Like a monkey with a miniature symbol

Hey kidlets!

It’s once again time for another Friday Fry-up. So let’s not waste time mixing metaphors and just get this show on the road.

First on the docket?

Awesome reasons to eat cheese.

Glücklich (wenn auch spät) Schweizer Bundesfeie meine Freunde!

Yes, that’s right. Happy belated Swiss National Day.

Over here at chez-madhouse, we look forward to celebrating this holiday every year on August 1. It’s a chance to hang out with other Swiss nuts (aka M’s family), eat a ton of amazing cheese, drink sparkling wine, and make merry as the night is long.

So this past Wednesday we tuned up our alpen horns, practiced our Roger Federer one-handed backhands, and drove over for a feast of feasts with the rest of the gang.

Abso-frickin-marvelous.

Number two?

I think I’ve seen this all before.

So it’s not that I get déjà vu a lot, it’s more that the déjà vu that I do end up getting really knocks me for a loop – it is out-of-this-world BONKERS. I am literally struck silent (one might even say immobilized) by the feeling that everything that I am experiencing has already happened to me before.

And when I’m not living through this strange, quasi-out-of-body sensation, I’m just doing really silly things on repeat – over, and over, and over again.

(See: Hot Chip)

For instance, did you know that in Russian, the work for juice is cok? You see, c = s and k = c/k.

The confusion and embarrassment comes into play when even though you are THINKING in Russian, your brain is READING in English, and you end up saying “cok“ (and who are we kidding, if you say cok, nobody is thinking “oh, like Russian juice only mispronounced!“ and everybody is just thinking THAT GIRL JUST SAID WANG!!! BAHAHAHAHA!!!“.)

Which is bloody awkward as all get out.

Seriously, all throughout Russian 100 I’m fairly certain that I told 90% of my classmates that on the weekends I liked to drink vodka and cock.

Which is silly because I don’t EVER drink vodka, and the prospect of a vodka penis just makes the whole venture one hundred fold more unappealing.

BLARGH.

Why are you telling this story lady? I bet many of you are thinking at this very moment.

I HAVE A POINT I PROMISE.

Yesterday I was with my colleague J, and I asked her to accompany me to the kitchen so I could get a drink.

Unfortunately, I wavered between pop and coke, and so it came out: “I just want to grab a cock.“

And so it continues.

Seriously, how this is still happening to me, I will never know.

I can only blame it on the Russians.

ONWARDS!

Amazing YA fiction.

Have any of you cats read this book?

I just started it yesterday morning and I am about halfway through. It is absolutely awesome!

It’s driving me batty trying to figure out what exactly is going on – the plot is slowly unfolding but I feel as though I cannot trust any of the narration.

I am hooked. I implore you – ch-ch-ch-check it out.

As for us Canucks, we have a three day weekend to look forward to. Hopefully the sun will be shining like a shining thing. M and I are looking forward to hiking Mt. Seymour, and just spending as much time outside as possible. I have a really, really wicked foot tan shaping up, the likes of which I haven’t seen for a couple of years.

Wishing you all a fab time off, whatever it is you do.

The gold, silver, and bronze age

Holy frickmas.

DUDES.

IT’S THE OLYMPICS!!!

And hot damn do I ever love the Olympics.

Because hot damn do I ever love sport.

I don’t love corporations, or globalization, or nationalism, or any of the other buzzwords that Olympic detractors love to trot out at two and four-year intervals. I don’t love Coke, and I don’t love idiotic, phallic mascots (although my cat sure does love her Quatchi), and I don’t love doping scandals, or unsportsmanlike conduct – issues that are sure to plague these games as they do every other international amateur athletic event.

I don’t love any of these things.

I just love sport.

And I respect and admire these phenomenal athletes who have sacrificed so much – more than I’ll ever know or understand – to push their bodies to the physical limit in an attempt to (pretty much) attain the impossible.

