MONDOmagazine

Giving you moral justification for theft!

By Sam Linton

Let me preface this column by saying that there is a series of ads on the air right now (and by “the air” I mean the radio airwaves. Does anyone out there still listen to radio?) that basically encourages you, Soviet Gulag style, to narc on anyone you know who is pirating software in exchange for CASH PRIZES!!! The Canadian Alliance Against Software Theft (whose website ties them in with the Business Software Alliance) would have you believe that piracy is a threat to the entire Canadian commercial way of life on par with global warming, the U.S./global economic meltdown, and Avian Flu, and this per head bounty, rapidly closing the historical gap between software pirates and actual pirates, is meant to show how great a threat they’re treating it as. But it also shows just how weak their position is, to be reducing themselves to such desperate and frankly, totalitarian scare tactics. And weak it pretty much has to be, because in going off against software piracy, it is facing off against the combined forces of both the consumerist drive AND social activism! Allow me to elaborate.

In my previous column in this series, I touched on how the urge to be ethically responsible in a capitalist society is often (most of the time) directly at odds with the instant gratification and leisure that makes capitalist society so attractive in the first place; sure, you COULD buy responsibly, but then you’d have to research your products, go out of your way to find them, and probably end up paying more, too. It’s a hassle, it’s time-consuming, and we only have so much time on this Earth to start with. Something like software piracy, however, complicates this dichotomy (comfort/ease vs. moral prerogative) by being both easy and cost-free to do AND directly taking money out of the pockets of big, faceless conglomerates. It’s like being Robin Hood, without that crap about giving to the poor. I mean, if you want to, I guess you could give the money you conceivably would have spent on media to the homeless or what have you, but that’s really up to you. But the important thing is that you’re stealing from our corporate masters.

Now, in order to combat this appallingly appealing prospect, media conglomerates have used the tactics of fear (the now infamous RIAA single-downloader lawsuits being an example) and increasingly and ironically, appeals to morality; because stealing is wrong. And that’s the area where their whole argument falls apart. Now, as a consumer whore (see title of column for more info), I generally make it a point not to research my purchases or spending habits, but I CAN take it as an article of faith that, generally, large corporations and conglomerates do horrible things. Therefore, without even checking Wikipedia, I can safely conclude that stealing from any media conglomerate is in the best interest of everyone, as the aforementioned conglomerate will have less of my money to do horrible things with. I may have lost a few specifics in my corner-cutting rationale, but the basic truth of the matter is still there (probably). And the various industries can spend money to make video like this, or try to guilt you by showing you the people that they’re going to fire if you keep taking their money, but really, isn’t that just like the Empire telling the rebellion about the hardworking maintenance men on the Death Star and expecting the rebels to not destroy the station? (by the way, I usually try to avoid the Star Wars references, as I’m not a huge fan, but in a discussion about media piracy, it’s just so apropos, and serves as a reminder for people to go download Star Wars, and possibly Clerks.) The simple truth is that there are few, if any, other opportunities in life to be both morally responsible and materially rewarded, so downloading media is an opportunity that one has to grab with both hands!

So what’s the point of this article? Everybody already downloads, and it’s not as though we need a banner to rally around when we do it. Some of us might have balked at the ethics before, but hopefully this article has set them right (I try to do what I can). I guess I was just a little surprised at the blatantly totalitarian approach the industries are taking lately. I’ll admit, it catches me a little off guard when they start snarling, but then I remember that it’s only a caged animal that reacts this way. So don’t let ‘em scare you; we still live in a time of free, ethically responsible entertainment for the masses. Carry on as you were, go about your downloading business, and be merry!

A spirited defense of why it is sometimes okay to MURDER a helpless animal and eat it.

By Leo K. Moncel

Meat, meat, meat, you femme fatale. You’re literally killing Canadians as I write this. You’re killing the planet faster than ever. I used to know better than to tango with you. But I’m done with this love/hate relationship. Wicked, corrupting as you are, I’m giving my heart to you. You’re my salty poison and my never-ending possibility. I love you more than I thought was possible in my youth.

