There are so many holiday celebrations, and politically correctness is such a large issue these days that I can't simply design a post to say "Merry Christmas". But saying Happy Holidays is lame.
Therefore...
Merry Christmas
Happy Kwanzaa
Happy Hanukkah
Happy New Year
Jolly Islamic holidays that are too many to name
And so on and so forth...
I guess there is some sense to Happy Holidays.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl, Boy...
The stereotype that what a girl wants from a boy is stability; the relationship, the doting, the presents, the constant reassurance. Then there is the stereotype that what a boy wants is essentially physical; nothing clingy, but faithfulness, or maybe no "relationship" at all, and just some handy benefits.
Alright, so that's the general stereotype, and you know what? a lot of people generally are that way... but what about the boys and girls that have a serious case of role reversal? I'm talking about the boys who are so infuriatingly suffocating - who want the commitment, the white picket fence, the happily ever after, the whatever is supposed to happen when they ride off into the sunset. And the girls who don't want any of that, don't want to be tied down, who want freedom and simple company.
And so we have Dragonette's "Take it Like a Man" - you gotta take it like a man. Is it really such a deep cut that I have to come and stitch it up? A woman, who does not want to take care of a man, and a man who loves her for that but wants her to change. In my experience, this is essentially the trend with the beings called "boys". Neyo writes a song termed "Miss Independent", singing about how refreshing and attractive it is to find a woman who is anything but needy, who can take care of herself. What he doesn't croon on that particular record is what happens within a reltionship between such a boy and such a girl. Yes, the male component finds it incredibly appealing that this lady seems not to need him, what he doesn't make public notice, however, is that she is a challenge. He wants her to need him, and so the chase is off. This girl though, is never going to feel the way about the boy that he wants her to, and so this is basically a failed relationship. And since most boys are looking for someone to take care of, where the hell does that leave this girl?
I have no idea, actually. Perhaps looking for someone who she does need, and leaving the boy looking for someone who needs him. Yet, since people are creatures of habit, I find that generally this relationship becomes a cycle of changing people, with neither the boy, nor the girl changing their ways or realizing what they need.
Alright, so that's the general stereotype, and you know what? a lot of people generally are that way... but what about the boys and girls that have a serious case of role reversal? I'm talking about the boys who are so infuriatingly suffocating - who want the commitment, the white picket fence, the happily ever after, the whatever is supposed to happen when they ride off into the sunset. And the girls who don't want any of that, don't want to be tied down, who want freedom and simple company.
And so we have Dragonette's "Take it Like a Man" - you gotta take it like a man. Is it really such a deep cut that I have to come and stitch it up? A woman, who does not want to take care of a man, and a man who loves her for that but wants her to change. In my experience, this is essentially the trend with the beings called "boys". Neyo writes a song termed "Miss Independent", singing about how refreshing and attractive it is to find a woman who is anything but needy, who can take care of herself. What he doesn't croon on that particular record is what happens within a reltionship between such a boy and such a girl. Yes, the male component finds it incredibly appealing that this lady seems not to need him, what he doesn't make public notice, however, is that she is a challenge. He wants her to need him, and so the chase is off. This girl though, is never going to feel the way about the boy that he wants her to, and so this is basically a failed relationship. And since most boys are looking for someone to take care of, where the hell does that leave this girl?
I have no idea, actually. Perhaps looking for someone who she does need, and leaving the boy looking for someone who needs him. Yet, since people are creatures of habit, I find that generally this relationship becomes a cycle of changing people, with neither the boy, nor the girl changing their ways or realizing what they need.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Creepering 101
You know, I think everything important in life I've learned at a concert; don't hang around with people if you're not having fun together, throw limbs around at random - it's good times, and anything mellow and slow is definitely not my forte.
Tonight, however, I learned something entirely different.
It didn't come from the hauntingly fantastic voice of Emily Haines, but from a close friend of mine who, although she tries very, very hard, is just a big creeper. Tonight I learned how to use creepiness as an advantage, and how pushing it too far can be disastrous.
Background information is key: Calgary, AB, believe it or not is home of an enormous "indie" scene, outfitted in everything from American Apparel to vintage pieces. Calgary also attracts a lot of travelers from, say... New Zealand. Travelers have cute accents, and are therefore attractive. Travelers also like to go to concerts, and happen to be friends of friends.
I think from the step-by-step, a point about where the turn of events happen can be seen.
So my close friend, finding this person attractive, began looking for them everywhere, and we did see quite a bit of each other during the evening.
Things went wrong, badly wrong, however, during the last set-break. This adorable traveler was separated from the herd and therefore was walking us around passing as once, twice, thrice... seven times. After the fifth, I was beginning to find it both slightly weird and a little creepy, but what do we all know to be true? When someone is hot enough, nothing they can do short of making a voodoo doll or looking into your bedroom window with binoculars can be termed creepy, instead, it's flattering. This is the good creepy, the attractive creepy.
Then here comes the bad part: the adorable Kiwi found his friends, and stood chatting near us, slowly disappearing behind the pillar my friend and I were leaning against. Not thinking (clearly) my friend decides to peer around the pillar at them. Now, "peer" does not capture the moment clearly enough. Have you ever seen those cartoons in which the characters (think Shaggy and Scooby-Doo) crane their necks impossibly far around corners to see if the coast is clear? Well, that sort of look is apparently what my friend was going for. I, of course, being slightly creepy myself, tilt my head to look as well. However, my face bore a "what are you looking at?" sort of expression, whilst hers bore a "I will steal your used Kleenexs and light candles in your honor look".
However, hilarity ensued because his face clearly said "OMFG WHAT?!", and Metric performed brilliantly enough that she and I forgot about it... luckily the Worldwide Web never will.
Tonight, however, I learned something entirely different.
It didn't come from the hauntingly fantastic voice of Emily Haines, but from a close friend of mine who, although she tries very, very hard, is just a big creeper. Tonight I learned how to use creepiness as an advantage, and how pushing it too far can be disastrous.
Background information is key: Calgary, AB, believe it or not is home of an enormous "indie" scene, outfitted in everything from American Apparel to vintage pieces. Calgary also attracts a lot of travelers from, say... New Zealand. Travelers have cute accents, and are therefore attractive. Travelers also like to go to concerts, and happen to be friends of friends.
I think from the step-by-step, a point about where the turn of events happen can be seen.
So my close friend, finding this person attractive, began looking for them everywhere, and we did see quite a bit of each other during the evening.
Things went wrong, badly wrong, however, during the last set-break. This adorable traveler was separated from the herd and therefore was walking us around passing as once, twice, thrice... seven times. After the fifth, I was beginning to find it both slightly weird and a little creepy, but what do we all know to be true? When someone is hot enough, nothing they can do short of making a voodoo doll or looking into your bedroom window with binoculars can be termed creepy, instead, it's flattering. This is the good creepy, the attractive creepy.
Then here comes the bad part: the adorable Kiwi found his friends, and stood chatting near us, slowly disappearing behind the pillar my friend and I were leaning against. Not thinking (clearly) my friend decides to peer around the pillar at them. Now, "peer" does not capture the moment clearly enough. Have you ever seen those cartoons in which the characters (think Shaggy and Scooby-Doo) crane their necks impossibly far around corners to see if the coast is clear? Well, that sort of look is apparently what my friend was going for. I, of course, being slightly creepy myself, tilt my head to look as well. However, my face bore a "what are you looking at?" sort of expression, whilst hers bore a "I will steal your used Kleenexs and light candles in your honor look".
However, hilarity ensued because his face clearly said "OMFG WHAT?!", and Metric performed brilliantly enough that she and I forgot about it... luckily the Worldwide Web never will.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Public Service Announcement
"He was one of God's own prototypes: a high-powered mutant never even
considered for mass-production. Too weird to live, too rare to die” -
H. S. Thompson
stadium steps, landing two feet away from me. It was like staring
death in the face. Every time the drumstick hit the drum I felt as if
history's greatest villains were being resurrected. Hitler. Stalin.
Gargamel. All of their spirits started to mass behind Crazy P as he
was readying them to attack. And then he started pointing into the
crowd, singling out the innocent, trying to bring them down with him.
It was terrifying. I felt like I was experiencing the rapture. Luckily
the announcer cut through the horror a calling out half time, my
chance to save my soul and escape back to rez and safety.
considered for mass-production. Too weird to live, too rare to die” -
H. S. Thompson
It is worse then that cliché nightmare where you arrive at school
with no pants on. It was more horrendous then the special effects in
any 1950's B-movie. It was more bone chilling then that sorrowful
prepubescent day when your parents lightly knocked on your door,
telling you that birds and bees were no longer spring-time critters
that frequented the garden. It was Crazy P, the BC Lions vigilante,
and he was stand two feet away from me.
On a good day mascots perturb me. Something about not knowing who is
assuming the shape and responsibility of my team's representative is
unnerving. Also the thought of being enclosed in a heavily sweat in
suit, staring out onto a sea of alcohol heightened jeering fans is far
from appealing. But now that I've witness the other option, Viva La
Mascot!
It was the night of the big rivalry between UBC and SFU; the
Thunderbirds vs. The Clan. Brought by the bus loads, intoxicated Clan
fans briefly co-mingled with UBC students before each were segregated
into their seating sections by a series of flimsy paper arrows. Myself
and three friends, decked in blue crew shirts, dared to venture to the
bottom rows, hoping for the clearest view of the field. Slightly
unsettled I missed the kickoff as Storm the Thunderbird slow danced in
front of me. My attention was only caught when the announcer raised
his voice, redirecting everyones wandering gazes to the front of the
field, where we were to welcome a special guest, Crazy P, who was
riding in the bed of a truck.
His presence was bordering animalistic. Wearing an orange Lions
jersey, black shorts, sunglasses and baseball cap with drum in hand,
he took a power stance, as if it were his destiny to get everyone
excited about the game. Without speaking he told stories, that every
morning before “work” he ripped through phone books, and others of how
he was conceived at Super Bowl tailgate party so many years ago. The
worst part was his face. When he wasn't screaming support and
encouragement, and when he took a break from relentlessly banging the
drum, he looked like a gapped tooth business man, down on his luck.
The kind that if he came to your door trying to sell you shower
curtain rings, despite having a sliding shower door, you would buy
some anyways because you knew his car was going to be repossessed and
his wife was about to take the kids and leave. He was also the kind of
person that you wondered if they had an off switch or if they were
always stuck in their high powered intrusive state or if he could
function in normal social settings.
stadium steps, landing two feet away from me. It was like staring
death in the face. Every time the drumstick hit the drum I felt as if
history's greatest villains were being resurrected. Hitler. Stalin.
Gargamel. All of their spirits started to mass behind Crazy P as he
was readying them to attack. And then he started pointing into the
crowd, singling out the innocent, trying to bring them down with him.
