And then there were four?

I didn't even know Spain was planning to vote on it this month, but they did -- and the bill passed.

* * *

Oh, and 'tis to laugh. Thanks, Pac.

And then there were three

Breaking news--so fresh I don't even have a link yet (can you believe I saw it on teevee?), so google it, my pretties. As of tonight, our parliament officially voted for Bill c-38... as soon as it's ratified by the Senate (which should happen this week), Canada will officially become the third country in the world to remove the "opposite-sex" clause from its marriage laws.

Boo-yah.

Evil AND stupid

Pacanukeha points us toward a particularly egregious example of gross corporate image-theft when he shows us a story of Nike biting Minor Threat.

In the words of the immortal Bill Hicks: Jesus, what balls! I've never seen balls of this magnitude...

After getting totally busted, they apologized. But they're still malicious, mercenary, creatively-bankrupt, morally-defunct horse thieves.

Synchronicity

Chris' partner Isa was expecting any day now and tonight, since I hadn't heard from him in a few days, I began to wonder what the status of little nipper-to-be was. At 22:39 I e-mailed Chris and asked if he was a daddy yet.

At 23:15 Morgan slid out into the world: eight pounds and thirteen ounces of unbridled potential.

(am I in tune with the rythyms of life or what?)

Congratulations to Isa and Morgan for doing all the work and to Chris for getting through it in his characteristically unflappable manner.

From bad to worse.

Why the hell didn't anyone warn me about Alone In The Dark? I know that, when appended to a movie's title, the phrase "based on the hit videogame" should evoke--at best--the same kind of ironic smirk that spreads when one is faced with a deep-fried candy bar: you know it's gonna be bad for you, but the potential for sticky-sweet satisfaction is high.

Alone In The Dark may be sticky, but it's sour--so very, very sour. The less said about that laboured romp through the dun-coloured halls of mediocrity the better. If you really want to see characters make an entertaining transition from interactive digital narrative to non-interactive digital narrative, rent Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within or Resident Evil.

* * *

Pacanukeha highlights a recent judgment by the Supreme Court that is completely incomprehensible to me: as reported in the Boston Globe and the Chicago Tribune, the Supremes just ruled that local governments (i.e. municpal) can seize private residences on the grounds that "economic development is a reasonable use of a city's power of eminent domain."

In case you don't know, "eminent domain" refers to a state's right to take your property away from you in order to build something for everyone (it exists in Canada as well as in the U.S.). The easiest example is when a freeway "needs" to be run through your backyard. This right of the state to take your shit is "balanced" by their duty to provide something called 'just compensation;' in other words, they have to pay you a fair price--but you're OBLIGED to sell.

Now, usually this stuff resides in the murky area between the right of the individual to safely own property and the duty of the state to provide services and facilities for a majority of its residents. It hinges on the fact that your house can only be taken from you if the state can prove that it really, really needs it in order to fulfill a pressing public need. What this judgment does is seriously weaken the "public" part--a shopping mall is a private building.

Anyway, read the damn story and mutter creative expletives under your breath.

Except...

This past May 3rd, the Canadian military held its first same-sex marriage: two men, a medic and a flight technician, were married at CFB Greenwood in Nova Scotia. I first read about it in an article in last week's Halifax Daily News (June 15th edition), but since that newspaper charges a fee to access their archives, I'll instead link to the CBC's truncated and superficial little piece.

Unfortunately, the CBC blurb omits an important quote that was in the newspaper article I read--and, in fact, provided the impetus for my post today. These are the words of Lieutenant-Commander David Greenwood, a padre at the base (emphasis mine):

There was a certain amount of anxiety because you never know--the first time--if you're going to have protesters or anything like that. But that didn't happen. We were very, very pleased with the service ... it was a wedding like any other wedding, except the couple never thought that was going to happen during their lifetimes.

Yeah, except. Both the article and the CBC report skim over the significance of that qualifier. Globally, this event is almost unique: not only is gay marriage permissible in only two other national jurisdictions, but the military is one of the only institutions more tradition-bound and prone to internalized homoeroticism (and concomitant homophobia) than the church. The Canadian Armed Forces, everyone at CFB Greenwood and especially the happy couple should all be proud of themselves for setting an important and optimistic precedent.