I did away with you, once, for five whole years. Today, I consider myself a former vegetarian, though it’s now been almost a decade since I gave up a meatless diet. When I ended my vegetarian period, I swore to myself I’d return to vegetarianism in my 20’s. I will not keep that promise. This is why.

At age nine, I became a vegetarian for moral reasons. I ate well with the help of my vegetarian mother and my gifted-in-the-kitchen father. I defended my decision against other adults who told me things like, I was “too young to have convictions”, or made prophesies about my iron-depleted body shriveling away like a raisin. I was an excellent defender, if not proselytizer, of my beliefs. For all that time, my entire adolescence, I never lost the appetite for meat. When asked if I missed meat, I confessed that occasionally I got a “craving for bacon”, but truthfully, anytime I got quite hungry, I thought about eating meat.

It was for bad reasons that I abandoned vegetarianism — the push of school bullying and the pull of fast food did me in during grade nine. Meat eating, I told myself, would be the phase, vegetarianism, the course, and after this weakness passed I’d get back on the wagon. After my lapse into meat eating, my sister too succumbed. Now we were teenagers trying to figure out how to cook meat at home. Mainly we bought chicken breasts and baked them in the oven, usually with salt and pepper and sometimes with honey and garlic. I ate meat infrequently and cooked it simply.

About a year and a half ago, I was eating some delicious pork and cabbage dumplings at my soon-to-be-girlfriend’s house. I went out on a limb and decided to try some chili sauce with them. I detested chilies. Chili heat was not a taste, but simply an experience like scalding your tongue or biting your cheek. Well, a little bit of the slightly sweet Sriracha chili sauce with these delectable dumplings and I did a total 180 on chilies. My reversal on chilies was the start of a full-on food obsession. Within a week, I made a trip to the library and returned with a backpack full of cookbooks and the beginnings of a huge project.

In the last 18 months since the chili sauce, food has become my central preoccupation. My teen self had no idea that the self he was calling back to vegetarianism would be someone who read cookbooks, talked for hours about cooking, who photographed and wrote about what he ate — someone with a wholly different relationship to food, and more intensely in love with food than he imagined he’d ever become.

I still believe, as I did when I was younger, that eating meat is both wrong and avoidable. So, is it ever okay? Sort of. I’m of the school that says you must pick your poisons. You can’t do nothing but poison yourself and the world around you, because it will catch up to you.* Then again, a little bit of poison now and then is just the ticket. A life of harsh, ascetic deprivation wouldn’t be worth living for most of us. When I decide which wrongs to indulge in, I ask how big the benefit really is to me. In the case of eating meat, the benefit is enormous. When I cook now, I don’t just do it to sustain myself, but as a form of exploration and even self-expression. Driving your car is wrong, but how wrong it is depends, in my view, on why you’re driving and where you’re going. If you drive somewhere nearby because you don’t feel like walking, that is a worse use of your car than, say, exploring a waterfall with a friend. This is how I look at meat eating. If you eat meat everyday because you can’t think of any other way to fill yourself up, you are using meat wrong. If you’re judicious in your meat consumption, if you make the effort to turn each cut of meat into an exciting or enriching meal, you are using meat right.

If you don’t really care about food (a small minority, I admit, probably only 10% of people I meet — and probably not one of you who’s read this far — but still more than double the 4% of Canadians who are now vegetarian), perhaps meat is a poison you can live without. You should consider vegetarianism.

I realize that the argument being made here — basically, “I appreciate meat and therefore should have it, but if you don’t really appreciate it, go without” — may appear to echo old classicist justifications for keeping poor people malnourished. “Oh, the poor wouldn’t know what to do with beef if they got it, so it’s okay we rich hoard it all!” But, in the present-day Canadian context, where everyone but the extremely poor can afford meat, all I’m really saying is that with all these inexpensive poisons at hand, pick yours with care. Mine is meat. Maybe it’s yours, too, maybe not.

