Family Gatherings

All of us who are so lucky to enjoy our makeshift extended families—those comprised of close friends and acquaintances who start off as strangers and burrow their way into our hearts—are cognizant of routine minutiae to which others are oblivious. There is an order to our makeshift households and we expect that in due fashion our roommates will adhere to a shower routine or that our best friends will ensure we never go without a pot of coffee. We answer each other’s drunken texts, check the mail and distribute its offerings and are sensitive to even the weakest murmurs of sexual tension. Unlike familial bonds which are derived of blood, our friendship families are formed on the basis of choice and personality; we recognize strengths we have which fit into the greater pattern and skills we use to our own advantage. Even if we deny it, we all play our roles in fashioned drama because it calms us. Perhaps the best thing about these manufactured families is their ability let us grow within them in ways which never cut too close to the bone; perhaps it’s because we create bonds rather than live through them organically. That way, our embarrassments are our own.

I have grown accustomed to my own particular routine: the smoke breaks with good friend Chris Curry (even though I don’t smoke); regular wine “tastings” that devolve into socialist rants and long diatribes about music; Scrabble games that edge toward the bawdy; seasons of Everwood devoured for pure pleasure; evenings pouring over digital files in advance of regular Campus Free Press publication; late night conversations about game, the lack of it and the regularity with which money disappears. The routines offer more than comfort though; after awhile everything feels stock—as though it’s expected—and suddenly it emerges: “This is my life.” A life. As in “I’ve built myself something separate from my brothers and sisters, parents, people I knew in high school.” It’s the evolution of a personal foundation that comes with defining values and opinions, even if sometimes those two seem jarring. Suddenly students who milked the government for student loans become worried taxpayers; folks who crusaded for liberal agenda find themselves voting conservative. Somehow the newfangled routine becomes a blueprint for a life. I find it endlessly fascinating. It’s also so crushing since, like all good things, the stability we build up ends eventually.

I think that’s called adulthood.

Nourishing North Bay

North Bay has been my home for twenty-five years—save one where I spent most of my days kicking around Belfast, Northern Ireland—and its influence on me has been great. There is an indelible hometown spirit in all of us, though so few of us recognize it, and it's best manifested in the way townies support other townies.

Saturday evening, I co-hosted a charity concert called "Nourish: North Bay" with good friend and confidante Chris Curry (with whom NOTHING would be possible). We had a massive success on our hands--we saw 170 North Bayites pass through our doors to enjoy music by Josh Dimmel, Cole Fournier, Dave White, Matt Amond, Killing Caparosa, Cody Allen and local dynamos Yer Blues. We were fortunate enough to raise $375 plus more than a half-dozen crates of non-perishables.

Normally, I write didactics or hope to spurn authority. Today, I'd like to oblige my better manners and do some thank-yous:

VERITASSE CAFE: Without a venue, we'd be out on the street, busking for scraps. Thanks for the shelter, the warmth, the sound and the fury!

CHRIS CURRY: Sir, there are no words. At least... none I can express. You're quickly becoming my better half in all respects, and the world should recognize the greatness of your Chris Curry eyes. Also, you're a badass organizer. Cool as a cucumber.

JES ROY: Thank you for putting up with my often scatterbrained instructions. Jes, your graphics work literally put the Nourish concept on the map, so you have my unwavering love!

THE MUSICIANS: Dear Matt Murphy--you missed a hell of a show. Your peers, Josh, Cole, Dave, Matt Amond, Killing Caparosa, Cody Allen and Yer Blues (especially Yer Blues) set the scene on fire. No musicians mean no nourishing, right?

NORTH BAY NOURISHERS! Thanks of the highest order for everybody who paid admission, donated extra, dropped off food and just anybody who gave us the slightest thought. Amid the clutter stands JENNY POTTER from the North Bay Nugget, who was kind enough to give us a page three story about the concert, which you can read below...

Duo hopes to put music's power to work for community

Posted By JENNY POTTER, THE NUGGET

Posted 7 hours ago

Brett Greene wanted to do something different for his birthday this year.

After years of receiving gifts, he wanted to mark his 25th birthday by giving back to the community.

Saturday night, Greene hosted Nourish North Bay, a benefit concert that brought in $350 and many boxes of food for the North Bay Food Bank.

With help from musician friend Chris Curry, Greene recruited seven mostly acoustic acts -- including Cody Allen, Josh Dimmel and Yer Blues -- to play Veritasse Coffee Bar.