On a related note, Stéphane LeBlanc offers some insight into the challenges which openly-gay MNA André Boisclair may face from within his own party as he vies for the PQ leadership.

Right here, right NOW.

Has Toronto's weekly NOW magazine always been this good? This past week (cover story: Hunter Valentine), they had:

Yee-Guan Wong's Radio Kills Indie Stars takes a look at how existing CanCon rules privilege the most accessible and recognizable acts in "Canadian" music while marginalizing the very artists who need that sort of "musical protectionism" the most.

Meanwhile, Diane Kurcharska's created a lighthearted and surprisingly informative how-to guide for girls who need to make water on the go: "Girl Pee Power: How to do it outside without soaking your socks."

John Ortved hates Train 48 as much as you do.

Finally, the cover story by Mike Smith describes an evocative art piece in Dundas Square. Set up by Montréal's own Action Terroriste Socialement Acceptable (they of the faux refugee camps), the installation features a "charred and crumpled wreck of an SUV":

From its back seat, a television played a staccato-style video manifesto wherein a voice riffed over a rapid montage of car ads, calling for policies that would make extinct all "energivores" like the smoking husk in which it sat.

From a distance, the installation, cryptically entitled Attack #9, was simply a disturbing object challenging the square's cheery exhortations to consume, evoking anything from a car wreck to a car bomb.

Fascinating stuff.

Multiplayer mutant madness.

If you're into that crazy co-op action, X-Men: Legends is definitely the console superhero game for you. You get to play a wide variety of characters, level them up, spend points to improve their powers and buy new ones, and generally do fun RPG-lite stuff. The story is a bit circular and intellectually suspect, but most of the "classic" X-Men comics were too, so who cares? We're talking about a game that has both a) destructible environments and b) Colossus. Need I say more? This shit sells itself.

Candis liked Rogue and Cyclops the best, while I preferred Iceman and Jean Grey; whom do you like? Wolverine? Beast? How about Nightcrawler, Emma Frost (The White Queen), Jubilee, Colossus or Storm? They're all in there, along with Gambit, Psylocke and Magma. You even get to play Professor X on one level!

My only complaints are with the maudlin and repetitive Magma subplot, which is basically one looooong tutorial, and the confusion that often settles in when there's a lot of enemies on the screen. Aside from those quibbles, this is an excellent game for multiplayer mayhem--highly recommended!

Promise rings

Work's busy, so here are just a couple of interesting blurbs which I thought were worth highlighting:

1) I read this article last month and kept meaning to mention it--better late than never I suppose. BBC World News reports that the ACLU is suing the US federal government on the grounds that its 'Silver Ring Thing' project (now there's a name generated by committee if I ever heard one) "violates the principle that the state budget cannot be used to promote religion."

What is this 'Silver Ring Thing' thing? Glad you asked. Apparently the Federal Department of Health and Human Services is funding a program which distributes silver rings (inscribed with a typically foreboding biblical verse) to teenagers in a bid to curb premarital sex. Wearing the ring is supposed to be a sign of chastity and moral purity.

Let's see... illegal? Check. Unconstitutional? Check. Morally presumptuous? Checkaroo. Unrealistic? Double check. Premised on archaic, obsolete, irrelevant dogma? Triple-dog check.

Glad to see the christian right is sticking to their priorities.


2) On a more positive note, have you heard of the Pledge Bank? If not, go take a look at it right now. A hundred blessed thanks to Pacanukeha for linking to this wonderful project--it's a brilliant idea and one of the most unique, innovative and strategic attempts at promoting community engagement I've ever seen.

Basically it's a forum where people make pledges to engage in some kind of socially-relevant endeavour, like starting a compost in their backyard or volunteering at their local school, but only if X number of other people will join in. It's premised on, and gains traction from, the astute observation that an individual is more likely to commit to a project if they don't think they'll be alone. Genius.

Astonishingly good.

I know you've all heard that Joss Whedon wrote some X-Men comics, but has anyone read them? He got his own series, a six-part comic called The Astonishing X-Men and it's not a reboot or an alternate-universe story; it's built right into the current continuity. I had a chance to read the collected story in trade-paperback format and I was really happy with it. It's pretty much everything I wanted from the "new" Ultimate X-Men series, without any of the gross, bothersome bullshit that latter series features.

