If you are reading this and you are Canadian (particularly from Ontario), you know exactly what I mean. If you are American, you are probably wondering a) which war that was, or b) what does that even have to do with Canada?
Don’t worry – I had the exact same thoughts.
The War of 1812 (I believe also known as the French-Indian War) was a battle over northern borders between the newly-formed US and Britain.
[Both sides created military fortifications, which can still be found by dedicated history buffs, on the banks of Lake Ontario. In fact, these forts exist today both in Ontario and New York, a fact little known to those of us not born/raised in Buffalo.]
In any case, did I mention that it was the BRITISH, because Canada was still part of BRITAIN?
My first encounter with the War of 1812 since arriving in Canada was when a coworker sent out a link to some maps provided by Brock University. I shot back with a “what is a brock” email. To which he replied with an encyclopedic account of the victories of General Brock in the war of 1812, and how Canadians list him as the 27th most important historic figure. Did I know that the Canadians burned down the White House?
Since that time, the War of 1812 continues to come up, not simply because of our work in Niagara on the Lake (site of Fort York and other such War of 1812 things). Every time I mention the lack of military/aggressive initiative in Canada, someone shouts out – “War of 1812! We burned down your White House!” And always that complete phrase. Never just, War of 1812. Every time it must include the assertion about the White House. And I must admit, for the first month or so that was kind of an argument ender for me. I mean, how can you come back from that? I can’t even counter that in the US, we learn of this conflict as the French-Indian Wars, because those were the main forces in conflict. I can’t even bring up that our national anthem was inspired by the Battle of New Orleans, the deciding battle of the war. What did the Canadians even “win,” anyway, other than keeping American forces out….? Nothing I would say could have any weight.
UNTIL
A fateful conversation I had with a coworker of mine. We were talking about a coffee mug in the kitchen, the Bytown Chowder and Drum Corps. I remarked how cute it was that it was a Chowder Corps, and this coworker informed me that “Bytown” town is actually Ottawa, his hometown. Did I know why the capital of Canada is in Ottawa, he asked. Actually, I don’t, I admitted. Well, it used to be in Toronto (that’s why we have a big parliamentary hall downtown) but you guys kept coming up here and burning it down. We moved it to Ottawa so that you would leave us alone.
AHA.
SOOOOO. The Canadian capital city is Ottawa, because the Americans burned them out of Toronto. At least we held our ground, Canada. We didn’t go running to move our capital to Florida. I hope you enjoy Ottawa, with its proximity to Quebec and it’s 100 days of sub-zero weather. Now that I have this ace in the hole, I’m willing to entertain your quaint retellings of how Canadian Forces (that’s what they call their army) beat the US in the War of 1812, even though it was actually Britain. And “beat” means “didn’t get crushed by.” I’ll just quietly ask why your capital is in Ottawa, and you’ll have no good answer defense. You just keep talking about the War of 1812. That’s SOOO Canadian.
____________
For more information on this, start with wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Brock
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_of_1812
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
That's So Canadian Item #5: Wild Turkey News Items
Ok.
So I was just watching the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company, for those of you who don't parlé), specifically the national news. As expected, it is called CBC The National (see: That's So Canadian Item #1: Endearing Earnesty). While I have a high degree of respect for Canadian journalism in general (Peter Jennings), I managed to catch only the final story tonight. The final ten minutes of the national broadcast (The National broadcast) was dedicated to a story about a wild turkey flying through the front window of a suburban Ottawa home. This is a very dangerous threat to Canadians everywhere, given how many citizens live in wild turkey country.
Now, granted, our national news is not above such things. I know the US news reports on bears falling out of trees, cats finding their ways home, and other such frivolities, but never before have I seen such in-depth coverage of a single-family-wild-animal-encounter that didn't involve death.
Apparently the incident was incited by a beautiful turkey-hen (is that what you call females?) that was hanging around in the back yard. The offending Tom was intrigued, but when he caught his reflection in the window he made a dive straight for the pane glass. The family describes the "explosion and ensuing bedlam" with wide eyes (except for the wordless teenage son) as they relate how they finally captured the turkey -
"we got him pinned under that snow scraper, and my neighbour grabbed a big net he had, I think a salmon net, and wrapped him up. We set him out in the yard, and then he just walked away."
And thus was the turkey incedent ended, but not before the house was sent into turmoil, with fuurniture upturned, shattered glass everywhere, "and even turkey blood on the walls."
"The neighbour, an experienced turkey hunter, says the tom was probably just jealous."
But seriously. They cornered him under the snow scraper? Who has a salmon net just lying around? The neighbour is conveniently an experienced turkey hunter? Now they have turkey blood smeared all over their walls?
Oh, jealous turkey bedlam on national news. That's Sooooo Canadian.
So I was just watching the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company, for those of you who don't parlé), specifically the national news. As expected, it is called CBC The National (see: That's So Canadian Item #1: Endearing Earnesty). While I have a high degree of respect for Canadian journalism in general (Peter Jennings), I managed to catch only the final story tonight. The final ten minutes of the national broadcast (The National broadcast) was dedicated to a story about a wild turkey flying through the front window of a suburban Ottawa home. This is a very dangerous threat to Canadians everywhere, given how many citizens live in wild turkey country.
Now, granted, our national news is not above such things. I know the US news reports on bears falling out of trees, cats finding their ways home, and other such frivolities, but never before have I seen such in-depth coverage of a single-family-wild-animal-encounter that didn't involve death.
Apparently the incident was incited by a beautiful turkey-hen (is that what you call females?) that was hanging around in the back yard. The offending Tom was intrigued, but when he caught his reflection in the window he made a dive straight for the pane glass. The family describes the "explosion and ensuing bedlam" with wide eyes (except for the wordless teenage son) as they relate how they finally captured the turkey -
"we got him pinned under that snow scraper, and my neighbour grabbed a big net he had, I think a salmon net, and wrapped him up. We set him out in the yard, and then he just walked away."
And thus was the turkey incedent ended, but not before the house was sent into turmoil, with fuurniture upturned, shattered glass everywhere, "and even turkey blood on the walls."
"The neighbour, an experienced turkey hunter, says the tom was probably just jealous."
But seriously. They cornered him under the snow scraper? Who has a salmon net just lying around? The neighbour is conveniently an experienced turkey hunter? Now they have turkey blood smeared all over their walls?
Oh, jealous turkey bedlam on national news. That's Sooooo Canadian.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
“That’s So Canadian” – Inaugural Installment
Welcome to another great series within the LOLcat blog – “That’s So Canadian”! This is a series where I point out and describe subtle things that make Canada different from the US. And are totally adorable. Here we go!
That’s So Canadian item #4: Kraft Dinner
[note: we’re beginning at four because I’m sure I’ve already condescended to at least three other adorable Canadian things…]
Kraft Dinner is a Canadian phenomenon first introduced to me within a conversation about being an impoverished student. While discussing survival techniques, someone casually mentioned “eating only Kraft Dinner” for six months, to which everyone else nodded knowingly. I said nothing, and filed it away in the “I wonder what the hell they’re talking about” file.
The next night I was watching TV and I saw a commercial for the following product:
That is correct, “Kraft Dinner” is f#*#ing Macaroni and Cheese.
I brought this up the following day at work.
“So, Kraft Dinner, that’s mac and cheese, right?”
“Mac and cheese? What’s mac?”
“Macaroni”
“Oh, yeah, it’s pasta and cheese” [please pronounce the word “paah-sta”]
“So it’s mac and cheese”
“It’s Kraft Dinner.”
“But it’s mac and cheese.”
“It’s Kraft Dinner.”
It’s Kraft Dinner. That’s Sooooooo Canadian.
That’s So Canadian item #4: Kraft Dinner
[note: we’re beginning at four because I’m sure I’ve already condescended to at least three other adorable Canadian things…]
Kraft Dinner is a Canadian phenomenon first introduced to me within a conversation about being an impoverished student. While discussing survival techniques, someone casually mentioned “eating only Kraft Dinner” for six months, to which everyone else nodded knowingly. I said nothing, and filed it away in the “I wonder what the hell they’re talking about” file.
The next night I was watching TV and I saw a commercial for the following product:
That is correct, “Kraft Dinner” is f#*#ing Macaroni and Cheese.
I brought this up the following day at work.
“So, Kraft Dinner, that’s mac and cheese, right?”
“Mac and cheese? What’s mac?”
“Macaroni”
“Oh, yeah, it’s pasta and cheese” [please pronounce the word “paah-sta”]
“So it’s mac and cheese”
“It’s Kraft Dinner.”
“But it’s mac and cheese.”
