Conflicting Richler and conflicted Cohen: Comparing two of Montreal's most prolific artists

Montreal is a city of contrasts: biting cold winter follows sweltering summer, concrete high-rises border lush, sprawling parks, la langue Française clashes with the English language, and rampant corruption makes news headlines alongside the city’s proliferation of social justice movements. Writer Mordecai Richler and musician Leonard Cohen, through their tumultuous personal and professional lives, personify the contrasting sensibilities of Montreal’s schizophrenic arts community. Both Jewish, Montreal-born, and wildly successful, the two artists have had distinctive impacts on the city’s art community, and have spawned vastly different legacies.

Mordecai Richler followed an unlikely path to literary success. Born in 1931 in Montreal’s middle-class Jewish neighborhood, the Mile End, Richler’s family was of modest means. He attended Concordia University, then Sir George Williams College, for English but failed to complete his degree. His relationship with his family was turbulent, and he ceased communication with his mother altogether later in life. At 19 he left Canada for Europe and spent twenty years living in France, Spain and London before returning to Canada. Upon his return he found himself disenchanted with the political circumstances which had become the everyday reality of life in Quebec and Montreal, and considered the effects to be ruinous of the city he held such a deep affection for. As a result, much of his later work was dedicated to critiques and commentaries on provincial and federal politics. Richler’s personal life is the subject of his novel, Barney’s Version, as well its 2010 screen adaptation of the same name. Married twice, it was with his second wife that Richler had several children and produced the bulk of his literary work, going on to receive, among a swath of accolades, three Governor General’s Awards.

In itself conflicting, the breadth of Richler’s work consists of novels, news articles, screenplays and children’s books, which elicited an array of responses from his Montreal and Canadian audience. Divisive and controversial, he was critical of Quebec nationalism, Canadian nationalism, the Anglophone community, the Catholic community and the Jewish community; in effect, he was successful in drawing the ire of almost every minority group in Quebec. In a scathing article published for the New Yorker, Richler decried the Quebec separatist movement, inciting strong opposition to his work and even an onslaught of hate mail and personal threats. He was often misrepresented by critics in the media and he was, to an extent, demonized within the province as an anti-Quebecker, sexist, self-hating anti-Semite. Some of his more controversial written work was banned by the Bloc Quebecois, only fuelling Richler’s zeal for sparking political discourse. An article for The Gazette describes gaffs that Richler became known for, such as lobbying the Quebec government for the creation of a “Twice as Much” bylaw, which would require that French be spoken at twice the volume of English, or the creation of the “Unpure Wool Society” which awarded a “Prix Parizeau” to distinguished Anglophone writers in Quebec. Antics such as this further cemented his reputation as anti-Quebec nationalist, and served to discredit his literary work – today, few Canadian universities teach Richler’s novels despite their popularity (Barber), indicating that his divisive tactics had lasting consequences for his status in the literary community.

Deriving his foundations from the same literary community, Leonard Cohen’s tumultuous journey from burgeoning poet to world-famous musician is just as fascinating as the volume of his work is impresssive. In contrast to Richler, Cohen was born in 1934 to a successful, upper-middle class family in Montreal’s affluent Westmount neighborhood. Upon obtaining a BA from McGill University, he had already built a reputation for his poetry, much of which was dedicated to his father who died when Cohen was nine. Continuing to write poetry and novels, he chose to live a hermetic lifestyle with his lover at that time on Hydra Island in Greece. Over time, following mixed reviews of his written work, Cohen shifted his focus to songwriting although he was later awarded the Governor General’s award for a subsequent poetry publication. His commendable string of lovers, battle with depression, relationship with Judaism and later Buddhism, and belief in social justice were some of the major influences that formed the basis for Cohen’s songwriting; surely, it is the depth and expanse of subject matter in his work that has allowed him to transcend such a breadth of demographics and establish the massive following that he has today.

Cohen’s popularity can be attributed to the capacity of his work to relate to a diverse audience. Even in his formative years, his poetry was well-received by critics, securing him his reputation as a respectable artist within Canada. Outside of literary circles, Cohen appealed to a variety of musical tastes. The song “The Partisan” related to those oppressed by war; it was later associated with the Polish solidarity movement, and contributed to the antiwar theme in Cohen’s work. Topics addressed in his music spanned the oppression of the gay community in the United States, his personal desolation, romantic successes and failures, political injustice, and religious experiences. He became known for his unique sound and style, setting him apart from contemporaries in the folk genre. Cohen is a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the recipient of a Grammy Award, yet he has been praised for his humility and true dedication to the artistic process – just this week he received the Glenn Gould Prize for his lifetime of work, and dedicated the $50,000 in prize money to the Canada Council for the Arts (CBC News). One of Canada’s most prized cultural icons, Leonard Cohen has built an enduring musical and literary legacy, and his work will continue to influence and inspire for generations to come.

Both undeniably brilliant and demonstrably successful, both political and complex, these artists exist on opposite sides of a rift between Montreal and wider Canada’s cultural palate and tolerance for controversy. While Cohen’s antiwar, social justice stance strikes a chord with Quebec’s political sentiments, Richler’s political tack, though honest, served to alienate him from his domestic audience and stigmatize his work within Montreal’s art community. Richler’s pugnacious political pieces continue to incite Francophone/Anglophone tensions from beyond the grave and his literature, although widely read and critically acclaimed, has been snubbed by many leading Canadian academic institutions. Cohen on the other hand is held up as an example of the pride of Quebec, especially Anglophone Quebec, and is lauded for his lifetime of achievement. What this hugely divided opinion of these men illuminates in the Canadian and Quebecois cultural psyche is a limited, conditional tolerance for dissent. Both artists cherished the quality of authenticity in their work, yet it was Cohen’s diplomatic crusade for social justice and not Richler’s audacious criticisms of government that ultimately succeeded in winning the favor of the Canadian audience.

Works Cited

Bauch, Hubert. “Mordecai Richler was no friend of Quebec’s Political Class”. The Gazette 30 Jun. 2011. Web. 17 May 2012.

Barber, John. “Why Mordecai Richler isn’t being studied in Canadian universities”. The Globe and Mail 22 Dec. 2010. Web. 17 May 2012.

CBC News. “Leonard Cohen donates $50K from Glenn Gould Prize”. CBC News 15 May 2012. Web. 17 May 2012.

Sustainable Development versus Planned Economic Contraction: Reassessing the Growth Model

Introduction

A 2011 study by the United Nations indicates that current rates of consumption are depleting natural resources at an unsustainable rate. As international actors promote exponential economic growth as a means to address the issues surrounding human development and cope with the rapidly expanding population, the corresponding effects of natural resource depletion and environmental degradation lead to growth that has become uneconomic. The concept of sustainable development is a fallacy perpetuated by individuals and interest groups whose primary goal is achieving greater economic growth. These pursuits are problematic and cannot resolve the environmental crisis that we collectively face. To attain an acceptable standard of living for current and projected populations within the boundaries of the finite supply of natural resources available to us, we must re-evaluate current assumptions that are made regarding necessary levels of consumption. Planned economic contraction, or degrowth, is the most viable solution to the array of environmental challenges that we, as a global community, can no longer ignore.

When Growth Becomes Uneconomic

Uneconomic growth occurs when the social and environmental costs incurred from economic growth outweigh the benefits (Daly 63). Wealthy countries, with their insatiable habits of consumption, have potentially begun to experience social and environmental costs that are greater than the benefits of economic growth (Daly 63). The productivists of modern regimes have influenced the formation of public policy to the extent that attaining higher levels of GDP-measured economic growth is the dominant strategy in achieving human development and alleviating poverty (Alexander 1). This is problematic, as the western standard for development is unattainable on a global scale due to the limitations of earth's natural resources (Alexander 2). Adherence to this policy, theoretically, has uneconomic growth as its predictable outcome. In accordance with basic microeconomic theory and the law of the diminishing marginal utility of income, the marginal benefit of growth will decrease (Daly 64). As benefit decreases, costs increase according to the law of increasing marginal cost, and this will lead the global economy to a situation in which the costs of growth increasingly outweigh the benefits (Daly 65).

An article in Saskatoon's The Star Phoenix alleges that Alberta's oil sands are an exemplification of uneconomic growth. The author posits that in addition to the pollution, acid rain and CO2 emissions caused by oil sand development, all in the name of employment growth, the resulting effects lead to job loss. In Alberta's case, as oil revenues spiked the value of the Canadian dollar rose accordingly, and over 600,000 domestic manufacturing jobs were lost. While this is an example of a market repercussion for uneconomic growth, the environmental repercussions are paramount. In an article for the magazine Canadian Dimension, economist Peter Victor points to loss of biodiversity, climate change and upsetting the nitrogen cycle as three main components in which economic growth has perpetrated uneconomic outcomes. Victor argues that we have exceeded earth's capacity for resource provision, and that western countries' current consumption habits cannot be satisfied in the long-run. He asserts that GDP growth is not necessarily indicative of human development, and questions the correlation between increasing wealth and happiness. Both authors conclude that economic growth does not always lead to human development and that it has been, in many cases, counter-productive.

