Blogging Hysteria

Travelling through the United States is always a head-trip. Crossing the boarder is especially interesting since the level of hysteria reached the point of contemplating electric fences lining the Mexican border. I suppose part of what makes it a strange event, for me, is the fact that I have dual-citizenship. I chose to live in Canada. I prefer to limit the amount of time I spend in the United States. When I tell certain citizens across the border over the age of 50 that I work online and blog for a living they are disgusted. Apparently, there is a prevalent ignorance amongst those who watch too much Dateline. They truly believe that the World Wide Web is a place for predators and degenerates. It gets worse when I tell them that part of what I enjoy the most about my job is encouraging others to blog or create new media content that expresses their opinions and ideas.

 

A woman, who will remain unnamed, asked me, “what about children and pornography?” I told her the parents are just as responsible for their children in the real world as they are online. Incensed she then rebutted, “so you think its ok for someone to produce child pornography?!” I was shocked and a little scared by her questioning. I began to explain that child pornography is illegal, and therefore; if someone produces illegal content they will be prosecuted and the servers will be shut down – this was way over her head so I excused myself and briskly walked away. Both my parents believe that what I do for a living is encouraging time-wasting. It’s funny to me that TV viewing, especially Charlie Rose and political correspondence, is a better use of our time then reading a blog on the internet. They trust ‘professionals’ and ‘specialists’ and ‘intellectuals’. Many believe bloggers are not at a calibre that justifies reading their opinions. (I think, in part, it’s the term that throws them off ‘blogger’ sounds made-up.) Clearly, this is a generational thing. 

 

Amidst the play-by-play depictions of Regan’s final days in Hunter S. Thompson’s book, Generation of Swine, is an extremely enlightening revelation. Thompson says that the effect of that particular government is the loss of innocence. Many say that the bubble popped when JFK was shot, or Nixon claimed, “I’m not a crook”, but the truth is that the pendulum permanently swung in a different direction during the Reagan years. It was a time when the media took-up the role of investigating guilt rather then innocence. Thompson, a gifted journalist himself, does not blame media. He blames the politicians, and takes up the attitude that the media is truthful. I was nine or ten when George Bush Sr. shacked-up with Barbara in the White House- so I can’t say whether Hunter is right or wrong regarding the sincerity of the media during that time. I can appreciate that attitudes were soured post-Vietnam and the Iran-Contra affair.

 

Another extremely interesting observation of Thompson’s is his remarks on the increased diagnoses of schizophrenia in America during the 80s. It’s been said that 1 in 4 American adults are diagnosed with some form of mental illness, and it’s hard not to wonder if part of the blame lies in the hands of how traditional media chooses to spin news and politics. When we loose the ability to trust and hold onto faith in our elected officials the fabric of a democratic society unravels. I’m aware that there are genetic explanations for the causes of mental disorders, and some are more prone then others for reasons beyond their own control; however, health and unity is possible when we are able to express ourselves freely and honesty. Exercising the right to choose what we view as truthful and believe will hopefully empower us to perceive the world in a better way then the generations who came before us.

When all else fails, blame Oprah.

I think I might be writing the kind of blog I hate. It’s always hard to know how to navigate unknown waters, and blogging is definitely something I know little to nothing about. I do not want to just dump my life into an electronic diary. The initial thought was to connect to others online. The thing I can’t figure out is, why? I don’t seem to entirely grasp my own motivation.

I blame Oprah. For what you might ask? It’s not a simple answer.

I grew up on Donahue, Sally Jesse Raphael, Geraldo, and of course the illustrious Ms. Oprah Winfrey. This, along with family sitcoms, is where I learned to relate to my own family. The house in which I was raised was a quiet one, but not peaceful; it was more like the calm before a storm. The tension was thick as fog; and so, the ability to play voyeur to others emotional excess distracted me from my own inner dilemmas and challenges. A new language emerged out of these shows. The ‘experts’ with new jargon and lingo appeared to be able to simplify everything. Little nuggets of insight seemed to transform the guests and the result was a tidy recap by the host, and of course; the opinions of the peanut gallery aka the studio audience.