“It’s Kraft Dinner.”
It’s Kraft Dinner. That’s Sooooooo Canadian.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Orange Pekoe and other things Canadian
Last Thursday I was in the office kitchen when I had what you might call a minor crisis: we were out of Earl Gray. Normally I might have a cup of coffee, but I had already had four coffees that day. That was out of the question. And any other type of tea was unthinkable, too. Apparently tea is only for those who desire a lack of caffeine. There was, however, a suspicious preponderance of orange pekoe. Having grown up on the West Coast, this is a relatively unfamiliar flavour. We have green tea, lots of black tea, and even some very good red tea, but this orange pekoe business just doesn’t make sense.
I tried to explain my despondence at the lack of acceptable caffeination, but received no sympathy from my coworkers. “Why don’t you drink the pekoe,” they said. “What’s wrong with fruit tea?”
What is wrong with fruit tea?!?!?!?
First of all, orange pekoe isn’t really fruit tea. It’s black tea, with some sort of orange “essence.” If I wanted something fruity, I would drink something fruity. Ew. Second, it’s just not very delicious. And yet somehow the Canadians are all about it. Perhaps it’s their subtle reaction against the British – no Lipton for us. We’re drinking orange pekoe.
Perhaps it is their lack of appreciation for good coffee. Granted, I have met many people here who love good coffee. But the majority of Average Canadians love the Tim Hortons. The way they explain this to me is, “It’s good – it’s just like Dunkin’ Donuts.” I don’t know how many things are wrong with this statement Maybe, however, they just like it. Who knows. Maybe it’s similar to the American affinity for peanut butter. It’s funny how tastes can be so linked to culture. In any case, it is a ritual in which I still refuse to participate.
Rather than succumb to the pekoe-hype, I spent a solid twenty minutes trying to discover a different kind of caffeinated tea. I found lemon zest, apple-cranberry, peppermint, spearmint, cozy comfort (who drinks that at work?), chamomile, and barrels of orange pekoe. But not a drop of the Earl to be found. On this day, I went without the afternoon tea, but it was not without a lesson. First, I’ve learned to bring my own tea to the office, so as to guarantee caffeination. Second, I discovered through my various conversations surrounding this tea that Canadians think Americans are brutes, and that we are intolerant of tea-sipping. This is clearly not true. We just prefer to throw our tea into the ocean to make a point. Take that, Canada.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Project Runway Canada, Week 5
It was another exciting and eventful Tuesday night, and if you weren’t there we missed you! I almost thought I was going to watch alone, but fortunately the regulars pulled through at the last minute. There was some kind of pizza crisis that Eric Gallant had to tend to. It’s understandable – it happens to all of us sometimes. Some of the highlights!:
1) The challenge was to create a new fresh look for a divorcee using her wedding dress. Not only did this create the hilarious situation of these “size 0 designers” having to make something for a real person, but they also had to use wedding dress materials. Very challenging, indeed.
2) The winner was again Sonny. He’s “the man to beat,” and really the only one with any kind of skill, let alone imagination. He took the white satin of the dress and made a smart looking skirt suit with an awesome maroon belt. It rocked, and he knew it. Everyone now hates him.
3) The losing outfit was in fact not the worst, but the guy is boring so he had to go home. The dress he had to work with was a brilliant purple sari, with so much potential to be cool, but he made a horrible wrap dress with flowers and crap all over it that just accentuated all of the lady’s worst features (really, who wants something that makes your tummy and butt stick out. Obviously he has never designed for a non-model).
4) The best part about this losing outfit was the judges commentary: one of them actually said, “Who’s sari now?”
5) The lady who SHOULD have gone home made something that was not a dress nor an outfit but actually looked like a potato sack with sleeve holes cut out and grandma lace around the shoulders. And THEN, just for some “style,” a bit of transparent blue crap in the triangles dripping off the bottom hem. When they upload photos to the website I’ll definitely spread it around.
6) This woman who designed this horrible thing that wasn’t anywhere close to being fashion or even a garment got to stay because she called out one of the other designers on “not changing the dress enough.” She actually interrupted the judges to tell them that this other guy had simply hemmed the wedding dress (which was a piece of work – it made Eric shudder every time they showed the photo) and then started yelling at the guy once she got backstage. She is good television. She gets to stay.
7) I discovered that my idea of “Canadian bacon” is a lie. Canadians simply call the ham on pizza “ham.” I always wondered why a Hawaiian pizza would have Canadian bacon on it…
8) Loyalties were tested when Eric claimed that Vernor’s (an American product) is a better ginger ale than Canada dry. While all agreed the Vernor’s had a strong, fruity mouth and a delicate nose, Margaret stood firm in her commitment to Canada Dry as the Champagne of Ginger Ales. Predictably, I was torn.
9) The actual champagne was quite good, pink bubbly from Australia, courtesy of Jonah.
In short, a good time had by all, once again. When the images are up from last night’s runway show, I’ll send the before and after photos around so Eric can freak out about it some more.
Find the images from last night's Project Runway here:
http://runway.globaltv.com/gallery/gallery.aspx?categoryid=7652772272230875301
Wish they had regular images instead of the flash movie, but I guess we have to take what we can get.
Enjoy!
Project Runway Canada, Week 4
Last night’s Project Runway had another record turnout, with representatives from both the work and non-work crowd. And TWO Erics. The show itself was once again a wash, with mediocre design across the board, but there were some highlights:
1) We learned a new word from Jonah: “Comparagraph” Apparently it’s the description he gets of tv shows in competing time slots. I’m going to use it in the future.
2) The challenge for the runway show was to create couture from recycled clothing, in groups, inspired by major fashion houses. The three groups chose Valentino, Versace, and Yves Saint Lauren. Sonny won (again) but not before finding a crotch stain on the bridesmaid dress he used for the fabric. Eeww.
3) There was a major surprise guest! The major surprise guest was Iman, who hosts the show. Good job, producers. But that did let her tell the designers that she was “honored to have been the muse for at least one of YSL’s lines” and he “literally CUT THE FABRIC on my body.” I bet you can imagine how disappointed she was when the YSL team made crappy clothes…
4) During commercials, we caught Margaret up on the youtube sensations that are the Christian Bale freakout, the little boy after the dentist, and the mash-up of the two cultural memes. It was hysterical. Eric Gallant said he laughed so hard he was drooling, not unlike Turner and Hooch. Or more just like Hooch. Not so much Turner.
5) The whiny guy got sent home (which whiny guy? The tall one) after preempting his defense of his garment by telling the judges (without being asked) that he had never heard of Yves Saint Lauren. I’m not even pretending to be a fashion designer and I know a little bit about that. It would be like saying you’ve never heard of Frank Lloyd Wright. You just don’t say that.
6) Next week the designers will be building garments for divorcees out of their wedding dresses. It’s always amusing when they have to make clothes for normal sized people…
That’s the long and short of this week. Put it on your calendar for next week – it’s guaranteed fun!!!
Project Runway Canada, Week 3 (skip one)
Last night was another exciting installment of everyone’s favourite Canadian fashion design reality show! It was a record turn-out – 5 in all, counting myself, Margaret, Jonah, Rei, and Eric Gallant. Among the highlights:
1) The challenge was to create two looks (in teams of two) that expressed the color palettes for Loreal’s spring collection. Such a challenge.
2) Sonny (everyone’s favourite mohawked designer) won with a layered dress of pink chiffon and green tulle.
3) The head-band-t-shirt girls went home. But not before crying about everything.
4) The mentor Bryan told the crying girl to “think positively, walk with resolve, and RISE LIKE THE PHOENIX!!!!”. I’m going to use that one at my next project meeting.
5) We watched The Hour and made fun of/admired George Snuffalufogus and the one million acts of green. I turned off the lights in the other room in order to do my part.
6) While we were all gathered around my computer looking at a website that will revolutionize the internet as we know it (www.cornify.com) my mom called on skype and we all talked to her. It was a wonderful moment. She also scolded us all for being up so late on a work night.
That’s all of the most memorable moments from the night. Anyone have any additions?
Join us next Tuesday and help add to the list!!!!
Projce Runway Canada - The weekly Recap
I know most of you don't watch the Canadian version of Project Runway (or the American version, for that matter) but I've been watching and am [dare I say] even more enthralled than I was with the American version. There is really only one true designer of fashion on the show, and the rest is just a train wreck. As such, I've invited people from work over to my house to watch with me. The following day, I send out a "recap" about what everyone missed. It started out as a blatant attempt to convince other people to come over, but has now become its own beast. The people who do not attend (and even those who do) are on my case to get the recap out as soon as possible on Wednesday mornings. It has also been suggested by multiple people that this becomes a public item, so here it is. Look forward to a recap of Project Runway every Wednesday from now on - here are the back-recaps and the most recent, for you enjoyment!