It was terrifying. I felt like I was experiencing the rapture. Luckily
the announcer cut through the horror a calling out half time, my
chance to save my soul and escape back to rez and safety.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
University, One Big Playground
That last post was just pure silliness brought on by exam stress, lack of sleep, endorphin high, and caffeine OD. What's also pure silliness? The fact that there's a five foot snow-penis, epic snow fort, and several decorative snowman sprinkled over the field of my Res. And they were all constructed by my fellow co-eds.
At approximately 10:30 pm last night, people began to notice that it was legitimately snowing, and just like that we were all kids again. For some people it was actually the first snowfall they had ever experienced... I have never seen snow illuminated by so many camera flashes. As a Canadian and someone who spent that past decade of their lives in Calgary, where it has actually snow-stormed in August, it's not uncommon to see white flakes drifting down from the sky. I think that if you had never experienced snow before, never felt it or ran through it or tasted it or fell into it, the first snowfall of winter would be something indeed. Just think about how weird snow is - soft, life, sticky, fluffy, cold... and then probably melting if you held it through all of those adjectives. The other things is, we live Vancouver and therefore the most beautiful place for any season. The temperature is always perfect for the weather, and the view always promises to be picturesque (I should write travel brochures). I think it was the wonder of the foreign exchange kids, seeing snow for the first time, combined with the evil boy-minds from Robson who launched the first snowball, creating a night of mayhem
Just like children, mature university students from every building ventured into the (semi-)cold to throw snow at each other, run around, and make snow angels.
If you've forgotten what a "face-wash" is I suggest you go outside and ask the nearest 11 year old for one, because the experience of snow being shoved in your face (while your mouth was open and everything) is purely unforgettable. Same with being tackled down and pelted with snow... and slipping for the first time, dissolving into fits of laughter. Same with the first snowfall of the year away from home, as an independent adult, who just wants to have serious snowball fights, ignoring exams in favor of play.
At approximately 10:30 pm last night, people began to notice that it was legitimately snowing, and just like that we were all kids again. For some people it was actually the first snowfall they had ever experienced... I have never seen snow illuminated by so many camera flashes. As a Canadian and someone who spent that past decade of their lives in Calgary, where it has actually snow-stormed in August, it's not uncommon to see white flakes drifting down from the sky. I think that if you had never experienced snow before, never felt it or ran through it or tasted it or fell into it, the first snowfall of winter would be something indeed. Just think about how weird snow is - soft, life, sticky, fluffy, cold... and then probably melting if you held it through all of those adjectives. The other things is, we live Vancouver and therefore the most beautiful place for any season. The temperature is always perfect for the weather, and the view always promises to be picturesque (I should write travel brochures). I think it was the wonder of the foreign exchange kids, seeing snow for the first time, combined with the evil boy-minds from Robson who launched the first snowball, creating a night of mayhem
Just like children, mature university students from every building ventured into the (semi-)cold to throw snow at each other, run around, and make snow angels.
If you've forgotten what a "face-wash" is I suggest you go outside and ask the nearest 11 year old for one, because the experience of snow being shoved in your face (while your mouth was open and everything) is purely unforgettable. Same with being tackled down and pelted with snow... and slipping for the first time, dissolving into fits of laughter. Same with the first snowfall of the year away from home, as an independent adult, who just wants to have serious snowball fights, ignoring exams in favor of play.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tight+Not made in China = American Apparel
As far as I can tell there are three basic people who shop at American Apparel.
1. The Activist. Normally of a vegetarian/vegan dietary habits. Their Facebooks are filled with "causes". They've traversed the world, they are legit shoppers. They shop at American Apparel to avoid the "Made in China" labels - they come as ideological shoppers, who don't support sweatshops, or anything done illegitimately. If AA has any noble shoppers it's these ones.
2. The Trend-whore. Remember how AA got all trendy at one point? When all the scenester kids started wearing tights and oversize cardigans, or colored skinny jeans and mono-chromatic tees with Kanye glasses and checkered scarves? When they took a brand that was supposed to represent turning the basic into your own into a mass, recognizable fashion trend. These people don't even know that the clothes are anti-sweatshop and made in LA (which is why each tee is $30), they just buy it and don it.
3. The Bystander. I have yet to meet more than two people who actually fit into this category. They are the people who actually just like the clothes, who enjoy buying the hoodies for the sake of owning them. They just like American Apparel. The aforementioned group tends to claim to be these people, but that's more transparent than a pair of stockings. The weird thing about this group is that normally people who enjoy basics just go to Superstore or something of the like, where $10 can actually buy something. So who does like AA - probably the models, or the trendy looking hippies who I sometimes see poking about campus.
American Apparel amazes me because I only understand the original concept behind it, I don't understand wearing the clothes. Then again, I don't really understand buying a brand because everyone's doing it... maybe I'll have to buy into it before I can. (I'm so funny.)
1. The Activist. Normally of a vegetarian/vegan dietary habits. Their Facebooks are filled with "causes". They've traversed the world, they are legit shoppers. They shop at American Apparel to avoid the "Made in China" labels - they come as ideological shoppers, who don't support sweatshops, or anything done illegitimately. If AA has any noble shoppers it's these ones.
2. The Trend-whore. Remember how AA got all trendy at one point? When all the scenester kids started wearing tights and oversize cardigans, or colored skinny jeans and mono-chromatic tees with Kanye glasses and checkered scarves? When they took a brand that was supposed to represent turning the basic into your own into a mass, recognizable fashion trend. These people don't even know that the clothes are anti-sweatshop and made in LA (which is why each tee is $30), they just buy it and don it.
3. The Bystander. I have yet to meet more than two people who actually fit into this category. They are the people who actually just like the clothes, who enjoy buying the hoodies for the sake of owning them. They just like American Apparel. The aforementioned group tends to claim to be these people, but that's more transparent than a pair of stockings. The weird thing about this group is that normally people who enjoy basics just go to Superstore or something of the like, where $10 can actually buy something. So who does like AA - probably the models, or the trendy looking hippies who I sometimes see poking about campus.
American Apparel amazes me because I only understand the original concept behind it, I don't understand wearing the clothes. Then again, I don't really understand buying a brand because everyone's doing it... maybe I'll have to buy into it before I can. (I'm so funny.)
Who Does Laundry at 530 AM?
Some random who also fold their clothes in there, that's who, and probably that guy who thought it was a good idea to put shoes in the dryer.
What's worse than laundry at 5 in the morning; they use the washer that squeals in pain every time someone uses it.
As if living on the first floor of a six floor dorm wasn't bad enough - I mean, there's already a "ding" every five minutes as everyone above second takes the elevator. And then there's those people who think it's alright to come in yelling at three in the morning, or the ones who thought it was funny to strategically place our lounge furniture all over the halls, or that guy who throws up in our bathrooms every weekend. Yeah, that's all pretty bad, and it's topped off by the laundry room, of course.
Now, there's only one thing that makes everything I just said worse: Finals. (There's that capital F again). Oh, I take that back. Not everything of the aforementioned rant is made worse by Finals; on the bright side Mr. Regurgitation hasn't been seen for weeks.
And now back to my point:
Normally, the loud people, the ridiculous laundry decisions, and the elevator are things you just ignore and get over, but when it's after midnight and I have an exam worth 50% of the semester in 8 hours, you do not spend fifteen minutes talking about sports outside my door. That is how you end up with a knife in your side, and put a smile on my sweetly dreaming face. Nor do you make the decision to do laundry at five or two or three in the morning, because that's just common courtesy. Being on first floor, however, somehow absolves people of having any obligatory thought towards its residents.
And the excuses? Well, my favorite thus far is, "Oh, I thought this was like a lobby floor." Poor guy, he was visiting from Victoria, but I had no idea that lobbies occupied entire floors in my home town. Must be a new feature.
A message to all residents, visitors, strangers, and would-be burglars: It's Finals, everyone is on edge, and everyone is busy, but just wait three more hours before putting a load in at 5 AM, alright?
What's worse than laundry at 5 in the morning; they use the washer that squeals in pain every time someone uses it.
As if living on the first floor of a six floor dorm wasn't bad enough - I mean, there's already a "ding" every five minutes as everyone above second takes the elevator. And then there's those people who think it's alright to come in yelling at three in the morning, or the ones who thought it was funny to strategically place our lounge furniture all over the halls, or that guy who throws up in our bathrooms every weekend. Yeah, that's all pretty bad, and it's topped off by the laundry room, of course.
Now, there's only one thing that makes everything I just said worse: Finals. (There's that capital F again). Oh, I take that back. Not everything of the aforementioned rant is made worse by Finals; on the bright side Mr. Regurgitation hasn't been seen for weeks.
And now back to my point:
Normally, the loud people, the ridiculous laundry decisions, and the elevator are things you just ignore and get over, but when it's after midnight and I have an exam worth 50% of the semester in 8 hours, you do not spend fifteen minutes talking about sports outside my door. That is how you end up with a knife in your side, and put a smile on my sweetly dreaming face. Nor do you make the decision to do laundry at five or two or three in the morning, because that's just common courtesy. Being on first floor, however, somehow absolves people of having any obligatory thought towards its residents.
And the excuses? Well, my favorite thus far is, "Oh, I thought this was like a lobby floor." Poor guy, he was visiting from Victoria, but I had no idea that lobbies occupied entire floors in my home town. Must be a new feature.
A message to all residents, visitors, strangers, and would-be burglars: It's Finals, everyone is on edge, and everyone is busy, but just wait three more hours before putting a load in at 5 AM, alright?
Monday, December 1, 2008
I present to you...
The Faculties.
Each one comes with a preexisting connotation. You picked Arts, it means you don't know what to do with yourself and are looking to coast. You picked Science, you're a nerd who wants to go to Med school. You picked Engineering, you can drink lots of beer and do lots of math. At the same time. You picked H.Kin, you're lacking brains, but not brawn. You picked Forestry, you're a tree-hugger destined for hippie-ship. You picked Commerce, you're headed down a useless and redundant path, and carry annoying clipboards. There are, of course, other faculties, but these are the ones that get the main attention, and the main stereotyping.
However, no one person from any faculty embodies the stereotype cast upon them by each other faculty. In fact, in my experience, Science kids, although they work their asses off, are not all nerds, and some of them are even as aimless as (gasp) Arts kids. Then there are the Arts students who actually know what they want to do with their lives, and are completely brilliant at whatever they're taking. Personally, of course, Engineers are my least favorite, and, like Saskatchewan, bear the brunt of my completely unwarranted and inexplicable hatred. Although I hate no specific Engineering students, as a whole I find them arrogant, annoying, and I hate those goddamn prestigious red jackets. You aren't a Varsity sports team. Not all H.Kin kids are built, ex-high school Football players (by the way, you actually have to be pretty intelligent to make it there), nor are all Commerce kids are delusional (but, yeah, they all carry those clipboards). And Forestry peeps aren't all tree hugging hippies who hang out on Rec Beach. All of this anyone could tell you, and yet we all make fun of each other using these exact stereotypes, and come to University fully expecting each faculty to (apparently) contain thousands of the same person.
