Over the past month or so I’ve become mildly fascinated with a gay American soldier who has documented the process of his coming out in a series of fairly emotionally raw YouTube videos. His channel and twitter feeds are titled: AreYouSuprised, a rhetorical question perhaps on the subjects perceived masculinity.
When the soldier, now known as Randy, started making his videos he pointed his iPhone camera at his pectoral muscles downwards. This framing had a dual purpose: they maintained the soldier’s anonymity (the video’s first appeared in April months before the official repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell) while also highlighting his sculpted chest.
This duality was probably at the heart of Randy’s success as an Internet viral hit (4 million views and counting): his videos targeted an intellectual audience that was empathetic to his lonely plight while titillating the rest of us with twitpics of his six-pack.
The dichotomous nature of the Soliders efforts piqued my own internal fasciation – was AreYouSurprised an entirely wholesome effort, or was it some sort of cleverly concocted social media campaign concocted by GLAAD or Human Rights Campaign to bring attention to gay issues preceding the repeal of DADT?
The soldier finally revealed his face in a dramatic denouement (much to the glee of his many fans whom had been left salivating over his sculpted physic) on September 20th, the day DADT was formally repealed, videotaping himself telling his father over the phone that he was gay.
Was the entire series emotionally honest? It was; especially, to anyone who ahs gone through the routine of telling their best friend that they were gay, and then wrestling up enough courage to come out to other friends, and then finally family. This was what made Randy’s “live” statement to his father that he was gay so heartfelt both for the subject and the viewer. Was there a dry eye in the house when Randy’s father told him that he loved him no matter what? Probably anyone but Maggie Gallagher and Michelle Bachman passed the tissue.
That being said - was the whole series also kind of creepy? Yes it was; since when did it become perfectly normal to watch a stranger go through his coming out process on YouTube? What makes this even creepier is how normalized this all seems in a post “It Gets Better World”.
And this, this is where a problem emerges. Sharing, which was formerly caring, or whatever the saying was that we all learned in kindergarten, has been completely redefined in the twenty first century. Sharing is no longer caring. Sharing is now showing and sharing is also now telling.
Now… of course, who am I to really talk about any of this? I tweet, blog and status update with the best of them. And to a point I do it because I’m bored and because I like to express myself and because I’ve been told I’m a mildly witty writer so I figure use whatever God-given talents I have before I’m carted off to the loony bin.
The problem with all of this incessant sharing is that the contribution of ideas, stories, and the like in a curated state was part of humanity’s ability to create “intellectual capital”. And as Russell Smith argued in a really interesting Globe and Mail column last week ideas are no longer a commodity : “I have a recurring argument with creative young people - about getting paid for ideas. There now exists an entire generation of intelligent people who have grown up without any expectation of compensation for imaginative work.”
And in some ways, as someone who loves to write, but has made a sum total of $600 from various writing pursuits, I write and publish on free blogs, like the Huffington Post, for the joy of it. I am part of Russell Smith’s complaint; I have never had an editor parse my work nor have I had to report on things I don’t like to talk about; I can excuse myself from the dregs of journalism because I am a blogger. I am not, nor ever have I been a journalist… I just play one on the interweb.
And so I understand Smith’s concern with the matter at hand; however, in my generational defense, what Smith may have missed, however, is that young - people and I’ll include myself in that lot - don’t view sharing as a form of creating intellectual capital. We share because its what we’ve been trained to do. We share because there is a button on Facebook that says: share. In our constantly connected world, sharing is just another click on our smartphone.
No longer do we write things down in our diary, or even do we write long, expressive emails to our best friend as we did in the late nineties; remember, the halcyon, days when you received only 1 email a day and it was sort of exciting to log into Hotmail? We make YouTube videos because we want to and as Smith notes we don’t expect to be paid for anything because we don’t really view any of this as art. Sharing is no longer creating (in an arts centric sort of way); we share because we like to share. And should it “go viral”, allowing its creator to reap some sort of financial reward (Obviously Rebecca Black is the most obvious example of this)… that is just financial gravy on top of the emotional gratification of sharing. Show now, reap value later, if at all.
But if we HAVE become a society of constant shares, then the line between what is intellectual output and what is just a fart (to be lewd) is forever blurred. And therefore I do understand Smiths' concern - if everything becomes a simple share (I'll just publish my newest photo album on Facebook), then we do unfortunately de-legitimize the creation of real creative content. And that... my friends is a problem.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Caught Between the Rock and a Gay Place
NB: A stupidly long essay on life… ie I need an editor
I was looking at photos of a friend’s recent Euro-trip the other day – the type of overzealous photos taken from a train station when you’re 23 and backpacking through Europe and even though you’re covered in sweat, and you’ve worn the same outfit 3 days in a row, but you’re face is covered with the biggest shit-eating grin because you partied until 4 am and somehow made it to the Budapest train station to catch the early train to Vienna…
Back here in Canada a group of friends and I were chatting about said photo album over brunch. Soon we began to chat about our various Euro Trips; one of us recounted a tale of having sex in the bathroom of a hostel in Madrid (not my story) and another reminded us about the time someone had barfed on them at a hostel in Greece. As brunch ended, we realized, with some lament, that those days – the days of Europe being a haze of 32 person hostel rooms, cheap beer, and vodka shooters – had ended. Somehow, somewhere, silently we had aged out of the fun.
I think a lot about the difference between being 23 and being 27 (or 22 and 28) these days. Those five or six years of seem vast to me in terms of maturity but I can’t tell if it is haughty of me to think that it is those 5 years specifically which constitutes maturation or if it is 5 years in general.
When I tell my 23 year-old friends that 23 is worlds away from 28 most argue, “But we’re practically the same age.”
