White suit man

I was offered some work the other day; it would have involved covering a forthcoming election in Asia, which sounds terribly exciting, all very Graham Greene, sipping a whisky and soda while waiting for a sweaty man who smokes cheroots and is found stabbed to death on the bidet of my hotel room at the end of Chapter 7. Proper foreign correspondent stuff; and bear it mind I spend much of time in an eco-system where foreign correspondents are at the top of the pyramid, and everybody wants a little of their raffish glamour to rub off on them (which is why most outlets of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club are packed with people who write press releases for exhaust pipe manufacturers, while the foreign correspondents themselves are out corresponding).

Except that rather than the chance of being a proper fo-co and reporting coolly and objectively (with just a dash of the aforementioned raffishness) about the election, the task proffered to me was to write a blog that would be favourable to the incumbent who – according to his Wikipedia page at least – is something of a dodgy geezer. The offer, I should stress, came not from a conventional news organisation, but a ‘strategic communication’ company, which should have alerted me. Rather than spend several days weighing up the ethical ins and outs of the thing, I just said no thanks within minutes.

But why exactly did I turn it down? Well, the fact that the guy for whom I would have been shilling is of dubious probity certainly entered into it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean my motives were entirely pure and selfless. I’ve been watching all the people who’ve done business with Gaddafi over years furiously trying to rewrite history, and none of them comes out of the mess looking good. So maybe it’s not that I didn’t want to help a crook; just that I didn’t want it widely known that I was helping a crook. My biggest fear was getting found out. Complicity is bad; embarrassment is worse.

I could, of course, have gone in on the pretext of doing the job, and then blown the whistle on the whole story, thus provoking anguished think pieces on the dangerous grey area between journalism and political PR and perhaps a sarky footnote in Private Eye. But the person who asked me to do it is an old friend, so he’d have suffered for my high-minded subterfuge. Moreover, whereas my moral courage ebbs and flows, my physical bravery is a tiny, stagnant puddle. While the guns and grenades and catapults were tearing big holes in Bangkok last year, I was at home in the suburbs, drinking tea and following the whole thing on Twitter. If I’d taken the job, I might have been duffed up, or worse. I’ve read The Last King of Scotland, you know; these things never end well.

But really, at the heart of it is the fact that I’m very bad at lying, at pretending, especially at feigning enthusiasm. (On the other hand, today of all days, maybe I’m making up all of the above, even the bit about the bidet, like Annie Rhiannon does when she pretends to go to Tibet and America and Wales.)

The customer is always irrelevant

Among the many writers (of varying degrees of up-their-own-arse-ness) discussing their craft in The Guardian a few days back, it’s the late, glorious Beryl Bainbridge who says the most by analysing the least:

I don’t write for readers; I don’t think many writers do – I don’t think any. They say they do, don't they? But... well, I only write for myself, and when somebody says: “Oh, your book has given me so much pleasure,” I just think, “How peculiar”. I don't know what to say. Of course I don't say that; I smile and say “How nice” – but I think I’d have written books whether they were published or not. I just liked writing.

So presumably the whole concept of vanity publishing left her entirely befuddled.

Once More Unto The Breach Of Elections

"If war is too serious to leave to generals, then surely democracy is too important to delegate to politicians." - Jim Travers, Toronto Star

Some years ago I found myself in conversation with a man in Ontario's cottage country, and the topic turned to politics. It was an amiable chat, no heated tempers flaring up, nothing like that, which often does happen when you bring that subject up. Then he mentioned that he was a party campaign officer for the Conservative party, and suggested I ought to consider going into politics. I politely declined, citing that I really didn't have much time on my hands, which was true, though it wasn't the only reason.

I'm convinced that whatever it is we do for a living, we should be able to look ourselves in the mirror once or twice a day and not hate the person looking back at us. If I'd ever gone into politics, I'd end up hating myself. It's a cruel fact: the sort of people who can be trusted with power want nothing to do with politics, and the people who are in politics should never be trusted with any position of responsibility.

