Is it terrifying?

That I finally understand the lure of reality TV?
It comes back to the movie business. We're so used to the story lines, the intimate cliches so well known by now, that reality TV is actually, well, refreshing.
I'll back up.
Alright, so there are approximately 41 different narratives in existence. Which means there are 41 different patterns any book, movie, or TV show can follow. At this point we're fairly used to the well-known narratives. The romantic comedies in which someone falls for another person, it's unrequited until the last second when the loved one realizes she/he too is in love with their best friend/doorman/waiter, etc. There's the stories in which there's a drastic change of heart, and the person changes for the better. There's the rags-to-riches, the crime drama in which the main character and the character we least expect to live survive, the horror movie in which the blonde and the stupid jock always die first. And now we've got the Seth Rogen, in which the endearingly dorky/unfit protagonist always gets the girl/achieves his mission in the end. Essentially, it's all been done, and as much as I love movies, it gets pretty predictable. In fact, my test of a movie's, or TV show's, merit is if I can guess the outcome before it ends. The guesswork is taking all the fun out of it, though. And then there's "reality TV".
The thing about this new aspect of television is that their is not script, no pre-determined narrative. It's people, who, yes, are more than likely scripted for maximal drama, but at least it's based off life. There's no necessary pattern. The boy can like a girl, yeah, but he doesn't have to change to end up with her - he just has to get her drunk off her ass and sleep with her. Welcome to The Real World. My personal favorite TV drama. And it's got all these new things - the most recent one was composed of people gay, straight, transexual, ex-military, dancers, college dropouts and so on. Reality TV hits its market based on the fact that its life, or the more interesting derivitve of it.
Who knows, perhaps I've been sitting at home too long watching all this "reality" instead of living it, but I think I finally get the pull of this new piece of television.

An intimate look at the life of...

I still can't answer that question, because on the adventure I am about to regale you with, I actually witnessed zero human activity.
Let me introduce you to the life of a woman who has nothing to do with her days except wait for a bone to heal. It's exciting stuff. Not really. Yesterday was a mild exception to the rule of day-time TV watching and listless crunches in lieu of actual cardiovascular exercise.
I'm going to assume no one has ever heard of a hamlet called Madden. No? Alright, solid. I doubt there's internet access out there anyways. It's not on any maps, either, so don't go looking for it.
Madden is located somewhere North of Calgary, though my friends and I took so many wrong turns and back roads to reach it that I can't even begin to give directions. When I first pictured this place I saw maybe four buildings on the main street, a couple of houses, and shiny farmland. Very Little House. What does Madden actually consist of? A sign boasting "You are now entering the hamlet of Madden; Speed Limit 40", not one, but two, closed down General Stores, a town hall/community center shanty that looks as though it's been built from tin foil, and a couple of houses. That is actually it. Oh, and what can only be a distantly related bus shelter made of plywood bearing the very hilarious, spray painted, slogan "Slow Kids + Bus". Considering this place begs for jokes about good old fashioned inbreeding, I find that very fitting.
Our adventure to reach Madden, explore it (3 seconds flat in the brand new Honda), and ridicule it (we're still working on the jokes), does not end there. On top of Madden itself we witnessed a real-live crazy cat lady shelter - eight cats wandering the front yard and counting - and probably trespassed on a dairy farm. On this farm we also managed to lure every single cow to the fence by simply calling them. Like dogs. Very fun. On top of that we found the very beautiful Madden Golf Course, a random ice-rink exclusively for curling, someone possessing their own giant pond/paddle boat combination, and a flat horse that I later discovered was made from metal.
Our exploring spirit was slightly crushed/bruised by the fact that the signs boasting 'Dog Pound' were not in fact for a dog pound in which we could play with the puppies, but for a county. Named 'Dog Pound'. We also discovered there is a county named 'Moose Factory' somewhere in Ontario. I always wondered how moose were created. On our way home, however, we did manage to find a kinda creepy B&B in the absolute middle of nowhere.
What really got to me is who chooses to live that far away from any type of civilization whatsoever. Who is not a farmer. I mean, really, what pull does that life have? It's so isolated. I actually feel a kindred spirit with that level of isolation. I am a cripple, and the people (who may or may not exist) live in the hamlet of Madden or county of Dog Pound.
But then, I suppose there is something to be said about living self-sufficiently, without the implements of society. These people do kind of embody the point at which human civilization was doing pretty well, before the Industrial Revolution which has inadvertently led to a globe condemned to death at every turn, rumors of Global Warming, weapons of mass destruction, multiple genocides, and our current economic stalwart.

