled online and found someone arguing, in response to similar sentiments, that Pellerin was actually quite a talented actress. Anonymous Internet Person speculated that the wooden performance in the pilot might have been prompted by strange directorial choices. It must've been, because, as the series went on, Leslie Bennet became more charismatic and likeable, even as she showed herself to be tough, principled, and observant. All dues to Pellerin. Her performance stood out in a final episode that was full of highlights. Plus, she's some hand to sing.
And how about Rose? What a gift of a character we have in Rose. Lynda Boyd took what could have been a stock "MILF with plot-convenient tech skills" secondary character and injected edge and verve into almost every scene she appeared in. Turning from warm and maternal to deadly and menacing on a dime, Rose is intriguing, complex, unpredictable. Boyd made me care about this woman, and that's why I was so creeped out when a certain bad business from Rose's past burbled up to haunt her mid-season; that's why I felt a catch in my throat at several points during the finale.
Finally, once again: the camera people should be getting a stipend from the Department of Tourism. They take what is a pretty town surrounded by a dramatic landscape and turn it into something gorgeous. Establishing shots never failed to impress, and the colour saturation made the downtown look luscious. A+, A+, A+, consistently wonderful, you have thousands of homesick hearts aching on a weekly basis.
As for season two? A stronger focus on the writing would be nice. When the show let me down (I watched it in some very critical company), it was the writing that betrayed. The dialogue is fine -- more than fine -- it's the plots that're the problem. Sometimes they're obvious (I am not at all a clever person, so if I can spot whodunnit 15 minutes into the show then there's a problem). Sometimes they're just . . . confusing, in a low-level way. Like the episode with the stolen racehorse and the groom whose finger gets chopped off ("lost your ring finger to pay for your wedding, total Gift of the Magi" - Des, you're a shining light). I'm still not sure I understood what the point of that entire hour of television was, but it wasn't that there was too much to grasp -- it was that there wasn't enough.
A final, selfish criticism: I'd like to see a few trips outside of the proverbial overpass. The brief jaunt to St. Pierre et Miquelon in Episode 5 (feat. Gordon Pinsent, national treasure and voice of Babar), was nice, but . . . eeeeeeuh. I thought they could have made more of it. Other than plot convenience (this is how the rum smuggler has stayed out of RCMP hands for decades), it felt like St. Pierre didn't even need to be in the episode at all.
When I was in Grade 11, I was left out of the annual school trip to St. Pierre, despite my mastery of the passé composé. They had limited funds and could only take, say, 3/4 of the class. They chose names from a hat with no regard to merit or worthiness, outraging all sense of fairness when "Miss, what does je mean" got a magical long weekend on the French Isles while I sat bereft with my futur proche.
I hoped Doyle & Doyle's visit to St. Pierre would be a bit of a surrogate experience, a soothing balm for this old wound, but alas! All we got was a couple of brief exterior shots and M. Pinsent gnawing the scenery into a delightful textured foam.
Anyway, my point is: the show's been awful St John's-centric. Charming town, miss it to bits (check the new blog banner), but maybe you could go down to Ferryland or over to Placentia or something in Season 2, b'ys. That'd be nice.
I'll see ye in Winter 2011.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
cough
So I figured I should reboot this thing and actually, you know, use it.
I've just looked at the blog itself for the first time in almost nine months. 26 bloody comments on the last entry?!
About two dozen are from spam robots (one devised the clever soubriquet 'James F Collins.' I didn't know I had fake relatives in the online poker racket). I should really delete the spam comments (spamments?). But I find them weirdly charming. I like the best the ones that read like dada-esque poetry. Each impressed album, ship and flash change as popularity searching for take characteristics. Yes, definitely.
I've just looked at the blog itself for the first time in almost nine months. 26 bloody comments on the last entry?!
About two dozen are from spam robots (one devised the clever soubriquet 'James F Collins.' I didn't know I had fake relatives in the online poker racket). I should really delete the spam comments (spamments?). But I find them weirdly charming. I like the best the ones that read like dada-esque poetry. Each impressed album, ship and flash change as popularity searching for take characteristics. Yes, definitely.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Potential Excerpt
"Ten Newfoundland Towns," as it exists now, is a very fragmentary text. There are branches which may be pruned before it takes on its final form. Here is one such branch:
"There's so much clutter in this house," my cousin says. "It's turning into vernacular architecture." We are in the kitchen.
My Aunt, whose clutter it is, is a folklorist who has published on the subject. "You are what you write," I say, pouring a glass of water.
"Or you write what you are." She flips the statement. It's simple logic. If a equals b, b equals a.
"Write what you know?" I offer, lamely. Not quite the same thing. "I suppose you can't go wrong." My tongue is on autopilot now. Write what you know. Not an instruction, but a statement of fact. Writers are great fakers but deep down they have to know what they're faking. You are incapable of writing what you don't know. At least that's how I think of it.
I think about what I've written. It gives me pause. It seems to me I know absolutely nothing, or, potentially, I have moments where I know everything, but then I forget almost all of it.
The truth is probably between these two things and much less grandiose than either. We are all muddlers under the sun. That is something I often tell myself, more for comfort than anything else.
So what do I know? If you read what I've written, what do I know?
I know the world is strange and subtle. I know the limit to connections is not their number, but one's ability to perceive them. I know each human heart has a contradiction or two (or more, usually more) at its core. I know family is perverse and inescapable. I know personality is performance. I know that all things that can happen probably do happen. I know identity is largely contextual.
There are a lot of other things I'd like to add to the list, but my certainty has run out. We are all muddlers under the sun.
"There's so much clutter in this house," my cousin says. "It's turning into vernacular architecture." We are in the kitchen.
My Aunt, whose clutter it is, is a folklorist who has published on the subject. "You are what you write," I say, pouring a glass of water.
"Or you write what you are." She flips the statement. It's simple logic. If a equals b, b equals a.
"Write what you know?" I offer, lamely. Not quite the same thing. "I suppose you can't go wrong." My tongue is on autopilot now. Write what you know. Not an instruction, but a statement of fact. Writers are great fakers but deep down they have to know what they're faking. You are incapable of writing what you don't know. At least that's how I think of it.
I think about what I've written. It gives me pause. It seems to me I know absolutely nothing, or, potentially, I have moments where I know everything, but then I forget almost all of it.
The truth is probably between these two things and much less grandiose than either. We are all muddlers under the sun. That is something I often tell myself, more for comfort than anything else.
So what do I know? If you read what I've written, what do I know?
I know the world is strange and subtle. I know the limit to connections is not their number, but one's ability to perceive them. I know each human heart has a contradiction or two (or more, usually more) at its core. I know family is perverse and inescapable. I know personality is performance. I know that all things that can happen probably do happen. I know identity is largely contextual.