What each Faculty does come with, however, is that same arrogance I hate in Engineers. Everyone boasts they belong to the best strain - Commerce bears it in their clipboards, Engineering in their (ridiculous) red jackets and elitist attitudes, Science by burying their heads relentlessly in text books because they "have to", Arts by (mostly) doing just about nothing academic and dressing with superior style (mostly), H. Kin by religiously attending the church known as "Golds", and Forestry by sailing right under the radar... and not even caring one bit about it.
And that is all absolutely the truth.
Each one comes with a preexisting connotation. You picked Arts, it means you don't know what to do with yourself and are looking to coast. You picked Science, you're a nerd who wants to go to Med school. You picked Engineering, you can drink lots of beer and do lots of math. At the same time. You picked H.Kin, you're lacking brains, but not brawn. You picked Forestry, you're a tree-hugger destined for hippie-ship. You picked Commerce, you're headed down a useless and redundant path, and carry annoying clipboards. There are, of course, other faculties, but these are the ones that get the main attention, and the main stereotyping.
However, no one person from any faculty embodies the stereotype cast upon them by each other faculty. In fact, in my experience, Science kids, although they work their asses off, are not all nerds, and some of them are even as aimless as (gasp) Arts kids. Then there are the Arts students who actually know what they want to do with their lives, and are completely brilliant at whatever they're taking. Personally, of course, Engineers are my least favorite, and, like Saskatchewan, bear the brunt of my completely unwarranted and inexplicable hatred. Although I hate no specific Engineering students, as a whole I find them arrogant, annoying, and I hate those goddamn prestigious red jackets. You aren't a Varsity sports team. Not all H.Kin kids are built, ex-high school Football players (by the way, you actually have to be pretty intelligent to make it there), nor are all Commerce kids are delusional (but, yeah, they all carry those clipboards). And Forestry peeps aren't all tree hugging hippies who hang out on Rec Beach. All of this anyone could tell you, and yet we all make fun of each other using these exact stereotypes, and come to University fully expecting each faculty to (apparently) contain thousands of the same person.
What each Faculty does come with, however, is that same arrogance I hate in Engineers. Everyone boasts they belong to the best strain - Commerce bears it in their clipboards, Engineering in their (ridiculous) red jackets and elitist attitudes, Science by burying their heads relentlessly in text books because they "have to", Arts by (mostly) doing just about nothing academic and dressing with superior style (mostly), H. Kin by religiously attending the church known as "Golds", and Forestry by sailing right under the radar... and not even caring one bit about it.
And that is all absolutely the truth.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Lonely Kiwi
I don't know what it is with me and random objects, but at dinner there sat a Lonely Kiwi.
Who leaves a perfectly good kiwi sitting on a table I ask you?
Answer: students otherwise preoccupied with the dreaded weeks know as Finals. With a capital F, because that's completely necessary in this situation.
And with these Finals come Distractions. The weird thing is for me is that it's not drifting off in my [incredibly comfortable] chair, it's staring out the window and noticing the most random things. That, and listening to comedy radio. It's a deadly combination.
What have I noticed thus far? Someone doing incredibly enthusiastic but otherwise completely unhelpful looking stretches next to an over-laden bicycle. It took me a full five minutes to get back to my notes. And he was wearing red too - that's just not fair. Then, of course, one begins to wonder why these stretches were being performed by someone not wearing athletic gear. Was it a crazy? Was it a sleepy student who had passed out in the bushes? I guess we'll never know. But we will be distracted by it for twenty minutes.
Other than lonely kiwis, I've been noticing a lot of lonely umbrellas also... like the one on the grass outside. And they're not so much lonely as utterly destroyed. Their spines all broken and splayed every which way, and their fabric all warped. I mean, we live in Vancouver, we're starving students... why are there so many umbrellas lying around? Perhaps we've inherited some sort of umbrella serial killer - making each head a little bit damper every day.
And this is what Finals gives you - bad comedy radio, bad blogs jokes, and lonely kiwis.
And laughing to yourself in the middle of the library, but that's simply embarrassing.
Who leaves a perfectly good kiwi sitting on a table I ask you?
Answer: students otherwise preoccupied with the dreaded weeks know as Finals. With a capital F, because that's completely necessary in this situation.
And with these Finals come Distractions. The weird thing is for me is that it's not drifting off in my [incredibly comfortable] chair, it's staring out the window and noticing the most random things. That, and listening to comedy radio. It's a deadly combination.
What have I noticed thus far? Someone doing incredibly enthusiastic but otherwise completely unhelpful looking stretches next to an over-laden bicycle. It took me a full five minutes to get back to my notes. And he was wearing red too - that's just not fair. Then, of course, one begins to wonder why these stretches were being performed by someone not wearing athletic gear. Was it a crazy? Was it a sleepy student who had passed out in the bushes? I guess we'll never know. But we will be distracted by it for twenty minutes.
Other than lonely kiwis, I've been noticing a lot of lonely umbrellas also... like the one on the grass outside. And they're not so much lonely as utterly destroyed. Their spines all broken and splayed every which way, and their fabric all warped. I mean, we live in Vancouver, we're starving students... why are there so many umbrellas lying around? Perhaps we've inherited some sort of umbrella serial killer - making each head a little bit damper every day.
And this is what Finals gives you - bad comedy radio, bad blogs jokes, and lonely kiwis.
And laughing to yourself in the middle of the library, but that's simply embarrassing.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Hello Sunshine
Just as today it unexpectedly went from pouring to sun, completed by a gorgeous sunset, I found the Sad Bicycle. Parked among the other average bicycles, the ones that don't grab your interest immediately, and keep it that way.
Needless to say, just as sometimes you need that break from studying to go for a walk to watch the sky turn purple, you also need to see a familiar inanimate object to make you feel balanced again.
Needless to say, just as sometimes you need that break from studying to go for a walk to watch the sky turn purple, you also need to see a familiar inanimate object to make you feel balanced again.
Possession
Dear readers,
I have done a terrible thing - I have lost the Sad Bicycle.
For a while I was hoping that it was simply being tethered somewhere else - or perhaps it had been forgotten outside of some building - you know, the bikes you see chained up in increasingly more random ways - sometimes simply to another of their kind. But no, I had seen neither paint nor tape of the Sad Bicycle.
It struck me as odd that I was constantly keeping my eyes peeled for the little blue bike, it's not as though I had any reason to be. The owner remains mysterious (my vivid imagination rathers that the Sad Bicylce have no owner), it is a pathetic little thing probably headed in the direction of the consignment store, and it really has no bearing on my otherwise mature and bustling university life. But I have grown attached to it.
Everyone grows accustomed to the little things that make their days meaninful - everyone creates these little things to begin with. They help us to find a rhythm without being bored, and each time they happen they reassure us and our superstitions. They are both things to look forward to and things that surprise us. Socially, it becomes the gatherings of the members of your hall for conversation and mischief at all hours of the day, or collapsing on a friends bed wihtout the effort to reach your own. Personally, though, I find that you make certain points of the day, or certain things, yours. It could be the quiet minutes of haphazard half-sleep as you stumble through otherwise silent halls to a searing shower, it could be the last bite of 89% chocolate, 11% muffin of your breakfast, or it could be seeing that silly little bicylce each time you leave home and come back.
And now I have lost it. Or the owner has lost it. Or the Sad Bicylcle has gone and lost itself. Either way I am now going to half to get used to the fact that my little friend is gone into the void that is my non-world.
I have done a terrible thing - I have lost the Sad Bicycle.
For a while I was hoping that it was simply being tethered somewhere else - or perhaps it had been forgotten outside of some building - you know, the bikes you see chained up in increasingly more random ways - sometimes simply to another of their kind. But no, I had seen neither paint nor tape of the Sad Bicycle.
It struck me as odd that I was constantly keeping my eyes peeled for the little blue bike, it's not as though I had any reason to be. The owner remains mysterious (my vivid imagination rathers that the Sad Bicylce have no owner), it is a pathetic little thing probably headed in the direction of the consignment store, and it really has no bearing on my otherwise mature and bustling university life. But I have grown attached to it.
Everyone grows accustomed to the little things that make their days meaninful - everyone creates these little things to begin with. They help us to find a rhythm without being bored, and each time they happen they reassure us and our superstitions. They are both things to look forward to and things that surprise us. Socially, it becomes the gatherings of the members of your hall for conversation and mischief at all hours of the day, or collapsing on a friends bed wihtout the effort to reach your own. Personally, though, I find that you make certain points of the day, or certain things, yours. It could be the quiet minutes of haphazard half-sleep as you stumble through otherwise silent halls to a searing shower, it could be the last bite of 89% chocolate, 11% muffin of your breakfast, or it could be seeing that silly little bicylce each time you leave home and come back.
And now I have lost it. Or the owner has lost it. Or the Sad Bicylcle has gone and lost itself. Either way I am now going to half to get used to the fact that my little friend is gone into the void that is my non-world.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Boys who broke my heart.
There are two of them - Jesse F Keeler and Sebastien Grainger.
Who are they? The former members of Death From Above 1979, that's who.
And those bastards broke up, and broke my heart.
It was two years ago, yes, but due to the terrible Ipod mechanism of "Shuffle" the heartache, pain, days of tears and Half-Baked Ben&Jerry's, and blind hatred, have returned.
I hadn't heard the throbbing bass and clashing drums for what seem a long time, but as soon as I did I remembered - my first concert, which, as it turns out, was also their last. Most people boast seeing Boys2Men or a girl band or Linkin Park or Blink182 as their first concert. Well, I was a late bloomer attending concerts, my first was at 15. BUT it paid off. It was DFA... opening for Queens of the Stoneage... opening for Nine Inch Nails. That in and of itself describes fully why my music taste is the way it is - loud, limb-skewing, mosh-pitting, interesting.
There's something particularly powerful about the first concert you attend sans 'the rents', with your friends. It's part being on your own, playing a role in music culture, surrounded by people who are just as passionate about something as you. But for me in particular, it's mostly hearing the band live - it's soul shaking. And the first time it happens is something you never forget, because you've never heard anything quite like it.
The difference between the sound coming off of Itunes (or, at the time, out of the CD player) and feeling the bass line, being deafened by the drums, shouting along to the lyrics with hundreds of other people, and throwing your body around at random, limbs everywhere. I fell in love because they didn't just sound as good as they do on the LP, they were better. And not many people can say that about a bass and a drumkit.