I'm moving to Madden.

Perceptions.

I've always had this theory that since actors don't write their lines, direct their movies, design the sets, choose their costumes, or choose their coworkers, their main job is just to look good. If they can't handle this, well, you probably deserve to be ripped apart by the tabloids. I mean, really. Alright yes, truly great actors have that thing, the part of them that entices you to watch their movies, and I'm not talking a chiseled jawbone and an amazing body. It's the delivery, it's their charisma. But honestly, when was the last time you saw a movie just for fun that contained one of these actors?
I'm expecting a long silence of thought here.
I'm one of those people who would really have to think about the last time I saw a movie worth bringing up in conversation. I think 'Milk' is the first one that comes to mind - the only Oscar nominated movie I didn't have to force myself to watch simply because it had an Academy nod. As far as I'm concerned there are the everyday movies that people see, which are now roughly divided into "Seth Rogen and Crew", "Things that Go Boom", and "Awww, of course they end up together!". I'm not challenging the fact that some of these movies are worth seeing, Iron Man comes to mind with a memorable performance by Mr. Downey Jr. And I think Superbad was full of teenage comedic genius. I'm simply arguing that movies aren't made they way they used to be.
Actors back then we're simply beautiful, not created by plastic and shaping. They also made movies that were nearly always worth seeing, that weren't fluff you can shovel popcorn in your mouth to. Movies like "The Godfather" and "Casablanca", "Singin' in the Rain" and "Psycho". Basically, all the stuff that has been sequeled and remade today. "Star Wars" and "Ocean's 11" stand as a testament to this.
Today we have a few of these such greats, more recent versions of the great movies. "Pulp Fiction" and "Memento", "Amerian Beauty" and "Forrest Gump". All of these were amazing films. Great directors, and the actors that had 'it'. But these aren't the screen jems that are mainly around today, they're rare. Like finding a diamond randomly in your backyard.
Ok, to get to the point of all this - what happened to Hollywood? Where are the good days, when the paparazzi kept their distance, when movies were original, and when actors were just that - actors. They weren't contrived Disney kids, or surgeried actresses, or fakely tanned. What's more, their faces even moved with, OMG, emotion. I miss those days. I wasn't even around in those days, but I still miss them. As someone who toys with the idea of writing and directing, it's sad for me to watch Hollywood run down the drain, its plastic melting in the heat of LA.

Identity. Boy What a Concept

The other day I got to thinking about the Canadian identity - or lack thereof, rather. In an article I was reading it was pointed out to me by an article I'm reading for [yet another] scholarship application that the Canadian identity is composed of institutions and a "we're not like them" attitude concerning our neighbors to the South. We are constantly fighting off what we are not - a nearly-United State, another colony, or a piece of property stolen from the true Canadians of the country. The First Nations spirit does not capture all of the country, nor do our roots in Europe, with the advent of a globalized society, so who are Canadians?
Any MolsonCanadian beer commercial will tell us we say "eh?", drink maple syrup by the gallon, have a pet beaver, revel in the glorious sport of hockey, and that we follow an elaborate, semi-ridiculous "code". So why is the font of the beer in red and blue, not red and white? Why is our pride and joy, Tim Hortons, now owned by Americans, and why are we known for being so damn polite when Don Cherry is one of the most well-known Canadians? Why don't we know who we are? The answer remains to be seen.
Over a delicious breakfast I got two takes on the Canadian identity. One was that we don't have one because we aren't old enough, but I find that hard to believe. When Rome started they weren't that old either - but they stole the identity of the Greeks. The second option was no more illuminating, but it was highly entertaining.
The thought began as Canada being the lovechild of France, our good-for-nothing Father, and Britain, the doting mother that obtained custody. Of course, Quebec is Father's favorite, and when he has his visits he remains with him, the whiner. The Maritimes are the favorites of Mother, despite over-achieving Ontario. Alberta is the beauty-pageant winner, whose looks will give out as her oil supplies do, plunging her into glory-day reminisces. British Columbia is often ignored as the hippie son that both parents would rather ignore than deal with. Meanwhile, Saskatchewan is "special" and Manitoba is forgotten, an ice-queen anyways. The territories are, of course, the adopted sons that nobody really talks about.
Isn't Canada more fun when it's a dysfunctional family?