There are a lot of other things I'd like to add to the list, but my certainty has run out. We are all muddlers under the sun.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Ten Newfoundland Towns Excerpt: Fogo
From Ten Newfoundland Towns (draft), "Fogo":
It is so cold today. I leave the bed and breakfast and make my way through a wind-blasted morning, cold wind that takes the blood from my fingers, rips tears from my eyes. I make my way up the deserted street. Tourist season isn't over, but it's winding down. I make my way around the harbour, going toward Bleak House. A black shape in the distance becomes a dog as I approach. I'm nervous of loose dogs, but this fellow, the first pedestrian I've met, is like the street dogs I knew in Ireland. He's used to his freedom, he's calm in it, sees no need to rush around frantic, knows I'm not a friend but not a threat. We are fellow creatures on a street.
We meet on the bridge, where tides swap twice a day, ocean to harbour, harbour to ocean. He regards me as we walk past each other, like an old skipper doing the signature skyward chin jerk, a move I've never mastered. People used to real freedom need not glory in it, need not exercise it to its maximum at all moments. They just exist in it, as fish exist in water. This dog is like that. I am like that.
We live in luxury, he and I.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
From "Twillingate"
Excerpt from Ten Newfoundland Towns (working title), "Twillingate":
It is possible for a mystic to go through life unacknowledged as such, not seeking attention, having no missionary zeal, quietly feeling revelations and forging new paths of thought as he or she walks alongside the road, a decent smallish lunch quietly digesting, an unremarkable sun over head, good air in good lungs.
It is possible for a mystic to go through life unacknowledged as such, not seeking attention, having no missionary zeal, quietly feeling revelations and forging new paths of thought as he or she walks alongside the road, a decent smallish lunch quietly digesting, an unremarkable sun over head, good air in good lungs.
Ten Newfoundland Towns
So, the award-winning-but-not-even-completed "Ten Towns" project (yes such a thing is possible) is drawing to a close. At least, the first draft is. After that's done, who knows what?
It seems likely that I'd send excerpts to the places such as the Newfoundland Quarterly, but of course they may not wish to publish them. It seems sensible that I should ask companies such as Creative if they'd like a peek at the manuscript. It is necessary that I tell the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council that I've finally finished and explain to them how I spent their money.
I know one thing for sure. In the weeks to come, I will be posting excerpts from the first draft here on this blog.
Ferryland, Brigus, Trinity, Bonavista, Harbour Grace, Carbonear, Placentia, Grand Bank, Twillingate, and Fogo will all be represented. Look out for them.
It seems likely that I'd send excerpts to the places such as the Newfoundland Quarterly, but of course they may not wish to publish them. It seems sensible that I should ask companies such as Creative if they'd like a peek at the manuscript. It is necessary that I tell the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council that I've finally finished and explain to them how I spent their money.
I know one thing for sure. In the weeks to come, I will be posting excerpts from the first draft here on this blog.
Ferryland, Brigus, Trinity, Bonavista, Harbour Grace, Carbonear, Placentia, Grand Bank, Twillingate, and Fogo will all be represented. Look out for them.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Gee, what kind of a fool kept this blog?
I don't know, I feel like I should resume posting, but perhaps in a more focused manner.
People have asked me to start a book blog. I'm beginning a PhD at University of Toronto in the fall, and a book blog might help me to organize my thoughts on what I'm reading.
I've often wanted to start a "pithy review of a single song" daily music blog. Maybe Comical Hell Sin can become that and the book blog can be a new entity.
But then, "Comical Hell Sin" is/was partially a blog for my nascent writing career. I am puzzled. In the last six months, I pretty much ceased posting about that. In that same time, I actually started to succeed as a writer. I have a steady reviewing gig now, a short story pending publication, an actual award under my belt, a major project nearing completion, etc. I didn't post about any of that. I haven't even put links up to my articles, when they appear online.
It's like, when I stopped blogging, I started succeeding. Is there a lesson here? Maybe I can paraphrase Yoda: "do or do not, there is no blog."
I don't know, I feel like I should resume posting, but perhaps in a more focused manner.
People have asked me to start a book blog. I'm beginning a PhD at University of Toronto in the fall, and a book blog might help me to organize my thoughts on what I'm reading.
I've often wanted to start a "pithy review of a single song" daily music blog. Maybe Comical Hell Sin can become that and the book blog can be a new entity.
But then, "Comical Hell Sin" is/was partially a blog for my nascent writing career. I am puzzled. In the last six months, I pretty much ceased posting about that. In that same time, I actually started to succeed as a writer. I have a steady reviewing gig now, a short story pending publication, an actual award under my belt, a major project nearing completion, etc. I didn't post about any of that. I haven't even put links up to my articles, when they appear online.
It's like, when I stopped blogging, I started succeeding. Is there a lesson here? Maybe I can paraphrase Yoda: "do or do not, there is no blog."
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Let's ditch the 49th
I sometimes get a little miffed at the casual use of "the 49th parallel" to denote the Canada/US border.
It's a handy reference because you have that unbroken line from Lake of the Woods west to BC staring you in the face whenever you look at a map, but the 49th is an essentially meaningless line east of there. I'll demonstrate.
All of the Great Lakes, the entire Windsor-Quebec corridor, all of New Brunswick, PEI, and Nova Scotia, and a majority of the island of Newfoundland are actually south of the 49th. Even a lot of logging and mining towns in 'north' Ontario and Quebec come in south of the line. By my rough calculations, it adds up to almost 20 million people, which means almost 2/3 of Canadians live below the magic line that supposedly delinates us from the dread them.
As far as I can figure it, the most substantial settlements north of 49 in Eastern Canada are Sept-Iles and baie-Comeau, which, at about 25,000 each, are hardly comparable to a Winnipeg or an Edmonton. Saguenay, Timmins, Corner Brook, and others come close, but they all end up at 48.whatever north.
I know this is ignoring how Canadian identity is so often tied up with the frozen north and such (even though most of us live as far south as our part of the country will permit us to), but it's still a point I wanted to make. I want to make it bad enough that I spent 20 minutes in Google Earth and 5 minutes in MS Paint! That is a large investment of time, these days.
It's a handy reference because you have that unbroken line from Lake of the Woods west to BC staring you in the face whenever you look at a map, but the 49th is an essentially meaningless line east of there. I'll demonstrate.
All of the Great Lakes, the entire Windsor-Quebec corridor, all of New Brunswick, PEI, and Nova Scotia, and a majority of the island of Newfoundland are actually south of the 49th. Even a lot of logging and mining towns in 'north' Ontario and Quebec come in south of the line. By my rough calculations, it adds up to almost 20 million people, which means almost 2/3 of Canadians live below the magic line that supposedly delinates us from the dread them.
As far as I can figure it, the most substantial settlements north of 49 in Eastern Canada are Sept-Iles and baie-Comeau, which, at about 25,000 each, are hardly comparable to a Winnipeg or an Edmonton. Saguenay, Timmins, Corner Brook, and others come close, but they all end up at 48.whatever north.
