The Not-So Magical Mystery Bus

It's 6:30pm. I'm sitting on a bus and wondering what would happen if I stood up and screamed "EUREKA!" as loud as humanly possible. My guess is that the other people on the bus probably wouldn't believe me and things would get rather awkward rather quickly. I don't like awkward bus rides, so I'm sitting here. Looking out the window as the city turns into a bumpy blur.

I wonder if platypus (or is it platypi? I can never remember) have feelings. If they do, I imagine that platypus/pi feelings are probably quite far removed from human feelings. But you never know. Maybe we have more in common with platypi than we can possibly imagine (I'm pretty sure it's platypi at this point. It just sounds... right).

The bus just started making a strange noise. It's not a bus-like noise at all but I'm not worried about it becausewe just passed a guy walking on a tightrope in a park. He's concentrating. He's not a very good tightrope-walker, but he's better than someone who has never walked on a tightrope (That's just a guess, but probably a fairly good one).

I hope he hasn't lost something. Not now, I mean... Not WHILE he's actually tightrope-walking. It would be a bad time to lose something. Not at all convenient.

I just noticed the guy sitting beside me. He's wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and a sports coat as he reads Molière. He looks like he should (or rather that he wants to be) in a Truffaut film. Not a movie. A film. It's not annoying, but really, it is...

A very serious-looking man just sat next to him. His face is serious. The rest of him is just... odd. He's wearing cycling shorts. No scratch that. He's wearing a full-on cycling outfit. He looks like he's going to a Tour de France party. Maybe he's an extremely fashion-conscious jogger. Regardless, he doesn't look like he should be on a bus and yet... Here he is.

Tour de France guy just took his fluorescent-lined sneakers. Truffaut doesn't seem at all happy about this. Oh. He's putting on a pair of Adidas workout pants. They're vinyl, or Gore-Tex (I can never tell the difference). What is this guy? A walking commercial?

Wouldn't companies love that? If they could start sponsoring regular people, instead of athletes and celebrities? They could just take over some poor sap's life. "You wear our clothes and tell people how great they are. Simple, isn't it... uh... Frank?"

It probably already happens. I just don't know any of them. Maybe I do. Maybe I'm one of them. Why am I wearing this stuff? And where's my cheque?

I see trees of green. Clouds of white. And I think to myself...

What a Wonderbra world...

The @peopleofcanada Situation

A quick word on the recent events on the @peopleofcanada twitter feed:

(Disclaimer: This is not a justification for what happened or for my actions. I freely admit that I fucked up. I do however feel that I should be allowed to discuss these events from my perspective as receiving "you're a sexist, misogynist pig" messages is not only disturbing... It is not true.)

Firstly, I did not make rape jokes. I responded to a retweet of the recent Jenny McCarthy / Justin Bieber "cougarrape" photo with an (admittedly) bad Pulp Fiction reference. I find the image of Ving Rhames choking Justin Bieber to be funny. I now see that it was a bonehead move as in the context of her original tweet, it came out as a rape joke. 

The person then reacted to my (again... admittedly) stupid joke by bringing up the fact that rape jokes aren't funny. After the Daniel Tosh incident this summer, there was a lot of talk about this in various media. I tried to turn the discussion towards this controversy and the use of rape jokes in comedy. I don't think that my intention came across (it was a discussion I had on my personal account many times) and I didn't handle it as well as I should have, considering I was using the @peopleofcanada account . People got upset as they thought I was defending rape jokes. I wasn't I was trying to talk about the issue of rape jokes in comedy and it snowballed. 

I  apologised to the person in question. A VERY SINCERE apology (that I cannot repeat often enough) as I saw that it had upset them personally and although my humour can be abrasive and offensive, I do not think that I should use it if someone feels vulnerable. If you read the articles on the recent rape joke situation, the consensus is that most rape jokes don't work because they ridicule victims. I would never, and I repeat NEVER use humour to exploit someone's vulnerability. There is offensive humour and there is downright mean humour. And yes... I know that line.

