Rebel Without A Brain

Advise for the Lovelorn

There is a moment in every girl's life when she judges the salubriousness of her object of desire. Usually, this moment arrives when she sees his place of abode for the first time. If the residence is cleaner than her own, she questions the depth of his fastidiousness and whether that will have an impact on her jouissance. If the residence is, however, a pigsty, she knows the sex will be awesome, but the idea of touching anything other than his (usually) clean body is totally out of the question.

So, here's my advise for those awesome guys who live in pigstys:

1) Get a cleaning service. They're cheap. I have contacts.
2) Call her when the cat shit has been removed from the bath tub.

You're worth it. She's worth it. Germs are icky.

Love,
Auntie Rebel

My Mommy Told Me Not to Put Beans in My Ears

The title of this post are the words to a song my older brother and sister used to sing to me when I was little. I had no intention of putting anything in my ears as a child, but I admit to having a bit of a Q-tip fetish now that I'm all grown up. There's something I find comforting about twirling that little baton of cotton in the crevices of my ear.

This Saturday, preparing to go out, I performed this ritual as the final step of my ablutions. Perhaps I was a little too excited about the new restaurant I was going to try, and was a tad rougher than normal in ensuring the hygiene of my ear. As a result, the cotton part of the swab stayed lodged deep in the canal.

I tried to dislodge the intruder, first with my fingers, and then with the now-nude swab. I then realized that I was doing more harm than good. I imagined a trip to the emergency ward, replete with an embarrassed explanation of my very bad habit. I thought about simply living with it for the evening, then decided it rude that I would likely not hear what the person seated to my left was saying. I also worried about maintaining my equilibrium. In desperation, I called my neighbour, who, with a practiced mother's hand (she has a grown daughter) and a pair of tweezers, removed the plug of fluff.

So, I don't know if this post is a cautionary lesson, a tale of urban community, or a homage to a mother's calm healing touch. All I know is that I will never put beans in my ears.

New Kids On the Block

A new organization, the Committee for the Sustainable Redevelopment of Griffintown, has started posting information about the Devimco project to their blog. Consisting of residents, community organizers, small business owners, and those who are just plain concerned, they were well-represented at yesterday's public consultation on the project and managed to ask the first question of the evening: why is the city ignoring its own advisory bodies, such as the Conseil du Patrimoine, who have disapproved the project. The packed meeting also heard from community organizations and individuals from Little Burgundy, St-Henri, and Point St-Charles.

The committee's latest blog entry is by Robert Mellin, Associate Professor at McGill, who, with the help of his graduate students, have compiled and published some beautiful works on this historic neighbourhood. Says Mellin of Devimco's proposal, "The main opportunity in Griffintown is to revive the area through a vision of a “living/working” quasi-industrial, but urban landscape of production, rather than a strictly “pleasure-oriented” landscape of consumption, with its attendant banal condos, parks, and shopping malls."

Banal, indeed.

If you're interested in keeping up with Griffintown redevelopment issues, don't forget to check out these blogs as well:

• SaveGriffintown
• Spacing Montreal

...I want to look inside your head...

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do

Peter Sarstedt sappy but memorable song from 1969, Where Do You Go To My Lovely, has been breezing through my head since Sunday. I watched the short prequel to The Darjeeling Express, entitled Hotel Chevalier, where the song plays a prominent role in signalling Jason Schwartzman's character's confusion over his break up with his girlfriend, played by a partially nude and mysteriously bruised Nathalie Portman.

The lyrics of the song have embarrassingly resonated with me, not because I dress in Balmain nor do I possess a Picasso, but because I had been queried over the past week about what was really going on inside my head. Normally, I don't mind someone poking inside my thoughts and trying to get to know the "real me", whoever she is (it tends to fluctuate). I do hesitate, however, when I barely know someone and they are attempting to get under my skin through email exchanges.

You may know the scenario. You meet someone briefly at a party or event. You exchange email addresses. Correspondence begins innocuously. Then they start asking questions whose answers you'd barely reveal even to your closest friends. Exchanges like this, via the written word, create a false sense of intimacy. Your interlocutor never engages with the totality of your you-ness, which permits, I suppose, a certain freedom in what can be asked of you. How often have we put into a written communication that which we cannot say directly to someone? Ironically, I know that I do it all the time.