And I cannot for the life of me understand how people can want to take away from this – take away from those who have trained their entire lives for a chance to perform in the world’s spotlight, for that all too brief moment when the collective mass of coagulated humanity turns away from whatever opiate that is currently keeping them apathetic, and docile, uninterested and disengaged – and watches.

If but for a moment, becomes re-engaged.

Ignore all the superfluous, gratuitous, pornographic background noise that is produced from the monolithic and terrifying Olympic machine; ignore the masturbatory circus that is the IOC.

Ignore everything but the events and the players.

At least I will.

I do.

Because when you do, it is magic.

Here are three memories (in no particular order) I have of watching this magic.  They are events that helped shape me not only as an athlete, but as an individual.

1.)    Donovan Bailey’s gold medal 100m final – Atlanta Olympics, June 24, 1996.

Location: The basement of my family’s house, Vancouver, wearing my older sister`s stretched and faded Los Angeles 1984 t-shirt, sun burnt, exhilarated, awe-struck, inspired.  To this day whenever I see 9.84 I think of that moment.

2.)    Myriam Bedard’s double gold, biathlon – Lillehamer Olympics, 1994

Location: The TV room of my family’s house (different from the previous post), Vancouver.  I remember the how tight my chest was, as if my pride has someone squeezed all the air from my lungs.  I was so happy for not only my fellow country woman, but for all Canadian women.  I cried when my mother told me Myriam had been selected to carry the flag at the closing ceremonies.  (It’s very unfortunate that her horrible actions post-games have come to define her memory for many.)

3.)    Matthias Steiner’s gold in the 105+ kg weightlifting – Beijing Olympics, 2008

Location: My tiny 600sq foot home as a newlywed, Vancouver.  Completely sleep deprived due to staying up all night to watch live feeds on cbc.ca  I wept when Matthias won, having learned that his wife – a German woman from Saxony – had died in a car accident just months before his Olympic triumph.  He receives his medal holding a picture of her as tears stream down his face.

What about you cats? What are you excited for?

Oh, and as a postscript (and counterargument to this entire post), take a look at The Hater’s Guide to the London Olympics. As someone who has lived in the UK, and who LOVES the Olympics, it is bloody funny as HECK.

Dear John

When I was sixteen years old I was sexually assaulted at a resort in Peurto Vallarta, Mexico. I was leaving the hotel’s disco around ten thirty at night, when one of the bartenders followed me out of the club. He came up to me from behind, took hold of my arms, and told me that he was going to walk me back to my hotel room.

I told him no, but he insisted, digging his hands, hard into the tops of my arms and the nook of my elbow.

Instead of taking me back to the room, he dragged me far down into the darkened open-air theatre.

Pushing me into a seat, he held on my arms, and told me that he loved me.

You don’t love me I whispered.

I love you, I love you, he whispered back.

I remember watching myself sitting in that seat – almost as if I was looking down from above, or from the side – my body, immobile, my voice, gone. I felt unable to scream and unable to fight back, too afraid to move; I shouted over and over again in my head, telling myself to run away, to punch and kick him, knee him in the balls, scratch his face, tell him to fuck off, do whatever it takes.

I watched myself sitting there in the chair; and as I sat there I felt my heart beating so hard I imagined it punching its way right out of my body, and I felt this man’s hands all over my skin, over me, his sticky, foul lips on my face, and I cried.

I cried, and I cried, and I said no, please, no, no, no, please.

No, no, no, I said it again, and again. Please.

No.

Yes, he said. Yes, yes, please, yes. Again and again.

Yes.

And then he put his hands under my skirt, into my underwear.

And through my sobs I managed to cry out. NO.

And he stopped.

I’ll never forget the look of absolute disgust he gave me, as he stood up, and brushed his hand on the shirt, his shorts.

As if it was his decision to stop. As if I was nothing.

You are nothing he said. Don’t tell anyone. They won’t believe you.

And I didn’t.

I was too ashamed, too horrified.

Because I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t done anything. Why I hadn’t screamed, why I hadn’t fought back.

Why I had been afraid of causing a scene. Why I had been afraid of hurting this man’s feelings.