I wish it were true. I also wonder if 33 will feel totally different from 28 (if a 33 year old is reading this and laughing at me - heads up!); or rather, if, at 25 or 26, you somehow cross the Rubicon from being a sorta-kinda-adult into the murky middle of real adulthood which suddenly means mortgage payments, car payments and private school payments that spread before you like a never ending roadmap to Freedom 65.
I’ve only recently concluded that adulthood is measured by the monthly outflow of your checking account; the more monthly payments you have, the more of an adult you actually are. And if I’m being totally honest being a “real” adult with its litany of monthly payments sorta kinda sucks.
Similarly, a friend of mine was recently at a baby shower, listening to her female friends chat about Egyptian cotton thread counts, when she lost her $hit and literally screamed at the top of her lungs: “guys I don’t fucking care.” Ennui aside, she was in the minority.
To top the banality of it all, being a real adult features such familial injustices as the following: “If you can afford to a Power Ball ticket,” my mother told me the other day, “I don’t think your father and I should be subsidizing your High Holiday ticket at synagogue.” She wasn’t necessarily wrong, but did I really want to spend my hard-earned shekels on Beth Shalom?
But what is most noticeable about transitioning into real-adulthood, besides the aforementioned increase in monthly payments, is the fact that suddenly you don’t just have one best friend. Suddenly your best friend now has a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Even acquaintances start showing up to parties with someone. “Can I bring Phil?” “Do you mind if I bring this girl I’m seeing, its getting kind of serious.” And low and behold these other people aren’t just booty calls or interstitial things: “we’re just dating; its not serious so please don’t friend them on Facebook,” rather, what is happening now eventually winds up with a close-up shot of “the Rock” on Facebook. The Rock Shot and Rock Watch is a great past time for those with a couple of idle moments. And for the record I’m not judging that photo nor the desire to show off the diamond – all parties, from groom to bride to parents, have worked hard for “the Rock”.
Sometimes said photo is pre-dated by an email: “heads up, xyz and I got engaged last night, I’m telling you before we announce it on Facebook.”
My response to such an email is three-pronged:
Initial reaction:
1) Happiness or Anger (depending on my feelings toward the significant other, now fiancé)
Subsequently, I send this email (often before I even respond to my friend):
2) Hey Lucy (a personal shopper at Tiffany’s whom I met once two years ago and whose contact information I put in my phone even though I haven’t seen her since) - I have another wedding. My billing information should be on file.
Lastly, I respond to my friend:
3) OMG!! OMG!!! - I’m so happy for you guys! (I say that even if I’m not and just a differing about of exclamation marks)
After the most recent engagement of a friend I came home and watched that old Sex and the City episode (A Women's Right to Shoes) where Carrie registers for a pair of Manolo Blahniks because she’s fed up with having to spend hundreds of dollars on her friends’ baby showers, weddings, engagement parties and the like. I finally get it. Why is no one offering to buy me a KitchenAid stand mixer? [FYI – I’d like one in the Caviar colour.]
Even friends of mine who swore that they would never get married, tuck their tails between their legs and learn the most important words any bride must know: Monogramed Crane Thank You Cards.
When I was 24, for example, I worked with two lovely women in their early thirties. Neither was married, and neither had children.
“You’ll both wind up pregnant and married,” I told them about a month into our friendship.
“Never!” They argued. “We don’t want kids!” They were modern gals “We don’t need to get married.” Fast forward four years to our annual Christmas reunion lunch at Fresh on Bloor Street, wherein they whipped off their parka’s to highlight baby bumps… “We’re both pregnant!” They gleefully told me.
Babies, much like adulthood, seems to creep up on us, replacing debaucherous nights at the Pink Palace in Corfu, Greece, with conversations about car mileage and the hassle of having to buy two car seats for two separate cars.
What’s interesting of course is that for the gays, although perhaps this will change, what with the increasing acceptance of gay marriage and gay adoption, our semi-adulthood seems somewhat prolonged; at least compared to our straight friends who barrel past 28 and run headfirst into their thirties.
Of my gay friends who are in somewhat long-term relationships… not one is talking about marriage. Comparatively, I already have four straight weddings scheduled for 2012 (this is before the Holiday Engagement rush so I figure I could have 8 weddings for 2012). In fact most of my gay friends aren’t even in relationships. I was up at a friend’s cottage over the past weekend with 5 other single, professional gay dudes who were in various stages of looking for love. We spent the weekend oscillating between jokingly going on Grindr to check out the local talent and lamenting our recent run of bad dates. Sure enough the 6 of us found ourselves on the following Thursday drunkenly stumbling around Woody’s judging the weekly best chest contest. That’s what singledom allows I guess.
In some ways it seems as if we’re sort of caught between “the Rock” and a gay place.
Gay marriage and the fight for equality was in some ways meant to be a great equalizer. Gays can be just like the breeders. And yet… not to rely on stereotypes sometimes we aren’t. First of all there are biological differences between gay couples and straight ones that seem to preclude a rush to the alter. As Marissa Tomei infamously noted in My Cousin Vinny… there is such a thing as a biological clock for the gay man, which in Marissa’s case was “ticking like this”.
And perhaps more than biology gay men are free from the societal pressure that constrains a lot of my single female friends. As one boyfriend noted – and I’m paraphrasing - “Upper Middle Class Jewish Toronto forces this same goal: get married and have babies before you’re 30.” And in a way he was right. There is the unspoken “plan” that seems to take root. Suddenly you run into more and more people from elementary school pushing strollers and as you exchange pleasantries you wonder “how old were my parents on the first day of school?” And then there’s this total mind-fuck because you realize you’re about as old as your first memory of your parents. And if that doesn’t require a shot of vodka then I don’t know what does.