Oprah is one of the last remaining survivors of the original wave of family oriented talk shows. She is an icon. She is a crusader. And she is also a hypocrite; which I don’t say in an attempt to put her down. She is also a human being, and flawed just like the rest of us. She is a talk show host, and not a prophet.

The trouble is no one can tell you who you are or what will make you happy. If you buy a book and read it there is no guarantee that your life will change in any way. Using politically correct jargon, self-help rhetoric, or observing others suffering is only meaningful if you understand the context. Stress, for example, is a generic term used to sell products. It’s all well and good to grow as individuals, but that doesn’t mean that we are effectively increasing the general consciousness of our society. What is created is a new guide book. The new politeness catalogue of acceptable attitudes; which illustrates a modern way to segment and denounce differences instead of enlightening us to a higher level of thought. As in, if you use these words and phrases you can hold onto your small-town narrow mindedness.

So what does this have to do with my blog? All of this has led me to create a wiki where anyone can share whatever is on their mind. It’s a little better then just adding a comment, and will hopefully become a new type of language in the realm of interpersonal relating. You can visit my wiki (currently under construction) here: http://shewords.pbwiki.com/

summer romance

What took you so long?

What happened to innocence?

 

Do you remember when love was innocent? Or when crushes were exhilarating and new? My first kiss was in kindergarten. A boy whose name I can’t remember hid with me in the classroom closet. I still remember the rush of that moment sitting close to him in the dark wondering if anyone would notice our disappearance. After what seemed like an eternity my crush turned to me and gave me a peck on the lips; just in time for my other crush to throw the doors open. (I was pretty popular with the boys back in those days.)

The next time I kissed a boy I was in the fifth grade. His name was Adam and I worshiped him as only a girl in grade school can. We’d spend tons of time together, but rarely spoke. The energy between us was exciting and overwhelming. One day we were invited to go swimming in a friends’ pool. There were only 4 of us there; Adam and I, our host, and his crush (the Veronica to my Betty). I felt awkward but exhilarated at the same time. After a few hours of tense anticipation we all became serious about the mission of the day: to kiss. I can’t remember how we had organized this, but there was a unanimous decision that each of us would kiss our crush in the pool under water.

I’m really happy to have such idyllic memories to fall back on. My present dating life is a far cry from such innocence. I miss simpler types of love. A simple, perfect, amazing first kiss.

 

30 or something

Remember the TV show Thritysomething? It aired on ABC from 1987-1991. My point isn’t to simply reflect on a forgotten TV series, but to relate to the strange reality of being 30 or something.

My friends and I spent most of our twenties high on anxiety and superficial lifestyles. The struggle of finding yourself was balanced by meaningless debauchery. Despite the chaos relationships persisted.

Life after your twenties is equally strange; I think even more so because the chaos has to subsided, and a new set of pressures enter our lives. We need to own and not rent. The individuality that we all worked so hard to define is shelved for something “better” or more “connected”.

Inevitably, the honeymoon only lasts for so long and the ugly side of your thirties appears. Your “mid-life crisis” wave’s hello and we stand in jaw dropping shock. We ask ourselves and our friends, “How did this happen?” We’d assumed we were smarter then the former generation. We’d assumed loneliness was avoided by coupling, but really we simply introduced another person (or persons if you have children) into your chaotic mania. Our tireless quest for self-satisfaction explodes and we find ourselves tempted to cheat, or buy luxury sports cars, or runaway from it all.

Clearly, I’m painting a very dark picture. It’s not all bad, and I don’t mean to insinuate that any of this is hopeless. I think it’s a phase like any other. You ride it out, and it passes, and you move onto other things.

I found myself at brunch with 3 sets of couples this past Sunday. All of them took pauses from the various conversations to stare dreamily into their “partners” eyes, coax them to speak in soft tones, and when unable to melt into their own reflections they’d take turns patting and stroking each other. To be honest, the sight was a puke-fest for me.

Admitably there are couples who illicit jealousy, but not most. Most of the time I cringe at the memory of idle gossip disclosing what’s under the surface; there are already problems lurking like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. A perverse smile appears at the thought of the therapy they’ll need to fix all the hurt and pain soon to befall them. I lower my head and hum the theme song for the Mary Tyler Moore show, and say a thankful prayer.