Whedon is obviously really familiar with the X-Men canon and casually references some of their older adventures from the '60s and '70s (which is kinda nice). He has a really good handle on the characters and writes them in a plausible shorthand that I found refreshing: no long-winded exposition to establish the characters--we're presumed to know who they are.

The story is set after the events of the Legacy virus, so Colossus is dead and Xavier has taken another long leave of absence from the team. At the outset, the x-team is comprised of Cyclops, Beast and Emma Frost (the White Queen--yeah, she's one of the heroes now). Both Wolverine and Shadowcat show up by the end of issue #1 to round out the team.

I won't spoil anything, but this is a really well-written story with a lot of love for the characters inscribed between the lines. Wicked trademark Whedon-esque dialogue and a truly exciting storyline make for a very good, totally worthwhile purchase.

Here's a link to synopses of all 6 issues: link.

Weeding out bad ideas, part II

In case you missed it, The Tyee (which has become one of my daily 'must-read' news sources) has an interesting story on so-called 'cannabis boulevards' and neighbourhood grow-ops in Holland. Given the recent slew of police operations targeting grow-ops here in Canada and the continuing debate around the decriminalization of marijuana possession, it makes for relevant reading.

Cuts like a knife.

David Goyer's managed to carve himself a nice little niche in Hollywood: he wrote the second Crow movie, Dark City and all three installments of the Blade series. As such, he deserves some credit for the recent revival of comic-book movies, a defunct genre since the disastrous duo of Batman Forever and Batman & Robin.

In an auspicious bit of karma, Goyer was tapped to write the script for the new Batman Begins, as well as two other four-colour franchises: Ghost Rider (currently filming and due out next year) and The Flash. In addition to principle screenwriting responsibilities, Goyer's also going to direct those latter two projects and if Blade: Trinity is any indication, the results will be mixed.

On the one hand, Trinity featured some nifty props, great choreography and eccentric casting. Ryan Reynolds wears "hypermasculine motormouthed wiseguy" like a tailored suit and indie poster girl Parker Posey(!) thumbs her nose at casting agents everywhere with her campy, wickedly self-conscious performance as the villains' ringleader, a psychotic ringmaster to a pack of thuggish misfits. Callum Keith Rennie, fresh from a mesmerizing (but all-too-brief) role on Battlestar Galactica, obviously had a few bills to pay. Jessica Biel channels Buffy in a predictably-scripted "skinny white girls kick ass" routine, though we were pleasantly surprised that she didn't have to be victimized before "discovering" strength--I suppose that's something. Wesley Snipes is what he is.

The violence is cartoonish and there's no sex (although we do get some long, lingering shots of Reynolds' and Biel's washboard stomachs), but I still recently advised an acquaintance to not rent this movie for her thirteen-year-old son. Here's why: the language.

Anyone who knows me--or has sat within earshot of me for more than ten minutes--knows that I like to sprinkle my speech with the occasional salty bon mot. In other words, I have a bit of a potty mouth. Profanity and blasphemy do not, in and of themselves, offend me. Hell, I like it. In Blade: Trinity, having characters curse creatively apparently wasn't enough for Goyer. Maybe he was trying to épate la bourgeoisie, maybe he really is just incredibly juvenile--either way, his characters fuel their exchanges with some of the most vitriolic homophobia and misogyny I've seen in a long time. The hate that girds these diatribes is premised on the most savage kind of privilege and as a result, the whole movie was soured for me.

I know exactly what Goyer's intended audience is and I know that the day after watching this movie, junior-high playgrounds across the country got a little uglier.

Frak me sideways

The second season of Battlestar Galactica (AKA "the best political thriller you'll see on TV this year") begins Friday, July 15th.

That gives my baby and I just enough time to re-watch season 1.

Self-righteous much?

Just a quick follow-up to my original post on chikan, the molestation of women on Japanese commuter trains: men are beginning to protest the existence of women-only trains. Created in 2002 specifically to combat the widespread practice of groping, these trains have been making Western news lately. Unless stated otherwise, I'm quoting from this article on Truthout.org.

In the western city of Osaka, which got Japan's first commuter cars for women in 2002, Takahito Yamao started an organization to oppose women-only train cars. The group has 46 members.