I've learned over the years to nip this anonymous querying in the bud. Normally, my response is to invite the person (okay, it's always a guy) to meet and talk in person--certainly these weighty issues deserve to be discussed over cocktails and canapes. In my experience, the person so eager for your inner-most thoughts scuttles away from the limelight. (Is the cockroach metaphor too strong?) The corollary to this is when a former something-or-other (lover, boyfriend, husband) checks your blog with a frequency that exceeds the frequency of communication you had when you were actually speaking to one another.

The real me is revealed in vivo, a glass of red wine in my hand, every reaction clear on my face, and my heart squarely on my sleeve. That is real intimacy.

This blog is not.

The Green Car Bandwagon

I recently discovered this ad for Mercedes-Benz's BLUETEC technology, their so-called eco-friendly diesel engine. While efforts to reduce emissions should be applauded, their marketing of the technology is "redonkulous". The short flash ad begins with a mini lesson on photosynthesis midst a bucolic landscape of growing flowers. They compare the diesel engine to a plant, stating that "BLUETEC converts oxides of nitrogen into air and water." Yup, we can replace the rain forest with a dozen or so constantly idling BLUETEC diesel engines.

Check out the ad here (click the BLUETEC link).

Web Memories

I've had my own domain since 1998. I first registered emdash.net, then mellowkitty.com (and of course, my company's domain, cg-soup.com). All have lapsed, but I have high hopes for rebelwithoutabrain.com and rebelwithabrain.com (the latter stores my course information for the moment; I certainly don't want my students to think I'm brainless).

The Internet Archive's Wayback Machine has this mysterious ability to store and retrieve stuff from the web that is long gone. Many of the pages of my original domain are now available, though why anyone but me would be interested questions the very heart of the Wayback Machine; it preserves because it can, but why it keeps intact these ancient pages is unfathomable to me.

Most of the stuff on the original domain (emdash.net) was devoted to my initial career as a "technical communications specialist". Mellowkitty.com was meant to house my fiction and poetry, but never took flight.

Looking back on what I published, and, hence, what I thought was important, is like reading an old diary. I cringe, I smile ruefully, but, mostly, I wonder, where this crap is being housed now and whether I can delete it. I let the domains lapse for good reason. Please, Mr. Wayback Machine, let sleeping domains lie.

Sex and Simulation

My uncle Nigel had two Cadillacs in his garage that never actually ran. He always intended to get them road-worthy, but I never saw them outside of his garage. Uncle Nigel was a tinkerer, and gifted with most things mechanical and electronic--he even built a stereo system for my dad, including the speaker housing. My fondest memories of Uncle Nigel involve my accompanying him to stores where they had tube testers. You inserted the tube into the device, and it told you whether it was "live" or not. The words "Cadillac" and "tube" are forever associated in my mind with Uncle Nigel.

The preceding paragraph was a very roundabout way to write about my discovery of this ad for Cadillac starring Bob Dylan on Youtube. All I can say is, "Cadillac and Bob Dylan? Brilliantly ironic." 'Nuff said.

This discovery led me to an ad Joan Jett (yes, Joan Jett) did for the same Cadillac ad campaign, which then led me to her seminal (pun totally intended) video for "I Love Rock n' Roll". Did anyone ever look better in red leather? She is totally in your face as she approaches her object of desire and screeches "yow!" at then end of each refrain. Yow, indeed. She's hot and there isn't an ounce of doubt or vulnerability in her performance. Having a guitar slung across your hips definitely helps.

Fast forward about 20 years, and you have this Britney Spears remake. I know Britney is gone, finished, washed-up, whatever, but the contrast between the two videos is remarkable. First, Britney's only object of desire is...the absence of an object of desire.  There is no 17 year-old boytoy. The video pays homage to old Duran Duran and Robert Palmer videos by having Britney crawl on all fours towards an amp cable dripping with...fluid. She fellates a microphone and pole dances with the best of them, although sans pole. Closeups of midriff, pouty lips, and flingy hair complete the video. As far as I know, Britney goes home so she can be alone with some sound equipment.

