Politically Correct

Thanks to jimfrazier for the photo.

It's the secret wish of every group, it seems, is to be the underdog. The brash, meat and potatos group. One that wouldn't upturn their nose to a bit of physical labour, maybe, or be up to date on the latest sports scores. The blue-collar mystique, as it were, or, as my nerd mind understand it, the Rebel Alliance syndrome.

It's a theme repeated in fiction, in movies, in epic poems of questionable worth. The underdogs are always the heroes. There is the great Empire that must fall, and the charmingly rag tag group of misfits, who by the skin of their teeth, pull through and saves the day.

For America, this is a story burned into its historical DNA. For others, well, it's just much easier to write conflict about a group facing mind-boggling odds, than say, about a now smug empire trying to squash a resistance group whilst still drunk from power.

Who's' the underdog in any story? The good guys. Who's the underdog in any perceived conflict for ideas? We are. We being the people talking at the moment.

Which is why I shouldn't find it too surprising if incredibly annoying when I hear the phrase, "Oh, it's politically incorrect to ....". As if there is a great behemoth of political correctness that imposes rules and regulations, things you can say and not, and that the speaker is part of a tight nit cadre who speak Truth to Power; where the fact is that 'political correctness' came about precisely because the dominant powers, the Powers That Be, more or less ran rough shod over the scrappy underdogs: ethnic minorities, LGBTII (I know I'm missing a letter in here somewhere), the disabled, etc.

Sure, you have your cases of PC gone awry. Where everything is so hyphenated that you get metacarpal tunnel syndrome hitting the - key more than a transcriptionist typing a PR release for albino Swahili-signing Maori who's second name rhymes with Jones, group.

There are groups, or, more precisely, people who wallow in the smug superiority of knowing the latest term for such and such a group. I can see how this can get on ones nerves. And for some reason, this annoyance translates into being the Oppressed, the Set Upon, the Lone Voice in the Darkness. Next thing you know, the annoyed person is using air quotes and saying, "Oh I guess that's not, 'politically correct'". They feel like they are sticking it to the man.

It doesn't, of course.

It means precisely the opposite; they're in the majority.

But then, listening to Darth Vader whine about those pesky Rebel scum wrecking his fully operational Death Star doesn't have the same indignant heft, I suppose.

People You Meet on Transit #5

Thanks to Jay Morrison for the photo.

Transit Drivers
Bus drivers are an archetype in North American culture. In the imagination they are generous in girth, have staunch opinions about unions and eat 300% the recommended intake of red meat. The odd one adheres to a strict conspiracy theory, which they manage to work into the most innocuous conversations.

At least, that's what's been ingrained in our collective subconscious along with "Han shot first" and "Dukakis, 1988".

But transit drivers, like everyone else, are individuals. Unique, utterly one of a kind from the 5 billion others who roam this spinning mass of molten iron with the cool, carbon life-form infested shell. Sure, you see the reticent ones, who have a 100 yard stare and coolly watch passengers get mild hypothermia while they take their union-sanctioned 15 minute break inside their cozy bus. But there are other, more colourful characters as well.

In my city, there is one that calls out every stop and what attractions might be nearby. "Macdonald street, Safeway, Plenty Clothing store, Exotic Tanning Salon". I imagine he hankers for the heady years of Roarin' 30's, with it's flappers and Prohibition; when a competent elevator boy could make enough to feed his family of 17 who dwell in a one bedroom apartment in the poorer section of the Bronx.

There is something inspiring about that; someone taking the care to make every stop special in some way. Someone who maintains the verve and energy for their work as very few without a limitless Percocet prescription can manage. Of all the jobs out there where one could maintain an enthusiasm, Bus Driver would certainly be down the list (top of the list? Idle Rich, Space Ship Pilot, Lewdness Censor).

Last week there was a fellow who was talking about a Cleanse he had just finished, and hoping that he had flushed his system fully of toxins. If that isn't bursting through stereotypical boundaries, I don't know what is.

Protests

Thanks to pixietart for the photo.