Greene said he chose the food bank because it's always in need between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Greene was surprised with the event's success and hopes the nourishment doesn't stop there.

We want to nourish education, culture and the arts community in North Bay," he said, adding the plan is to make it a bi-monthly event.

It's an opportunity to see live music where there isn't that pressure to drink," Greene said.

Curry said he was surprised so many musicians jumped at the opportunity to perform without any compensation and said they plan to build the event by adding other artists.

We really want to bring the arts community together," he said, to nourish the culture and sense of community here."

Illusions Spring Forth

To the men and women campaigning for delegate positions, and to those wishing to serve on Academic Senate, this is my plea to you: be sure of yourselves and the image you will be projecting because both will be preserved in the minds of voters as your true self.

To you all, I have bared witness to your mockery of the electoral process for too long and feel strongly that cheap chicanery, gimmickry, off-colour humour and divergent hackery will get you everywhere, but at the cost of substance and value. You few and proud will be responsible for subverting the tradition of vying for office, soon making complex campaigns and issues simple enough for the public tastes until all that remains is rhetoric pablum.

You will do this because you will insist, as so many have, to insult the process by removing all aspects of platform and the virtue of new ideas. You will emblazon posters with sharp colours and thick-wit catch phrases, perhaps highlighting baseless credentials or promising virtues you will be unable to uphold. Never once will you dignify your future office by stating your opinion or by making clear your strategy for improvement of infrastructure or policy. You will simply ask for your peers' votes in the mere hope that you are recognizable enough for broad appeal. You will not worry about work ethic or job qualification, nor will you be cognizant of issues your peers are facing. You will lack the foresight to peer past convocation. You will insult the intelligence of the electorate by assuming voters are dim and uninformed, with no desire to be greater than they are now. You will simply appear to disappear.

Dear campaigners, head my warning: you will find yourselves celebrating victory in a week's time and though it will feel sweet, its glow ripe and warm with acceptance, the fruits of your labour will be hollow. You will have succeeded without trying to challenge your voters and for that, you will have learned that stagnation is a virtue and that belief is illusory. You will be a fraud whose acclaim is for naught.

I challenge you, in the days remaining before election, to opine about something dear to your heart. I insist you be honest about your intentions about this campaign, that you answer the simple question: what do you want to get out of your role as delegate or senator? If you seek fortune, so be it. If you seek goodwill, be fair enough to state it. If you seek kinship, may you find it. Do not bear false witness, though, or judge your peers unable to decipher sleight of hand for underneath your prestidigitation may lie only stupidity or poor judgment.

And should you bear false witness, and claim yourself to be without merit, you will indeed rise to your own occasion and fail your peers in a most drastic way.

The Futurist

Had someone told me on my graduation day that in just a scant year and change I would return to full-time studies, I might have simply laughed it off, considering it foolish speculation.

I was, after all, resigned to moving onward and upward, my years at Nipissing University more than adequately preparing me for the work world. And for a time, the idea of settling into a career was not only feasible, but comfortable. True to form, I worked for the Canadian Red Cross for a year as a First Aid Coordinator while also maintaining ties to several charitable and campus-oriented organizations. I remained an active member of the university community, spent time with friends and graduates alike and, best of all, was paid for my time.

Unfortunately, even the best laid plans are wont to fail for one reason or another, sometimes because of systemic flaws or external functions, and sometimes because the laid for us never fits just right. After a few months of drudgery, the job became a series of actions done by rote – I was no longer challenged and there was little (if any) room for growth or creativity. At the same time, my friends were engaged at the cerebral and social levels, and though I was happy for their exploits, I was also jealous. I felt fraudulent, as though the expectations put upon me as a graduate – to be a success, and happy – were tangible items I had not the slightest clue of how to attain. Worse, my career was short-lived: I was under contract for the Canadian Red Cross, not a full-time employee and so when I met my one-year mark, I packed my belongings and slogged home. It was just as well though, I suppose; the thrill of First Aid sales and marketing had long lost its spark and it was now clear that training coordination was not a future I wanted.

Home life was, for a week, a welcome change. I would rise at my leisure, read the newspaper, shower for what seemed like an hour and find the day open to my whims. I would often go for walks, finding myself on Main Street peering through glass windows while sipping coffee. Suddenly – and for the first time in years – I had all the time in the world. It’s a dangerous feeling to know structure-less life, though. I became bored and began to apply for jobs of all variations – anything I thought would be suited to my experience and education – I ran the gamut from marketing internships to community organization. That too became an exercise in tedium when application after application was unanswered and even successful interviews profited little. I was in a rut.