Ironically, the average vegetarian cares far more about what he or she eats (including taste and texture) than the average meat eater.** But, after much consideration, it is my opinion that a lifelong strict vegetarian can never be a true lover of food. Breadth of palette is, to me, essential to the exploration and appreciation of food. The biggest difference between my attitude towards meat at 14 and my attitude now, is that back then I wanted meat for its familiarity and now I want it for its undiscovered joys. I can’t preemptively give meat a flat “no” because I’ve never tried kibbi stuffed with pine nuts, or sliced ox tongue, or steamed meatballs coated with sticky rice. In refusing meat altogether, vegetarians close the door to an enormous world of tastes and textures. If a person told me they wouldn’t ever eat any kinds of tomatoes, peppers, onions, mushrooms, or leafy vegetables, I would likewise say that I could not consider that person a true lover of food. They would have closed the door too tightly.

In defence of the vegetarian, they close the door for excellent reasons. I admire vegetarians. I could not have spent five years as a vegetarian if I didn’t, in a large way, believe in vegetarianism. Don’t believe for a minute that it makes no difference to the world if you choose to eat meat or not. Vegetarians are surely making the world a lessbad place. I simply can’t banish from the kitchen my vicious darling, meat, while I have so much left to explore.

* I wrote this passage pre-listeriosis. I meant poison more in the sense of the wrongdoings we indulge in, but if people want to be more literal here, for the record, I don’t think meat is generally a healthy option.

** Road test this one, ask a vegetarian what they ate for dinner last night.

A long awaited thank-you note to our shared extra parent.

By Shannyn Kornelsen

My partner and I indulged in cable.

There, I said it.

Judge if you will, call me a sellout, a hypocrite, a low-life noncreative who would rather waste my hours watching restaurant/home/people makeovers or CSI marathons than — well, anything else really.

Well we did it nonetheless, and I am a better person for it. Not only am I current in all things pop culture, which will help me survive many a Christmas or Easter visit with the family, but I have mastered the fine art of shutting off my mind. While many would argue (especially my Buddhist buddies) that this is actually rather damaging, I am quite confident that my overall stress levels have decreased after submitting to cable television. Put me on a poster, gimme the mic in a public school assembly — but I think cable is good for us.

Now, before you start ferociously responding — let me elaborate. I don’t think commercials are good for us. The no-money-down furniture outlet or Bounty quicker picker upper or Ford-planet-hater SUV monster cars have no place in my heart. I don’t think perpetuating unfair beauty standards for women and men or marketing to children is anything other than sick. (And this is when the mute button comes in real handy.)

I wouldn’t even go so far as to say 70% of the shows on television are particularly good for us. But I think we forget the original reason for television: It is bloody enjoyable!

No, Jack Bauer doesn’t demonstrate interrogation tactics in agreement with the United Nations Declaration on Human Rights — but neither does the US government! It doesn’t make for good entertainment to have Jack Bauer as anything other than an automaton of the American government. You aren’t supposed to like or believe in anything that the characters are doing. It is supposed to be fun! A theatre in your living room. Will Grissom be cited at the dinner table? Probably not, but that does not mean that what he offers you is less valuable. A 44-minute brain nap while you kick back and watch beautiful crime scene investigators collect the bloody jigsaw puzzle pieces of a glamorized homicide? Or double suicide? Or seeming suicide with homicidal undertones? Come on!

Let us compare television with food. You know that you should eat twelve servings of fruits and veggies a day, and maybe you usually do, or at least pretty close. Let’s say that fruit and veggies are your books, shows, lectures, art exhibits, or plays. Or if you’re more of an outdoorser, they’re your hikes, canoe trips, your gardening. Your metaphorical fruits and veggies serving is really any socially acceptable form of higher learning and meaningful entertainment. Cable and the gifts it offers are your desserts, and within this we could go even a step further.