I know this is ignoring how Canadian identity is so often tied up with the frozen north and such (even though most of us live as far south as our part of the country will permit us to), but it's still a point I wanted to make. I want to make it bad enough that I spent 20 minutes in Google Earth and 5 minutes in MS Paint! That is a large investment of time, these days.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas in the Harbour (not literally)
If Christmas Eve actually did come into contact with St. John's harbour, some terrible mutant supervillain holiday would result. No one wants that, especially with Easter running amock ever since it got exposed to that gamma radiation.
Anyhoo. I drove to work even though it is 905 feet from my house to the hotel (thank you, Google Earth). I had put off leaving until it was too late to walk and be on time, and the sidewalks were that special kind of ice with cold water on top of it, so when you fall and fracture a bone you also get hypothermia to help take your mind off the pain. How considerate. Also I wish to deplete our fossil fuel reserves as quickly as possible. It's like pulling off a bandaid guys. Do your part.
The Crazy Horse, St. John's finest strip club in the category of "Back Entrance With 'No Trespassing' Sign With Angry Barking Dog Silhouette On It," was open. A dude stood on the step smoking on a cigarette. The neon 'OPEN' sign was doing that thing it does, where it goes "OPEN" and then spells "O-P-E-N" for people who need to slowly sound words out when they read.
One assumes there were ladies doing exotic dances inside and dudes there to watch them. It was 28 minutes until Christmas Day. The birth of our Lard was nigh; I imagine Mary was probably breathin' pretty heavy by this point, at least (really, the manger fable is so sanitized and clean even though the filthiness and lowness of the goings on is supposedly part of the whole mythos. Who here has actually wondered about the labour? A bloody placenta on a dungy floor? Maybe there is a short story waiting there. Or maybe someone has already written it. Our Post-Modern Age.)
I went to a United Church x-mas eve service with my Aunt and Uncle. I am complacent when it comes to soft liberal protestantism; it was interesting. Lots of singing, which I like, but many of the songs were in a difficult key so I kept dropping an octave or jumping an octave. I kept waiting for majesty and grandeur and crushing guilt, like a good Catholic, but mostly it was quite chill and low-key. I can see how this sort of thing is the spiritual bread and butter of the comfortable middle-upper class.
The congregation's children had made the story of Jesus's birth "Canadian" by having their pagent re-enact not Bethlehem, but the Huron Carol ("twas in the moon of winter-time when all the birds had fled") etc. I get nervous whenever earnest white Canadians casually appropriate indigenous culture as a placeholder for their own identity (augh! you aren't native! augh! stop putting inukshuks outside the airport!). The narrator referred to "Indians" and the costumes were more Great Plains and "there was no room in the teepee" (guys I think the Hurons had longhouses) and the language was simplified to an insulting level.
It was all surreally offensive. Surreal because their intentions were clearly so earnest and pure, like no one had taken them aside to suggest how ludicrously racist the proceedings were. Like even if someone had, the organizers would be hurt and upset and not understand what the issue was. So I couldn't build up a head of outraged steam and didn't try. It was a strange thing to witness all the same.
I wonder if anyone has ever done a nativity pagent in blackface. The Three Wise Pimps. It could work.
I hope you have had a magical Christmas. Mine has had a kind of magic so far but not the kind you see in holiday specials or hall-mark cards. It's OK, though. I've always taken what magic the world sees fit to provide me with.
Anyhoo. I drove to work even though it is 905 feet from my house to the hotel (thank you, Google Earth). I had put off leaving until it was too late to walk and be on time, and the sidewalks were that special kind of ice with cold water on top of it, so when you fall and fracture a bone you also get hypothermia to help take your mind off the pain. How considerate. Also I wish to deplete our fossil fuel reserves as quickly as possible. It's like pulling off a bandaid guys. Do your part.
The Crazy Horse, St. John's finest strip club in the category of "Back Entrance With 'No Trespassing' Sign With Angry Barking Dog Silhouette On It," was open. A dude stood on the step smoking on a cigarette. The neon 'OPEN' sign was doing that thing it does, where it goes "OPEN" and then spells "O-P-E-N" for people who need to slowly sound words out when they read.
One assumes there were ladies doing exotic dances inside and dudes there to watch them. It was 28 minutes until Christmas Day. The birth of our Lard was nigh; I imagine Mary was probably breathin' pretty heavy by this point, at least (really, the manger fable is so sanitized and clean even though the filthiness and lowness of the goings on is supposedly part of the whole mythos. Who here has actually wondered about the labour? A bloody placenta on a dungy floor? Maybe there is a short story waiting there. Or maybe someone has already written it. Our Post-Modern Age.)
I went to a United Church x-mas eve service with my Aunt and Uncle. I am complacent when it comes to soft liberal protestantism; it was interesting. Lots of singing, which I like, but many of the songs were in a difficult key so I kept dropping an octave or jumping an octave. I kept waiting for majesty and grandeur and crushing guilt, like a good Catholic, but mostly it was quite chill and low-key. I can see how this sort of thing is the spiritual bread and butter of the comfortable middle-upper class.
The congregation's children had made the story of Jesus's birth "Canadian" by having their pagent re-enact not Bethlehem, but the Huron Carol ("twas in the moon of winter-time when all the birds had fled") etc. I get nervous whenever earnest white Canadians casually appropriate indigenous culture as a placeholder for their own identity (augh! you aren't native! augh! stop putting inukshuks outside the airport!). The narrator referred to "Indians" and the costumes were more Great Plains and "there was no room in the teepee" (guys I think the Hurons had longhouses) and the language was simplified to an insulting level.
It was all surreally offensive. Surreal because their intentions were clearly so earnest and pure, like no one had taken them aside to suggest how ludicrously racist the proceedings were. Like even if someone had, the organizers would be hurt and upset and not understand what the issue was. So I couldn't build up a head of outraged steam and didn't try. It was a strange thing to witness all the same.
I wonder if anyone has ever done a nativity pagent in blackface. The Three Wise Pimps. It could work.
I hope you have had a magical Christmas. Mine has had a kind of magic so far but not the kind you see in holiday specials or hall-mark cards. It's OK, though. I've always taken what magic the world sees fit to provide me with.
Monday, November 3, 2008
I have to stop reading the comment section on CBC.ca news stories.
In general, there's five parts ignorance and poor rhetoric for every one part insightful and informed comment. Maybe me thinking the CBC attracted a higher-brow sort was just a comforting illusion held by the intellectual bourgeoisie. That's OK. I can let that go. Lord knows other misconceptions of its species have slipped away over the years.
But it's the news stories pertaining to Newfoundland and Labrador --- and particularly the reader comments that follow --- that really have me ready to throw in the proverbial towel.