The Proverbial "Knife in Back" Situation

I bet the first person who was stabbed in the back did something unforgivable to the knife wielder. I mean, what enrages people, what entices them to evil, what makes them thirst for blood more than revenge?
Klondike bars.
But seriously folks, what's up with the vengeance? Not only has my knee injury brought out the comedian in everybody (you know who you are, dirty old man with the sideburns and blinged-out earring), but it's also brought out the... greed?
The first question I get, usually after the "are you ok?!" (well, a truck slammed into my leg, causing my knee bones to bump together which lead to the fracture... so yeah, I'm doing pretty good thanks), I get, "are you suing?". Sometimes it prefaces the concern for my well being. It took me a while to get it. I mean, in the face of it all does money really matter? I'd much rather be alive and hobbling than broken and taking the bastard for all he's worth. Finally, someone put it into perspective. People tend to want revenge when something goes wrong, yeah? So in actuality, everyone asking me if I was going to try and bleed this person dry (such violent imagery), was really just everyone reaching out and being sympathetic. It's like, in some odd way, they're defending my honor.
I still think the whole revenge thing is a terrible aspect of the human mind. It's true, however, that when something goes wrong, or someone does something to us, the mind automatically leaps at how to get back at them. Rude waitress? No tip. Best friend steals your boyfriend? Steal hers. Boyfriend cheats on you? Go Carrie Underwood on his car. Books have been written about getting even, great Shakespearean works and soap operas alike often feature revenge. It helps create drama, but it also gives us some feeling of power. Obviously whatever happened to make someone want revenge was out of their control, and by seeking vengeance, by letting your wrath against these people be shown, you're effectively taking that control back. Really, when you get down to it, revenge, like optimism, is just another coping mechanism to keep us sane.

Isn't it Ironic?

That song has always bothered me. I think it's true title is "Ironic" by Alanis Morisette. To begin with, I find her highly hypocritical. I mean, there was all the man-hating, girl power stuff that "Ironic" came from, and then as soon as Mr. Reynolds came along she had the happy-go-lucky pop churning out like nobodies business, and right after he moved on to greener, less angsty, pastures she was right back down to man-hating. So which is it? Are women supposed to only feel happy and valued with a man in their lives? It would seem so.
But that one song in particular... nothing that happens in it is actually ironic... it's just bad luck. Maybe that's the irony of the song, but something tells me Miss. Teen-Angst had actual irony in mind. What the world needs is some true irony, the world needs to laugh at itself instead of becomming embittered songstresses.
The greatest source of this "worldwide [web]" irony is FML. It's an enjoyable way to capitalize off the pain of others. In case you haven't hopped on the most recent internet bandwagon (I feel like that word should be updated considering the inclination towards technology the world has experienced...), FML is basically a site where people can post sad, hysterical, ironic, and terrible occurrances in their lives. In the style of Mr. Tucker Max it's a fantastic idea. What's more is that random strangers can actually rate whether your life sucks or you deserved what you got. Isn't the internet grand?
Recently, I've actually been toying with posting my own FML. Now, as much as I like the spot light I don't care for pity... or strangers telling me that I deserve my pain, but I can imagine that it would be quite satisfying to post something. I mean, it's not as though just anyone can say anything on FML, it has to really be something that causes your insides to curl up just a little bit. So far the rough draft of mine looks like, "I came home triumphantly from university to a town that is gray, freezing, and essentially suburbia hell today. As if that wasn't bad enough, five hours after arriving I was hit by a drunk driving a huge truck (in the suburbs!!) in a crosswalk. The light was mine. I was training to run a half marathon and have to work to pay for my beloved university. I now have a fractured knee. FML."
Not too shabby, huh? The insides curled yet? Well, it's true, and I'm avoiding the coos of pity simply because I don't need people to feel bad, just to get better. The conclusion? I get to chronicle my bitter healing process for the next two months to a soundtrack of "Changes" by Bowie.