Week One, Jan. 28
Week One, Jan. 28
If you didn’t watch Project Runway at home, and even if you did, here’s what you missed from last night:
1) 2 (TWO) designers decided to leave before the very first judging event, both for “medical reasons,” though one was really just a general freak out.
2) The theme was “ground breaking design” in camouflage. The guy who was sent home made a “dress” that you could pull up over your head so no one could see you. Quality design, right there.
3) The designers’ house and workshop is literally on a lake in the middle of nowhere outside of Ottawa. Like they have to walk across a bridge to get to it. I think probably that’s because there’s some kind of creative energy hot-spot right there. Nothing else could explain such siting.
4) I drank half a bottle of champagne, with Margaret’s help, before the end of the evening. It was cheap and now I have a headache.
5) Margaret broke my couch. But that’s ok, it’s not really mine anyway J
6) There are ALWAYS peanut m&ms for Project Runway viewing sessions.
Hopefully these facts will convince you to come over next week. It is nearly always guaranteed to be a good time.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Interwebs Have Ruined my [real] Life
In the nearly one month it has been since I last blogged, I have been quite busy. I have worked many hours, traveled to San Diego and back, eaten 5 pizzas, watered the plants 3 times, learned how to snowboard, and become an international internet sensation.
One would think that becoming the sensation that I am would take a great deal of work and perseverance, but I have found nearly the opposite to be true. In order to achieve such a moderately high profile on the World Wide Web, I have merely been myself, and posted much of it to popular internet sites for my close friends and acquaintances to see, and then looked to see who was actually looking at me. However, while it has not taken an enormous amount of front end effort, this new status I have acquired has created an unexpected feeling of responsibility for me. I now have an awareness that others are watching, expecting something, judging everything I do [or show you]. I no longer have the privacy, the anonymity, the blissful ignorance of the opinions of others that I had before when I was simply a person in the real world. It's a feeling not unlike becoming aware of one's own adolescence, when you realize you are an awkward person and everyone knows it.
On the flipside, the public happenings, and in particular the battle of the bands, have created wonderful opportunities for conversation. In truth there is nothing quite like public expression of awkwardness to inspire joy in others. And I love the reciprocity that I've seen since the Facebook bands has made it into an interactive forum. But it is still a bit worrisome to have so many people expect so much honesty from me. I suppose it is a burden I should be willing to bear, as I have brought it upon myself, and keep my end of this bargain. Here is your updated blog - in the future I won't let it go so long. And I hope you'll forgive me. After all, it is a big wide [virtual] world in which we live, with plenty to keep us busy...
One would think that becoming the sensation that I am would take a great deal of work and perseverance, but I have found nearly the opposite to be true. In order to achieve such a moderately high profile on the World Wide Web, I have merely been myself, and posted much of it to popular internet sites for my close friends and acquaintances to see, and then looked to see who was actually looking at me. However, while it has not taken an enormous amount of front end effort, this new status I have acquired has created an unexpected feeling of responsibility for me. I now have an awareness that others are watching, expecting something, judging everything I do [or show you]. I no longer have the privacy, the anonymity, the blissful ignorance of the opinions of others that I had before when I was simply a person in the real world. It's a feeling not unlike becoming aware of one's own adolescence, when you realize you are an awkward person and everyone knows it.
On the flipside, the public happenings, and in particular the battle of the bands, have created wonderful opportunities for conversation. In truth there is nothing quite like public expression of awkwardness to inspire joy in others. And I love the reciprocity that I've seen since the Facebook bands has made it into an interactive forum. But it is still a bit worrisome to have so many people expect so much honesty from me. I suppose it is a burden I should be willing to bear, as I have brought it upon myself, and keep my end of this bargain. Here is your updated blog - in the future I won't let it go so long. And I hope you'll forgive me. After all, it is a big wide [virtual] world in which we live, with plenty to keep us busy...
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Americans in Paris [on experiencing the greatest moment in our countries modern history abroad]
I’ve heard it said before, though I don’t really recall where, that being in a foreign place gives you a better understanding not only of the culture in which you are immersed, but also of your own culture. I’ve had a taste of this in the past, while I was traveling through Europe with a group of friends. We spent months in Germany, France, and Spain, sometimes in a large group, sometimes in pairs, and sometimes alone. We learned how life worked, how people saw the world, how cultures both differed from and aligned with our own. We learned what made us who we are, by what we noticed about others.
Arriving here in Toronto, I expected there to be some differences between the social and political norms I’m used to and those I would experience here. I also, however, expected these differences to be small, nominal at best; after all, we share a border, a language, a common history (in many ways) and even an accent. Or so I thought….
I’ve been noticing some small things day to day in the way Canadian life and culture varies from my Californian history (as you might have noticed). The commercials are cheesier. The business names are more up-front (descriptive, perhaps). And the people are nicer. Not necessarily in the go-out-of-your-way-to-say-hi-and-strike-up-small-talk way, but in the (in my opinion) deeper always-looking-out-for-your-fellow-man-way. As in, “I pay more taxes so that you can have health care because it’s just the right way to live.”
It wasn’t until the inauguration this week, however, that I really started to feel like a foreigner. It has been, I must admit, a feeling that has faded as politics has receded from the forefront of conversation. But it did have quite an impact on me. There is no doubt that I was not the only one excited about the inauguration of President Obama. We were all excited for various reasons: for Not George Bush; for a different direction in foreign policy; for a young hopeful figure in office; and for the first African American president. For me, however, it seemed a bit deeper than that.
For the last two years, throughout the campaign, Obama has consistently reminded me of the Kennedy family. His words, image, tone, and message of hope, the joy he inspires in people, his young family all carry for me a feeling of Kennedy legacy, from Jack to Bobby, even through Teddy, though I could scarcely claim to have been influenced firsthand by the former two. The legacy, I believe, is of the idea that change is possible, that hope can be real, and that the nation should be governed for the good of the common man, in the face of hope and adversity. As I have become an adult, as my social and political consciousness has matured, I’ve come to realize that the political world in which I have been raised has been at best indifferent to the needs and hopes of the people, and at worst actively pursuing the benefit of the priveledged at the expense of everyday people. I have learned to dislike Reagan, to tolerate Johnson, to pity H.W. Bush, and wish for more from Clinton. Even more, I’ve learned what politics meant to my parents, and many other people of their generation. The idea of politics as having the ability to change the way we live is something that is foreign to me, and yet would not be in to my parents in the 1960s.
In the 1960s, they saw the rise of young liberalism, the fight for civil rights, the challenge to war-mongering, and with all of these, strong faces and personalities giving them life. They also saw the death of Martin Luther King, JFK, and Bobby Kennedy; the end of the summer of love (and innocent freedom), the 1968 DNC riots in Chicago, the continuation of the wars in Korea and Vietnam. In 1969, political hopes were crushed. My father was drafted. All the hopes for change, the belief that their expression of this need for change would be heard and addressed, had been killed with Robert Kennedy. The hope that any real change would ever come was beaten out of them in Chicago. Hope, simply put, wore out. What do you do when everything you’ve ever put faith in fails?
And yet forty years later, here is this man with a fresh face, a young family, speaking the words of hope that we’ve all been longing to hear, some of us for our entire lives. Our new president speaks of change for all, not just advancement of some. He embodies the idea that life can be good for all of us, that we can be the change we wish to see. Rather than telling us to abide, to cope, that we’re the best and that’s all, he tells us to hope, to dream, to work, to change. We have been waiting forty years for you.
And this idea, this complex notion that Obama is not just our president now, but also their president then, was simply not present in the minds of my coworkers as we watched the inauguration. They, like me, were moved by the beauty in his rhetoric, the promise of change, and yet were somehow not invested in it. Yes, the foreign policy of the United States affects Canada much more than it does most other countries. Yes, American politics get much more attention in Canada than Canadian politics do. Yes, he is the first African American president in the Western World. But missing was the weight of history and the sense of urgency, that if this change had not happened now, we would not be able to last another forty years.
And perhaps more than history it is our spirit that differs. Not one person here has been able to give me a convincing argument for why Canada still has a queen. The best I’ve heard is, “What’s wrong with the queen – what has she done to us lately?” followed closely by “it would be soooo expensive to take her name and face off of everything.” Along the same line, I’ve never met an American who understands why Canadians don’t just secede. Having a queen in England who has the authority veto political decisions is kind of like letting your parents tell you what to do once you’ve moved away from home and started your own family. It’s nice to be nice to them, but someday you have to cut the cord.