As with any cost-benefit analysis, this conclusion begs a re-evaluation of investment strategies and goals. However, such a re-evaluation is becoming more difficult due to the implications of globalization for sovereign policy making and enforcement (Daly 63). As national boundaries become a concept of the past, countries and transnational corporations are both unwilling and unable to internalize the environmental and social costs of their economic activity (Daly 75). Instead, the global pursuit of profit is disguised as investment in politically correct “sustainable development” in order to allow continuity of the status-quo without forcing the population to consider the negative implications of unrestricted growth (Latouche 12). The macroeconomic justification for this is such that as resources become increasingly scarce, their allocation will become increasingly efficient (Alexander 5). Pricing mechanisms will lead to substitution and technological innovation will allow the market to make extremely efficient use of the remaining resources, or even access previously inaccessible reserves (Alexander 5). This theory, as will be demonstrated, is problematic.

The Shortcomings of Sustainable Development and Population Control

While sustainable development is a comforting concept in the face of resource scarcity and environmental degradation, it does not hold in reality. Despite our society's endless potential for innovation, as long as growth remains the dominant paradigm in economic planning we will consume an increasing, and unsustainable, quantity of resources (Alexander 9). Consider the example of innovations in fuel-efficient vehicles to illustrate the shortcomings of the sustainable development concept: With the invention of the fuel-efficient car, we proceed to drive more and buy more cars, secure in our assurance that the problem has been solved and we are free to consume at a standard, or increased rate (Alexander 9). This relationship between innovation and growth-driven consumption illustrates the need to reassess the traditional macroeconomic argument that growth is able to continue exponentially into eternity. With a finite and rapidly disappearing supply of resources, it is becoming increasingly apparent that at this rate, the path of economic growth will lead to disaster. The sustainable development pursuits of the past 20 years have not yielded the results necessary to contain the problem at hand, and with consumerism continuing to grow unchecked we must adopt a new approach (Martinez-Alier et al. 1)

Population reduction as a means to address environmental challenges is a policy advocated by conservative politicians (Latouche 25). In 1974 Henry Kissinger introduced a proposal to control the populations of thirteen developing countries viewed as a threat to US dominance by encouraging their leaders to promote the use of birth control (Latouche 26). Another proponent of population control, public health specialist Maurice H. King, suggested that if family planning is not effective it is the poor who should be “left to die” as their lifestyles impose more on the environment (Latouche 26). This demonstrates the precarious balance of justice in the practice of population control – who will be subject to control measures may become an arbitrary decision, with the burden distributed unevenly amongst the world's population. Approaching population reduction without the looming influence of earth's demise would allow for the formation of level-headed policies which would avoid, for example, global bacteriological warfare as a method of population reduction (Latouche 26). Although population reduction is demonstrated to be both desirable and necessary in resolving the environmental crisis (Latouche 27), it is a concept that must be approached calmly to ensure a peaceful and equitable implementation of measures. Following a period of degrowth, it would be possible for leaders to address this issue in the absence of excessive pressure.

Decoupling and Degrowth

The concept of decoupling involves breaking the link between resource use and economic growth (UNEP xiii). It suggests a shift from innovation which encourages resource consumption to innovation which reduces the use of resources, in addition to the adaptation of a growth indicator which is more comprehensive than GDP and considers the social and environmental impacts of growth (UNEP xvii). However, evidence shows that this approach is insufficient in solving the environmental crisis on its own (Victor “Uneconomic Growth”). A 2002 OECD report suggests that decoupling indicators are flawed since, for example, they do not capture externalities such as cross-border pollution. The report suggests that this approach must be used as a complementary measure to other tactics. Furthermore, absolute decoupling cannot occur simultaneously with economic growth, and will increase in efficiency only in correspondence to slower growth (Victor). For this reason, although developed countries should practice decoupling regardless, it is a strategy that can only be effective when paired with measures for degrowth (Victor).

The prominence of the growth paradigm is a product of the problems addressed by Malthus, Marx and Keynes regarding overpopulation, wealth distribution and unemployment: Economic growth became the accepted all-around solution, leading to decades of policy formation in the interest of furthering of this goal (Daly 73). As has been demonstrated, however, the increasingly uneconomic effects of growth mean that it is no longer a feasible solution to these problems (Daly 74). Zero growth is undesirable as well, and the answer lies in a middle-ground – the slowing of growth (Alexander 13). In the developing world where growth is imperative to raise the population to an acceptable standard of living, degrowth is not a possibility. It is wealthy countries who possess a standard of living that would make a period of degrowth manageable, and therefore they should allow any room for growth to occur in the countries where it is needed most (Alexander 2).

It is believed that slow growth would lead to full employment, poverty elimination, fiscal balance, CO2 emission reductions and more leisure time (Alexander 13). A planned economic contraction, as opposed to the undesirable unplanned alternative, can be achieved through a combination of restructured investment strategies, reduced workweek hours, and a redistribution of labour amongst the population (Alexander 14). Restructuring of investment strategies would have the aim of shifting investment from private to public goods (Alexander 14). A reduced workweek and the redistribution of labour responsibilities would allow for a steady standard of living by substituting wealth for an increase in leisure (Alexander 14). Systems of progressive taxation, the implementation of a maximum wage, and the proliferation of worker cooperatives would all contribute to a shift from high to low consumption patterns (Alexander 17). Sudden and drastic degrowth would be too great a shock for the population, but a gradual implementation would be a viable step forward in policy making (Martinez-Alier et al. 4).

Conclusion

Productivism and the growth paradigm, originally intended to solve the problems associated with overpopulation, unjust distribution of wealth and unemployment have become the foundation for a culture which emphasizes, above all else, the acquisition of material wealth. The resulting levels of consumption in wealthy countries has led to a point where growth has become uneconomic, and does not provide an overall benefit to society. Not only has growth become uneconomic, but it cannot possibly be sustained at current population levels. Sustainable development initiatives are insufficient in addressing the severity of the environmental crisis, and only serve to allow the customary patterns of consumption to continue unchecked. Population reduction, within the current sociopolitical framework, would likely lead to unjust and possibly violent outcomes and should only be evaluated following a period of degrowth. Decoupling strategies are necessary, but also insufficient in achieving ecological sustainability if implemented alone; the most effective policy to attain both environmental and economic stability is one of planned economic contraction, or degrowth. The restructuring of investment and a redistribution of labour will reduce consumption patterns in wealthy countries while allowing the developing world the necessary room for growth. In light of the growing imperative for an ideological shift toward true sustainability, degrowth must be the primary goal of the global community.

Works Cited

United Nations. “Humanity’s voracious consumption of natural resources unsustainable – UN report”. UN News Centre 12 May 2011. Web. 04 Apr. 2012.

Daly, Herman E. “Un-economic growth: Empty-world versus full-world economics”. Sustainable Development: The Challenge of Transition. Ed. Schmandt, Jurgen and Ward, C.H. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. 63-77. Print.

Alexander, Samuel. “Planned economic contraction: The emerging case for degrowth”. University of Melbourne: Office for Environmental Programs/Simplicity Institute. 03 Aug. 2011. Web. 04 Apr. 2012.

Hanley, Paul. “Oilsands an example of 'uneconomic growth'”. The Star Phoenix 17 Jan. 2012. Web. 04 Apr. 2012.

Victor, Peter A. “Uneconomic Growth”. Canadian Dimension 05 Mar. 2012. Web. 04 Apr. 2012.

Latouche, Serge. Farewell to Growth. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2009. Print.

Martinez-Alier, Joan et al. 'Sustainable de-growth: Mapping the context, criticisms and future prospects of an emergent paradigm”. Ecological Economics 69 (2010): n. pg. Web. 04. Apr. 2012.

United Nations Environment Programme. Decoupling Natural Resource Use and Environmental Impacts from Economic Growth. UNEP, 2011. Web. 04. Apr. 2012.

Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development Environment Programme. Indicators to Measure Decoupling of Environmental Pressure from Economic Growth. OECD Environment Programme, 2002. Web. 04. Apr. 2012.

Pathologically complicated, just the way I like it.

Leaving leaving leaving leaving. My going away parties outnumber my birthdays. This is nothing new, it's a pattern I have followed as religiously as is possible for an atheist since I was 15, but ... Why?