I’ll keep the rest to myself.

afterlife

Do you ever wonder what would happen if you were to leave the land of the living? It’s a pretty morbid thought, but at the same time it’s an often speculated theme throughout all kinds of art; movies such as: ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, or ‘Afterlife’, but aside from the philosophical possibilities of life after death; there’s the much more realistic question of what happens to your stuff.

A friend and I were talking about this a few weekends ago. He was saying that if he were to drop dead at that very moment whoever found themselves managing his stuff would discover a pile of open porno on the kitchen table beside his sketch book. He can’t imagine what would be inferred from the mess in his apartment, or the lack of censorship. When you live alone you rarely worry about leaving things strewn around.

I entirely relate. I have journals that stretch from the age of 16 to my present notes and in-progress writing projects; many of which would make little sense to anyone. Most of it could easily put me in a category of insane rather then creative. The idea of someone going through my “work” makes my palms sweat.

All of this was brought to mind as I read about Dmitri Nabokov’s decision to publish his father’s uncompleted work. Vladimir Nabokov made his family promise to not only ensure the work was never published, but added that he wanted the manuscript burned.

I have to admit the dramatic sentiment of his dying request would make it pretty hard to respect. He should have played it off more casually. Something like, “Don’t bother with any of the writing in my office. I was drunk and recounting escapades with crack addicted hookers. It would disgrace all of us if anyone discovered the truth”. (Because really, the man who penned ‘Lolita’ could have invented something sordid enough to be probable.)

After 30 odd years The Original of Laura, will be published. Dmitri became his father’s literary executor after his mother passed, and claims that the reason he’s decided to publish the manuscript is due to an apparition. Apparently, his father came to him and said with an ironic grin: ‘You’re stuck in a right old mess. Just go ahead and publish’.

Ummm… sure he did. Right after the Easter Bunny said it was cool to slowly poison your arch-nemesis, right?

It seems very unfair and disrespectful to me. As much as I look forward to being read by a wider audience, there are certain things that are mine to control. Unlike an unfinished painting the printed word evokes authority. The power of the written word can ruin your credibility, and if it isn’t managed by the writer’s own ethics it isn’t fair to publish.

Honor thy father, Dmitry.

What ever happened to the femme fatale?

I’ve always loved the girl outlaw. Partly because I’ve always had a knack for doing things the hard way and identified with femme fatale types of characters.

Lately, I’ve found myself regressing in attitude to my former self; sitting at the back of the classroom, making jokes with the soon to be drop outs. Why?One word, ‘chicklit’.

How is drinking martinis and buying over priced fashions risqué? How is it a “guilty pleasure” to eat chocolate and flirt with weight-gain?  Sadly, where there is money to be made there is a will to bleed the rock dry, and knock-offs are streaming into store bookshelves. An accent river Nile of thought. All no better or worse then the last and all about wanna-be chic ladies of luxury. Romantic novels replacing sex with shopping. An orgy of designer tag lines. Female porn.

On the literary side of things, I can’t say I identify with classism issues of ancient times before women had the right to vote. Jane Austen seems to reign supreme in almost every area of “women’s literature” (why chicks need their own special type of a general genre is beyond me – isn’t fiction and literature a clear enough classification? I feel like being categorized as a “women’s literature” is code for “men won’t read this”.)  My mom keeps buying me Jane Austen books to read. I now own almost all of them, and was relieved at Christmas when the last of the collection was bestowed into my reluctant hands. The idea that its a modern and refreshing concept to marry for love is entirely retarded to me. The philosophy that women are free to make their own choices is well-established. Can we try to move on? What is actually “modern” is single motherhood, or choosing not to marry at all for purely selfish reasons. Opting out of the traditional expectations is what is modern, to me, not overly sweetened quasi-alcoholism or fashion.

Where am I going with this? I’m not sure to be honest.

I guess what I miss is the women who truly dared to be different. I’m not inspired by polite teasing. Brit Spears and the like aren’t “pushing the envelope” in any way shape or form. All of that has been tried and tested by the likes of Marilyn Monroe. We already know dudes dig slutty blondes and chicks with huge ta-tas. No one cares if you take it off or keep it on.

What is truly controversial are ideas, and outlaws like Mata Hari; women who refuse to be put in a box, and not simply tease with the limitations of their box (pun entirely intended).