Before these events had even taken place, someone (who, incidentally, was male) had sent me a message telling me what a jerk I was because I had made a joke about beavers having sex. On my personal account, I called this person a cunt. I call people cunts all the time. I blame it on Australia, that damn country corrupted me with bad language and delicious Rum and Coke... This set off another chain of events...

The person I had upset earlier saw this tweet and assumed it was directed at them. It wasn't. I don't know how many more ways there are to say it... That tweet went out before I had interacted with this person. 


An while I'm trying to be clear, Iet me say that I COMPLETELY understand the reasons I was pulled from the account. Because of the misunderstandings that lead up to it, I agree that it could be argued that I'd violated the terms I had agreed to. But I would like it to be clear that I was not being the shameful, woman-hating sexist that some people now think I am. Yes, my jokes can be distasteful and offensive but they are jokes and some people don't like them. I don't believe in hate speech (which is what some are accusing me of) and anyone who follows me knows this. I believe in equality, strength, compassion and solidarity. That's me, that who I am... Unfortunately, that is attached to a big mouth that spews inappropriate things. I also did not participate in hate speech. I called someone who had insulted me a cunt. It had NOTHING to do with women, with rape or with any of the other things that people who did not know the whole story have accused me of. 

Basically, I screwed up and handled a bad situation badly. It wasn't the first time and it probably won't be the last. I'm working on it....

I apologise to everyone on the @peopleofcanada feed who was offended by the way this all played out... Especially to Divyesh Mistry... for having created what must be an Advil-sized headache and to the person who was originally affected by all this. I wish you nothing but the best and hope that you will read this explanation. 

Be good to yourselves,
j.

Photos

I got a new camera a few months back and I've finally had time to sit down and look at some of the photos I've taken with it. I'm in a sharing mood. So without further ado, (basically) my summer vacation: 

 This Turtle is Making Me Thirsty.

Tree. Wind. Tree.

O. Getting Ready For His Future Career

I Love You Berry Much.

Oh Shit. Really?

OK... Let's.

Dear Ass...

Tree. Mirror. Tree

Nom. Nom.

Adequate Indeed.

Rattlesnake I Accidentally Pissed Off.

Fire. Man. Or Am I?

Ram.

Le Québec brûle.

Enough Said.

Sun. Set. Sun.

Confused Lizard.

Firetruck In The Sky.

O and D.

The Natives Are Neither Restless Nor Impressed.

Set. Sun. Set.

Jesus. What Could Be That High Up?

I'm Not Berry Sure About This Anymore.

Sasquatch Made This Sign.

Veryy Hidden.

Luke Gage.

Parking lot memories

I must have been eight years old. Maybe nine...

When you look back on your life, there's a thin line between eight and nine. Moreso than other years, it seems. You don't realise this when you're nine because you're too busy celebrating the fact that you're not eight anymore. So maybe the line isn't as thin as I think it is. If a nine year old is aware of it, it must be pretty obvious.

It was the summer. that much I'm sure of. I remember the heat. I remember the green of the trees as my mom's Rambler followed the winding road that led to Mic Mac Mall. It was a 10 minute drive and when I look back on it now, it seems ridiculous that we did it so often. I suspect that the ice shelves breaking in the Arctic as I write this are a direct result of those 10 minute drives in a hulking boat of a car.

My mother was doing groceries and she decided to leave me in the car. It was the 70s. You could do things like that with impunity. In the romanticised absurdist version of this memory that runs in my head, I recall looking out on the ocean of Ramblers, Chevrettes and Pintos and seeing at least 20 other kids sitting in locked cars as the Nova Scotian sun beat down on the Mic Mac parking lot. (Wouldn't the Mi'kmaq be proud?) I like to think that 30-odd years later, these imaginary kids are all secretly wishing they could be as "irresponsible" as our parents were.

I had a pencil and a paper (my mother knew this would distract me) and I was drawing clouds. This was a phase I went through and to be honest, I think I should take it up again. The windows were rolled up, but I heard a noise from not too far away, so I looked up from the paper clouds.