There are altogether too many comments that out-and-out REVEL in any hint of misfortune befalling the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. These folk want us to fail. Not only that, they want us to suffer. Even when they call us a crowd of welfare bums and equalization leeches, they want us kept poor and miserable (cognitive dissonance doesn't seem to trouble this sort of person).
It's shocking how common it is on there. I'm talking multiple instances for every news article.
Some of the commentators take a distinct anti-Danny Williams tone, as if the sins of one must be paid for by the 508,000-odd souls he governs --- or maybe we're being punished for having the audacity to approve of him. In either case, this schadenfreude is disturbing. I hated Mike Harris and Ralph Klein, but I never wished ill on the people of Ontario or Alberta.
EDIT: Based on a comment, I want to make sure the preceding paragraph isn't misread. Danny Williams is not exempt from criticism, clearly. I don't want to conflate the man with the province he was elected to lead. My point was, certain CBC commentators have done just that. They seem to justify their glee at the prospect of economic hardship for the province with their antipathy for the Premier. I find that kind of schadenfreude disturbing. END EDIT
Other commentators go for the tried and true ethnic stereotype route. Substitute "Polacks" for "Newfs" or "Newfies" and you've got 1950's America. Try "Mexicans" and it updates the look. I'm sure most of these people consider themselves multicultural, open-minded, tolerant sorts. Do they, then, lack all self-awareness when they call "Newfs" stupid, lazy, and worthless?
This "AUGH! NO MORE!" blog entry was sparked by a story and comments I read today. It isn't the most virulent example, but it is the handiest to link.
NFLD's economy might shrink up to 3% next year. Comments include:
And then they'll take offense when a Newfoundlander expresses any form of nationalist sentiment . . . I'd put money on it.
Listen, guys, it's really hard to feel a part of a country that shows such open hatred and disdain for you.
I realize these are a noisy minority, but still. I almost wrote a small noisy minority, but my experiences in the rest of Canada makes me fear a milder, more passive form of disdain is common. Not held by a majority (I'd say most are apathetic and ignorant when it comes to NFLD, which is better than active dislike), but still common.
It leaves a sour taste in one's mouth and a sick flutter of anxiety in one's chest.
In general, there's five parts ignorance and poor rhetoric for every one part insightful and informed comment. Maybe me thinking the CBC attracted a higher-brow sort was just a comforting illusion held by the intellectual bourgeoisie. That's OK. I can let that go. Lord knows other misconceptions of its species have slipped away over the years.
But it's the news stories pertaining to Newfoundland and Labrador --- and particularly the reader comments that follow --- that really have me ready to throw in the proverbial towel.
There are altogether too many comments that out-and-out REVEL in any hint of misfortune befalling the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. These folk want us to fail. Not only that, they want us to suffer. Even when they call us a crowd of welfare bums and equalization leeches, they want us kept poor and miserable (cognitive dissonance doesn't seem to trouble this sort of person).
It's shocking how common it is on there. I'm talking multiple instances for every news article.
Some of the commentators take a distinct anti-Danny Williams tone, as if the sins of one must be paid for by the 508,000-odd souls he governs --- or maybe we're being punished for having the audacity to approve of him. In either case, this schadenfreude is disturbing. I hated Mike Harris and Ralph Klein, but I never wished ill on the people of Ontario or Alberta.
EDIT: Based on a comment, I want to make sure the preceding paragraph isn't misread. Danny Williams is not exempt from criticism, clearly. I don't want to conflate the man with the province he was elected to lead. My point was, certain CBC commentators have done just that. They seem to justify their glee at the prospect of economic hardship for the province with their antipathy for the Premier. I find that kind of schadenfreude disturbing. END EDIT
Other commentators go for the tried and true ethnic stereotype route. Substitute "Polacks" for "Newfs" or "Newfies" and you've got 1950's America. Try "Mexicans" and it updates the look. I'm sure most of these people consider themselves multicultural, open-minded, tolerant sorts. Do they, then, lack all self-awareness when they call "Newfs" stupid, lazy, and worthless?
This "AUGH! NO MORE!" blog entry was sparked by a story and comments I read today. It isn't the most virulent example, but it is the handiest to link.
NFLD's economy might shrink up to 3% next year. Comments include:
- Good ol Danny boy will lay blame on the Federal Conservatives to get a handout . All the Newfs will come to Ontario, work their 900 hours, then go home and collect EI the rest of the year Problem solved!
- To all the newfies who are trumpeting how good their economy is, are you ready to give up your welfare/equalization cheques? Seems odd that Ontario should have to keep funding your welfare cheques.
And then they'll take offense when a Newfoundlander expresses any form of nationalist sentiment . . . I'd put money on it.
Listen, guys, it's really hard to feel a part of a country that shows such open hatred and disdain for you.
I realize these are a noisy minority, but still. I almost wrote a small noisy minority, but my experiences in the rest of Canada makes me fear a milder, more passive form of disdain is common. Not held by a majority (I'd say most are apathetic and ignorant when it comes to NFLD, which is better than active dislike), but still common.
It leaves a sour taste in one's mouth and a sick flutter of anxiety in one's chest.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Think of the Canadian Confederation as a big family. It's a pretty common metaphorical recourse.
You've got Papa Ontario and Mama Quebec and I suppose the other provinces are their siblings or adult children.
But then you've got Newfoundland, who, for years and years, was the old man bachelor boarder in the basement apartment. Sometimes he'd bang on his ceiling (your floor) and yell "come near at your peril, Canadian wolf!" and children were often frightened by his eccentric and solitary ways.
But in 1949, he moved up into the family home, started taking his meals at the family table, began depositing and withdrawing from the Canada family's bank account (and, despite tut-tuts from Papa Ontario and Brother Alberta, the old man contributes quite a bit).
He's got different blood and different ways and different pasts, but over the years he's become accepted into the family. Still, you don't know much about him. Maybe Aunt Nova Scotia was an acquaintance of his back before the house was built? Anyway, most of the family have even learned how to say his name correctly (neurotic outbursts of "LAND! LAND! newf'nLAND!" are rarer and rarer).
But if you're Canadian and you've ever wondered about the old codger, what his life was like before he was adopted into your family, where he came from, why he is the way he is and why that way is not like your way, and how did he come to live with you all the same anyway . . . there are a couple of books you must read.
1.) The Colony of Unrequited Dreams by Wayne Johnston.
2.) Random Passage by Bernice Morgan.
Go! Read them now, Canada! You will learn something about Old Man Newfoundland, and you'll enjoy it while you're at it, because the fella has been around the block a few times and he surely know how to spin a good yarn.
You've got Papa Ontario and Mama Quebec and I suppose the other provinces are their siblings or adult children.
But then you've got Newfoundland, who, for years and years, was the old man bachelor boarder in the basement apartment. Sometimes he'd bang on his ceiling (your floor) and yell "come near at your peril, Canadian wolf!" and children were often frightened by his eccentric and solitary ways.
