Anti-Platforms

Yesterday the student council president, Sean, and I organized a mock Mayoral election for students. The night before, after we had photocopied and organized ballots, we realized that most students wouldn't be familiar enough with all--or any--of the fifteen mayoral candidates to legitimately and purposefully vote (as opposed to outright guess). And so we went on the local newspaper's website to see if we could find a summary of each candidate to include in the voting packages.

What we discovered there seemed satirical, and I'm still not convinced that it isn't. One candidate, Edward H.C. Graydon, has a platform that consists, almost in its entirety, of hating the local CFL team: "I cannot stand football and believe that the people who go to the games are a minority. As your candidate for mayor, I want the voter to know that I have never gone to a game and I never will, (sic) I don't like it." Oh, and he also threatens to sell our steel plants to the Chinese.

Another candidate, Andrew Haines, has a subliminal image of Abraham Lincoln flash underneath his personal photo on his website. Perhaps he's campaigning as the abolitionist mayor? Then he goes on to quote Jimi Hendrix (non-sequitor?), and to lament the loss of his web graphics company called, aptly, "420 designs," and to explain the respective failures of his small business and his marriage, and how he moved back in with his dad. Oh, also, he loves marijuana and karaoke, specifically after dropping off his partner Rhonda's kids in Niagara Falls and then "go[ing] out for dinner and follow that with a trip to the Clifton Hill Karaoke Patio between the Thriftlodge and the Pizza Pizza on the North side of Clifton Hill"--just in case you were wondering where. He has few bragging rights of his own, with no political experience, seemingly no humanitarian work, and no post-secondary education, but he does manage to brag about his his late grandfather, a lawyer; his father, a police officer; and his deceased mother, an active volunteer. Great job on having an awesome family, Smokey McBongwater, but this says nothing of your own personal merits.

Michael Baldasaro, of course, wants to grow marijuana across the city and use it for everything--food, fuel, clothing. This might appeal to some voters, if only he didn't openly advertise that he is a "Minister Plenipotentiary" of the Church of the Universe, and send Twitter messages that read "If I was in jail, I wouldn't bend over in the showers."

Oh, Hamilton; we've been together now 29 years. And oh, how I love to hate you.

Thanks a lot, Di Ianni

I was driving home from work yesterday at about 5:00pm, which is a common hour to perform such a task, and so I expected the Linc to be busy. Not only was it busy, but there was a full-on traffic jam by the Garth Street exit that forced me to slam on my breaks and the two cars behind me to swerve onto the shoulder. Now this was particularly inconveniencing because I had encountered one of those days so busy that you have time to neither eat nor relieve your bladder. And so I was anxious to get home and do both. Clearly I assumed that someone had had an accident, so of course I wasn't angry to have to stop. I always worry about who could be ahead of me, whether they're okay, and how frightened they must have been that split second before their car collided with another one. I crawled along every few seconds aside everyone else, patiently waiting in a nearly stopped car as it took a carefully timed seven minutes to drive just one kilometre. It was comforting to realize that I hadn't heard any sirens, which suggests that it was a minor fender bender.

That was until I looked up. And saw the true cause of the traffic jam.

Di Ianni.

Mayoral candidate Larry Di Ianni had asked (paid?) some of his supporters (homeless people?) to stand atop the Upper Wellington overpass holding his campaign signs and waving at the now enraged drivers. Drivers had been slowing down to see what was going on up there--was someone going to jump? Why were there children leaning dangerously close to the railing?--before realizing that it was just an arrogant local politician (crook?) who either didn't realize or didn't care that these schmucks standing up there trying to get drivers' attention would turn out to be a hazard. And the worst part about it is that Di Ianni himself didn't even seem to be up there I considered honking to show my disdain, but realized the begrudging sign holders might mistake my contempt for support. And so I sped the rest of the way, bladder full, stomach churning, forehead vein throbbing.

Feminists and White Men

If you have been following Hamilton's mayoral race, then you will notice something that may strike some as odd in such a diverse and culturally developed city as Hamilton: of the exorbitant number of candidates--fifteen--only ONE is a person belonging to a visible minority group and NOT EVEN ONE is a woman. Thus, there are fourteen white men, albeit with varied platforms, interests, and characters, competing to represent us, Hamiltonians, the majority of whom are NOT white men.

