Somewhere between reading the critiques of Adorno and the changing landscape of Coconino County with How I Met Your Mother running faithfully in the background, it hit me. It was amusing, yes...but these jokes on Canada...actually sort of bothered me. It's not the first time I'm hearing them, of course. And, okay, so the 80s lasted a little while longer here (judging by when I first arrived here...can anyone say pouffy hair?) but that quip about marriages not being really recognized as such? That was kind of sucky. Like how are money really isn't money.

Which is funny, of course, because Canada and the U.S. are on par. So what's there to get worked up about, they're only jokes. Yes. Yes, they're only jokes and they shouldn't matter and usually I snicker alongside with them. Like an outsider - in a very knowing, superior way. I guess the issue here is not so much the joke but the fact that I was bothered by it - which would, of course, signify some sort of identification.

And then it struck me...I am no more the outsider. Of course, I will never wholly say I am Canadian in the way my little brother will be able to - he was born here, and I was not. I've moved around everywhere and he has not. But after experiencing a smorgasboard of cultures, your mind always drifts back to where your roots are. And true as this might be...I think I have finally been in this place long enough to feel...annoyance when someone cracks a joke at our country. Canada, being that country. Mind you, when I think of Canada, I think of Toronto - and Toronto is pretty effing great. But this whole country is completely unexplored by me. And yes, those history lessons were a PAIN: a few provinces and 3 measly territories, no great history, no great global participation, pacifist, American-kissasses, always harping on the great glory of one thing or another (the russian hockey game or the suez canal crisis or that damned battle on vimy ride - my ears BLED).

But then I really thought about it - no bloodshed on our hands. No cultural hegemony. No massacres. No apathetic uninvolvement until we got hit cuz then it was our problem. No masquerading as the supporter in a war and then trying to take over when the war was won. No furthering of global expansion goals on the account of developing nations. No exploitation of resources when countries are at their most vulnerable. No masking all this under the Puritanical, pre-destined, biblical crap. No spouting of separation between state and religion, democracy and secularism when really it's there. No fallacy and failings of an American Dream.

So okay. We might not have had major cultural movements. Our authors may be a snore because all they want to talk about sometimes are the Maritimes. Okay, so we only have one major national highway. But in a rare act of patriotism for a Western country (which is as close to patriotism for a western country I'll ever feel - besides New York, because that is not patriotism, that is love) I'll ever experience, I just want to say:

Our money is awesome and colourful. Our national anthem is great and not steeped in history. We glorify things that happened ages ago to nurse our wounded pride and keep the spirit alive. We don't get that involved and we like to think of ourselves as peacekeepers - heck, some of us even are. We don't have creative movie studios (we really don't have that many Jews...). And marriages here DO count. Love here IS real. Fall and Winter are separate seasons and we're a chartered plane ride away from the Aurora Borealis and land where the sun never sets.

And we DO NOT pronounce it "ABOOT".

You know what? I think it is distinctly unfair that Miranda, Samantha, and even Charlotte, have to bare their boobs but SJP never has to. I mean, seriously, why the discrimination?! Wtf is up with that? What could possibly be the rationale behind SJP never having to give us some of the ladies?

Not that I have a real hankering to see her ladies. But I just think...it's so discriminatory. In a sense. Because it's as if they're saying, look, she's the main character. Just to hit it home, just in case the fact that Carrie is narrating is not enough, we have to let you know that she's the main character and, as such, she's hella important. And she's just the right blend of neurotic, cynical, hopeful, witty like a man but fucks like a woman. She is the perfect blend of all equal parts of her girlfriends. She tempers everything.

And gawd, that is ANNOYING. Yes, you love Carrie the most because she is the most least craziest. She touches all departments. She obsesses, then she lets go. She's so...so...gah, she's so proverbial. So just in case all the blatant favoritism wasn't enough, we're not going to have her bare her drawers 'cuz no tasteful main character does that. Because, even though everything is in her point of view, she is still enigmatic and charming; she's crazy enough to have a one night stand but not so crazy that she'll show it like a two dollar whore. She's raunchy and proper.

