Reset the Net

What's changed in the 365 days since Snowden blew the whistle? What can we do about erosion of privacy? http://resetthenet.org

Winter: Challenged

i was nominated by my friend Gwaai Edenshaw (http://www.gwaai.com), and inspired by artist and activist Terri-Lynn Williams-Davidson (http://www.whiteravenlaw.ca/people_terrilynn.html) to take the plunge in honour of those who are working to rid our coastal waters of the threat posed by oil tanker traffic. 

i also took the opportunity to second the challenge made yesterday by Vancouver city councillor Andrea Reimer to federal Liberal leader Justin Trudeau (who currently favours a "nuanced" approach to hydrocarbon extraction).

i join those who argue that we can and should be steering sharply away from any petroleum-centred strategy for generating wealth and energy. Increased oil tanker traffic may not (as Trudeau condescendingly put it) "precipitate the end of the world as we know it", but any oil spill poses a catastrophic risk to the region's ecosystem — and that's a risk we should refuse to take. (Take the plunge instead!)

sources:

http://news.nationalpost.com/2013/11/04/justin-trudeau-walks-fine-line-with-oil-sands-stance/

https://twitter.com/andreareimer/status/442892940130926592

Anagogy of the Depressed

Last night, a good friend kept a promise and delivered me "some tough-love realness." "Your family is not dead," she said. And she was quite right, of course. There was no question of that fact, but its meaning is what she helped me to see.

My partner, our son, and our baby daughter are not here with me. They are away for the week. And the purpose, the very reason for our temporary separation is so that i can finish my thesis.

I had slipped into self-pity after dropping them off at the airport yesterday morning. But last night at 8pm, after i had come home and consoled myself with Cap'n Crunch, ice cream and pizza, my friend called — as she and i had agreed she would each day while i'm here alone. She snapped me out of it. She did so with tact and gentleness, but she did it. She redirected all my efforts to rationalize my anxiety. She told me to just get to work.

I'm on it now.

Post-election puke-fest

Story:

At around 10 o'clock this morning, Roy abruptly barfed all over both of us and half the bus.

But the day got better after that.

Help from strangers came immediately: a dude on the bus passed me a plastic bag (to stow  spew-soaked sundries); the driver told me don't worry about the mess; a mom pushing a stroller stopped to offer us a stack of baby wipes; a passerby handed over an unopened bottle of water.

Roy took the entire thing in stride (which made it way easier for me to play/stay cool as well). “It's not as yucky as poo-poo,” he explained.

As it happens, we landed across the street from Please Mum: where we once bought the pants now soaked in toddler-vomit. The clerk invited us to use their staff washroom to get cleaned up; i got Roy a brand new / identical pair of pants. The shop didn't have any socks, however, Roy was unconcerned, having rediscovered the wire/wood-bead labyrinth toy facing the register.

So we made our exit, and followed her directions to a nearby shoe store. Then another. Then to the pharmacy. It turns out that toddler size 8 socks are not that easy to come by. Therefore i kept on carrying my barefooted son while pushing the smelly, barf-soiled stroller.

I figured we might as well start making our way back home as we were. But just as i was starting on the mental math concerning alternate routes, i remembered: the costume store!

Thus the morning went from nasty barf disaster to epic imaginary adventure! In addition to his very classy pair of casual black socks, Roy settled on a triceratops costume and a shiny shield. (Runner up options were dino-robot and astro-dino combos.) Instead of feeling bummed about thesis work (or gym workout) that would not get done today, i experienced serendipitous joy and a surge of gratitude.

And that was all before lunch.

This afternoon i got to go for a very vacation-y walk along the seawall, wearing Shea in the baby-carrier. She napped and bobbed along as i listened to a radical theology podcast.

And so i just think: wow... fucking awesome.

Context:

The happiness these simple experiences brought me today has been highlighted by the gloomy background: Yesterday's election sure sucked.

But... maybe not totally. After all, non-proportional electoral results always suck, so that is to be expected. Certainly this one must have stung for anyone who had their heart set on an NDP victory, or even just a better distribution of legislative power — and our hearts had good reasons to be set on both.

If we can momentarily put aside our investment in a specific outcome at the polls and become rather more concerned with the longer-term forecast — for electoral reform and democratic revitalization in general — there are some (okay, two) obvious silver linings to this otherwise very dismal renewal of an unrepresentative provincial Liberal oligarchy: Eby and Weaver!

The Liberals will want to milk their victory for all it's worth — but the very question of its worth can be rendered nicely uncertain, since the captain of their winning team lost her own home game. And that's without mentioning the specific virtues that David Eby himself will bring to the Legislative Assembly (which are many). Congratulations, Mr. Eby.

Better still (in this long-view) is the fact that, as of last night, it can no longer be smugly said that Green votes are “wasted.” That was always offensive majoritarian garbage; now it’s also demonstrably false. Congratulations, Andrew Weaver.

All provincial parties will have to recalculate their chances in future elections. The NDP, for their part (and i think this is a good thing), will have to decide what kind of relationship it really wants to have with the third-place party. My hope, once again, is that a co-operative relationship can be established.

There has never been any excuse for political parties that do not concern themselves with eliminating the evils of party politics. The consequences become clearer with every iteration of political decay. (How low does voter turnout have to get? How wildly unrepresentative do the results have to become?) I don't really care what we call it. "Coalition" or "co-operation" or whatever. But here's what i think needs to happen: The BC-NDP and the BC Green Party ought to co-ordinate, and yes in some cases that means not run candidates against one another, in order to JOINTLY END THE FIRST-PAST-THE-POST SYSTEM.

This is what the federal opposition parties need to do as well. It is what Joyce Murray was calling on Liberals to do; Trudeau's credibility will depend on how he handles this question of priorities. (So far, he's a charming distraction.) Maybe David Eby, will see fit to use the well-earned prestige of his defeat of the Premier to direct his NDP colleagues towards a collaborative strategy for electoral reform; and maybe Andrew Weaver will use his voice to help keep this on the agenda in Victoria — as Elizabeth May has done in Ottawa.

The Liberals are now (officially) working to bring us more of what we've seen these past 12 years. I can hardly stand to look at the dystopian neoliberal horizon towards which they are leading us. The likelihood that they will soon resume their devastating attacks on education is particularly disturbing to contemplate. So instead i choose to focus on a future that lies further beyond that horizon, by planting some seeds for it here and now.