Now, you might be wondering, 'what does she have against white men'? Nothing. I happen to love white men just as much as I do anybody else--so much so that, in fact, I married one. But despite taking legal vows to him, I certainly don't want him to be the only voice representing my unique needs as a woman--nor do I think he should be the only voice representing a city whose population is comprised of more than 20% of citizens who were born outside of Canada (half of whom were born in Asia or the Middle East).

Feminism isn't about being 'against' a particular gender--namely, men--and equity isn't about coming down on any particular race--namely, whites; to think so is to egregiously misunderstand what feminism or equity is. On the contrary, I am quite happy for those candidates who are running in the mayoral race, regardless of race or gender, but I am unhappy that there isn't a more diverse collection of voices added to the repertoire. This being a democracy, however, I guess I shouldn't complain--I should run.

It's Always Sunny at Summer Heights High

After a long hiatus, I have resumed blogging alongside my second batch of Writer's Craft students. Right now we're about to embark upon a short "Writing for the Media" unit (within a larger fiction unit) and I'm going to be showing an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia for what I consider to be impeccable writing. This show is offensive--there is no denying that. But the writers seem to push the boundaries of what is 'tasteful' not to serve some kind of political agenda, but to maintain a spectrum of creativity that allows them to experiment with their writing in ways that avoid cliches and challenge conventional comedy styles. The show centres around four frenemies (two of whom are fraternal twins) who work together and co-own a bar. I would describe the show as Seinfeld-on-crack, with characters who aren't so much 'imperfect' or 'immoral' as amoral, outrageously self-centered pricks with an embarassingly flawed worldview who make their Seinfeld counterparts look like a clique of Girl Guides. It is worth watching for those who don't demand realism in their TV-viewing experience: each episode stands alone and there is no follow-up explanation or resolution, for example, after two of the characters become crack-cocaine addicts in order to qualify for welfare. The next episode simply begins anew as if nothing outlandish ever happened. This kind of postmodern viewing is an acquired taste, but the experimental style makes any absurdities well worth it.

Oh, and it's got Danny Devito as the twins' equally effed father--or, not their father. You have to watch to figure that one out.

p.s. I didn't end up showing this show to my class: I may, but I haven't yet.

Also, I initially intended to write about Summer Heights High as well here, but clearly lost focus--hence the confusing title. Summer Heights High, if you haven't already seen it, is pretty much a gift to all teachers who can relate to the overzealous but preoccupied teacher who is busy lamenting the loss of his former professional glory; the behaviourally-challenged but lovable (and hilarious!) at-risk student; and the sixteen-going-on-thirty-year-old teenaged girl who (thinks she) knows everything, especially how extraordinary she is. Watch it.

Fantasy vs. Realism

My friends are over tonight to watch Entourage together but, leading into it is the vampire show True Blood, which seems (upon first impression) little more than Twilight-meets-Showgirls-meets-Trailer Park Boys. I have never liked the fantasy genre. In fact, I wield a pre-existing determined, almost arrogant bias and--dare I say it?--hatred toward it. Some might call me a cynic or, in this case, perhaps even a buzzkill, because I'm just not that into a show that includes zingers such as "fucktard" and--whispered in a smouldering vampire voice--"we just fucked like only two vampires could," not to mention the consistent use of more double negatives than I care to count. I find the show laughable, but not hilarious enough to actually be entertaining. Plus, if there is one thing I hate more than fantasy, it's the cliched southern tale of benevolent white trash struggling against bigotry and their own set of inner demons--in this case, raging bloodlust.

And then there's Twilight--but Entourage will be on soon and I don't have time to get into my loathing of Stephanie Meyer and her Mormon claptrap.

No, I am a wholehearted realist. I went to see Louis CK last night at the Just for Laughs festival in Toronto. CK's bits don't include hypotheticals and he doesn't rely upon cheap puns or cliches to get a laugh. Instead, he laments his volunteer position at his daughters' elementary school where he tells a little girl that he doesn't "give a shit" about the little boy who used a "bathroom word" because she isn't his kid and he doesn't love her. Now that I can relate to.

What irks me

Every morning I watch the CBC with Heather Hiscox as I'm getting ready for the day. Every morning the CBC plays the exact same cycle of commercials. And every morning I find myself cringing when the 'Immunity FX' commercial plays, asking me: "Do you live healthy?" What gets me here is that live is a verb, which means that to be grammatically correct, it should be modified by an adverb, not an adjective. Thus, healthy should be healthily. Apparently this has become a trend in dumbed-down advertisements as researched in the magazine Mental Floss, which questioned whether we have witnessed the death of the adverb. As an English teacher and concerned member of the human race, this irks me.