I've come to the conclusion that it has nothing to do with running away. I'm good at life, and reasonably good at reality. There is nothing to run from, but everything to run to. This is the problem: the opportunity cost of being somewhere, when you could be somewhere else. To all you business students, I'm givin' it to you econ style – I can only be in one place at any given time, and the overwhelming cost of not being in a multitude of other places is bloody bankrupting me. I'm geographically impoverished. I am (slowly) expiring while forfeiting the opportunities that come with being in a place that I am currently not. I am not referring specifically to my current destination, Hong Kong is just one place on an impossibly long list.

That is why, in the heat of the increasingly cold moment, I decided to pretend away the Montreal winter yet again and spend the semester in China. This time I have no pretensions of staying; I learned my lesson well enough before – there ain't no education system like a Western education system. Nevertheless, the pull of the East is reprehensible in yet another hasty departure. But I digress – the point is that once again, within a predictable six month cycle, I'm going through the practised motions of upheaval. I'm doing it to be everywhere else. Life's requisite hurdles between one place and everywhere else can be overcome with a dose of resourcefulness and an affinity for multitasking. So have cake + eat cake I will.

In typical fashion, however, impulsively laid plans are rife with complications. So for anyone who knows how I roll with travel plans, I present to you an all-time eye-roller of an itinerary:

Overnight bus from Montreal to New York on the day of my last exam. Burn nine hours in New York. With luggage. Fly from New York to Moscow. Nine hour layover. Fly from Moscow to Hong Kong and arrive during business hours (welcome wagon unavailable). Loiter in Hong Kong mall for eight hours. With luggage. After receiving working visa through re-re-routed mail, ferry to Macau. Ferry back to Hong Kong in order to re-enter with working visa. Wonder why this seemed like a good idea in the first place.

Convoluted? I wouldn't want it any other way. If it was simple I wouldn't have anything interesting to write about.

LPG Fracking ... Solution?

This is a little off topic to be the first entry in almost six months. I like it like that. This letter was written as part of a project for a sustainable management class, and ... It got personal.


To Whom It May Concern,


As a former resident of northwestern British Columbia I realize that development of the natural gas fracturing industry is vitally important to the economic prosperity of communities in the area. For this development to be sustainable however, a balance must be achieved in addressing the concerns of affected residents while satisfying company goals and objectives. The process of hydraulic fracturing is an indisputable detriment to the environment and scarce natural resources. Even with strict adherence to environmental policies this damage, at best, can only be minimized. This indicates that in order to reduce the environmental impact of fracturing to a sustainable level an alternative technique must be adapted. As a bold and progressive move I propose the gradual implementation of liquid propane gas (LPG) fracturing as a substitute for the traditional hydraulic fracturing method.

In the long run the substitution of this method will yield a threefold advantage by lowering costs, satisfying community stakeholder concerns and creating a sustainable platform for further expansion. The implementation of this method would take place in stages over several years. The first stage would involve contracting LPG fracturing services for a small number of test wells in order to determine large-scale feasibility. The second stage would utilize these services for a more significant portion of existing wells, with a medium run objective of seeing this become the dominant technique used. In the long run, Encana would have the potential to become an industry leader in sustainability by developing it's own LPG fracturing technology, and subsequently replacing hydraulic fracturing as a means of natural gas extraction entirely.

The exceptional efficiency of this method reduces both direct and indirect costs in numerous areas. Water sourcing, transportation and disposal costs are eliminated. LPG is nearly 100% recoverable and recyclable, therefore eliminating the loss of saleable natural gas and as well as costly CO2 emissions resulting from the flaring process that is necessary for hydraulic fracturing. The flowback period would be shortened, potentially to as little as 24 hours, thus increasing the potential for productivity. LPG use would lead to indirect cost savings by preserving and enhancing the utility of existing wells. LPG can clear leftover fracturing fluid from used wells without leaving deposits behind. It does less damage to well walls and is more effective in procuring natural gas from tighter reservoirs.

Stakeholder concerns spanning exhaustion of local water supplies to potential air, water and ground contamination resulting from exposure to chemicals found in fracturing fluid would be alleviated by using LPG as an alternative means of fracturing. The substitution of propane removes the need to employ local water supplies, and that it is both recoverable and eliminative of the flaring process would ease concerns regarding damaged air quality. Terminating the use of hydraulic fluid excludes the risk of contaminating public water supplies and farmland during use and disposal. As less frequent transportation will be needed due to the reusable quality of LPG, there will also be a reduction in local traffic resulting from fracturing operations.

As a result of lowering costs, enhancing well performance and gaining stakeholder confidence, Encana operations will see greater long run sustainability. At the rate that wells cease to remain productive, preserving existing wells and gaining new productivity from wells currently in disuse will bolster long run profit. Appeasing anxiety in communities that are home to fracturing projects will allow Encana to pursue higher and more sustainably viable goals with full public support.

Thank you for the time you have taken to consider this suggestion. In view of the significant potential benefits in the areas of cost savings, stakeholder relations and future development, this is a bold and responsible change that would position Encana both as an industry leader and a leader in overall environmental sustainability. In a changing business environment that requires accountability to an environmentally conscientious public, there is greater emphasis than ever to respect triple bottom line business practices.

The response to this proposal, as well as all feedback that you have, will be greatly anticipated.


I would really appreciate feedback on this, especially from anyone who is directly affected by fracking operations in BC or elsewhere.

Taiwan - The Bad and the Ugly

Outside of the homesick days that are to be expected when living abroad, it is hard to find much to fault with day to day life as a foreigner living in Taiwan. Just get over the staring, and if you have the right attitude you can make this your paradise. I have met expats with attitudes ranging from hopelessly negative to blindly positive to jaded and resigned. The complaints are all pretty softcore - there are no mysterious disappearances or unprovoked assaults, as is the reality for foreigners in many countries. Until you are a resident, it isn't even possible to pay tax.

However, when it's pouring rain for the tenth day in a row, your clothes are moulding in the closet due to the humidity, you found a cockroach in your bed and some kid's mother is pointing at you and giggling while her child screams, “look at that foreigner!”, many of us tend to lose perspective. The negative ones criticize the absence of arts and culture, including the lack of a drinking culture, the “us versus them” attitude of many locals toward the world outside Taiwan, and the resulting psychologically isolated and often uninformed population (IE, the unnervingly common belief that English was first spoken in the United States). They complain about the complicated recycling system, the inconsistency of Pinyin formats, the China thing, the local obsession with eating, eating at buffets, karaoke and eating (http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/front/archives/2011/05/06/2003502534), the difficulty of gaining competence in written and spoken Mandarin, the bugs and the weather (too hot/rainy/humid/too many earthquakes).

Still, there are others with a more resilient opinion of life here. The positive ones can't say enough about the warmth and generosity of Taiwanese people, the country's scenic beauty, the low cost of living, the temperate weather, the beaches, that Asian kids are always cuter than other kids, the abundance of food and opportunities to eat it, and the fun that can be had in a six hour karaoke marathon. The resigned and jaded types claim you get used to the stares and whispers of “waiguoren”, the cost of living isn't actually that cheap if you get paid Taiwanese wages, and karaoke can be tolerated with a good dose of alcohol.

I can sympathize with all of these attitudes, depending on the weather, the number of weird bugs I have found in the bathroom, and the number of people who have tripped over cracks in the sidewalk while gawking at me that day. Maybe it's because they usually hang out with other foreigners, or maybe it's because these concerns don't necessarily apply to daily life, but there are issues in Taiwan that leave me full of resentment that probably don't bother most foreigners. The local attitude toward women and education are similar in that both are to be kept on a short leash. It is nothing compared to many countries which have drastically more conservative policies in these areas, but coming from a country so liberal, the differences are still glaring. These things would not concern someone who had come to Taiwan to work as an overseas employee for a company in their home country, but in my position, considering the possibility of an education and a subsequent career here, these are issues I cannot seem to reconcile with.

It would not be accurate to say that women are severely disadvantaged, or even disrespected in Taiwan. Although the wage gap is significant (http://474miranairresearchpaper.wmwikis.net/file/view/exportgrowthgenderwageinequalityTaiwan.pdf/168379043/exportgrowthgenderwageinequalityTaiwan.pdf), women are accepted in all fields of study and arranged marriages are increasingly rare. It is more that they are coddled, discouraged from developing any style or opinion that may be controversial, and very rarely present in positions of power and influence. Democratic Progressive Party Chairwoman Tsai Ing Wen is one extraordinary example of a powerful, successful, unmarried Taiwanese woman. Over the past few months she has been bombarded, shamelessly, by local media (which has the integrity of your average tabloid) with accusations regarding her sexual preferences. What's worse than the obvious sexism of this is the population's readiness to gobble it up, speculate, and maybe even change their vote as a result. Women are still very much a man's possession here, and although there are many families that are progressive, most still expect that their daughters will remain in the home until they are married, at which point they will go to live with the husband's family. Even if they are successful at their jobs and capable of financial independence, and even if they're 45.

