How Do You Say That In Utopian?

Though I don’t often frequent the Huffington Post, I came across a column by (inexplicably) Sex and the City actor Evan Handler today, called “My Wife is an Immigrant“. In it he states, relating how his wife often has to clarify to strangers that when she says she’s “Italian” she really means “born in Italy”:

“Ohhhhhhhhhh…,” they say. “So you’re really Italian.”

As if there were another kind.

But there is. The American kind. For the United States is the only place a conversation like that can happen. At least it’s the only place I’ve seen it happen.

Before it develops into a Lee Greenwood song (while referencing Randy Newman no less) about how wonderfully unique it is that Americans can identify with the countries from which their parents emigrated, he presents the “who’d a thunk?” observation:

Yes, the United States[…]; the nation whose politicians still use an eighteenth century phrase like “American Exceptionalism” as if it were an edict from their private God, is the only place on Earth where there are no Americans.

When I go home to my Toronto apartment this evening, to a predominantly Portuguese/Vietnamese neighbourhood, to my half-Swedish/half-Irish wife, I’ll try to forget the mind-numbing irony of Mr. Handler’s prose, and pray that not all people in the United States inhabit such an insulated mentality, where you can paint a Utopian picture of life while wink-nudging about a history of “Exceptionalism”.

A note to Mr. Handler: there are other countries in the world to which people immigrated, and in fact, one of them is just above you. It may not be the “American kind”, but we too still relate to the countries from which our parents came, sometimes as neurotically, but nowhere near as exceptionally.

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Tidings

A warm hello from a cold part of the world (-14 C, without the windchill). Glad tidings to all those who pass by this part of the woods, whether you be regular passers-by or new readers. It looks like 2008 will be an interesting year, if only because I want it to.

As you may have noticed, I’ve been able to post more photographs lately (lest my photoblogs.org membership be contested), even though they were taken last September. I’ve been so swamped with work since then that I was only able to pick up my camera yesterday to take some shots of the new snow. I hope to have some shots up within the next month. For those who don’t know (prefaced here), I’m a traditional analog photographer – I use a Russian-made Leica rip-off manufactured in the 1960’s and shoot slide film. For all you junior rangers, that means shooting the roll, taking it to a lab, getting the slides back, scanning them, formatting/tweaking them digitally, and then uploading. You kids and your fancy-dancy digital cameras…

The new year welcomes, among many assorted developments, a new blog from the man who was my mentor at Humber College’s School for Writers, DM Thomas (author of The White Hotel). Also, as normally happens during the “holiday season”, the new year brings the beginnings of spiralling chaos somewhere in the world – this time it’s Kenya. Normally, the holiday horror is courtesy of a South Asian tsunami or some other badly-timed natural phenomena or accident (I’m looking at you Bangladesh, you and your less-than-impervious ferries). In Kenya’s case, it’s an election, the disputed results of which have inflamed tribal mistrust, culminating in the burning of a church where 50 people – women and children – were taking shelter. They all died. The Guardian has a reasonable summary of what’s going on there. Lastly, speaking of democracy, 2008 offers the possibility of an immensely entertaining spectacle south of the border as Democrats and Republicans in the US sort out their bullshit in public. I can only hope that, some day, the word “Independent” won’t be so distasteful in their political lexicon.

I’ll have more book reviews to come this year, featuring the new translation of War & Peace – but keep in mind that it’s over 1,200 pages, with the original French dialogue intact, with contextualized notes on every page…in other words, if I finish it in 2008, I’ll post a review. But I can multi-task, so there will be books read in the interim period. The previous year saw my completion of reading Solomon Volkov‘s St. Petersburg: A Cultural History – an on/off process that’s taken me a couple of years. One 500lb (226.79 kg) gorilla down, another to go.

Oh, if anyone from one of the three magazine publishers who I submitted to in the late summer of 2007 are reading this, I would appreciate something…anything from you in the mail. Even a rejection letter. It’s the waiting that is hardest.

Take care, all.

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Language and Meaning

The limits of my language mean the limits of my world

– Ludwig Wittgenstein

I was reading the New York Times Sunday Magazine last weekend and caught this article, written by Michael Pollan, about the rise of agricultural diseases. In it, he begins with bemoaning the decreasing power of the word “sustainability”, seeing as it has been turned impotent; yet another zombiefied corporate catch-phrase designed to make what one does appear useful even when in practise the reality is much more ambiguous.