But ya see.. gay men just aren’t bound to the same “Plan” (get married and have babies before 30). First of all biology complicates our lives and any sort of foray into parenthood requires adoption and surrogacy which makes the entire thing a bit more complicated then stopping birth control. And of course society doesn’t expect us to follow the “Plan”; if we do, we do so much later on in life.
There’s a great blog I read called the Domestic Daddy. It’s about two Manhattanite men who have sired a child. The DD (who actually is a daddy in the gay sense of the word) writes about his life raising Julia and decorating their house in the Hamptons and loft in Chelsea. One of the blog posts started with: “Strolling through the girls section of the little J.Crew store in Southampton which we do often.” The Domestic Daddy had me at J. Crew. And in fact there is something resoundingly twee about the Domestic Daddy’s blog. It’s a rather adorable family blog about a parent taking time off from work to raise his child. The slant of course is that the parents are also gay men.
As per most things in life – I spent an afternoon Googling the Domestic Daddy on the internet and realized he was in his late forties. His partner, in his fifties. They were indeed Domestic Daddy’s… but they weren’t like my twenty-something friends who got married and had babies when they were 30. They had settled sure, but they had done so at a much later time in life.
And that’s the thing really… if 28 is somehow suddenly adulthood – and the seeming mass of your adult years stretches before you, tempered by marriage and the birth of children – gays are given the luxury of seemingly having a longer adolescence. The true question – is what do you put between that Rock and the gay place?
I was looking at photos of a friend’s recent Euro-trip the other day – the type of overzealous photos taken from a train station when you’re 23 and backpacking through Europe and even though you’re covered in sweat, and you’ve worn the same outfit 3 days in a row, but you’re face is covered with the biggest shit-eating grin because you partied until 4 am and somehow made it to the Budapest train station to catch the early train to Vienna…
Back here in Canada a group of friends and I were chatting about said photo album over brunch. Soon we began to chat about our various Euro Trips; one of us recounted a tale of having sex in the bathroom of a hostel in Madrid (not my story) and another reminded us about the time someone had barfed on them at a hostel in Greece. As brunch ended, we realized, with some lament, that those days – the days of Europe being a haze of 32 person hostel rooms, cheap beer, and vodka shooters – had ended. Somehow, somewhere, silently we had aged out of the fun.
I think a lot about the difference between being 23 and being 27 (or 22 and 28) these days. Those five or six years of seem vast to me in terms of maturity but I can’t tell if it is haughty of me to think that it is those 5 years specifically which constitutes maturation or if it is 5 years in general.
When I tell my 23 year-old friends that 23 is worlds away from 28 most argue, “But we’re practically the same age.”
I wish it were true. I also wonder if 33 will feel totally different from 28 (if a 33 year old is reading this and laughing at me - heads up!); or rather, if, at 25 or 26, you somehow cross the Rubicon from being a sorta-kinda-adult into the murky middle of real adulthood which suddenly means mortgage payments, car payments and private school payments that spread before you like a never ending roadmap to Freedom 65.
I’ve only recently concluded that adulthood is measured by the monthly outflow of your checking account; the more monthly payments you have, the more of an adult you actually are. And if I’m being totally honest being a “real” adult with its litany of monthly payments sorta kinda sucks.
Similarly, a friend of mine was recently at a baby shower, listening to her female friends chat about Egyptian cotton thread counts, when she lost her $hit and literally screamed at the top of her lungs: “guys I don’t fucking care.” Ennui aside, she was in the minority.
To top the banality of it all, being a real adult features such familial injustices as the following: “If you can afford to a Power Ball ticket,” my mother told me the other day, “I don’t think your father and I should be subsidizing your High Holiday ticket at synagogue.” She wasn’t necessarily wrong, but did I really want to spend my hard-earned shekels on Beth Shalom?
But what is most noticeable about transitioning into real-adulthood, besides the aforementioned increase in monthly payments, is the fact that suddenly you don’t just have one best friend. Suddenly your best friend now has a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Even acquaintances start showing up to parties with someone. “Can I bring Phil?” “Do you mind if I bring this girl I’m seeing, its getting kind of serious.” And low and behold these other people aren’t just booty calls or interstitial things: “we’re just dating; its not serious so please don’t friend them on Facebook,” rather, what is happening now eventually winds up with a close-up shot of “the Rock” on Facebook. The Rock Shot and Rock Watch is a great past time for those with a couple of idle moments. And for the record I’m not judging that photo nor the desire to show off the diamond – all parties, from groom to bride to parents, have worked hard for “the Rock”.
Sometimes said photo is pre-dated by an email: “heads up, xyz and I got engaged last night, I’m telling you before we announce it on Facebook.”
My response to such an email is three-pronged:
Initial reaction:
1) Happiness or Anger (depending on my feelings toward the significant other, now fiancé)
Subsequently, I send this email (often before I even respond to my friend):
2) Hey Lucy (a personal shopper at Tiffany’s whom I met once two years ago and whose contact information I put in my phone even though I haven’t seen her since) - I have another wedding. My billing information should be on file.
Lastly, I respond to my friend:
3) OMG!! OMG!!! - I’m so happy for you guys! (I say that even if I’m not and just a differing about of exclamation marks)
After the most recent engagement of a friend I came home and watched that old Sex and the City episode (A Women's Right to Shoes) where Carrie registers for a pair of Manolo Blahniks because she’s fed up with having to spend hundreds of dollars on her friends’ baby showers, weddings, engagement parties and the like. I finally get it. Why is no one offering to buy me a KitchenAid stand mixer? [FYI – I’d like one in the Caviar colour.]
Even friends of mine who swore that they would never get married, tuck their tails between their legs and learn the most important words any bride must know: Monogramed Crane Thank You Cards.
When I was 24, for example, I worked with two lovely women in their early thirties. Neither was married, and neither had children.