The educational system in Ontario, for me and for many others, is based on merit and standardized testing. For my career at Nipissing University, I fared well because of my innovation and intelligence; although I will readily admit that I often had to catch up to others with assignment submissions, I graduated with enough standing to satisfy those around me. Of course, I naturally assumed my life as an alumnus would mean jumping into a white picket fence scenario, complete with a dog, a few kids and a two-car garage. I do not have any of those things. What I do have, though, is experience and the piece of mind to know I am not alone.

Stuff I'm Listening To..

Eloquently Yours

Today, Gen. Colin Powell, former Secretary of State in the Bush Administration, endorsed Senator Barack Obama for President. Powell's rationale is eloquent, beautiful and absolutely assured. Please do me the great favour of watching this video. It's 12:28 you won't waste.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2U63fXBlFo

Thanksglutton

Mark my words: it's all about the perfect pumpkin pie.  

At Thanksgiving each year, as it is with Christmas and to some extent Easter, the main feature is always a freshly baked, perfectly spiced pumpkin pie.  Sure, apple pie has its fans, and I count myself among them.  And yes, the bumbleberry fans might outweigh the lemon meringue pundits, but I find them particularly shallow.  No, Thanksgiving is the cornerstone of the now endless holiday season, and it brings with it turkey, tension and time well spent... with pie.  And excessive overeating.  In fact, so much is made of our ability to detach our jaws in order to swallow roasting birds whole that I shall christen this holiday "Thanksglutton," and smile contentedly.

All over our fair country, from Vancouver to St. John, men 

and women of all shapes and sizes will soon be gorging on turkey, chicken, goose, ham, lamb, stew, roux and perhaps even spaghetti and meatballs. Their bellies will swell, and they will clamour to the couch post-meal claiming to have eaten too much ... until the Running of the Pie is announced. If you've never been to Spain for the Running of the Bulls, pretend that pie is served in the same fashion. And pretend that when prompted for proportions, family and guests alike might bode for "two of three small pieces" instead of one healthy portion because they're watching their wait. Right. If you've seen I Am Legend, think of the ravenous zombie beasts that plague Will Smith and you'll have some idea about what this looks like.  It might just look like this:

President for a Day

I’m a man of lofty dreams. I once divvied up an imaginary $10 Million to friends and family, cutting each of them a piece of the pie from my new-found fortunate. Unsurprisingly, the theoretical inheritance they would receive caused some controversy, and I was frustrated with the limits of the money I didn’t have. Still, it caused me to think of my capacity for making good decisions because, while I do make an excellent armchair critic, I am often wary of my ability to use foresight to my advantage.

In the summer, I talked to Geoff Brown about his concept for advertising Nipissing University through social media marketing and disagreed that it would have any effect at all. Geoff’s idea was to have students blog about their daily lives and be encouraged to share their perspectives about campus news, a concept which I thought would never take off thanks to systemic apathy. However, as we can now attest, the idea worked – albeit fuelled by the promise of prices, I think, more so than the intrinsic value in documenting life’s foibles. Still, I am wary of some new initiatives simply because I strive to nurture the idea of this university as a unique and playful educational institution in Ontario. It’s not as entrenched in hippie ideals as Trent University, nor is it as shiny and new as the University of Ontario Institute of Technology. It is, for better or for worse, the site of close relationships: friendships strengthen with proximity, thesis students cozy up to professors and bawl uncontrollably, advocacy groups work firmly with administration. It’s something worth saving. And yet –

We are expanding in so many ways that I fear for our institution’s heart. The E-Commons Library seems promising, and its stature will do wonders to position Nipissing University as a home for research and academia. Ditto for the science wing, now extending to the edges of our beautiful pond. Still more promising is our athletics expansion, with a new recreation centre and hockey team close enough to make us all salivate. What’s our message? “Yes, it’s true: we don’t huddle next to each other in igloos, and we don’t subsist on beavertails alone, though they are delicious. Pass the moose testicle.” We are sophisticated. Mostly.

