MONDOmagazine

Welcome to yet another addition to the television section here at MONDO: The Episode of the Week. Here, our contributors go through the myriad of shows that come their way and blow kisses (or vomit) at the standout kids. It can be any kind of show. Except for Due South. I like Mounties, but that was pretty terrible, no?

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Episode of the Week
The Problems I’ve Got With Strong Women
America’s Next Top Model, Cycle 11, Episode 5
(The Runway Challenge)

Carolyn Tripp

As is true with any reality show critique, the scenarios presented in America’s Next Top Model amusingly seek to display the “truthful” goings-on of a particular industry or household. The scenes are contrived, the in-fighting half-assed, and the participants amusingly conflicted as their own sincerity clashes, within the confines of their respective contracts, with their attempts to appear as “normal” as possible for the in-house camera crew.

ANTM differs slightly in many reality show applications, but is still a laughably earnest attempt to effectively, and dramatically, scout fresh modeling meat. Laughable primarily because it seems as though the tall, effortlessly gorgeous Tyra Banks is entirely sincere about what she’s doing with the program and its contestants. If it weren’t for her philanthropic efforts, I’d really cut into her, but as it stands, I’m content to critique the show’s modeling recruitment efforts exclusively. ANTM is essentially nothing more than a complicated, drawn-out beauty pageant with cool designers attached.

Previous winners have included those whose looks are considered to be outside the range of conventional beauty. Different races, creeds, and sizes have won the crown, and there was (until this week’s elimination) a pre-op trans-gender model Banks selected from a Cycle 10 photo shoot. In spite of these highlights in progression and civility, the pageantry remains (see Banks’ Cycle 10 intro). In spite of its best efforts, it is still no more than a Trump-stravaganza.

Like being picked last for soccer, the girls (typically aged 18 to 24) cry when their name isn’t called. They stand wide-eyed in the weekly sacrifice, sucking up scrutiny from a panel of judges who, quite understandably, answer only to the gods who sign their pay-cheques every week. Unfortunately, they’re still part and parcel of a harmfully influential and backwards industry.

So why, in perfect health, do I watch this every week? Because damn, I love the clothes. Additionally Episode 5 treated us to something really rather special: designer Jeremy Scott. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, but there was genuine excitement in seeing him berate models for wearing his garments incorrectly or walking down the catwalk like “strippers.” His artistry, in this case, can’t really be denied. Scott’s inclusion doesn’t mark a turning point for the show by any means, but does it guarantee that I’ll be sitting in front of the television next week? It most certainly does.

In a manner of speaking, ANTM is perhaps more indicative of the state of contemporary feminism than any other show I can call to mind. Here, the glorification of “unusual” beauty still holds strong to the damnable tradition of superficiality. You can slap all the pretty clothes and industry rhetoric you want on top, but the meat grinder still churns out the same result.

I suppose there is a certain grace in not bothering to deny the portions of ourselves that desire this sort of programming. In a way, the show is just responding to market need. However, I wish I could turn off the television and properly scrutinize the dilemma currently facing the astute female. As it stands, however, I’ve put down my book and and have been willfully hypnotized by the swishing of pretty skirts down the runway. The challenge continues.

By Caesar Martini

Please note that when compiling this list I tried to stick to villains that have (somehow) made multiple appearances as recurring characters.  If you travel far enough back in comic book history, back when writers would apparently drop acid and swallow horse tranquilizers and throw any idea to the wall to see if it stuck, you’ll find even more absurd villainy than I’ve listed here.  People with names like Hypno-Hustler (hypnotized his victims with his funky jams and stole their wallets), The Tumbler (he’s a…professional tumbler), and GAARD (an outer-space hockey goalie).

I’m the best there is at what I do…and what I do…is look like a douchebag.

In contrast, the villains I’ve listed here have appeared repeatedly in comics, indicating that they must have been popular somehow.  These ridiculous creations have actually stood the test of time.  Keep that in mind.

10. The Owl — Leland Owlsley was a successful Wall Street financier who went to jail for IRS fraud.  After taking a serum that gave him some kind of odd “gliding” power, he became one of Daredevil’s enemies.  Basically The Owl’s superpower (aside from gliding unassisted, which is one of the least explicable powers ever) is that he looks like an owl and clearly has a Wolverine fetish.  His criminal career highlights consist solely of being used as Daredevil’s punching bag.

9. Hammerhead — A longtime Spider-man villain, Hammerhead is a gangster with an Al Capone fixation and a horribly obvious metal plate in his head.  He basically goes around headbutting people and running through doors head first.  Yup, that’s it.  How can such a mad evildoer be stopped?  I dunno…shoot him, maybe?

8. The Penguin — Somewhat recently The Penguin, aka Oswald Cobblepot, has reinvented himself as a behind-the-scenes crime boss who runs a nightclub as a front for more illicit activities.  That’s just fine by me, because that seems like the only type of criminal activity a short fat guy with a birth defect could feasibly pull off.  But long ago, he used to thwart Batman on a regular basis with bird-themed crimes and advanced umbrella technology.  Like his umbrella-copter, bullet-proof umbrella, acid-shooting umbrella, flamethrower-umbrella, and so on.  Hey Penguin, know what might work better than any of that?  A regular old machine gun.  Who says a tool of death needs to keep you dry in the rain?  Try it out sometime, see if you like it.

7. Paste Pot Pete — A Fantastic Four villain from back in the day, PPP (also called The Trapster, which is a little less silly) was part of a team called The Frightful Four…sort of an anti-Fantastic Four.  PPP used a glue gun to make all encounters with him a…sticky one.  GET IT??  The most horrible/wonderful thing about PPP is that he looks like a madman wandering around in a purple suit and shooting buckets of semen at everyone.

Awwwwkward.

6. Monsieur Mallah and The Brain — I can’t decide if these guys should be on the lamest supervillains of all time list, or the coolest.  I mean, it’s a talking, beret-wearing, French gorilla with a machine gun and a brain in a jar.  But also, it’s a talking, beret-wearing, French gorilla with a machine gun and a brain in a jar. I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of genius.  Oh and also, the brain and the monkey are in love.  Scientist Niles Caulder raised the IQ of a gorilla to 178 and named him Monsieur Mallah.  Soon after his body was destroyed in a lab explosion, but Mallah managed to save Caulder’s brain and connect it to a mechanical tube that allowed him to speak.  These two were adversaries of The Doom Patrol and the Teen Titans.

5. Stilt Man — As you might guess, Stilt Man’s “superpower” was walking on giant mechanical stilts.  He could extend and retract these stilts and kick holes in walls, and his suit was impervious to gunfire.  Regardless, he’s on a pair of giant stilts.  Just push him over.  I believe both Daredevil and Spider-man defeated him in this manner.