Moral:

Politics is pretty yucky stuff, but it happens. It could be worse.

If we need good news on days like today, then let’s make some. (Or at least let’s make believe.)

Electoral Reform: have an impact TODAY!

Here’s the short version: 

Today is the deadline for registration to vote in the Liberal party’s leadership race. One candidate (only one) has declared that she is committed to forming a serious, unprecedented, strategic coalition for electoral reform. And it isn’t the frontrunner, Justin Trudeau. It’s Joyce Murray. 

If you support fixing our electoral system, then please help her win: Register to vote, and do it now because tomorrow is too late. 

***********************

In case you’re not convinced, here’s a long version:

Dear friends and family. 

This might sound unusual, coming from me, but i’m asking you to “join” the Liberal Party of Canada. Today. Like right now.

Yeah, that sounds really fucking weird even to myself. But i’m not kidding. Have i experienced some kind of bizarre political “conversion”? No, not at all... So let me explain. 

We have a chance, today, to affect the outcome of the next federal election. 

Obviously, our government sucks rotting zombie balls. And that’s not just because Stephen Harper sucks. He sure does really, really suck; but our government pretty much sucked anyway, even before he showed up (and the Liberals dominated parliament). And that’s the problem. For a long, long time it’s felt like just about the best thing we can hope for is a government that sucks a bit less. (And even that usually seems overoptimistic.) As you probably know, i always freak out telling people about how important it is to vote — but the best argument i’ve been able to make is that it’s an important kind of “Harm Reduction.”

So why do i think participating in the Liberal party's leadership race can make things any better? Well it’s not about joining (or even supporting) the party. It’s about making ALL the parties work together. 

With literally 5 minutes of your time, for free, you can register to vote in their leadership race. And then you can vote in in April. 

The deadline to register is March 3rd. Yeah, Sunday: today. Right now. 

But why bother? Because in both of the last two elections Stephen Harper LOST. By a landslide. Hardly anyone voted for this asshole. So why the fuck is he our Prime Minister? How the fuck does he have a parliamentary “majority”? It’s not because people are stupid (they’re not). And it’s not because of a conspiracy (there’s no need for one). It’s just because our electoral system is shit. 

But there’s nothing we can do, right? Actually there is: We can make the electoral results matter; we can make the “popular” vote the actual vote. We can change our system; we can have proportional representation. We can work together, and pressure elected officials to do the same. We can pressure them all, by supporting the ones who already support proportional representation. 

We can register today to elect the only candidate in the Liberal leadership race who has a plan to establish a proportional system: Joyce Murray.

Joyce Murray is the only Liberal leadership candidate who supports absolute cross-party co-operation for electoral reform. She deserves our support.

She is an underdog candidate. That’s why your vote is needed. Tons of people are registering to “rock” the leadership vote. That’s why we have a chance. In the last couple of weeks the movement for electoral reform has mobilized to support her. If you really don’t believe me, go listen to what Avaaz, LeadNow, David Suzuki have to say. Read and think about what Naomi Klein, and all your favourite political commentators are saying about electoral co-operation.

Murray doesn’t just claim to “support” proportional representation; she is not saying that Canadians have to support the Liberal party and elect a Liberal majority to make it happen. She is saying she wants to work with anyone — from any political party — willing to help change the system. She has a plan to help form a strategic coalition among opposition parties.

Murray proposes that the opposition parties co-operate: 

• run a single candidate in swing ridings in 2015
• defeat Harper
• pass legislation for proportional representation. 

If Liberals, Greens, and the NDP co-operate in the next election, it will be our last under the current system. 

Please register today, right now. (I know, the deadline is stupid because the actual voting doesn’t happen until next month. But if we want change to come we have to confront present circumstances.)

Co-operation is possible. Today we can help make it happen.

***********************

Here's what little i have to say to the people who'll never read this anyway:

It’s always easy to abstain on principle. It’s easy to say that the choices we have are “not good enough.” And there’s no denying it’s true. But the righteous feeling of “purity” comes at a price. The consequences of our current parliament’s unrepresentativeness are made clearer every day by Harper’s abuses of power. This situation is unacceptable not only on principle, but especially because those consequences are felt disproportionally by the most vulnerable people in our society.

It’s up to the constituents of her riding to help Murray win her seat in the next general election. (Just as it’s up to each of us to elect MPs in our own community who are committed to proportional representation). But it’s up to us, today, to help her become the leader of her party. 

We have a chance to put proportional representation at the centre of political debate in the months and years ahead. If we act now, we can have a strong voice for proportional representation in a major influential position. 

We can have a dramatic transformation of politics in our pseudo-democracy. We can have proportional representation. But we have to work for it.

Help Joyce Murray become the next leader of the federal Liberal party. 

Please register right now.

***********************

Note: People rightly feel uneasy about clicking the stupid little box at the bottom that says: "I support the Liberal Party of Canada, and am not a member of another federal political party in Canada." It's bullshit like that, in principle, which has to be set aside in order to change our system. It's bullshit, because it contradicts the statement on the Liberal website that "we’re inviting all Canadians—and not just members—to help pick our next Leader." It's just a matter of good faith. It should say: "I promise i'm not just doing this to fuck with you."

If the very thing at issue in the leadership vote is the question of whether or not party affiliations should be more important than democratic politics itself, clicking a box like that is nothing but a bad joke. (Objectionable on principle, but insignificant compared to the dangerous consequences of refusing to overlook it.)

Holiday highs (and low, low lows)

I don't get it. I love Christmas with all my sentimental heart. But it is such a paradoxical, contradictory time. Not that i mind contradictions and paradoxes; i appreciate ambiguity and confusion when they serve some desirable purpose (such as helping to facilitate intellectual growth...). But this morning i endured an excruciating knot of cognitive dissonance while watching a "SuperFestive" music video.

Before i say any more about that, i need to first emphasize that this is not merely a case of observing something that i was predisposed to despise.

I want to make clear: the negative feelings i have about the video are rooted precisely in my most sincere appreciation and enjoyment of the song in its original version: Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas Is You." I agree completely with the critics who have written that the track is "one of the few worthy modern additions to the holiday canon" and "a song of optimism and joy that maybe, just maybe, hints at the real meaning of Christmas." It is for precisely that reason that i have such a sour stomach this morning, after witnessing a bizarre debasement of a beloved song.

