Silence

I have always enjoyed keeping this blog, and it has been a good receptacle for all my school frustrations and daily concerns. Now, however, I find myself in a situation so unexpected and personal that I can’t really figure out how to update this thing.

Let’s leave it at the fact that things have come up, and my world is kind of free-floating right now, and the world is a strange place when all the goals of your life rearrange like teeth under braces. I will be fine, and I will be in touch, but for now I am lost for words.

Take care.
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Settling

Am back from vacation, and am finally forcing myself into activity and productivity. Not an easy task, at all. Oh well, they tell me I should be refreshed, so that is what I am aiming to be.

But who can forget fun like this:



Oh, Amanda.
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Who Dey?

After all night on a Greyhound, I have returned from the land where stars and stripes are flown. So many memories. So many strange and exotic sights. So many hours spent on buses.

The highlight: four obese people of indiscriminate gender marching single file down an Ohio street all wearing American flag t-shirts.

Ah, yes. America the beautiful, indeed.

The low point: Having someone take my picture wearing my festive false moustache and having the entire houseful of party goers hear the photographer’s stunned gasp of, “Wow! You really do look like a man!”

See? Keeping me humble.

Actually, I had a great time, thanks to my hosts. I gladly eat some crow about some of my smug anti-American sentiments (some, not all), and would not be sorry to visit again.

Even the Wal~Mart was fairly civilized. Who'd have guessed?
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O-H-I-O

Got here safe. Only one run-in with a crack-head on the bus, and she was on the CANUCK side of the border!

More news when I can.
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And Away I Go...

See you around, Canada!

Wish me luck...
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Pre-Flight Jitters?

Well, not exactly… Pre-Greyhound jitters, maybe.

By the time you read this, there will likely be NO MORE SLEEPS TIL OHIO!

TODAY IS THE DAY!

Ohio, here I come.

It is midnight. I need to be up in about five hours. I should already be asleep, but my stomach is threatening to come up my windpipe. One small trip to the States, and I am already into the whiskey for a nightcap to take the nerves off… not good.

(Oh, and I will be crossing the Ontario/Michigan border at about 5.10pm… stop wherever you are and say a little prayer for me. No arrests; no detaining; no strip searches… those are the goals. You hear that Uncle Sam???)

CINCINNATI OR BUST!

I will update when I can, to let you all know I am still alive. However, if I miss you for some reason, L' shanah tovah (5767) to one and all!

HAPPY ROSH HaSHANAH!!!
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Urgh!

ARGH! BLACK CLOUD OVER HEAD... SHOO!

OK… If there are any omen specialists out there, can you tell me if the following signs are telling me not to travel this week:

The strap on my bag broke, I stabbed myself with a letter opener while trying to change the battery on my watch, nothing seems to be where I left it, and nothing is working out for me right now…

At this rate, I will end up in Fargo with no idea how I ended up there, and I will never make it to Ohio in one piece.

Bad luck: Please accept this as your Cease and Desist Order.

Thanks.
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I Gots Me Funny Money

Bully for the loonie, eh? I got a wad of American cash with a really hella good exchange rate. I am looking at it right now, this strange and foreign currency… Longer than ours, and more narrow. It doesn’t even look real.

Feel the power of portable wealth! Too bad the USD is sinking fast, or I would feel prepared for anything. In the 30s it was diamonds and tinned food… now it is American greenbacks. I may hold on to some when I get back home, just in case of world conflagration.

But, for now, into the money belt it goes (I am traveling through Detroit, you know), to wait its voyage back home.

How weird to be using paper one dollars again!

Ohio, here I come!
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Globe-Trotter, Me

Come Tuesday morning, it will be ONE MORE SLEEP TIL OHIO! Lord, I never imagined that “hey, Amanda, I should come down for your birthday” would ever turn into this.

Now, all I have left is to run over to the Royal to purchase some American greenbacks, and then make it to my bus on time for noon on Wednesday… Oh, and get some sleep Tuesday night, so I don’t show up in Cincinnati looking like total and utter dog crap. That, too.

So, amidst all this today, my e-tickets and reservation details for my October conference in Vancouver arrived in my email today, all booked and paid for by the good people at the Association for Canadian Studies. EEEK!

Who would have ever thought that I, of all people, would be traveling to Ohio for a week in September, to Vancouver for a weekend in October, and possibly to Washington DC for four days in November???

Me, who thinks of a trip down to the Shopper’s by myself as an adventure!

Well, all I can say is: Go me!
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A PSA from a Grumpy Democrat

In the last three days, I have been annoyed three times by the sheer rudeness and disrespect some people manage to display. Three things that really jabbed my cuticles, in as many days… And the three people who really, truly, need quick, immediate and unexpected corrective smacks up side the head are:

1) The GRT bus driver now known as “Surly.”