The other issue that has been grating on me is with the nature of the school system, likely a product of having been spoiled by excellent educators and a freethinking academic culture in Canada. Educational culture in Taiwan revolves around a concept of obedience and success above all else (http://www.chinapost.com.tw/editorial/taiwan-issues/2010/08/30/270639/p2/Education-system.htm). Students are expected to accept the teacher's word without question, and to learn the textbook well and without deviation. The Mandarin word for teacher, laoshi, means age and wisdom, much like sensei in Japanese. The unfortunate reality is that not all teachers are necessarily old or wise, and as such the average classroom setting has the blind following the blind. It is common practice for grade school through high school educators to be trained to teach only the material in the government provided textbook for the course they are assigned to, and by no means anything else. This means that little is required of grade school teachers in terms of professional qualifications, and the person guiding your child's education may have barely completed a two year teaching certificate. Open discussion and even questions are avoided in the classroom, and students who excel are confined to the learning pace of those who are average. Being textbook correct is rewarded, while critical thinking and opinions that variate from the status quo are barely tolerated. Such emphasis is placed on correctness that most students adapt a strategy of rote memorization for all textbook material, and forget how to approach a problem constructively (http://www.taiwantoday.tw/ct.asp?xItem=164889&ctNode=428). The idea of completing an education in such a stifling setting is too depressing to accept.

For a country that is striving to differentiate itself from an overbearing China, Taiwan still has a long way to go in it's development of social ideology. What good is democracy without the momentum of a population capable of critical thought? Many Taiwanese youth can barely speak to, nor are concerned with, the country's relations with China. Last year ECFA passed with shocking ease, considering the long term economic ramifications for anyone working outside the white collar sector. Increasingly fewer youth speak Taiwanese, as their parents are so caught up in Amy Chua's “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” philosophy of raising over-achieving money making machines, that they fail to encourage their children to do so. It is baffling that the first generation who has not been restricted by martial law from discussing the 2-28 massacre openly is so amenable to laying down and being steamrolled by China. Could it be that this docility is a product of 16+ years of compliance education?

Hell forbid I get started on the impotence of the national service, whose directors supply their soldiers with empty guns and a hefty dose of brainwashing. I have a lot of love for Taiwan, but making a life in Mini-China is not something I can jump at the thought of. Despite the prospect of a free ride through grad school, it is back to Canada, and the apparently worthwhile student debt that comes with it, for me.

Taiwan - The Good

I am citing irreconcilable differences as the motive for ending my relationship with Taiwan. It has been a long, bumpy road complete with high highs and low lows but in the end I can't spend more than five minutes in public with Taiwan before I find myself either seething with rage or on the verge of mental collapse. I have tried to understand Taiwan and even to alter myself to fit Taiwan, but much the same as buying a dress that is a size too small because it's the last one on sale, not only are my attempts at self alteration hopeless but now I am stuck with a frustrating daily reminder of my habit for impulsive decision making.

I wrote a bunch of negative stuff about what I've experienced here and was about to post it when my gen-Y/Lonely Planet brainwashing prevented me from nay-saying any foreign culture. So, with the utmost passive-aggression, I googled “I hate Taiwan”. Not only did the results put my hatin' conscience at ease, but I learned that in comparison to some people who have spent time here I am actually pretty gentle in my criticisms ... http://asian-caucasian.stroke7.com/2006/12/07/things-i-hate-about-taiwan-1-marble-tiled-sidewalks/

To make it clear that I wouldn't go as far as to call Taiwan a “shitty toilet”, as one rather misanthropic poster did, I will expound on the wonderful qualities Taiwan does have. Before dissing everything else.


As soon as you leave Taipei this country is beautiful. There are big-name-resort rivalling beaches on the Southern Coast, dense rainforests, scenic lakes, stunning mountain peaks and breathtaking gorges (I've got more in-flight magazine adjectives where those came from if you can stomach them). You can surf, scuba dive, hang glide, hike, mountain bike, etc. This island isn't the soul-crushing, aesthetically bland industrial wasteland that it is often perceived to be.

The food - It's cheap, everywhere, and deep fried. A lot of foreigners get worked up about the nonexistent health and hygiene standards for vendor food but apparently your body develops a resistance to bacteria over time, so no big deal. Who cares if vendors harvest questionable greens from the edge of a swamp by the dump, wash raw fish directly on the sidewalk gutter or expose room-temperature meat to sun, insects and a steady stream of traffic all day? One incident of food poisoning and you'll have guts of steel.

The rough and dirty Taiwanese dialect, the wife-beater wearing betel-nut chewers getting hammered off kaoliang on the sidewalk in the middle of the day, the kamikaze blue truck drivers ... These are all things that a lot of foreigners or first/second generation Taiwanese can't stand. I actually think this is where Taiwan's only genuine charm comes from, not the watered down aspects of Japanese and Chinese culture that have been adopted over time. My biggest regret is not leaving Taipei more often, because the further away you get from the bland and superficial capital, the closer you get to real Taiwan.

Most days, the make-your-own-damn-rules attitude toward daily living is fun. Traffic rules are always disregarded (http://www.therealtaiwan.com/157/157) and a culture of survival of the fittest (especially in public transit) reigns supreme. Bureaucracy, at all levels, although grandly inefficient is a lot more relaxed and a lot less consistent. Take, for example, the story of a student who overstayed his visa. His friend had done it and hadn't even received a fine at customs, so he went ahead and stayed an extra 60 days or something like that. No phone call, no home visit from the cops. After he had booked his flight back he felt guilty and stopped into a police station to apologize, show his departing ticket and ask for goodwill. The cops threw him in a holding cell for three days, fined him the maximum amount for an overstay, and escorted him to the airport. You might be thinking, wow, that doesn't sound fun at all. The point isn't that one guy got screwed over, it's that the other guy got off scott-free. And everyone knows they will obviously be the other guy.


Unfortunately, these are the only solid reasons I can give for liking Taiwan. This is the good. Next time, I will talk about the bad ...

Manila: Stray Dogs, Cheap Booze and Some Other Stuff

Last week at this time I was kneeling on the floor, dripping sweat and swearing while I coerced a combined 150 ounces of criminally cheap liquor into my luggage. Plagued with guilt every time I left a 70PHP ($1.60CAD) bottle of gin orphaned at the grocery store, I was attempting to adopt as many as possible back to Taiwan. Visa runs can yield far more than a visa.

After a violent yet successful bout with the zipper I collapsed backward onto the floor of the hostel common room, laying my head next to the offensively loud fan hoping to drown out the noise of chickens, traffic and muggings on the street below. All it took was one unguarded, vulnerable minute for the lonely hostel lurker to strike. I had managed to avoid this guy, save for one night when I stumbled in at 2 AM to bust him getting friendly with himself, for the past five days. My luck was not to last. I spent 90 of my final minutes in Manila being subjected to an excruciating slide show of BAD photography and a drawn out, self gratifying yarn about buying cake for street kids ... “It jus' really touched my heart, ya know? These little bits must've thought I was god or something!” (He was from the UK). This guy had been in Manila for 2 weeks and had hardly ventured further than the food vendor across the street because he claimed it was too dangerous without a local escort. I'd call that a bust.

One of the only other people I talked to had been robbed at knife point in the middle of the afternoon only two blocks from the hostel. He'd been crossing a busy street with his friend when two guys pushed him behind a parked truck out of sight. Apparently his friend walked a whole block talking to himself before he realized that he was alone. Turns out the guy had all of his cash, passport and electronics on him when it happened ... Which is pretty dumb, but beside the point.

As he tells the story, after recovering his gusto he ran after the guys but couldn't find them. Instead he was stopped by a group of concerned passerby and taken to the neighbourhood representative who spent the day with him taxiing between the embassy and various police stations. Fortunately for my selfish personal enjoyment the guy had a good sense of humour and included the many oddities and ironies he encountered along the way in his tale.