There is a biting summary of this phenomena in the second paragraph of Pollan’s article:

Confucius advised that if we hoped to repair what was wrong in the world, we had best start with the “rectification of the names.” The corruption of society begins with the failure to call things by their proper names, he maintained, and its renovation begins with the reattachment of words to real things and precise concepts. So what about this much-abused pair of names, sustainable and unsustainable?

I sat at the breakfast table, thinking about this paragraph. It stunned me, because my awareness of the philosophical questioning of language – its power to distort and clarify – didn’t extend as far as back in time as Confucius. To read it made me understand that this conflict – the fight to keep language from becoming a meaningless putty in the hands of technocrats – has been going on probably since the dawn of communication. It wasn’t until reading, of all people, Confucius – that old aphorism-spewing chestnut – speak about it that my understanding of the conflict was deepened.

The two writers who outlined this conflict most beautifully for me were Wittgenstein, quoted at the top (from his treatise, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus) and John Ralston Saul, who rallied against the rise of technocrats most effectively in his books Voltaire’s Bastards, and The Unconscious Civilization. Each fulfilled a means of illuminating the power of language in a way that was neither impractically academic nor precious. Saul warns about how the images and words we share can be/have been actively distorted by those with corrupting self-interest. Wittgenstein’s very philosophy is about the parsing of truth and falsity (or senselessness, as he would put it) in how we use language to construct a world view.

With the discovery of Confucius’ addition to this subject, I now have more to research and reflect upon. I suppose I’m fascinated with this subject, and for reasons I don’t think are trivial. We are beset by corrupted means of communication every day: images that lie as well as they seduce, thoughts withheld from publication/broadcast because of vested interests. And yet, most importantly, I believe it’s also language that can save us – the very tools used to fool us can be used to liberate.

I suppose one of the first questions I have is whether there are more than a handful of people out there who give a shit, or whether this is a pursuit (non-Quixotic, I insist) only a begrudging elite will ever have interest in following. Sometimes I’m haunted by the words of writer William Sturgeon, who – when asked if it was true that he thought 90% of science fiction was crap – answered that, actually, 90% of everything is crap. What haunts me is how this somewhat off-the-cuff pronouncement translates into the percentage of everyday people who truly care enough about things like this. It’s important to me that people understand that the corruption of language (visual, textual, audible) is not simply an academic concern, and that it’s possible to put up an effective, civil defense against it.

Update: For more on Confucius and the “rectification of names”, please see this link for some context.

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Requiems Not Required: Jazz and Classical

Just today, I was sitting in the kitchen of a post production audio house – my current temporary office – and found myself inexplicably tuning in to what was playing on the radio: Schubert’s Symphony No.5. It’s a dreadfully beautiful piece of music. I say dreadfully, because it’s so evocative as to remove my mind from the mountain of very important things I have to tend to.

Thing is, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the building who could either name what was being played, or who would allow themself to be affected (nay swoon). But it’s not like I set out one day in my youth, predetermined to “learn” classical music. I don’t think anyone does, regardless of what it is we end up liking. Often we come across these things circumstantially. If it hadn’t been for my watching A Death in Venice on TV one night long ago, I probably wouldn’t have sought Schubert’s symphony, nor the original story by Thomas Mann. I should also thank the old Warner Brothers cartoons, in particular the Bugs Bunny classic The Rabbit of Seville (riffing brilliantly and faithfully on Rossini’s Barber of Seville).

Jazz came to me later, introduced by my flipping around the radio, looking for something other than Top-40 pap. And like everything I love, once I get hooked I find myself wanting to know more, filling in the holes illuminated by the light of my curiosity. I’m prone to infatuation and, not entirely unlike the tragic protagonist of Mann’s Venice, find myself obsessed to learn as much as possible about these things.

The problem is that both Classical and Jazz, while not dead, are held in a stasis by so-called Classical and Jazz “lovers” who seek, paternalistically, to coddle them like glass-boned children, halting their growth (intentionally or not) and – as a dire result – their acceptance to new generations.