And I remained afraid.

There have been other similar situations since that night where I have a similar powerlessness.

Times where men, sometimes faceless, sometimes not, have said things to me, yelled down a sidewalk, whispered them at parties, or mumbled the on the bus – words that debase me, strip me of my humanity, words that remind me that I am a sum of my parts – I am hair, breasts, legs, ass – a body.

Not brain, heart – not strength.

Not a person.

And I remain silent. Still.

Burning with shame at my silence, my stillness.

And this happened to me again, two nights ago.

And this is what I would like to say to that man, so drunk on a mix of himself and spirits, careening about the world defined by a complete disregard for not only my humanity, but the humanity of all other women:

Dear John,

You are not a gift.

You are a predator.

Your lechery makes me feel like garbage, because I want to yell obscenities in your face – but I don’t because we are in a social setting and I don’t want to make a scene.

But you know this, don’t you?

You know that because I am polite I won’t tell you to fuck off, or physically assault you, and because of this, you are happy to continue to harass and verbally assault me.

You make inappropriate comments about my physical appearance.

(Because that is what I am to you – a physical appearance, and nothing more.)

And because of this, you do not understand that you do not have a right to speak to me. You do not have the right to dance with me.

You may not just sit down.

I am twenty-seven years old. You are seventy-two.

I am married.

You are old enough to be my grandfather.

And I hear that you’re upset – you think others are treating you unfairly.

I would recommend opening your eyes, and realizing that the problem is not other people.

The problem is you.

 

Reading the empty spaces

Friends.

There is some majorly wacked-out stuff going down all over the globe these days.

From the most horrific, to the most mundane, it’s bizarro world out there.

I’m not really sure what to think of it all.

However, of one thing I am sure.

This morning I learned that Ray Bradbury has died. He was 91.

And I am devastated.

In terms of books, I am not one to mince words.

If I like an author, I will make it known. If I don’t like an author, well, I won’t waste my time.

And I love Bradbury.

(I refuse to use this verb in past tense. Just because he died doesn’t mean I am magically going to stop celebrating his works.)

I love him.

His writings are of such majesty that they brings tears to my eyes, and gooseflesh to my arms, and warmth to my cheeks.

They bring me pain and strength and desire and need – to my head, to my hands, to my heart, to my feet.

I’ll never forget the first time I read Fahrenheit 451.

I was in grade eleven and I had just finished reading Catcher in the Rye. Reading these two books back-to-back exploded my brain so hard it’s amazing that I managed to speak in complete sentences for the remainder of the year.

I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know everything.

I re-read 451 for the first time in the summer of 2007. This time around I took it slowly, reading each chapter and then pausing – taking time to digest the words, the ideas, dissect my growing feeling of unease, of understanding how this fictional world was so alike the one I inhabited – flesh, bones, blood, mind, and heart.

It unnerved me.

And I wanted to know more.

I wanted to know everything.

After this, I read The Martian Chronicles. Sandwiched in between Asimov’s I Robot series and Heinlein’s The Moon is a Dark Mistress, I learned about the Earthmen, and Those Summer Nights; The Settlers and The Green Morning.

“Ylla” (like so many of the book’s other stories) moved me in such a way that I have a hard time communicating them through my typed words.

Everything seems too silly, too trite.

He made a world that I wanted to visit. Wanted to dream about.

All of his worlds – I wanted to know them.

Know everything.

My favourite Bradbury work is Something Wicked This Way Comes.

This book is probably the most terrifying, most beautiful book I have ever read.

Will ever read.

Often times, when I am feeling overwhelmed, or lost, I will pick up Mr. M’s and my dog eared copy and re-read the following passage:

“Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience.”

I will think about good and evil.

About youth.

About age.

I will think about the American Dream, and its evolution. I construct a world that I imagine Bradbury inhabited as he created his work. I deconstruct the world I inhabit when I read his work.

His books make me nostalgic for a time and place I have never known.

For a time and place I will never know.