There was a blind man. He had a beard, a fedora-type hat and a white cane. I swear to God. It was like a blind person had jumped out of a New Yorker cartoon and decided to wander around in the Mic Mac Mall parking lot.

Just beside the New Yorker cartoon blind man, there was a woman heading to her car with a shopping cart. There weren't any kids in her car. That, I remember. He approached her and held out his hand as he said something that I couldn't hear because, as I mentioned,  the windows were rolled up . Being the inquisitive (ok... nosy) little punk that I was, I rolled down the window. By hand. That's how you used to roll down windows, in case you're reading this and you're twenty. She shook her head and mumbled something as she walked past him without even really looking at whatever it was he had in his hand.

With hindsight, I don't know why I did what I did next. I don't know why I do most of the things I do, but maybe I did when I was eight (or nine). "Excuse me?", I called out. "Sir?"

The New Yorker cartoon blind man cocked his head and followed my voice. He came up to the burgundy Rambler that he had no way of identifying as a burgundy Rambler.

"Yes? Hello?", he said.

"Hi. What do you have in your hand?", I asked. So much for that whole "Don't talk to strangers" pep talk. He showed me. It was a pile of cards. Not playing cards. He wasn't a blind magician. Well... Maybe he was, but I can't pronounce myself on those matters. No, they were ASL cards that explained how to sign the alphabet. He asked if I wanted to buy one for a dollar. I was eight (or nine) years old, sitting in a car in a parking lot. I didn't have any money. I explained this to him and he walked away. I felt his disappointment. I think I even saw it in the way he walked.

As he got closer to the mall... Another woman, another shopping cart, another attempt. She brushed him off as easily as the first woman had and pushed her cart to her oversized car.

And that's when I started to cry.

When I say "cry", that's exactly what I mean. These weren't eight (or nine) year-old sniffles. It was full fledged bawling. I felt this profound sadness that I had never experienced before. A complete stranger's misery (OK, Maybe I'm reading into a bit. Maybe he wasn't miserable) had triggered something and seeing the complete indifference that he had to confront on a regular basis was more than I could handle. It was the first time that I remember thinking "The world just isn't fair" and it opened up a strange door that, over the next 32 (or 31) years, has lead to that exact same emotional response whenever I am confronted with that particular feeling.

My mother came back a few minutes later. I was still crying. She looked worried... I still remember the look on her face as she asked me what was wrong. The problem then(and , yes... The problem now) is that I didn't have an answer. I couldn't explain these emotions. This "feeling". I still can't, most of the time.

I'm remembering this story and thinking about these things after having read Kelly Pentland (aka @mmesurly)'s wonderful (and much more concise) blog post On Sincerity http://mmesurly.tumblr.com/post/32324661060/on-sincerity.

It's hard sometimes. There are people (and I hope you are one of them) who just feel things so deeply and so completely that asking them to find what's wrong is next to impossible. When this happens to me, when I feel exposed... raw, even... it terrifies me. It terrifies me to see that we can be so close to people we don't know and to things we don't understand that an ASL card can trigger such a deep emotional response. It terrifies me, but as Mrs Pentland says: "the alternative is scarier."

So, as the strapping young men in Journey once said, "Be good to yourself".

Fun with MS Paint

When I get bored, I sometimes open paint because... well, I'm not sure why I do it, but I do. For some reason, this week I decided to draw people (using paint... Wow this is going to be confusing to people reading in 1981) who are on the twitter machine. Some are good, some are terrible. I guess what I'm trying to say is that drawing with paint is a lot like a marriage...

The "I" of Survivor: An open letter to those who choose to read it (including CBS-honcho-types)

It has come to my attention that Survivor will be back on TV this autumn.

I am referring to Survivor - the television programme. Not Survivor the early 80s rock band… that one you love to listen to when you hit the gym.

That's a peculiar expression. How does one "hit" a gym, precisely? It makes me nervous. I can only assume that it’s steroid-related…

Yes, Survivor - the television programme - is coming back AND it will be shot in the Philippines. I’m excited because I feel that my expertise could help producers, contestants and Survivor fans alike. It could potentially even make Survivor - the television programme - more pleasurable.