At the end of the day on Tuesday, after being awed and moved and instilled with fierce pride, I also came away with a better understanding of myself and my country, and how patriotic I actually might be, however cynical I come across. Here we are, after so many years, doing what others thought could not or would not be done, believing again in the face of adversity and years of being trodden upon by our leadership. Here we are declaring our independence once again, declaring our difference and yet our common humanity. Here we are, showing the world the embodiment of our American dream: that the son of a Kenyan immigrant raised by a single mother, can become President on the merit and power of his dreams, and lead the nation, and in fact the world, into a new era.
And away we go….
Arriving here in Toronto, I expected there to be some differences between the social and political norms I’m used to and those I would experience here. I also, however, expected these differences to be small, nominal at best; after all, we share a border, a language, a common history (in many ways) and even an accent. Or so I thought….
I’ve been noticing some small things day to day in the way Canadian life and culture varies from my Californian history (as you might have noticed). The commercials are cheesier. The business names are more up-front (descriptive, perhaps). And the people are nicer. Not necessarily in the go-out-of-your-way-to-say-hi-and-strike-up-small-talk way, but in the (in my opinion) deeper always-looking-out-for-your-fellow-man-way. As in, “I pay more taxes so that you can have health care because it’s just the right way to live.”
It wasn’t until the inauguration this week, however, that I really started to feel like a foreigner. It has been, I must admit, a feeling that has faded as politics has receded from the forefront of conversation. But it did have quite an impact on me. There is no doubt that I was not the only one excited about the inauguration of President Obama. We were all excited for various reasons: for Not George Bush; for a different direction in foreign policy; for a young hopeful figure in office; and for the first African American president. For me, however, it seemed a bit deeper than that.
For the last two years, throughout the campaign, Obama has consistently reminded me of the Kennedy family. His words, image, tone, and message of hope, the joy he inspires in people, his young family all carry for me a feeling of Kennedy legacy, from Jack to Bobby, even through Teddy, though I could scarcely claim to have been influenced firsthand by the former two. The legacy, I believe, is of the idea that change is possible, that hope can be real, and that the nation should be governed for the good of the common man, in the face of hope and adversity. As I have become an adult, as my social and political consciousness has matured, I’ve come to realize that the political world in which I have been raised has been at best indifferent to the needs and hopes of the people, and at worst actively pursuing the benefit of the priveledged at the expense of everyday people. I have learned to dislike Reagan, to tolerate Johnson, to pity H.W. Bush, and wish for more from Clinton. Even more, I’ve learned what politics meant to my parents, and many other people of their generation. The idea of politics as having the ability to change the way we live is something that is foreign to me, and yet would not be in to my parents in the 1960s.
In the 1960s, they saw the rise of young liberalism, the fight for civil rights, the challenge to war-mongering, and with all of these, strong faces and personalities giving them life. They also saw the death of Martin Luther King, JFK, and Bobby Kennedy; the end of the summer of love (and innocent freedom), the 1968 DNC riots in Chicago, the continuation of the wars in Korea and Vietnam. In 1969, political hopes were crushed. My father was drafted. All the hopes for change, the belief that their expression of this need for change would be heard and addressed, had been killed with Robert Kennedy. The hope that any real change would ever come was beaten out of them in Chicago. Hope, simply put, wore out. What do you do when everything you’ve ever put faith in fails?
And yet forty years later, here is this man with a fresh face, a young family, speaking the words of hope that we’ve all been longing to hear, some of us for our entire lives. Our new president speaks of change for all, not just advancement of some. He embodies the idea that life can be good for all of us, that we can be the change we wish to see. Rather than telling us to abide, to cope, that we’re the best and that’s all, he tells us to hope, to dream, to work, to change. We have been waiting forty years for you.
And this idea, this complex notion that Obama is not just our president now, but also their president then, was simply not present in the minds of my coworkers as we watched the inauguration. They, like me, were moved by the beauty in his rhetoric, the promise of change, and yet were somehow not invested in it. Yes, the foreign policy of the United States affects Canada much more than it does most other countries. Yes, American politics get much more attention in Canada than Canadian politics do. Yes, he is the first African American president in the Western World. But missing was the weight of history and the sense of urgency, that if this change had not happened now, we would not be able to last another forty years.
And perhaps more than history it is our spirit that differs. Not one person here has been able to give me a convincing argument for why Canada still has a queen. The best I’ve heard is, “What’s wrong with the queen – what has she done to us lately?” followed closely by “it would be soooo expensive to take her name and face off of everything.” Along the same line, I’ve never met an American who understands why Canadians don’t just secede. Having a queen in England who has the authority veto political decisions is kind of like letting your parents tell you what to do once you’ve moved away from home and started your own family. It’s nice to be nice to them, but someday you have to cut the cord.
At the end of the day on Tuesday, after being awed and moved and instilled with fierce pride, I also came away with a better understanding of myself and my country, and how patriotic I actually might be, however cynical I come across. Here we are, after so many years, doing what others thought could not or would not be done, believing again in the face of adversity and years of being trodden upon by our leadership. Here we are declaring our independence once again, declaring our difference and yet our common humanity. Here we are, showing the world the embodiment of our American dream: that the son of a Kenyan immigrant raised by a single mother, can become President on the merit and power of his dreams, and lead the nation, and in fact the world, into a new era.
And away we go….
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Get Your OWN President
With inauguration-mania looming, Canadian news magazines are not going to be left out of the conversation. Day after day, newscast after newscast, the journalists and pundits pick apart Obama, his administration, what this all means to Americans and Canadians. They interview politicians, White House correspondents, “experts,” and people who have no obvious link to the subject. Today they talked with a series of comedians, trying to uncover what the comedic atmosphere will be in the coming four years. This is all well and good, except WHERE IS YOUR OWN GOVERNMENT?
Throughout all of this, there has never been a piece about Canadian politics, at any scale, in any regard. Do they not have a government here? I understand that the lives of these two countries are strongly intertwined, that what happens in the US affects Canada directly, but here Barack is discussed as if he will be the president of Canada, too.
My favourite part of this whole discourse, however, is how much everyone here is freaking out about the “possible protectionist rhetoric” of Obama. Starting a few weeks ago, the Sunday shows has pundits discussing the possibility that Obama might talk about making the borders tighter, and what that would/might mean for the economy here. But they never actually said anything concrete, never identified any real issues, never brought up the fact that nothing of a scale worth freaking out about would ever happen because that would affect the US too much, too. “Ooohhh, no, we don’t have president Bush to freak us out anymore, what are we going to freak out about now? I know, Obama mentioned something that sounded protectionist a year or so ago!” Get over it, Canada.
Throughout all of this, there has never been a piece about Canadian politics, at any scale, in any regard. Do they not have a government here? I understand that the lives of these two countries are strongly intertwined, that what happens in the US affects Canada directly, but here Barack is discussed as if he will be the president of Canada, too.
My favourite part of this whole discourse, however, is how much everyone here is freaking out about the “possible protectionist rhetoric” of Obama. Starting a few weeks ago, the Sunday shows has pundits discussing the possibility that Obama might talk about making the borders tighter, and what that would/might mean for the economy here. But they never actually said anything concrete, never identified any real issues, never brought up the fact that nothing of a scale worth freaking out about would ever happen because that would affect the US too much, too. “Ooohhh, no, we don’t have president Bush to freak us out anymore, what are we going to freak out about now? I know, Obama mentioned something that sounded protectionist a year or so ago!” Get over it, Canada.
Land of Endearing Earnesty
When you’re walking around your city, do you often notice the names of the businesses you pass by? Are you surprised by/interested in/annoyed with the names of businesses advertised on TV? I’ve never really felt that way. Until I moved to Toronto.
Since arriving, I’ve been struck by the outright earnesty in the business names. At first I laughed, often because I was taken by surprise in conversation – “you’ll like that neighborhood. They have lots of fresh food and a healthy butcher.” Sounds good, right? The next day, when I was walking around the neighborhood, I passed The Healthy Butcher. It’s the name of the store, not just a positive descriptor.
Once this initial realization hit me, I began to notice more and more examples. “Sushi-2-Go,” “Trendy Fabrics,” “No-Frills Grocery Mart,” “The Social Club,” “Canadian Tire,” (which is actually more of a home depot) and it goes on and on.
I was laughing about this with a friend here, and her response was “Don’t hate, we’re just straight up here.” Yeah, or unimaginative ;)
But when they DO get imaginative, they go all the way. My favourite examples: Shanghai Cowgirl (diner), Bovine Sex Club (bar), Future Shop (like Circuit City)
I’ll keep you updated if I encounter more….