The version i'm reacting to is a "duet" (not really) with Justin Bieber. Again, let me say, i don't have any particular negative feelings about Bieber (or his "fever"); i'm not a fan, but i'm not a hater. He's whatever. But the entire premise of this video is incoherent; the execution is brutally tasteless; and altogether the result is a monstrosity so thoroughly unworthy of the original song that it defies description.

So i don't like the video. I think i've established that. But there's something related that also bothers me — enough to go to the trouble of writing about it. I think it's reasonable to expect the video will be widely reviled; however i worry that many objections might manage only to condemn the images themselves (which are lamentably tacky) without asking about how the irreconcilable elements were so grotesquely brought together.

I'm not interested in easy, cynical answers ("it's marketing. duh."); i think there is something particularly surreal and, well, basically wrong about this commercial specimen. And it is to the elements that contribute to its wrongness that i wish to devote a moment's attention.

The biggest failure of the video is that it simply wipes out the actual content of the lyrics. It does not merely contradict them, it (almost) completely reduces them to meaningless sound. In fact, a more honest adaptation would have just dropped the lyrics altogether, and kept only the vocal melody.

Because — this is my primary complaint — this is an advertisement. I don't object to advertising per se. I appreciate all the creativity that goes into efforts to promote cool things. The ubiquity and intrusiveness of advertising really irritate me, but i think it has its place and purpose. For example, it would still be tacky, but maybe not deplorable, for Nintendo to have flat-out taken the song and changed it to "All I Want For Christmas Is Wii U!" (Yeah, i want one too.)

No, it's not simply the fact of the existence of yet another (garish) Christmas-themed advertisement, or the (sad) incorporation of a great Christmas song; or even the (crass) betrayal by which such a marketing effort pretends to be a new cultural product (but that does annoy me). What bothers me most is the falseness and especially the absurdity and incoherence — the sheer, bloody stupidity — of this advertisement.

The product placement is tacky. Sure, i like my Nintendo DS, but what the hell is going on here? Why are the words to an intimate romantic serenade being sung to an anonymous mob in a department store?

There is no "you" in this video. Justin Bieber, for all his coiffed and puckering poses, is essentially asexual — or in something that may be more like the terms of marketing psychology: "pre-sexual." There does not seem to be any sign of a "you" to whom he could plausibly be singing. If his muted erotic existence is meant to suggest a chaste affection or some kind of gentlemanly courtship, to whom is it directed?

Certainly not to Mariah, despite her being conspicuously on display. There is no hint that a romantic connection could be made between the boy and the woman. And that of course is significant. Mariah is not a character in the video. She winks and wiggles for the spectator, but does not interact with other people. She is a mannequin. Ok, nothing new about objectification in a music video, but this is genuine commodification. She is there to behold, brightly lit and ...carefully wrapped. There are sure to be obvious objections to the wrapping. But for me it's all about context: She has none. She is a pretty thing. A desirable thing. She is a product, placed strategically, like the Nintendo 3DS box.

And hey, who wouldn't want one? But that's the thing. Seriously: Where is the love? The whole thing is just freaking bizarre. A virginal boy — is he looking for love? Or just for a good deal? And a sexy, dancing mannequin — is she for sale? Or what? What the hell is going on?

After we watched it, Sara and i talked about all the ways this could have been done differently. The idea of a Carey-Bieber team-up is not irredeemably bad. But there would have to be some major changes. First of all: get out of the mall! It is insane — just freaking ridiculously mindless, heartless and soulless — to be singing "i don't want a lot for Christmas... i don't care about the presents" in a bloody shopping mall. Ok. Then: get busy! Seriously, this is a love song. Why is Mariah not making out with somebody if she's so in the mood? And Bieber: do you hear what you're saying? Who are you singing about? Where are they? If the premise of a romance between the two singers is ruled out (and we might be grateful for that), then why not just tell parallel love stories? Is that hard to come up with?

So, in conclusion:

i hereby accuse the producers of this video of being completely devoid of Christmas spirit. 

There, i said it.

Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and rock n' roll forever.

PS: here it is. Don't say i didn't warn you... But i must also provide the antidote! Hope is not lost, and the joy of the season can be quickly restored. To her credit, Ms. Carey has teamed up with Jimmy Fallon, The Roots, and a bunch of awesome kids to perform her song in a way that can bring Christmas cheer even to those for whom the lights have lost their lustre.


Justin Bieber & Mariah Carey: "All I Want For Christmas Is You (SuperFestive!)"




Jimmy Fallon, Mariah Carey & The Roots: "All I Want For Christmas Is You" (w/ Classroom Instruments)

The future is now

In order to demonstrate its effectiveness and promote it with the utmost sincerity, I am composing this post entirely using the Dragon dictation software on my iPhone.

It is astonishingly accurate. I am perpetually amazed at its capacity to recognize my words and unusual phrasings.

I struggle to sufficiently emphasize how it can transform your workflow.

Just today, this morning, hours ago: I used it to transcribe an entire chapter of a book that is neither in print nor available in any digital format. That task would have been totally monotonous and prohibitively boring before the advent of this technology. Today, it was actually fun!

This is an entirely new way of getting things done. If you have an iPhone and are alive I cannot recommend this software highly enough. Seriously, go download it now. It will rock your world.

Did I forget to mention it's free?

Superhero Blues

One of the best parts of being a dad is the license to indulge my appetite for superhero-themed fun.

It's also made me more aware of (and ambivalent about) the questionable quality (and, yes, morality) of some of the shows i otherwise unreservedly love. Naturally, i'm happy to witness Roy's enthusiasm for the old 60s Spider-Man cartoon. But there's no getting around the fact that — beyond the infamously crap animation and inane scripts — Spidey often comes across as ... just a bit of a thug, really.

What i remember from growing up is mostly how cool it was to watch him swing above the streets of Manhattan and make that weird squirty web-shooter sound. And of course the song.



What i notice most now, watching Roy watch the show, is how basically Spidey just about always saves the day with a resounding right-hook. Ok, fine. But it's not helping with our efforts to socialize him in a non-smacking-everyone kind of way.