This charming fellow is not only sour looking, but a complete jackass. While making the trek out to the dreaded mall to do my civic duty by spending money I don’t really have, I witnessed Surly not only savage a poor girl to her face, verbally, but needlessly continue to bad mouth her for two more blocks after she had gotten off. Here in KW, they have those buses where you have to press your hand against the back door to get it to open. There is a sign, but it has been faded, tagged and scrubbed into near uselessness. The young woman simply couldn’t figure out how to open the door. Surly blew, telling her that “she should read a few signs now and then – maybe she’d learn somethin’!” Basically, Surly called her an idiot and then proceeded to make her walk all the way back to the back of the bus to go through the humiliation of reading the sign and exiting, while the rest of us sat in silence, wishing ourselves a million miles away.

Okay, Mr. Petty King, I shouldn’t even have to tell you why you are an ass, but it seems you need it. Do you even know what it feels like to be ridiculed in public by a person in some sort of private-sector-position-of-authority? And, you know, I don’t care if you have had to answer that same question a hundred times that week. I happen to know that you guys have one hell of a Union and some damn good benefits, so perhaps you should just take the annoyances with the good, eh?

Being an ass never helped. So smarten up.


2) The HARDCORE! little streak of misery outside the Dollarstore.

While leaving the Dollarstore with a few select items, namely name tags for Amanda’s mega-stupendous-party-of-the-century-blast, I happened upon a charming little scene that chilled me to the bone. A girl of about 16 or 17, well past the age where these things even approach acceptable, if such an age exists, was waiting for her friend to get off the payphone. Blandly, she said, “I wanna break this door,” and started to kick and jab the call-box Plexiglas door. She was not angry, she did not look high… she didn’t even look excited. She just decided to randomly destroy something, for absolutely no reason, whatsoever.

See, you little curse on the face of our species, if you had shown even a drop of any emotion at all, I wouldn’t have been so disturbed… The fact that you would coldly and illogically seek to destroy something that meant nothing to you sickens me. There is a word… maybe you would have heard of it, if you ever made it to class… it is “Sociopath.” Perhaps you can go be a love and look that up, eh? And, no, I refuse to hyper-link it for you. I hope you can still google, even through your righteous fog of affected disaffectedness.

Now, at 28, far be it from me to piss and moan about “this generation” versus “my generation” (frankly, my generation was a legion of putzes, too, so I won’t even go into that), but kids today do scare me a little… It won’t be the meek that inherit the earth, but, rather, a fleet of Mike Teevees. What’s our chances of surviving that, huh?


3) The Ontario Soccer Mom with Automatic Cell-Phone Kung Fu Grip.

While waiting in line to buy my discount Canadian flags and travel-sized packets of antacid, I had the (non) pleasure of witnessing one of Ontario’s society pillars, complete with cherry red SUV parked outside, gabbing on her cell phone about some pediatrician visit with some unknown victim/co-culprit. She was bragging about how her little Madison is peeing at a sixth-grade level, or some other sick preoccupation that a micro-managing house parent might give a rat’s ass about.

Two points made this creature worthy of the final slot in this rant…

First, she never ONCE spoke to, or even looked at, the woman working at the cash register. Not a “thanks”, not a “hello”, not a single “bye.” Not even a smile. Nothing. What is it about people like this that make them so friggin’ sure that cashiers are merely human by law, not by any standards of humanity?

It never once occurred to you that, to be civil, you had a duty to at least look at her once? Did it ever cross your mind that she might at least like to hear a simple, “thanks”? I realize she didn’t hand-craft your middle-aged-plaster-like-concealor and sun-visor-decorator-Kleenexs, but she is, after all, human, even if you don’t agree.

And, fine, even if your humanity cannot be touched on a general, abstract level, how about in the case of the poor little waste-in-the-making by the name of Madison, at whom you glanced a total of ONCE during the entire trip to the Shopper’s?

This kid, with whom you are so (theoretically) engrossed that you can spend the entire time yakking about a doctor’s opinions of her skin tone and potty habits… this child who didn’t ask to be born, but who you brought into this world… to her, you had nothing at all to say?

Poor Madison. So starved for attention, even from a stranger (since none could be found from her breeder) she stared directly at my face for a full minute until I finally broke down and communicated with a smile and a little “hi!” Did you notice that she then spent another minute jabbering at me about something on the impulse rack like she was rushing through her last words before the gallows? Have you ever thought she might actually enjoy the chance to tell something, anything, to you?