But in 1949, he moved up into the family home, started taking his meals at the family table, began depositing and withdrawing from the Canada family's bank account (and, despite tut-tuts from Papa Ontario and Brother Alberta, the old man contributes quite a bit).
He's got different blood and different ways and different pasts, but over the years he's become accepted into the family. Still, you don't know much about him. Maybe Aunt Nova Scotia was an acquaintance of his back before the house was built? Anyway, most of the family have even learned how to say his name correctly (neurotic outbursts of "LAND! LAND! newf'nLAND!" are rarer and rarer).
But if you're Canadian and you've ever wondered about the old codger, what his life was like before he was adopted into your family, where he came from, why he is the way he is and why that way is not like your way, and how did he come to live with you all the same anyway . . . there are a couple of books you must read.
1.) The Colony of Unrequited Dreams by Wayne Johnston.
2.) Random Passage by Bernice Morgan.
Go! Read them now, Canada! You will learn something about Old Man Newfoundland, and you'll enjoy it while you're at it, because the fella has been around the block a few times and he surely know how to spin a good yarn.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Fan letter to Lisa Moore
I've just finished reading Alligator for the second time. I liked it the first go around, in June 2007, but this second reading has deeply affected me. So it's jumped up a tier, into the ranks of my all-time favourites. But why? Why did it take more than a year of incubation and then a second innoculation before that happened?
I hate to frame it this way, because I don't like snobbery and it's unfashionable to make these kinds of divisions, but it's the only frame I have. Alligator is a book for lovers of literature.
It doesn't just reward close, careful, conscious reading, it often demands it. It's a day-long Alpine hike and if a flight of stairs winds you you'll probably not enjoy yourself.
But for those with the lung capacity . . . what a sublime experience this book is. It's immersive, full of easy metaphor and long sentences with plenty of ands and buts. It's fluid and chaotic and graceful and energetic like water coming down a cliff face. Its sensual aspect (and it is so sensual, in all deno-and-conno-tations) might be all about it that's in step with current best-seller fashions, but I don't think that's enough to recommend it to people who might subsist primarily or exclusively on Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer or Dean Koontz.
It requires limber thinkers.
But with all this said, it's more emotional than intellectual. It does this lovely thing that all my favourite books do. It makes me have this jangly feeling in the middle of my chest, something like anxiety but more pleasant. Like a rearranging of the parts of yourself that you're normally only half-aware you possess. Like Emily Bronte's thoughts that alter you as you think them, change the colour of your mind, like wine moving through water. Except these are feelings that alter the colour of your heart as you feel them.
Most of the characters are not especially likable (relatable, yes, but not necessarily likable). The emotional response isn't pathos or sympathy for their plight, it's pure surging sorrow and terror and joy. It's the overwhelming fact of our living and our dying, what George Eliot was talking about when she said:
If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.
Alligator strips away some of that stupidity for a time, lets the raw nerves breathe; it leaves a person unable to speak but compelled to express something. It makes everything wonderful and terrible.
Thank you for this book, Lisa Moore. I can't wait to see what you write next.
I hate to frame it this way, because I don't like snobbery and it's unfashionable to make these kinds of divisions, but it's the only frame I have. Alligator is a book for lovers of literature.
It doesn't just reward close, careful, conscious reading, it often demands it. It's a day-long Alpine hike and if a flight of stairs winds you you'll probably not enjoy yourself.
But for those with the lung capacity . . . what a sublime experience this book is. It's immersive, full of easy metaphor and long sentences with plenty of ands and buts. It's fluid and chaotic and graceful and energetic like water coming down a cliff face. Its sensual aspect (and it is so sensual, in all deno-and-conno-tations) might be all about it that's in step with current best-seller fashions, but I don't think that's enough to recommend it to people who might subsist primarily or exclusively on Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer or Dean Koontz.
It requires limber thinkers.
But with all this said, it's more emotional than intellectual. It does this lovely thing that all my favourite books do. It makes me have this jangly feeling in the middle of my chest, something like anxiety but more pleasant. Like a rearranging of the parts of yourself that you're normally only half-aware you possess. Like Emily Bronte's thoughts that alter you as you think them, change the colour of your mind, like wine moving through water. Except these are feelings that alter the colour of your heart as you feel them.
Most of the characters are not especially likable (relatable, yes, but not necessarily likable). The emotional response isn't pathos or sympathy for their plight, it's pure surging sorrow and terror and joy. It's the overwhelming fact of our living and our dying, what George Eliot was talking about when she said:
If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity.
Alligator strips away some of that stupidity for a time, lets the raw nerves breathe; it leaves a person unable to speak but compelled to express something. It makes everything wonderful and terrible.
Thank you for this book, Lisa Moore. I can't wait to see what you write next.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Murka, you so crazy
I have two links to share with you folks. They both deal with American politics, but please don't head running for the metaphorical door. The first one is extremely inspirational, and the second extremely offensive. We liked to be inspired and offended, don't we?
Anyhoo.
#1 is in the "they clearly caught a special moment on tape" column. I'm not American and I only have an observer's experience with the black/white racial divide that haunts the American psyche. But that's more than enough for Donna Brazile's words to move me, and I'm sure they'll move you too.
She is not going to the back of the bus.
#2 is from Camille Paglia, who I sometimes loathe and sometimes love. She's answering reader mail here. In her responses, she confuses Sarah Palin's combination of obvious sexual fitness/fertility and assertiveness with actual worth and value. Or else Paglia's deliberately trying to be provocative and outlandish, as is her wont. And maybe by being provoked, I have aided in her satisfaction? Ack.
Anyway, she compares Palin to no less than Shakespeare. Shakespeare. (Because Palin's broken syntax is poetic and contains fragments of higher truths. No, really).
That's a difference of opinion which makes me wonder about her reasoning process and observation skills, but it isn't offensive. But then, on page two, she comes out with this gem:
I admire [Palin's] competitive spirit and her exuberant vitality, which borders on the supernormal. The question that keeps popping up for me is whether Palin, who was born in Idaho, could possibly be part Native American (as we know her husband is), which sometimes seems suggested by her strong facial contours. I have felt that same extraordinary energy and hyper-alertness billowing out from other women with Native American ancestry -- including two overpowering celebrity icons with whom I have worked.
My jaw dropped when I first read it. It's 'positive' racism, but it's racism none the less, along the lines of 'black people have rhythm' or 'Asians are good at math'. The noble and magical Native Americans have hyper-alertness and supernormal vitality! Talk about exoticism of the Other.
If a clip surfaced of Palin dancing, and she was really rockin' out, would it be at all acceptable to say "I notice her excellent sense of timing and her olive skin base. Is it possible she has an African ancestor somewhere along the line?"
Anyhoo.