I am not a Survivor expert. I only watched first season when it aired... what, ten years ago? I enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as I enjoyed watching Richard Hatch's life unravel afterwards. It was exciting, groundbreaking and several other questionable -ings. But I've been busy for the last twelve years and have missed the subsequent seasons. There must be at least fifteen now, correct?

I would love to be an expert on the Philippines but I’m not... in case you're wondering. You're not, but I thought I should clear that up as well. I don't even remember how to say "hello" in Tagalog.I did spend a week in Boracay once, so that must count for something. Boracay (in case you’re still wondering) is a resort-type island over there. It would actually be a good location for Survivor - the television programme - they are both places where foreigners go to behave badly.

No, my expertise lies in giving unsolicited advice that nobody wants to hear. I therefore think it's fair to combine this talent with my aforementioned experience to tell the makers of Survivor - the television programme - how to take full advantage of the Filipino experience to ensure that what must be their fourteenth season is the best one yet.

(Related: Why does the PH-noun turn into a F-adjective?)

First, we need a "hook" to reel in the viewers, much like the spears people use on the show itself. This could be achieved by using the airline that flies the Manila-Boracay route to drop the contestants off at the "secret location" (Is it a secret?). Fear of death is a great motivator and makes for great television, or so I'm told... I tend to watch Bob Ross reruns on PBS. Air Duct-Tape could provide this in spades. Air Duct-Tape earned its name, as you may gather, by having no qualms about using duct-tape to hold their planes together. The silver almost matches the colour of the wings. Almost. Sadly, this was one of their more brilliant business decisions.

If this doesn’t meet CBS’ fear standards, they could also hire Richard the taxi driver to fly the Air Duct-Tape plane. Richard's Manila taxi permit clearly states that his name is Manuel but he insists that you call him Richard. I'm certain that with this sort of blind determination, Richard/Manuel could easily fly a plane whilst the contestants defecate. Also, Richard/Manuel would be more than happy to bring the machete he keeps beside the passenger seat in his taxi. It could come in handy if any duct-tape-related repairs are needed.

One of the most engaging parts of Survivor - the television programme - is the "immunity challenge". When I think “immunity”, I see “alcohol tolerance”. Richard/Manuel could airlift the contestants to Boracay where they would be dropped off at Dick's. Dick's is a bar just off the beach that is owned, oddly enough, by an Australian named Dick. I'm not sure how Dick ended up there and to be honest, I'd rather not know. There is only one rule at Dick’s: It is strictly forbidden to wear a shirt whilst in the bar. This fits into the Survivor-ethos and shouldn’t cause too much confusion. Also, Dick likes to drink and expects his customers to do the same. As far as challenges go, can you think of a better way to eliminate the weak? If you like to wear shirts or are prone to developing cirrhosis of the liver during one night of drinking, you're out.Immunity should be earned, not won...

This brings us to the season finale, where two contestants match wits to see who will win the million dollars (is it still a million dollars or has inflation caught up with realityTV?). The Philippines are well-known for two things: The Marcoses and ladyboys. Imelda Marcos seems rather busy lately, so this leaves us with the ladyboys to decide the winner. The last two (drunken) contestants could be blindfolded and led to a clearing with four attractive (in a drunken kind of way)… I believe the correct term here is "convincing ladyboys". We would watch with baited breath as said ladyboys wind through dark jungles and cramped city streets in the middle of the night with our Survivors.

Our almost-millionaire contestants would then find themselves in a dingy, menacing no-bedroom house where they would be offered oral sex by the ladyboys. They would also be warned about making too much noise and waking the fourteen brothers and sisters who are sleeping in beds, sofas and on the floor.

Think of the drama! We could watch our survivors wrestle with their conscience and/or ladyboys (possibly even with the whole family). Difficult decisions would be made. We would then follow them as they cry and stumble through the maze of shantytown houses, desperately trying to find their way back to the producers' air-conditioned office/trailer. The first person to find his or her way back with his pride, dignity and clothing intact wins!!