"This system is discriminating against men," he said. "We pay the same fare and yet are labeled as evil persons. Not all men are gropers. This is insulting."

and later:

Most men seem resigned to the new system, though some fear that they could be falsely accused of groping. They also worry that the regular cars will be even more cramped.

Okay, first things first: dude(s), this isn't about you. This is about the thousands of women who have grown to accept molestation as part of their daily commute. Putting up a sign in a playground which reads "no adults permitted unless accompanied by a child" doesn't label all adults as pedophiles, it's a means of minimizing risk. In using this analogy, I am not trying to infantilize women or paint them as hapless victims in need of defense. I'm instead trying to illustrate how the community can decide to mildly inconvenience one group if it's clearly in the interests of protecting another, obviously disadvantaged group. Insulted? Get over yourself.

Secondly--more cramped? Come on, we're talking about a couple of cars on the most densely-packed commuter rail system in the world. No way is anyone going to feel the difference.

Also, since compliance with the 'women-only' rule is totally voluntary, there's literally nothing preventing these men from boarding the so-called "pink trains:"

Cooperation is voluntary. Men can't be punished for boarding the pink-bordered cars, rail officials said.

Some members of Yamao's group take the women-only cars in protest.

Finally, this essay serves as both a primer on what a Chikan is and a list of appropriate responses to the unwanted touches of one of these men. It's interesting to note the cultural specificity of the advice: it's all premised on particularly Japanese notions of shame and public accountability.

First, if you think that someone is touching you, turn your head slowly and look at his hand to make sure that he is really a Chikan. After that, stare at him from his feet to face slowly as you show him your anger on your face, especially in your eyes. This action makes some people around you notice the existence of a Chikan, and they will stare at him. If he still does not stop touching you, you should pinch or scratch his hand as the second step. Safety pins are necessities for women who take crowded trains everyday. Many of my friends in high school used to have one in their pockets because female high school students wearing pretty school uniforms were the targets of Chikans. The final step is to turn to him, look straight at his eyes for three to five seconds, and say "Please stop" or "Please don't" in a very polite way. Since trains during rush hour are so quiet, all of the passengers can hear you, and they also understand easily what you mean. Furthermore, they will watch him with eyes filled with criticism. Most Chikans get off the train at the next station or move to another train soon because they cannot stand the people's eyes, which criticize him silently.

The contextual spectrum of escalation fascinates me: the idea of appealing to--and what's more, wielding--the disapproval of others as a weapon against a sexual predator requires a kind of surrender to mass morality (and faith in the individual offender's capacity to feel shame) that just doesn't exist here.

Things I love

Long, slow Saturdays with my girl;
Sundried-tomato pesto;
The Macallan Elegancia -- 12 Year Old (Sherry Oak);
Rollin' on bustas;

Things I hate

Why am I beset on all sides by marauding packs of filthy, avaricious, conniving, spiteful, manipulative, deceitful, low-down usurious fucks? I hate banks. I don't hate a lot of things, but I hate banks. I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em I hate 'em...

"I know of nothing more despicable and pathetic than a man who devotes all of the hours of the waking day to the making of money for money's sake."
- John D. Rockefeller

I've been a customer of RBC for something like 15 years: I opened my first account with them when I on the cusp of adolescence. It was a simple little savings account and I used it to hold the money I made mowing lawns and shovelling driveways in my neighbourhood. At the time, a minor was only allowed to open a joint account with their legal guardian, so my mom co-signed and on my birthday she'd sometimes sneak in a little extra surprise.

The account remained basically unchanged over the next decade. I'd occasionally tweak my service pack to reflect my evolving lifestyle (e.g., from live-at-home teen to apartment-dwelling undergrad), but it was still the same savings account a twelve-year-old me had opened with his mom.

Earlier this year, it was finally impressed upon me that my primary savings account shouldn't continue to be jointly controlled by my mom. Before the 'apron strings' jokes start flying, let me be clear: she hadn't so much as looked at its contents in years and I'd forgotten about her co-signatory status until a bank teller mentioned it. I communicated with my branch, my mom signed on the dotted line and the account became mine. This was about four months ago.

(bear with me, this is actually going somewhere.)