Full disclosure time: where do I stand politically? I would say that I'm conservative, though that's a bit of a loaded question these days. I cannot in good conscience vote Conservative, federally or provincially. I'm what's called a red Tory. That means these days, I have no party. Both wings of the Conservative Party, federal and in Ontario, here have been taken over by neo-conservatives and religious right fanatics. Think the Tea Party, without the overt racism. It's going to take many years before that taint is finally gone from those parties. So I'm forced to vote elsewhere.

Here in Canada we're back into election mode. Again, for the fourth time in seven years. A succession of minority governments, politicians squabbling like temper tantrum throwing brats incapable of working together reasonably, brings us yet again to an election in early May. For the next month and a bit, there are signs going up, calls being made to voters without end, politicians and campaign staff running around everywhere, trying to get voted in again. I'm already sick of it. And what will the result likely be? The same, a minority government run by the Conservatives, not really getting anything done. If we have any luck, both the Conservatives and the Liberals will lose a few seats a piece, forcing their leaders to quit. I'm not crossing my fingers though. I doubt we'll be that lucky.

Since first getting elected in 2006, the Conservatives have been spending their time playing political games, constantly in election threat mode, instead of, oh, running the country. They came in on promises of respect, accountability, and doing their best to make Parliament work. Instead, their record consists of secrecy, obstruction, sheer contempt for Parliamentary democracy, power games, and photo ops. Little wonder. The inner cabal running the show consists of hard right partisans who place ideology above fact. They seek to tear this country and its institutions down, to change it to a point where we won't recognize it. It'll take us decades to repair the damage they'll do with a majority government.

And right at the center of it all is Stephen Harper, current occupant of the Prime Minister's Office. I've long been convinced this man wants to crown himself Emperor Stephen the First. How would I define this man? Arrogant. Vindictive. Heartless. A screamer. Schoolyard bully. I suspect he was a bully as a kid, and no one ever gave him the kick in the ass he deserved. It's a shame. He might have learned a lesson, and turned out a halfway decent human being if they had. And his inner cabal is just like him. Right wing nutbars, determined to hold onto power at all costs like a dog with a bone, rabidly mean spirited. If there are still people in the Conservative party, who, like me, are red Tories... why don't they stand up and speak out? Why are they allowing this to continue?

During his tenure as Prime Minister, he has twice prorogued Parliament, fearful of losing power. He's consistently lied and obstructed time and time again. He's had our census altered to fit his ideological point of view. He's politicizing the bureaucracy. He's demanding information on academics who have been critical of him. He's pursuing a law and order build the prisons agenda, despite the fact that crime continues to be on the decline. He's now made it an official policy that all government letterheads should be marked as The Harper Government. Not the Canadian government.  There's a big difference. He's quite literally buying into the l'etat c'est moi mindset of Louis XIV.

And, lest we forget, he spent a billion dollars and change on a two day photo op called the G8 and G20 conferences last year, despite the fact that similar conferences last year cost much less. So, for the sake of an arrogant ideologue  who wanted to show off last summer, the core of our largest city (a city he despises) was shut down. Protesters and bystanders were beaten and arrested by police, illegally. Civil rights were tossed out the window. It was a disgrace, and during that incident, and many times since then, I've felt ashamed to be a Canadian. 

I know, this isn't the usual sort of thing you're used to from me. The next blog will be funny, I promise. You'll just have to make do with the editorial cartoons for a laugh. For the moment, there's a month of electoral garbage coming towards every single Canadian, and a decision to make (for those who actually give a damn about the state of their country). I certainly can't vote Conservative, obviously. Voting for the New Democrats (at least federally) doesn't appeal to me (sorry, Jack Layton, move to the center a bit, and ditch the porn star mustache and we'll talk). I'm not in Quebec, so I can't vote for the crazy separatists. So I'm stuck voting Liberal. And Michael Ignatieff isn't the sort of leader who inspires. 

There was a time, not long ago, that our country was thought of as having a conscience. Americans sewed our flag on their backpacks when they went off to Europe. We were the moderators, the peacekeepers. We were known for our sense of compassion, for fair play, for being a force for good in the world. Now? Our government is vindictive, mean spirited, and partisan above all. They've become the sort who keeps enemy lists. It's enough to make me relate to the manning the barricades mentality of 1789 in the streets of Paris.