But the point of this post is actually an inspiring story — also (partially) from the house of ideas. A few days ago, a story broke about a 4-year-old kid in New Hampshire named Anthony Smith who was born without a right ear, and only partial hearing in his left. Stories of things like that make my heart ache already, just thinking of the basic existential injustice of it all. But Anthony's mom is a pretty heroic advocate for her son, and when he wanted to stop wearing his hearing aid — which vastly improved his ability to interact with others — she sprang into action.

She contacted Marvel. The result is a new icon. A columnist at CNET says: "I defy you not to be moved by this."



"Fight bad guys and help people." Yup. Maybe not always in that order, but it sure sounds good to me.

Oh, by the way, the best pun i've heard in quite a while has got to be: "The vending machine doesn't take Spider-Sense."

In this world of (mostly) mean and obscene spider-memes, long live The Blue Ear!

Looking back: Nerd Christmas // Looking forward: #Woodcock100

It’s been a memorable festive season for dorks like me. 

First there was the Van Fan Expo (“Vancouver’s first major Comicon”). Which was basically just a very long line of people in awesome costumes, but nevertheless counts, i think, as a big success. There can be no doubt now that local demand for such events is high. 

The good people of the 501st Legion were inviting toddlers for a free photo with Darth Vader. It was fun to see my little buddy up there all chillin' with the sith lord (but for me, the whole “I am your father” thing now seems even more spooky). 

But as if that wasn’t cool enough, i went on to the BIG one: the Calgary Comic & Entertainment Expo! Holy crap, that was crazy. Not only were the lineups long and slow, but on Saturday the place was total chaos. 

I swear it looked exactly like that all day long. 

The Fire Marshall eventually shut the doors. Some people with prepaid passes stepped out for a smoke and couldn't get back in. They were pissed, of course. And it was all over the news that night. 

Having arrived early and remained inside, i was only dimly aware of the drama. I waded through the mosh pit and attended panels on writing and publishing.

By the next morning, those Expo folks had things sorted out (some pulled an all-nighter). Saturday was a catastrophe, but Sunday was smooth and orderly. Better signage and coordination made a huge difference. Overall: spectacular. Despite (severely) underestimating crowds and undertraining volunteers, they brought an ambitious plan to life.

Which brings me to the Star Trek TNG reunion… there’s really nothing i can say. Laughter. Tears. Rapture. The works. What an inspiring assemblage of humans. ’Nuff said.

But that was Saturday night, and i haven't even mentioned the biggest thrill of all, which began Saturday morning and lasted until Monday — with a long, painful catharsis in between. 

Of course, i’m talking about meeting Stan Lee. Just one three-hour lineup and i got his autograph on my copy of Fantastic Four #72 (classic Silver Surfer story).

Unprecedentedly, i sent it to get slabbed by CGC. 

  
I'll die before i sell my precious, but curiosity won. I consulted the oracle. It was somehow satisfying to see what the market has ruled: FF #72 (CGC grade 9.8) Fetches Eye-Popping $25,389. Of course, my copy is nowhere near mint condition. I have no idea what magic number they'll assign it. I’ve read the descriptions of each grade... I guess it could be anywhere from 3 to 7. A fellow in the UK also had one signed by Lee (CGC grade 6.5); he was asking  £475.00 (~$760.00 CDN). Interesting.

  
While i was poking around i saw this amazing 3D poster of the cover, and some guy’s impressive compilation of Surfer highlights.

  
Another three hours on Sunday earned me a photo with Stan.

The photographer was an ass. Clicked without a word of warning. What? I asked if he could click once more, with me and Stan at the ready; he just shook his head and gestured to the next person in line. The next person was Spider-Man. 

  
I waited in line for my print, wishing i had also worn a mask. When i beheld my unflattering 8x10, the evidence of a photographer’s indifference, i felt utterly deflated.

I'd been looking forward to that moment for months; but there was no way i'd be sharing the embarrassing result with anyone. (Yes i'm vain. So sue me. Why else besides vanity would i pay to pose for photos in the first place?) Exhausted, overstimulated, i collapsed on a bench in the Corral. After moping a while, I sad-walked through the stands for the final guests on the main stage: Stan (again), James Marsters, and Sir Patrick Stewart. The stars shone brightly until, with a sigh and a whimper on my part, it was over.

Mom picked me up. Sure, i said: it was fun. But leaving without my prize of a great picture with The Man was a huge bummer. I stuffed the "candid" image away... didn’t look at it again. 

But this story has a happy ending.

Monday morning i reluctantly logged in to the Expo website. Figured i should download my .jpg despite its ugliness. After grabbing it, i thought: Hey, might as well get the next one too: i knew the photo after mine, in numerical sequence, would be the Spider-Man with whom i'd stood in line. So, adding 1 to my own number, i clicked. 

What appeared? Not Stan and Spidey: Stan and me! WTF? That stonefaced shutterbug had indeed taken two shots. There it was. My disappointment disappeared. Whoosh!

The picture is no masterpiece. (Stan’s lips are saying "Sure," he'd oblige me with a thumbs-up. He did — an instant after the click. And as Asshole Adams shooed me away, Stan, with that same patented affability, shrugged "Sorry.") But it’s there. Me and Stan Lee. Stan Lee and me. Together. Looking more or less totally human. For reals. 

So... that was a massive detour through vanity, but what the hell else are blogs for? Anyway, my superhero Hanukkah was hardly halfway over! There were three more celebrations to come:

1) Comicon: The Movie
2) May the 4th — Star Wars Day *and* the Avengers premier!
3) Free Comic Book Day

There are two Joss Whedon movies now in theatres! Avengers deserves an entire post of its own. (Best comic movie ever is a major understatement.) Whedon also co-produced Comicon with none other than the ubiquitous Mr. Lee himself. The two of them have several of the best lines in the film, but Kevin Smith, unsurprisingly, steals the show (with side-splitting cracks at himself and the whole nerd world). Oh and i recently found a cool dissertation on “Kevin Smith and Queerness.”

~

Now i have my work cut out for me — in that other life of mine, as an anarchist philosopher — celebrating the momentous centenary of the late great man of letters, George Woodcock (1912-1995), my admiration of whom i have already proclaimed. Maybe i’ll Photoshop myself into a picture with him too.

I’ve started putting stuff about him (and the event where i’ll join several much more worthy authors onstage for brief readings in his honour) at Woodcock100.ca

ttfn.