“You’ll both wind up pregnant and married,” I told them about a month into our friendship.
“Never!” They argued. “We don’t want kids!” They were modern gals “We don’t need to get married.” Fast forward four years to our annual Christmas reunion lunch at Fresh on Bloor Street, wherein they whipped off their parka’s to highlight baby bumps… “We’re both pregnant!” They gleefully told me.
Babies, much like adulthood, seems to creep up on us, replacing debaucherous nights at the Pink Palace in Corfu, Greece, with conversations about car mileage and the hassle of having to buy two car seats for two separate cars.
What’s interesting of course is that for the gays, although perhaps this will change, what with the increasing acceptance of gay marriage and gay adoption, our semi-adulthood seems somewhat prolonged; at least compared to our straight friends who barrel past 28 and run headfirst into their thirties.
Of my gay friends who are in somewhat long-term relationships… not one is talking about marriage. Comparatively, I already have four straight weddings scheduled for 2012 (this is before the Holiday Engagement rush so I figure I could have 8 weddings for 2012). In fact most of my gay friends aren’t even in relationships. I was up at a friend’s cottage over the past weekend with 5 other single, professional gay dudes who were in various stages of looking for love. We spent the weekend oscillating between jokingly going on Grindr to check out the local talent and lamenting our recent run of bad dates. Sure enough the 6 of us found ourselves on the following Thursday drunkenly stumbling around Woody’s judging the weekly best chest contest. That’s what singledom allows I guess.
In some ways it seems as if we’re sort of caught between “the Rock” and a gay place.
Gay marriage and the fight for equality was in some ways meant to be a great equalizer. Gays can be just like the breeders. And yet… not to rely on stereotypes sometimes we aren’t. First of all there are biological differences between gay couples and straight ones that seem to preclude a rush to the alter. As Marissa Tomei infamously noted in My Cousin Vinny… there is such a thing as a biological clock for the gay man, which in Marissa’s case was “ticking like this”.
And perhaps more than biology gay men are free from the societal pressure that constrains a lot of my single female friends. As one boyfriend noted – and I’m paraphrasing - “Upper Middle Class Jewish Toronto forces this same goal: get married and have babies before you’re 30.” And in a way he was right. There is the unspoken “plan” that seems to take root. Suddenly you run into more and more people from elementary school pushing strollers and as you exchange pleasantries you wonder “how old were my parents on the first day of school?” And then there’s this total mind-fuck because you realize you’re about as old as your first memory of your parents. And if that doesn’t require a shot of vodka then I don’t know what does.
But ya see.. gay men just aren’t bound to the same “Plan” (get married and have babies before 30). First of all biology complicates our lives and any sort of foray into parenthood requires adoption and surrogacy which makes the entire thing a bit more complicated then stopping birth control. And of course society doesn’t expect us to follow the “Plan”; if we do, we do so much later on in life.
There’s a great blog I read called the Domestic Daddy. It’s about two Manhattanite men who have sired a child. The DD (who actually is a daddy in the gay sense of the word) writes about his life raising Julia and decorating their house in the Hamptons and loft in Chelsea. One of the blog posts started with: “Strolling through the girls section of the little J.Crew store in Southampton which we do often.” The Domestic Daddy had me at J. Crew. And in fact there is something resoundingly twee about the Domestic Daddy’s blog. It’s a rather adorable family blog about a parent taking time off from work to raise his child. The slant of course is that the parents are also gay men.
As per most things in life – I spent an afternoon Googling the Domestic Daddy on the internet and realized he was in his late forties. His partner, in his fifties. They were indeed Domestic Daddy’s… but they weren’t like my twenty-something friends who got married and had babies when they were 30. They had settled sure, but they had done so at a much later time in life.
And that’s the thing really… if 28 is somehow suddenly adulthood – and the seeming mass of your adult years stretches before you, tempered by marriage and the birth of children – gays are given the luxury of seemingly having a longer adolescence. The true question – is what do you put between that Rock and the gay place?
Friday, June 10, 2011
He's Just Not That Into You
Here's an article I wrote for the Good Men Project on internet dating:
There is a point after every break-up, just as you’re about to hit send on an email to your ex, when the invisible hand of the relationship market (perhaps Dan Savage?) causes you to reconsider your actions. It is only then that it finally dawns on you that indeed the cliché is right: “He’s just not that into you.”
There is a point after every break-up, just as you’re about to hit send on an email to your ex, when the invisible hand of the relationship market (perhaps Dan Savage?) causes you to reconsider your actions. It is only then that it finally dawns on you that indeed the cliché is right: “He’s just not that into you.”
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Retro: My Two Villages
Because this article appeared in print four years ago... I feel like its time to go all retro styles and reprint. (And I guess the National Post still owns the rights to this.. but like... simmer down) The edited and published version is available here!
My Two Villages
Hilary Rodham Clinton infamously published a book a couple of years ago entitled “It Takes a Village.” Lifted from the African proverb, “It Takes a Village to raise a child” Clinton espoused her unique vision about how to parent a gawky red head in America (loves ya Chelsea!).
The Village she was talking about, I suspect was NOT Forest Hill. Here it takes one immigrant nanny to raise a child, yet an entire Village to corrupt said child into a bitchy sixteen year-old wearing $90.00 sweatpants. Sigh. [Sidenote: how much do you love the fact that Old School Roots Sweatpants are back?]
Toronto, in true Clinton esque fashion, is however a city defined by its villages, neighborhoods and nabes. At the recent Toronto City Summit, the health of our neighborhoods was on par with discussions on transportation, economy and even topic du jour, the environment. In fact “Strong Neighbourhoods, Stronger Toronto Region” was one of the most dynamic and provocative session of the summit; more attendees wanted to talk about Toronto neighborhoods with Frances Laskin then those who humored Mayor Miller’s frenetic One Cent Now campaign.