All of the cops he dealt with seemed to find the incident entirely amusing and referred to him unfailingly as Joe (the Filipino title for any white foreigner, used as either a term of endearment or one of hostility depending on the circumstances – comparable to Gringo or Gaijin). They asked him what the perpetrators looked like, to which he couldn't help but reply, “Like ... You? Average height, average weight, black hair ... Filipino.” The cops thought this was hilarious. Then they asked him to look through a set of mugshots which did not seem to conform to any sort of standard - In one the guy had his arms around two babes while his face was bloodied up so badly that he was unrecognizable. There was an assortment of toothless, grinning culprits in various poses and locations, and most of the shots weren't catalogued but lying about in random stacks. Knowing that he wouldn't be able to identify for certain the guys behind the mugging, he spent a good hour going through the shots for kicks while watching American Idol with the on-duty officers in the staff lounge. He was asked by the cops more than once if he had enjoyed the company of beautiful Filipina girls yet. Cable took precedence over holsters in the budget, and most of the officers carried pistols shoved down the front of their pants. He spotted an AK-47 tossed casually on a pile of papers and other office debris. When he went to the toilet he passed by the only holding cell which had a layer of people on the floor and a canopy of hammocks supporting another layer of inmates above. While passing, the inexplicably cheerful cell occupants shouted to him, “Joe!” “Why so sad, Joe?” “What's the matter, Joe?” One guy started singing Hey Jude, and at this point he claims to have lost his mind a bit.

So, all things considered, I think I was pretty lucky during my time in the Philippines. I left the hostel alone without incident and even avoided being mugged. In fact, going in with a deep, psychologically embedded young-solo-woman paranoia I was proved nothing but wrong, ad infinitum.

With a PETA-sentiment-riling desire to see some cockfighting, I set out on my own to locate the fabled local cockhouse. I had faith in the aggressively efficient Filipino style of direction giving and stopped to ask an old man how to get to the arena. Having barely strung the words together, the man was already hailing a tricycle. He insisted that he take me there, and we squeezed into the sidecar together. This is the point where the various rob/rape/murder (in no particular order) scenarios, which are so deeply engrained in the psyche of most western women in reference to situations with male strangers, began to percolate in my imagination. Fortunately my craving to witness violence overrode my fear of becoming a victim of violence, and I was escorted into the packed arena by my spontaneous guide. As it turned out, this guy was some sort of VIP and not only did he get me in without a cover charge but he brought me to a reserved row of seats in the front, damn near close enough to smell chicken fear. He even convinced the guards to let me take pictures.

As I watched with mixed feelings of horror and morbid curiosity, he patiently answered all of my queries - “Do they eat the dead chickens after?” “How do you keep track of which one's which?” “How much do people usually win or lose?” “... Why are there razor blades tied to their legs ...?!” I was beginning to get on a bit too well with the unruly, drunken crowd around us and he kept my suitors in line with some grandfatherly-sounding chides in Tagalog. In addition to several marriage proposals and requests for cell phone photos I received opportunities to select the winning rooster, making relentlessly poor choices. That day I was wearing a Portuguese soccer jersey and despite my efforts to explain that I was Canadian I left with the nickname Portugal.

After an hour or so of gore I admitted defeat and told my escort (we never did names) that I was leaving. He had a stern conversation with one of the suitors and explained to me that the guy would show me to where I had to go. As we climbed the steps of the arena to leave there was a clamour of guys clapping him on the back, winking at me and shouting suggestive sounding stuff in Taglish. I was beginning to wonder if I had just been auctioned off to the highest bidder. The murder/rape/rob paranoia began to chafe, but again for no reason. The guy quietly led me past the scam artist cab and tricycle drivers, through the suffocating heat and to the appropriate jeepney, wished me well and sent me on my way.

This is only one example of the warmth and hospitality that is the norm. As a foreigner, getting stared at everywhere you go in Asia is expected. In Taiwan, if you meet the eyes of someone staring at you they will almost always look away to avoid eye contact. In the Philippines you are almost always asked how you are, where you are from, whether or not you like the country ... At the very least you get a smile. You could chalk that up to a more intimate history with westerners, or the lack of a language barrier, but I don't really give a shit. It's nice to be smiled at for a change. A girl that I met there gave the example of watching news coverage of a flood on CNN - People's homes are destroyed, some of their friends are dead, but you see clips of smiling people swimming and kids playing in the flood water. “That's just how people are here” she explained. I guess being screwed over in succession by the Spanish, Americans, Japanese and Americans again for a period of over 400 years led to the development of a culture that favours optimism in the face of adversity.

Nevertheless, it wouldn't be fair to paint a picture of Manila without drawing attention to some of the darker aspects. Such as, most obviously, the poverty. Most tricycle drivers, in Manila at least, are basically homeless. They sleep parked along Aurora Boulevard, legs dangling over the edge of a sidecar, inside their only means of income. They have an average income of 200PHP ($4.55CAD) per day.

If you follow Aurora Boulevard into the business district, Makati, you will encounter fully armed guards at every bank, hotel, mall, restaurant or office tower. Most of these guards carry an assault rifle with an extended clip just in case they need those extra 20 rounds to ... What? Quell a surge of desperadoes from the slums? As in any impoverished area the middle class is next to non-existent. In one neighbourhood people are struggling to find clean drinking water, while in another the lawns are manicured, the sidewalks are wide and the gates are high. Oddly enough, despite the added attention to infrastructure this is the only area in which I was ever lost and where people failed massively at giving directions.

I switched my original visa run destination from Tokyo to Manila at the last minute because of cheap flights and because I thought Manila would be more fun than Tokyo alone. Definitely did not regret that decision. Who needs unjustly lauded Kabuki theatre and a mind-boggling metro system when you can watch stray dogs chase naked kids and batter your skull inside a roll cage attached to a motorcycle? Some twisted part of me just found that to be a far more enjoyable experience.

24 Hours in the Arms of Delta

Derek Blasberg, stylist and frenemy to the stars, advises women aspiring to classiness that the only time is is acceptable for a lady to sit next to a stranger for several hours without saying a word is on an air plane. If only it were so simple – Clearly, Derek's experiences are with flying first class.

At the moment I am watching the sunset at Tokyo Narita airport, feeling very much like it is 2AM. Overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotional stimuli (yup, that one's for you) over the past month, I have recessed into a semi-catatonic, grunting, boarding pass brandishing shell of my former self. Faced with six hours of limbo between my old life and my new one, I obviously cannot think of a better way to spend it than regaling you with my woefully standard travel complaints.

On the Montreal-Detroit leg of the flight, I was seated with an ordinary and inoffensive (Read: Of average weight and bathed) man. Behind us, however, was this mean old Southern woman with a hate-on for the lone flight attendant. Before we had even started taxiing, the woman had started in on the attendant about the imagined imminence of missing her connecting flight. We couldn't even make it through the safety demonstration without her chiding remarks and audible sighs, which increased in their audacity to the point where any time the flight attendant spoke, even a request to fasten a seat belt was followed by an “Oh for the good lord's sake, lets get going!” She somehow conned the guy across the aisle into being her fetch-it bitch for the storage compartments - “Hey, grab me ma purse now, would ya?” A demeaning duty to which he was puzzlingly amenable for the duration of the flight. Before the seat belt light was turned off, she was pushing mothers and babies out of the way to be at the front of the plane, bullying the attendant into lowering the ramp faster and demanding an escort.

As I walked the 20 minutes (actually) to my next gate, the only-present-when-in-reference-to-The-States bile of Canadian Nationalism rose in my throat. How many burger shops can realistically be sustained in a 100 metre stretch? Five, apparently. Sorry, I was raised in granola and folk music country, I can't help my nature. This pathological disdain only prepared me for my next seatmate.

By virtue of something akin to bad karma I was in the middle seat, sandwiched between a nondescript yet polite man and a lard-laden, Coca-Cola swilling, snorting, putrid abomination - And that's being generous. He introduced himself with a tactful, “The window seat's mine, can ya move?” And proceeded to plant his generously portioned self at the aisle exit, as if he expected me to levitate out of the way. His in-flight behaviour was nothing less than one would expect from the poster boy for fat assholes everywhere. A relentless barrage of horking and coughing, very circa 2009 Swine Flu. Needing to use the bathroom suddenly and often, screaming, “Gotta get out!” In my ear any time I encountered the briefest moment of sleep. Occupying 1.3 seats, which is a 0.3 seat succession I should clearly make due to the conspicuous lack of Cola and wieners in my diet. And oh, the stench. If the angel and devil on his respective shoulders were waging a battle between showering and fried chicken, it must have been Two-Dollar Tuesdays at Church's.

Unfortunately I could go on, but my battery is dying and it's pre-boarding ... Next time I complain it will be from Taipei, and will most likely involve cockroaches. Here's hoping.

snarkyblogging: Letters of Discontent

Dear Provigo Cart-ee,

Although this may come as a surprise to you, there is still a foot attached to my leg much the same as there was the last time you ran over it with your cart and I gave you a dirty look.

Firstly, you do not need a full-fledged shopping cart for your bag of chips and can of soda. Secondly, ramming into me while there are still two people ahead of us in line will not result in you shoving fistfuls of Lays into your mouth any faster.