Although the jerks sitting behind my friends and I were rotating between blowing pot smoke and cigarette smoke directly into our eyes, and we were way far from the stage, it was absolutely amazing. Everyone was passionate about the bands, everyone was there to have a good time, and, surprisingly, the only band that let me down was NIN (and therefore I haven't trusted the headlining act since, openers must be good too).
Still high on the fact that DFA had just opening my proverbial musical eyes, it wasn't until that August that I found out they had decided to part ways. It was a mature break up, and they were both courteous and gentle about it, but my heart will forever remain broken. And it's all their fault.
Who are they? The former members of Death From Above 1979, that's who.
And those bastards broke up, and broke my heart.
It was two years ago, yes, but due to the terrible Ipod mechanism of "Shuffle" the heartache, pain, days of tears and Half-Baked Ben&Jerry's, and blind hatred, have returned.
I hadn't heard the throbbing bass and clashing drums for what seem a long time, but as soon as I did I remembered - my first concert, which, as it turns out, was also their last. Most people boast seeing Boys2Men or a girl band or Linkin Park or Blink182 as their first concert. Well, I was a late bloomer attending concerts, my first was at 15. BUT it paid off. It was DFA... opening for Queens of the Stoneage... opening for Nine Inch Nails. That in and of itself describes fully why my music taste is the way it is - loud, limb-skewing, mosh-pitting, interesting.
There's something particularly powerful about the first concert you attend sans 'the rents', with your friends. It's part being on your own, playing a role in music culture, surrounded by people who are just as passionate about something as you. But for me in particular, it's mostly hearing the band live - it's soul shaking. And the first time it happens is something you never forget, because you've never heard anything quite like it.
The difference between the sound coming off of Itunes (or, at the time, out of the CD player) and feeling the bass line, being deafened by the drums, shouting along to the lyrics with hundreds of other people, and throwing your body around at random, limbs everywhere. I fell in love because they didn't just sound as good as they do on the LP, they were better. And not many people can say that about a bass and a drumkit.
Although the jerks sitting behind my friends and I were rotating between blowing pot smoke and cigarette smoke directly into our eyes, and we were way far from the stage, it was absolutely amazing. Everyone was passionate about the bands, everyone was there to have a good time, and, surprisingly, the only band that let me down was NIN (and therefore I haven't trusted the headlining act since, openers must be good too).
Still high on the fact that DFA had just opening my proverbial musical eyes, it wasn't until that August that I found out they had decided to part ways. It was a mature break up, and they were both courteous and gentle about it, but my heart will forever remain broken. And it's all their fault.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Twas the Night Before the Math Midterm
Twas the night before the math midterm, and all through the dorm,
Not a creature was chatting, true to Science form.
The science kids were shut in their rooms with care,
In hopes that the morning would not soon be there.
The formulas were memorized, all snug in their heads,
While their vision began to blur and go red.
Doubt was still present, it would be no snap,
They still had to study for those hidden mind-traps.
When out in the commons-room there arose such a clatter,
They sprang from their rooms to see what was the matter,
Away to the door they flew like a flash,
Threw open the door, and heard a great crash.
The moon illuminated the fresh fallen chairs,
Gave lustre of mid-day to the lack of cares,
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a drunken Arts student, bearing a mug of beer.
Their hair was messy, their clothes unkempt,
Their breath smelt of smoke, but they weren't tired yet.
Bewildered, the science students could only stare,
The Arts kid turned 'round to see who was there...
"Oh, hey it's the nerds, who stayed in to study,
While I went out to the bar with my buddy,
We had a few pints, and a few laughs,
While you stayed in to look at your graphs."
That's all it took, it was the last straw,
There was no way these science kids could now withdraw,
A murderous look arose in their eye,
And they screamed, "Death, in the name of π!"
Before Mr. Arts could flee from the scene,
The nerds were upon him, strong from caffeine,
"How many seconds will it take to smother?"
"Inefficient! The knife!" Cried the other.
And at an approximate angle of fifty degrees,
With precision the knife flew, and expertise,
The Science kids proved they could do more than just work,
Apparently all those formulas made them beserk.
It 'twas a bloody end to a studious eve,
Proving only that Arts students could be so naive,
As to think that all Science students were merely nerds,
They could do so much more - not even using their words.
As they returned down the hall, staggering slightly,
One said to the other, soft and lightly,
"So what was the answer to 1, A and C?"
"Who cares, it's after one, let's leave math be."
And as their doors closed, pushing the murderous students out of sight,
It was heard - "Merry studying to all, and to all a goodnight."
Not a creature was chatting, true to Science form.
The science kids were shut in their rooms with care,
In hopes that the morning would not soon be there.
The formulas were memorized, all snug in their heads,
While their vision began to blur and go red.
Doubt was still present, it would be no snap,
They still had to study for those hidden mind-traps.
When out in the commons-room there arose such a clatter,
They sprang from their rooms to see what was the matter,
Away to the door they flew like a flash,
Threw open the door, and heard a great crash.
The moon illuminated the fresh fallen chairs,
Gave lustre of mid-day to the lack of cares,
When, what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a drunken Arts student, bearing a mug of beer.
Their hair was messy, their clothes unkempt,
Their breath smelt of smoke, but they weren't tired yet.
Bewildered, the science students could only stare,
The Arts kid turned 'round to see who was there...
"Oh, hey it's the nerds, who stayed in to study,
While I went out to the bar with my buddy,
We had a few pints, and a few laughs,
While you stayed in to look at your graphs."
That's all it took, it was the last straw,
There was no way these science kids could now withdraw,
A murderous look arose in their eye,
And they screamed, "Death, in the name of π!"
Before Mr. Arts could flee from the scene,
The nerds were upon him, strong from caffeine,
"How many seconds will it take to smother?"
"Inefficient! The knife!" Cried the other.
And at an approximate angle of fifty degrees,
With precision the knife flew, and expertise,
The Science kids proved they could do more than just work,
Apparently all those formulas made them beserk.
It 'twas a bloody end to a studious eve,
Proving only that Arts students could be so naive,
As to think that all Science students were merely nerds,
They could do so much more - not even using their words.
As they returned down the hall, staggering slightly,
One said to the other, soft and lightly,
"So what was the answer to 1, A and C?"
"Who cares, it's after one, let's leave math be."
And as their doors closed, pushing the murderous students out of sight,
It was heard - "Merry studying to all, and to all a goodnight."
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Sad Bicycle
Oh the stories it could tell.
Against the little sapling,
Duct-taped seat and all,
Rusted paint and tiny frame.
Azure, assured.
The Sad Bicycle.
It reminds me of all the stories you're supposed to have, most likely will have, when you're done with first year. Everything is, hypothetically, happening for the first time. First time away from home, a whole lot of first mistakes, first failures, first triumphs.
As much as it pains me to say this, not all of these stories need be inebriated stories. Partying is fun; getting dressed up, going out with friends, having a good time, and collapsing exhausted into bed in the wee hours of the night. These are the Drunken Nights, what you talk about over waffles on Sunday morning, what you remember with smirks or grimaces. They may provide the most outrageous or comical subject matter, but sometimes it's the events you go to with a few close friends and make fun that are better... and easier to remember accurately.
For what we soon realized was the first weekend since September, my friends and I embarked upon The Weekend of Sobriety. Friday was quiet, tasteful, and all about bad slasher flicks, and then on Saturday - brace yourself - we played boardgames. Yes, it sounds like that last-ditch effort a drowning man makes for the surface, but it actually turned out to be really fun AND we still had inside-jokes come out of it. Added bonus: the biggest mistake anyone of the night made was during Catchphrase:
"What continent is under Europe?"
"Asia!"
OR
"Where do you go on vacation?"
"Brothels!"
As much as it is fun to party and be stupid on the weekends because you really only get this chance once - when we all graduate into "the real world" we'll also have to be "adults" - in fifty years I don't want to remember my first year of university through a haze of frat parties, random dance parties in common rooms, and poker games, but I want to remember activities I did, and places I explored; concrete events that the really good stories come from.
Something tells me The Sad Bicycle didn't get to its present state by going crazy with the power of being a "grown-up", being on your own, and having access to certain substances, but by whirring down a hill full-speed, taking aimless long rides with fantastic views, rusting through all types of weather, and skidding when the road got too slippery.
Against the little sapling,
Duct-taped seat and all,
Rusted paint and tiny frame.
Azure, assured.
The Sad Bicycle.
It reminds me of all the stories you're supposed to have, most likely will have, when you're done with first year. Everything is, hypothetically, happening for the first time. First time away from home, a whole lot of first mistakes, first failures, first triumphs.
As much as it pains me to say this, not all of these stories need be inebriated stories. Partying is fun; getting dressed up, going out with friends, having a good time, and collapsing exhausted into bed in the wee hours of the night. These are the Drunken Nights, what you talk about over waffles on Sunday morning, what you remember with smirks or grimaces. They may provide the most outrageous or comical subject matter, but sometimes it's the events you go to with a few close friends and make fun that are better... and easier to remember accurately.
For what we soon realized was the first weekend since September, my friends and I embarked upon The Weekend of Sobriety. Friday was quiet, tasteful, and all about bad slasher flicks, and then on Saturday - brace yourself - we played boardgames. Yes, it sounds like that last-ditch effort a drowning man makes for the surface, but it actually turned out to be really fun AND we still had inside-jokes come out of it. Added bonus: the biggest mistake anyone of the night made was during Catchphrase:
"What continent is under Europe?"
"Asia!"
OR
"Where do you go on vacation?"
"Brothels!"
As much as it is fun to party and be stupid on the weekends because you really only get this chance once - when we all graduate into "the real world" we'll also have to be "adults" - in fifty years I don't want to remember my first year of university through a haze of frat parties, random dance parties in common rooms, and poker games, but I want to remember activities I did, and places I explored; concrete events that the really good stories come from.
Something tells me The Sad Bicycle didn't get to its present state by going crazy with the power of being a "grown-up", being on your own, and having access to certain substances, but by whirring down a hill full-speed, taking aimless long rides with fantastic views, rusting through all types of weather, and skidding when the road got too slippery.
Monday, November 3, 2008
I moved to Vancouver...
... and all I became was an f***ing hippie.
This is the thought that occurred to me yesterday as I fervently argued the pointlessness of labels. Labels such as "in a relationship" or "vegetarian".... and in that case I suppose calling myself a "hippie" is just another form of labeling. It's a vicious cycle, really, and it's incredibly difficult not to be constantly looking for some word to describe yourself.
As university students we have moved beyond the "Are you my mother?" stage and have now entered the "Is this my definition?" level of life. It's no longer about where we come from, but what we are, and my issue is, why do we have to be anything?