#1 is in the "they clearly caught a special moment on tape" column. I'm not American and I only have an observer's experience with the black/white racial divide that haunts the American psyche. But that's more than enough for Donna Brazile's words to move me, and I'm sure they'll move you too.
She is not going to the back of the bus.
#2 is from Camille Paglia, who I sometimes loathe and sometimes love. She's answering reader mail here. In her responses, she confuses Sarah Palin's combination of obvious sexual fitness/fertility and assertiveness with actual worth and value. Or else Paglia's deliberately trying to be provocative and outlandish, as is her wont. And maybe by being provoked, I have aided in her satisfaction? Ack.
Anyway, she compares Palin to no less than Shakespeare. Shakespeare. (Because Palin's broken syntax is poetic and contains fragments of higher truths. No, really).
That's a difference of opinion which makes me wonder about her reasoning process and observation skills, but it isn't offensive. But then, on page two, she comes out with this gem:
I admire [Palin's] competitive spirit and her exuberant vitality, which borders on the supernormal. The question that keeps popping up for me is whether Palin, who was born in Idaho, could possibly be part Native American (as we know her husband is), which sometimes seems suggested by her strong facial contours. I have felt that same extraordinary energy and hyper-alertness billowing out from other women with Native American ancestry -- including two overpowering celebrity icons with whom I have worked.
My jaw dropped when I first read it. It's 'positive' racism, but it's racism none the less, along the lines of 'black people have rhythm' or 'Asians are good at math'. The noble and magical Native Americans have hyper-alertness and supernormal vitality! Talk about exoticism of the Other.
If a clip surfaced of Palin dancing, and she was really rockin' out, would it be at all acceptable to say "I notice her excellent sense of timing and her olive skin base. Is it possible she has an African ancestor somewhere along the line?"
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
TIME
It does seem to me that time is passing more swiftly as I age.
I suppose it's because of proportion? When I was 10, a year represented 10% of my experience, so a year was a big conceptual unit of time and likely passed just as slowly. As my memory accumulates more years' worth of data, a year diminishes as a unit. Ditto for a month, a week, a day.
I mean, I moved home from London, ON, a little more than a year ago, and it seems like no time at all. I look at things I wrote on August 9 and I am shocked to realize that they are more than a month old.
If this continues, I have much anxiety about how time will pass when I am 40, or 60. (Assuming I make it to those ages, which is a dangerous assumption. Gimme some wood so I can knock on it). Or maybe it's intellectually lazy of me to assume the trend will continue. The flickering by of a hundred days like animation stills could be a symptom of the general ennui I've felt for much of the past year. Maybe when I get myself in a productive and plugged-in place, I'll perceive the passage of time as more stately and gradual once more.
"Time / you are light / I guess you are afraid of what everyone is made of" (St. Vincent - Apocalypse Song)
I suppose it's because of proportion? When I was 10, a year represented 10% of my experience, so a year was a big conceptual unit of time and likely passed just as slowly. As my memory accumulates more years' worth of data, a year diminishes as a unit. Ditto for a month, a week, a day.
I mean, I moved home from London, ON, a little more than a year ago, and it seems like no time at all. I look at things I wrote on August 9 and I am shocked to realize that they are more than a month old.
If this continues, I have much anxiety about how time will pass when I am 40, or 60. (Assuming I make it to those ages, which is a dangerous assumption. Gimme some wood so I can knock on it). Or maybe it's intellectually lazy of me to assume the trend will continue. The flickering by of a hundred days like animation stills could be a symptom of the general ennui I've felt for much of the past year. Maybe when I get myself in a productive and plugged-in place, I'll perceive the passage of time as more stately and gradual once more.
"Time / you are light / I guess you are afraid of what everyone is made of" (St. Vincent - Apocalypse Song)
Friday, September 12, 2008
Well, it's been a while. I've been all over Newfoundland on my literary non-fiction geographical philosophy cultural self-examination writing project (made possible by a kind grant from the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council hooray! I hope I will not disappoint you NLAC).
I feel kind of like a kite. But it'd be a kite where the person flying me has let go and a huge gale has just pushed me up and away to a place near the horizon. It's kind of distant point where I diminish, but from where I can see so much. Internal and external landscapes are blurring to some extent. I stood on Brimstone Head two days ago and let the wind hold up my entire 185 lbs (it was strong, it could), and looking out at the agitated sea was sometimes so overwhelming that I had to turn my back and close my eyes.
Anyway. That sounds like a "please notice how sensitive and poetic I am" advertisement, so I'll stop.
How am I lately? I'm tired most days. Blame sleep apnea or high fructose corn syrup or PhD application anxiety or planetary alignments or general terror at the direction the world is taking. Don't you think Sarah Palin would be hilarious if she was less terrifying? But then, laughter is a form of screaming, is it not?
In other news, Facebook shit has a terrible re-design, and listening to the new CBC Radio 2 is like enduring your dad trying to be cool in front of your friends. Slow clap (irony clap!) for New Facebook and CBC Radio 2. Lizard brain says: Change bad! Unnecessary change badder!
Outrage on these points may seem disproportionate, but it is easy and good to get angry over stupid little things. Well, perhaps not good (perhaps even un-good), but understandable. My real rage is at things that seem beyond my control, so it's frustrated and needs a vent somewhere.
Take it away, LOL Kate Bush.
I feel kind of like a kite. But it'd be a kite where the person flying me has let go and a huge gale has just pushed me up and away to a place near the horizon. It's kind of distant point where I diminish, but from where I can see so much. Internal and external landscapes are blurring to some extent. I stood on Brimstone Head two days ago and let the wind hold up my entire 185 lbs (it was strong, it could), and looking out at the agitated sea was sometimes so overwhelming that I had to turn my back and close my eyes.
Anyway. That sounds like a "please notice how sensitive and poetic I am" advertisement, so I'll stop.
How am I lately? I'm tired most days. Blame sleep apnea or high fructose corn syrup or PhD application anxiety or planetary alignments or general terror at the direction the world is taking. Don't you think Sarah Palin would be hilarious if she was less terrifying? But then, laughter is a form of screaming, is it not?
In other news, Facebook shit has a terrible re-design, and listening to the new CBC Radio 2 is like enduring your dad trying to be cool in front of your friends. Slow clap (irony clap!) for New Facebook and CBC Radio 2. Lizard brain says: Change bad! Unnecessary change badder!
Outrage on these points may seem disproportionate, but it is easy and good to get angry over stupid little things. Well, perhaps not good (perhaps even un-good), but understandable. My real rage is at things that seem beyond my control, so it's frustrated and needs a vent somewhere.
Take it away, LOL Kate Bush.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I'm not eating my words. I refuse. Portishead's Third is over-hyped and over-praised; it takes itself too seriously without enough substance or worthwhile musical progression to warrant such a stance.
YET.
I find myself listening to Hunter, The Rip, Plastic, We Carry On, Small, and Threads with appreciative ears.