To some, this statement is nothing short of heresy. In Reflections of a Siamese Twin, John Ralston Saul – writing about the aggressive protectionism of French language in Quebec – made two valuable insights which also reflect on the state of Classical and Jazz music. First, that culture is not something which society should attempt to create, control, or destroy to meet our fashionable needs – it’s a living organism which follows its own path. Second, that the only languages which need protection are dead languages. That is to say, he was criticising those who strove to legally protect and manipulate something which didn’t require it in the first place.

The problem isn’t that most of us don’t tune-in to Classical or Jazz radio. The problem is that most everything programmed on these stations (with varying degrees, depending upon where you’re located) is safe, old, and terribly predictable. Say what you will about the soulless depths of corporate-run, computer-programmed Top 40 radio, but one thing you can’t deny is that they play songs written during this century (already nearly 8 years old). Jazz and Classical radio suffers from a predilection: only play the standards. Their philosophy: who cares if you play three different interpretations of Lullaby of Birdland seven times a day – it’s a standard. Who cares if the daily playlist is the same tired variation of Mozart, Brahms, and Beethoven – they’re popular.

They’re partially correct: Lullaby of Birdland is a standard, and those three dead white German guys are popular. For both genres, deservedly so. But, in a contemporary sense, it’s only to the extent of pleasing people who have no desire to see either Classical or Jazz develop in different directions. When was the last time you heard anything from Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew on the radio? That album was released almost 40 years ago – when was the last time you heard a single Classical composition written within this time?

We can’t rely on movie soundtracks and cartoons to bring notice to the brilliance of older forms of music – if we do, they will always remain “older forms of music” rather than the living, breathing spirits which they are. We do both Classical and Jazz a disservice by sneering at contemporary innovation – I contend that it’s the snobs who have done the most damage. We can’t rely solely on the likes of Wynton Marsalis as appointed sentinels to tell us what is or what is not jazz music. We can’t forsake contemporary composers, like Alexina Louie, to keep programming the same tiresome Mozart/Brahms/Beethoven lineup for our orchestras.

People should be freely exposed to different forms of music. Often. However, it should be neither prescriptive nor mandated. Assuming we are only as developed as the environment we are exposed to, it makes critical sense to see, hear, and experience as many things as possible. It is for this reason that protectionism makes no sense.

[author’s note: when using the terms “Classical” and “Jazz”, I’m using popular terminology. Technically, within both (admittedly very broad) genres, there are countless sub-categories (Baroque, Be-Bop, Fusion, Romantic…).]

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On Awareness: A Diatribe

I was cruising around the blogdom (blogoshpere, blogoverse, what have you) and visited Bookninja – a great, topical place for writer/publisher/reader types. George, the site’s author, in his posting about the controversy surrounding book pricing in Canada [controversy summary: our dollar surpassed parity with the USD$ in August, and yet our sticker prices are still in line with our dollar being worth $0.85] began as follows…

The parity/book pricing issue is still making headlines, which probably means nothing else is wrong with the world. Glad to hear we cleared up that Darfur/rainforest/child sex trade mess. Just like acid rain and the impending nukular armageddon. Whew. Glad it’s over. Now, back to blindly consuming my way through life….

The point of his posting was about customers getting upset over the supposedly unfair pricing scheme, but I was caught off-guard at first by the bitter sarcasm of the opening paragraph. With no criticism directed towards George (because what I’ve excerpted above is just that – an excerpt – and is not his main point), there’s something about people taking a passive “high road”, even sarcastically, which drives me nuts.

How, pray tell, shall we “clear up” what’s happening in Darfur? Anyone got a quick-and-easy child sex trade disinfectant? It inadvertently highlights a problem that I’ve noticed: everyone seems to be aware of the world’s problems. Indeed, thanks to television, the internet, and various types of media, that whole AWARENESS thing has totally succeeded. It has succeeded in creating a society that is so self-satisfied to simply be aware of suffering – suffering-by-agency, if I may invent the next cycle of academic theses – that doing anything to help isn’t necessary anymore. It seems as if it’s enough nowadays to simply say: yeah, I know. And that’s the end of our moral responsibility.

In fact, I would wager that it’s probably harder to motivate people to get off their asses in support of a cause/belief now more than ever. Part of this has to do with the fact that people who are getting-by reasonably well – what used to be known as the middle class, but which is now becoming “the haves” (vs. the “have nots” who are working three part-time jobs and still flirt with the poverty line) – have absolutely no incentive to lift a finger to do anything. In the United States, as an example, the greatest thing George W. Bush did was to stay the hell away from drafting kids for Iraq – rather than seeing sons and daughters ripped away, like during Vietnam, we’re all comfy in our well-paying jobs, in our warm homes, with our new TVs, arguing about the relative strengths of Blu-Ray vs. HD-DVD.