Yes, when we fill out applications we are required to "bubble in" the basic facts; marital status, occupation, diet, etc. Why is it that we try to "bubble in" the rest of ourselves? Is there really a point when you love someone to declare to the world (via Facebook of course) that you are "in a relationship"? Some would argue that it shows how committed you are to them, willing to declare love in front of a digital audience, but if there's anything that Hollywood and prime time TV has taught us, is that simply declaring yourself "in a relationship" means nothing. It doesn't stop actors and fictional characters from cheating; what stops someone, even us regular people, from pursuing someone else is that love that we're supposed to declare in the first place. I would rather love someone then be "in a relationship" for that very reason - it is the state you are in, not how you are defined, that matters.
The same thoughts go for anything else, yes, saying that you are vegetarian when people question you about your eating habits is important, but is it not simply the case of you eat what you eat and that's it. People call themselves vegetarians, and in the next breath fantasize over meat. Others may call themselves vegetarians and when questioned why may reply with some compassionate phrase, or that the idea of eating flesh is barbaric. Would it not simply be easier if everyone just had certain dietary habits, instead of fumbling for ways to explain why they were eating what they were?
And it's with that statement that I paused, took a moment to think, and realized I had just regressed to the Age of Aquarius... in the Age of the Starbucks, Google, and Consumerism. Just by moving to Vancouver I have gone from the least likely person to be termed a "hippie" to the most likely to throw pig's blood on fur coats, stage peace protests, and reject everything society deems fit - including my beloved Starbucks. On the bright side, I'm starting to think outside the box, and in the sphere.
And so I say - I moved to Vancouver, and all I became was a f***ing hippie.
This is the thought that occurred to me yesterday as I fervently argued the pointlessness of labels. Labels such as "in a relationship" or "vegetarian".... and in that case I suppose calling myself a "hippie" is just another form of labeling. It's a vicious cycle, really, and it's incredibly difficult not to be constantly looking for some word to describe yourself.
As university students we have moved beyond the "Are you my mother?" stage and have now entered the "Is this my definition?" level of life. It's no longer about where we come from, but what we are, and my issue is, why do we have to be anything?
Yes, when we fill out applications we are required to "bubble in" the basic facts; marital status, occupation, diet, etc. Why is it that we try to "bubble in" the rest of ourselves? Is there really a point when you love someone to declare to the world (via Facebook of course) that you are "in a relationship"? Some would argue that it shows how committed you are to them, willing to declare love in front of a digital audience, but if there's anything that Hollywood and prime time TV has taught us, is that simply declaring yourself "in a relationship" means nothing. It doesn't stop actors and fictional characters from cheating; what stops someone, even us regular people, from pursuing someone else is that love that we're supposed to declare in the first place. I would rather love someone then be "in a relationship" for that very reason - it is the state you are in, not how you are defined, that matters.
The same thoughts go for anything else, yes, saying that you are vegetarian when people question you about your eating habits is important, but is it not simply the case of you eat what you eat and that's it. People call themselves vegetarians, and in the next breath fantasize over meat. Others may call themselves vegetarians and when questioned why may reply with some compassionate phrase, or that the idea of eating flesh is barbaric. Would it not simply be easier if everyone just had certain dietary habits, instead of fumbling for ways to explain why they were eating what they were?
And it's with that statement that I paused, took a moment to think, and realized I had just regressed to the Age of Aquarius... in the Age of the Starbucks, Google, and Consumerism. Just by moving to Vancouver I have gone from the least likely person to be termed a "hippie" to the most likely to throw pig's blood on fur coats, stage peace protests, and reject everything society deems fit - including my beloved Starbucks. On the bright side, I'm starting to think outside the box, and in the sphere.
And so I say - I moved to Vancouver, and all I became was a f***ing hippie.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
O vs McC
Obama. McCain. Palin (snort of laughter). Biden (frown while considering why that sounds familiar).
These are the major players, who, on Tuesday will don their masks, step through the crowd, and wrestle for the title of... just kidding. But that would be an interesting publicity stunt.
Even for those who are not American, like myself, Tuesday marks a historic day. Thus far, the race between Obama and McCain has been world news almost every single day, everyone has an opinion to offer about each candidate, their running mate, and their extended families.
The US is arguably the most powerful country in the world (as much as everyone hates to admit) and whoever becomes their leader next has a larger burden to shoulder than just responsibility for their own country. With the world economy slowly spiraling down the drain, the situation in the Middle East only worsening, and natural disasters and conflicts like the Congo springing up everywhere, the world needs someone who can not only lead a powerhouse nation, but set a respectable example.
Many people seem to think that the role of the next President will be to clean up after Bush - restart the economy, work on the running deficit, pull out of the Middle East, and so on. In my opinion, however, the next President has that, and a much bigger job to do. Bush has been ridiculed for nearly the past decade - while running the most powerful country, he was also the running joke of politics - and it's time for someone who can fully represent their country to take office. Both candidates are smart, both have viable plans, but I think it's time for a Democrat to take office. The Republican party has some cleaning up to do - they put Bush in office for eight years, after all.
I don't know if I'd be arguing the same thing if Obama was not the Democrat candidate, because although his platform is refreshing and sensible, it's his presence that mainly concerns me, and is the most attractive thing about him for the majority of his supporters.
Obama is compared to Kennedy for good reason; both Presidents were over-poweringly charasmatic and both had phenomenal speechwriters. When the next President talks, their speech can't end up as the butt of a joke, because although it was what the President does that determines their worth, it is what the President says that causes them to be remembered, and beloved, by the people. And are not the people the most important part of the democratic election process?
Obama obviously knows this, let's hope this knowledge will pay off with a certain oval office.
I close with a line from one of his early speeches:
"This is not a red America, this is not a blue America, this is a united America."
Chilling, yes? That is a President speaking.
These are the major players, who, on Tuesday will don their masks, step through the crowd, and wrestle for the title of... just kidding. But that would be an interesting publicity stunt.
Even for those who are not American, like myself, Tuesday marks a historic day. Thus far, the race between Obama and McCain has been world news almost every single day, everyone has an opinion to offer about each candidate, their running mate, and their extended families.
The US is arguably the most powerful country in the world (as much as everyone hates to admit) and whoever becomes their leader next has a larger burden to shoulder than just responsibility for their own country. With the world economy slowly spiraling down the drain, the situation in the Middle East only worsening, and natural disasters and conflicts like the Congo springing up everywhere, the world needs someone who can not only lead a powerhouse nation, but set a respectable example.
Many people seem to think that the role of the next President will be to clean up after Bush - restart the economy, work on the running deficit, pull out of the Middle East, and so on. In my opinion, however, the next President has that, and a much bigger job to do. Bush has been ridiculed for nearly the past decade - while running the most powerful country, he was also the running joke of politics - and it's time for someone who can fully represent their country to take office. Both candidates are smart, both have viable plans, but I think it's time for a Democrat to take office. The Republican party has some cleaning up to do - they put Bush in office for eight years, after all.
I don't know if I'd be arguing the same thing if Obama was not the Democrat candidate, because although his platform is refreshing and sensible, it's his presence that mainly concerns me, and is the most attractive thing about him for the majority of his supporters.
Obama is compared to Kennedy for good reason; both Presidents were over-poweringly charasmatic and both had phenomenal speechwriters. When the next President talks, their speech can't end up as the butt of a joke, because although it was what the President does that determines their worth, it is what the President says that causes them to be remembered, and beloved, by the people. And are not the people the most important part of the democratic election process?
Obama obviously knows this, let's hope this knowledge will pay off with a certain oval office.
I close with a line from one of his early speeches:
"This is not a red America, this is not a blue America, this is a united America."
Chilling, yes? That is a President speaking.
All Hallows' Eve
It's concept is brilliant, it's traditions divine.
Everyone can by anyone and no one. Halloween is the day that world becomes a stage and we are, literally, all the players. Dressed in costume, perhaps hidden by a mask you are given the leeway to act out whatever part you have secretly always wanted to be. Or maybe you dress as the personification of something you are every day. But the point is that nobody can be judged for what they wear, or how they act.
Every day people dress up and put on a "mask", or maybe they put on several, depending on the circumstances. We all act our way through life, never truly revealing who we really are to the general public. And Halloween celebrates this.
Originally, Halloween was the day that the line between living and dead blurred, now it is the day when the line between fantasy and reality blurs. Freudian theory would have me argue that just as ancient Halloween celebrators let things that were long buried wander among the living, we now let the fantasies of our unconscious out and put them on display. We become the character we could be in our mind for an evening and have no concern for what society may think of us - because they're dressed equally as outrageously.
Personally, the concept of dressing up was just always incredibly appealing. As a child, it was always the costume that was attractive and the candy was just an added bonus. Carving pumpkins? Messy and fantastic. Scaring people? Darkly fun. Letting out your inner demons? Necessary.
Everyone can by anyone and no one. Halloween is the day that world becomes a stage and we are, literally, all the players. Dressed in costume, perhaps hidden by a mask you are given the leeway to act out whatever part you have secretly always wanted to be. Or maybe you dress as the personification of something you are every day. But the point is that nobody can be judged for what they wear, or how they act.
Every day people dress up and put on a "mask", or maybe they put on several, depending on the circumstances. We all act our way through life, never truly revealing who we really are to the general public. And Halloween celebrates this.
Originally, Halloween was the day that the line between living and dead blurred, now it is the day when the line between fantasy and reality blurs. Freudian theory would have me argue that just as ancient Halloween celebrators let things that were long buried wander among the living, we now let the fantasies of our unconscious out and put them on display. We become the character we could be in our mind for an evening and have no concern for what society may think of us - because they're dressed equally as outrageously.
Personally, the concept of dressing up was just always incredibly appealing. As a child, it was always the costume that was attractive and the candy was just an added bonus. Carving pumpkins? Messy and fantastic. Scaring people? Darkly fun. Letting out your inner demons? Necessary.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Stalkers, Anonymous.
Guess who's breeding the next generation of espionage, lawyers, thieves, and stalkers? My dorm building, where we're learning to lurk, lie, thieve, and stalk.
It's a fantastic concept, really, running around trying to murder your fellow co-eds, followed by a report of how they met their gruesome end.
I should probably explain.
"Sock Wars".
You are assigned a target, you hit said target with a *clean* sock, you take their target, and so on. All the while dodging whomever is after you. There are certain safe zones, such as your own room and the bathroom, but other than that, you're essentially a sitting duck.
However, some people have officially taken it one step beyond where it needs to be. Waiting outside classes...that they are not registered in. Leaving threatening boxes outside doors. Lurking outside doorways. Petty theft. And my personal favorite - the Facebook Stalk.
It's amazing just how much Facebook can tell you about someone - where they live, their friends, what they look like, what their personal interests are, and their schedule. Ridiculous, really, the amount one can discover about someone using something that helps you "connect and share with people in your life" - and that includes those that you don't even know are in your life... until you get beaten with a sock.