Are you a book snob?

A co-worker sent me an essay from the New York Times written by Rachel Donadio musing over whether it’s fair to judge a potential love interest by the books they read. Initially I thought it might be interesting, but quickly observed that the joke was on me. Most of the pooh-pooh reads were books I enjoyed. I should have known I wouldn’t be in on the joke during the first paragraph that described a woman breaking up with a man she loved because he didn’t know about Pushkin. I have no idea who Pushkin is and I think I’m a permanent Pushkin-hater after reading Donadio’s essay.

I don’t have an English degree. I’m a self-taught writer, and possibly a terrible one at that. I can accept my own mediocrity, but not due to whom I’ve read or haven’t read; or lack of spelling and grammar skills. To me, if someone is reading a novel for good structure they should stick to user guides. When I’m in need of structure I go find me a good editor; dismissing a clever story because the writer messed up properly conjugating a verb is obnoxious. I think it’s possible to evolve a language by allowing “flaws” to occur.

At the same time, the original concept of the essay was interesting to me. Why do we like certain stories over others? Knowing that some people are capable of devoting an entire lifetime to reading a single genre or author is really interesting to me. It’s like, only liking landscapes or country music.

I really couldn’t imagine myself judging anyone for the books they read; especially since most people I know read maybe one book a year. If I broke up with guys based on their taste in books I’d probably rarely date anyone.

Here’s the article is you’re interested.

He Said, She Said

I had an interesting discussion with a friend while on an expedition for a tasty street-dog yesterday. Braving the trendy crammed downtown streets hoping to find a culinary marvel to satisfy our strange hangover craving. Electric colours indicating the first of many early 90s tributes moved around us like a sea of neon fish in skinny jeans. I wasn’t in a state to contend with a crowd, but the sun felt nice on my skin. Also, my friend (let’s call him Marvin), is one of the funniest people I know.

Marvin and I were discussing his new girlfriend who he’s already proposed to (they met 2 weeks ago); which I guess makes her his fiance. I told Marvin that a long engagement might be a good idea, but my opinion isn’t really worth more then fashion advice to him; so the warning was passed over pretty fast.

We argued about whether females prefer guys who are jerks. Marvin was under the deluded impression that the women’s movement had surpassed itself and girls wanted to return to being, “put in their place”. (I told you he was funny.) I don’t think women prefer jerks anymore then men prefer bitches. It’s a foolish notion. Sometimes honesty comes off as hostile because usually it’s only during moments of anger or frustration that we forget about being tactful or politically correct.

There is always a game of dominance and submission going on behind the scenes. Dominance is a scientific behavioral relationship. If two people do not know how to communicate effectively they’ll probably feel safer with someone who makes their point clear; as to limit the possibility of experiencing a misunderstanding that could potentially lead to conflict. When someone isn’t afraid to yell; we hear them very clearly; however, that still doesn’t make me desire a relationship built on aggressive assertiveness.

Then again, I don’t get why anyone wants to relive neon t-shirts again so maybe I’m wrong altogether.

Finding Distance Getting Perspective

The best way to get over a recent break-up is to get out into the world and visit with people who love you.

Monday night I went straight to the bar after work to meet up with a few guys I’ve known most my life. I return to myself in their presence and several shots of Jagermeister. The only space worth existing in is within our rosy circle. Laugh. Joke. Toke. And endless pitchers followed by baskets of fried food. I’m no longer a broken hearted girl; just another human being trying to make the most of the moment.

Once the liquor was pumping through our warm veins; a friend, let’s call him ‘Mitch’, put his arm around my shoulders, gave me a squeeze, and told me a story about his Grandpa.

Apparently, his Grandpa was a crusty old geezer who found joy in calling up his dad each day just to tell him off. The old man would run his mouth about every single thing his dad had ever messed up, and his dad would sit there listening. Silent. Until the old man was finished and then his dad would go find Mitch and run his own mouth off about what a bastard the old guy was for telling him these things, and then he’d tell Mitch to go find something useful to do with himself.

Well, last week Mitch’s gramps died, and his dad called him up and cried because he’d never hear the old man tear into him ever again.

 

Isn’t love strange?