Consider yourself warned. Next time, despite the classlessness of such behaviour, I will start a checkout lane brawl with you right then and there, and the cashier will be asking, "Vous voulez un sac?" so that you may have something with which to bandage your bloody appendages.

Warmly,

Provigo Cart-ed



Dear Self Pitying Final Exam Writing Students,

Exams are not an excuse to be flouncing about in public sporting a sweatsuit. In fact, there is no excuse to be flouncing about in a sweatsuit. Hell, its hardly excusable to OWN a sweatsuit. Leave that shit at home, you are tarnishing Montreal's reputation.

*Please note: Ironic facial hair combined with ironic sweatsuit sporting is DEMOLISHING Montreal's reputation. Yeah, I've seen it.

It's bad enough that I have to “consider” functions more than usual this week. Do not make it worse by forcing me to ponder the rate of change of the visible area of thong protruding from your Spaldings. Ach.

Sincerely,

Self Pitying Final Exam Writing Student



I had a third letter in mind but have consumed too much gin since writing the first to remember why I was snarky to begin with. I blame the gin consumption on your sweatpants.




... Ah, I remember now.


Dear Neighbours,

Write another letter to the regie, I dare you. I can't wait to hear you render the painful memories of waking up at 9 AM to the faint sound of CBC or a bloody coffee grinder, or the excruciating memories of the time I had friends over to BAKE COOKIES.

Yes, I had one loud party. And for that I have apologized profusely. That does not, however, justify trying to have me evicted for closing a dresser drawer after 10 PM on a Thursday.

If you want to talk about "frequent late night guests", perhaps I can match your woes with those of my own. Tell your creepy hall wandering boyfriend to get his own goddamn key, I'm sick of hearing you buzz him in at all hours of the night. And yeah, I can hear your music too. The only difference is, yours is CRAP. Oh, and if you're going to leave your stuff in the dryer for three hours after it's finished, clean out the fucking lint trap when you're done. What do you dry in there anyway, because the lint trap is always BRIGHT PINK! Do you have a pink pair of Uggs to match the shitty brown ones that you leave melting pools of dirty snow onto my mat?

The reason I don't report you to the building management or the regie is because when I signed a lease to live on SAINTE CATHERINE STREET above a BAR and beside a WHORE HOUSE, I realized that maybe there would be some dirt, some noise, and some questionable characters in the hallway. DUH. If this isn't for you, you are clearly too fucking boring to live here. MOVE TO LAVAL.


Kindest Regards,

#304

... you'll find it at the Y.M.C.A.

There's some stuff the Village People didn't mention about the YMCA.

It is certainly true that it is a place you can go when you're short on your dough (relatively short, compared to the new young men in town who can afford memberships at private gyms) and it is by all means a place where you can hang out with all the boys (having either a hetero or homosexual agenda), who are in turn being enjoyed by the men (this is not a lyrical misinterpretation). Most importantly, there ARE many ways to have a good time. Observed first hand, these are some of the ways that good times can be had at the downtown Montreal YMCA.



Be nude, station yourself just inside the women's locker room, and start chattin' about arthritis.

Load the thigh machine with the minimum 50lbs, position yourself in the machine correctly ... And take a nap for upwards of 20 minutes.

Place towel and/or water bottle on the only hamstring machine. This is now your personal bench for relaxation and all other desired purposes throughout the duration of your gym session. Gaze at yourself in the mirror, flex occasionally. Pick up the skipping rope and appear as if you intend to use it. Don't. Sit back down on the bench. NEVER use machine for intended purpose.

Hang out with all the boys ... Whether or not you would like to. You grab a medicine ball ... So does the boy. You find a place on the mats to stretch, and the boy finds a place beside you. You book treadmill number 6, the boy books treadmill number 7 and so on.

Have excessive, extensive cellulite? Wear brightly coloured lycra with loud patterns and use the stair master.

“Stretch” on the mats facing the glass-walled yoga studio (only applies to lurking men 50+).

Misread treadmill booking chart. Approach heavily sweating, heavily breathing user on treadmill of choice, and insist that their booking is up. Persist until they stop the machine and get off to show you that they actually still have 8 minutes left. Slouch off. Repeat.

You're a man? You have long, luscious locks? Said locks are grey beyond the point of denoting sexual prowess? Let them flow free and lope around the indoor running track, ogling the women on the stair masters and flexing as you pass. You are Fabio. You are Don Juan. You are the Harlequin hero of the everywoman.

Wash your gym clothes in the shower and dry them with a blow dryer. Create a locker room lake and wet the socks of those changing nearby.

Be the lone man in a posse of no less than 8 women on the elliptical trainers. Wear short jean shorts, pull socks up to knees.



Times have changed a great deal since that song was released. Firstly, the YMCA that the Village People wrote about was not a gym. Secondly, it was not co-ed. Finally, it was run for and organized by Christians. Despite this much of the same youthful optimism remains – You can still have a good time and, apparently, do whatever you feel. Sensibilities of other patrons aside.

Rue Richler

I watched "A Film Unfinished" tonight and definitely would not recommend it to anyone who isn't either Jewish or in possession of a whopping dose of self-loathing. The documentary is comprised of footage from an unreleased Nazi propaganda film that was shot in Warsaw’s Jewish ghetto over a one month period in May 1942, survivors' reaction to the footage and an interview with one of the German officers behind the filming. My notion going in was that it would be an average heartwarming Nazi shit-talker of a film, but it was more of an excruciating-series-of-still-frames-featuring-emaciated-corpses kind of film.

With the aid of a couple glasses of wine to soften the blow of non-Jewish guilt, I’m going to enhance my emotional well being by declaring my support for a Rue Richler. As some of you may have heard, some shit-disturbing city councillors have been stirring the French-Canadian pot in the interest of having a street named after one of Montreal’s most prolific authors, Mordecai Richler. Opponents to the proposition echo Richler’s many critics in their accusations that he was racist and anti-Quebecker, and therefore undeserving of a sign with his name on it. Uh, what about Lionel-Groulx station? What about Henri Bourassa?

Obviously being a racist has not been a barrier to having a public place in one's namesake before – What's stopping us now? If we can have a metro station named after an anti-Semitic Quebec Nationalist, we can have a street named after someone who was tarred and feathered by Quebec Nationalists for making accusations of antisemitism. It's a nice balance.

Do it for Dov/Everyone ends up as a fat mess.

Dear readers, please assist me with my moral quandaries.

Someone suggested I be an American Apparel model for Halloween, which would entail wearing stupid glasses and gold lamé, and tying off my arm with rubber tubing - We thought tract marks would be excessive. The only catch is that to get the right look I may have to actually purchase something from said store, which would effectively negate my non-Dov-Charney-panderer cred. It just doesn't seem likely that I will find that token, over-the-top badge of hipster identity anywhere else in a timely manner. So please, channel your heartfelt advice into the poll that outlines my plausible options.

What do hipsters and my next topic have in common? Ray-Bans and waning sex appeal.

I watched Carlos, the heavily fictionalized film on the life of Ilich Ramirez Sanchez last night. Gangster stuff is right up my alley so I was pretty satisfied with the first 2 1/2 hours of Edgar Ramirez looking pensive, shooting people, and being, overall, dead sexy. Sadly, all it took was 5 minutes of dozing off in the final stretches of the film for Carlos to go from being the chain smoking, leather jacket wearing definition of cool to being a sweaty lipo patient with a kid and a swollen testicle, the definition of washed up.

He is currently serving a life sentence in France. Conclusion? Even the sexiest hipsters end up as fat, desperate alcoholics.

Cocaine is one helluva drug ... When you're 16.

When I was 14 I lived, indulgently unsupervised, at a friend's house for the summer. We ran the gamut of house egging, cop car defacing, car theft and dumpster fire lighting, among other admirably cool pastimes. At some point during those feverish months of gleeful rebellion I ended up sneaking into the only bar in my hometown - And by sneaking, I mean I walked really fast through the front door flanked on either side by some seedy 20 year old guys, this association aiming to dispel any doubts in the bar staff's mind of my age. It worked, and in my mind was a surefire testament to my sophistication. A greasy old cowboy showed me how to play pool while I got an earful about the Saturday night stripper, and how the bar manager reused the same pink pleather outfit for every stripper that did a stint there. In all, it was a pretty unglamorous affair, but that didn’t stop the story from being told and retold, in grandiose fashion, to all of my friends.

When I was 17 I used the ID of one Natanya Caroline Funk (yeah, Nat Funk), who was 25, blonde, and 5"10 to get into clubs and buy liquor. I was offended any time that I was actually asked for ID, and gave as much attitude as I could muster to dubious looks from bouncers. When I was finally old enough to show my own ID, it just wasn’t fun anymore. Entitlement ruined the thrill of feeling like I had one up on everybody.