Our economic comforts make us lazy. They allow us to philosophize idly, without consequence. Nothing, save the economy itself, makes us worried anymore. Our perspective of the world becomes increasingly virtual; the suffering of others becomes something we hope TV and film celebrities, like Don Cheadle, can solve for us. We’re simply asked for money to donate – again, another passive gesture. Alms for the poor.

I don’t mean to critique anyone who’s got money, nor to cast aspersion on the efforts of anyone who’s trying to make a difference; I’m not trying to be a prole with a chip on his shoulder. I just turned 37 yesterday and this is the first year of my adult life where I haven’t had to worry about paying rent – and I like not having to worry about that. I’m just concerned about the lull of consumerism and the lack of ways for people to truly, as in dirt-under-your-fingernails truly, get involved and feel as if they’re making a difference in an immediate, non-virtual way.

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Movements and Gestures

One of the greatest realisations that occurred to me during film school was during the otherwise innocuous screening of a student’s assignment. It was contrasty, black-and-white, shot on 16mm, with no dialogue or sound, save for a temporary score via Carl Orff’s overture from Carmina Burana.

He had assembled a sequence of shots taken around an old country barn which had fallen apart due to age. There were shots of his pre-school niece playing in the field. Fairly pastoral, well-shot, stuff. However, just before the thunderous beat of the chorus, he did what is technically called a “swish-pan” (essentially swivelling the camera so that the movement from point A to point B in the frame passes by in a quick blur). It wasn’t huge – he couldn’t have turned the camera more than ten degrees to the right. But the impact was massive on me: I sat there and solidly understood, with the overture’s choir belting out the chorus, the acetic importance of a simple gesture.

When you’re full of inspiration and energy, your first instinct is to paint on as large a canvas as possible, in block letters, in red. And yet these grandiose movements, glorious though they may be in some works, are not the only – or necessarily the best – means of communication. I discovered how magically integral one simple gesture could be – through a simple adjustment of the camera, the student had intentionally or unintentionally done something that I felt was on-par with even the most flamboyant cinematic spectacles.

Today, on the streetcar, I’m reading Culture and Value, a collection of manuscript notes by Wittgenstein – and again, he makes the same point: the importance of the simplest gesture. You can hear this in music, you can see this in dance; it’s even evident in sport. The greatest performances are those which blend masterful movement with graceful gesture.

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Cops and Actors

So far this year, I’ve worked on two productions (one TV series and one feature film) which involve people playing cops (detectives, in particular). One thing I’ve noticed on both projects (and in general) is that when actors plays cops they usually take one of two approaches:

1) 60-70% of actors will, well, act. They will play the part, for better or worse.

2) The remaining 40-30% of actors will dredge up some ridiculous “cop” pantomime, based loosely upon what they’ve seen (or remembered) from such seminal TV shows as Streets of San Francisco and films like Serpico. You can identify these actors by their insistence on swaggering up and down hallways, chewing up the scenery, and making any weaknesses in the dialogue that much worse with their ham-fisted delivery, as if they were channelling some sort of Bad Cop Actor deity.

It’s hilarious.

Quite often, there are two cops in any given TV show or film – partners, of course – and chances are, each of them will don one of the two examples listed above. Predictably, as follows the format of scripts these days, the “good cop” will be an actor trying to play a cop. The “bad cop” will be the person constantly slamming binders closed, and yelling things like: “Look, pal – we’re running out of time! There’s a killer still out there!“.

Okay, at least I find it amusing…

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Is It Not Ironic

i·ro·ny
n.

1. The use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.

2. An expression or utterance marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning.

3. A literary style employing such contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.

4. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs: “Hyde noted the irony of Ireland’s copying the nation she most hated” (Richard Kain).

5. An occurrence, result, or circumstance notable for such incongruity.

I’m not a language fascist, however if there is one word which has been cataclysmically abused to the point where the government should step in with tasers, it is the misuse of the word “irony”.