Magic Doors is still stupid. Especially when some kind of 'experimental' quasi-Middle Eastern horn instrument has a petit mal seizure and they recorded it and called it a bridge. Machine Gun still sounds like a fridge falling over a dozen flights of stairs while a sad woman stands at the top half-heartedly singing whatever comes to mind to a melody she's making up as she goes.
But you know, there's a wonderful EP buried in this album. I can say this now.
The Rip.
YET.
I find myself listening to Hunter, The Rip, Plastic, We Carry On, Small, and Threads with appreciative ears.
Magic Doors is still stupid. Especially when some kind of 'experimental' quasi-Middle Eastern horn instrument has a petit mal seizure and they recorded it and called it a bridge. Machine Gun still sounds like a fridge falling over a dozen flights of stairs while a sad woman stands at the top half-heartedly singing whatever comes to mind to a melody she's making up as she goes.
But you know, there's a wonderful EP buried in this album. I can say this now.
The Rip.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Avalon
StatCan's Census Division 1 is, very handily, the Avalon peninsula.
All it took was a bit of math and the handy map breakdown of census subdivisions and municipalities to produce this:
St. John's Census Metropolitan Area: 181,113 (this includes Mount Pearl, CBS, Paradise, etc)
Northern Avalon (excluding the above): 56,440
Southern Avalon: 10,865
The St. John's CMA contains 72.9% of the Avalon's entire population, the rest of the northern Avalon is 22.7%, and the southern Avalon is 4.3%.
It is also notable that Bay Roberts is a Census Agglomeration; that is to say, more than 10,000 people live around its urban core. It achieved this for the first time in the 2006 census. There are only 4 such in the entire province (the others are Corner Brook, Grand-Falls-Windsor, and St. John's itself).
The largest settlements in the southern Avalon are Placentia (3,898), Trepassey (763), Cape Broyle (545), Ferryland (529)
All it took was a bit of math and the handy map breakdown of census subdivisions and municipalities to produce this:
St. John's Census Metropolitan Area: 181,113 (this includes Mount Pearl, CBS, Paradise, etc)
Northern Avalon (excluding the above): 56,440
Southern Avalon: 10,865
The St. John's CMA contains 72.9% of the Avalon's entire population, the rest of the northern Avalon is 22.7%, and the southern Avalon is 4.3%.
It is also notable that Bay Roberts is a Census Agglomeration; that is to say, more than 10,000 people live around its urban core. It achieved this for the first time in the 2006 census. There are only 4 such in the entire province (the others are Corner Brook, Grand-Falls-Windsor, and St. John's itself).
The largest settlements in the southern Avalon are Placentia (3,898), Trepassey (763), Cape Broyle (545), Ferryland (529)
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Tilting at Windmills
My final Community Editorial for The Telegram, reprinted below (it appeared on, um . . . I believe Wednesday? Possibly Thursday?)
This is from my files, so little tweaks and spitshines the Telegram editorial team have performed are not represented below.
Tilting at Windmills
"So it’s your last editorial, isn't it?," my father asks.
"Yes. I don't know what to write."
"You should tell how Placentia is an ideal retirement community," he suggests. "Beautiful, historic, plenty of community events. Mild climate. If you're mobile, there's no end of outdoor activities. If mobility's an issue, the town itself is flat." I paraphrase, of course.
"Yes, that's all so, but I was listening to The World At 6 yesterday. They said the US housing crisis ‘will be felt from Vancouver to Halifax.' I almost put the car off the road, which would have been too bad, because Rogers doesn't serve anywhere in Newfoundland except around St. John’s. I might write on that.”
"Ah, still tilting after windmills, then."
I had to concede the point. I suppose we are a pack of Quixotes, no? I feel that way nearly constantly. Modest suggestions, like having a Southern Shore lilt in the public announcements at St. John's Airport, pass without notice. Ranting about a Big Issue may make one seem a kook with a kooky axe to grind. To what end is any of it, once the murmurs of agreement and clucks of outrage die away?
Perhaps I seem cynical. Pundits and policy-makers do often muse about the apathy of the under-30 set, disaffected non-voters and such. I think they’ve misunderstood us (mind, I actually vote, but goodness do I feel disaffected sometimes). Most people I know have definite political opinions, many of them fervent. It’s not apathy we suffer from, it’s a sense of powerlessness.
Take, for example, the likes of Rogers Communications and Vancouver-Halifax syndrome. There's only so often you can send ticked-off letters to national media when they 1.) misuse 'Maritimes,' 2.) mispronounce 'Newfoundland' or 3.) lop 1,000 km off the country by saying it ends in Halifax. But Rogers' own manifestation of Vancounver-Halifax syndrome has left me too aware of my own impotence.
While attending graduate school in Ontario, I purchased a Rogers cellphone. It had a 3 year contract with dire consequences for poor serfs who dare violate it. On my return, I learned Rogers is not actually a national telecommunication company. Standing on the highest hill in Corner Brook, I couldn't get a ghost of a single. Not a single jit. Home in Placentia, it was the same.
"Oh hello," I'd say, "it seems I now live outside your service area. Could you please freeze my contract or suspend my service until I move or until your coverage extends beyond the northeast Avalon?"
I hardly need tell you the outcome. Rogers did not care that I was paying $45 a month for a plastic paperweight. Complaint, tried each month, was only ever futile.
I read an interesting hypothesis regarding broader generational disenchantment. Recall how anti-war protests in 2002/03 mobilized huge masses of youth; no apathy then. But the invasion of Iraq and the war in Afghanistan continued apace.
The lesson to us was clear: if those in power want something, they will have it, regardless of how loud or vehement the outcry. The abominable supermarket on the site of Memorial Stadium is our own local monument to these alienating and infuriating forces.
A few months back, an interviewer told Dick Cheney that more than 2/3 of Americans now oppose the war in Iraq. His almost reflexive "so?," coupled with trademark smirk, should have galled more than it did. I was more wearied than outraged, because I’ve accepted this as the zeitgeist, here as well as abroad.
Mind, when Danny and his b'ys mount up on their high horses, they've got the poll numbers to back them up. This makes arrogance more justified, but also more dangerous, especially in a world where leaders with 34% approval ratings already strut like autocrats.
The Education Minister's recent interference in Memorial University's search for a new president is one such danger. While not itself a propos, the real damage comes from Minister Burke's subsequent handling of the issue.
Reputation is powerful currency in the academic world, and it is a fragile, complex thing. MUN's slow, steady climb in national and international recognition will likely stall without quick and sensitive damage control.
Minister Burke's response, though, has been like Roger’s, Wells’, Harper’s, Cheney's, Bush's, --- stubborn defiance, a blustery damn-the-critics-we-do-things-our-way antagonism, an attitude that shuts down the opposition, an attitude that, ultimately, makes people feel impotent, unimportant, and small.