Now I'm 21 and ... I'm a total fogey. In a line up at the SAQ the girls ahead of and behind me got checked for ID but I didn't. In a departure from my old smugness I just felt left out. The other night, faced with deciding between a Bad Religion show and a free ticket to see Joan Baez, I passed on the mosh pit for the concert hall. My 16 year old self would have been appalled, I thought as I stood in an orderly queue for the adult
beverage counter. Where 4 years ago I was jumping up and down, covered in GWAR style fake blood and semen at the Cobalt after a particularly rowdy show, I was now sitting cross legged, politely applauding, in a room filled with people of whom the median age was likely 55.

(As a side note Joan Baez was incredible, and my prior notions of her being a bleeding-heart pseudo-leftist with a dope hangover are dispelled. With a decade on my parents she can still rock a Bob Dylan song with sincerity. Even more respectably, she won a deserved standing ovation for her rending of "Un quebecois errant", changed from Un canadien errant ... To which I should add, I learned that she re-released the song, "We Shall Overcome", always associated with the civil rights movement with lyrics in Farsi to show support for Iranian protestors after the 2009 elections ... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVCqPAzI-JY)

But I digress. My realization that I really am becoming “too old for this shit” came a few nights ago at a club. Disenchanted and feeling rather like a pedophile, I left my friends dancing and went to the bathroom. On the way, I got felt up by a guy who was probably my little brother’s age. Picking my way through the hordes of sloppy teens with wardrobe malfunctions I made it, and behind the door of stall number one found two high school-aged girls doing blow off the toilet paper dispenser. I laughed awkwardly and, giggling, they asked if I wanted some. In true fogey fashion, I replied “Nah, I’m too old for that shit”, and used another stall. While washing my hands I watched the bouncer haul them out the front door, one of them missing a shoe.

So I guess that makes me boring, but I’m starting to see the perks. At least I left with both of my shoes.

A tardy ode to the season.

It's October already and autumn is old news. I've been meaning to give praise to my favourite season for weeks but have been too caught up in the hectic pace to do any justice to an entry. Alas here I am, and in the words of an exhausted manager patiently fixing my cash out last night, “Stop making excuses, it's just bloody annoying.”

What's not to love about nature's transition from vibrant, temperate life to desolate sub-zero death? Aside from the obvious stuff – pretty leaves and crisp days – these months still bring a lot to the table. Life settles into a predictable keel and finds some semblance of normalcy - travelling, moving, changing jobs, eating salad, all of these things that seem to make more sense in the warmer months are either resolved or put on the back burner until spring. Having a relatively clear picture of what the next 8 months will look like is comforting.

Consider Halloween, which is by far my favourite ... holiday? Is it a holiday? It is certainly not a holy day, but possibly fits the more widely accepted idea of the word as a time for celebrating. In fact, Halloween's lack of religious back-story (no one cares about pagans) is what carries most of the appeal for me. Who can resist the concept? Play dress up, get scared, get candy, get drunk. If you've ever been to a really good costume party you know what I mean. When else could you find yourself in a room with Waldo, Alex from A Clockwork Orange, Dr. Fu Manchu, a giant inflatable penis, a giant inflatable sumo wrestler, and the Jolly Green Giant? Well, I suppose there ARE ways, but I can't afford the membership fees for those clubs.

Then there are less obvious reasons to celebrate the season, such as the return of the masterful Jian Ghomeshi to Q. Starting the season off by taking gold at the International Broadcast Awards for his grand slam interview with Leonard Cohen, the man is clearly on top of his game. When fawning over his brilliance to a friend I was told matter-of-factly that he is intolerably pretentious and that most reasonable people would never voluntarily endure the sound of his “more-cultured-than-thou” musings. Maybe she was right, or maybe she's just more of a Billy Bob Thornton fan. This will not, however, deter me from listening to his velvety smooth navigation of each inspired interview, even if that means accepting the CBC's interpretation of domestic arts and culture now and again.

With September comes a return to school as well. It feels good to restrict my availability at work for reasons as lofty as the pursuit of an education, and this explanation seems to sell better to management than arguing that mornings are for nursing hangovers. Naturally, I have been making the most efficient use of my time behind a desk. While sitting in the back row of my calculus class, entirely disengaged from the lecture, I observed familiar surroundings. Taking stock of students' commonalities, it struck me that most of the similarities were in the strange shit students do during lectures when they think no one is watching them. Neuroses is universal. Your guard is down, you assume everyone behind you is either on Facebook or dozing ... Not always the case. Here is an amateur anthropological profile of a typical college class.

Mutters: Sits to my right. Answers rhetorical questions and praises the lecturer in a barely audible voice. Engages in dialogue with ... Himself. Makes it impossible to focus because I can't help but want to hear what he's on about.

OCD Notes: Forever rifling through her pencil case (and who has a pencil case anyway?) for various coloured pens, rulers, erasers, white out, etc. Takes obscenely meticulous notes, colour codes headings and sub headings, uses a special green pen for bullets ... Often the same person who is found frantically flipping through her notes before an exam because she was too busy re-writing two pages worth of superfluous junk to an acceptable level of perfection to absorb any of the material.

Dirty Texter: Sits to my left. Holding cell phone level to the desk for maximum stealth, this Blackberry Romeo indulges his Juliet with such titillating prose as, “hey babez jst in class now thinkin bout yo hot ass cant wait see u tonite”. He thinks no one notices that his pocket is vibrating at 15 second intervals. If that wasn't so irritating I might find it amusing that he doesn't realize his phone is at the perfect angle, directly in my line of sight, for me to know practically as much as he does about his post-calculus conquests.

Hopeless Highlighter: Flips through textbook at warp speed in a nonsensical pattern, highlighting insignificant, unrelated words and phrases. Not only is he ruining the book's potential resale value, but could you imagine trying to study the text version of Joseph's Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat? Often seen borrowing fluorescent shades from OCD Notes' pencil case.

Hairlot: Sits in front of me. Puts her hair in a ponytail. Takes it out. Puts it in a ponytail again. Inspects her handiwork, checking to see that it is perfectly smooth. It's not. Takes the elastic out, leans way back on her chair and shakes her hair around. Dye-tortured strands fall on my calculator. Hair up again. Hair down after 2 minutes. Attempts to replicate a Finesse commercial. No one notices, except me.

Fidget: Disassembles mechanical pencil, dumping lead on the table. Sorts through it, peers in through the opening at the top of the lead encasing. Reassembles. Finds it necessary to repeat, sometimes dropping lead on the floor and squirming around in his seat trying to locate it. This person can also be, or is friends with ...

800813SS: Can't put his calculator down. We've been doing theory all class but he is furiously punching numbers into his calculator, textbook closed. Either a closet genius who is working on a groundbreaking equation, or the guy who came up with the grade school 80081355 calculator trick. Anyone remember BOOBLESS?

Not that I am without fault, we all have our own neurotic behaviour to contend with.

Beverages: I have a psychological hangup when it comes to caffeinated drinks. Coffee, tea, GoFast. Rested or not, learning cannot be accomplished without caffeine. For some reason I am always sitting next to someone who is fasting in September and whether or not they actually give a shit I still feel guilty about my hedonistic consumption of non-water beverages. They yawn, I slurp GoFast. This guilt does not weigh heavily enough to have a consequence on my drinking, unfortunately.

This is by no means a complete list, so please share your own observations.

Welcome autumn; welcome colourful leaves, radio programming, costume wearing, desk sitting, compulsive caffeine consumption and exposure to homey classroom weirdness.

I mock middle-aged men for a living.

Waitressing has its highs and lows and yesterday's shift had both. I got busy to the point where a line is crossed between aiming to provide a quality dining experience and aiming to avoid a complaint. At the peak of the frenzy I had a table of Francophones (a departure from the tourist/business tourist clientele) in for happy hour. I went around the table taking drink orders and came to a particularly miserable looking woman.

She was sporting what could only be explained as a drunken, left-handed application of mascara extending far beyond the reach of her eyelashes, an insubordinate mess of badly over bleached hair and a caffeine addled expression of the stale-pot-of-Folgers-at-the office variety: Feral … Approach with caution.

She asked for something pretty basic - A side of fries. The Quebecois tendency to hork and/or effect a mucous-y pronunciation of many words turned frites into something entirely unrecognizable in this case, and threw me for a loop. I politely asked her to repeat herself. She turned 180 degrees in her seat to face me and with as much acid as can possibly be inflicted into a single sentence, spat “In Quebec, we speak French!”