I have nothing in common with Charles Holloway, and yet I feel for him. I yearn for him.

I am him.

If you have never had the chance, please, take the time and read this book. It is magic.

Bradbury was a literary giant, unmatched by most, in a league of few.

I sincerely hope that individuals, young and old alike will continue to read his works.

Lest we all become firemen.

Lest we all become consumed by fire.

Take this pink ribbon off my eyes

So, as many of you know, I take great pains to work against institutionalized misogyny every single day of my life (much to the chagrin of both my lifespan and mental health.)

Last night I went to a special screening of the movie Miss Representation, a film that, according to its website:

“Explores how the media’s misrepresentations of women have led to the under representation of women in positions of power and influence.”

Now, being the hardened, calloused feminist that I am, much of the information presented in the film was pretty old hat – it wasn’t shocking or disturbing – instead it just served as a means to reinforce truths of which I am already (much too) aware.

That the patriarchy exists. That both men and women actively engage in the perpetuation of this system.

That the media makes millions of telling women that they are not good enough, and that they will they ever be good enough.

(And that they are worth nothing more than the sum of their physical parts – a conceit continually advocated by media conglomerates, advertisers, and the like.)

HEY LAIDEEZ! We even have chick chocolate now! Eat this and be a SEXY CHEEKY HOT FLIRT BECAUSE THE MENZ LUV IT.

This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy the film. (However I actually don’t think it’s really a type of film that you “like” or “don’t like.”)

I believe that it puts forth an incredibly important message – and one that should be talked about by all individuals, regardless of gender, which is that in order to change these destructive, social (and political, and cultural, etc., ) institutions we must, MUST work to empower both young women, and young men.

This is a two-pronged process.

If we hope to move ahead from the place where we find ourselves today, we must start promoting both agency and literacy amongst our youth, as these are crucial factors in terms of not only advancing the position of women in North America (and of course in other areas of the world) but of advancing our society as a whole.

Honestly, so much of it comes down to education.

And reading.

And the stories that are told.

Stories about humanity – not necessarily stories about “men” and “women.”

I mean, how else are youth going to engage with the idea of equality?

How else are they going to develop the critical thinking skills required to operate within the social systems that openly advocate and reinforce inequality?

My husband (who is one of the coolest feminists I know) is also an educator, and one of the hardest battles he wages with his students is trying to engage many of them in literature they study.

Seriously, he will tell you point blank: not many kids reads anymore.

And because of this, young people are less and less likely to dissect the different messages that bombard them twenty-four hours a day, through an ever growing number of media – be they traditional or new.

They are less likely to deconstruct the stories – the tropes, the stereotypes, the norms, the systems – they are exposed to each time they flip the channel or open that web browser (let alone question then!)

Because when we watch television, use the internet, listen to music – these are passive media. We are letting these things happen to us.

With reading you are problem solving, forming hypothesis, and working through content – (yes I am aware that this is highly dependent on the material you are engaged with – but on the whole, I’m apt to believe that reading is a much healthier intellectual pursuit that ye olde boob tube or the interwebs.)

And the great thing about reading is, you get to find out what you like, and then make informed choices from that experience – as opposed to being told what you like (which is basically the main reason that TV exists, and increasingly more and more the internet) and making decisions based on what you think is right for you, and not what you know is right for you.

(I honestly have no other explanation as to why anyone would ever sign up for reality TV.)

Now, I’m certainly not saying that as long as every kid grows up reading a book a week, engrained sexism is magically going to disappear.

Nor am I saying that TV AND INTERNET ARE BAD.

(I have made my feelings quite clear about that sometime last November.)

It’s just that when there is nothing to balance out, or neutralize so much of the awful messaging that plagues those two platforms, (platforms that are owned and controlled predominantly by old, white, men  – a group I would wager is predominantly adverse to change) it is incredibly difficult to evolve.

Instead, these norms are recreated and reinterpreted in perpetuity.

And that, as the movie successfully points out, is something that is hurting us all.

And this, unlike the movie, is something I don’t like.