4. Captain Boomerang — The original Captain Boomerang was a Flash villain.  He wasn’t a captain, but he did throw boomerangs.  And he’s Australian, of course.  He had a variety of trick ‘rangs: some exploded, some were sharp, and so on.  He also had a flying ship that was shaped like a boomerang, and defying every known concept of aeronautical dynamics, flew like one too, end over end.  That’s all well and lame, but even worse, the Captain was a total loser and all around dick.  He was a coward and a racist and often had to be “tricked” into fighting.  I would be too, if all I had to defend myself were boomerangs and Aussie racial slurs.

“Beware. I will eat holes in your sweaters over a long period of time.”

3. Killer Moth — A prisoner who, upon his release, attempts to set himself up as “the Anti-Batman” and somehow thinks that robbing banks while dressed in an eye-stabbingly garish moth outfit is a means to that end.  In a stunning display of originality, he even obtains a “Mothmobile” (convertible sports car), a “Mothcave,” and a “Moth-Lantern” (moth version of the Batsignal).  His “superpowers” were a pair of artificial wings that allowed him to fly and a gun that shot sticky threads (and also, grenades, which seems weirdly off-themed to me).  Lots of characters are created in an attempt to mimic Batman, but I’m pretty sure this is the lamest attempt ever.

2. The Trickster — An old Flash rogue.  I could basically make my entire list out of absurd Flash villains; so many of them are just terrible.  The Trickster, aka James Jesse, was an acrobat who was fascinated by the life of — you guessed it, outlaw Jesse James.  He felt a certain kinship with the cowboy (even though The Trickster’s real name was actually Giovanni Giuseppe and he was born in Napoli).  In his desire to be like Jesse James, James Jesse somehow thought it would be a good idea to dress up like a colour-blind circus clown and pull pranks on people.  Picture The Joker minus anything that made him smart, dangerous, or menacing.  The Trickster’s bag of tricks (ha!) included shoes that let him walk on air, and far less impressive tools such as exploding rubber chickens and itching powder.  Scary stuff.  And with these tools he somehow repeatedly fought off the Flash, a super-speed hero who can run around the world in about half a second.  Amazing.

In this day and age, if you see someone approaching you in this manner, you expect him to have a different agenda than just stealing paintings.

1. The Rainbow Raider — Winner of the lamest villain ever award.  So lame, in fact, that when Flash writer Geoff Johns was ramping up all the kooky and pathetic Flash villains from yesteryear into somewhat credible threats, he took one look at Rainbow Raider and opted to kill him instead.  With a painting to the chest.

The Rainbow Raider used a visor that his dad had invented to shoot rainbows and slide around on them.  In addition to being able to “ride the rainbow,” he could also choose particular rainbow colours to emit from his visor, and whatever colour it was that hit you, you would be overcome with the emotion that is associated with that colour.  So if you were blasted with a blue ray, you’d suddenly be really sad.  If you were hit by green, envious.  I have no idea what happened if you got hit by the orange beam.  What’s orange, hungry or something?

You’re right to think this is probably the gayest gimmick ever, but the idiocy of The Rainbow Raider goes even deeper than you think.  It’s like an orgy of cheesiness.  First of all, his real name is Roy G. Bivolo, as in, “Red Orange Yellow Green Blue Indigo Violet with a meaningless O L O on the end.”  Secondly, the tragedy of his character was that Roy was a talented painter in his civilian life…BUT WAS COLOUR BLIND!!  Oh, the humanity.

Never able to put together a colour scheme that made sense in his paintings, and evidently never asking anyone to help him or just doing paintings in black and white, he became frustrated and bitter.  When his father gave him a set of special goggles meant to cure his colour blindness but which shot gay rainbows instead, Roy turned to a life of crime.  He stole paintings because if he couldn’t enjoy them, with his horrible disability, no one could.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Roy G. Bivolo is merely a fictional character, but he is an inspiration.  There are millions of people with colour blindness.  Not a one of them has been able to take their barely inconvenient handicap and turn it into a life-changing motivation to embark on a series of colour-based art crimes.

Kudos to you, Rainbow Raider.

Star Wars: The Force Unleashed
Developed by Krome Studios
Published by Lucasarts

By James Wisteard

It is a truth universally acknowledged that ever since Nintendo introduced the motion-based console to the Wii, one of the growing feelings at the back of peoples’ minds has been that it would be pretty damn cool system to play a Star Wars game on. Now, after two years, we finally have the chance to wave around our dream (mock-)lightsabers and slice everything that isn’t made of air into two. Was it worth the wait? Yes, actually, it was.

First of all, let’s go over the controls. I hesitate to use the word “control” because I think “waggle fest” might be slightly more appropriate; this game easily takes the reward for being the Wii’s most motion-intensive game yet. To swing your lightsaber up, down, left or right, you swing the Wii-mote in the corresponding direction. To use a force push, you thrust the nunchuck toward the screen. To block incoming blaster shots, you hold the Wii-mote up and sideways. In boss battle “quick time” events, you tilt the Wii-mote or nunchuck at indicated angles. Picture yourself in a room with a dozen storm troopers, and you’d better make sure you have a clear area around you. Maybe attach some wrist weights too — you’d have a work out that Wii-fit will never match.

Despite sometimes feeling hectic, your character is always able to do what you want him to, which is rather impressive. I very rarely missed a jump, found myself swinging at nothing (at least in terms of my character on screen), or messing up one of the quick time events. As in most 3-D platform games, the occasional camera issue pops up, but in this game it is easily fixed by pressing down on the D-pad.

The game begins to feel highly repetitive towards the end; no enemies call for specific strategies or powers — you just run up and slice at everything. Shoot lightening here. Force push there. You’ll quickly fall into a pattern that you’ll stick with for the rest of the game, even in boss fights. This is the game’s greatest fault. Although you can upgrade your lightsaber and force powers and discover new combos on your journey, nothing really feels fresh after the first few levels.

Besides this, the graphics are definitely below expectations. I know the Wii doesn’t have the power of its next gen competitors, but the images featured here on The Force Unleashed are unfortunately identical with the PS2 version of the game. Even from that lowered standard, the graphics are often sub-par; not embarrassing, just disappointing. The Wii is easily capable of much more than this, but for some reason only Nintendo knows how to pull off good-looking games right now.

On the other hand, the music and sound effects here are just as incredible as on any other Lucasarts project. The soundtrack is full of swelling strings and familiar songs, while the sounds are pulled directly from the movies. Even the little speaker on the Wii-mote hums as you move it around, which was a great touch.

For the majority of the game, you play as Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, code-named ”Star Killer”. Vader starts you off on errands around the galaxy to various planets, locations, and temples, so you can execute renegade Jedis and bring back their lightsaber hilt as proof of their death. The story quickly becomes more complicated through double- and triple-crosses, lies and deception, failure and redemption. Later on in the game, you come to realize that your actions have had a very direct impact on the formation of the Rebel Alliance. It’s worth playing The Force Unleashed just to watch this unexplored chapter come together from such a unique viewpoint.