Life's a happy song

Yesterday was my birthday. Tomorrow is the last day of my (amazing) job at SFU. Today therefore seems like a particularly propitious moment for reflection and contemplation. Not a lot of time for either though. (Incidentally, i learned the word propitious from Christopher Hitchens. In the introduction to his Letters to a Young Contrarian, which i’ve been re-reading, he wrote that “It's too much to expect to live in an age that is actually propitious for dissent.”)

If last year was the most turbulent, this year has certainly been the most transformative of my life, so far. I’ve learned a lot, and grown (very painfully) too. My experience facilitating classes and tutoring the learners in the Community Capacity Building certificate program has been crucial to many of the personal changes. It’s been an overwhelming honour to work with such an incredible team of educators, and to be a part of such an inspiring project.

It seems more than a little ironic to say so in a blog, but one of the biggest and most important shifts to take place this year is that i’ve been learning to keep more things to myself. ('Nuff said.)

Anyway, looking back, it was exactly one year ago yesterday that i won first place in my first round of UBC’s inaugural 3MT (Three-Minute Thesis) competition. I realized this morning that i never even mentioned it here, so i’ll embed the video.






I was also interviewed for the Education Studies departmental website a few months later, and so here’s a video of “highlights” from that interview.




And while i’m at it, i might as well post the video that best captures my feelings about having survived the age of 33.




I was glad to see The Muppets acknowledged with an Academy Award this year. The film’s theme of growing up spoke, and sang, to me in a profoundly personal way. The best thing i can say is that, along with growing up a bit this year, i’ve also been reconnected with the sense of wonder and benign fortuity that, prior to a period of precipitous emotional overwhelmitude (which mercifully seems to have passed), had been such a big part of my life for so long.

One of Roy’s favourite words these days is “maybe.” It really can be applied in almost any context. I like hearing it. He wished me happy birthday last night. And when i ask myself: will this year be the best one yet? I think he knows the answer.

Another iteration

It's election day in Vancouver, and once again, in the spirit of harm reduction, i'll be plugging my nose with one hand and letting pragmatism guide the other one, as i step into the polling station. My heart is with the #Occupy movement, and i'm unhappy, of course, with the obtuseness of Mayor Robertson's assertion that "It's time for the encampment to end." It's distastefully disingenuous for him to dismiss the legitimate value, both in principle and in practice, of the occupation.

Naturally, i have my own doubts and concerns about #OccupyEverything; as usual, i think there are important questions being raised by critics, skeptics, and outsiders. However the movement's openness invites creative reflection: the idea that we are all part of it, the 99%, rings true — and reminds me of how inspired i was, and still am, by the radically inclusive rhetoric of the Zapatistas. I was one of the thousands who came out for the initial #Occupy gathering at the Art Gallery. In the weeks since, i've been reading and thinking a lot about it. Steve Collis has written eloquently and thoughtfully about his experiences of #Occupy, and his words have stuck with me.

This morning i was reading about the recent legal proceedings, and the defense lawyers' argument that the #OccupyVancouver camp should  be allowed to remain because it is serving as a homeless shelter. It has also served as a gathering place where (homeless people and) activists can re-imagine community together. It reminded me of how Colin Ward described the history of the Tredegar Medical Aid Society in England (in his Very Short Introduction to anarchism, page 27). What would be possible if #Occupy were recognized as a place for experimental provision of services?

I've been impressed with some of the current City Council's accomplishments, including their efforts to house the homeless; i've especially liked Councilor Kerry Jang's statements challenging NIMBYish opposition. And for that i think they deserve more time, so i'll put an [X] beside Gregor Robertson's name on my ballot today. I see potential for further progress through a continuation of their work; but mostly i'm aware of the potential damage that an Anton/NPA council could do. Obviously, Anton is the only mayoral candidate with anything close to the support base needed to win an election, so even if i was completely persuaded that someone else deserved the job, under current circumstances i can only vote for "the juice man" and his team. I'll also be supporting the COPE slate, and my friend Nicole Benson. I urge you all to do the same.

As we witness (and/or participate in) this next iteration of municipal politics, another cycle of time has been completed in my own little world. One week ago today, Roy blew out his candles on a vegan peanut-butter-chocolate cake in the company of some amazing friends and family. To top it all of with another reason to celebrate, we (finally!) got into a housing co-op. (Sigh of relief.) I was asked yesterday if having a child has changed my perspective by keeping me "grounded." I sure hope so.

Thanks (to a man i admire)

It’s that season of solemn / ecstatic gratitude again, but i can’t bear to think about how lucky i’ve been this year (even though it’s been one of the hardest of my life), so rather than succumb to an inevitable paralysis of shame, perhaps i’ll steer away from personal matters and put forward an example of that for which any lover of beautiful, elegant prose can give thanks: a thick steak of pith.  

A few months ago, after exhuming it from the bottom shelf, behind a box, in a dusty basement corner of the venerable MacLeod’s (Vancouver’s oracle of lost, obscure and precious books), i sat down and began reading a short literary biography of one of the writers, and one of the men (i use the word consciously — it seems that, by far, most of my favourite thinkers and writers are women) whom i most admire: George Woodcock. I was just two or three stiff, yellow pages in when i began to feel new stirrings of affection, both for the subject and the biographer, Peter Hughes. Several of Hughes’ evocative phrases have stayed with me throughout the busy days since i first luxuriated in his prose, so i’d like to share a few paragraphs with you, my dear friends on the interwebs. Enjoy!

From Peter Hughes’ biography of George Woodcock
1974, McClelland & Stewart

     Soon after Peking and Washington refused him visas because of his anarchist involvements, the New Left attacked him as a reactionary because he questioned some of its despotic and philistine tendencies.^[2] Few writers could make that claim. Fewer still would want to.

     One of the few might be George Orwell, Woodcock’s friend and the subject of his finest biography. He too was awkwardly independent and paid for his integrity by living a “life against odds” that intersected Woodcock’s own life and sympathies at several points. Beyond all the tastes and views they shared, beyond the opinions they fought over — Woodcock was a pacifist, Orwell a fire­-breather, and their acquaintance began in a wartime Partisan Review controversy — both men upheld liberty and decency through writing that escapes all the mandarin categories of literary criticism.  