Since arriving, I’ve been struck by the outright earnesty in the business names. At first I laughed, often because I was taken by surprise in conversation – “you’ll like that neighborhood. They have lots of fresh food and a healthy butcher.” Sounds good, right? The next day, when I was walking around the neighborhood, I passed The Healthy Butcher. It’s the name of the store, not just a positive descriptor.
Once this initial realization hit me, I began to notice more and more examples. “Sushi-2-Go,” “Trendy Fabrics,” “No-Frills Grocery Mart,” “The Social Club,” “Canadian Tire,” (which is actually more of a home depot) and it goes on and on.
I was laughing about this with a friend here, and her response was “Don’t hate, we’re just straight up here.” Yeah, or unimaginative ;)
But when they DO get imaginative, they go all the way. My favourite examples: Shanghai Cowgirl (diner), Bovine Sex Club (bar), Future Shop (like Circuit City)
I’ll keep you updated if I encounter more….
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Today I saw...
a car getting a ticket in downtown Toronto. That is not surprising. What IS, is that the officer writing the ticket was on a horse. ON A HORSE. Picture this: downtown Toronto, skyscrapers, bustling traffic, crowded sidewalk, streetcars ringing their bells, a car and driver pulled to the curb in front of a fancy high-end organic grocery store. Behind the car, two police officers on horses, looking down into the rear windshield as the man on the right writes the ticket. HORSES.
How do you get pulled over by a horse? They didn't even have lights.
I really wish I had my camera with me.
How do you get pulled over by a horse? They didn't even have lights.
I really wish I had my camera with me.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Thanks for all that info, CBC…
I’ve had a lot of time in the past few days to watch TV. One would think that, due to the proximity of the city of Toronto to the US (and vice versa) that TV in general and local commercials specifically would be relatively close to what we see in the US. What I’ve found, however, is that this is not the case. TV here differs in many ways, from the obvious to the very subtle. I have a feeling this will be an on-going topic, but here are some of the highlights I’ve noticed so far:
Best TV show name and concept: “Little Mosque on the Prairie,” about a Muslim family in the territories.
Best commercial, so far, is the Double Double twins, for fast food. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7p-x46k07U. There are also a few awesome furniture store commercials, including one with some creepy old guy with a full beard: “the boxes are ooooooopening!!!!!”
Daytime TV: Steven and Chris. I’m really sad I’m not at home at 2 pm to watch these guys. It’s like gay Oprah and gay Martha do a talk show together. Unbelievable.
http://www.cbc.ca/stevenandchris/
But I think the thing I especially love is the network ads for upcoming programming. I’m used to the US-short-attention-span-flashy-loud thing, where you get a few words and some pictures of hot chicks. Here, they do a full synopsis to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. Example: New season of the bachelor. Instead of the normal, “he got burned last year, but now he’s back,” they spend the full 90 seconds describing in detail the follies of last season, how he has recovered, and who the lucky ladies will be this season. Also, the CBC showed “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Even during the movie, there were 90 second promos about the plot: “Four young children venture into a world of ice and snow. Along the way, they encounter an array of wonderful creatures, and challenges beyond their wildest dreams….” Perhaps they expect viewers to be a bit slower here….
And I won’t even start in on the variety sketch shows. NOT FUNNY.
Maybe eventually I’ll speak enough French to understand what’s happening on those channels, too…..
Best TV show name and concept: “Little Mosque on the Prairie,” about a Muslim family in the territories.
Best commercial, so far, is the Double Double twins, for fast food. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7p-x46k07U. There are also a few awesome furniture store commercials, including one with some creepy old guy with a full beard: “the boxes are ooooooopening!!!!!”
Daytime TV: Steven and Chris. I’m really sad I’m not at home at 2 pm to watch these guys. It’s like gay Oprah and gay Martha do a talk show together. Unbelievable.
http://www.cbc.ca/stevenandchris/
But I think the thing I especially love is the network ads for upcoming programming. I’m used to the US-short-attention-span-flashy-loud thing, where you get a few words and some pictures of hot chicks. Here, they do a full synopsis to make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. Example: New season of the bachelor. Instead of the normal, “he got burned last year, but now he’s back,” they spend the full 90 seconds describing in detail the follies of last season, how he has recovered, and who the lucky ladies will be this season. Also, the CBC showed “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Even during the movie, there were 90 second promos about the plot: “Four young children venture into a world of ice and snow. Along the way, they encounter an array of wonderful creatures, and challenges beyond their wildest dreams….” Perhaps they expect viewers to be a bit slower here….
And I won’t even start in on the variety sketch shows. NOT FUNNY.
Maybe eventually I’ll speak enough French to understand what’s happening on those channels, too…..
Friday, January 2, 2009
Orion the Hunter
Four days after leaving home and my parents, I have arrived in Toronto. It is reasonably warm, around 30, with snow flurries. Big puffy snow flurries. I stand at the window and watch as the ground turns from grey to white.
Five hours ago, I was sitting on a stranger’s desk in a cubicle in the Canadian Immigration Office in the Toronto airport, crying on the phone with my mother. They won’t let me in the country.
Ten hours previous, I was in the guest room of a flat in Chicago, frantically unpacking and re-packing my suitcases, trying to determine what needed to go right away and what could wait awhile to be reunited with me. At 2 AM, I rest my head on a puffy vest and sigh.
Two days before this I was in the air somewhere over Nebraska. I had watched the sun go down over Colorado, the vermillion cliffs offset by blinding snow, the final glimmers of daylight illuminating the peaks of the Rockies. As we fly further east, the sky ahead grows darker, the lights below more sparse, until one magic moment when the horizon is no longer, and the lights of tiny towns on the plains and the glimmer of far distant constellations are interchangeable reflections of each other. In the quiet cabin with my face pressed against the window, I see the web of humanity, islands of lights floating in a dark sea like inflorescences of algal blooms at red tide, glowing filaments strung delicately between, silk threads with tenuous holds on their seemingly transient anchors.
Fixing my attention once again on the stars, I see Orion the Hunter. This is no surprise – he has long been the only winter constellation I recognize readily. This night he seemed to be more than just a familiar face, though, as the mythology of the constellation crept back into my consciousness. Orion, the hunter, won wide renown for his great beauty and hunting skills. And as would be natural, he believed every bit of it, to the point of boasting publicly (and at length) about his superiority over all creatures on earth. Anyone familiar with Greek mythology will not be surprised by what happens next: the easily annoyed gods decide to punish Orion for his arrogance by sending a scorpion to kill him (through a sting to the foot). And thus was the proud and boastful Orion felled by the lowly scorpion.
As for his position in the night sky, that is the doing of his long-time admirer Diana, who asked that his image be writ in the stars as an homage. And though often cruel, the gods respected his final wishes to never be near the scorpion again by placing him opposite scorpio, so that they never would share the night sky.
In accordance with the poetic turn my psyche has taken in the past few weeks, this usually insignificant noticing of a familiar constellation has stayed with me, has sat with my thoughts, retreating just long enough for me to forget before it resurfaces, demanding my attention once more. While I do not claim to be an Orion in any sense (I am most definitely a very poor hunter) it seems to me that the lessons imposed upon him are in many ways being imposed on me. Just when I begin to feel confident enough to become careless, the gods send me my scorpion (which has lately been in the form of huge government bureaucracies) and I end up in tears in a stranger’s cubicle in the Canadian Immigration Centre at the Toronto airport.
But I thank the gods for my own team of Dianas, who are my advocates, supporters, and reality checks, who tolerate my major and minor breakdowns with great grace and love, but who, unlike the Diana of myth, redirect my misguided wanderings and keep my feet free from as many scorpions as possible.
So here I am today, in a cozy apartment, with the TV on low, drained but not defeated. I hope that I have begun to learn some lessons, to know how to plan ahead even when my entire being resists.
Tomorrow is a new day, filled with college football and Suczynskis. It is sure to break the trend of “philosophical posts….”
Five hours ago, I was sitting on a stranger’s desk in a cubicle in the Canadian Immigration Office in the Toronto airport, crying on the phone with my mother. They won’t let me in the country.
Ten hours previous, I was in the guest room of a flat in Chicago, frantically unpacking and re-packing my suitcases, trying to determine what needed to go right away and what could wait awhile to be reunited with me. At 2 AM, I rest my head on a puffy vest and sigh.