Lord. The child seemed to be about four, and she was already reaching out to random strangers, because you were there and not there all at once! Imagine her future… I hope you feel every last pin and needle of the pain that awaits you as that child marches straight out your door and never returns.

I hope your cell phone can comfort you then, lady… But I doubt it will ever bring your grandchildren around, either.

So, yes… Sometimes, it is difficult to maintain my faith in our collective worth as a species. However, there are other people I could list who make me smile to think of them. It is too bad that the rotten apples get all of the attention, but these are the people we need to target for our dislike and censure. These same people would likely defend unto death the supremacy of humans over non-human animals, yet one wonders if they ever in their lives contemplated actually acting like real humans.

Well, they had better reconsider a few things. Someday, me or someone like me, will finally say “enough” and deliver that much-needed cuff to the head that they so desperately ask for. Why must it go so far? Maybe people just don’t know how far a little kindness and respect and self-control can go. Maybe they never learned how to live in polite society. Maybe they have forgotten. Maybe they, too, have been beaten down by scenes of too many people who don’t give two flying figs.

Whatever the reason, the buck must stop here folks.

Just be nice, dammit.

Is that so hard?
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TWO MORE SLEEPS!

Comb your hair, brush your teeth, get that mud off your pants!

As of Monday morning...

TWO MORE SLEEPS TIL OHIO!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
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Take Off, You Hoser

Up late, getting a little work done, and watching Strange Brew (1983) by way of research for my departure for the Great State of Ohio on Wednesday. I figure, if they expect me to act like Bob and Doug McKenzie, I should take the trouble to re-watch the thing, eh?

So, this got me thinking about slang and other cool idiosyncrasies of the Great White North. I started to think of things I may want to weed out of my speech for the next week or so, just to be polite and accessible (or to over-crank just to annoy, as the case demands).

Aside from the over-use of the Canuck “u” in spelling, I know we must have slang of our own. TV pipes American trash into our brains from birth here, but we must have some things left that are distinctly our own, so help me out and drop a list of your favourite Canadian phrases, slang and terms.

A few of my favs:

• “To put the boots to you/it/him/‘er” – To express a healthy anger in a physical manner; to compete or drive with passion; to put one’s strength into something.
• “Beauty!” – OK, so this isn’t strictly Canuck, as I know it is also used a lot in Australia, but, oh my, the sound of that one, satisfied word expressed in a nice Canadian accent. Meaning: “Very good indeed – this pleases me!”
• “Maritimes” – I was surprised to realize that not everyone in the world knows this beloved term, or the adjective “Maritimer.” The Maritimes of Canada are the Atlantic provinces minus Newfoundland (for some reason) – Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and New Brunswick. In general, the term “Maritimer” technically means “someone from the Maritimes,” but also works out to mean “someone who is charming, witty, and loveable in almost every way, especially due to their adorable little accents.” Honest.
• “Back East” – UP HOME! (Alternatively, DOWN HOME!)
• “Bluenoser” – Folks from UP HOME. (Equiv. “Nova Scotioner.”)
• “Upper Canada” – Folks not from UP HOME (i.e. Ontaronians, who like to call themselves Ontarians, but who are they kidding?)
• “Out West” – That place over t'other side of Ontario.
• “Dipper” – A card carrying member of the NDP. (Whoot!)
• “loonie” – A dah-ller, eh?
• “double-double” – This one is a cheat, maybe, because it really is corporate-speak. This is a coffee from Tim’s with two cream and two sugars. However, once I started using this term at Star Bucks, I think it crossed the line into Canuck-lore-land.
• “serviette” – A paper napkin. General rule of thumb: Anything related to things mums may care about usually stem from really antiquated and chintzy British slang. This is a good example.
• “crack” – Technically Irish in origin, it can also be heard round down home. Not smoked from a pipe (necessarily), this is any type of fun.
• “toque” – I know that even Yanks use this term now, but I still claim it as ours. I had a beauty of a toque when I was a kid: red, white and blue stripped, with matching pom-pom, with “IRVING” knitted into the side all around it… yeah. That was left on the school bus pretty damned quick.
• “toque head” – The hair resulting from wearing previous item.
• “pogey” – Unemployment insurance, i.e. “Your brother-in-law’s beer allowance.”
• “poutine” – Canada’s answer to the Heart Smart menu: potato deep-fried in fat, covered with a layer of curded fat, and then topped off with a layer of liquid fat. Yum.
• “2-4” – a box of 24 beer… which is probably enough to kill five grown American men, after a lifetime wasted on the dishwater you all drink down there.
• “Making puppies” – A more polite euphemism for another, nastier term (ask me in private) for “doing nothing.”
• “G’Way!” or “G’Wan!” – A charming little Celtic remnant from UP HOME, meaning, “You know, I don’t fully believe that thing that you just said.”
• “Screech” – Severe and toxic drink; the last thing you will ever taste in this life, if you aren’t sufficiently braced for impact.
• “Whadda’yat?” – Translated: “Hello, fine fellow, well met! Pray tell, how you fair this fine morning?”
• “Mulroney” – A horrible, huge-chinned monster who scares small children and cuts funding with a huge, razor-covered mit. A cautionary tale of what could happen to anyone who gets into bed with Ronald Regan.