Star Wars: The Force Unleashed definitely has its fair share of weakness and missed potential, but I still highly recommend it for anyone interested in anything to do with the Star Wars cannon. For anyone else, the journey may only be worth the length of rental.

The Walkmen
at the Horseshoe Tavern
September 10th, 2008

By Peter Gorman

The last time The Walkmen played the Horseshoe was the night frontman Hamilton Leithauser started having trouble with his right ear. This time may very well turn out to be the night I start having trouble with my left one.

The night began at a reasonably non-threatening volume, with New York klezmer-philes Golem trying their best to rouse a still sparse audience. Perhaps they seemed to some like a curveball of an opener for this bill, but the band put on a fantastic show despite the largely nonplussed Toronto crowd. The sextet flew energetically through a set’s worth of Eastern European folk-punk, in both English and Yiddish (with stage banter in both!), covering topics ranging from longing hopelessly for the love of your life (who also happens to be the one who put you in the slammer) to, errrr, the female anatomy. All this, of course, was with a wink and a nudge, yet still with a shining reverence for the music of the old country from which they draw their sound. Although many show-goers at the Horseshoe may have been reluctant to come along, for those who did, Golem provided a hell of a ride.

The by-now-packed (and, in fact, sold out) Horseshoe absolutely erupted when The Walkmen finally took the stage, and the band wasted no time in playing a series of cuts off their brilliant and celebrated new release, You & Me. First came the heavyhearted optimism (“The sun is now shining down on me / Leave me as soon as you can”) of “New Country,” with Paul Maroon’s shimmering, swaying guitar work leading the way, pushing and pulling. “On the Water” followed, pulsing along, sinister and moody, before effortlessly shifting gears, exploding into a swirling catharsis of an outro. Next came “In the New Year,” You & Me’s obvious single, carried by the taut rhythm section and propelled forward by the playful, offhand organ hook.

From there on in, the set relied heavily on material from the new record, with the band dipping occasionally into their back catalogue to deliver such fan favourites as Bows + Arrows‘“The Rat” and “Little House of Savages.” Peter Bauer and Walter Martin traded organ and bass duties back and forth, and the band was joined by a pair of brass players — a trumpeter and Golem’s Curtis Hasselbring on trombone — on a handful of songs, most lucidly on “Red Moon” and “Canadian Girl” (dedicated to the ladies in the room, bien sur).

That Leithauser’s urgent, gritty, cigarette-smoke croon could last all night — let alone an entire tour — seems near impossible (if any band knows a thing or two about the dangers of ravaging your voice, it’d be The Walkmen). The rest of the band registered a performance that was equal parts inspiration and perspiration (Edison be damned), with workmanlike execution — though maybe that was just the blue collars and cold, determined stares. As for stage presence, they’ve got it in spades. Sure, there may have been no flailing about, nothing overtly showy, but they planted their feet firmly and played with poise, confidence, and an undeniable Brooklyn swagger.

And when it finally came time for The Walkmen to call it a night, the sound guy cranked up the mic on the ragged old birdcage piano, and the band swung through one last number-a gleeful, beer-soaked take on “We’ve Been Had,” from their 2002 debut, Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me Is Gone. It’s a song dripping with images of a misspent (nah, make that well-spent) youth: bad haircuts, too much drinking, too few longterm plans-leaving the crowd to file out of the Horseshoe humming, “I know it’s over / Somehow it got easy to laugh out loud.”

Miles’ Book

Everything wrong with comics can be found within these pages.

All-Star Batman & Robin the Boy Wonder #10
Written by Frank Miller
Art by Jim Lee and Scott Williams
DC Comics, 2008

Every now and then, society is right. I don’t think I’m that much of a crank, but there’s a lot of things that people like or dislike where I’ll feel the exact opposite about it. I hate the writing of Alan Moore, I think The Matrix is garbage, and that Spider-man 3 wasn’t so bad as everyone says.

But everyone is right to hate this comic book. It’s more vile than a public execution on a pile of raw sewage.

This is a hateful book. It’s a hateful piece of junk that the publisher should not have committed to print. I’m actually thinking about taking DC Comics off the “Random Comics of the Week” rotation — this book offended me that much.

Basically, it boils down to this being one of the most misogynist things I have ever read, on par with Alan Moore (that would be why I hate his writing). Women fit into the roles that Miller is comfortable with: sex objects, things to be protected, fatales. The women in this book include a drunk, suicidal wife; Catwoman beaten to a bloody pulp, looking for Batman to save her; Black Canary as an under-dressed thief; and a pubescent heroine who is constantly swearing and doesn’t seem all that smart. Even Gotham City is “feminine” object to “Batman” and is something he needs to save. Seriously? The city is a woman too? Fuck you, Frank Miller.

And Jim Lee, you’re not helping here either. Did the female doctor need to be wearing that mini-skirt? Most doctors I’ve had don’t dress like they are about to go clubbing — they’re at work saving lives and dress accordingly. Also, that Batgirl you’re drawing is supposed to be 15, you perv.

Seriously, DC Comics employees, why the hell are you working for a company that produces this? It makes me sick to my stomach thinking about it.

MONDO wants Brian Wood's bald babies.

Isaac’s Book

Northlanders #10
Written by Brian Wood
Art by Dean Ormston
Vertigo Comics, 2008 

Though it says this is part two of the story, the whole issue is beautifully self-contained. I think I’d almost be disappointed if I had read the first part, as it would probably explain too much, just plainly showing us why certain things happen in this comic.

As it stands, we open on 793 A.D. Northern England, in the town of Lindisfarne, a peaceful enough setting — until you notice the dead trees, circling birds of prey, and the sickly wave of dread the yellowed atmosphere inspires. Then you turn the page where the true, bloody chaos is revealed as the Saxons are slaughtered by the Northmen.

I’m not necessarily a history buff, so I’m not sure if this would be part of the Norman invasion of England, or if it’s about Vikings pillaging the land. Maybe those are one and the same. I don’t know. That’s why simply calling them Northmen (or “Northlanders” as in the title of today’s comic) is so appropriate. You don’t need to know any grand history to appreciate that these are strangers come to attack and take what the Saxons have.

The narrative is told to us from the perspective of a young Saxon boy who witnesses the carnage towards his people, yet roots for the Northmen. He feels estranged from his family, land, and religion, and held firmly to a vision of a warrior way of life. When a blond and bearded Northman with blood on his face winks at the boy, it’s as though Thor has cast his approval towards him.

The Saxons eventually make an incredibly stoic attack on the Northmen, with faith that whatever happens is what must happen. A young man, Cerdic, stands against the wall, unsure of himself. Cerdic is called to by the watching boy, who is his brother, and in that moment of distraction Cerdic is killed. This sends their father into a berserker attack, he shrugs off a dagger in the back in his rage, but ultimately he stops to reflect on his son. He allows one of the Northmen, bearing what may as well be Mjöllnir as his weapon, to silence him, so that he can be with his son.