While a show like Weeds or Six Feet Under is a homemade artisan crème brûlée, CSI or Law and Order: SVU may pass for a café-quality chocolate cake. Maybe if the episode is good. And while CSI may be a decent enough piece of cake, the show 24 is a chocolate sundae from Dairy Queen. While you may never see yourself interacting with said thing, when it finally happens, you have to admit you do kind of enjoy it.

This is how we need to look at television. It does not make sense to shun channels like Discovery, History or National Geographic in an all encompassing generalization of cable being for losers like me. It makes even less sense however, to put your children in front of it, as a virtual babysitter — though I attest to this day that it made me the person I am. My friend Jenny and I distinguish the “cable/neighbourhood kids” from the “camp kids.” While the camp kids had counsellors, brightly coloured infrastructure, an endless supply of Crayola crayons and construction paper — neighbourhood kids had Nintendo, cable television, a city block, and a note with lunch details left on the counter. If we were particularly unlucky, we also had an uninterested teenage babysitter whose entire goal for the summer was to finally get to second base.

Point being — we were left on our own, to shape our own world view. And sometimes cable gave us the ability to critically assess things from the safety of our living room. We learned that walking up to a stranger’s car when he asks directions is going to end with the resounding “Bom Bom” and a bunch of cops from Law and Order standing over your mangled tween corpse, wondering where your Mom was when you were talking to strangers. Teen pregnancy, gang violence, all the things a child really needs to know in a rural community in Ontario — cable gave it to us.

Sometimes cable would jump start our own creative endeavours, as I remember many a day that I would get a bit cocky, turn off Ghostwriter [word!] and decide I could write a much better story. Or my cousin Rebecca and I would pretend we hosted our own talk show in my backyard. We were a self-sufficient little group of neighbourhooders, we were.

In a way, cable raised me (sorry Mom). And I don’t think I’m worse off for it. I can do crosswords faster, I’m a Trivial Pursuit whiz, I learned to multi-task (eating while watching television), and I can still beat almost everyone I know at the original Mario Brothers on Nintendo. More than anything though, cable was an escape for me, when my small town felt too small and I needed to remind myself that an entire world — from the dark ocean depths explored on the Discovery channel, to the bitchy cliques of Beverly Hills on 90210 — was waiting for me to explore it, and then re-explore it years later in syndication.

Oasis, Sting, Uffie, Locrian Mode and “Don’t Stop Believing”

Oasis by Alexander B. Huls

I just don’t get it. Oasis used to be huge. Remember What’s the Story, Morning Glory? Huge! After that, they just kinda fizzled out. People complained they were basically ripping off the Beatles, which was true. People complained about the antics of the Gallagher brothers, specifically Liam, who was perpetually being an idiot. People complained their music just wasn’t that great anymore, if it ever was. But here’s the thing: people always complain they wish the Beatles were still around. Well, why don’t you fill that void with Oasis? Regarding the Gallagher antics, it’s more fun than watching a high school prom dramatically spiral out of control once booze has been secretly introduced to the punch! Besides, in these days where being a punk band means you probably never even actually listened to punk and you date Hilary Duff, isn’t it fun to see old-school destructive rock ’n’ roll antics? As for their music not being good, well, you got me there. I just mourn that they didn’t stay popular, since we may have been able to continue a real-life rock spectacle for the ages.

Sting by Allana Mayer

Yes, he’s a pretentious twit, whose real name no one cares to know. Yeah, his ego is pumped full of bleeding-heart-collagen, endless-giving-silicon, and do-gooder-fat — transplanted from his pragmaticism, which long ago dwindled to nothing (but people who can afford to feed entire third-world countries don’t need to be pragmatic). Yes, most people would prefer to forget that there was ever a life after The Police. But hey, The Police are reforming, so you’re gonna have to fill in those gaps in your selective memory. And those gaps will be filled with Grammy Awards, honourary music degrees, and — oh yeah — acting in Dune! That’s gotta get him a little credit. Plus, making fun of his own teary-eyed earnestness on The Simpsons. Plus, being a moderately attractive, well-educated, self-assured older man who hasn’t been caught in any celebrity scandals.