We are collectively striving to be seen, reaching our hands out in a vain attempt to be noticed by the rest of Ontario, when it might simply be easier to cash in our surroundings: “Nipissing University: Home of Ravenous Bears.” That’ll attract gawkers, I’m fairly sure. We could make it an annual thing to replace ‘Pie-A-Prof’ with ‘The President Wrestles a Bear.’ Bears could roam the halls, hunting for berries hidden in offices and for trout strewn across the Brown Lounge and across the windy stairs in a vain attempt to replicate salmon hunting.

Nipissing University is famous for straddling the line between 'folksy' and 'technologically advanced' and it's been in evidence since the iTeach program was introduced into the Bachelor of Education program. As our campus expands, so too does the number of students attending university, and the number graduating -- especially true since the required mean grade required to jump from third year to fourth has been reduced to 65%. It's a tough sell because it's essentially selling a lifestyle, and the two ideas are incongruous. We were absolutely poised to become the rebellious liberal arts university with a heart of gold, but technology has a way of distracting from the very things we were founded on: nature, colloquialism, kinship and beer. Nobody ever said it was easy to run a university, or to take the brunt for bad decisions. I'd like to think I could take a crack at the job though.

If I were President for a day, I'd convene a meeting with staff and faculty by Duchesnay Falls so we could all talk about our favourite things about the university while drinking hot chocolate and eating smores. If we lost a few stragglers on the trails to fervent lovemaking and wild cats, well, so be it: we'd form a stronger pack as Darwin would have wanted.

If I were President for a day, I'd sample each and every bit of food from Aramark and the Student Centre has to offer and make strong decisive action to rid the campus of overcooked, bland and bitter food. There would be an all-out war on the kinds of overpriced goods and services students pay each and every day, just because they decide to stay on campus rather than eat at one of North Bay's fine restaurants.

If I were President for a day, I'd thank all the support service staff, including janitorial staff, who are the base of operations for every other person in the building. And I'd give them all Nipissing University paraphernalia.

If I were President for a day, I'd make dancing to class mandatory, and pump out Motown, Blues and old rock tunes.

If I were President for a day, I'd dress in full Value Village regalia.

Lastly, if I were President for a day, I'd make a call to Canadore College and have them meet us out back for a Sharks vs. Jets-like scrap, just like the old days.

Cold Fatigues

It must be a universal truth with colds that the second you try to use both hands to accomplish a task, your nose starts running. And there's never a tissue around. Universal elements, I swear.

If you haven't yet, listen to Matthew Barber's "Easily Bruised" off his latest disc, Ghost Notes.

Cracking The Nut

When I was very young, books and the stories they contained allowed me to visualize worlds I only sometimes visited in my dreams. I saw the characters on the page strung together like code at first, unsure of how to handle the demands of abstraction, but later impressed by my ability to sink into a great story like burrowing myself into bedsheets. Our household had the first-print poetry volume Alligator Pie by Denis Lee and illustrator Frank Newfeld, its pages containing surreal images of fat alleymen, gigantic cakes and sewer alligators in a uniquely warm and Canadian fashion, the literary equivalent of a deep-fried beavertail. Lee's work, much like that of Shel Silverstein, formed a strange vernacular in my head and preceeded any knowledge I had of Dr. Seuss' work; to this day his poem "The Friends" reminds me of cascading sunlight in my front living room, me poring over the book while my parents chatted away in some other room.

My education in literacy continued with Beverly Cleary's tale about a mouse living in an inn, Ralph S. Mouse (1982), itself a follow-up to Clearly's previous entries about the talking rodent The Mouse and the Motorcycle and Runaway Ralph. The world Clearly created was populated by a late 1970s idealism, when schoolyard fights were common and the weary were comforted by the evening news. I would read Ralph S. Mouse under my bed in the hopes of catching my own mouse, though I can't figure what I would have done to fashion his vehicle.

Later came Judy Blume's Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and Jean Little's Little By Little, each detailing struggle; while Blume's book focused primarily on the complex concept of sharing love in a family, Little's book recounted her sometimes-troubled youth as girl losing her sight and her hold on all things intangible. Thanks to those authors, I think I began to think about my place in the world and started to realize I wasn't exactly the centre of attention, though I can't say I've completed voided myself of the habit of being self-centred. Along the way, I also caught books like The Cricket in Times Square, C.S. Lewis' Narnia Chronicles, classics like Ivanhoe and H.G. Wells' The Invisible Man, each time digesting entire nations, customs, lingoes and conundrums whole. It was, I believe, from Danny and the Champion of The World that I learned about the cruel nature of the poorest among us, and of course, how to stoke the ire of game-hunters by quietly making pheasants drunk on rum. Even at this young age, I was precocious enough to wonder if that would work.