I love my country. I hate what this right wing thug is doing to it.

Art is dead, don’t print its corpse

On the evidence of this selection, the output of Camden’s Poster Workshop in the 60s and 70s rather lacked the insouciant humour that distinguished the images that Parisian designers were coming up with at the same time. This Anglo-Saxon dourness could perhaps be forgiven if they’d actually managed to foment a successful revolution, but their efforts were as doomed as those of their French contemporaries. If you’re going to fail, people, fail with style.

Six Sentence Sunday

Masada, Israel

Once more, I'm doing a Six Sentence Sunday blog today. I'm taking these  from the work in progress in various spots through the text. The last two, incidentally, are from portions that have yet to be written, but the lines are very clear in my mind. As to who will say them? That's something I'll have to decide later...

“My darling, we probably just chatted with two spies.”

“I told Mrs. Tavington the day after the assassination, and I’ll tell you... hunt these people down to the ends of the earth.”

If they’d had a chance to think about it, they might have thought it to be the wrath of God.

She pressed down on the trigger, her last thought one she had memorized: Allahu akbar....

"To secure the peace, we'll have to make war."

(during a gunfight) "You and I go to the most interesting places."

Actually, there's one theory that the environmental movement of our day was sparked by the re-release of Bambi in the late 1950s.

ACK! The materials for fall registration have been posted, meaning I have to choose my fall classes soon and I can also see what is and isn't available for spring. It's my FINAL YEAR! Which kinda makes me want to do this:



There are still a shit-ton of things I want/need to take, and especially if I'm on the defense clinic, it really limits my options since I have to devote an entire Monday or Tuesday to that. This might be stressful, we'll see.

And then there's the end of spring 2012. Bar review and a big wedding in D.C.! Whoa. But speaking of taking the bar...wow, let's talk about needing to get my shit together. As in, WHERE to go...

Ok, so you know how we all have that one (at least one) small talk question we hate getting? Like, what do you do? (Seriously, I usually hated that one.) Or if you're in undergrad--either "what's your major" or the always-awesome "what are you going to do when you graduate?" Lately, I have a new one. Most people know I'm not from here (alarmingly, I seem to bring it up as often as one might who was forced to live in Texas) so they ask me, "So, where are you going to take the bar?" Fucked if I know. I usually say, "Well, it kinda depends on who's going to hire me!" This is probably not the best way to plan where to take a $1,000 2- or 3-day exam, but there it is.

I do not want to practice in Massachusetts. For one thing, I'm pretty sure 1 in 4 people here is a lawyer. Also, I don't really like it. It's ok, but in a just-passing-through kinda way. If I were 24, I might feel differently, but I'm not, so I don't.

I hate saying "I don't want to practice in MA," because I'm afraid it will be like that time in undergrad that I said, "Well, I know I don't want to work in television." And we all know what happened there.

But I've been freaking myself out a little bit by reading up on the bar, mostly the Texas bar, and yeah, it scares the shit out of me. Take a look!

Day One Tuesday 20% (200 points) P&E and MPT (two sections)

Procedure & Evidence Exam (P&E 10%)
Multi‐state Performance Test (MPT 10 %)
3 hours total (90 min. each)

Day Two Wednesday 40% (400 points): The Multi‐state Bar Exam (MBE)

200 multiple‐choice questions
100 a.m., 100 p.m. – 6 hours (3hours each)

Day Three Thursday 40% (400 hundred points): 12 Texas Essays

6 essay a.m., 6 essays p.m.
6 hours total (30 minutes per essay)

About $700, $750 with laptop.

12 Essay Questions:
(2) Texas Real Property
(including Oil and Gas)
(2) Business Associations
(2) UCC
(2) Family Law
(including Marital Property)
(2) Wills & Estates
(1) Trusts or Guardianship
(1) Consumer Law

So let me also take a moment here to say um, oil and gas law? About the most I know about oil and gas law I got from There Will Be Blood. (Seriously, that milkshake line is all about the law of capture. Done.) And it's a BIG AREA.