In case your eyes glazed over the definition posted above, allow me to further define the word by demonstrating what irony is not. First, let’s start with the most common misperception. Irony is not coincidence – no, not even a sad coincidence, as boldly defined by Alanis Morissette in her song, “Ironic”:

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It’s a black fly in your Chardonnay
It’s a death row pardon two minutes too late
And isn’t it ironic… don’t you think

Actually, I don’t think that’s ironic. Because it isn’t. What she’s describing is a series of unfortunate circumstances. Mind you, renaming the song “Unfortunate Circumstances” wouldn’t work – doesn’t have much of a ring to it.

The thing is, I can excuse Alanis for this. I can do this because she’s a musician and not someone whom I should, by her profession, necessarily hold in high regard as regards the use of English language (lest I use the same linguistic measuring stick against Led Zeppelin and Muddy Waters).

Not, say, like a nationally broadcast television journalist. Say, like the anchor of CBS Evening News, Katie Couric:

[September 13th, 2007]
COURIC: And now this sad footnote from Iraq. Two Army paratroopers who recently wrote an article that was critical of the war effort were killed this week. Staff Sergeant Yance Gray and Sergeant Omar Mora were part of a group of seven who authored a piece entitled “The War as We Saw It,” published in The New York Times last month. The group wrote that for Iraqis, quote, “engaging in the banalities of life has become a death-defying act.” Now, ironically, Gray and Mora were killed along with five other soldiers not in combat, but when their cargo truck overturned during a routine trip in western Baghdad.

It goes without saying that this is tragic, but it’s not irony, unless Ms. Couric believes being stationed for combat in Iraq was not foreseen as being dangerous in the first place. I’ll let the folks at Media Matters question this last point.

Speaking of Iraq and bad communication, after 9/11/01, we were told – and I don’t know who was the first to coin this, not that it matters, because like so much that has happened since then, everyone just bent over and agreed to it like submissive pets – that it was “the end of irony”. And while I hope this daft phrase will be preserved as an example of world-class naivety, it seems we’ve never gotten a handle on this word, which is sad. It’s sad because I feel that this proclamation, made just over seven years ago is yet another example of the phrase, “the first casualty of war is truth”. To pronounce that any word or behaviour is no longer valid abdicates a necessary freedom of communication.

Conspiratorially, I wonder sometimes if irony, a formidable weapon when used knowledgeably, hasn’t had it’s meaning and usage watered down intentionally. Why? Well, we seem to be very prolific at being ironic and affecting irony in our popular discourse without ever troubling ourselves to actually identify it (or for that matter question our dependence upon it when it comes to things we care about). Indeed, sometimes it seems we are incapable of showing reverence for anything without irony poisoning the well. Don’t get me wrong – I’m a big fan of irreverence when it is used to desaturate those things in life we take too seriously – but if everything portrayed on television, in films, in our books, becomes increasingly ironic (without the audience bothering to know what irony is, or worse still, without an opinion – reverent or not – to begin with) then does that not somehow conjure the image of a society that is becoming more wilfully deluded?

I hate ending things with a question, so I’ll just say that I try to hope for the best, knowing that – in the long run – when it comes to understanding the great frustrations of humanity, you are often left on your own to figure out the truth. And even then, sometimes there’s nothing that can be done for anyone other than yourself.

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Preface This

If there’s one trend in film that I cannot understand (or sometimes tolerate) it is the rise of the Director’s Introduction.

Today, someone asked if I’d watched the DVD of Bon Cop Bad Cop, a Canadian feature film which had been a box-office smash when it was released last year. He then told me that there was a Director’s Intro where Eric Canuel talks about – wait for it – how successful the film was at the box-office. And if that weren’t bad enough, you couldn’t skip through it to the film that you had just paid money to either rent or buy. Why anyone would think it a good idea to hold the paying audience ransom so that they could congratulate themselves on making a profit is the sort of provincial-minded Canadian bullshit that I’ve unfortunately come to expect from a country pathologically unable to take its head out of its ass. But why does any film need an introduction in the first place?

I remember renting Spielberg’s Munich last year. Not only did he have an intro (optional though it was), but in it he more or less apologized for his film – politically. Could you imagine Bertolucci apologizing for The Conformist or Orson Welles apologizing for Citizen Kane? Spielberg: the man who has brought more money into the box-office than nearly anyone in history, who in his prime innovatively defined, through works like ET and Close Encounters of the Third Kind “the film for everyone”, now prefaces his work as if there had been a manufacturing error of epic proportions which caused hardcore pornography where there used to be sunsets.