Two days after the battle, the boy comes out hiding. This lone boy challenges the Northmen when they reappear, but not to fight them — for the right to go with them. He’s given his father’s sword to attack with, but when the Northman he fights swings at him it’s as though the boy rejects his family, dropping the sword and snatching the dagger from the towering man’s belt to stab him in the back.

The story shifts to years later, when this boy has grown to an adult in the company of the Northmen, still holding the silver cross he’d been tossed by the Thor-like warrior at the start. Is this a form of sentimentality towards his old people? Or a constant reminder of everything he doesn’t want any part of?

X-Men and angst are better than peanut butter and jam

James’ Books

Angel: Revelations #5 (of 5)
Written by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa
Art by Adam Pollina and Matt Hollingsworth
Marvel Comics, 2008

Avengers: The Initiative #17
Written by Dan Slott and Christos N. Gage
Art by Harvey Tolibao and Jay David Ramos
Marvel Comics, 2008

So, I was given a choice between two books to cover this week, since the first one I drew, Angel, was a bit pricey. But, instead of choosing one over another, I’ve decided to do both, in an attempt to make up for missing last week. So, let’s get to it. 

In case there’s any confusion, Angel: Revelations is a mini-series about Warren Worthington the Third’s origin, not a spin-off of IDW’s Angel series. I took a look at it when the first issue came out, but decided against it. I’m a fan of the character, but the series just looked a little too teenage-goth for my tastes — a little too angsty. This issue has surprisingly little of that vibe, though. And you know what? It’s an X-Men origin book, I think I’d be disappointed if it was completely angst-free.

The art is actually the gothiest part of the book, but, I have to say, I enjoyed it. It’s moody and impressionistic, and Hollingsworth nails the colours. Each page looks less like a comic and more like an illustration from a children’s book, which is a novel stylistic choice.

My only real complaint about the book is continuity-wise, I’m not sure it makes sense. If the characters are graduating from high school at the end of the book, wouldn’t that mean Warren joined the X-Men much later than was previously accepted? Also, if his powers only stared appearing seven months ago, as we’re told here, wouldn’t he have hit puberty fairly late? Maybe they’re actually graduating from middle school. That would solve pretty much everything.

na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Ant-Man!

As for Avengers, this is what I’ve been wanting from Secret Invasion. It seems like the main book can’t shove everything in, so it gives us the basics, while the tie-ins cover all the awesome specifics. Here, we get to see how the skrulls are dealing with Camp Hammond, the Initiative’s training camp, and we get to see how the neophyte heroes deal with them.

One thing I loved about this book — the amoral version of Ant-Man is the protagonist. I love that instead of just forgetting about him after the Robert Kirkman penned Irredeemable Ant-Man series, Slott and company are trying to make him a real hero. Plus, one of Slott’s main strengths has always been humor, and Ant-Man gives him a good, in-character outlet for it.

There’s a lot happening on every page of this book, and Tolibao shows just how crazy things have gotten at Camp Hammond by packing every single panel with as many characters and as much action as he can. It gives the book a good, frantic energy that serves it well, considering the chaotic subject mater. Tolibao also seems to have an almost caricature like style, which fits. Aliens have invaded a superhero training camp. That’s not supposed to be realistic. It’s supposed to be big and awesome and crazy, and it is.

This book just proves that the best part about “Secret Invasion” is not Secret Invasion. It’s even almost got me reconsidering my stance on registration.

MONDO prides itself on the fact that our readers are culturally savvy, politically-minded creatures who want nothing more than assurance that our country and its people kick ass. We, too, are keen to see how and when Can-con gets its due. While Monday’s Verge Awards resulted in 25 grand each for The Weakerthans and Hey Rosetta!, the Polaris Music Award (handed out this coming Monday) comes with a bit more prestige and history (three years of it, to be exact) and, yes, a slightly smaller chunk of change. The nominees are also a bit more obscure (notice no Dallas Green is represented in the Polaris list). Your fearless Music editors spent a sleepless night reviewing each band’s chances — get in on those betting pools now!

By Allana Mayer (AM) and Jake Shenker (JS)

The Rockers

Two Hours Traffic – Little Jabs
The “indie rock” label has become this decade’s “alternative rock”: while it actually does denote a specific genre, the term is now used so broadly that it essentially means nothing. That said, there are some albums that really are indie rock, and Two Hours Traffic’s Little Jabs happens to be a good one. The songs are punchy and well-crafted, the band is energetic and tight, and the record has a great flow with lots of attention-grabbing dynamics. But, in truth, there’s nothing groundbreaking here — just a really good album that sounds like a dozen others. Enjoy Little Jabs — it’s a lot of fun; but don’t give it the prize. (JS)

Plants and Animals – Parc Avenue
Parc Avenue is the love-child of Coldplay and The Arcade Fire — not that that’s a bad thing, per se, since the name “Arcade Fire” causes critics to salivate and throw around lavish praise. But Plants and Animals have created a pretty cool record here, and the group deserves to be judged on its own merits, and not unduly praised (or ridiculed) for its similarities to other bands. Parc Avenue actually has some great songs on it: “Bye Bye Bye” builds up from an intimate piano ditty to a grand sing-along in under four minutes, while “Feedback in the Field” is instantly danceable and has some hip texturing going on. This kind of music really isn’t my thing, but that doesn’t make this a bad record. If you like indie music with lots of instruments — hell, if you like The Arcade Fire — you’ll probably love Parc Avenue. (JS)

The Laptop Heroes

Caribou – Andorra
It baffles me that a relative nobody like Patrick Watson could walk off with the award last year while Can-scene stalwarts like Caribou, Stars, and The Weakerthans are left in the dust. Actually, these groups shouldn’t have been nominated in the first place, since they’re all fully established bands whose CDs fly off the shelves at MusicWorld, HMV, and Sunrise. Still, if I were to ignore the inherently confusing politics of an award that is, repeatedly and emphatically, based on artistic merit and not record sales, I’d make Dan Snaith’s Caribou moniker a shoe-in. Why? Because it fucking rocks. (AM)

Holy Fuck – LP
I have to admit, electronic music isn’t my thing. I get bored waiting for — well, anything, really. There’s no hook, no melody, no chorus, and no changes. But with Holy Fuck, at least there’s a phat groove, and those of you who spend your nights dancing in strobe-lit rooms will love Holy Fuck’s energy and psychedelia. Album opener “Super Inuit” will definitely get you moving and “Lovely Alien” actually comes close to a slick melody. If you like Holy Fuck, do yourself one better and buy the new Ratatat record. On the other hand, this album has “indie” written all over it and, in the end, isn’t that what Polaris is all about? (JS)