Now, RBC was never a great bank. Their interest rates were crappy and the service was spotty. Given the string of sweaty, dirty jobs I worked for a number of years, I'd often walk into my branch looking a little worse for wear; and every time, those pompous, self-important wankjobs behind the counter would give one of those imperceptible sniffs of disapproval before asking me--disbelievingly--if there was anything they could help me with. Right, like there's a chance in hell they'd refuse my money. Greasy, two-faced jagoffs, the lot of them--but what am I gonna do? I've got to bank somewhere. I can scatter the bones of my savings for the vultures at CIBC or the jackals at BOM--for 99% of the population, choosing banks is like choosing the colour of your mugger's shirt.

Anyway, it's not pretentiousness I'm here to complain about; it's incompetence and arrogance.

So May 27th I walk into the RBC branch on Guy street, below Sherbrooke. I was there to deposit my paycheck (I hadn't activated direct deposit with my new employer yet) just like normal. My 'home' branch is in NDG, but the one on Guy is close to my office.

The teller--and for the record, I'm not blaming her: she was new and ignorant and ultimately blameless--frowned at her monitor (I fucking hate it when they do that) and informed me that I'd closed my account with them the previous Friday, May 20. Ergo, she couldn't accept my cheque. Ispo facto, I couldn't pay rent. Et cetera ad nauseam.

When I protested, she repeated. When I expleted, she retreated. I could feel the little walnut-sized muscles at the hinge of my jaw tensing and swelling, but I kept my composure and informed her that

1. No, I fucking hadn't closed my account;
2. I hadn't even been in the province on May 20th;

No dice. Her manager was equally intractable, dispassionately informing me that their records couldn't possibly be mistaken. "Aha," I cut in, thinking I'd found the loophole, "but it must be mistaken, because I'm standing before you now--a customer in need of service--with a cheque in my hand. If your records are correct, that would make me either a liar or an idiot. Which is it?"

I figured that (in front of an audience of other customers) there wasn't any way they could escape that logic: they'd be forced to help me. I was going to nip this Hellerian perpetual-motion paradox in the bud before it spiralled maniacally out of control and dragged my sanity with it.

Much like Obi-Wan Kenobi, I underestimated the power of true evil.

They had absolutely no problem (moral, ethical or logical) shrugging their shoulders and robotically dictating the 1-800 number for customer help. I'm standing in their fucking building and they want me to use a goddamn phone. If there were any justice in the world, I would've been blasted by gamma rays years ago--justice, thy colour is green.

So I'm standing there, useless cheque in hand, and I decide to play my last card: where the hell was my money? This hadn't been a 'dead' account, it wasn't empty... where was whatever funds had been in there? check this out: in their limitless wisdom, the beancounters at RBC had decided that since this account had at one time been a joint account, the remaining money should be placed into the care of the other person, i.e. my mom. That's right--the next time my mom went into the bank (on or around May 25), she was handed a slip of paper and told to sign for some money that was being placed into her account because the account that she had once jointly owned had just been closed.

What if this had been my entire savings, instead of a relatively small amount of money?

What if this had been my ex-wife, not my mom? (Thanks to my baby for making this point.)

What if I could afford a lawyer, you thieving hucksters?

I left, cheque in hand, nursing a murderous rage. Kafka was a starry-eyed optimist. That these institutions can manipulate, disparage, humiliate and ignore their customers with such abandon is a testament to our paralysing lack of imagination. I wanted to smash something, but instead I did the only thing I could:

I walked into a TD branch office on the way home.

Weeding out bad ideas, part I

I share Pacanukeha's hate-on for "Chief Justice" Clarence Thomas: the idea of agreeing with Modern Misogyny's Man of the Year makes my skin crawl. Nevertheless, I'm forced to admit that Creepy Clarence made a couple of excellent points when he dissented in Gonzales v. Raich.

The case concerned two members of a California-based medical marijuana co-op that was operating legally under California’s 1996 Compassionate Use Act. Angel Raich and Diane Monson were challenging the federal government's "right" to prosecute medical marijuana. The evolution of the case may be found here (I paraphrase liberally from that source, a well-researched article in Los Angeles City Beat).