Sure, no one under 45 cares about his easy-listening soft-rock achievements post-”Every Breath You Take,” but I loved that shit when I was young and dependent on my mother’s CD collection. And if you insult my mother’s taste, I’ll have to hurt you. Anyway, since then I’ve never been able to shake the idea that there’s something of value in his agreeably distant voice, his straight-up traditional pop structure, and that his songs are actually inspired by interesting cultural facts. If it can be cool to listen to both Can and Damo Suzuki, why can’t it be cool to listen to both the Police and Sting? (Man, I’m going to get into so much trouble for that comparison.)

I’ve said it many times in the last few months, sometimes in secret, but I’ll announce it plainly now: I love Sting. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, too. Lutes notwithstanding.

Uffie by Natalie Sylvie Plourde

As soon as I get out of the shower, before I do my hair or put on makeup, to get ready for a night of dancing and malfeasance, I like to listen to music that will get my blood rising and my ass shaking. While many listen to whatever generic hip-hop or pop is on the Top 40 this month, I have managed to seek out terrible music to love. The most recent sin is Uffie. This little white girl from Miami often fakes a British accent and raps. Sort of. But damn the music is fun to listen to.

Uffie is more vulgar than a frat guy you’d meet at a kegger, and the beats are great — thanks to her boyfriend DJ Feadz. There is something infectious about the voice of an 18-year-old (who sounds like she’s 12) lyricizing about the rap industry, hos, and “popping the glock.” If you’re not familiar with Uffie, think of me as your new pusher.

Locrian Mode by Elisha Denburg

“That’s not a real mode,” I’d overhear teachers and colleagues say as I passed their classrooms, practice modules, bathroom stalls and other places of higher learning. “It doesn’t even have a perfect 5th.” Phrygian’s hunchbacked cousin, they called it. “The runt of the litter.” The mode that’s only there to complete the cycle of seven in the diatonic system we as western music academics hold on a lofty pedestal that sits on top of three bibles, perched atop two more pedestals.

But who says the mode that’s based on the leading tone of the major scale shouldn’t enjoy the accolades and fame in which its brothers and sisters bask on a daily basis? Listeners, theory geeks and music snobs of the western world, to you I say, “TI IS THE NEW DO!” Let not your prejudiced ear be fooled by the tri-tone centre! The devil’s interval will find its way into your ears and hearts and become so firmly loved and embedded that the next time you hear a sappy movie soundtrack in Lydian mode you will cringe at its sweeping and expansive consonance! Flattened degrees 6, 7, and yes, even 2 will cry out for even more dissonance as 5 follows suit! We shall march ever onward, upward, and so far beyond time and space that the universe will collapse on itself and all you will be able to hear are the first two notes to West Side Story’s “Maria.”

“Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey by Lonny Knapp

When the road ahead is too steep to climb; when dark skies and rain fill my brain; when all I want to do is watch TV, eat corn chips, and masturbate — the strength I need to carry on can be found in a song.

“Don’t Stop Believing,” Journey’s motivational masterpiece from their hugely-successful-1981 release, Escape, is like a four-minute-and-twelve-second shot of inspiration. It has been discovered, through years of clinical study, that simply listening to the opening keyboard riff of “Don’t Stop Believing” drastically reduces the effects of depression and outperforms prescription drugs Paxil, Prozac, and even Viagra. In fact, by the one-minute mark — the part where the electric guitar comes in — nine out of ten listeners report a change in their mood for the better.

A word of caution: side effects may include a loss of control of the extremities (“Don’t Stop Believing” has been known to induce involuntary rock kicks) and in some cases the inability to differentiate between everyday objects (listeners have found themselves strumming on a tennis racket or singing into a hair brush while jumping around the living room in their pyjamas).

“Don’t Stop Believing” should be taken aurally to combat the blues, but should never, under any circumstance, be used in combination with Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop” or Monty Python’s “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

Keeping the Faith, Smashmouth, Get Over It and Muppet Treasure Island.