The C word came to mind, but I kept it to myself. She refused to look at me for the duration of her stay, answering my queries as to whether she would like another beer with disdainful snorts. I let off some steam with another server by extolling the virtues of tactics such as drawing penises or writing “fuck you” in sauce under a patron’s dessert, then seething with satisfaction while they take unsuspecting bites of your chocolatey expression of disgust.

When presented with the bills they complained about the price of the Sangria (which I would agree is grossly overpriced, but in accordance with the “tourist tax” that affects prices in most areas of downtown, especially Crescent Street – as a local you should know better, no excuse). Asking for exact change on each of their seven bills, they stared me down with beady eyes as I fumbled for nickels. There is a special place in hell for people like this, and it’s called salmonella poisoning. Or, should I say, salmonelle. Agh.

Things took a turn for the better by the end of the night, however. My last table was a group of pervy business men from Toronto. One of them ordered a Captain Morgan’s and coke, and when I asked him if he’d like dark or spiced he said that he liked ‘em dark and spicy. I said that I regrettably could not help him in that area, but I’d heard that such things can be found in Montreal for the right price. We spent some time debating whether the girl at the next table with two older men was a “rental” (his words, not mine). I got an earful of old man perspective on guage piercings, of which a striking example was being sported by a nearby patron. This guy that they kept calling Dot Com for some unknown reason (maybe he’s bankrupt?) asked me if I knew where they could find some pot. I asked him what his wife would think. They tipped me $40 on a bill for $120. All was suddenly right in the world, Franco lady eat your heart out.

If only all tables were like this. My word of advice to that lady, however misguided her anger may have been, is watch out. Like in the server cult classic “Waiting”, we will have our revenge. And when it comes, it will rain down on you and your frites in a vicious, unrelenting storm. No but really, I’m over it. Really.

Various Follies and Unexpected Awesome

It's a weird adjustment to go from being with someone 23 out of 24 hours a day to living alone. The solitary life has its perks, however. First of all, I've been damn productive. The dishes get washed instantly, the bills get paid early, meals are cooked at home, the to-read pile of books is shrinking and the money is getting made. Second, I get to call all my own shots when it comes to pastimes.

My previous companion was not so big on the genre/indie film watching pastime, so I have been taking advantage of my new-found freedom by seeing as many films as possible at the Fantasia festival. I have absolutely no qualifications to review or recommend anything, music, art, whatever, as I'm not even really sure what I like most of the time. I will, however, say that Love in a Puff by Pang Ho-Cheung is kickass. Unsurprisingly, about love and smoking. Funny, with dialogue that is not contrived in the slightest. Guaranteed to make you want a cigarette desperately for the duration.

Catching up with friends has been a good familiarization with everything from grungy pubs to chauchy (see http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Chauchy) clubs to hipster bars. It seems like the people I know here have absolutely nothing in common, which is actually kind of cool because it gives me a wider perspective on what is good. What's more, it gives me a wider perspective on what is good to drink ... Which in my case this morning, would be less. So much less.

Alas, life is not all leisure. I would like to take this opportunity to disparage my new workplace. I trust that in the unlikely event that any of my coworkers are both literate and adequately motivated to read this blog, they would be one of the good ones, and therefore not offended. Due to the effects of my workplace sucking, I am ashamed to admit that I have become one of those nasal toned, “Well at my last job ...” people that are so very annoying. Some comparisons that come to mind include ...

“At my last job my manager knew my name wasn't Annie ... especially by my 5th shift.”
“At my last job I didn't have to pick cigarette butts and gum out of sidewalk planters after an 11 hour shift with no break.”
“At my last job we didn't staff 10 servers versus two tables.”
“At my last job, the bartender didn't ask what last call was.”
“At my last job, the person who trained me didn't have to ask the MOD how to round to the nearest dollar.”

Can you blame me, really? It helps to gripe.

Speaking of being productive, I should get home and make this evening's difficult decision: Wine in a coffee mug, a plastic bowl, or straight from the bottle? I don't have any of my stuff yet and improvising drinking vessels has become my most recently acquired skill. Onward.

Language Tensions and Hospitals: The Best of Montreal

Just like a true jaded local, my first two weeks in Montreal have been jam packed with spectacles of rage. There are few issues here that get people as hot under the collar as those of language and healthcare, and I have been fortunate enough to have intimate experiences with both in this short time.

Using my first week here to secure an apartment, I ran out of excuses and officially commenced my job search last Monday. I did the Walk of Shame on Crescent Street, up one side and down the other, passing out CVs. One guy was actually waiting for me on the patio of his restaurant with a pen.

I stopped by the notoriously divey Madhatter’s Bar, a black sheep in the yuppy downtown core with its “Golf for liquor” and “All-you-can-eat chili and beer” features. The owner, a big, burly, uninhibited Anglophone woman informed me that although they were currently overstaffed, she would be happy to refer me to some places that were looking for servers. She got to asking where I was from and seemed to identify with me as a non-Quebecker. This triggered a discussion regarding language enforcement laws in the city, which led to her regaling me of tales involving the language police. (For those of you that haven’t heard, there are increasingly active French language enforcers in Montreal who make surprise visits to businesses and evaluate the quality of the service delivered to them in French. If this quality is determined to be unsatisfactory, the business can receive a hefty fine or various other repercussions … http://www.cbc.ca/canada/montreal/story/2008/02/14/qc-olf-0214.html). Not one to mince words, she recalled how she “had to deal with those sons of bitches before”, and that she “told them to get the fuck out of my bar!” Fantastically angry. Fantastically vulgar.

Since then I have done some reading on the plights of idealistic Anglos looking for work on the streets of this city, and gleaned from a variety of opinion pieces (http://www.montrealmirror.com/2008/022108/news3.html) and forums that the options are slim: Telemarketing or escorting - It’s a tough life. Surprisingly, I got a job at the first place I left a CV at. Part luck and part ruthless, self-enhancing lies I guess.

As if job hunting in the heat wasn't enough fun, I was dealing with a minor health concern and had to evaluate my medical options. To visit a clinic before possessing a Quebec health card a fee has to be paid that will be later reimbursed by your province of origin. I’ve gotten this line before and have never received a reimbursement, so I was skeptical. To avoid this process I went to Montreal General’s emergency room. Seven hours later, having had no contact with a doctor, I left. I wasn’t the worst off either, an elderly couple I had spoken to had been there for ten or so hours. Apparently this is par for the course. During my seven hours of alternating naps and coffee drinking, I was visited several times by one of the security guards. We had chats about my “aura and good energy”, his weight loss regimen, and the nutritional value of Starbucks beverages. When his shift was over he stopped to ask if I would like to join him for said Starbucks beverages sometime. I guess being stuck in a hospital emergency room all day can make anyone who isn't saggy or dripping blood look good.

Effort two brought me to Hotel Dieu, the French hospital with reputedly shorter wait times. While waiting, I had a lady sit down beside me and ask if I could speak English. She then proceeded to yell, “Great, there are too many FRENCH people here, so many FRENCH people!” These French people included everyone in the waiting room, and the angry glares commenced. I learned that her husband had hung himself in their garage after losing the use of his legs, and she explained her deep depression following his death. At some point the man beside her turned and started screaming “SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP! I’M TIRED!” Pretty much everyone ignored the exchange, while I contemplated hanging MYself.

I finally made it in, only to find out that the wrong tests had been performed on my blood samples and I would need to give more samples and arrange another appointment. The doctor wrote me a prescription for the meantime, and I chose to skip the follow-up appointment. If and when I return, I will have to be in a bad enough state that my wait time is considerably shorter.

Thus begins week four of life in Montreal. World Cup is over now, so maybe everyone will calm down and simmer in the heat for a while. Not likely, but I look forward to becoming jaded as the best of 'em.

"It's so easy, even an english can do it!"

I've been back in Canada for a week now and have experienced a touch of what I hear is reverse culture shock, but I believe is actually more culture dismay. Things that dismay include ...

People driving around with the bass of their crap music rattling the door handles on their beater cars.

Fat people. So many. I mean, the sidewalks are wider here, but they really don't seem to be.

Pushy guys. Cat calling, ogling, etc.

The number or people who really care about the queen visiting. Like, thousands of them, standing in the rain to watch her look at some boats.

Protestors burning cars at the G20 summit and launching class action lawsuits for unlawful detainment. The controversy that grabbed the most headlines in connection with ECFA protesting in Taipei was that it was a little noisy and might distract students writing exams.

Shit is expensive.

Okay so I guess it's not that bad to be back. Some things are fantastic. Hearing good live music is something that is next to impossible in Taipei, as is walking in to any bar or cafe to watch soccer. As it happens to be jazz festival and world cup season in Montreal, it's actually difficult to not enjoy these things. And man did I miss cheese.