The Chanteuses

Basia Bulat – Oh, My Darling
Acoustic guitars, strings, light piano, and shy, quivering-yet-powerful female vocals? You guessed it: Oh, My Darling is the quintessential folk record. Don’t get me wrong, Basia Bulat is a talented songwriter with a one-of-a-kind voice, and the songs on Oh, My Darling are beautifully arranged and have catchy hooks. But somehow all these great ingredients have created — let’s be honest, here — a boring album. It’s great background music, just not prize-worthy. (JS)

Kathleen Edwards – Asking For Flowers
Seriously, though, do you think they would give the award to a country artist? (AM)

The Dependables

Stars – In Our Bedroom After the War
Good pop band? Sure, if that’s your thing. But to me it’s generic, and if I were wondering what “artistic merit” meant, I’d probably go for something on the innovative side, rather than anyone meekly following in the humongous snowshoe tracks BSS left in the snow. Stars has their own style, and it’s a crowd-pleaser, but it’s not in need of being encouraged financially, nor is it the most exciting sound this year’s crop has to offer. So put down your glittered placards, you screaming teenybopper fans, and go home (if this were a real awards show, which it isn’t, being invitation-only and thus completely boring). (AM)

The Weakerthans – Reunion Tour
John K. Samson’s weak, warbly voice is another high-school-depressive favourite, and has been since it first got its chance after Propagandhi. But a consistent fanbase doesn’t justify his doing the exact same thing on every single album. And, again, it’s just pop music. It’s got power chords and 4/4 time and some vague, poetic lyrics. The Weakerthans are great when you’re sixteen, but depreciate at an steady rate as time goes by; I don’t think it’s reason enough to hand over a Polaris cheque, but I wouldn’t begrudge the Junos for handing out a very early Lifetime Achievement Award. (AM)

The Oddballs

Black Mountain – In The Future
You guys know how I feel about this album — I wrote a review of it on this very site. Allow me to quote:
“I’d hate to think that my love of their self-titled was a fluke, a one-trick-pony admired for the novelty but never really taken seriously. I’d rather believe they’ve got a certain essence, that’s just being obscured by fluff and nonsense on In The Future.”
I’m actually convinced that the Polaris nomination of In The Future is a sort of belated nod to Black Mountain’s self-titled album’s success — and yes, I have become very good at ignoring all other critical reviews. Eight out of ten from NME, blah blah, but it’s been months and I still find nothing other than “Wucan” worth listening to. Still, these guys have a serious chance, if what others say is true. (AM)

Shad – The Old Prince
From what I’m told, Shad used to play solo sets opening for other acts, just him and his acoustic guitar. That might be business as usual for mopey singer/songwriters, but it’s pretty unusual for a rapper — and unusual is a great introduction for The Old Prince. This record sounds like some kind of future music that hasn’t been invented yet: electronic samples à la Timbaland mixed with old school-style verses and intelligent lyrics. Plus, Shad gets instant credibility for his music video “The Old Prince Still Lives at Home”, a parody of the Fresh Prince theme song (go watch it; if you were born in the 80s, you’ll see what I mean). A rapper with fun beats, a solid flow, and a sense of humor? Give this man the Polaris! (JS)

Allana’s Best Bet: Black Mountain
Allana’s Preference: Caribou

Jake’s Best Bet: Plants and Animals
Jake’s Preference: Shad

Turning the tables on those corporate fat cats (when it’s not overly inconvenient or out-of-the-way)!

By Sam Linton

Consumer whore. You don’t need to know exactly what it means to get a general idea of the term. You’ve sold your soul to reap the benefits of capitalism run amok. Nobody likes being a consumer whore, or at least likes being conscious of it. It’s not a great feeling, but it’s one that we all, to a greater or lesser extent, must endure in order to function in Western culture. You may feel dirty, cheap, or even a little used after every purchase you make, knowing that you’ve once again abetted the plundering of the globe by corporate interests for another 30 pieces of silver (metaphorical silver, taking the concrete form of anything from Doritos to Jet-skis). But on the other hand, you can’t stop because it’s just so damned sweet! Doritos are delicious! Jet-Skis are fun! Silver is shiny! So it’s hard to fight rampant corporatism in the day-to-day, because it’s literally everywhere, and it’s just so dang tempting. And even when you do find a tiny space free from corporate control, in art, culture, food, et cetera, you’d better enjoy it while it lasts because once the big sharks find out that they can turn a profit off it, it’s not going to be your space for much longer. They’ll find a way to co-opt it, just as surely as they’ve done with punk rock, healthy foods, and green energy products. (“This year, The Oscars have gone green!” Sound familiar?)

So what can you do to resist? For some of us, we boycott, we research, and we don’t buy anything we find ethically questionable or that has ties to anything we find ethically questionable. We use a strategy of denial and often (let’s face it) self-sacrifice, as we’re missing out on a lot of really cool and/or tasty stuff due to its corporate branding. Others among us try to remain aloof. Once a piece of culture has become “infected” by corporate interest, it’s no longer cutting edge. Then we eschew it, looking towards the next frontier of culture, where interest does not yet fuel the very mechanisms of mundanity built up by rampant capitalism. This option has the drawback of making one into an elitist and, let’s not deny it, kind of a douchebag. And still, there’s that unpleasant business of self-sacrifice: deliberately denying oneself the benefits of corporate production simply because of the horrible cultural and ethical compromises this entails. In reality, most of us (your humble scribe included) are simply too lazy to spend all our time resisting. I mean, a guy’s gotta have some time to himself, right? A gal’s gotta have some time to herself, right? And since it’s just so easy to turn on the TiVo and curl up with some KFC, why not? I’m off the clock.

Despite all this, the lazy can still make a difference. While resisting corporate control may be too damn hard to become a constant theme in one’s life, there are almost always instances of everyday annoyances associated with the products of rampant capitalism that could be taken as a call to action. Sure, maybe you can’t be expected to place every purchase you ever make under the microscope of its macroeconomic impact, but certain things may just stick in your craw enough to make you re-evaluate a purchase. Maybe it’s a cross-promotion with a film you hate, maybe there’s an ad you find personally offensive, or maybe you share my own personal bugbear, “instant win” contests that require you to enter a passcode redeemed from your purchase on their website in order to even participate.* All of these should not be taken only as irritations, but as opportunities! An opportunity to stop buying a product, to say to them, “You know what, NO. This time, you’ve gone too far. That is my limit.” Sure, you may not have the energy or the inclination to keep up an indefinite boycott, but as long as those bastards are going to keep annoying you on a personal level, you can have all the denial power of a very indifferent God! The best part is that, whenever the promotion, ad campaign, et cetera is over, you can claim a personal victory without doing any work (or, if resisting the product in question was hard for you, still very little work)! All the rewards of that self-righteously good feeling of genuine advocacy, with comparatively little self-sacrifice. And for that one brief, shining moment, you scored a personal victory against the system. They can rape the earth, exploit the oppressed, and pollute mass culture, but when they start to annoy you on a personal level, you damn well better believe the buck stops here!