So, yeah, I know some of these expressions are pretty self-explanatory and may be all over, but, to me, they say Canada… Ah, Canucks. Bless our little white tube socks, eh?
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no title

You know... right now there are a million things I could post about, but somehow I feel too defeated. Insert your own post here, for now, 'kay?
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Making a Monkey Out of Benchley

“I can't bring myself to say, 'Well, I guess I'll be toddling along.' It isn't that I can't toddle. It's just that I can't guess I'll toddle.”

Today marks the 117th anniversary of the birth of great American wit, writer and satiric filmmaker, Robert Benchley, founding member of the Algonquin Round Table of the 1920s, and close friend of Harpo Marx, Charlie Chaplin, George Kaufman, and a million other heroes of mine. Oh, and Benchley himself also happens to be something of an icon to me. And I am not the only one. You only have to look at Benchley’s distinctive “so painful it is funny” mock-nervous speaking style to know that, had there not been Benchley, there would not have been Woody Allen or Bob Newhart.

Born in Worchester, Mass, on September 15, 1889, Benchley was the only child born on that day in his home city… this started a trend of being an individual, as well as making unique appearances. Benchley’s works includes hundreds of printed stories, essays, collected works, quips and bon mots. He was also behind around 46 of the funniest short films ever made, including the Oscar-winning How to Sleep (1935).

A product of solid middle-class roots, Benchley still had the insecurity and tragedy that is required of all American humorists: When his beloved older brother Edmund died in the Spanish-American War, his mother’s first reaction was: “Oh, why couldn’t it have been Robert?!?” Although she regretted saying it almost immediately, the comment became legend in the family, and one can easily see how Robert became a famous wit; it was either that or start hollowing out bullets and find a bell tower.

Famous for his New Yorker, Harvard Lampoon, Hollywood and publishing successes, Benchley always considered himself a lazy man, and not even a very good writer (his response: “But by the time I found out I couldn’t write, I was too famous at it to stop.”) However, today, aside from starting something of a writing dynasty including son Nat (The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming, 1966) and grandson Peter (Jaws, 1975), Robert Benchley also remains one of the foundational founding fathers of modern comedy and humour writing.

So, he is greatly missed since his death in 1945, but not forgotten. Don’t mourn. Instead, “get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.”

(Who else could have made such a line? The bastard… he does make one jealous.)
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What Says, “Canada!” to You, eh?

With only six (five when you read this) more sleeps until Ohio, I am finishing up some last minute souvenir shopping for my Yank pals. Mugs and chocolate loonies abound, but I am unsure about what really says “Canada.”

Ontario wine? A canister of Tim Horton’s coffee? Maple syrup? Stompin’ Tom CD? Roots wear?

A wooden replica of the Blue Nose?

So, I put it to all my Canuck readers: What would you bring to the USA to represent this place? What says “Canada” to you?

(And, for inspiration, the pic above is me on Canada Day a few years ago, after 16 hours of work, on very little sleep and a ton of Canuck pride… How do you think the Yank border guards will like me? I plan on leaving the hat at home… as well as my “Burn, Bush, Burn” t-shirt and Cuban flag pins. Just to be on the safe side, right?)
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Hell No, I Won’t Post

See, the only things in my brain right now consist of, “Gack – another meeting?” and “Oh man, what a drag it is to write another draft of that proposal!” and, the increasingly urgent and shrill whine of, “OMG, OMG, OMG – in less than a week I’ll be in Ohio (America)!”

(Not that I’m not looking forward to the many bacchanalian delights of Amanda’s birthday party, but I am just so not a traveler by nature.)

So, yeah… I’ve got nothing for now. I’ll try to write something actually informative tonight, maybe. After the three coronaries I have scheduled for this afternoon, and after I am done forcing myself through my meeting.

Life is… well, it is… You know? It just is, right now, really. Nerves are raw and bloody, but still they hang on. So I must follow suit.
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Hey, At Least I Still Have Josephine Baker

I got a rejection tonight, of sorts. Not for anything I ever expected to win, but it stung nonetheless. A paper has lost one competition, but is still in the running for something else, though, so it ain’t over til it’s over.

Still, any hint of rejection helps not my SSHRC application writing mood.