     Woodcock agrees with and expands the opinion that Orwell’s many works, essays, novels, stories, reportage, political memoirs, whatever their apparent differences in form and genre, are all of one kind. They are all polemic; each one has designs on the reader and tries to make him take sides in a serious dispute.^[3] In works as varied as Homage to Catalonia and Animal Farm that attempt and those designs shape design in its other meaning of literary pattern and form. This notion of kind can also explain the bewildering diversity in Woodcock’s writing; for it helps to reveal the powerful impulses and interests that give consistency and depth to his work. He is not, however, with the exception of a few hectic editorials in his magazine Now, writing polemic. By the time he got down to full-time writing in the postwar forties political anarchism was a lost cause. Now a polemic delivered on behalf of a lost cause is an elegy or an epitaph, and the tone of Woodcock's biographies of the great anarchists is something quite different from either.

     What he really created was a kind that might be called persuasion, which Matthew Arnold somewhere describes as “the only true intellectual art.” It differs from polemic in stressing the good cause to the virtual exclusion of the usual assault on the bad. In reading the life of Kropotkin or Godwin or Proudhon we cannot forget the assorted evils of bourgeois reaction, but we are not allowed to think of them in those hackneyed terms. Most political propaganda allows nothing except hackneyed words and ideas. 

I was going to end there, because i think that last sentence deserves to echo throughout the land, however i’ll include a few more lest any reader be left with an impression of Woodcock that fails to capture his depth:

One result is the corruption of language through slogans, a process traced by Orwell in one of his essays. Another result is the erosion of independent thought in our time by what Woodcock attacks in an essay as “The Political Myth.” We shall see how deep and complex his writings about myth really are, but we should not be surprised that something as collective, irrefutable, and overpowering as myth would make Woodcock uneasy. It substitutes one kind of visceral appeal or another for persuasion, and tramples under truth, common sense, and liberty to satisfy a mass impulse.

…Wasn’t that tasty?

----------------
Postscript:
I had no idea that David Suzuki was this year's winner of the George Woodcock lifetime achievement award! Check out this great picture of him with Margaret Atwood. 

read about it here.

: )

Border guards make broken hearts (an essay on Love*)

*and friendship, and stupidity.

Yes. My passport is expired. 

It didn’t seem to matter last weekend, when Sara and i drove down to Seattle with Roy in the back seat. He waved gleefully out the window at the border guard, toddler-shouting: “Hi! … Hi!” 

She smiled, waved back, and sent us on our merry way. 

Not so yesterday, when i arrived at the train station, without a car, without a female companion, and without a smiling child to distract from my otherwise obvious malevolent criminality. My mom was babysitting Roy. Sara was already in Seattle; she’d had the day off and went shopping. Her own expired passport had (again) presented no obstacle when she crossed the border in a rented vehicle after breakfast. But i was just one lowly soul in the long line waiting to board a sold-out southbound evening train.

A thick-necked man’s body filled the blue uniform that sat in front of me. It delivered an error message with affectless automaticity:

[ … EXPIRED … ].

Me: “Yes, but we were allowed to cross just last weekend…”

(A refreshed error message displays on the face-like screen of the man-like interface.)

Me: “But… it’s our anniversary.”

Of course, Americans might be forgiven for fixating mechanically on their own unromantic anniversary this weekend. Forgiving them, however, does not imply ignoring or excusing the folly of their fear-based policies. 

Two hours earlier, i had exchanged goodbyes with my new co-workers, each of whom, in their loveliness, offered thoughtful acknowledgments of the reason for my planned weekend retreat. (“Eight years! Congratulations. That takes a lot of work.”) We know friendship is a species of love, because it sees the world in those terms.

Tomorrow marks the earth’s eighth orbit since a day that changed my life irrevocably… when i sat down next to a very pretty girl on the bus. 

~~~

When i met Sara, i was immediately disarmed and enchanted. Our conversation began on the long commute up to Burnaby Mountain, and continued through the morning into the afternoon. It became an email exchange late that night, and a phone call the following evening — a call that lasted until morning. 

Two days later, we met after sunset at the east end of False Creek, to walk and talk. And to stop in a symmetrical spot along the seawall, to share a long, luxurious embrace that became an unprecedented, soft, delicious kiss that turned the air around us into curtains of private twilight. The autumn evening felt like spring, and we slow-danced under the Granville bridge.

I fell, like a cartoon anvil, in love. 

Today, eight years later — after innumerable arguments; unfathomable fights; accumulated silences that seemed like they might never end; disagreements that may remain unresolved eternally; misunderstandings mistaken for evidence of hopelessly opposed perspectives; after entering into the covenant of parenthood, braving storms of joy and horror in that responsibility; drowning together in love for our son; rediscovering time in his generous hugs; suffering the damage of subconscious conflicts; healing from hurtful outbursts; comforting each other after nightmares; continuing to excavate ever-greater vulnerabilities; clinging to shared hopes for the security of co-created lives; through euphoric sex and torturous monogamy, maintaining the danger that fuels passion; through gifts and rifts, impasses and apologies — i’m still falling.

Falling in love, banging my head on every protrusion on the endless way down.

If i wasn’t still falling in love, or following love’s spiral path, how could i ever tolerate the ubiquitous, outrageous, infuriating absurdity of human beings? How could i endure the indignities of life in a kafkaesque labyrinth of congealed stupidity and laziness? Without love, how else could someone as arrogant and eccentric, as sensitive and confused as me, ever survive? 

If i wasn’t in love yesterday, how could i have persevered in the face of that chorus of uniformed morons impassively reciting an incoherent script of indifferent bureaucratese, conveying an empty and cynical lie about consistent principles and processes, and the hallmarks of a good, orderly society?

What else besides love can insulate our hearts from the incessant bombardment of hollow, pernicious pieties meant to persuade us that love matters less than polite deference to the arbitrary caprices of authority?

~~~

In an hour or two, i will meet Sara somewhere near the border. 

Somehow, we will salvage this celebration, and renew our belief in a romantic ideal. We will do what we can to rekindle the furnace of an unreasonable dream that demands everything from us — impossible patience; superhuman reserves of sheer blind, stubborn will; and an endless acceptance of daily, sometimes deep, disappointments — all in exchange for just one (rare) reward: a fleeting experience of infinite truth, beauty, certainty, splendour and peace. 