Joan was sex, all the best gnarly bits, sure of its capacity to be an end in itself (and to look fabulous in red leather). Britney was double-barreled simulation, revealing pure, unadulterated nothing (dare I say "lack").

As much as I miss Joan, though, I will never buy a Cadillac. R.I.P. Uncle Nigel.

Manifest Destiny

When I was in University working on my BA, I became friends with three other women, A, F and L. I don't know what drew us together, except that we were all scholarly in a girly-sexy kind of way. One of our boyfriends at the time dubbed us the "Commie dykes", a moniker we adopted with relish. Note that said boyfriend also divided vegetables into left- and right-wing; carrots were definitely right, while eggplant was way left. We loved eggplant, and still do.

F was perhaps the first to exhibit teacherly ways. My first memory of her took place in our College's lounge. F flew by, dressed in a short red leather skirt (revealing a set of awesomely long legs), a pair of safety scissors in her hands. She was preparing a presentation for a class. Safety scissors scream "teacher". Today, F teaches at a college and has done so for ten years. She was the first among us to work within an academic institution.

L was the most voracious reader in a group of already voracious readers. Born to a very mixed and disparate family, she counted among her stepfathers a poet of some renown.  She told tales of bonding with her biological father in complete silence as they both read at the dinner table. L now works at a university in Ontario.

A was born to a family of scholars and activists. She worked for a while in a completely different profession before making an about-face to teach at a local college. I visited A's office today and interrupted a meeting she was having with one of her students. I witnessed the care and respect I know she shows to all her students as she patiently explained the requirements for an upcoming assignment.

Me? My mother taught elementary school in Rouen, France before marrying my father and moving to England. She proudly wears a medallion presented to her for preventing German soldiers from billeting in the school where she taught. Temporarily abandoned when the bombardment of the city became too great during WWII, she managed to convince the invaders that the children's return was imminent. Now, I have a tiny foot firmly planted in a hall of higher learner.

A, F, and I met for a quick dinner this evening. Earlier, F had said that it was a shame that we weren't all teaching at the same institution. I smile at the thought of the reunion of the "Commie dykes", and what we could accomplish together. In the meantime, I have a craving for ratatouille.

Seven Days Older and Deeper ...

Today marks the official end of birthday week, and not a moment too soon. I ate a little too much, drank a little too much, and generally tried to do too much in a week packed with fun, appointments, drama, more fun, and far too much red wine.

Friends made a special effort to come out to Saturday's closing party, including surprise guests from Boston. Festivities also included far too much protein in the form of cheese (both pasteurized and not) and the unnecessary but very dramatic destruction of a roulette wheel.

Next week? I'll use all the thoughtful gifts I received, especially the champagne and chocolates. Can someone run me a hot bath?

Diss'd!: Don't Hate me Cuz I'm Happy

I was recently censured for having an overly positive (and possibly delusional) attitude towards life. This missive came by email, and arrived one hour before a dinner I had been looking forward to with a smart, handsome guy. Great, I thought, I'm going to be preoccupied with this message from a former lover instead of focusing on having a great evening. Happily (and I choose this word deliberately), my mind stayed in the moment, but strayed in the following days. My crime? I decided to stop dating a guy who clearly "wasn't that into me".

I have been chastised for a variety of things in my lifetime. I'm blithe, sometimes cavalier, and, yup, occasionally selfish. I heard these definitions a lot growing up. I don't hear them much anymore. What I do hear is "impatient" or "doesn't suffer fools gladly".  Like a lot of adults, I've managed to learn behaviour that masks much of my childhood self, but doesn't completely cover the residue that remains in the more mature me. No one has ever dissed me, though, for being too happy. Like, really, what's up with that?

This post is precisely what I should not do if I were trying to learn how to "suffer fools". But, I take umbrage (love that word!) with being described as a human Happy Meal, a colourful package containing a cheap toy and empty of any real nutrition.   

Fine. I get it. Life sucks, then you die.  In those moments of suffering, which is pretty much every moment, you have choices.  Some of us party until we puke into our own mouths, some of us adopt religion, some of us lash out at others like a trapped feral dog, some of us just try to create a sane human community around us to keep us from falling victim to our own follies. Surely, this post is my folly. Get over it. I'm human.