But, lord, thank the heavens for Josephine Baker… Who can feel bad when there are such joys to be had in this world?

All in all, pretty glad yesterday wasn’t the last day. Rejection or no.


(By the by, does life get any better than Baker’s “Aux iles Hawaii”? I'm not sure it does.)
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So Why Should I Worry?

Doctoral exams, plumbing issues, life-related stress…? Who cares!

According to this guy, the world will end sometime on September 12, 2006.

So I say, sit back and enjoy the ride.

(No one with this masterful a grasp on Biblical literature could be wrong, right?)
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Mommy, When Can I Go To School?

Classes started here at Laurier yesterday, but not for me. I have now finished my course component, so there shall be no more classes in my immediate future. I now have only my doctoral exams to get through this year, and I’m not even a TA this term.

So, yesterday the world started brand new classes, but not me.

I have been starting new classes every September since I was 5, in 1983. 23 years of starting out fresh with new teachers and new classmates, every fall.

Now I am left behind again. I am three again, watching my brother and sister go out for the bus, and not being able to go. So now what do I do? Watch Mr. Dressup and wait for it to be my turn?

So, yeah… I should be pleased, I guess, as no classes must seem awfully sweet to those poor souls who have to trudge off to school every day. But, really, it makes me kind of maudlin.

Something has changed. Some era has passed.

I’m going to miss classes, as much as I cursed over them.

I hate being left behind.
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Peace in the World (Religions)

Today in 1893, Chicago hosted the landmark first meeting of the Parliament of the World’s Religions. Despite the regrettable exclusion of Native spiritual leaders, this congress is often hailed as the official first step towards an era of interfaith dialogue in North America and beyond.

For 17 days, religious leaders, scholars and adepts from both Eastern and Western religious traditions met to share their experiences, educate each other, and to discuss common goals and challenges facing their professions and communities. Today, the congress is most especially remembered for the memorable appearance of the legendary Swami Vivekananda, who is often credited with introducing Hinduism to North America, and began the fascination with yogic wisdom that is still with us today.

The Parliament of the World’s Religions was a groundbreaking event in many ways, and was a major date in the development of the academic study of religion, as well as the increasing tolerance for diversity in the West. The Parliament expressed a desire amongst religious people to understand themselves and their counterparts in a broader global and multicultural world, and it aimed to highlight the commonalities amongst the world’s religious traditions, as well as to celebrate and study their differences.

With such a promising start, it is a shame to report that religious intolerance and misunderstandings still persist. Perhaps, today of all days, a memory of these delegates and what they were trying to do way back in 1893 is most especially needed.
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How Many Pages???

Have settled in to work through my ethics review proposal for my RA work. Luckily, the prof for whom I am working has written it up for me, but I have to go through it and give him my feedback. I also have to sign a form that says I have read and understood the ethics policies on using human subjects... all 93 pages of it. And it ain't exactly Archie and Jughead, here.

Sigh... no rest for the wicked.
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No Pudding for Me, Cause I Won’t Eat My Meat

Trying to wade through my comp reading, and praying for strength as my RA duties start in earnest for the year, I have been listening to some select tunes of note.

Manson has started to subside again, for now, which is a blessing for my attitude. The stars of the show this weekend would have to be Nat King Cole, Daler Mehndi, and Pink Floyd … I can’t explain that combination, except to say that the production of research proposals must be the mental equivalent to being pregnant, because the brain produces strange cultural cravings as compensation.

So, in honour of school returning across the nation, a little Floyd, if you please:



Ah, yes, sadists with a license to teach… I’ve known a few of those in my time. How about you?
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Don’t Pick It or It Will Never Heal

Finished a project a little while ago. It wasn’t well done, but it was done (or at least the term was). “Good enough for the girl I go with,” as they say. My partner in crime, who is lovely but a bit edgy, almost died at my dawdling, but she finally got what she needed from me. Now, she has started to review the thing again, and has found more things to do for it.

Gaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

OK, three rules for today:

1) Once summer is done, so is summer job.
2) Once fall research job starts, summer research job is no longer of interest.
3) Sometimes “Good Enough,” is, in fact, good enough.

Blah.
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October 30th

It is September 7th today, and it is a pretty nice, bright day. And what am I up to? That’s right – I am WORKING ON MY SSHRC AND OGS APPLICATIONS for October 30th.

sigh. My ongoing feud with these demoralizing and excruciating things continues for at least one more year. A proposal to write, an application to fill out, a CV to pad… So much to do in such a short time, for ABSOLUTELY NO GAIN.

And before I get a million comments and emails shouting, “This is your year, Holly!,” I should warn you I am pretty realistic about these things. Hollys of my variety do not win $35,000 research grants… It just doesn’t happen.