So yes, the system is flawed. Deeply flawed. We all know that (readers who didn’t know that: now you do). But, much as it may trouble us, we might not all want to devote a significant portion of our lives to fighting those flaws. For those of us with the will (and the time, and the means, and the inclination…) to take it on, fighting the good fight can be a full-time (pre)occupation. Those of us who aren’t Champions, meanwhile, can take what little victories we are inclined to take when they fall into our laps. That’s the self-conscious consumer whore way. And if it isn’t, well then by God, maybe it’s time that started being the self-conscious consumer whore way.

*Sub-Column: Why I hate Internet Contests

Honestly, I just loathe these horrible things. Time was, instant win MEANT instant win. You would check under the cap or open the bag or whatever, and if you won, you’d get that oddly satisfying feeling of accomplishment without actually having done anything, and then you’d associate the feeling with the product. It worked out great for all parties, and if you didn’t win, no big deal. Nowadays, the companies expect you to A) remember that you bought some completely disposable product long enough to get to a computer and B) spend valuable minutes from your life that you’re never getting back to go to their websites just to input some stupid code. I mean, I can understand it as a means to artificially inflate traffic to their own websites, but it totally comes at the cost of any good feelings that one used to get out of instant win (and would have subsequently associated with their products). I mean, you’re essentially asking me to put the same amount of energy into promoting your product to myself that I just explained I’m too lazy to put into resisting your product. The whole point of consumer culture is that it works because it’s passive! JESUS!

Sam Linton is, by default, MONDO’s authority on consumer culture. But yeah, he’s no Naomi Klien.

Mr. Robinson’s opinions do not necessarily reflect those of the management. Really, we might want to make this a standard disclaimer for this column.

Ben Robinson

I’ve read Albert Goldman’s racist, sexist, and homophobic biography, Ladies and Gentlemen: Lenny Bruce! At one point it mentioned that a young George Carlin was arrested for obscenity along with Lenny Bruce. “Wow,” I thought, “this guy must be really hardcore.” Some of my nerd-snob friends already were talking about George Carlin, quoting lines of social criticism that were quite poignant. I decided to download his discography. This was around 1999.

I started with his first albums from the 70s. The stuff was really tame. It was stoner “observational humour.” Jerry Seinfeld, if he was a hippie. For example, he has a routine about being stoned in a supermarket. I already hated Seinfeld, and hated him more now that I realized that he wasn’t truly a pioneer of that hack brand of comedy. Carlin’s early work is all observational humour. And observational humour tends to suck.

I watched an A&E Biography about George Carlin, and it described how Carlin started his career as a really square kind of comedian. Suit and tie. Playing to middle-aged people from the 60s. Not the cool 60s we remember, but the 60s that still believed they were in the 50s. The biography went on to say eventually Carlin adopted the hippie movement, lost the suit and tie, grew his hair long, and started being a radical. Listening to his albums from the 70s, I can tell you that Carlin was not that much of a radical. Just because he talked about doing drugs doesn’t mean his humour was hardcore. It was silly stoner humour.

Of course his most famous routine from the 70s is “Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television.” This bit is better than most of his other bits from the time, but if you get down to it, it is just an excuse to say a lot of dirty words all at once. It is also highly derivitive of a Lenny Bruce routine. Lenny Bruce arguably died to fight censorship. George Carlin didn’t even go to jail. He just got famous.

Perhaps Carlin’s greatest achievement was being an early opponent of the Catholic Church. He was raised Catholic, going to school and everything, but became an atheist. This is not such a big deal nowadays, but back in the day it was impressive to be a public figure who took this stance.

The general consensus is towards ignoring George Carlin’s 80s work (and incidentally, that of a lot of other famous artists) because he was doing so much cocaine. You don’t really get even the mild chuckles you get from his 70s work in the 80s. He’s just too messed up. He admitted it himself, and he allegedly stopped doing cocaine around the end of the 80s.

In the 90s, he pretty much became a movie star. First, in 1989 he was in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Then he was the conductor on Shining Time Station. He appeared in a few Kevin Smith movies. In all of these roles, his part is small. He plays the part of “famous dude who- OMG I can’t believe he’s in this movie!” But famous for what? I suppose one should give him credit that he had been working at a career for so long, but I think he’s a little over hyped.

In the 2000s, until he died, he focused more on standup. Suddenly he was the wise old man who disapproved of society. He was an undisputable intellect. He used big words in combination and without finesse. His big words were his new dirty words. “Oh, look at me, I can string together a bunch of important words that vaguely make grammatical sense! I am a prophet!” He was really full of himself, and his fans ate it all up. Then finally he died, of old age. What kind of social martyr dies of old age? A fraud, I tells ya.

In 1997 George Carlin was honoured by some television show. Jon Stewart was the host. Jon bowed to George’s magnificence and said nothing but good things about him. I can accept this. George Carlin was working in the business for a long time, he does deserve his gold watch. Towards the end, George Carlin turns the tables and gives his pope-like blessing unto Jon Stewart, saying that Jon will be the next torch holder. When I watched this, I was like, “What? Really? He’s alright but…”

But since then Jon Stewart has built a career that is truly respect worthy. His work on The Daily Show will make him a legend. He is already hot, already one of the big ones, but when it comes time for Jon Stewart to die (a true test for an artist), Jon Stewart should be, and I hope will be, remembered as a greater comedian than George Carlin ever was. Curse you George Carlin, I piss on your grave.

Late by Marcia Johnson

Late
By Marcia Johnson
Directed by Marjorie Chan
Starring Mazin Elsadig, Edwige Jean-Pierre, Sabryn Rock

and

Black Medea
By Wesley Enoch
Directed by Philip Akin
Starring Audrey Dwyer, Lindsay Owen Pierre, Mariah Inger, Tiffany Martin & Meleke Bell

Runs September 11th – October 5th @ Berkeley Street Theatre

By Daina Valiulis

Obsidian Theatre’s mandate is to focus primarily (but not exclusively) on the work of playwrights of African descent, but the stories in its current double bill — new work Late by Toronto’s Marcia Johnson and Black Medea by Australian playwright Wesley Enoch — could belong to any person, regardless of race. Each story examines how women, Donna of Late and Medea of Black Medea, cope with the big changes in their lives. As Philip Akin says in his director’s notes, when life throws us curve balls, “new courses demand specific horses” — we all deal with these things in different ways.

Late is a story about Donna, a woman coping with her husband’s death. Through encounters with a crazy subletter, Clara (Edwige Jean-Pierre) and neighbour/friend, Locksley (Mazin Elsadig), she slowly moves forward with reconciliation.