And you know what else gets me? Plagiarism. Upon reading the Mental Floss article on the death of the adverb, I stumbled across a Boston Globe article on the same subject, written four years ago. I didn't see immediately that the magazine author had credited his newspaper counterpart for taking some of his words and using them verbatim. Upon a more careful reading, however, I saw that I had been mistaken. However, the brief interlude in which I mistakenly thought I had found a real-live version of plagiarism, outside of the microcosm of my classroom, I was both elated and incensed--elated because I had grand visions of busting this alleged plagiarist for being a complete phony in the writing world; incensed because I have dealt with plagiarism enough times to make me want to smack the culprit for wasting my time and insulting my intelligence. I take it very seriously--maybe a bit too seriously, as Lars pointed out as he mocked me in an exaggeratedly nerdy voice, finger wagging, "police, police, I have found an online plagiarist!"

Another so-called pet peeve of mine may, admittedly, seem absurd to some, but I will call it 'unintentional understatement'. Case in point: I have a mixed classic rock CD that I made years ago and have recently rediscovered. There is a ridiculously powerful, spine-tingling live version of Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Child (Slight Return), known to many as his magnum opus. Upon finishing with his final glorious guitar riff, a British woman in the audience is heard shouting in her hackneyed English accent "Ohhh, that was reeeeeally niiii-ce!" WTF? Seriously? You just sat and listened to JIMI-EFFING-HENDRIX play and "really nice" is your most fitting description? I hate this woman. Every time I listen to this song in the car, I have to be careful to skip to the next song before I hear her idiotic and exaggeratedly mundane comment, which ends up coming across as more insulting than had she said nothing at all.

Relatedly, I saw an episode of the HBO show US of Tara recently, and upon seeing his love interest in a wedding gown (which she was wearing before she was left at the altar by another man, a cliche I am willing to overlook here) he told her she looked "pretty." A woman in a wedding gown does not want to hear that she looks "pretty." Beautiful, extraordinary, stunning, exquisite. Any of these would do. A woman will take pretty when she is going out the door to work, or as a description of her in a photograph--but not in a wedding gown. I'm not suggesting that the unintentional understater make a concerted effort to suddenly start exaggerating everything--that would also be annoying and come off as disingenuous--but a little more carefully planned feeling and articulation of one's statements would be appreciated.

That's all for now.

Another school year bites the dust

My life is--and will continue to be, for the next twenty or so years--measured by seasons. Accountants count their years according to the annual tax season. Healthcare workers record each new cold and flu season. Retailers and markets tally each Christmas season as another one comes and goes.

My year begins in September, of course, as it has since I was not quite four years old. Every year Thanksgiving just serves as a reminder that we have a looooong way to go before we can take an extended breather. I notice the holiday season, of course, but it doesn't have any added significance other than a short break from work and a reunion with family and friends, who I seem to backburner every time a new school year begins and I forget how to manage my busy time after a relatively lackadaisical summer. I barely blink as March Break comes and goes, a pause that is more like a teaser than an actual holiday, since it is spent catching up on marking and lesson planning. May 2-4 weekend reminds us that our lives are once again soon to change, as they do every year, but we soon forget when we return to school and try desperately to get some of our most apathetic students to care half as much about earning a credit before the end of June as we do for them. And finally, just like the year before, the end of another school year bites the dust.

This one will be a particularly difficult one for me. As I have mentioned before, this time of year is always bittersweet. I really need and feel I somewhat deserve the break offered by my summer holidays, but I will miss some of my students terribly. That might sound pathetic or weird to some people; technically, students are considered "clients" or customers by the school board, and our job is to simply deliver curriculum expectations in a safe and equitable classroom environment. But here is where it gets confusing: our job is also to act "in loco parentis," which means to act in place of parents. So we are to act simultaneously like business people--salespeople hocking the product of education--and family members watching over our young as they move through a significant stage of life under our care.

I take this responsibility to heart. Our teachers' union warns us not to come into physical contact with a student. But if one of my students cries, I offer them a hug, as I hope any decent parent would. And I will likely keep in touch with several of them--the ones I feel are people who could use an advocate in life, or just the ones whose company I genuinely enjoy.

I don't want to be BFFs with my students, but I like the idea that a student would graduate and mature to be the type of person that I would like to see or hear from again. There is comfort in knowing that as my years come and go, measured by each passing June, and my students--also my clients and my pseudo-children--move on in life, that a few will have had a close enough connection to keep in touch. Otherwise, what type of businessperson/parent am I?