Two days before this I was in the air somewhere over Nebraska. I had watched the sun go down over Colorado, the vermillion cliffs offset by blinding snow, the final glimmers of daylight illuminating the peaks of the Rockies. As we fly further east, the sky ahead grows darker, the lights below more sparse, until one magic moment when the horizon is no longer, and the lights of tiny towns on the plains and the glimmer of far distant constellations are interchangeable reflections of each other. In the quiet cabin with my face pressed against the window, I see the web of humanity, islands of lights floating in a dark sea like inflorescences of algal blooms at red tide, glowing filaments strung delicately between, silk threads with tenuous holds on their seemingly transient anchors.
Fixing my attention once again on the stars, I see Orion the Hunter. This is no surprise – he has long been the only winter constellation I recognize readily. This night he seemed to be more than just a familiar face, though, as the mythology of the constellation crept back into my consciousness. Orion, the hunter, won wide renown for his great beauty and hunting skills. And as would be natural, he believed every bit of it, to the point of boasting publicly (and at length) about his superiority over all creatures on earth. Anyone familiar with Greek mythology will not be surprised by what happens next: the easily annoyed gods decide to punish Orion for his arrogance by sending a scorpion to kill him (through a sting to the foot). And thus was the proud and boastful Orion felled by the lowly scorpion.
As for his position in the night sky, that is the doing of his long-time admirer Diana, who asked that his image be writ in the stars as an homage. And though often cruel, the gods respected his final wishes to never be near the scorpion again by placing him opposite scorpio, so that they never would share the night sky.
In accordance with the poetic turn my psyche has taken in the past few weeks, this usually insignificant noticing of a familiar constellation has stayed with me, has sat with my thoughts, retreating just long enough for me to forget before it resurfaces, demanding my attention once more. While I do not claim to be an Orion in any sense (I am most definitely a very poor hunter) it seems to me that the lessons imposed upon him are in many ways being imposed on me. Just when I begin to feel confident enough to become careless, the gods send me my scorpion (which has lately been in the form of huge government bureaucracies) and I end up in tears in a stranger’s cubicle in the Canadian Immigration Centre at the Toronto airport.
But I thank the gods for my own team of Dianas, who are my advocates, supporters, and reality checks, who tolerate my major and minor breakdowns with great grace and love, but who, unlike the Diana of myth, redirect my misguided wanderings and keep my feet free from as many scorpions as possible.
So here I am today, in a cozy apartment, with the TV on low, drained but not defeated. I hope that I have begun to learn some lessons, to know how to plan ahead even when my entire being resists.
Tomorrow is a new day, filled with college football and Suczynskis. It is sure to break the trend of “philosophical posts….”
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Don’t Text While Driving, or, How I Discovered the Book of Customs
I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in the car lately. And the nature of my drives, moving out of my beloved home in Berkeley to transition to the unknown in Canada, has made this time both slightly sorrowful and reflective, which has in turn led to some unexpected trains of thought...
In preparation for my arrival in Canada, I had planned to move out of the apartment in Berkeley and drive down to San Diego on Saturday. I was looking forward to it – ready for the adventure, ready for something new, braced to face the unknown. I navigated the social calendar of the week, with parties, happy hours, and meals, interspersed with packing and cleaning. When Friday arrived, I knew I was a bit behind, but felt confident that I would be able to finish packing and get on the road at a reasonable hour the next day. Full of joy and determination, I headed out for one final party, to celebrate the time honored tradition of sharing cocktails with friends. I stayed out too late that night, for reasons that I really wouldn’t understand until the next day were actually connected to my UNreadiness to leave.
On Sunday morning, the world came crashing down. It began with my ignoring the alarm, and quickly snowballed into my complete inability to perform simple tasks, such as thinking. Suddenly the idea of taking everything that was left in the house and putting it in a small car and driving away forever seemed to be the most impossible thing I had ever attempted. I hated my clothes; I hated my books; I hated boxes, dust rags, packing tape, and even NPR; but most of all, I hated myself. Fortunately, at the point of finding myself completely immobile amidst a precarious pile of objects, I also found myself reaching out for help from a good friend, who came through in a way I could never imagine and scarcely know how to repay. Consolations were given, strategies created, and tears dried. Together, we packed and cleaned for the next 12 hours, until the house was ready to be turned over, and the car was on the verge of bursting. I was forced to admit to myself that I had been, in fact, in NO WAY WHATSOEVER ready to leave Berkeley; but at least if I had to spend another night there I was in good company.
The next morning I set out early, car lumbering and heavy, storms on the horizon, and with a plan to take the coastal route in an attempt to save both my nerves and the car from the Grapevine. The drive was easy enough; I stopped only twice – once to nap and once for gas, and made it home in a respectable 10 hours. About 7 hours into the drive, where the 101 careens out of Ventura County and into the San Fernando Valley, my iPod died. A small inconvenience compared to the rest of my setbacks in this move, I still took it as a grave loss, and yet another sign of my inability to prepare for the trip. I turned on NPR, a familiar resting place, and was slightly disappointed to hear that the show just starting was “Speaking of Religion,” one unfamiliar to me, and far too dry for my impending dash through LA. It took only a few minutes for me to warm up to it, though.
The topic of this particular show was appropriate for the day (Dec 21): Hanukkah, and a Rediscovery of Jewish Customs. On the surface, this could go many unexciting ways. But the introduction of the guest, “book designer and author Scott-Martin Kosofsky,” piqued my interest – a book designer brought on the show to discuss a rediscovery of Jewish customs? What’s his angle….? His angle, it turns out, is a very fascinating one. Kosofsky is the author/editor of a modern edition of the medieval work the Book of Customs, which guided Jewish families through the liturgical year for three centuries. And rather than trying to fit modern life rigidly into anachronistic practices, as I had expected, he lovingly and painstakingly researched the basis and intent of the original text, and along the way discovered some rather profound (at least for me) things in order to bring tradition back into modern life.
I will not review the entire hour show; if your interest is piqued, you can find the podcast and a few other extras here: http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2008/hanukkah/
The things that struck me the most is his consistent return to a few simple themes, no matter the season, liturgy, or holiday he was discussing. One was the ever-changing relationship of man to God, and the changing character of God throughout the liturgy. Growing up Protestant, God did not have a character – he simply WAS. He wasn’t ever ill-tempered or impatient, he was never mischievous, never anything other than all-knowing and all loving. In Kosofsky’s view, God was all of these things, and the story of humans is the story of our interactions with God.
But the theme which left the greatest impression on me is actually that which inspired the original writing of the text – that at the very base of all traditional practices of all sects of the Jewish faith is the adherence to these principles in order to “live like a good person;” that “what you believe follows only after what you do.” I grew up around many observant (reform) Jewish families, and was often a part of holidays and daily practices. Yet this idea was something wholly new to me, at least in the simple way Kosofsky put it: that to be Jewish in faith in a very simple way means to believe in the one God, the chosen people, and the customs to live by. I find this profoundly beautiful, and worth deeper consideration.
While the idea of this simplicity in the Jewish faith had been rolling around in my head since I first heard it, it took something more modern for it to become the subject of a blog – the traffic alert signs on the freeways in LA. After making it breathlessly to San Diego yesterday, I was obliged to go up to Los Angeles today to see friends before I leave for Canada. I am familiar with this stretch of freeway, and am usually amused to see how notices on the oversized LED boards are worded, informing us either dryly or unwittingly humorously about road conditions, traffic, and possible kidnappings. Or, in a perfect world, giving us advice on major decisions a la “LA Story.” I was surprised, then, when the only text, on every sign I passed, on each leg of the 130-mile drive, was “DON’T TEXT WHILE DRIVING JAN 1ST.” Had LA Story come true? Have the signs finally decided they know what is best for us? After about the 8th sign, my brain made the connection – while this might not count as a custom to help you “live like a good person,” it certainly is an example of a required adherence to law in order to protect other members of society. In reality, I enjoy texting in the car and will be glad to be in Canada by the time the law goes into effect. But it also made me wonder more deeply about the role of these shared customs and laws, and in particular about the connections forged by shared remembrances. As a life-long agnostic who’s relationship with God has been at best nebulous and at worst antagonistic, this interpretation of the Jewish faith has hit me as unnervingly comfortable and personal. Perhaps it’s the timing of the receipt of the message, in the midst of my own on-going crisis of changing places, but the idea of living before believing, or living in order to believe (rather than the traditional Christian converse of this idea), may be one that changes my views on religion. Stay tuned…
In the meantime, enjoy this English translation of the cover of a 1593 Venetian print of the Book of Customs:
C U S T O M S
MUCH NICER THAN THE PREVIOUS VERSIONS
Everyone will enjoy reading it!