So, here’s to you, SSHRC, may you live long, alone and despised, and then die of genital rot. You are the bane of my existence every year, and, no, I can’t thank you for keeping me humble. For, you see, your form of humble is the bone-crushingly, chilled sort that makes me question my right to breathe, let alone be in PhD. I just can’t support that kind of torture; it is against the Geneva Convention.

Yay! Visions of rejection! What a great way to start off a new school year!


(PS: To take the edge off, I am throwing caution and flab to the wind and eating something chocolate. I lost over ten pounds in August, and I am pleased, but not even farm-fresh Mennonite apples perk the spirit in the belly of the SSHRC monster – sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.)
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Station Identification

Department dinner went off well last night – I made no blunders, and the new folks seem pretty OK. So, term is now underway, and comp reading and RA duties have started in earnest, and I have to admit I don’t really have much to say today, so I will keep this brief.

I have been thinking about the new controversy over the death of Steve Irwin, and I find the dilemma fascinating. The question: Can you show the death of a (white) man on TV? Where does “Life’s Work” end and “Snuff Clip” begin? Is this the TV version of that writer who wanted his collected works bound in his own skin after his death?

I’m not sure where I stand on this, but I must admit Irwin died as he lived, and I find his death a pretty cool way to go. Sure, 44 is a little young, but would we want to see a naturalist die at 98 in an old folks' home, when no one would remember him? Nah. I think he went out on a bang, and that’s pretty good.

***

On a great note, my favourite-est “student,” Murph, has finished up a pretty important project, which is making its maiden voyage today, so all good vibes and congratulations go out to him.

***

Now, back to reading. Yippee!
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For Heaven’s Sake – Don’t Pray!

Have you seen this little wonder? The story of a Hasidic (has this been confirmed, or was it just a guess that he was?) man removed from an Air Canada Jazz flight because he was praying? It seems his active, yet relatively sedate, Orthodox prayers so unnerved his fellow passengers that he was removed from the plane, even though several of the passengers did not recall being annoyed at all by his prayers.

They also remember, in specific, the steward noting that she realized it wasn’t a Muslim prayer, but it was still bothering people… My question: So what if it had been a Muslim prayer?

All I can say is, it is a good thing we don’t have armed air marshals, or who knows where this could have gone. Further, where else would one pray but when strapped on a tin can hurtling through the air with nothing but an air current between you and death? I don’t know about you, but that sort of thing would make me find G-d… Even if I were a Muslim.

Well, when I board that Greyhound bound for the US in a few weeks, I know what not to do. But then, the second most likely place for me to pray would be crossing the US border, so I may really be out of luck.

So, folks: You still don’t believe that secularism is a faith? Well, if it ain’t, it sure is competing like one.

***

(And, for those of you who have asked me: Do you still really contend that Jews are no longer “an exotic Other” in North America? That Jews have so assimilated that we can no longer speak of a Jewish ethnic identity on this continent? Get real folks. Jews are a fly in the ointment, still, for the main stream. We are the 8-million-strong Orientalist nightmare in the secular, liberal, post-Protestant imagination… and I, for one, hope we stay that way. Just for you.)
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Recluse, the Final Stages

So, today marks the official kick-off of a new school year here at WLU’s Religion & Culture Department. I have a PhD student get-together at 3pm, and a Department dinner at 5pm… The only things I have to attend this year, and, no, I don’t want to go to either of them.

So I must now face the reality that I am well and truly a recluse now. Soon I will start wearing large hats and a cowl when I am forced out into public, and will purchase a rifle to keep census takers off my property. It is official now, I guess.

When staying home and reading, or learning the delicate and frustrating intricacies of playing and singing the song “Rocky Road to Dublin,” seems like a better use of time than meeting my peers, there is a serious problem, savy?

Oh well, if I must, I must. Come on, Grin and Bear-It, time to do your stuff.
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Gothic Revival

Monday afternoon, while strolling, I was 18 again for 10 minutes.

I have been listening to some pretty rough music recently, fueled by stress and some sort of early mid-life crisis. I hadn’t really noticed it having any effect on my behaviour, but I realized my attitude had become retrograded when a Yuppie breeder and his little brood passed me on their oh-so-middle-class mountain bikes.

The guy took one long look at me, from my army boots, over the black “Columbine Special” trench, all the way up to my black hair, and I could tell the moment he came to his decision of “Thug!” There was almost a little DING! when he was done processing it. He very nearly clutched his precious little children to keep them from looking upon alternate modes of being.

This was fair play, of course, because I was mentally vomiting rivers over the way that his three little girls were dressed in identical pink, as if not dressing them in pink would mean they might grow up to be men.