I'm quite certain that these suggestions would be beneficial. It has it all... Drama, danger AND sexy ladyboys. So let’s start a letter-writing campaign! Drop what you’re doing. Write to CBS and Mark Burnett. Together, we can make this happen. We can rise up, back on the street. We just need to take our time... Take our chances. We can go the distance! We will survive! Right after we hit the gym.

Mabuhay! (That's Tagalog. You can look it up.)

Extrait du journal intime de Vic Toews :

Le jeudi, 16 février, 2012

8h
Oof.
C’était quand mon dernier lendemain de veille?!? Ah oui! Stephen et moi sommes allés voir les danseuses à Hull. C’était là qu’on avait eu l’idée pour le C-11! Ça me fait penser. Il faut que je trouve une façon de relancer ça, C-11.

NOTE : Appeler Péladeau pour qu’on en parle à Sun News.

Sont où les aspirines? J’avais demandé à Magda de mettre une bouteille sur la table de chevet. J’aurais dû écouter Baird. Les Mexicaines sont vraiment lâches. Elle savait qu’on allait faire la fiesta… Ce n’est pas à tous les jours qu’on réussit à détruire un registre d’armes à feu. Ça valait la peine rien que pour voir la face du petit Trudeau quand on buvait les shooters. Petit morveux.

Grosse journée aujourd’hui. Je rencontre 3 gardiennes potentielles… Faut que je parle à Van Loan. Il m’a dit que le rapport de la GRC sera prêt ce matin. J’espère qu’il y en a au moins une qui sait être discrète.

9h30
En retard et… Personne ne s’en est rendu compte! Sauf Coderre (je me demande s’il dort Coderre… Faut que j’en parle à Van Loan) mais personne l’écoute de ces temps-ci. C’est toujours « Maire de ci, maire de ça ». Il m’énerve.

10h15
Je viens de voir mon reflet dans le corridor du Sénat. J’ai oublié de me raser! Mais maudit qu’elle est belle ma moustache. Je pense que je vais aller la regarder dans la toilette de Layton. Ha! Dans les dents Layton! Qu’est-ce que tu vas faire!?!?!?!?!

11h
Hazel m’a donné les journaux de ce matin. La pauvre conne m’a donné ceux du Québec. Je lui ai dit de ne plus jamais faire ça. Mais pour qui ils se prennent, eux? Stephen m’a dit qu’on verra ça quand ils se séparent. J’aime ça un boss qui a un sens d’humour… Bref. La gaffe avait un bon côté. J’ai lu Marie-Claude Lortie pour la première fois.

NOTE : Dire à Van Loan de placer Madame Lortie sous surveillance. Je vais t’en faire un, un « danser sur des tombes ». Faut dire qu’elle est jolie, par exemple… Je me demande si elle a déjà gardé des enfants...

12h
Fuck… Stephen veut qu’on aille luncher pour me parler de C-30. J’ai demandé à Hazel de me trouver une copie (je pense qu’il y en a avait une dans l’enveloppe avec les papiers de divorce…). J’avais pris un verre avant de faire la dernière version et il y a une couple de trucs dont je ne me souviens plus. Est-ce que j’ai donné accès à la police municipale? Je pense que oui mais je veux être sûr. Voir Stephen frustré avec une gueule de bois une fois dans la vie, c’est assez!

15h
Je quitte la colline pour aller rencontrer les filles. Honnêtement, je suis heureux d’avoir changé l’âge de consentement. Ça rend la vie tellement plus simple. Stephen est content avec C-30 en plus! Bon, les nerds vont gueuler, mais on s’en fout. Bande de twits.

Ha! En parlant de twit… Van Loan vient de m’envoyer un courriel. Il me dit que je « devrais aller voir un compte de twitter ». C’est quoi ça Twitter?? Ça doit avoir rapport avec les gardiennes. Je vais y jeter un coup d’œil avant de partir…