Keeping the Faith has shown me that Ben Stiller can be funny actor without mooking around like an idiot. Here he plays alongside Edward Norton (who looks like he’s having fun in a role for once) and the chemistry is surprisingly good. Every time I watch it I laugh out loud. Not only that, but it’s also a rather touching movie which has lots to say about love and (duh) faith. This movie is actually a personal favourite.

PS: Watch for the scene with spiky-headed guy from X-Men 3 as a karaoke machine salesman.

Smashmouth in Rat Race by Sam Linton

For all its flaws, I really enjoyed this movie. Its harkening back to zany “chase” comedies such as It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World and Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines is well worth the expense of having to endure some of its more questionable choices. This is actually a very funny movie if you give it a chance, it just happens to be marred by one of the worst endings ever to bedevil any film. For those who haven’t seen it, everyone gives away the money they’ve been after all movie to Smashmouth (yes, that Smashmouth) after they’ve somehow stumbled onstage at a famine relief concert. I didn’t bother prefacing that with a SPOILER ALERT because it does a pretty good job of spoiling the movie on its own. But, if you can ignore the ending (and the use of the Baha Men’s reprehensible cover of Anslem Douglas’ originally enjoyable “Who Let the Dog Out?” [the subject of a future “In defence of”, perhaps?]), Rat Race is actually pretty good. John Cleese and Rowan Atkinson are fun, even if they are phoning it in. Seth Green, Breckin Meyer, Jon Lovitz, Amy Smart and even Cuba Gooding “Snow Dogs” Jr. give solid comedic performances. Hell, you can even look at the horrible ending in a positive light if you suppress your gag reflex. Next time you see something completely out of the blue, a really obvious Deus ex Machina, just say to yourself “Hey! It’s Smashmouth!” It adds a pleasant ironic distance to the previous concept of “grinning and bearing it.”

Get Over It by Alexander B. Huls

On the surface, Get Over It is just another teen romantic-comedy. Well, beneath the surface, it basically is too. In fact, it’s not even an original one at that. Mix together 10 Things I Hate About You, Some Kind of Wonderful and She’s All That and presto: Get Over It. What does differentiate the film from the rest of the teen (not wolf) pack, and the reason it holds a special place in my heart, is its feverish, kooky, often-bizarre energy. At times this movie is just so weird and over-the-top, it makes one wonder if it’s satire. It often reminds me of one of my favorite teen comedies, Better Off Dead. I mean this movie has a musical production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in it, with original songs (composed by a flamboyant musical director played by Martin Short), one of which is in boy band style. Yet despite all its absurdity, it does hit surprisingly poignant (albeit a bit derivative) moments along the way.

Also there is a hot scene of Kirsten Dunst in a bikini. You know, if that’s your thing.

Muppet Treasure Island by Doug Nayler

Whether intentionally or by coincidence, the history of the Muppets is often portrayed much like that of Western Civilization. According to popular chronology the Muppets reached their Grecian pinnacle in the late 70s and early 80s under the direction of creator Jim Henson. The wildly popular Muppet Show, the outstandingly innovative children’s TV juggernauts Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock, and the original trilogy of Muppet films (The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, and The Muppets Take Manhattan) are considered to be the creative height of all things Muppet. Following the tragic early death of Henson in 1990, the franchise began to slowly erode. The Muppet Show became copied by scribes into shows of increasingly inferior quality, such as MuppeTelevision and Muppets Tonight. Likewise, the filmic output eventually declined into their final theatrical outing to date, the disappointing Muppets From Space. The franchise is now considered to be in the depths of its Dark Ages, with hopes among many for an eventual renaissance.

However, I refute this history as I think it is biased by the history makers. Indeed, this history is the history of my elders. A generation that has its affection for the Muppets tied up in the aforementioned original successes. And since this is where their allegiances lie, the book writers view any later output to be inferior. I stand here to argue that two films featuring the Muppets were released in the 1990s that were just as vital, creative, and original as their forebears. Those films are 1992’s A Muppet Christmas Carol, and 1996’s Muppet Treasure Island. While Christmas Carol still gets its dues being pulled back out into syndication each year during the holidays, Treasure Island has been greatly forgotten. Which I feel is a great shame.