Then, having shaken my head at a reminder of the subtle social-class warfare all around me, I passed a 17 year old girl with more metal in her face than is held by Fort Knox. “OMG!” she moaned. “Your t-shirt is AWE-some! I loooooove (Marilyn) Manson!” she gushed.

Looking at her, and simultaneously thinking, “Do you actually know the theological implications of the word ‘awesome’?” and “Yeah, I’m sure Manson loves you, too, bimbo,” I nodded, and kept going.

So, suddenly, I am "down" with “the young people”? I wasn’t even "down" with “the young people” when I was young.

Then a jock on a bike passed me, dinging his little bell at me (despite having a clear path), to which I promptly snarled, “You know where I’d like to shove that?” with a semi-evil grin. He looked back, startled, and I lit a smoke, feeling every inch the James Dean. I very nearly said, “Whaddaya got?”

So, for some reason, my adolescent attitude problems seem to have returned from out of the blue (complete with chip on shoulder), the same clothes I wore in 1996 seem to be making a comeback, and all my fears that I was turning into a Yuppie seem to have been unfounded.

That was probably the most rebellious walk back from Kinko’s a PhD student ever lived through. Go me!

(And, yes, the photo above is me in my salad days… There goes any future election, folks.)
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Labour Day 1996

Around this time, ten years ago, my family was gathered at the bus station. It was at the Ocean Spray Motel, across from the hospital – that is what served as our bus stop in Middleton. I had my bags and two boxes. My dad was quiet and nervous. My mum was trying not to cry, and was failing miserably. My brother Robert had been by that morning to say his farewells. I had kissed each goat, cat, and dog goodbye. I took one last look at every tree and building. I flipped the bird to my high school as we drove past it.

It was a typical autumn leaving-ritual.

We waited. The bus came, the driver got out for his coffee and a leak (the eternal cycle continues). I looked at my folks. My dad was in his dark green Mark’s Work Warehouse farm clothes, and a cap, and that hideous wallet chain. My mum was in her “go to town” mint green skirt and the pink sweater I had given her years before. She held Kleenex in her hand. They looked simple, my parents, like exactly what they were – a farm family, anxious and uncertain as the first child in the family ever to go to University waited for the final bus to take her away.

I think we all knew at the time that this was goodbye forever in many ways, but my mum said something lamely about Thanksgiving, and how far away it seemed right then. My dad said something about the dog missing me, but I knew he meant himself.

Finally, the driver came back out, with his plastic-wrapped egg salad sandwich and Pepsi. It was time to leave that dreary little Annapolis Valley town, that place I both loved and hated. My dad fussed about getting my bags into the underneath compartment, and then there were no more chores left to take care of but the last one. I gave a solid hug to my now-blubbering mother – my mum is short and round, coming up only to my chin. My dad and I exchanged a rare and awkward hug. I was trying to school my emotions… not to cry, or not to smile too broadly, I don’t remember which.

And then I got on the bus. Actually, I got on earlier than I had to, but their desire to hold me there was too horrible for me, and the drive to get out was too strong. And, I admit, the urge to just stay there and be their kid for a few more weeks or years also had to be fought back. Finally, with a sigh, the bus lurched. My dad waved one long, thin arm from where he leaned against his green pickup. I think I waved back, meekly. The bus pulled out, and Middleton started to become a vague memory almost immediately. I cried all the way to Kingston, 10 minutes away… But, then, suddenly, the tears dried up.

I was AWAY. I had beaten some system, I don’t know what. I was FREE!! All those years of study and dreams were finally starting to come to fruition. My youth, my high school years… all of that was now over. I was embarking on University.

I think I laughed out loud as we passed Kingston. The bus kept on going, out of the Valley, out of Nova Scotia, out, out, out… Just out.

In the past ten years, I have seen my parents maybe six times. I never did go home for Thanksgiving, preferring instead the solitude of an empty dorm. I haven’t been back since 2002, the summer before I left for Ontario. Whenever I visited, that same bus brought me there, and the same bus took me away. And every time I pass that way back out of the Valley, I laugh when I hit Kingston. My parents get further and further away every time I think of pulling out of that station, and every time I see my dad wave, he seems fainter and fainter.

They are people of the soil, but they had enough sense to know you can’t hitch a peacock to a plow… For that I do owe them much. But that still doesn’t make me any less of a peacock, nor them any less of people of the soil. Some people call me cold and ungrateful. But I say I am lucky and doing what I was destined to do the moment my forbearers landed at Pier 21.