The play fell a little flat, probably because the writing wasn’t quite strong enough. The direction could have been more focused, and the acting more genuine. Jean-Pierre was sometimes distractedly over-the-top in a weird, awkward kind of way, but Elsadig had a natural ease that worked well in the intimate space. Even so, I could never get on board enough with Donna (Sabryn Rock). I found her performance to by very self-aware, as if she was trying very hard to convey the story rather than just let herself be in it. She’s a cute performer, however, so I kept waiting for her to have a genuine moment, never catching a glimpse of who the actress was in this role, which is what makes really exceptional acting so compelling to watch.

Since the story revolves completely around Rock’s character, the playwright’s message got a bit lost. Once a person dies, his absence is felt just as much as his presence, and it must be reconciled; however, how Locksley’s story related or why it was even necessary to have in the story didn’t become clear. The metaphor of the delicate, yet beautiful orchid thriving on dead trees was a little trite. In all, I was a bit disappointed and was left with a feeling of “so what?”

Black Medea by Wesley Enoch

Black Medea is based on Euripides’ play about a woman who kills her children after her husband runs away with another woman. This one had a rusty start: Medea’s (Audrey Dwyer) strength of character wasn’t revealed until partway through, which is unfortunate because she gives a speech at the very top of the show that is meant to launch the audience into her world.

It took the spirits’ entrance to really launch the show: two women (Tiffany Martin and Mariah Inger) serve as the “chorus” and the voices inside Medea’s and Jason’s (Lindsay Owen Pierre) heads, representing the “evil within us all”.

Enoch’s modern interpretation was great: Jason is a travelling businessman with daddy issues and a raving drunkenness. Worried that the sins of the father will be passed on to the son, and angry at the fact that she left her homeland behind her for this dead end, Medea kills her son as an act of revenge.

Good work by all the actors in this piece; great season opener for artistic director Philip Akin, who says, “I’m not interested in telling sagas about the Underground Railroad or sad stories about slavery…I’m interested in taking bigger stories and making them part of the black tapestry. There’s so many other tales, there’s so many other things that black writers can be motivated to move onto.” I admire the fact that Akin is telling the stories of his people in a way to which everyone can relate. These stories don’t preach to or alienate the audience, but examine life’s challenges and the ways we handle them. Looking forward to more from Obsidian.

In revolution-era China, landlords were often demonized as the principle enemy of the peasants. Here’s one possible reason why.

By Jenny Bundock

In an ongoing effort to be more aware of what bothers me on a day-to-day basis, I have started keeping track of certain people that seems to re-surface, time and again, as being really annoying.

For this first installment, I’d like to talk about possibly the most annoying person in the life of any renter: the “friendly” landlord.

Now, it is important to first distinguish friendliness as a personality trait from the “friendly” in quotation marks. See, friendliness I have little beef with. It’s fine as long as the landlord isn’t a huge asshole who doesn’t pay attention to you or the place and lets the apartment just go to hell, tenant after tenant. A wave or a cheerful hello at appropriate intervals — like rent collection time — or a courteous attitude when something breaks in the house, is good. This is not the person I dislike.

When I talk about “friendly” (in quotation marks) landlords, I am referring to the landlord with a reason to frequently be near the space you are renting, and who therefore pretends to befriend you in order to check up on you constantly. They also mask, with mock-friendly gestures, attempts to find ways into your house without giving you proper notice; or, as in my case, they’re sitting right now on your front porch, talking on their cell phone and waiting for you to come out.

My landlord does not live on-site. He is however, retired from any other job he may have previously had, and thus occupies his days with hanging around the property that I live on. I made the mistake of living on the ground floor, at the front of the house, which is split into eight apartments. This means that both the area in front of my door and my front porch see a lot of traffic: smokers, cell phone users, bikers locking their bike to the porch, and drunks on weekends. Some of that traffic is the annoying and creepy “friendly” landlord, who — if I didn’t go out of my way to avoid — would try to talk to me in my doorway, at my car, or on my way out, almost every single day.

He asks me what colours I painted the apartment, what kind of paint I used, if I have any garbage inside, if I need him to build me anything for the place, if I want to see his scary basement crawlspace silence-of-the-lambs workshop below my apartment, and if I have talked to his mother (the ACTUAL landlord on the lease) recently. I’ve had to start checking out of all my house windows before I leave to see if he is around; when I arrive, I have to unlock and enter my home as quickly as possible because he can usually see me long before I can see him.

This is not the first time this has happened, either. Last summer, my boyfriend and a couple of my close friends were living together as roommates above a barbershop in the city. They too had a “friendly” landlord who ran his virtually-deserted business on the ground floor. In order to enter the apartment, you had to go in a door beside the shop, which would have been fine, except that the landlord in this situation had put mirrors up, so that no matter where he was in the store, he could see if someone was either knocking on (like I had to do) or unlocking the door… and he would come out.

To break the ice, he would then heavily criticize some behavior he suspected was going on upstairs — which actually wasn’t — like, “Stop leaving the shower on without the curtain pulled. It is rotting the floor and leaking into my shop.” It didn’t help that he also seemed to have taken a shine to me, and would often try to kiss my face or hands if he spotted me waiting to be let into the apartment. He never fully buttoned his shirt either, and his bald liver-spotted head hardly had my heart racing… at least not in any positive way. Whenever he approached me with his hairy open arms (while I was waiting, desperately and urgently pounding the door for someone to let me inside), I started meditating, so that I could leave my body and never look back should he actually get a hold of me before the door opened.

I have heard other “friendly” landlord stories where the landlords have done things like call tenants’ cell phones asking them when they will be returning home, because they want to “talk”; others drop by unexpectedly to do something like “mow the lawn” while in reality they are just checking that you haven’t been up to anything sketchy in the apartment. It’s like they believe there’s a clause allowing them to suspend our tenant rights just because we are relatively young renters, and if they just pretend we are all “friends hanging out” maybe they’ll be able to keep closer watch on the lot of us.

I mean, I get it: students and young people fuck up apartments. But they also get taken advantage of because they don’t understand their rights, so you can’t have it both ways, Mr. Give-me-a-damage-deposit-and-first-and-ast-and-I-won’t-pay-you-interest-on-your-last-month’s-rent-and-I-won’t-fix the-hot-water-heater-and-I’ll-write-illegal-shit-into-your-lease-like-no-pets.

I guess, the other possibility is that they are lonely individuals, and having tenants is a way to force people into “friendship” — since you really don’t want to piss your landlord off by telling him to get off your fucking porch already. So it might be kind of sad, but it is not a problem I feel responsible for. It is possible that they’ve driven away would-be friends by being so overbearing and creepy to them as well. 

So, thank you, “friendly” landlord, for making me a prisoner in my own home.

By Tina Chu

During Hamilton’s James Street North Art Crawl, The Assembly is more like a favourite small-town watering hole than a studio. The buzz is discernable from down the street and, for the night, the entrance is lined with silkscreens as well as people. Inside, the hosts, AmpersandAmpersand, composed of Mark Byk and Kristine Tortora, are welcoming guests by name.

The Assembly studio.