So, yes, if I will tilt at windmills one last time, let my lance lie here. In the public and political sphere, let's move toward openness, conciliatory attitudes, compassionate cooperation. No more childish shouting in the House of Commons, no more derision and mocking of opponents, no more disregard and scorn for public discourse.
Polarization has been a powerful force in this decade, and it has been a poisonous one too. Let’s try to move past it.
(And do consider Placentia in your retirement plans.)
This is from my files, so little tweaks and spitshines the Telegram editorial team have performed are not represented below.
Tilting at Windmills
"So it’s your last editorial, isn't it?," my father asks.
"Yes. I don't know what to write."
"You should tell how Placentia is an ideal retirement community," he suggests. "Beautiful, historic, plenty of community events. Mild climate. If you're mobile, there's no end of outdoor activities. If mobility's an issue, the town itself is flat." I paraphrase, of course.
"Yes, that's all so, but I was listening to The World At 6 yesterday. They said the US housing crisis ‘will be felt from Vancouver to Halifax.' I almost put the car off the road, which would have been too bad, because Rogers doesn't serve anywhere in Newfoundland except around St. John’s. I might write on that.”
"Ah, still tilting after windmills, then."
I had to concede the point. I suppose we are a pack of Quixotes, no? I feel that way nearly constantly. Modest suggestions, like having a Southern Shore lilt in the public announcements at St. John's Airport, pass without notice. Ranting about a Big Issue may make one seem a kook with a kooky axe to grind. To what end is any of it, once the murmurs of agreement and clucks of outrage die away?
Perhaps I seem cynical. Pundits and policy-makers do often muse about the apathy of the under-30 set, disaffected non-voters and such. I think they’ve misunderstood us (mind, I actually vote, but goodness do I feel disaffected sometimes). Most people I know have definite political opinions, many of them fervent. It’s not apathy we suffer from, it’s a sense of powerlessness.
Take, for example, the likes of Rogers Communications and Vancouver-Halifax syndrome. There's only so often you can send ticked-off letters to national media when they 1.) misuse 'Maritimes,' 2.) mispronounce 'Newfoundland' or 3.) lop 1,000 km off the country by saying it ends in Halifax. But Rogers' own manifestation of Vancounver-Halifax syndrome has left me too aware of my own impotence.
While attending graduate school in Ontario, I purchased a Rogers cellphone. It had a 3 year contract with dire consequences for poor serfs who dare violate it. On my return, I learned Rogers is not actually a national telecommunication company. Standing on the highest hill in Corner Brook, I couldn't get a ghost of a single. Not a single jit. Home in Placentia, it was the same.
"Oh hello," I'd say, "it seems I now live outside your service area. Could you please freeze my contract or suspend my service until I move or until your coverage extends beyond the northeast Avalon?"
I hardly need tell you the outcome. Rogers did not care that I was paying $45 a month for a plastic paperweight. Complaint, tried each month, was only ever futile.
I read an interesting hypothesis regarding broader generational disenchantment. Recall how anti-war protests in 2002/03 mobilized huge masses of youth; no apathy then. But the invasion of Iraq and the war in Afghanistan continued apace.
The lesson to us was clear: if those in power want something, they will have it, regardless of how loud or vehement the outcry. The abominable supermarket on the site of Memorial Stadium is our own local monument to these alienating and infuriating forces.
A few months back, an interviewer told Dick Cheney that more than 2/3 of Americans now oppose the war in Iraq. His almost reflexive "so?," coupled with trademark smirk, should have galled more than it did. I was more wearied than outraged, because I’ve accepted this as the zeitgeist, here as well as abroad.
Mind, when Danny and his b'ys mount up on their high horses, they've got the poll numbers to back them up. This makes arrogance more justified, but also more dangerous, especially in a world where leaders with 34% approval ratings already strut like autocrats.
The Education Minister's recent interference in Memorial University's search for a new president is one such danger. While not itself a propos, the real damage comes from Minister Burke's subsequent handling of the issue.
Reputation is powerful currency in the academic world, and it is a fragile, complex thing. MUN's slow, steady climb in national and international recognition will likely stall without quick and sensitive damage control.
Minister Burke's response, though, has been like Roger’s, Wells’, Harper’s, Cheney's, Bush's, --- stubborn defiance, a blustery damn-the-critics-we-do-things-our-way antagonism, an attitude that shuts down the opposition, an attitude that, ultimately, makes people feel impotent, unimportant, and small.
So, yes, if I will tilt at windmills one last time, let my lance lie here. In the public and political sphere, let's move toward openness, conciliatory attitudes, compassionate cooperation. No more childish shouting in the House of Commons, no more derision and mocking of opponents, no more disregard and scorn for public discourse.
Polarization has been a powerful force in this decade, and it has been a poisonous one too. Let’s try to move past it.
(And do consider Placentia in your retirement plans.)
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Bronte Sibling Rivalry . . . ENGAGE!!
The seven novels by Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronte, arranged by average reader score from GoodReads.com.
1. Jane Eyre: 4.10/5
2. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall: 3.92/5
3. Villette: 3.77/5
4. Wuthering Heights: 3.69/5
5. Shirley: 3.52/5
6. Agnes Grey: 3.51/5
7. The Professor: 3.31/5
The amazing thing is Wuthering Heights, often touted as the best of the lot, comes in at 4th, under both The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Villette (both of them, mind, very under-rated and under-appreciated masterpieces). I suppose it is a testament to Wuthering Height's ability to polarize --- it is an often lauded and loved book, but it is also despised.
Many who bear such animosity to Emily's sole novel may have been forced to read it in school at some point, whereas most who search out Villette or Wildfell Hall do so out of their own curiosity, and are likely 1.) readers and 2.) already interested in 19th century literature.
As a devoted champion of Anne, it did my heart good to see The Tenant of Wildfell Hall finish in a strong second place. I think the book has great power, and is perhaps the most resonant and pertinent today.
1. Jane Eyre: 4.10/5
2. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall: 3.92/5
3. Villette: 3.77/5
4. Wuthering Heights: 3.69/5
5. Shirley: 3.52/5
6. Agnes Grey: 3.51/5
7. The Professor: 3.31/5
The amazing thing is Wuthering Heights, often touted as the best of the lot, comes in at 4th, under both The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Villette (both of them, mind, very under-rated and under-appreciated masterpieces). I suppose it is a testament to Wuthering Height's ability to polarize --- it is an often lauded and loved book, but it is also despised.
Many who bear such animosity to Emily's sole novel may have been forced to read it in school at some point, whereas most who search out Villette or Wildfell Hall do so out of their own curiosity, and are likely 1.) readers and 2.) already interested in 19th century literature.
As a devoted champion of Anne, it did my heart good to see The Tenant of Wildfell Hall finish in a strong second place. I think the book has great power, and is perhaps the most resonant and pertinent today.
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