I am one who got out.
*

Religious Studies: The Making of a Discipline

I am currently immersed in this weighty tome (Fortress Press, 1995), and I am racing against time to finish all 350 pages by Monday to keep on my schedule. Written by old school American religionist Walter H. Capps, it is a standard text on the history, trends and prevailing original ideologies in the creation of what he identifies as the tradition of Religious Studies as an academic discipline. He narrows the field of scholarly inquiry into religion to the formative questions of “What is religion?”, “Where did it originate from?,” “How can it best be described?,” and “What is the function of religion?” From Capps’ perspective, all Religious Studies can be judged on how it approaches and deals with these questions, as well as in what order of importance the questions are placed.

Capps’ history is far from an exciting read… In fact, I was tempted to toss it more than once. Further, along with being dry, it is also bladder-bustingly self-conscious and defensive about our field. Perhaps I come from a different generation, but don’t have even a glimmer of doubt that the academic study of religion is a worthy field. I also take it as a given that the multi-disciplinary nature of Religious Studies (in that economics, comparative religion, history, anthropology, philosophy, sociology, cultural studies, political science, textual studies, arts, biology, etc., all play roles in the work we do) is a strength, rather than the hidden shame that Capps makes it seem like.

Therefore, in terms of the usefulness of this book, I would recommend it if you are looking for a good account of this discipline’s history. The fact that it is on my Religious Studies field doctoral exam should give you a sense of its importance. However, if you are looking for an interesting read, look elsewhere… And if you are looking for a read that will make you feel secure about the well-being of Religious Studies in the University, I’d also find different reading matter, one that doesn’t feel quite so much like an apology for our lives and work.

Overall, this one is a downer.
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Back By Popular Demand

Sorry, folks. Sorry. I have finally gotten around to updating Clapboard Jungle with a pleasant piece of fluff you may enjoy. Thanks to Catherine for her extreme tolerance, and thank you to any readers who still happen to check that poor semi-abandoned thing. Summer holidays are over, and I am back on the case.

Working Like a Protestant

Well, now I am taking a break… but you should have seen me five minutes ago. Whew. Was I ever working my way into Heaven!

So, an update on the Holly stress situation. It all seems under control. How did I calm myself? Simple. I just sat my arse down and did some darn work. (I find in grad school that, whenever you are in a panic, actually trying to get things done soothes the feeling that they’re going to kick you out tomorrow. It’s a simple theory, but I find it is generally applicable.)

So, I have re-started comp reading, and have edited my dissertation proposal, and have finally worked through the comments and suggestions of all three committee members. How’s that for a morning’s productively, eh?

So… what to do now? Hmmm… how ‘bout some Mercer, huh?

Yay!

(PS – you feel up to reading over a dissertation proposal for me, let me know.)
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Rick Mercer’s Bits

Try as I might to get back on track with my reading for my doctoral exam, this just keeps stealing my attention.

“Hmm, time for lunch… May as well watch some Mercer.”

“Wow, my neck is sore from reading. Gee, a few Mercer clips wouldn’t take too long.”

“Hey! I finished a chapter… Let’s celebrate with some Mercer, shall we?”

“Haha… I just have to watch that Mercer-at-Stampede clip again.”

Oh, Rick Mercer. How long will you torment me? So what if you are like the nicest thing to look at on the CBC (which, admittedly, is not saying much)? Who cares that you’re a cute and funny (in a mom-sort-of-way) Newf – which makes you pretty irresistible?

I still have work to do, so leave me alone.


(Oh, and for all you Yanks out there, try this [pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, too] on.)
*

R.I.P. Martha

On September 1, 1914, the very last known Passenger Pigeon, Martha, died in captivity in the Cincinnati Zoo, and a species that once covered the continent was gone forever. Once considered the most common bird in the United States, at a population in the billions, the Passenger Pigeon became a regular target for hunting throughout the 1800s, and, due to the volume of available birds, was one of the main meat sources for landowners seeking to feed slaves.

However, since the bird only laid one egg at a time, the numbers decreased rapidly, and in 1900 the last recorded wild Passenger Pigeon was shot dead by a boy in Ohio. In 1914, Martha was the last of her kind, and, after her death, she was stuffed and mounted (see above), and can still be seen to this day in the Smithsonian collection: The last member of a species cut down by poor management and intolerable economic requirements spurred in part by the abhorrent practice of slavery.

Since her death, Martha has become possibly the most famous pigeon ever to have lived, and she has inspired at least two songs, one by bluegrass songwriter John Herald (“Martha”) and another rock band Paint By Numbers (“Sweet Sweet Martha”), and has become something of a poster-bird for the environmental movement that was no more than a whisper and a rumour during her lifetime. By identifying this one unfortunate animal, the danger of extinction is highlighted.

For, of course, if pigeons can go extinct, who or what on earth is safe?
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