Treasure Island takes great fun in its elaborate period sets, and satirical jabs at British colonial and class reality of the 18th century, as well as pirate genre film archetypes. Indeed, the film includes some of the funniest bits to be found in a Muppet film for years: Fozzy’s foppish, eccentric aristocrat guided by Mr. Bimbo, the man who lives in his finger. Gonzo’s discovery of Henry Kissinger’s Diplomacy amongst a pirate’s personal belongings. Honestly, just go to Youtube right now and search for “Muppet Treasure Island Roll Call.” Tell me that sequence isn’t one of the best ever to appear in a Muppet movie.

I will admit that the Muppets have lost something in terms of their popularity and relevance since Henson’s death. The last few made-for-TV efforts have definitely been quite lacking. But Muppet Treasure Island offers a great mix of comedy, drama, adventure, music, and satire that most people have simply forgotten about. It may not have made the most money, but damnit, it sure was a lot of fun. So go out and give it another chance. And ignore the way the guy at the Blockbuster glares at your pedophile-looking-ass the whole time you’re renting it.

Postmodernism and Berets.

Berets
by Gabrielle Charron Merritt

The beret has been for decades a symbol of French independence and the bohemian artist. Small and black for the mime; floppy and red for the inspired painter (with easel and palette included). It’s a cliché that plagues the halls of art schools — but let’s face it, berets are an important fashion accessory. Berets are adaptable; they can be sculpted into any shape the wearer wants. You can start your own communist party with only a beret. Berets are an all-seasons hat and a great receptacle to collect money while busking. It can cover the eyes to avoid media or fan attention, doubles as a chef’s hat, and can be easily folded into a pocket for times when you don’t want to wear it.

Postmodernism
by Miles Baker

Postmodernism never asked to be created — it wasn’t its fault. Those to blame are the no-talent, hack art critics and professors who throw the term around like confetti and ask, “What is art?” all day long. It’s a very complicated idea, and I understand your frustration in trying to understand it — I didn’t understand it for a very long time either, and I majored in it. But it’s here to stay and it’s really quite useful when you think about it. Essentially postmodernism is just art criticism, it’s understanding art and where it comes from, taking a piece apart from every angle possible and finding the relevance of it all. Without postmodernism, art might as well be wallpaper and not a whole section in an online magazine.

Brian Michael Bendis and Identity Crisis.

Brian Michael Bendis by Miles Baker

When you need someone to write a crime story you turn to Brian Michael Bendis. When you need someone to write awesome swearing you turn to Brian Michael Bendis. When you need to sell 100,000 copies of your comic book you turn to Brian Michael Bendis.

I’m not going to tell you all his work for Marvel Comics is amazing, or even adequate, or even good-at-all. But when it comes to averages the man is spectacular. He pushes the medium of comics in interesting and exciting ways. His full-page spreads take full-page spreads to a whole new level. Not just for money shots of the Thing lifting a car, but as a way of getting the ads outside of your story and letting the artist experiment with wide panels, time, and balance. While he might write the occasional stinker he’s still a much more innovative storyteller than the majority of comic writers — even indie champs like Tomine, Clowes, or Watson.

Identity Crisis by Owen K. Craig

There’s been a lot of backlash to Brad Meltzer’s Identity Crisis since it ended a few years back. I’m here to say that not only do I like it, but it’s one of my favourite DC stories of all time. There’s one simple reason: character development. This story has it in spades. A writer has to care about a character to make them as interesting as this story made Ralph or Ray. For me the book is all about subtlety, like Ralph telling the story of when he first met Sue or the look Batman gives Robin when his dad is in trouble. There are moments of grandeur, but they’re balanced by the moments of subtlety. The ending works wonderfully for me, despite the criticisms others have. Some people wanted the killer to be a major villain, but instead this book took the route that worked thematically: it focuses on the price of being a hero. The price isn’t the villains — it’s the toll it takes on those close to you. End of story.

