Philoillogica

Laureen Harper: she bringeth her food from afar

Well.  Stephen Harper's certainly got his wife well trained.  The Globe's Ottawa Notebook reports that Laureen brought the forelorn Peter MacKay dinner on Thurday night after hearing that the poor thing had "hardly eaten during this difficult time."  According to Jane Taber, before the non-confidence vote, Laureen made dinner for MacKay and Harper, allowing the two political enemies to kiss and make up.  Seems like the love of a good woman - and a turkey sandwich - can heal the wounds inflicted by a bad one - especially the sort of licentious broad who goes out dancing on a school night.  That's just unladylike.

We don't get much information on Laureen Harper, except when Harper trots out his wife's existence for the odd press sound bite to prove that he actually acknowledges women's existence.  Of course, we never do find out what Laureen herself has to say about anything.  It seems that despite being a former Reform party strategist in her own right (who gave it up to concentrate on her "wifely duties"), Laureen's brain has gotten too muddled by all that baby-rearing and meal preparation she does to pay attention to Ottawa gossip herself.  So, like a good PromiseKeeper, Harper gives his wife the odd tidbit she can recite confidently at a PTA meeting or supermarket check-out line, and then he shares them with the rest of the country.   

On Wednesday, Harper said:

"I told my wife only a few days ago that I thought it had become obvious to Belinda that her leadership ambitions would not be reached in this party regardless of whether or not we won the next election."

He’s a wily one, that Harper. A real multi-tasker. This little snippet of wisdom offers a twofold benefit: not only does he disparage that deviously “ambitious” female, Belinda, but he also actively discourages Laureen from any kind of “blond ambition” tour of her very own. Wouldn’t want the missus to get too uppity now – there’s a masculine party to nourish back to health. Hence Laureen Harper’s dinner tour of 2005.

Of course, even if Laureen did defect to the dark side (doubtless to Madonna’s “Express Yourself”, since Belinda’s already spoken for “Material Girl”), Harper’s always got the other two wives in the wings:

Ooooooooohhhhhh. Dreamy. I’ll take a tie-less Harper over a potato-farming Peter MacKay any day. Thank God that gay marriage bill passed – I’ve always wanted to be a celestial wife.

Don't look back, Belinda

Now,  as a woman, I'm naturally more inclined towards news coverage of interpersonal relationships than any of that icky stuff known as "politics."  It makes my brain hurt too much, you see, when the pundits do their talking heads thing, and my sensitive girly bits can't handle all the rampant aggression that starts to flow when they start yelling at each other about that economy-thingie. It makes me nervous.  I just flip to the Arts and Life section as quickly as I possibly can, desperately trying to get away from anything that says "Gomery." 

That's why I'm so pleased about the way the newspapers are reporting Belinda Stronach's defection to the Liberal Party.  You see, I'm just thrilled that the front page story of the day is how "jilted" deputy Tory leader Peter MacKay's feeling about his treacherous former girlfriend.  Look at how sad he is on the cover of the Globe:

See?  MacKay's so sad that he had to flee home to Nova Scotia back to the warm embrace of his family and dog.  Can you read the secondary headline?  Apparently the lovelorn MacKay "pleaded with his lover into the wee hours" not to leave the party.  Stronach's choice "ripped out his heart", because the "handsome, ruddy-cheeked 39-year-old" known as "the Hill Times's reigning sexiest MP" was "completely surprized."  "I knew she'd been troubled," MacKay told reporters, "...but I didn't see this coming.  I didn't see it coming." 

Poor, poor dear.  What a bitch that Belinda Stronach was, defying the wishes of her "lover" so cruelly.  How could she allow her ambition and sense of personal responsibility to the country take precidence over what is obviously a more crucial role she had as a woman?  She was the deputy leader of the opposition's helpmate - how could she have given that role up so casually?  A source quoted in today's Globe even reveals that MacKay was considering making an honest woman out of her: "the MPs had discussed the possibility of marriage."  Marriage!  That foundation of all goodness in the world, that fundamentally perfect union that Conservatives consider so holy it is worth defeating the Charter of Rights and Freedoms for!  And Belinda rejected it! 

Clearly, Belinda Stronach is a traitor to more than her former party - she is a traitor to the proper role of women everywhere. 

Isn't that right, Bob Runciman? 

"She sort of defined herself as something of a dipstick, an attractive one, but still a dipstick, with what she's done here today. She is, at the end of the day, going to paint herself as something of a joke.”

What do you think, Stephen Harper?

Aw, hell.  Find your own Harper links.  That bastard gets more airtime to spout off about women's failings than George W. 

More to come.  I'm nowhere near done with this.

An entry in which the author compares the city of Fredericton to pickles, and the city of Toronto to a virgin

I've fallen in love with Toronto again.  We were rocky for awhile there, Toronto and I, a few years ago, but the trial separation seems to have worked its magic.  After planning a wedding, moving thrice in a year and dealing with roaches, prostitutes, violence and clutter-loving housemates in the only neighbourhood we could afford, I'd had it with the noise, the smog, the crowds, the expense and the general snootishness of the place.  In short, I started to have those "white flight" feelings that my privileged status and sense of entitlement encourage, and I felt that we deserved a far better quality of life than we could get in the inner parts of the city. 