In Toronto – communities and villages represent a rather simplistic, yet provocative, version of identity. Neighborhoods are instant generalized value judgments. Annex = hippie. Rosedale = WASP establishment. This list could go on and on and like any sweeping generalization there are I’m sure exceptions to the rule; that being said you can bet your Holt Renfrew Amex card that the McGregor Smith’s outnumber the Singh’s on Binscarth Avenue, Rosedale.
As a gay and Jewish man who grew up in the Faux Hill my community based identity should be pretty clear. I oscillate between two of the city’s most infamous villages: the Gay Village at Church & Wellesley is where I indulge in my love of non-kosher meat, and in the Faux Hill Village at Spadina-Lonsdale, I can wolf down a chopped egg salad sandwich from What a Bagel. Sometimes it’s hard to choose.
In funneling between these two villages I’ve realized however that I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in either. Sometimes when I go to Woody’s [That would be a gay bar for those not in know, because yes – gays love phallic gay bar names] I feel like a 14 year-old twink awkwardly venturing downtown for his first taste of homosexuals. A friend looked at me recently and said, “you really don’t like either of your identities, do you?” I stonewalled for a second before looking at him and argued, “Its not that I reject who I am,” I love being gay, and like some aspects of being Jewish, “I just reject the popular connotations of my identities.” What I meant, when I took some time to actually examine my use large, multi-syllabic words, was that I hated the public connotations of my two villages. As a happy fag and embittered Jew I don’t particularly associate or feel represented by the popular connotations of my identity groups, which in Toronto is best personified by the their respective Villages.
When I went to Puerta Vallarta over Christmas (yes - that would have been a vacation I took WITH my parents) I ended up in a hotel about a stones throw away from the Puerta Vallarta gay village. Same rainbow flags, same sex shop, phallic based bar names – and same sense of not belonging. I don’t particularly like the popularized image of the gay village for some reason – perhaps best represented by an inverse graph to the number of times I’ve been asked to “join me and my boyfriend for some hot three way action.” I’m more of a love the dick, hate the Village kinda guy. As if to exacerbate my views on gay villages, one relatively infamous Canadian fag I know had this to say about PV, “I can’t believe you went there with your folks – there are so many men there; Martin [boyfriend of ten years] really loves the Latin men.” Did you just vomit in your mouth, because I did. And as for the other village in my life – Faux Hill, my distaste with these parts has an entire blog devoted to its Lululemon clad ass so really nothing more to say there.
Too often I get accused of some form of self loathe. Gay friends accuse me of being a bad gay, Jews accuse me of being a self-loathing Philip Roth lite; and maybe they’re all correct in their assumption. Maybe I should accept who I am and get myself a nice set of Burberry earmuffs. Don’t worry – I’m not going to. I realize the problem though: at base we all love to belong. We all love to be amongst peers who we recognize and who we can borrow from a Coach purse now and again. For example, there is even a group for people ‘like myself’, Jewish-Fags, which attempts to bridge the cultural gap between uptown middle class Judaism and downtown hardcore faggotry. One could argue even that the success of Toronto is inherently tied to its Village structure and the sense of belonging it imbues. Residents feel an intense sort of pride in the common sense of identity that their neighborhood provides.
The bigger problem though beyond this sense of belonging, or in my case, lack there of is that the Village creates a sort of identity that sometimes is often more stereotypical then real. I.E. all gay men aren’t obnoxious pigs, no matter how many times the bisexual tells me that over the phone [that is called self-loathe sweetie] and no matter how many times I leave a gay bar shaking my head in revulsion. And not all Village residents are Faux Hillary’s – remember Bold doesn’t own anything from Tiffany’s.
My friend Kitty often introduces me as Jewish Jon to her friends. When I came out we discussed adding the additional adjective before deciding that one derogatory nickname was enough. The rather intelligent joke of course is that by calling me Jewish Jon, she was in fact making fun of that particularly stereotype, that Village mentality if you will, wherein cultural identity is trump. And more then that, cultural identity is a broad stereotype that everyone gets. “Oh you’re Jewish?” Her friends would say. “I love latke’s! I love hanging out in the Forest Hill Village!” Jewish Jon was a motif for the fact that for the most part the people that we associate with are happy to loudly and proudly declare their minority status. I’m gay! I’m Jewish! I’m Asian! I blame the whole multi-cultural mosaic concept; either way, welcome to Village Pride baby.
Ghettoization has never been so vogue.
My Two Villages
Hilary Rodham Clinton infamously published a book a couple of years ago entitled “It Takes a Village.” Lifted from the African proverb, “It Takes a Village to raise a child” Clinton espoused her unique vision about how to parent a gawky red head in America (loves ya Chelsea!).
The Village she was talking about, I suspect was NOT Forest Hill. Here it takes one immigrant nanny to raise a child, yet an entire Village to corrupt said child into a bitchy sixteen year-old wearing $90.00 sweatpants. Sigh. [Sidenote: how much do you love the fact that Old School Roots Sweatpants are back?]
Toronto, in true Clinton esque fashion, is however a city defined by its villages, neighborhoods and nabes. At the recent Toronto City Summit, the health of our neighborhoods was on par with discussions on transportation, economy and even topic du jour, the environment. In fact “Strong Neighbourhoods, Stronger Toronto Region” was one of the most dynamic and provocative session of the summit; more attendees wanted to talk about Toronto neighborhoods with Frances Laskin then those who humored Mayor Miller’s frenetic One Cent Now campaign.
In Toronto – communities and villages represent a rather simplistic, yet provocative, version of identity. Neighborhoods are instant generalized value judgments. Annex = hippie. Rosedale = WASP establishment. This list could go on and on and like any sweeping generalization there are I’m sure exceptions to the rule; that being said you can bet your Holt Renfrew Amex card that the McGregor Smith’s outnumber the Singh’s on Binscarth Avenue, Rosedale.