Their works are comparable to the atmosphere of these shows. A very personable flair is the result of the duo’s commitment to deliver clean yet playful design. With a typographic focus, Tortora and Byk never run out of ways to explore and present type. In their hands, there are no distinctions between text and image, communication and aesthetics.

Having housed Sonic Unyon, a staple of Hamilton’s music scene, it won’t be long until the record-shop-turned-studio becomes home to a staple of the Steel City’s art scene as well.

MONDO: What sparked the creation of AmpersandAmpersand? What’s the significance of its name?

The Assembly studio, formerly Sonic Unyon.

BYK and TORTORA: We wanted to collaborate — and that’s also the significance of the name. We knew we liked the same things, and that we wanted to make things. But the two of us have very different sensibilities — we wanted to see what would happen if we tried to make them meet.

MONDO: Why does AmpersandAmpersand describe itself as collaborations in art and design instead of strictly as a design collective?

B&T: && is simply the two of us combining our efforts and attentions to produce pieces of art that centre around what we believe to be principles of simple, intelligent, and intelligible design.

MONDO: How did The Assembly come about? More specifically, what made you feel it was necessary to have your own gallery space and how does it enrich the identity of AmpersandAmpersand?

Studio detail.

B&T: We needed a space to work and liked the idea of sharing the space with another person whose sensibilities would complement and enrich ours. We knew Nate Johnson from a previous studio space and working with Nate always felt easy and right.

Our space is for working. Once a month we participate in the James Street North Art Crawl, which goes on right in our own community. For one night a month, artists on/around James Street open up their spaces, hang a show, and people come out to look and see.

MONDO: Being on the Art Crawl’s route allows a unique opportunity to interact with the community; does it have any influence on your work and peoples’ reaction to your work?

B&T: Yes – being on James Street has opened us up to a whole community of like-minded people: people who are passionate about their craft and take craftsmanship seriously. We’ve been exposed to various methods and materials that we may not have otherwise seen. The artists here are very generous with their knowledge and with their time, and this generosity definitely comes through when we apply what we’ve learned or experiment with new ideas.

Being on the Art Crawl allows people of all ages and from all walks of life to interact with your working space in a way they can’t in a gallery. It seems to us that people are more interested in the product when they are excited by the process.

MONDO: What have your experiences been in establishing a professional identity, in terms of business administration and garnering recognition, for example, by attending Typecon in Buffalo?

B&T: We were flattered and honoured to be invited to present at the Pecha Kucha night in Buffalo; attending Typecon was like walking into a dream and not having to get up again. It was surreal, really…

Some handiwork.

It’s hard to say whether or not we have actually solidified any ‘professional identity’. Our invitation to Typecon came about quite modestly: we were lucky be placed next to Rich Kegler of P22 Type Foundry at this year’s Wayzgoose in Grimsby. Brian Maloney, of the Type Club of Toronto, was sharing a table with Rich, and we told them about our plans to host the first Hamilton Type Fest that May. They were excited by the prospect and offered to help out. The rest is history…

MONDO: Are there any tricks of the trade you wish you had known starting out, any words of advice for those considering a similar venture?

More handiwork.

B&T: Learn not to sleep. Learn not to get your heart set on your first idea. Do it because you love it.

Visit The Assembly and see the work of AmpersandAmpersand for yourself! Find it at 22 Wilson Street in Hamilton, open during the city’s James Street North Art Crawl, every second Friday of the month, all year long.

Steph Perkins is an organized thinker. In the battle of the sexes, she is a latter-day Sun Tzu, or perhaps a John Churchill. Anyways, trust her advice.

Q- I find first dates totally awkward and nerve-wracking, probably more than the average person does. What are your rules for pulling off a successful first date?

Ah yes, I’m with you. First dates are the worst. Not much different than a job interview if you ask me, except you have to be charming and witty on top of dynamic and interesting. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all start out on date number three? No cold sweats, less possibility for horrific surprises, perhaps even an inside joke or two to get the comfort-ball rolling?

But have no fear – I’ve had my share of first dates over the last while, so you’ve come to the right place. Meaning I am the queen of bunging up first dates with awkwardness and bad moves. So let’s take stock of what I’ve learned with another installment of my personal dos and don’ts, shall we?

Do have a plan. Whaddaya wanna do? Duhhhh I dunno, whaddayou wanna do? That’s annoying. Pick something, suggest it, and away we go.

Do OR Don’t have a drink. This is going to depend on the person, so weigh what works for you. For me a shot of whiskey before leaving the house chills me out. For others that could be a gateway to a rather messy, embarrassing evening. Can you keep your cool, stay in control while you’re drinking? Then a drinky-poo during the date can help with nerves too. I’ve gotten hammered on dates though; if it’s going well, you can lose track of how much you’ve had. While there’s no doubt you’re having fun, you want to actually remember the fun, right? So use your discretion and know your limits.

Do shut up for a second. If you’re a nervous rambler like me, this can be tough. Sometimes it’s easier to take the focus off yourself by asking a lot of questions and yammering like a ninny to fill the air. If you are feeling like you’re sick of your own voice, then you’re using it too much, so shut your trap. Allow for uncomfortable silences. Again, for me this is the most difficult, most uncomfortable act, but it’s necessary if you want the person you’re out with to have a minute to think to ask YOU something about yourself. Just chillll. Excuse yourself to go to the washroom, and when you get back, make it your beeswax to zip the lip. See what happens, you might be pleasantly surprised.

Guys- Do pay. I know that’s not very forward-thinking of me, but what can I say, there are certain things I appreciate the old-fashioned way. Going dutch is PERFECTLY acceptable, and I prefer it, especially the more often you go out with someone, but on the first date, I still consider it gentlemanly to pay. Bring enough cash and class to do this. It will be appreciated.

Don’t sleep together on the first date IF you can help it. Because let’s face it, sometimes it can’t be helped. Sometimes you’ve had too much to drink to turn back now. Sometimes the person you’re out with is too attractive to resist. Sometimes it’s been six months since you had sex. Just sayin’. But if you try, and you get out with your pants up, I believe there are very few circumstances where you’d regret that decision. The chances of seeing each other again and getting to know each other better improve greatly if you don’t sleep together right away. I believe this. A little mystery is power, I’m tellin ya. And I mean, how often is first-date sex good sex? Really. Is it worth it? In my experience usually not. But that being said, no judgment from me if you go there. We’re only human. (And be safe. But hopefully I don’t have to tell you that.)

I really feel for you. It’s a scary world out there, and the chances of winding up on a date with a total tool are way too high not to have some first-date anxiety. I have learned that each first date is easier than the last, and more fun. Just try and remember that the other person is most likely as nervous as you are, and just as concerned you may turn out to be a nutjob. But you aren’t – you’re cool as a cucumber, sharp as a tack, and you have a lot to offer this date and this whole datingsphere. So be confident, good luck, and I’ll see you out there.