It's an unfortunate truth, but outside of a game such as sock wars, the Face-stalk does happen. Your pictures, information, groups, friends, and even emotional status become the property of anyone who cares to look. And you may not even realize who those people are. I'm not saying that you're being stalked by a serial-rapist or something as dramatic as that, but just think... that person always staring at you in History? That guy practically dry-humping your leg at the club last weekend? Your next-door neighbor? Or worst - your parents...? Well, they can ALL see your life as it unfolds, like living your own personal tabloid. So do yourself a favor, and maybe reset those privacy settings.
If not, watch out, cause I've got a sock, and it's got your name on it.
It's a fantastic concept, really, running around trying to murder your fellow co-eds, followed by a report of how they met their gruesome end.
I should probably explain.
"Sock Wars".
You are assigned a target, you hit said target with a *clean* sock, you take their target, and so on. All the while dodging whomever is after you. There are certain safe zones, such as your own room and the bathroom, but other than that, you're essentially a sitting duck.
However, some people have officially taken it one step beyond where it needs to be. Waiting outside classes...that they are not registered in. Leaving threatening boxes outside doors. Lurking outside doorways. Petty theft. And my personal favorite - the Facebook Stalk.
It's amazing just how much Facebook can tell you about someone - where they live, their friends, what they look like, what their personal interests are, and their schedule. Ridiculous, really, the amount one can discover about someone using something that helps you "connect and share with people in your life" - and that includes those that you don't even know are in your life... until you get beaten with a sock.
It's an unfortunate truth, but outside of a game such as sock wars, the Face-stalk does happen. Your pictures, information, groups, friends, and even emotional status become the property of anyone who cares to look. And you may not even realize who those people are. I'm not saying that you're being stalked by a serial-rapist or something as dramatic as that, but just think... that person always staring at you in History? That guy practically dry-humping your leg at the club last weekend? Your next-door neighbor? Or worst - your parents...? Well, they can ALL see your life as it unfolds, like living your own personal tabloid. So do yourself a favor, and maybe reset those privacy settings.
If not, watch out, cause I've got a sock, and it's got your name on it.
Monday, October 20, 2008
What am I doing here?
Recently a friend came into my room, collapsed, completely exhausted, onto my bed and uttered the words,
"Sometimes I feel like all ____ is is common sense and readings."
And then time stopped.
Let's face it, apart from classes actually teaching you something (like sciences and math), the subject matter is mostly just common sense. It's not really a revelation when you find out that people are likely to believe that they would have known the answer to a question once finding out said answer, or that generally speaking white people have oppressed every native culture they've come across and stolen their stuff, or even that the square root of X is Y.
It becomes completely draining to go to a class, be bored out of your mind, and observe nothing you hadn't already when you walked through the door. This is a disturbing thought, considering I myself am paying something like $15, 000 a year to be here. It's like being at some sort of carnival - everything is really, really hard to win so that when you manage to get even the worst prize in the barrel, you're ecstatic. And then you realize you just spent $20 and one hour to get a three dollar toy.
I'm throwing my money at University and all it's dishing out are crappy carnival prizes.
And then there comes the readings. Usually long, tedious, and repetitive, they are meant to add the the copious amounts of lecture, online notes, and text book. The readings give us learned people's thoughts, research, and opinions, and then we are told to model our thoughts after that. The readings become the ultimate example of what we are to do with this newly acquired Common Sense. Plagiarism? No, that's only when they can get it in writing.
"Sometimes I feel like all ____ is is common sense and readings."
And then time stopped.
Let's face it, apart from classes actually teaching you something (like sciences and math), the subject matter is mostly just common sense. It's not really a revelation when you find out that people are likely to believe that they would have known the answer to a question once finding out said answer, or that generally speaking white people have oppressed every native culture they've come across and stolen their stuff, or even that the square root of X is Y.
It becomes completely draining to go to a class, be bored out of your mind, and observe nothing you hadn't already when you walked through the door. This is a disturbing thought, considering I myself am paying something like $15, 000 a year to be here. It's like being at some sort of carnival - everything is really, really hard to win so that when you manage to get even the worst prize in the barrel, you're ecstatic. And then you realize you just spent $20 and one hour to get a three dollar toy.
I'm throwing my money at University and all it's dishing out are crappy carnival prizes.
And then there comes the readings. Usually long, tedious, and repetitive, they are meant to add the the copious amounts of lecture, online notes, and text book. The readings give us learned people's thoughts, research, and opinions, and then we are told to model our thoughts after that. The readings become the ultimate example of what we are to do with this newly acquired Common Sense. Plagiarism? No, that's only when they can get it in writing.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Thunder-Mob
Mob mentality and organized sports - how would we see the beauty in one without the presence of the other?
Picture a large, intimidating group of people screaming obscenities, gesticulating, and chanting. Not at you, mind you, because that would be terrifying. No, you are caught up in a crowd, at an organized sports-type thing, and there is nothing else to do but yell, scream, shout, and roar. Even if you don't quite what's happening. College football ("university football" does not quite have the same ring, nor is it as entertaining) is one of those such events in which mob-mentality and humanity's more basic instincts come into play in a near poetic fashion.
All it takes is that one person who is SO INTO THE GAME. It's about bringing the intensity, because as soon as everyone sees how into it you can get, everyone wants a taste. Although everyone else may think it weird, personally I think it's a fun game to sit in the center of a crowd at a sports event that I'm not overly interested in and just sit there and watch them cheer. Every single time, it follows a sort of pattern...
You know that person I mentioned before, the one who is just really into the game? Well, they're usually there with a group of their equally rowdy friends. It's usually them who starts it - something particularly noteworthy happens, and they go absolutely nuts. I should mention that these people are usually knowledgable about sports in general.
People around them, catching on that something has happened believe they, too, should cheer, and proceed to do so. This creates a chain reaction that spreads from the Rowdy Epicenter of actual fans to the rest of the crowd. It goes back to the days of the Colliseum, when a cheering crowd determined the life or death of innocent people. Except in football, the crowd simply deems how satisfying a play has been. You don't even have to know what is going on, or what you are deciding; the mob gives you the excuse to act blindly.
Have you ever experienced the thought that you don't actually know what you're cheering for, but that it must be important, so you just go with it?
Happens to me all the time. Therein lies the beauty, and supposed danger, of mob-mentality. No conscience, no decision, just going with it.
Of course the formula goes beyond just the basics, as there is always the element of competition: who can be louder, or clap the longest, or "woot" for the longest... or chug a beer the fastest, or invent the greatest victory dance. That's where things get entertaining, because that's where the Drunken Fan comes in.
The last sporting event I attended was a football game, and there I met my hero. Aside from the dancing mascot, of course. I like to refer to him as Random Drunk Fan in Kanye Glass or RDFKG. RDFKG was taking on all the responsibilities of the Rowdy Epicenter, and then some. Dancing with the mascot, dancing by himself, marching around pumping people up. A very large part of me wanted to BE this guy. Not one other drunken fan could top him, not even the fist fighters and the Crazy guest-official-fan (who, quite frankly, was just simply terrifying).
In the end, even though it is these memorable individuals who start the cheers, and make up the memories, it is the crowd in general that makes the event.
The collective cheers, the group chants... no one, not even the players, would be as into it if the mob wasn't a part of it. Everyone becomes part of the mob to avoid thought, to remain anonymous but still expressive - so I leave you with this dare - become my hero, the one who starts, it, the one not afraid to be an individual in the face of the mob.
Picture a large, intimidating group of people screaming obscenities, gesticulating, and chanting. Not at you, mind you, because that would be terrifying. No, you are caught up in a crowd, at an organized sports-type thing, and there is nothing else to do but yell, scream, shout, and roar. Even if you don't quite what's happening. College football ("university football" does not quite have the same ring, nor is it as entertaining) is one of those such events in which mob-mentality and humanity's more basic instincts come into play in a near poetic fashion.
All it takes is that one person who is SO INTO THE GAME. It's about bringing the intensity, because as soon as everyone sees how into it you can get, everyone wants a taste. Although everyone else may think it weird, personally I think it's a fun game to sit in the center of a crowd at a sports event that I'm not overly interested in and just sit there and watch them cheer. Every single time, it follows a sort of pattern...
You know that person I mentioned before, the one who is just really into the game? Well, they're usually there with a group of their equally rowdy friends. It's usually them who starts it - something particularly noteworthy happens, and they go absolutely nuts. I should mention that these people are usually knowledgable about sports in general.
People around them, catching on that something has happened believe they, too, should cheer, and proceed to do so. This creates a chain reaction that spreads from the Rowdy Epicenter of actual fans to the rest of the crowd. It goes back to the days of the Colliseum, when a cheering crowd determined the life or death of innocent people. Except in football, the crowd simply deems how satisfying a play has been. You don't even have to know what is going on, or what you are deciding; the mob gives you the excuse to act blindly.
Have you ever experienced the thought that you don't actually know what you're cheering for, but that it must be important, so you just go with it?
Happens to me all the time. Therein lies the beauty, and supposed danger, of mob-mentality. No conscience, no decision, just going with it.
Of course the formula goes beyond just the basics, as there is always the element of competition: who can be louder, or clap the longest, or "woot" for the longest... or chug a beer the fastest, or invent the greatest victory dance. That's where things get entertaining, because that's where the Drunken Fan comes in.
The last sporting event I attended was a football game, and there I met my hero. Aside from the dancing mascot, of course. I like to refer to him as Random Drunk Fan in Kanye Glass or RDFKG. RDFKG was taking on all the responsibilities of the Rowdy Epicenter, and then some. Dancing with the mascot, dancing by himself, marching around pumping people up. A very large part of me wanted to BE this guy. Not one other drunken fan could top him, not even the fist fighters and the Crazy guest-official-fan (who, quite frankly, was just simply terrifying).
In the end, even though it is these memorable individuals who start the cheers, and make up the memories, it is the crowd in general that makes the event.
The collective cheers, the group chants... no one, not even the players, would be as into it if the mob wasn't a part of it. Everyone becomes part of the mob to avoid thought, to remain anonymous but still expressive - so I leave you with this dare - become my hero, the one who starts, it, the one not afraid to be an individual in the face of the mob.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
The Inevitable Nickname
A new take on blogging - the short anecdotal story. *Names have been obliterated to respect the privacy of those innocent/not-so-innocent people they pertain to.*
I find it funny how quickly nicknames can be created, circulate, etc. etc. Especially in a residence setting, on any given university campus. I can barely count the number of people I've "met" before actually being introduced just based on a nickname a rather astute friend of mine has given them. My favorite case : Scruffy ___, luckily not particularly sensitive. He wears silly hats. A lot. In public non-silly-hat-wearing places. Not necessarily a bad thing.
This friend of mine had met this Scruffy ___ and quickly discerned that this was the perfect name to "introduce" him to our little group with. So, before the point in time we had actually met, I knew who he was - by reputation and nickname only.