As a gay and Jewish man who grew up in the Faux Hill my community based identity should be pretty clear. I oscillate between two of the city’s most infamous villages: the Gay Village at Church & Wellesley is where I indulge in my love of non-kosher meat, and in the Faux Hill Village at Spadina-Lonsdale, I can wolf down a chopped egg salad sandwich from What a Bagel. Sometimes it’s hard to choose.
In funneling between these two villages I’ve realized however that I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in either. Sometimes when I go to Woody’s [That would be a gay bar for those not in know, because yes – gays love phallic gay bar names] I feel like a 14 year-old twink awkwardly venturing downtown for his first taste of homosexuals. A friend looked at me recently and said, “you really don’t like either of your identities, do you?” I stonewalled for a second before looking at him and argued, “Its not that I reject who I am,” I love being gay, and like some aspects of being Jewish, “I just reject the popular connotations of my identities.” What I meant, when I took some time to actually examine my use large, multi-syllabic words, was that I hated the public connotations of my two villages. As a happy fag and embittered Jew I don’t particularly associate or feel represented by the popular connotations of my identity groups, which in Toronto is best personified by the their respective Villages.
When I went to Puerta Vallarta over Christmas (yes - that would have been a vacation I took WITH my parents) I ended up in a hotel about a stones throw away from the Puerta Vallarta gay village. Same rainbow flags, same sex shop, phallic based bar names – and same sense of not belonging. I don’t particularly like the popularized image of the gay village for some reason – perhaps best represented by an inverse graph to the number of times I’ve been asked to “join me and my boyfriend for some hot three way action.” I’m more of a love the dick, hate the Village kinda guy. As if to exacerbate my views on gay villages, one relatively infamous Canadian fag I know had this to say about PV, “I can’t believe you went there with your folks – there are so many men there; Martin [boyfriend of ten years] really loves the Latin men.” Did you just vomit in your mouth, because I did. And as for the other village in my life – Faux Hill, my distaste with these parts has an entire blog devoted to its Lululemon clad ass so really nothing more to say there.
Too often I get accused of some form of self loathe. Gay friends accuse me of being a bad gay, Jews accuse me of being a self-loathing Philip Roth lite; and maybe they’re all correct in their assumption. Maybe I should accept who I am and get myself a nice set of Burberry earmuffs. Don’t worry – I’m not going to. I realize the problem though: at base we all love to belong. We all love to be amongst peers who we recognize and who we can borrow from a Coach purse now and again. For example, there is even a group for people ‘like myself’, Jewish-Fags, which attempts to bridge the cultural gap between uptown middle class Judaism and downtown hardcore faggotry. One could argue even that the success of Toronto is inherently tied to its Village structure and the sense of belonging it imbues. Residents feel an intense sort of pride in the common sense of identity that their neighborhood provides.
The bigger problem though beyond this sense of belonging, or in my case, lack there of is that the Village creates a sort of identity that sometimes is often more stereotypical then real. I.E. all gay men aren’t obnoxious pigs, no matter how many times the bisexual tells me that over the phone [that is called self-loathe sweetie] and no matter how many times I leave a gay bar shaking my head in revulsion. And not all Village residents are Faux Hillary’s – remember Bold doesn’t own anything from Tiffany’s.
My friend Kitty often introduces me as Jewish Jon to her friends. When I came out we discussed adding the additional adjective before deciding that one derogatory nickname was enough. The rather intelligent joke of course is that by calling me Jewish Jon, she was in fact making fun of that particularly stereotype, that Village mentality if you will, wherein cultural identity is trump. And more then that, cultural identity is a broad stereotype that everyone gets. “Oh you’re Jewish?” Her friends would say. “I love latke’s! I love hanging out in the Forest Hill Village!” Jewish Jon was a motif for the fact that for the most part the people that we associate with are happy to loudly and proudly declare their minority status. I’m gay! I’m Jewish! I’m Asian! I blame the whole multi-cultural mosaic concept; either way, welcome to Village Pride baby.
Ghettoization has never been so vogue.
Friday, May 20, 2011
In Defense of Gwyneth Paltrow
Gwyneth Paltrow gets a real bad rap.
Which is somewhat odd because Gwyneth Paltrow can also actually rap:
GP can also act, cook and sing. Forget [You] about J. Lo – my girl Gwyn is the ultimate triple threat.
Yet… for some reason the public at-large seems to hate her. Unlike Reese Witherspoon, Katherine Heigel, Kate Hudson, or Meg Ryan (back in her pre botoxed fish lips day) Gwyneth Paltrow has never been America’s sweetheart. Instead Gwyneth has forever been Queen G, head of Hollywood’s cool and therefore mean girls. Truly, there is nothing girl-next-door about Gwyneth, unless the girl next door to you lives in Apartment 15B of a Park Ave. Co-Op.
Rather then being the girl next door - Paltrow has always been effortlessly better than you. And this air of superiority clearly rubs people the wrong way; Google her name or read comments about her on gossip blogs and you'll get the feeling that not a lot of people like the Paltrow. As the daughter of Hollywood power-couple Bruce Paltrow and Blythe Danner Gwyneth is not representative of how American’s like to think of their domestic culture where anyone can become anyone; Gwyn’s gilded life is the opposite of the Horatio Alger “rags to riches” story that America’s like to name as a founding cultural motif. The fact that GP went from riches to riches while looking gorgeous in cashmere is like rubbing fleur de sel into an open wound.
Throughout her career Paltrow has done little to endear herself to the public. Such ill-advised comments: "I worry about bringing up a child in America… At the moment there's a weird, over-patriotic atmosphere over there, like, 'We're number one and the rest of the world doesn't matter,’” are clearly not mass market placating.