Or I could practice 5 years somewhere else and then Texas will let me come practice there without the bar. I totally looked that up, too.

Sometimes I look at the morons around me who are Real Lawyers and go, well fuck, they managed to pass it. But then I remind myself I don't know how many times they took it.

Oh and I'm still trying to find a place in The Hague to live, my (hopefully) roommate is as well. Our luck is stalling a bit in this department. I wrote 14 emails yesterday, 5 nopes so far. :/

Ok, fingers crossed, off to go plan next year's courses!

Melonfarmer

Two recent responses to the increasing levels of rudery in our public discourse: the Daily Telegraph’s Neil Midgely informs us of the contextually justified “fuck”s that will pepper a forthcoming Radio 3 adaptation of Wuthering Heights, inevitably prompting (profanity-free) outrage across the breakfast tables of middle England; and in the New York Times, Jon Pareles notes that three songs in the Billboard Top 10 (by Cee-Lo Green, Enrique Iglesias and Pink) are similarly blessed, although the precise volume of soy latte being spat out in Manhattan is not recorded.

The problem in both cases is that the journalists in question find themselves unable to spell out the word that provoked the articles in the first place: presumably this is down to the policies of the papers that employ them. Midgely opts for the tedious “f-word”, and then resorts to “[blank]” when discussing Emily Brontë’s own self-censorship, although it’s not clear which words these blanks are replacing. Pareles is more eloquent, referring to “variations on a familiar, emphatic, percussive four-letter word.”

Of course, in writing around such unmentionables, both writers are faced with a paradox: readers who aren’t familiar with the word in question will be utterly baffled by the article; those who know it and aren’t bothered by it would have been relaxed if the veil of good taste had been lifted; and those who do know the word but don’t like it being used will have been reminded of its existence even if they haven’t read it. Pareles for one is aware of the ridiculousness of the situation:

Even if the original lyrics are off-limits to old media, it’s clear to everyone that the profane versions of the songs are going to be heard. The enforced innocence of broadcasting is no longer a cultural firewall; it’s barely an inconvenience. 

There’s a debate to be had about whether old media should give in to the barbarians, or instead maintain their decorum and thus demonstrate why in a multi-channel universe, the Times and the Telegraph and Top 40 radio are still special. As Pareles suggests, this is part of a wider question, of what newspapers and other mainstream providers are really for these days; does it still matter that they’re maintaining standards if nobody else gives a fuck? Not to address this is just f–––ing while Rome burns.

It's aspirin with the "A" and the "S" scraped off.

So I have two shows I do not watch, just so we're straight. And I was NOT watching one of them last week, and on this show, people may or may not sing every week (again, I don't watch, so I wouldn't know). But maybe they had to sing a song from their birth year, and the oldest twats on there were 1984. So out of curiosity I looked up my birth year.



WOW. I was pleased to see I was born in what must at least be one of the top 5 gay-est years for music, complete with the anthem itself, I Will Survive. Check it out: (and they are ranked by their number in the top 100 for 1979). I snipped out the crap I don't know or don't care about.

1. My Sharona, The Knack
2. Bad Girls, Donna Summer
3. Le Freak, Chic
4. Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?, Rod Stewart

6. I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor
7. Hot Stuff, Donna Summer
8. Y.M.C.A., Village People

11. Too Much Heaven, Bee Gees
12. MacArthur Park, Donna Summer

16. Tragedy, Bee Gees
17. A Little More Love, Olivia Newton-John
18. Heart of Glass, Blondie
19. What a Fool Believes, Doobie Brothers
20. Good Times, Chic
21. You Don't Bring Me Flowers, Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond
22. Knock On Wood, Amii Stewart

25. Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground), Jacksons

28. My Life, Billy Joel

32. I'll Never Love This Way Again, Dionne Warwick
33. Love You Inside Out, Bee Gees
34. I Want You to Want Me, Cheap Trick
35. The Main Event (Fight), Barbra Streisand
36. Mama Can't Buy You Love, Elton John