Or is it because SJP is a producer? Or was it executive producer? Is it because she has a financial stake in it that she can't? You never hear her (Carrie) having an orgasm...the most she'll do is mourn. The closest we got to her having sex was Jack Berger and even then she had a bra on! And yet Miranda is yelling and screaming, Samantha is suitably outrageous and Charlotte is slow and sensual.

No, it makes no sense to me and I can't pinpoint the reason. I started to wonder if maybe it was because, eventually, as the show picked up, they realized that Carrie, with her love for Manolos, should be the bastion of fashion. That theory was quickly knocked down when I considered Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. Look at Samantha! She's a bastion of fashion too! All of them are, in their own neat typecasts. The only one who breaks the mould is Carrie, and we're just supposed to agree with that; that's the reason, apparently, she gets laid so much. It's because she's "different". "Special". And not like, 'stop eating the paste' special, either. By the way, some of her outfits (most, really...50%) are just...stupid. They're not vintage, or cute, or M.O.D. or squarishly hip nor nostalgic enough about the 80s (or at least the screaming horror overpowers the nostalgia).

What I do love about Carrie, are her legs. Good thing they aren't covering those up. But really, it's made me wonder. Why no pecs Parker?

Goodnews: Interview rocked. I gots the job. It's a lateral move pay wise but more to do with setting the stage for future ambitions than any real money grab.

Badnews: EFFING WALLET GOT STOLEN ON THE EFFING VIVA. who the fuck steals wallets from people who are OBVIOUSLY students, wearing worn out coats from three years ago, so haggard looking from the work of a fake reading week that they are easily mistakeable for a bag lady on the GTA's most privileged bus system?! WHO DOES THAT?! and why the fuck do i have to file a police report! I refuse to say 'fml' though...that's just bad karma.

Goodnews: All 6 seasons of SatC in 5 days.

Badnews: the above might explain why i'm so behind on my readings. Through reading week. two responses, one essay, one midterm, shitloads of articles.

Weirdnews: While heading to york on the almost ghost-town bus, the bus driver had her DOG on the TTC. it was the ugliest most pathetic looking googly-eyed, mid-sized pooch ever. I wanted to throw up and cry at the same time because it was wearing a pink Zellers hoodie from the girls 2x section and a DIAPER. Well first, I just wanted to hurl. Then it started to whine. The shrillest whine in the world. My heart shattered but I think if my ears were made of glass, they would shatter too. I think it had the runs or something...dear god, it was just the most pathetic forlorn sick dog I have ever seen. gagagag.

Goodnews: I stole the last cookie from my little brother. Ahh, the life of the mundane.

Badnews: I'm psyching myself out for the first essay of the term. Im so scared it'll be a repeat of last year's first essay. I keep saying, SNAP OUT OF IT, you know this stuff! But the pressure is mounting. I know what to say but I don't know when to stop. Hopefully though, the right combination of that will make it like last year's shakespeare essay: stellar

News: Missed TEDxGTA. Missed A.D. Sad as hell. Mad as hell. And also: The UN teams up with the Interpol to form a Global police peacekeeping force. Ahh arbitrary, standardized rules, just what everyone loves.

SO. EFFING. PUMPED. FOR. TODAY!

Today is all about:

+

+

@

<3>

Put your hand up if you loved Slumdog Millionaire but then cursed that bloody Jai Ho fucking remix with the Pussycat Dolls and were shocked (and annoyed) about the Bollywood Hero American Television Show Dance in Times Square and are now miffed at the sudden surge of Indian psuedoculture in Western cinema and dislike the smell of representation and cultural production, oversimplification and culture as a resource.




P.S. I love Lisa Ray. Ever since Kasoor and who cares if her Hindi was dubbed. She rocks my world.