Contains all the customs in Ashkenaz for the entire year
and includes customs for Italy, Poland, Bohemia, Moravia,
and several more.
Laws explained well, so you will know
how to live like a good person.
And it was not forgotten to include a CALENDAR for seventy
years, counted precisely, containing the zodiac and the times
for Rosh Hodesh, which were not included previously.
Image of woodcut encircled by text:
"This is God, our God
forever and ever, He
will be our guide"
– Psalms 48:14 –
Printed for the second time in the Big City of
V E N I C E
in the year 5353 /1593 at the house of Zuan di Gara
In preparation for my arrival in Canada, I had planned to move out of the apartment in Berkeley and drive down to San Diego on Saturday. I was looking forward to it – ready for the adventure, ready for something new, braced to face the unknown. I navigated the social calendar of the week, with parties, happy hours, and meals, interspersed with packing and cleaning. When Friday arrived, I knew I was a bit behind, but felt confident that I would be able to finish packing and get on the road at a reasonable hour the next day. Full of joy and determination, I headed out for one final party, to celebrate the time honored tradition of sharing cocktails with friends. I stayed out too late that night, for reasons that I really wouldn’t understand until the next day were actually connected to my UNreadiness to leave.
On Sunday morning, the world came crashing down. It began with my ignoring the alarm, and quickly snowballed into my complete inability to perform simple tasks, such as thinking. Suddenly the idea of taking everything that was left in the house and putting it in a small car and driving away forever seemed to be the most impossible thing I had ever attempted. I hated my clothes; I hated my books; I hated boxes, dust rags, packing tape, and even NPR; but most of all, I hated myself. Fortunately, at the point of finding myself completely immobile amidst a precarious pile of objects, I also found myself reaching out for help from a good friend, who came through in a way I could never imagine and scarcely know how to repay. Consolations were given, strategies created, and tears dried. Together, we packed and cleaned for the next 12 hours, until the house was ready to be turned over, and the car was on the verge of bursting. I was forced to admit to myself that I had been, in fact, in NO WAY WHATSOEVER ready to leave Berkeley; but at least if I had to spend another night there I was in good company.
The next morning I set out early, car lumbering and heavy, storms on the horizon, and with a plan to take the coastal route in an attempt to save both my nerves and the car from the Grapevine. The drive was easy enough; I stopped only twice – once to nap and once for gas, and made it home in a respectable 10 hours. About 7 hours into the drive, where the 101 careens out of Ventura County and into the San Fernando Valley, my iPod died. A small inconvenience compared to the rest of my setbacks in this move, I still took it as a grave loss, and yet another sign of my inability to prepare for the trip. I turned on NPR, a familiar resting place, and was slightly disappointed to hear that the show just starting was “Speaking of Religion,” one unfamiliar to me, and far too dry for my impending dash through LA. It took only a few minutes for me to warm up to it, though.
The topic of this particular show was appropriate for the day (Dec 21): Hanukkah, and a Rediscovery of Jewish Customs. On the surface, this could go many unexciting ways. But the introduction of the guest, “book designer and author Scott-Martin Kosofsky,” piqued my interest – a book designer brought on the show to discuss a rediscovery of Jewish customs? What’s his angle….? His angle, it turns out, is a very fascinating one. Kosofsky is the author/editor of a modern edition of the medieval work the Book of Customs, which guided Jewish families through the liturgical year for three centuries. And rather than trying to fit modern life rigidly into anachronistic practices, as I had expected, he lovingly and painstakingly researched the basis and intent of the original text, and along the way discovered some rather profound (at least for me) things in order to bring tradition back into modern life.
I will not review the entire hour show; if your interest is piqued, you can find the podcast and a few other extras here: http://speakingoffaith.publicradio.org/programs/2008/hanukkah/
The things that struck me the most is his consistent return to a few simple themes, no matter the season, liturgy, or holiday he was discussing. One was the ever-changing relationship of man to God, and the changing character of God throughout the liturgy. Growing up Protestant, God did not have a character – he simply WAS. He wasn’t ever ill-tempered or impatient, he was never mischievous, never anything other than all-knowing and all loving. In Kosofsky’s view, God was all of these things, and the story of humans is the story of our interactions with God.
But the theme which left the greatest impression on me is actually that which inspired the original writing of the text – that at the very base of all traditional practices of all sects of the Jewish faith is the adherence to these principles in order to “live like a good person;” that “what you believe follows only after what you do.” I grew up around many observant (reform) Jewish families, and was often a part of holidays and daily practices. Yet this idea was something wholly new to me, at least in the simple way Kosofsky put it: that to be Jewish in faith in a very simple way means to believe in the one God, the chosen people, and the customs to live by. I find this profoundly beautiful, and worth deeper consideration.
While the idea of this simplicity in the Jewish faith had been rolling around in my head since I first heard it, it took something more modern for it to become the subject of a blog – the traffic alert signs on the freeways in LA. After making it breathlessly to San Diego yesterday, I was obliged to go up to Los Angeles today to see friends before I leave for Canada. I am familiar with this stretch of freeway, and am usually amused to see how notices on the oversized LED boards are worded, informing us either dryly or unwittingly humorously about road conditions, traffic, and possible kidnappings. Or, in a perfect world, giving us advice on major decisions a la “LA Story.” I was surprised, then, when the only text, on every sign I passed, on each leg of the 130-mile drive, was “DON’T TEXT WHILE DRIVING JAN 1ST.” Had LA Story come true? Have the signs finally decided they know what is best for us? After about the 8th sign, my brain made the connection – while this might not count as a custom to help you “live like a good person,” it certainly is an example of a required adherence to law in order to protect other members of society. In reality, I enjoy texting in the car and will be glad to be in Canada by the time the law goes into effect. But it also made me wonder more deeply about the role of these shared customs and laws, and in particular about the connections forged by shared remembrances. As a life-long agnostic who’s relationship with God has been at best nebulous and at worst antagonistic, this interpretation of the Jewish faith has hit me as unnervingly comfortable and personal. Perhaps it’s the timing of the receipt of the message, in the midst of my own on-going crisis of changing places, but the idea of living before believing, or living in order to believe (rather than the traditional Christian converse of this idea), may be one that changes my views on religion. Stay tuned…
In the meantime, enjoy this English translation of the cover of a 1593 Venetian print of the Book of Customs:
C U S T O M S
MUCH NICER THAN THE PREVIOUS VERSIONS
Everyone will enjoy reading it!
Contains all the customs in Ashkenaz for the entire year
and includes customs for Italy, Poland, Bohemia, Moravia,
and several more.
Laws explained well, so you will know
how to live like a good person.
And it was not forgotten to include a CALENDAR for seventy
years, counted precisely, containing the zodiac and the times
for Rosh Hodesh, which were not included previously.
Image of woodcut encircled by text:
"This is God, our God
forever and ever, He
will be our guide"
– Psalms 48:14 –
Printed for the second time in the Big City of
V E N I C E
in the year 5353 /1593 at the house of Zuan di Gara
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Suitcases for shoes….
We all know that old [Forrest Gump] adage that says you can tell a lot about a person by the shoes she wears. A relatively obvious corollary is that of volume – HOW MANY shoes she has. Being from San Diego, I am painfully aware of the primary statement; I have long held contempt for men who wear slide-sandals, or really any other kind of man-sandal [mandal], for that matter. Though San Diego is a very laid-back place, there are very strict unwritten rules for appropriate footwear, which, if broken, allow for a large amount of judgment on the part of those of us who subscribe to the no-mandal doctrine.
I never imagined, however, that the second statement might apply to me. Yes, I have a certain style; yes, I tend to have more clothes than I need (who doesn’t); but I’m a pretty low-maintenance woman. I don’t often go shopping, I don’t ascribe a lot of value to brand names, and I don’t have shoes that I don’t wear.
Or so I believed….
Today I started sorting and packing my clothes in preparation for the trip, going through to see if there was anything that I could sell or give to Goodwill to make the load lighter. The closet and the dresser were simple tasks; after all, I’d already done a good deal of packing of the clothes before thanksgiving. As I got to the bottom of the closet, however, it became a bit like a treasure hunt. I have a box to hold handbags; this is one of my admitted weaknesses. As I began to go through them, I actually discovered bags and purses that I haven’t used since college. COLLEGE. Each layer revealed a new era in my history, beginning with my current uber-hipness, upheld by simple yet functional [“smart and attractive”] shoulder bags that I acquired at the beginning of grad school. These top two thicker horizons were underlain with a sprinkling of decorative bags [ie: silk Chinese take-out shaped clutch] that I’ve never used, but were gifts so I’ve held on to them. As these were removed one by one, however, I encountered an unexpected base to the bag formation: the assortment of tiny purses I used in college. I used to carry a small “armpit purse” every day in college. I can’t believe it myself – I’m pretty sure I can fit ten of those in the bag I use every day today. Naturally, they go in the “buffalo exchange” pile.