Far be it from me to begrudge someone the opportunity to don $3 dollar Vuarnet rip-offs, a camoflaged bandana, and go toe-to-toe with some riot police. The taste for tear-gas is an acquired one, but I assume the feeling of shining superiority is something we all enjoy.

Oh, I get a little hard on protesters. I actually find I agree with them: WTO, bombing far-off nations with equal measure ordinance and k-rations, overthrowing formerly CIA-supported governments who just happen to be in possession of vast quantities of fossil fuels, the Olympics; both the winter and summer. I really do find many of their points salient, totally true, and honourable.

But, on the other hand, I'm a pragmatist. How could they possibly think that any amount of candle-light vigils or fiery speeches that break Godwin's Law more times than a sitting legislature meets with lobbyists; will in ANY way deter those who have determined that they will bomb, sign economic agreements, and hold games?

I guess I should temper that.

Some things do make a difference. Summer Olympics in particular. Because the POINT of the Olympics is for a country to basically show off. The end result is a change in public opinion. Protest can change public opinion if what they are protesting is simple and heinous enough draw general chagrin. Taking the jackboots to monks. I think most people can say this is Not A Good Thing. So the protests against the 2008 Olympics might do some damage. But they won't necessarily stop the games.

What I do have issue with are the larger, more or less unilateral political and corporate bodies who really don't care what everyone thinks.

Remember all those WTO rallies? Is the WTO gone? No.

War in Iraq. Did the US NOT invade Iraq. No.

Maybe it's the undying cynic in me. But sometimes it seems protests are a great big wank to feel good about oneself, stick it to the man, and have something to blog about.

Bragging

Thanks to N/M/A for the photo.

While watching a PBS special on the mating rituals of a South American tree frog, one might be hit by the silliness of animals. Their odd behaviours, constant preening and advertising of themselves as Good Mates; or The Sole Proprietor Of This Selection of Females; or even The Real King Boss of This Arbitrary 3.5 square Meters of Forest. "That's silly", one is tempted to scoff, "dumb animals certainly are."

And yet, here we are, monkeys with a particular talent in tool-making and written language, gawking at "Cribs", or enviously tracing the outlines of our neighbours new German engineered status-mobile. As various philosophers have stated in various epochs, one can't measures oneself in relation to others. Or to put it another way, "[the average dutch citizen] considers the perfect wage to be 10% more than their neighbour".

Most people, most of the time (even if subconsciously) compare ourselves to others.

Which, I suppose is human. Everyone wants to feel like their are top dog. Or at least, you know, not bottom dog. That one's place on the status ladder isn't entirely insignificant. But it's -- to my hippy sensibilities -- despicable. Why can't one be happy just about one's happiness. Why must it be a zero sum gain? Why are we constantly jostling and bumping everyone else in ever shifting completely artificial, self-imposed hierarchy?

Ah, an endless stream of why questions is just the universe's way of telling you that you're a whiny sod. And besides, I hear many of you think. "I'm certainly not like that. I live my life free of comparison and envy!" You apparently also shit perfect 10 carat princess cut diamonds and sweat the sweet nectar of ambrosia from your brow, all the while writing a pithy yet compassionate letters to the editors of Utne and Mother Jones, and a thank you letter to the Paris Review for publishing an entire issue devoted to your iambic pentametric hybrid haikus about the state of chlorofluoro-carbons and their impact on sub-temperate Uzbekistan.

It's not like we mean to do it. But we monkeys are naturally hierarchal creatures. We do not live vast amounts of time by ourselves (like the polar bear), we evolved to live and cooperate in groups. Having structure, having this person above that person, this person below that other person, is a natural instinct. It's why we have/had royalty, it's why we have "Entertainment Tonight", "E! Daily", and whatever other 'news' program out there that feature impossibly beautiful people who have more than 6 hours a day devoted to their skin, fitness, and karmic well being all the while decrying the state of this cause or that atrocity that we huddled masses have until now been blissfully unaware.