Each drop of such relief offsets at least eight weeks of the cruel, stupid, drudgery that constitutes most moments of our otherwise intolerable and (almost) worthless lives. 

~~~

Postscript:

The cosmic truth revealed?

the awful truth about my youth

last night i had a dream
i revisited the past


i could feel all of the pain but
i couldn’t change the fact that


i could feel all of the shame but
everything was still an act


i could feel all of the loneliness but
i couldn’t make contact


i woke up with a song 
and (maybe) clarity at last


it went: “life is a delivery 
you never wanna get back…

My son was bullied yesterday...

My son was bullied yesterday. By another toddler. At the playground right around the corner from our home — where we play every day. The other kid, only two months older than Roy, first dumped a shovel-full of sand and gravel on Roy's head. His mom, who was nearby, tried to respond appropriately — she picked him up and took him away telling him that was not ok, etc. 

Roy just stood there. Looking scared and sad.

I can't express the terrible feeling i have now, writing these words. The feeling i had at that moment. The feeling i've had ever since. It's just a fucking evil, horrible pain in my heart. I can't bear to let myself feel it for long. It will paralyze me if i don't fight it.

I tried to comfort Roy. I hugged and kissed him. I told him that was a very mean thing that other boy did to him. I tried to brush dirt and gravel out of his hair (there was too much). 

"Dirt." He said. Pointing his little index finger at his beautiful head, with his beautiful lips in a little frown.

I am dying and killing monsters on a battlefield in my mind. I am calm, fucking psychotically calm, on the outside.

"I know," I say. "Dirt." "That was mean."

Borrowing the language of the "Safe Spaces" program, which i've only heard of through Roy's (awesome) daycare provider, i tell Roy: "That was not safe." 

"Dirt." He said.

A few minutes later, after having made a gesture of apology (a gentle hand on Roy’s face) under the focussed direction of his mom, the same kid walked past Roy and pushed him. To the ground.

I am tearing flesh from the bones of burning demons in a volcano of pure evil. I am vomiting oceans of blood and crushing my skull with my fists. 

I am calm.

The other boy’s mother removes the aggressor. This apparently incorrigible repeat offender. She carries him home. She is telling him he can’t play anymore, etc.

My son is silent. 

Or i'm deaf.