Correct Change, Hooters, Spam, and All-Nighters.

Using correct change By Miles Baker

When I buy anything I try to give exact change, or as close as I can get.

You’ll often see me ahead of you in line scrounging through my right pocket, failing, scrounging through my left pocket, fumbling with my keys and then finally producing a dog’s breakfast of change. Then I’ll count it and hand it to the person behind the counter.

Every now and then I’ll make an error in the math and the cashier will have to ask me for more change. And then the process repeats. I’ll do this for as long as it takes so that in the next place I won’t have any change and won’t have to fumble with it then. I’m sorry to those behind me, but I don’t want to have a leaf, sail boat, or beaver in my pocket. I’ll take that moose because I need him for laundry — but that’s it. So be patient with me, I’ll be patient with you when you use your debit card to pay for your Honey Nut Cheerios.

Hooters By Rebecca Harrison Sure, it’s kinda sexist and demeaning and the food’s not very good – hell, they managed to ruin a garden salad – but Hooters has a certain je ne sais quoi.

Where else can you have your 20-person reservation lost because “the girls just aren’t that smart”? Or get the ever-classy chicken wing and champagne dinner? And where else can you throw a party that makes the majority of your guests wildly uncomfortable?

Hooters, that’s where!

For a kitschy good time and 150 free chicken wings (if they lose your birthday reservation) nothing beats Hooters. Hoot, hoot!

Spam By Katherine Chung

I first became aware of food-stigma in grade school, with the discovery that SPAM was a much-mocked and maligned meat. Or “meat”, as the joke seemed to be.

This created a problematic conflict of desires in my ten-year-old eyes, so conscious of shame and obstacles to social acceptability. Definitely not a stranger at my family’s dinner table, eating SPAM was a heartily-enjoyed experience. And we’re not even talking real SPAM here – a gastronomic delight that I didn’t try until years later – we’re talking inferior knock-offs. Yes, there are knock-off brands of the infamous SPAM, I kid you not. KLIK, KAM, PREM, Fancy Feast. It goes on.

Although it’s the namesake of junk email, this affordable tinned meat really isn’t so bad, and has been commercially successful for forty years to boot. Its ingredient list boasts surprisingly few basic items: pork, ham, spices, water, and sodium nitrite. (The latter keeps pork products pink, and you don’t want to know what colour the meat would turn otherwise!) How can I turn my nose up at that when I am a self-professed lover of ground beef and hotdogs? And even though I don’t generally admit to this liking of SPAM (until now!), there are many that do. There is an entire website that suggests that I am not so alone.

And so, in writing this to the world, I have publicly come to a full-circle re-acceptance of this food, and can freely carry the Monty Python banner of “SPAM, SPAM, wonderful SPAM!!!”

Staying Up All Night By Dan Taylor

The first time I got insomnia I was six years old. My father set me up on the couch with a pile of blankets and a video of the surf on the beach that he bought when we went to Florida the previous winter. “It’s soothing,” he said. “You’ll be asleep in no time.” I sat there and watched that tape six times.

Left to my own devices and no schedule, my sleep pattern always migrates from about 4 am to 2 pm, but even so I get unstoppable bouts of insomnia about twice a year. Sometimes it’s stress, sometimes it’s because I’ve quit smoking. Sometimes I just don’t know, and at this point I don’t really care. I’ve gotten used to it. God help me, I even enjoy it.

I get a lot more done during the night, it’s peaceful, and it’s somehow reassuring to know you’re experiencing a part of the day that everyone else is sleeping through. Drifting off to sleep as the sun rises, I can’t help but think to myself “Hey man, I’m living the best part of life.”

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, that shit will fuck you up! Having renounced recreational drug use as The Parasail of the Foolish Man, 2-3 days of insomnia is about as messed up as I can get without a litre of Jack Daniels’. And it’s completely free! I don’t even bother with valerian root or Sleep-Eze D anymore. Bring it on, Endless Night. This kite’s gonna soar!