Exeter. Balliol. Brasenose. Magdalen. University. St. Hilda's. These consume my life at any given moment. If I keep readings or don't do the work I set out, I wake up in the middle of the night consumed by guilt and do it. Cannot rest, cannot sleep. Too tired to process. RUnning self into ground. But it's only starting. It's only just starting and I cannot be weak. There's still so much more to do, to come and this intensity is the only way I know how. Feel it full. Throw yourself into it. It is absurd. Keep writing posts but don't publish them cuz I'm too damn tired. Found some amazing blogs - stuff to make me think - stuff about the world - about expeditions and social conditions and policies and development.

There's a girl who's a friend of this guy I know...and she's taking her combinatorics/optimization degree and trying to figure out how to create sustainable social development. Bloody amazing. Sort of wish I were good in math so I could skip the discussion and save lives or build infrastructure. Must keep it brief...about to pass out from 14 hours of sleep over 3 days and a coffee high that's sending me crashing.

Soon enough. For now, The Economist on convergence:





P.S. Kate Beckinsale and Sophie Kinsella (real name, Madeline Wickham) went to Oxford. WTF.

Red Curtains

Recently, I bought some fantastic readymade curtains for my room. Well...red is a bit of an overstatement (if you're looking at it from a saturation standpoint) and also an understatement, if you're looking at it from a shade standpoint. It's more of a lovelt copper/auburn that glows a fierce and deep hue of red. I love waking up to it and feeling so utterly encased in a warm light, a cocoon that reminds me so much of when you're eyes are closed but you're looking at the sun - the light filtering in is bright but mellow, warm, not yellow, reddish.



I don't like using the word emo, but that's what I'm feeling. It doesn't happen very often (not unless its in a feeling-down-about-world-affairs-feel-their-weight-on-me sort of way) anymore. Perhaps writing off what I'm feeling in such a remorseless, thoughtless way is unfair of me and maybe I'm buying into pop culture more than I should. But...I have no words, none to describe what I'm feeling.



All I know is, now, I never feel like drawing the curtains, I'm sitting in a dark room with my father's office lamp (that I stole...it was mine first!) and tapping away at my desk...looking for a purpose. Looking for a reason to take action. It's not like I'm happily idle; I have a million things piled up. I finally finished an application last night and I have editing work for Existere - second round corrections are (mostly) in. It's due Friday but what is freaking me out is that we have to be ready by the middle of next week....the issue comes out on September 10th. Or it has to be in to the printers by then...I don't know. All I know is that there's shitloads of work piling up - and I have no will to do any of it. To even consider it. I'm imagining myself doing it; in fact, I'm feeling very go-getter, very productive. I have to start planning my duke of ed...I have to find money to take a dressmaking class on avenue rd. and find time to volunteer. I have to get involved, chase opportunities, be fresh and re-read last year's essays. Finish Benazir Bhutto's thoughts on democracy, and essays and lectures by George Steiner and Jorge Luis Borges, respectively. In other words, I need to get in gear for next year. I need to blow Johnathon Warren out of his Yale-educated mind.



But I also feel like I want to light a room with a thousand light bulbs and then smash them all. On occasions like these, I need to sit back and absorb. I need to...I don't know, get lost. Synthesize. I'm feeling tired, gross, icky. I'm feeling drained - not of energy or hope...but of will. Of reality.I'm tired of the 9 to 5, the children, walking to work and back every morning routine. This is why I could never be married. Domesticity makes me itchy. If I ever had to care about carpool and PTA meetings...I'd stick my head in the oven too, minus the lovely poetry. (not that that's why she stuck her head in the oven by any means...)



It makes me numb. It makes me smile falsely at the parents of the school where I work when underneath I'm too exhausted to even produce a halfway decent insult about the correlation between their children's level of indiscipline versus the cars they drive. It's a positive one, needless to say.

Sometimes, it's not enough...and sometimes, there's just too much. So I'm now going to go drown myself in A Bit of Fry and Laurie and finally watch Kaminey. Vishal Bhardwaj + Shahid double role. This, I gotta see.