They achieved a landmark victory when the Court of Appeals ruled in their favour, with Judge Pregerson stating that “this limited use is clearly distinct from the broader illicit market,” and that the feds had no authority to police it under the Constitution’s Commerce Clause.

The feds appealed it to the Supremes, who ruled against Raich and Monson but Clarence Thomas--a noted defender of states' rights--dissented, stating:

Respondents Diane Monson and Angel Raich use marijuana that has never been bought or sold, that has never crossed state lines, and that has had no demonstrable effect on the national market for marijuana. If Congress can regulate this under the Commerce Clause, then it can regulate virtually anything–and the Federal Government is no longer one of limited and enumerated powers.

The complete version of Thomas' decision may be found on the Legal Information Institute's site.

Grievance, resentment; a deep-seated ill will

Sometimes creating an Americanized version of a Japanese film works: witness the scene-for-scene re-creation of Kurosawa's classic Shichinin no Samurai as The Magnificent Seven.

Sometimes it doesn't: Gojira is an exponentially better film than any of its American imitators.

And sometimes it kinda, sorta works.

The Grudge is unusual in that it's directed by the same person who helmed the original, 2003's Ju-On. It's also set in Japan--though it features predominantly American actors--so the same mythology and narrative devices can be employed: there's no clumsy groping for Western "equivalents." It's also extremely faithful to the spirit (no pun intended) of the original, with its focus on a certain kind of animism integral to Japanese culture. This investment of a vaguely empathic anthropomorphic life to things and spaces is twisted in the film to create a keen sense of paranoid claustrophobia.

Unfortunately it falls on the shoulders of Sarah Gellar to serve as our guide through this foreign landscape and she just doesn't have what it takes to carry this movie. Not having a whole lot of acting skill to fall back on, she opts for the same approach Anna Paquin took in Darkness: the "breathless doe" bit. Her co-star (for lack of a better word) Jason Behr fares just as badly as a generic American ex-pat, phoning in a flat performance: these two have all the chemistry of a couple of lawn chairs. Bill Pullman got my attention in his brief opening scene, but then again I've always liked his unique combination of the pleasantly hapless with the vaguely sinister.

Like I said earlier, I'm a sucker for scary movies, which is to say they scare me--a lot. Unfortunately, this means that I can't really comment on some of The Grudge's most suspenseful moments because I wasn't watching: I was admiring the inside of my hand.

What I can say is that the music and sound editing were excellent. Watching half the movie play itself out via a shallow, distorted reflection in the coffee table allowed me to appreciate the subtle, layered sounds and sparse soundtrack that characterize any good horror movie.

Almost makes me wish I'd kept my eyes open during the really scary bits.

I dig my job.

No vituperative, scatalogical dressing-down of some self-righteous old antique; no two-week-late movie review; no amateur punditry.

I just wanted to say that I really do like my job a lot and I'm damned happy to be sitting here at this desk. Sometimes it needs to be said.

(And yes, I get the irony of writing a blog post from work about how much I love the job which I'm obviously not performing at the moment because I'm blogging about how much I love it. What's the neologism that means, "to record in medias res an event for posterity"? Documenting your life instead of particpating in it...)

Right, back to work. Which I seriously enjoy.

I subscribe to a rag, part III

...although, in all fairness, this wasn't written by a Gazette staffer; it was a Washington Post article by some decrepit hack named Hank Stuever which was reprinted in the Gazette. The article is basically a rambling, misty-eyed reminiscence for some fictional bygone era where journalists (cue trumpets) rode high in the saddle, chain-smoked Marlboros and brought powerful men to their knees.

Stuever writes:

It was possible, our ancestors inform us, to go to a bar and tell a girl that you were a reporter for The Washington Post and she might go home with you. That was part of the allure of the Deep Throat culture -- the reporter as chick magnet. (Now she would tell you that she doesn't really ever look at the paper. Or worse, she only looks at it online.)

The only thing worse than some moth-eaten gynobibliophobe made oblivious to his own impending obsolescence by raging egomania, balls-to-the-wall sexism and obsessive nostalgia for some arcadian wonderland is... oh, wait--there IS nothing worse. This asshole's shtick would be laughable if it weren't so fucking pervasive.

Is he really getting all misty-eyed over the continuing collapse of the old boys' network? Why, I believe he might be... poor little ponce, my heart bleeds.