What was most surprising to me, however, was what was hidden under the bags….
I like shoes. We all know this. I’m currently [publicly] panicking about having to wear ugly shoes in order to survive a winter with all of my toes. I currently have +/- 12 pair of shoes sitting right next to my front door, having worn them each at least once in the past two weeks. I went through the remaining shoes hanging in the canvas holder in my closet, and decided to keep two pair and put four pair in the “buffalo exchange” pile. There were even 3 pair that were so thrashed I had to throw them away. I haven’t been doing the math, but that’s a lot of shoes. And then I moved the handbags.
I opened the little canvas storage box under the lowest layer of handbags, and, OMFG, there are those loafers I wore for halloween two years ago. I love those shoes – I should keep them. Oh, and hey, there are the strappy platforms that Tony helped me pick out! Forgot about those – they should go in the shoe rack now that there’s room. Hey, another box! I had no idea I had this much room in my closet. What’s in here – Holy Crap I Forgot All About These Blue Heels! I should wear them before I move. What pretty shoes!
This internal monologue went on quite a bit longer, until I finally had the closet cleared and there were no more places for shoes to hide. I ended up with five more pair that I wanted to keep, not counting those that I’m getting rid of. What am I going to do with all of these shoes?
Having some kind of emotional attachment to each pair that I didn’t immediately decide to get rid of, the idea of letting SOMEONE ELSE wear my shoes [I could totally find an outfit for them] is just unbearable. The only solution is to find room for them on the move. The biggest challenge, then, is that I’ve decided to limit myself to two [2] large suitcases for the flight east. Even when the shoes that are inappropriate for winter [read: lead to missing toes] are factored out of the spatial equation, it’s looking as though one of those suitcases will be exclusively for shoes. SHOES. When I account for all the matching scarf/hat/gloves sets that I found today [I’ve lived in coastal California my entire life], I don’t know how I’ll have room for any real clothes.
You can survive a winter in Toronto wearing only a fancy coat, some pretty boots, and matching scarf/hat/glove set, right? I should probably bring some underwear too….
I never imagined, however, that the second statement might apply to me. Yes, I have a certain style; yes, I tend to have more clothes than I need (who doesn’t); but I’m a pretty low-maintenance woman. I don’t often go shopping, I don’t ascribe a lot of value to brand names, and I don’t have shoes that I don’t wear.
Or so I believed….
Today I started sorting and packing my clothes in preparation for the trip, going through to see if there was anything that I could sell or give to Goodwill to make the load lighter. The closet and the dresser were simple tasks; after all, I’d already done a good deal of packing of the clothes before thanksgiving. As I got to the bottom of the closet, however, it became a bit like a treasure hunt. I have a box to hold handbags; this is one of my admitted weaknesses. As I began to go through them, I actually discovered bags and purses that I haven’t used since college. COLLEGE. Each layer revealed a new era in my history, beginning with my current uber-hipness, upheld by simple yet functional [“smart and attractive”] shoulder bags that I acquired at the beginning of grad school. These top two thicker horizons were underlain with a sprinkling of decorative bags [ie: silk Chinese take-out shaped clutch] that I’ve never used, but were gifts so I’ve held on to them. As these were removed one by one, however, I encountered an unexpected base to the bag formation: the assortment of tiny purses I used in college. I used to carry a small “armpit purse” every day in college. I can’t believe it myself – I’m pretty sure I can fit ten of those in the bag I use every day today. Naturally, they go in the “buffalo exchange” pile.
What was most surprising to me, however, was what was hidden under the bags….
I like shoes. We all know this. I’m currently [publicly] panicking about having to wear ugly shoes in order to survive a winter with all of my toes. I currently have +/- 12 pair of shoes sitting right next to my front door, having worn them each at least once in the past two weeks. I went through the remaining shoes hanging in the canvas holder in my closet, and decided to keep two pair and put four pair in the “buffalo exchange” pile. There were even 3 pair that were so thrashed I had to throw them away. I haven’t been doing the math, but that’s a lot of shoes. And then I moved the handbags.
I opened the little canvas storage box under the lowest layer of handbags, and, OMFG, there are those loafers I wore for halloween two years ago. I love those shoes – I should keep them. Oh, and hey, there are the strappy platforms that Tony helped me pick out! Forgot about those – they should go in the shoe rack now that there’s room. Hey, another box! I had no idea I had this much room in my closet. What’s in here – Holy Crap I Forgot All About These Blue Heels! I should wear them before I move. What pretty shoes!
This internal monologue went on quite a bit longer, until I finally had the closet cleared and there were no more places for shoes to hide. I ended up with five more pair that I wanted to keep, not counting those that I’m getting rid of. What am I going to do with all of these shoes?
Having some kind of emotional attachment to each pair that I didn’t immediately decide to get rid of, the idea of letting SOMEONE ELSE wear my shoes [I could totally find an outfit for them] is just unbearable. The only solution is to find room for them on the move. The biggest challenge, then, is that I’ve decided to limit myself to two [2] large suitcases for the flight east. Even when the shoes that are inappropriate for winter [read: lead to missing toes] are factored out of the spatial equation, it’s looking as though one of those suitcases will be exclusively for shoes. SHOES. When I account for all the matching scarf/hat/gloves sets that I found today [I’ve lived in coastal California my entire life], I don’t know how I’ll have room for any real clothes.
You can survive a winter in Toronto wearing only a fancy coat, some pretty boots, and matching scarf/hat/glove set, right? I should probably bring some underwear too….
the Origin of morethanlolcat....
Just in case you were curious - the title of the blog is a reflection of my mixed feelings about indulging in self-aggrandizement via the internet. Here is a poem which expresses that:
POEM
POEM
I am just
another bro on the tumblr memesphere.
Trying to go viral
(on a small and meaningful scale)
Want people to value my memes
but want my audience 2 be limited 2
ppl who ‘get’ high-end memes.
I am more than just a lolcat.
Everyone Wants to Sleep in My Bed
Just not with me....
This week marked my official entrance into the craigslist economy. Not only did I find a place to live in the TO, I also listed 3 (THREE) items for sale in the classified. And right away I started getting emails about my bed. No surprise, because its an AWESOME bed. Particularly because I have slept in it for the last 5 years. The only downside: I really don't want to talk to anyone; people who want to buy my bed are SO ANNOYING. I wish the bed would just disappear and money would appear in my wallet. Wouldn't that be cool? Get on that, Craislist.
Now if only someone wanted the chair......
This week marked my official entrance into the craigslist economy. Not only did I find a place to live in the TO, I also listed 3 (THREE) items for sale in the classified. And right away I started getting emails about my bed. No surprise, because its an AWESOME bed. Particularly because I have slept in it for the last 5 years. The only downside: I really don't want to talk to anyone; people who want to buy my bed are SO ANNOYING. I wish the bed would just disappear and money would appear in my wallet. Wouldn't that be cool? Get on that, Craislist.
Now if only someone wanted the chair......
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Because I really am More Than Just a LOLcat.
I was talking (drinking) with Marina last night, who I LOVE btw, and she told me I needed to have a BLOG. While I was and am hesitant, there are a few good reasons for me to comply and officially become a part of the meme generation:
1) Stupid things happen to me as much/more than they do to everyone else, and I like sharing my embarrassing moments with others. This is far and away the biggest reason.
2) I find excitement and interest in all kinds of tiny things and figure someone else I know will share these feelings.
3) I'm moving out of the country so hilarity/deep thoughts will most likely occur regularly.
That's about it. Also, because I am sooo much more than just the combination of my Facebook and Flickr accounts. Perhaps one day I'll find my true voice as a blogger, but for now I must simply declare that I am more than just a LOLcat.
I'll be on facebook if you need me.
1) Stupid things happen to me as much/more than they do to everyone else, and I like sharing my embarrassing moments with others. This is far and away the biggest reason.
2) I find excitement and interest in all kinds of tiny things and figure someone else I know will share these feelings.
3) I'm moving out of the country so hilarity/deep thoughts will most likely occur regularly.
That's about it. Also, because I am sooo much more than just the combination of my Facebook and Flickr accounts. Perhaps one day I'll find my true voice as a blogger, but for now I must simply declare that I am more than just a LOLcat.
I'll be on facebook if you need me.
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