While such mildly asinine comments did nothing to endear Paltrow to the public I dare say the public has never truly liked her. Her GUSHING Best Actress win when she wore a Barbie pink dress and cried about her love for her father. She did herself no favours a year later when she showed up at the Oscars in a goth chic dress that made her breasts look like chicken cutlets.
In the interim years she grew up and married Chris Martin, lead singer of perhaps the most successful band since the Beatles (sorry Oasis), had a couple of children with said lead singer and gave them cloying names (Moses and Apple). She’s also made a number of dubious films while generally keeping herself in the spotlight for being rich, beautiful and successful without overexposure.
And yet people have continued to hate her. Ted Cassablanca infamously nicknamed her Fishsticks Paltrow so named because she is cold, much too thin and overly white-breaded.
I get some of this misplaced anger. I do. Gwyneth isn’t like like coca cola classic. Rather, like a fine Port Paltrow is an acquired taste. But friends - why must you hate her so? What has Saint Gwyneth, the Duchess of GOOP ever done to you besides tell you how to live your life better?
If anything I’d venture to say that my dear, sweet Gwyneth Kate Paltrow Martin is simply misunderestimated.
While often being labeled for being out of touch via her lifestyle newsletter GOOP – I would argue that GOOP is really based on the early twentieth century notion of moral uplift and upper middle class conceptions of charity. Similar to the temperance movement and other progressive causes taken up by wealthy, white, women in the early years of the twentieth century GOOP is a modern re-interpretation of progressivism. Ya know how Andrew Carnegie built libraries as a way of educating the masses? Paltrow is sending e-newsletters helping us nourish our inner aspect so we can live our life better. Just as Upton Sinclair fought for proper meat packaging in his book the Jungle… Gwyn is helping us pick out French skin-care solutions. Quelle surprise Mademoiselle Paltrow!
As G said herself upon launching GOOP: “I have this incredible, blessed, sometimes difficult, very lucky, very unique life, and I've gotten to travel all over the place and to work and live in different cities. … So I started accruing all of this information to share it.”
And while sometimes her choices are outrageous – don’t hate her for not knowing any better. In her most recent GOOP newsletter, Spring Wardrobe Basics, Gwyn advised spending a couple of thousand dollars on a spring wardrobe. The UK Mirror called her "out of touch." Is this a lot of money? Sure. But look – I probably spend a thousand on clothes “a season”… is ten times what I spend that outrageous for a woman who probably makes 20 times what I do? Besides – who cares if what Gwyneth is suggesting unaffordable outfits for the masses?
She’s Gwyneth Fucking Paltrow and La Paltrow does not represent the masses.
Isn’t that the point of celebrity anyway to make us feel inferior about our looks, sex and wealth? Part of what celebrities have traditionally been about (at least in the era before the current age of reality star twats) was cultivating such an unreachable image.
If anything GOOP is a modern compromise about how to be a celebrity in the twenty-first century. It is not grassroots, but it bends to the modern need for celebrities to share with their fans.
In today’s world of TMZ and Perez Hilton Gwyneth Paltrow is very intelligently controlling how we view her world. With GOOP she lets us in, but she controls the output. Is it all a bit much? Sure… the mutually masturbatory interview with Jay-Z was a bit much (sample question: "You are the coolest man on Earth, how the f did you get like that?"). But from Gwyn’s perspective – if we the public are consistently clamoring for celebrity and we the public are constantly desiring to know more about her life, is it not intelligent to try and control what and how we learn about her?
GOOP isn’t just about nourishing your inner aspect – its Gwyn’s attempt to stay above the current celebrity fray, that she would also probably say is completely beneath her, while also reinforcing the fact that she is indeed a celebrity and therefore better then us. So you will get GOOP every week, you will read it, and you will like it.
Because if celebrities aren't better then the great unwashed masses - then what good are they? GOOP is like a Lady Gaga outfit - it is a constant, weekly reminder that you are not Gwyneth Paltrow. So while you may hate her Paltrow is doing something serious: she is single handedly trying to rebuild that fourth wall of celebrity.
And that... that is why I love her.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Book of Ruth
It is almost too easy to laugh at Ruth Ellen Braseau, the NDP MP for the francophone riding of Berthier—Maskinongé. For starters even though she was running for election she infamously celebrated her birthday in Vegas midway through the most recent Federal election. The Dippers tried to excuse her by saying that she couldn’t change her flights because she’s a poor single mother, but let’s be honest here, going to Vegas is not like saying, “I’m off to Geneva for a World Health Organization Convention on reproductive rights, so I’ll be missing the local all-candidates debate.” We all know that the only reason people go to Vegas is drink, gamble and see Celine Dion. Because as well also all know Celine Dion is #amazing.
For the Liberals, reprimanded by the Canadian electorate and sent to sulk in their room WITHOUT DESSERT, Ruth Ellen has become an easy target as Canada’s Not So Natural Ruling Party attempts to lick their wounds like no political party in this country has licked their wounds before.
“See what happens with you give the NDP keys to Stornaway,” you can almost see a stern-looking Michael Ignatieff complain to Zsuzsanna as she helps him unpack his boxes into his fancy new office in Toronto’s Munk Centre, “They immediately invite everyone over for a house party. If only Canadians had trusted us. We know what’s best. As if we’d ever have an unwed single waitress over to dinner. As. If.”
Such patronizing paternalism aside (Iggy, what?!)… lets be somewhat radical in the assessment of our dear friend Ruth Ellen. Yes, she’s a 27 year-old cocktail waitress who may not be fluent in French and who represents a riding where 98% of her constituents speak French as their first language and where 77% don’t speak English. These are what the French call, les faits.