It creeps up on us. There are all sorts of ways : talking about how much better you feel being on the 100-mile diet is a pretty subtle one (although the mock suprise as your friend tells you they don't know what it is, after which you barely contain your smugness as you discuss Carbon Footprints and sustainable eco-living is less so); going for that extra degree of discomfort in your yoga class while trying to maintain an aura of relaxed enjoyment; constantly bringing up the Japanese version of every film and talking about how it's so much better (but only in it's subtitled form).

In our enlightened society, the brag has taken subtle, insidious forms. It does nothing more than to show all of us are little more than boors. Not too far removed from the cigar chomping hummer driving nouveau-riche who walks around with a swagger and a well-worn copy of "Atlas Shrugged".

Scripts

Yes, I am the typical nerd who plays computer games (still!) and in the little world of PC video gaming, there is an ongoing religious debate about scripts. No, I'm not talking about the latest 150 pager that every waiter and busboy in LA tries to slide underneath the toilet stall of Spielberg. These are little text files that reconfigure your controls, or do some things for you. Not a lot mind you, but just enough to make those one one side of the fence yell "OMG YOU HVAE TEH COMPUTAR DOING j00r Werkz FOR j00!!" and the other side saying "IT's jes PERSONAL PREFERNZ!!!".

Like all religious debates, this one is both tedious to outsiders, and one which is completely unprofitable to enter.

Forthwith I give my personal reasons for not using gaming scripts. I hope you enjoy it. Even if you aren't a gaming nerd.



The only reason I don't use scripts (besides the fact I"m notoriously lazy), is that I have, in my mind, an eternal fear.

I'm going to some swanky dinner at, say, the Marriot. There is a crooner reminiscent of Dean Martin on stage, the candles are set low. Suddenly a dull roar comes from Conference Room D (The Evergreen Room). Everyone in Ball Room C (Sierra Madre) try to concentrate harder on their overpriced food, and attempt to enjoy this one scant evening away from the kids, their mortgage, and crush of rush hour traffic.

Another roar, this time, not so dull. The tinny overture from some retro 8-bit Famicom game starts up. It cuts through the crooner's rendition of 'That Lady's a Tramp', the pianist misses the chord change, badly.

"SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!" screams a lady in borrowed furs and faux pearls. The tension has become too much for them, a murmur arises.

The crooner stops. He addresses the audience with a commiserating snarl, "It's probably, GAMERS." Someone else in the ballroom lets out a high sigh and faints. To everyone's consternation, it's a portly gentlemen with a profusion of neck sweat.

Someone in a well-worn out suit and a strained look of appeasement shuffles up to the stage.

"I'm so sorry for the noise. But, as you have all guessed, it's a, " he uses air quotes, "LAN Party. They say that everyone else in this hotel can shove it unless someone can best their champion at Cyber Mage."

"I raise my hand tentatively. I... I think I can."

I'm ushered into a room. It's dark. It smells of sweat, pizza, and stale Red Bull. The glow of 134 LCD screens is all the illumination there is. From here and there I can see sick rigs and ironic shirts. I'm seated at a PC that has been modded to look like Helm's Deep.

"Are you ready?" whispers someone over an unseen loud speaker.

"Wait! WAIT!! I... I play much better with my scripts... it's, it's what I'm used to."

There is a hush.

"You can use whatever scripts are already on the box."

There is an endless, anguished scream. Only after I've been admitted to the psych ward do I realize it's coming FROM MY OWN MOUTH.

Alarming Whimsy

The great thing about the web is you can find just about anything. The worst thing about the web is you can find just about anything. The absolute worst thing about the web is you can find almost what you want to find ,but not quite. And the absolutely best thing about the web is finding something you didn't know you were looking for.

Exhibit A, and exhibit B. For exhibit A, just keep clicking the little image that says "Defeated by", and you'll get the gist of it. For exhibit B, keep clicking until you get to the pink whales that fly through the air and are piloted by large, terribly cute spiders.

There is something to be said for whimsy.