Coincidentally, our first actual meeting was also the day that we met our floor RA, Dell. I will tell you right now she is very sweet, without a malicious bone in her body, and that the following is a happening of mere chance, which is why it is downright hilarious.
We (a couple friends, the Nicknamer and Dell included) had just sat down to a mediocre cafeteria dinner when who should join us but Scruffy ___ and a few of his friends. In the brief seconds in which the Nicknamer managed to spot him coming over she said as an afterthought,
"Oh, there's Scruffy ___."
He sits down with us, we go through the introductions - name, what floor you live on, what city you came from, and what faculty you're in (it's a pretty standard procedure by week two), and he and Dell start up a conversation about something. I'm not really paying attention until I hear,
"So, how'd you get the nickname Scruffy ___?"
I freeze, anticipating the next moments - hilarity, or disaster?
The Nicknamer freezes, eyes wider than a kid in a candy store, quesidilla poised to be bitten.
Scruffy ___ gives an awkward smile, not understanding quiiiiite yet.
And Dell says,
"Ohhh, it was a secret nickname."
I burst out laughing, the Nicknamer makes awkward apologies and Scruffy ___ brushes it off. Life goes back to normal with the lesson learned - nick names, while a source of entertainment, are dangerous when places in the wrong hands. Case in point: Calling someone Hot ___ to their face. That situation does not even approach the possibility of comedy
At this point in time we have designed nicknames for an entire clan of people, and they are spreading rapidly. Cheeky ___. Scruffy ___. Hot ___. Sexy ___. The list goes on and on. You're probably on it, but no one's going to be blurting it out now.
I find it funny how quickly nicknames can be created, circulate, etc. etc. Especially in a residence setting, on any given university campus. I can barely count the number of people I've "met" before actually being introduced just based on a nickname a rather astute friend of mine has given them. My favorite case : Scruffy ___, luckily not particularly sensitive. He wears silly hats. A lot. In public non-silly-hat-wearing places. Not necessarily a bad thing.
This friend of mine had met this Scruffy ___ and quickly discerned that this was the perfect name to "introduce" him to our little group with. So, before the point in time we had actually met, I knew who he was - by reputation and nickname only.
Coincidentally, our first actual meeting was also the day that we met our floor RA, Dell. I will tell you right now she is very sweet, without a malicious bone in her body, and that the following is a happening of mere chance, which is why it is downright hilarious.
We (a couple friends, the Nicknamer and Dell included) had just sat down to a mediocre cafeteria dinner when who should join us but Scruffy ___ and a few of his friends. In the brief seconds in which the Nicknamer managed to spot him coming over she said as an afterthought,
"Oh, there's Scruffy ___."
He sits down with us, we go through the introductions - name, what floor you live on, what city you came from, and what faculty you're in (it's a pretty standard procedure by week two), and he and Dell start up a conversation about something. I'm not really paying attention until I hear,
"So, how'd you get the nickname Scruffy ___?"
I freeze, anticipating the next moments - hilarity, or disaster?
The Nicknamer freezes, eyes wider than a kid in a candy store, quesidilla poised to be bitten.
Scruffy ___ gives an awkward smile, not understanding quiiiiite yet.
And Dell says,
"Ohhh, it was a secret nickname."
I burst out laughing, the Nicknamer makes awkward apologies and Scruffy ___ brushes it off. Life goes back to normal with the lesson learned - nick names, while a source of entertainment, are dangerous when places in the wrong hands. Case in point: Calling someone Hot ___ to their face. That situation does not even approach the possibility of comedy
At this point in time we have designed nicknames for an entire clan of people, and they are spreading rapidly. Cheeky ___. Scruffy ___. Hot ___. Sexy ___. The list goes on and on. You're probably on it, but no one's going to be blurting it out now.
Monday, September 29, 2008
The F Word
What starts in F and ends in -uck?
Firetruck.
The more relevant question:
What starts in F and ends in "a whole lot of talk, redundancy, and frustration "?
Feminism.
And perhaps a relationship without sex.
But that's besides the point.
There is a long standing tradition that every woman stands up for Feminism because it is her personal battle. I do not disagree with this tradition. I am taking up issue with the fact that after lifetimes of hard work, of valid points, and difficult fights, Feminism has come so far... and then hit a wall. Women today care less and less for what they still call their "fight". Except if they were in a boxing ring, I believe the corpse would be cooling in the morgue at this very moment. There used to be such legacy in being a Feminist, and now it has become all but superfluous.
The eighties was perhaps the epitome of Feminism - the working woman was all the rage, independence was hot, it was becoming socially acceptable for a woman to be promiscuous. And who could forget those shoulder pads? The two decades before saw massive protests, the gain of the universal suffrage in Canada from a group of five determined ladies, the burning of thousands of bras that represent man's oppression of women, and countless other fights. That was the nature of Feminism - it was a battlefield.
Lately, Feminism seems to have lost this momentum. It has become not so much a battle as the stereotypes it has fought to throw off - whiny, inactive, and lacking powerful vigor. Women simply seem to care less, now that we have "come so far" here in the Western world, Feminism seems less of a cause and more of something that has been obtained. To me, as a woman, Feminism has become a subtle breeze. There is so much talk pertaining to the fact that women now have the vote, they have respect as equals, but at the same time make less than a man's dollar and are held to double standards that it's a wonder that Feminism is still taken mildly seriously.
How can you? After all this complaining, all we Western women are doing is holding ourselves hostage with our own winded speeches. There's a motto that says if you want something done, then to get out there and do it yourself. So do it. Don't sit around whining about the fact that while the average frat-boy gets a shiny medal for going out, getting wasted, and getting stupid, your average college girls are simply referred to as "walk of sham-ers", change it. Don't pay attention to the labels, don't label yourself. Do what you want with your body and mind, as they are yours, and let everyone know it. Words and thoughts are only empowered when you believe in them, so stop the talking and start the doing.
Feminism is not supposed to be a passive fight - no human rights cause is. Women have just seemingly lost the courage to stand up and do something. Not everything can be left to talking, ladies. It's so obvious that the cause is slowly dying here in North America as well. You still see the same depiction of women as being submissive in advertisements - of having a shampoo/perfum/vacuum make you more attractive and therefore more worthwhile. The sad part is that women now run ad adgencies just as men do. It has no longer become an issue of men oppressing us. They got bored of listening to us long ago, and with sense. The issue now is that we are prisoners of our own habits. It was so easy to sit around and let society work for us that we forgot how to take a stand.
Now more than ever there are actual worthy causes - we may be able to take foregranted our status as equals here, but what of the girl in the Middle East who was raped and persecuted for "bringing it upon herself". It was that sort of thing that made Feminism a reality to begin with. What of the countries under the same oppression our sex has been? When given the choice between bemoaning the plagues of society, and curing them, what is the correct answer?
So cut the chat, the venting, and the downright laziness, and get out there and DO something, "Feminists" of the world, you may yet accomplish something.
Firetruck.
The more relevant question:
What starts in F and ends in "a whole lot of talk, redundancy, and frustration "?
Feminism.
And perhaps a relationship without sex.
But that's besides the point.
There is a long standing tradition that every woman stands up for Feminism because it is her personal battle. I do not disagree with this tradition. I am taking up issue with the fact that after lifetimes of hard work, of valid points, and difficult fights, Feminism has come so far... and then hit a wall. Women today care less and less for what they still call their "fight". Except if they were in a boxing ring, I believe the corpse would be cooling in the morgue at this very moment. There used to be such legacy in being a Feminist, and now it has become all but superfluous.
The eighties was perhaps the epitome of Feminism - the working woman was all the rage, independence was hot, it was becoming socially acceptable for a woman to be promiscuous. And who could forget those shoulder pads? The two decades before saw massive protests, the gain of the universal suffrage in Canada from a group of five determined ladies, the burning of thousands of bras that represent man's oppression of women, and countless other fights. That was the nature of Feminism - it was a battlefield.
Lately, Feminism seems to have lost this momentum. It has become not so much a battle as the stereotypes it has fought to throw off - whiny, inactive, and lacking powerful vigor. Women simply seem to care less, now that we have "come so far" here in the Western world, Feminism seems less of a cause and more of something that has been obtained. To me, as a woman, Feminism has become a subtle breeze. There is so much talk pertaining to the fact that women now have the vote, they have respect as equals, but at the same time make less than a man's dollar and are held to double standards that it's a wonder that Feminism is still taken mildly seriously.
How can you? After all this complaining, all we Western women are doing is holding ourselves hostage with our own winded speeches. There's a motto that says if you want something done, then to get out there and do it yourself. So do it. Don't sit around whining about the fact that while the average frat-boy gets a shiny medal for going out, getting wasted, and getting stupid, your average college girls are simply referred to as "walk of sham-ers", change it. Don't pay attention to the labels, don't label yourself. Do what you want with your body and mind, as they are yours, and let everyone know it. Words and thoughts are only empowered when you believe in them, so stop the talking and start the doing.
Feminism is not supposed to be a passive fight - no human rights cause is. Women have just seemingly lost the courage to stand up and do something. Not everything can be left to talking, ladies. It's so obvious that the cause is slowly dying here in North America as well. You still see the same depiction of women as being submissive in advertisements - of having a shampoo/perfum/vacuum make you more attractive and therefore more worthwhile. The sad part is that women now run ad adgencies just as men do. It has no longer become an issue of men oppressing us. They got bored of listening to us long ago, and with sense. The issue now is that we are prisoners of our own habits. It was so easy to sit around and let society work for us that we forgot how to take a stand.
Now more than ever there are actual worthy causes - we may be able to take foregranted our status as equals here, but what of the girl in the Middle East who was raped and persecuted for "bringing it upon herself". It was that sort of thing that made Feminism a reality to begin with. What of the countries under the same oppression our sex has been? When given the choice between bemoaning the plagues of society, and curing them, what is the correct answer?
So cut the chat, the venting, and the downright laziness, and get out there and DO something, "Feminists" of the world, you may yet accomplish something.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The Bubble
Today is the first time I left campus in two weeks.
It's like this small, neatly organized and beautifully foliage-d bubble has been created.
Leaving it is a completely foreign option. We have everything here - decent food, great views, a nudist beach, Starbucks, and even a liquor store... what more could a humble student ask for?
Yet, it's vaguely reminiscent of high school, putting the "real world" even farther from the Real World - otherwise known as life after higher education. Building a comfy cocoon is all well and good, since everyone needs somewhere to relax, recuperate, and build some sort of social network. But at some point you have to face reality.
Reality involves: ... well, I'm not actually clear on what it involves on a grand scale, considering everyone has their own perception. Since perception creates every individual reality, I think attempting to figure out what reality is in a broad sense (other than the definition) is mostly completely pointless. If our perceptions were to narrow to simply our own view of life, what would we be left with? A bunch of zombies walking around like their I-pods are on too high without actually experiencing the world. So, in order to broaden our reality, I assume we must first start with our perception.