~~~

Prior to all this i had been describing — to the bully's mom — some of the insights i’ve gained into childhood aggression through a DVD (Aggression in Young Children: The Interactive Guide to Observing, Understanding and Intervening) based on research by Professors Richard E. Tremblay and Jean Gervais (more info here). Is this irony?

~~~

Roy woke up in the night, upset. I went to him, as i always do because i’m a much lighter sleeper than Sara. But Roy wanted her. He needed her, not me. 

I’m cold and scared. I need her too. 

Before going back to bed, i stare at a picture of him, taken on our way back from the park. Does he look at me differently now? 

I’m trying to hold on… to something… hope.  

But it’s slipping: I’ve failed to protect him. My son! This world is full of hurt and unfairness and cruelty sometimes and i can’t keep it from affecting him... Or me.

(I was supposed to change the world and make everything right before this could happen!)

I had evil, violent nightmares. All night.

Oh, God… gods… anyone. What are we going to do?

Renaissance

I think i’ve mentioned it before: my vague ambition to someday write a book (or something) about the "Maple Ridge Renaissance" (a strangely localized explosion of creative brilliance i witnessed among friends and acquaintances in the late 90s, which continues to inspire me today). I was reminded of that project this morning, while reflecting on recent events in my personal life.

An obvious point of reference is my birthday. I’ve been 33 for three days now… and i’ve been feeling compelled (by some numerological and nostalgic impulse) to write a list of reasons why Back to the Future Part 3 was such a dismally disappointing movie. But of course Roger Ebert has taken care of that for me. And, as i should have expected, he did better than that; he concludes with the following wisdom:

“The one thing that remains constant in all of the "Back to the Future" movies, and which I especially like, is a sort of bittersweet, elegiac quality involving romance and time. In the first movie, McFly went back in time to be certain his parents had their first date. The second involved his own romance. The third involves Doc Brown and Clara. In all of these stories, there is the realization that love depends entirely on time. Lovers like to think their love is eternal.

But do they ever realize it depends entirely on temporal coincidence, since, if they were not alive at the same time, romance hardly would be feasible?”

Ebert, as always, demonstrates the rich rewards of applying genius attention to ostensibly mundane material. And Ebert is, obviously, a genius in the classic sense: i predict he will be honored posthumously as one of the greatest writers of the modern era. His reviews remind me of Walter Benjamin’s insightful sensitivity and awareness of the latent significance in each layer of life’s routine scrapheap.

So my inexplicable resurgent fascination with Back to the Future — a cinematic mythos that dramatically shaped my imaginative horizons — during the days before and after my birthday, serendipitously led me to Ebert’s brilliant soliloquy about love, which speaks directly and eloquently to the tide of feelings that has lately both buoyed my spirits and flooded my fearful heart.

I have always tried to live with appreciation of luck. I have said hundreds of times, over many, many years, that i must be one of the luckiest people on Earth. The reasons keep piling up, and my fascination with fortune deepens with my appreciation.

I have a lot to be grateful for; now more than ever.

After everything i’ve put her through, Sara still welcomes me into her life, and loves me with a gentle generosity i feel profoundly unworthy of.

She made me a Christmas-themed birthday: filled my stocking with chocolate and comic books, and baked me a Guinness / Black Forest cake. And Roy gave me Duplo that we can play with together, along with the most precious hugs and kisses a dad could ask for.

I don’t know how or why i am so fortunate, but i desperately want to do what’s right with all i’ve been given.

As i continue to work on refining my purpose, i look forward to my days and nights with this family — luxuriating in simple quotidian pleasures like eating, watching movies, and playing. And with time, i’ll get better at moving through turbulent feelings, including my fear that it’s all just a dream.

Robots Revisited

Continuing where i left off last time: I just stumbled upon the two awesomest things in the world.

1) the video for Dan Mangan's awesome song ROBOTS:



Yeah. It made me cry... (Like that's hard, but still).

2) This TEDtalks video: Cynthia Breazeal on "The rise of personal robots":




See? I told you so.

my heart... beeps

Today is the 90th anniversary of the word ROBOT. What better way to commemorate it than by ignoring all of my messy, confusing emotional difficulties and concentrating on the (apparently) tidy world of technology?

This week i:

• installed a new (bigger, faster) hard drive in my MacBook (after cloning my old one, to be safe).
• installed a ton of new RAM — quadrupled my memory!*

Then:

Today at work (i really love helping people solve computer problems) i managed to help a prof get her weird old Toshiba laptop working with the new projectors (had to fiddle around with the [Windows XP] displays control panel a bit; for some reason it would only work as extended desktop, not mirroring).


…and then (still at work) i used screen sharing (via MobileMe remote access) to copy files and do stuff on my iMac at home — which also enabled me to use Safari on my iMac to Google workarounds when Safari started to hang  on my MacBook (BBoD for like 20 minutes). That’s how i found this sweet Terminal command that kills the Flash plugin: bringing Safari back to life without having to quit and reopen all my 40 windows. Yay!

Then i scanned an old Herbert Read essay (about art, of course) so i can read it on my iPad.

i love computers.


*sort of, in theory... My MacBook now reports having 8GB RAM, but it seems that only 6GB can actually be addressed by the system. That’s fine, though. Based on a few days of giving this machine a good workout, it looks like a little under 4GB is what i actually “need” on a regular basis (and anything more is just elbow room). Oh and yes, of course: i always enjoy talking about RAM.

Stuff That’s Happened (an incomplete list)

Been a long time. (Eight weeks?! In twitter-time that’s like… eons.) By now, this old-fashioned blog might as well be an ancient ruin… or an abandoned laboratory in some obscure secret location… full of dust… and zombies.
 
What can be said after so long? How could i communicate (in anything but the most crudely inadequate terms) even only those normal and inevitable upheavals that are bound to have taken place — let alone any radical changes in my life / circumstances? Faced with the impossibility of a smooth continuity, there is (always) a temptation to just flip the table over and start fresh…
 
But i’ve kept coming back to this same space, to catalogue my thoughts here, for so long (and through so many mutations) that it seems like it would be an unnecessary formalistic pretense to close this blog and begin a new one. Besides, doing so would simply present a host of similar challenges: rather than struggling with how to continue i would struggle with how to begin… What’s the difference, really?
 
I don’t know.
 
So here’s a slanted and heavily expurgated, roughly chronological recap:
 

 • I decided to take a more conscious and active interest in my physical well-being (eg: to consult medical professionals about my multifarious idiopathic afflictions).
 
 • Roy celebrated his first birthday (a million friends came to visit; of course i took no pictures).
 
 • Admirers of Voltairine de Cleyre celebrated her 144th birthday (my comment was published on her memorial site).
 
 • Roy got an ear infection and became even more adorable than usual, due to increased need for snuggles.
 
 • Apple (finally!) released iOS 4.2 (and iPad users heaved a sigh of relief).
 
 • I befriended a superhero.
 
 • Wayde Compton launched a new book, in which (among other things) he coins the brilliant term “pheneticizing.”
 
 • New life forms were discovered, here on Earth, whose (arsenic-based) DNA is unlike anything previously known to exist.
 
 • I began to experience an (agonizing / euphoric) emotional breakdown / (re)awakening.
 
 • Roy started walking, almost… (he’ll walk with me, if i hold both his hands).
 
 • Admirers of Super Mario Bros. celebrated the 25th anniversary of the original game.
 
 • I wrote one of the best essays of my career as a student, and it nearly killed me.
 
 • Roy got another ear infection and we spent three hours at the Children’s Hospital on Christmas Eve.
 

 • I started to realize i don’t know who i am (anymore).

Not to mention dozens of significant political events and occasions. But this ain’t a freaking newspaper. Geez.

Maybe i’ll fill in some of the gaps, later. Or maybe i’ll just stick to movie reviews… I’m gonna give myself until next year to figure everything out. (I’m up for a challenge.)

Peace, Love and Understanding

I'll keep this post short, without getting distracted.

I've just spent an hour or so learning about the Understanding Campaign. It's an interesting idea, based on an appealingly simple premise.

In their words, "The Understanding Campaign wants everyone in the world to read just one word of Arabic." (Of course they don't mean only one word and no more, but let's not get tangled up that kind of analysis.) If i understand them correctly, i think they're suggesting something not only unobjectionable, but, as a speaker of the university prestige dialect might say: "positively counter-hegemonic".

After reading their site, listening to interviews, watching videos, and otherwise attempting to see the campaign in context, i would put it this way: the implication (and i think they're right, BTW) is that, basically, if lots of people everywhere, but especially in the U.S. and English-speaking countries, learn the Arabic word for "understanding", then we would be one small, but concrete step closer to a world free from conflicts based on ignorance and fear.

Lovely, you might say. Ok, but the reason i'm staying up past my bedtime to share this pleasant little discovery is that the Understanding Campaign is actually at a crucial point. 

The founders are serious about making their nice idea a reality. Specifically, they want to facilitate a literary exchange with university students in Iraq, and so they have engaged with Kickstarter (which i hadn't heard of before but sounds awesome), a "funding platform for creative projects" — you can read about it for yourself, but it strikes me as similar in spirit to Proudhon's economic ideas.

In accordance with the Kickstarter process, a group proposes a project and sets a dollar amount that would allow it to go forward, then they set a date by which they think they can convince enough people to pledge that much money. But no money changes hands unless they are successful! (It's a sensible way to run things, because it allows people to pledge funding to anything that they think is cool, with no risk that their money will go to a project that never gets off the ground).

The Understanding Campaign has received 242 pledges that tally up to about 92% of its funding goal. However, as of right now the campaign has less than 63 hours left to reach its goal before the deadline (Thursday afternoon).

So i'm writing this to say: i think the Understanding Campaign is a cool idea and that their project should be given a chance to go ahead. They want to print some stickers and exchange books and ideas between North America and the Middle East; it won't cost a lot of money to get started, but it will take some (their goal is $10,000 USD).

People who pledge get stuff, too. I'm getting a T-shirt.

It shouldn't be too hard to get pledges for the last few hundred dollars in the next couple of days, but it would suck if after all they've done so far, they're left with just a good idea and some new friends. That's not nothing, of course — in a way, that's the point: good ideas and new friends are great things — but the people behind the campaign are very close to starting something far greater.

فهم

That's the word. Spread it around.