39. Heaven Knows, Donna Summer and Brooklyn Dreams

45. He's the Greatest Dancer, Sister Sledge

47. She Believes In Me, Kenny Rogers
48. In the Navy, Village People

50. The Devil Went Down To Georgia, Charlie Daniels Band

53. We Are Family, Sister Sledge

55. Every 1's a Winner, Hot Chocolate
56. Take Me Home, Cher

62. I Want Your Love, Chic

69. Got to Be Real, Cheryl Lynn

76. Disco Nights, G.Q.
77. Ooh Baby Baby, Linda Ronstadt

91. Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough,Michael Jackson
92. Bad Case of Lovin' You, Robert Palmer
93. Somewhere In the Night, Barry Manilow
94. We've Got Tonite, Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band
95. Dance the Night Away, Van Halen
96. Dancing Shoes, Nigel Olsson
97. The Boss, Diana Ross

If I could even sing in the first place, I couldn't begin to choose one. But damn, Donna Summer had a good year, huh?

Completely unrelated to anything, I was accepted to my school's clinical program for criminal defense next year! Very excited. And then my second thought was how one of my litigation coaches explained to us once that criminal defense attorneys are, in the public's mind, a step above used car salesman but below new car salesman. Literally, there was a study.

Well wtf I guess we couldn't all grow up watching the same awesome movies.



Yeah, yeah, so real life may not be quite the same, I suspect not. But I just have zero desire to be a prosecutor. And I will totally go back and delete this when the only place I can get hired is the DA's office. Because guess what, I also love eating and staying dry.

OH! And my criminal defense attorney friend back home even offered to let me second chair for him when I'm back next month (I'm still a student, so I get special certification, fear not for the unsuspecting masses). I thought that was super cool (and totally scary), so I just have to see if the timing works out.

And who knows, maybe I'll end up being totally wrong about liking this. Guess I'll find out next year, misdemeanors and felonies here we come. (Theirs, not mine.)

Reflections in a golden handshake

Not only did Elizabeth Taylor outlive her own obituarist, she was also – at her own insistence – late for her own funeral. Slightly less classy is the owner of a Warhol portrait of the late Mrs Fortensky, who has decided that now might be a good time to sell it. He’s a hedge fund manager, you know.

Cats In High Places

From time to time, living in Ottawa, when I'm downtown and have some free time on my hands, I'll go up to Parliament Hill, and walk the grounds. The hill is set high above the Ottawa River, and affords some of the best views in the area. It's dotted with statues of Prime Ministers, fathers of Confederation, and historical figures. On the west side, near a rise where the statues of Prime Minister Pearson and Queen Victoria reside, is something else entirely. It's a collection of sturdy shelters which serves as the home of a colony of cats.

These stray cats have been looked after by many years. The cat sanctuary started in the seventies by a woman named Irene Desmoreaux. After her death, Rene Chartrand took up the mantle and erected the shelters above (that's him in the picture). He's retired now, and a team of volunteers tend to the cats, who have it made. Good shelter, plenty of food, and lots of space to stroll about.

They can often be seen on the grounds of Parliament Hill, and are fairly friendly. Apparently they're also allowed into the buildings to tackle mice, though I remain rather dubious of their mousing skills, what with the fact that they can often be seen allowing squirrels to eat from their dishes, and let's face it... to a cat, a squirrel isn't that much different then a mouse.

Don't believe me?

I told you. And the raccoons that live on the slopes down below often turn up for a meal too. They get along quite well with the cats.

The Cat Sanctuary has become very popular with the tourists, and with people like me who live here and occasionally pay the Hill a visit. The cats are always about, lording over their domain. Cats, after all, do run the world, you know...

That brings us to the second part of today's blog. In doing research on my work in progress, Ten Downing Street came up. The home of the British Prime Minister interested me, as some of the scenes in the book take place there. During the research, I came across a curiousity: The Chief Mouser To The Cabinet Office.

For decades, it's been a tradition that a cat lives at Ten Downing, and it's still upheld today. The cat is "employed", and so belongs to the house, rather then as a pet of the PM's family (or to be precise, owner of the PM and their family, like I said, cats rule the world). The current holder of the title is a former stray named Larry, who, as fate would have it, has his own website. The title is mostly informal, but the cat stays even if the leader in question leaves office.