"That's it," I announced to Sandor at four am, after being awakened for the third time by sirens.  "I've had it.  Time to find a nice small town and get the hell outta here.  We'll find someplace where we don't have to spend half of our income on rent, and where I can actually breathe in the summertime. Someplace where the neighbours don't tell their six year old to 'fuck off' when she doesn't get out of bed fast enough in the morning.   Where we have enough space to move the litter box out of the dining room.  Someplace where we can actually park our car." 

"There is no such place," said Sandor.  "Not nearby, anyway.  Besides, you'd hate it."

"No way," I said, with all the irritated confidence I could muster.  "I've had enough of Toronto." 

And with a flounce, I moved to Fredericton, where the houses are painted gay colours and the air is  fresh and everything and everyone is charmingly, irrepressibly nice.  Taxi drivers compliment your outfit; waitresses bring you snacks for free.  Kids wear little red boots on rainy days, just like in Beverly Cleary books.  I think that the word "fuck" is even illegal on Sundays. 

And Sandor was right.  Once the novelty wore off, I did hate it.  I missed the bustle and the variety and the crowds and the excitement of the big city.  I missed restaurants and movie theatres and second-hand shops and different festivals every weekend.  I missed public transit and big libraries and discounted tickets and the boardwalk and people-watching. 

But not being in Toronto has done me a world of good.  It's been a pickle day.

I must've read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn at least half a dozen times as a kid. When its heroine, Francie, gets tired of her poor family's regular diet of bread and potatoes, finding that "nothing tastes good anymore,"  she wends her way to a Jewish deli and gets herself a sour pickle.  "She didn't exactly eat it," the narrator explains.  "She just had it.  After pickle day, food started to taste good again.  Yes, pickle day was something to look forward to." 

And so it's been with my F'ton sojourn: I haven't really lived there, I've just been there.   But being there has made my Toronto life taste good again. It's given me the opportunity to really appreciate where I live, and for the first time in years, I've actually paid attention to Spring.

Springtime in Toronto arrives so slowly that it always reminds me of a virgin making love for the first time.  It usually starts sometime in April with a few teasingly sultry days that get everybody desperately excited and half-naked.  Pasty skin is exposed to the Toronto sun for the first time in months, while The Toronto Sun publishes screaming headlines like "Finally!" and "Spring into Summer!" accompanied by bright photos of barely legals stretched horizontal at Hanlan's Point.  All the patios reopen as fine and dandies relish their ability to keep drinking and smoking in the last bastion of restaurant freedom.  Middle-aged men break out their summer 'vert rides and the truly adventurous ones don their leather and take their hogs for a spin down to the local Starbucks and preen.  "Gimme some sugar, Spring-baby...oh yeah," Toronto sighs.  "This is gonna be it - she's gonna go all the way."

And then it snows.  Disappointed pasty skin gets covered up again, and the city walks around frustrated and grouchy, unable to get any kind of satisfactory release.  The lucky elite manage an auto-erotic version of Spring, flying south for a week or two where the weather gives it up for free every day of the year.  "Florida, Cuba, Turks and Caicos - now THEY put out," complains the Toronto Star travel section.  "Who needs a tease like Spring when we've got a Pandarus like Sunquest to hook us up?"

But then a select few things start to turn green.  Here and there, trees start to leaf out, and modesty returns to the ravines and parks that have been shamefully naked for months.

At the University of Toronto, spring comes to the Catholics first, then the lawyers.  St. Thomas Aquinas chapel always has its tulips up before anywhere else on campus, and then the blanket of blue scilla carpets the lawn outside the faculty of law.  The daffodils of the Methodists and the Anglicans are tied for third, while the non-denominational University College's fields turn into a swampland of fetid mud, proving that God really does play favourites. 

Torontonians start to feel hopeful again.  Maybe this'll be it.  Maybe Spring has come. 

But it doesn't last.  Spring doesn't trust Toronto.  She knows that Torontonians are fickle, that some just want to flirt with her for her warm weather and lush bounty, that the second she commits they'll just renounce her in favour of that hot young thing, Summer.  Spring's mother taught her right, "why buy the cow" and all that, and she's not going to wear her heart on her sleeve for a bunch of snobs that think they're the centre of the universe.  Uh-uh, no way.  She'll come when she's good and ready, thank you very much.  Patios and pedicures be damned, regardless of what the shoestores say. 

And so Spring picks and chooses her lovers carefully, coming first to those she knows will treat her best.  The maples of Scarborough flourish with blooms and leaves while the oak neighbourhoods of Riverdale and the Beach are left with little more than mere buds until the end of May.  "But we voted for the NDP!" they whine.  "We care about the environment - we recycle! We drink fair-trade coffee!  All of our nannies come from flourishing democracies like the Philippines and we make sure that they always stoop and scoop!" 

Spring just smiles, and makes wild monkey love to the suburbs. 

Man, I love being back home.    

Paul Martin delighted; offers cabinet post

New family of rodent found

Feeling guilty...

...because I just can't help myself:

Jason and Carl - best friends forever. 