I guess realizing that the world is broader than your circle is a good place to start when broadening your the way you look at the world. Broaden. I'll stop now. Go out into the city and explore, listen to one of the (numerous) protests, just pull yourself out of the haze of studying and partying and hanging out to get a breath of fresh air. Vancouver is amazing. Actually, many places are amazing, but since it's about "carpe diem" and not "carpe anno" it would probably just be best to appreciate what's right outside your door to begin with.
On that note, there are even events taking place on campus that tend to yank one from the bubble-daze.
Stephane Dion, whatever prejudices I may have against him and his leadership abilities (please don't leave the country in his hands, voters...), spoke here last week and that's something. Since the world is divided into personal troubles and societal issues, it's refreshening to consider issues instead of just what plagues us day to day. Sometimes the distraction is even what you need to solve these problems, and then you've helped yourself in more ways than one.
In the end it all comes back to you... and your friendly neighborhood bubble.
It's like this small, neatly organized and beautifully foliage-d bubble has been created.
Leaving it is a completely foreign option. We have everything here - decent food, great views, a nudist beach, Starbucks, and even a liquor store... what more could a humble student ask for?
Yet, it's vaguely reminiscent of high school, putting the "real world" even farther from the Real World - otherwise known as life after higher education. Building a comfy cocoon is all well and good, since everyone needs somewhere to relax, recuperate, and build some sort of social network. But at some point you have to face reality.
Reality involves: ... well, I'm not actually clear on what it involves on a grand scale, considering everyone has their own perception. Since perception creates every individual reality, I think attempting to figure out what reality is in a broad sense (other than the definition) is mostly completely pointless. If our perceptions were to narrow to simply our own view of life, what would we be left with? A bunch of zombies walking around like their I-pods are on too high without actually experiencing the world. So, in order to broaden our reality, I assume we must first start with our perception.
I guess realizing that the world is broader than your circle is a good place to start when broadening your the way you look at the world. Broaden. I'll stop now. Go out into the city and explore, listen to one of the (numerous) protests, just pull yourself out of the haze of studying and partying and hanging out to get a breath of fresh air. Vancouver is amazing. Actually, many places are amazing, but since it's about "carpe diem" and not "carpe anno" it would probably just be best to appreciate what's right outside your door to begin with.
On that note, there are even events taking place on campus that tend to yank one from the bubble-daze.
Stephane Dion, whatever prejudices I may have against him and his leadership abilities (please don't leave the country in his hands, voters...), spoke here last week and that's something. Since the world is divided into personal troubles and societal issues, it's refreshening to consider issues instead of just what plagues us day to day. Sometimes the distraction is even what you need to solve these problems, and then you've helped yourself in more ways than one.
In the end it all comes back to you... and your friendly neighborhood bubble.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Another Privilege to Abuse
Stylishly and romantically portrayed being 19 (or 18 in those provinces that actually make sense), is something everyone lusts for. It's a privilege often take for granted and even more often abused. From experience I know that the day of the "adulthood" birthday is often the epitome of this - drink, lottery, gamble, etc. - everything you could maybe get away with before, that you are now allowed to do. It's wonderful - the second one becomes an adult we revert back to the gluttony of a two year old. It's a perfect tradition, and should never change.
I, however, am taking up issue with the continued abuse of all these privileges - and one that is quickly approaching in importance. Let's look at a couple equations.
Irresponsible drunkenness = drunk tank. Instant repercussion = never repeat. Or here's hoping.
Irresponsible gambling = empty wallet = no food and no rent. Probably won't repeat.
The worst though? The one that actually may impact more than your person?
Irresponsible voting = potentially harmful leader of entire country. May repeat. Over and over.
Voting, because it is seen as the least cool of all the many facets of adulthood, is the one that is given the most thoughtless irresponsibility. It's also the one that is the highest privilege, and the one with the broadest spectrum of effect.
Personally, I am aware of people who take the time to register to vote (a lengthy process probably set up to discourage voters who don't really care... or just everyone in general), go to a polling station, and then simply pick the funniest name on the list. This is absolutely ridiculous.
Voting was originally a privilege given only to those of a certain class, income, etc. The ability to vote was given to the "every-person" with the hopes that they would choose a body to govern them, make their decisions wisely, and represent their interests. The vote only requires us to care once every blue-moon (or, to some, an election), instead of requiring careful consideration every single day, from everyone, about every little problem the country may face.
The US is on to something with the "blue" added to the "red and white", because although our voter turnouts are on par, the campaign trail in the US is like some sort of sport. People love watching, people lose sleep over it, people care about who will make decisions for them. Canadian politics, though, are committed to grudgingly, with a certain reluctance. There is no excitement or gratitude for the people who make our decisions; many people don't even consider who exactly they are handing their country off to. It simply isn't exciting enough.
Comparatively speaking, would you rather get drunk with your buddies and have a "fantastic" Saturday night, or spend five minutes bubbling in a ballet only to go, "Fuck yeah! I voted!". Honestly, which one will get you more high-fives? Which one will give you a higher social standing with your peers?
Voting lacks the shiny exciting-ness of drinking or something else "expected" of a new adult. But nevertheless it is expected, and this is where the Irresponsible Voter comes in. The person who doesn't really care, but knows they should, and so ends up abusing the privilege of voting more than they could ever abuse another right of the "adult".
Everyone has some prior knowledge about the major parties (or perhaps has heard of the more obscure ones), but going in to a booth to make a decision about who you want looking out for you, who you want to give your tax dollars to, and who you want to trust with your country, without having any real concrete knowledge is just silly. Reread the sentence - silly. What justification can someone give for not spending five minutes to sit down, read the "mission statement" of each party and then vote. Even at that simplistic point, one can categorize their self as an "informed voter".
What excuse is there, really, for not caring about the country that you live in? Even if voting is not such a "tradition" of adulthood, it is a right that everyone has, and is expected to live up to. And, if you can't look at it in those terms think about this: it's government that decides just what shenanigans you can get up and how often and what your various punishments will be. Why wouldn't you want to exercise some control over that?
I, however, am taking up issue with the continued abuse of all these privileges - and one that is quickly approaching in importance. Let's look at a couple equations.
Irresponsible drunkenness = drunk tank. Instant repercussion = never repeat. Or here's hoping.
Irresponsible gambling = empty wallet = no food and no rent. Probably won't repeat.
The worst though? The one that actually may impact more than your person?
Irresponsible voting = potentially harmful leader of entire country. May repeat. Over and over.
Voting, because it is seen as the least cool of all the many facets of adulthood, is the one that is given the most thoughtless irresponsibility. It's also the one that is the highest privilege, and the one with the broadest spectrum of effect.
Personally, I am aware of people who take the time to register to vote (a lengthy process probably set up to discourage voters who don't really care... or just everyone in general), go to a polling station, and then simply pick the funniest name on the list. This is absolutely ridiculous.
Voting was originally a privilege given only to those of a certain class, income, etc. The ability to vote was given to the "every-person" with the hopes that they would choose a body to govern them, make their decisions wisely, and represent their interests. The vote only requires us to care once every blue-moon (or, to some, an election), instead of requiring careful consideration every single day, from everyone, about every little problem the country may face.
The US is on to something with the "blue" added to the "red and white", because although our voter turnouts are on par, the campaign trail in the US is like some sort of sport. People love watching, people lose sleep over it, people care about who will make decisions for them. Canadian politics, though, are committed to grudgingly, with a certain reluctance. There is no excitement or gratitude for the people who make our decisions; many people don't even consider who exactly they are handing their country off to. It simply isn't exciting enough.
Comparatively speaking, would you rather get drunk with your buddies and have a "fantastic" Saturday night, or spend five minutes bubbling in a ballet only to go, "Fuck yeah! I voted!". Honestly, which one will get you more high-fives? Which one will give you a higher social standing with your peers?
Voting lacks the shiny exciting-ness of drinking or something else "expected" of a new adult. But nevertheless it is expected, and this is where the Irresponsible Voter comes in. The person who doesn't really care, but knows they should, and so ends up abusing the privilege of voting more than they could ever abuse another right of the "adult".
Everyone has some prior knowledge about the major parties (or perhaps has heard of the more obscure ones), but going in to a booth to make a decision about who you want looking out for you, who you want to give your tax dollars to, and who you want to trust with your country, without having any real concrete knowledge is just silly. Reread the sentence - silly. What justification can someone give for not spending five minutes to sit down, read the "mission statement" of each party and then vote. Even at that simplistic point, one can categorize their self as an "informed voter".
What excuse is there, really, for not caring about the country that you live in? Even if voting is not such a "tradition" of adulthood, it is a right that everyone has, and is expected to live up to. And, if you can't look at it in those terms think about this: it's government that decides just what shenanigans you can get up and how often and what your various punishments will be. Why wouldn't you want to exercise some control over that?
The Petri-Dish
For all you science students out there - a lovely metaphor. Although, since a metaphor is at home in the Arts discipline, I guess you are officially being excluded. Ah well, you've probably got work to do anyways. This is officially a distraction.
Everyone remembers that weird lull that came about after high school: the initial experiment in which people were thrown together, creating bonds, and explosive drama had reached a stand-still. It was the second during a breath in which there is no air in your body, and you are waiting.
Of course, we have obviously now entered "the real world" and begun something outside this experiment; outside the neat petri dish.
In the course of corresponding with those still living in that flat plastic bubble I have come to the realization that they have all remained in the delirium of the summer. Absolutely nothing has changed, and while, yes, this must be considered sad-bordering-on-pathetic, it's also just plain weird. How is it that someone can leave a city for months and come back to find nothing changed? Personally, upon my return my friends will still be dating the same people, playing the same video games, and living in the same basements. The fabled "year off", I think it should be known from here on out as the "same thing".
The expectation that if you change, if you remain in constant motion, particles vibrating at high frequency, that those around you will too is not wrong. I had just forgotten that I moved - I moved on, we moved on - and they - did not. I'm hoping they will, mostly because it weirds me out to think of an entire social group remaining stagnant. And I, um, care about the well-being of the basement-livers too... they're like my lovely collection of science student friends, but with less purpose.
And on that note, the case of the petri dish is closed.
Friday, September 19, 2008
It's Not Another Bad Rap Song
We're not a "It's wh-wh-wh-what were all about" place. We don't come bearing vendettas against authority, or knives to be placed in other publication's figurative backs. We may or may not come with hatred borne against Saskatchewan, a love of Converse high-tops, and something to say about the world, or the world as we see it. There is no ultimate purpose (unless you count taking over the world, but that's only out of originality) but to comment on life, as students, to write about whatever happens to be bugging us, and to provide an alternative writing source to students here at UBC and abroad. So say what you want, write what you want, and think what you want, 'cause we're sure as hell going to.
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