I loved the notion of a chief mouser, and so I've written it into the book. Here are a couple of examples:

The group paused, and Sabra spoke. “What in the..?”

Claire looked back to see what the matter was. A tan and grey cat paused at the doorway in the corridor, looking up at the newcomers. Sabra was looking down at it, her expression puzzled, as if she would not have expected to see an animal here. “That’s Fox. She’s the Chief Mouser to the Cabinet,” Claire explained with a straight face.

Sabra looked back at her, shaking her head. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t speak lightly of the Chief Mouser.” The cat moved on.

“I’d comment on it, but the White House always has pets,” Stryker added.

***

She felt movement at her lower leg, and looked down, saw the Chief Mouser rubbing against her leg, passing by, softly purring. “Hello, Fox,” she called, as the cat trotted down the corridor. At least all’s well in her world, Claire thought with a smile.

Humphrey

Sybil

Larry

Boxing day

To remind us why we care so much about Japan.

Martha? Rubbing alcohol for you?

Very sad. In all honesty, I can't say I was a huge fan--not because I disliked her, I enjoyed her very much in her films when I saw them.



It may be quite safe to say, however, that she was more of an icon than an actress. And I get that, but I can't say I ever identified with or adored her. She seemed somewhat controversial in her personal life (ahem, I believe just last week I was talking about Carrie Fisher's autobiography...), but that never bothered me in the slightest.



At the end of the day, I was just never really too well acquainted with her filmography--I mean, can you believe I've never seen Butterfield 8? I feel like a failure as a cinephile, but I'm on it. Promise. And for the record, I still adore Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, that baby never gets old.

(Editor's Note: So I had this nagging feeling like I HAD seen Butterfield 8, and sure enough I went to Netfux to add it, and apparently I already gave it 3/5 stars. And honestly, even after reading the summary, I SO DO NOT RECALL THIS FILM. Maybe it says more about my brain than her performance, but ouch in any case.)

Haunted all my dreams

If I enjoy a book or a film or a piece of music, I often find that I want to sample more product by the same creator. I’m sure this is quite normal behaviour, but more often than not, it results in crushing disappointment. This has been happening quite a lot lately. The most recent works by Jonathan Coe and David Mitchell fell flat, the former because of the clumsy addition of a bit of metafictional self-reference in the closing stages; the latter, conversely, because the book was entirely lacking in the structural cleverness which made Ghostwritten and Cloud Atlas so compelling, and ended up like a cross between a textbook on economic history and Shogun. I also finally got round to watching ‘What Did You Do In the War, Daddy?’, the final, un-broadcast episode of Secret Army, and soon realised that the reason it was never broadcast was not because of its virulent anti-Communism, but because it was crap. And then there was The Illusionist, which wasn’t crap, but because it was directed by Sylvain Chomet (director of  The Triplets of Belleville), and based on a script by Jacques Tati, whose Les vacances de M Hulot is still one of my top 10 movies of all time, it should have been astounding, a combination of deadpan surrealism and existential melancholy and a bit of slapstick, Gilliam meets Bergman meets Keaton. And it was quite good, which really isn’t good enough.

OK, let’s throw this out to the people formerly known as the audience. Is there an author or film-maker or musician or tennis player or pastry chef or masseur who has never, ever disappointed you? Or is there someone you keep going back to, despite the fact that his or her mojo clearly stopped working years ago, and you know it’ll never come back, and you’ve no idea why you still bother but, hey, it’s Woody Allen or Jeanette Winterson or The Wurzels and for the sake of the old times you just can’t let go?

The First Rate Nutbar Just Won't Take A Hint

Well, now that the West has finally decided to lend a hand, the uprising in Libya might stand a bit of a chance in taking down Gadhafi. If only someone had, oh, twenty years ago, dropped a smart bomb on him, or sent in the world's most dangerous assassin to do the job...

Yes, Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds. He'd have had the job done inside of 48 hours.