An entry in which the author complains about being paid a pittance, amongst other things

Most of the time I'm okay with the way I've structured my existence in the academy.  Having never had a full-time job, I recognize that I'm so unbelievably out of touch with the so-called "real world" that the ideas of "work week" or "overtime" or "income tax" are virtually meaningless, having been replaced with "conference" and "article" and "what income?" I don't really understand what an RRSP or a mortgage is, and I don't really need to -  I live in a world where $18K a year is a small fortune, because I have friends making and living on less.   Home ownership is SO not on the radar for me that the Hubble Telescope couldn't even find it.  I'm too busy rationalizing spending 5% of my annual income on photocopies, or spending the day in bed reading, or wearing pajamas outside, or sharpening my hate-on for praxis-less theory to remember to purchase Tupperware or learn how to properly iron a shirt.  I am a philosopher king, you see. I'm far too busy clambering up the fortune's hill of academy as fast as humanly possible to bother myself with mundane concerns like vacuuming or furnace output.  I'm living a life of the mind, dammit.  I am an intellectual.  I use words like "praxis."  I spend my days deconstructing, reconstructing and sometimes just plain structing. 

I am so smart.  SMRT.  Et cetera. 

And this is usually enough to make most of the out-of-touch, below-the-poverty-line lifestyle worth it.  I get to feel smug and vastly superior to the majority of the population because I know more about the Stationers' Company Register than they do.  Nyah, nyah. 

Oh, don't look at me like that.  There's not much else to keep you going after you've written ten thousand words on a forty-line poem.  You need something to let you sleep at night.

And the superiority complex helps.  It doesn't always work - family gatherings where I have to explain my thesis is a prime example of where it falls flat ("So, let me get this straight - you left your husband, moved across the country, set up shop in a remote city with practically no amenities and notoriously terrible weather for zero financial incentive and practically no job prospects, in order to write a 300-page book on the typefaces used in early printed books about plants?").  No superiority complex in the world can save you from nosy post-menopausal women ending sentences with the word "yet" (as in "Pregnant yet?  Have you two bought a house yet?  Settled down yet?  Finished school yet?"), but when alone, superiority helps to shake those pesky feelings of despair and futility that settle in after you've spent three weeks writing something brilliant only to realize somebody else published the same fucking thing last year. 

Except sometimes, academics do things that really undermine this whole superiority complex thing I've been trying to cultivate. I'm not talking about Larry Summers type things, neither.  I'm talking about what just showed up in my inbox this morning.  I've underlined some of the best parts:

CFP: The Cultural Logic of Brad Pitt

For the 2005 Western Literature Association Conference in Los Angeles, we plan to organize a panel on the film icon, Brad Pitt. Why Brad Pitt? As one of this generation's most popular actors, Pitt has explored many of the cultural tensions of our emerging postmodern era. Depicting masculine American whiteness in various states of crisis, his characters generally enact complex postmodern agencies; they are never wholly coherent, they are often self-destructive, and they generally rely on a certain amount of play--between stability and instability, between life and death, between autonomy and alter-dependency, between control and abandon. Simultaneously reifying and challenging hegemonic codes of race, class, gender, and regional or national identity, his characters explore the complex and changing postmodern cultural landscape. Tracing his performances through a variety of films and theoretical texts we hope to explain Brad Pitt's multi-dimensional postmodernity by exploring: 1) the cultural logic of his performances, showing how they dramatize postmodern cultural tensions, and 2) the kind of cultural or political work that his performances accomplish, or the difference that they make and the impact that they have on the audiences who watch them.

I don't care what anybody says.  I don't care what the intentions of postmodern theory were originally, nor how truly valuable the idea of multiple truths and relativity are to equitable, anti-discrimination scholarship.  That is not a fair exchange for academic conferences on Brad Pitt.

And now I don't feel so smug anymore, either. 

Cynicism's wasted on the young

Conversation with a Neville child:

"What are you going to do when you grow up, Matthew?"

"The same thing everybody does."

"What's that?"

"Die."

Anybody else notice this?

So, last night I saw the HHGTTG movie (blech, since they didn't manage to either have sufficient in jokes for geeks or translate effectively into the new medium to take full advantage of the visual elements, meaning that they've completely lost the point of the whole damn franchise, blah, blah, blah).  But it needed to be seen, and I'm sure that "it'll all be better in the director's cut on the DVD."

Um, right.  Because I like to purchase movies on DVD that made me want to vomit, in the hopes that the "new, improved" versions will only make me queasy. 

As far as I'm concerned, however, the movie did have one redeeming feature. 

This is a picture of Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz...



...who bears a startling resemblance to a certain someone:



Could director Garth Jennings have deliberately taken a potshot at at the most infamously snobbish literary critic in recent history?  The man who claimed that popular fiction is the stuff of "ideological cheerleaders who have so destroyed humanistic study"?  The guy who's so notoriously out of touch that he could repeatedly make people ask: "What cave is this guy living in? (Yes, I know, I know, Plato's)" ? 

Impossible?  No.  It's not even improbable.

Happy Luke Skywalker Day!

May the fourth be with you!