I'm all for it. More whimsy means less time for dogma, 24 hour news coverage about the latest white girl to go missing, and people dropping bombs on one another. Whimsy is a great way to disengage the brain from the boring gears of first, second, third,, and reverse, and throwing that gear into "Float carelessly on a rainbow powered breeze coming from somewhere under the polar bear's chin".

I think we're all drawn to it, instinctively. Children's stories, fair tales, nursery rhymes, they are RIFE with it. Whimsy coming out of the gills, as it were. But at some point, we let it go. We start reading very serious books about this depressing life or that soul-crushing relationship. This, we feel, makes us Adults. I'm of the opinion it makes us Boring, but that's just me.

We seem to be of conflicting opinions about whimsy. I mean, 9 top 10 highest grossing
films of all time I'd specify as fantasy/sci-fi, and really, any girl thinking they can get hot and heavy with Leonardo di Caprio has got to be living in a fantasy world, so let's just call it 10 out of 10.

And yet, we dismiss it. The genre of fantasy/sci-fi ,(a combined genre that is only combined because, believe it or not, one of the major publishers of sci-fi pulp mag in the States went to ... the UK? Something like that, to bring over major pieces of fantasy work. Well, that, and they are both big draws to adolescent boys. And grown men who think growing up is an option best left untaken.) is a pariah. Whimsy -- which I'd say is a subset of, or at least, included in that whole rigamorole -- is even more poo-pooed.

So I have no idea where I'm going with it. Except to suggest that we all embrace a little more whimsy. It's the brave choice. It's a choice that's good for your sanity.

Hell is Other People

If you were to take a random sampling of people, and choose one to go out on the town with; you know, someone who likes to go to shindigs and socialize with whoever might be near (to discuss that fantastic documentary on Tibetan throat singing or the ineffable joy of driving a hybrid), I am certainly near the bottom. Well, not near. At. At the very very bottom of that list.

As a general rule, I'm of the opinion that hermits are on to something, and if it weren't for Mrs. Owl, the Owlet, and the sundry things that being in a family pushes me to do, I'd while away the day reading the new and exciting things happening on the internet, or playing video games. Possibly reading (if only the installation instruction for a new game).

As a corollary, I'm also the last person you'd ever invite or expect at any committee meetings whatsoever. I find most meetings to be hemming and hawing and unclear communication layered on top of misread nonverbal cues sprinkled with an unsightly flecking of political manuevering. Distasteful.

Given all these facts, I am, therefore the LEAST likely to ever be found at a Strata Annual General Meeting. For those of you who have no idea what a strata is, it's the group of people who own a multi-resident dwelling (condos/townhouses) who are forced to meet and discuss things because someone has to explain why $3,000 of the collected monthly maintenance fees is going towards 'Bougainia Dyeing'. If you don't know what "Annual General Meeting" is, or cannot infer it from the name, then where do you live and can I move in with you?

So there I am, suffering the everlasting pain that is the AGM. I was thinking, "oh, an hour of people chattering about budgets and building envelope construction, it won't be that bad." Apparently the average AGM runs abotu 3 hours. And I felt every one of those hours pass as an unfortunate gentleman might pass kidney stones : with plenty of grunting, a few supplications to god's I have heretofore denounced, and a general judgment that there can be no god who would allow such suffering to happen in the world.

I mean, in general, most people are reasonable, aren't they? They are not going to lunge out of the darkness and stab you int he back with a rusty screwdriver without provocation or a serious imbalance in brain chemistry. Pedestrians walk along the road on sidewalks because they have trust that the oncoming semi isn't going to swerve just for fun and knock them under all 18 of its wheels.

But in large group meetings, there is a small minority. I'm not sure if they are intentionally being, well, dull, or what. But there is a minority that have hackles which get raised at the merest suggestion of impropriety. Where every ounce of indignation is mixed with a complete incompetence to understand what's going on, all bound together by an apparent need to head this or that crusade.

It's as if, at any moment, Watergate is about to pass under their noses.

These are the people that make an otherwise slightly tedious meeting a living hell. An event that 'builds character', or alternatively, 'makes one lose faith in mankind'.

I highly recommend avoiding these, if are ever pressed to attend.