But she’s also a woman and a single mother who at some point was asked to run as a parachute candidate in a country that is desperately lacking in female parliamentarians. Besides… if you asked half of my friends (a lot of whom are 28) two months ago to run as an NDP candidate in any riding – the answer would be: (to quote Mercedes on Glee) Hell to No. That would be due to political affiliation but also political disinterest. Bitch please, most would rather watch Rebecca Black’s Friday on loop then think about politics.
Certainly Ruth Ellen isn’t the only parachute candidate from the most recent election. Etobicoke-Lakeshore is quite a few physical kilometres away from Michael Ignatief’s residence at 18 Yorkville (even further from a socio-economic perspective). And as this cheeky article from 2006 notes: In fact, politicians who run in ridings where they don't actually live are as much a part of Canada's heritage as hockey or maple syrup. Seems that politicians from John A. Macdonald to Brian Mulroney have a history of running in one riding and living in another (do you think Brian and Mila were going to schlep their asses out to Central Nova from Westmount?).
Is it possible that the Ruth Ellen Braseau situation indicates a tipping point of how the Canadian electorate is starting to see beyond our historical allegiance to the Westminster System with its imbued first-past-the-post idiosyncrasies coupled with some sort of vague representation by population?
Its almost as if segments of the Canadian electorate are slowly deciding they don’t need local federal representation. Ruth Ellen may represent a larger movement in Canadian politics, one where local representation at the Federal level has become increasingly less important.
It seems that Quebecers may be moving in that direction. This is somewhat unsurprising - in my mind the Quebec electorate is perhaps Canada’s Smartest Voting Bloc (no pun intended!). So before we cry for the poor villagers of Lavaltrie remember that 40% of them (22,000 people) voted for Ruth-Ellen even though she didn’t personally canvass the ridings towns and find out what their needs were. She didn’t, like my Member of Parliament, have to stand precariously above the Heath Street exit to the St. Clair West subway station rambling about the Liberal Family Pack.
And as Canada’s Smartest Voting Bloc – Quebecers knew who they were voting for even if they didn’t know who they were voting for. What the NDP surge exhibited was that Quebecers were happy to voting as a cohesive bloc in order to punish parties that they felt had wronged them. If Ruth Ellen happened to get caught up in the surge - who cares, because Quebecers wanted a seat at the table to talk about pan-Quebec issues. Nothing else mattered.
And as astute political creatures Quebecers had already soured on the Liberals, realized it was now time to take the Conservatives to the cleaners (J’accuse you for not building our arena M. Harper!) and felt like they needed to punish the Bloc for being lazy fools and thus… they turned to Jack and his merry band of idiots fully know that some of the NDP candidates were nothing more then what Lysiane Gagnon called poteaux in a recent column. Poteaux stands for posts – “symbolic candidates who don’t bother to campaign because they don’t have the slightest chance of winning.” As Montreal Gazette columnist Don Macpherson noted: “Every time I pass an orange traffic cone now, I’m tempted to wave, because I think of my new Member of Parliament.”
But perhaps Quebecers are ahead of the general curve realizing that the twentieth century concept of electing a federal MP to represent your hyper specific local issues is outmoded. What matters increasingly in twenty first century Canadian politics is party leadership.
The success of Ruth Ellen to me, at least, asks that important question: as we move to a more regionalized stance in Canadian politics and where, at least federally, our issues and debates become about the general tone of the country (economic recovery, law and order, foreign policy, health) why do we need local federal representatives to deal with our local issues. Truthfully we have Rob Ford for that (song interlude: you just call Rob Ford, and you know wherever he is – he’ll come running, to see you again; winter spring summer or fall, all you got to do his call and Rob Ford will be there ya ya ya, you’ve got a friend).
Besides – have you ever seen what happens in parliament? Them people are yelling at each, clapping and banging on their desks. Do you think Ruth Ellen was EVER going to stand up and argue for additional funding for the local museum she visited today, which celebrates unwed mothers? And how do you think John Baird would react to that? (Because you know that bitch knows a thing or two about impregnating and then leaving women as single mothers [uhm…]) Sidenote: I’m not sure how a video of John Baird saying Point of Order has not gone viral, but this is my new ringtone:
I realize that this is a somewhat simplistic viewpoint of Canadian politics and I understand that local constituent offices work closely with local populations to bring about local change at a local level… blah blah blah and certainly some federal politicians, especially those who are part of our current governing party, do bang-up jobs ensuring that gazebos are built in Muskoka, but like… our MP’s aren’t the people negotiating hidden wage increases with police unions (hi Dalton, call me buddy, we gotta talk) and nor should they be.
Besides within the auspices of our current party structure where MP’s are whipped to vote with their party on major issues – do our local representatives really represent our local issues? I mean sure… they do in some instances, but not always. Take the private members bill to scrap Canada’s Gun Registry - Bill C-391. When it was originally read in Parliament - 8 Liberal and 12 NDP MP’s voted WITH the Conservative Party to scrap the firearm registry even though their party leaders voted against the bill. Afterwards Ignatieff whipped his caucus to vote along party lines meaning if you were a Liberal MP whose constituency wanted the long-gun registry abolished - tits up. Jack didn’t officially whip his caucus (that sounds dirty right?) but still 6 of the 12 NDP MP’s who voted with the Tory's suddenly decided to vote along party lines even if that meant NOT representing their local issues. That's just one issue... but its telling.
What the Braseau scandal then truly highlights is that in Quebec, at least in this election, riding representation in the Federal realm is dead. And Ruth Ellen isn't the villain in this situation, she may simply be the uni-lingual canary in the coal mine.
And if not – we always have the bible. As Ruth said to Naomi in the Book of Ruth: Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people.
For Ruth-Ellen Braseu her people are the residents of Berthier—Maskinongé.
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