What the hell is going on? Do we not trust ourselves? Are we becoming so fearful of litigation or clouds of doubt on the horizon of our career’s posterity that we must now preface our work, selling its merits as if applying for a loan, as if spending the millions of dollars to make the film was, in retrospect, an uncertain mistake?

Guillermo del Toro, in his introduction to the Pan’s Labyrinth DVD talks briefly about how much weight he lost during production. Terry Gilliam, who filmed an introduction for the theatrical run of his much-maligned feature, Tideland, stood there reminding us that his film was about the world through the eyes of a child. Indeed, it’s as if the general public were being treated like infants.

In my writer’s group, during our monthly meetings, we will read new work aloud. We have a firm rule: you do not preface your work. You do not say “I was trying to write about…”, or “This is based on a story…”. No. Stop it. If it’s good, it will stand up on its own accord. If it’s good – even if I have questions – I’m comfortable that I will be able to find this out on my own after the fact. If you need to explain your work before you present it to an audience then chances are you have not produced a work that an audience should be seeing (as opposed to, say, yourself).

When I see a film, I want to see the film. I do not want or require a preface where somebody “explains” things for me or, worse still, some risk-averse apologia. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.

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Intolerant Alternatives

For those who don’t live in the GTA (Greater Toronto Area), there are two papers which demonstrate the zero-sum game of “providing an alternative voice” in mass-market traditional media.

The first, which I submit as The Intolerant Right, is The Toronto Sun, a daily newspaper distributed through most of Southern Ontario. In short, pro-conservative, pro-law-and-order, pro-military, anti-liberal, anti-big-government, anti-humanist. They regularly publish op-ed pieces which make numerous references to City Council as being infested with socialists. They once published an editorial “cartoon” which allowed you to paint-by-numbers a portrait of Toronto’s mayor, David Miller, which ended up portraying him as Adolph Hitler.

The second, which I submit as The Intolerant Left, is NOW Magazine, a weekly news/community paper with wide distribution including outside the GTA. As opposed to the Sun, NOW is pro-socialist, pro-community, pro-union, anti-police, anti-military, anti-corporate. NOW operates under the impression that the world’s problems can be solved with townhall meetings. The recent clash between the Chilean U-20 soccer team and the police was, without bothering to investigate, blamed squarely on the police who were identified as racists.

Don’t get me wrong, NOW has a good arts section. The Toronto Sun, for that matter, excels in sports coverage. However, as regards editorial thrust, both papers are heinously biased and often responsible for stoking the coals of hatred.

And thus we come to that auspicious moniker: the “outsider” or “alternative” media voice. People who devour the Sun feel that everyone else is too liberally biased and that their paper “tells it like it is”. Those who fawn over NOW feel as if every page uncovers the organic truth, conspiratorially cloaked by the interests of Big Business. Yet, despite the obvious differences between the two, faithful readers of both feel as if they are getting the inside track on enlightenment.

This is one of the pernicious problems with being the “outsider” or the “alternative” in the traditional media market – it’s bullshit. You know it. I know it. Yet – and kudos for consistency to both the Toronto Sun and NOW – one can predictably ascertain the editorial reaction of both papers without as much as a few seconds of applied imagination.

Me? Generally, I’m left-of-centre, I do think there is a clear history of corporate greed which has threatened to extinguish individual rights (let alone entrepreneurship), and I don’t want our laws to be dictated by the tenets of any organized religion. However, pure socialism is a Romantic Dream – it assumes everyone is the same, which is the summit of naivety if we must include the criminally violent or the unfortunately stupid. Yet, I believe that culture needs federal funding and should not be treated like an elitist nice-to-have. Also, I would rather have another 4 years of David Miller’s ineffectiveness than yet another malicious, vindictive clown like Mel (The Black Cauldron) Lastman or a ruinous corporate-minded manipulator like Mike Harris at the provincial helm.

The problem with any form of media claiming to the be an “alternative” is that “being alternative” (as opposed to say, trying to approach the complexity of the average person’s viewpoint) becomes a ball-and-chain by which they have to editorially tow the line, whether or not it devolves into predictability (or self-parody).

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