Children's books are so often responsible for the way in which we perceive ourselves, and often they are chiefly responsible for elevating our self-concept, bolstering us with confidence, teaching kindness and perhaps to a fault, for imagining the world as though it isn't. Unfiltered, this imagination is a classroom raveled, its manifestation scolded, its lifeblood rehashed in parent-teacher interviews. And this saddens me. Who now extends his arm into the sky looking for Vernicious Knids, or holds tightly to his mother's hands when a game board erupts into violent mayhem? In the most important way, the work of Chris Van Allsburg (The Polar Express), or Mordechai Richler (Jacob Two-Two and the Hooded Fang) is in laying the seeds of chaos for children to keep dormant until adult doldrums reawakens it. Unfortunately, for many of us, these seeds are never in good enough shape to grow, however; we lose the ability to view Beatrix Potter the way we once did and we find ourselves only ironically amused by A.A. Milne. But the real impact these books have, on me and on you (I'm certain) is their ability to make us pare away distraction to make way for our self-reinvention. How do I know this?

It's evident in the language of Robert Munsch. If you chance upon a friend unmoved by Munsch's ode to his stillborn babies, Love You Forever, all may be lost. Let's all chime in...

"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
as long as I'm living
my baby you'll be."
- Robert Munsch

The Influx

Though I would be hard-pressed to prove it, and though I am without numerical evidence, I have noticed a smattering of new bodies on campus. These students have seemingly made it their mission to fill the void left by our numerous Education students... and then some. It's become a chore to stake out a resting spot for lunch; without proper GPS equipment and maps, the race to claim table space is now an eat-or-be-eaten war. Luckily, I'm good with my elbows.

Memorandum for Memorial

In Nipissing University's history, and certainly in the lifespan of Canadore College, we have often said goodbye to peers who have, unfortunately, left us too soon. Whether by illness, or strife, or the too-often cruel game of chance, we have been forced to say goodbye when we were least ready.

Our brothers and sisters have left to us their legacy. And though it is with great pride that we take this burden upon ourselves, it is important to remember that our work is never done alone, and never done in absence of those who first spurred us on.

Nipissing University is made up of students whose dedication and love has made possible great things. We have always been proud of the volunteerism shown by these men and women, and I think it is our turn to honour them.

I propose a day dedicated to remembering those among who never made it home, but who were loved and without whom we continue to seek a greater understanding. I propose we illuminate the halls with our candlelight vigil and bring this light to the pond so that our inexact grieving is made wholesome to nature. I propose we stand shoulder to shoulder and share stories and laugh about the sometimes farcical nature of life. I cannot promise to allievate pain, but I can hope our efforts will keep our memories vivid. What say you, friends? When shall we light our vigil?

Update: Just today, a discussion about creating a memorial wall, garden or vigil was prompted by Ingrid Bajewsky to best remember our peers who have left us. I am inclinded to believe that a tree -- standing strong against the pond, which shadows the geese and makes its mark into our horizon -- is a perfect symbol. Trees grow from fertile green shoots to echo a certain grace in their leaves, creating homes, food and of course, life.

For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve.

-- Gita

Twenty Years of Simpson-mania: The Hidden Language

This Sunday’s “Sex, Pies and Idiot Scrapes” marks the 20^th season for The Simpsons, long Fox Network’s favourite animated family and certified cash cow. Since the inaugural Christmas episode in 1989, the exploits of Homer, Marge, Bart and Lisa (along with a cast of hundreds) have eerily paralleled the decline and resurgence of American culture in ways never before thought possible of an animated show. Written by a team of Ivy Leaguers who cast aside the usual professions bestowed upon them, the show has been a cornerstone of social connectedness for a generation of youth.

Over the past two decades, Matt Groening’s brainchild has been castigated by President George H.W. Bush while also ushered in as mandatory family viewing, all the while a renewing faith in adult-themed animation and elevating Fox’s bank account with a billion dollar Simpson’s industry. Truly, without The Simpsons, and its peers of the early 1990s, The Ren & Stimpy Show and Beavis & Butthead, the prosperity of the Cartoon Network and fellow network shows Family Guy might never be certain. In the past twenty-years, the show has gone head-to-head with Frasier (when positioned on Tuesday nights) and Friends (counter-programmed to ‘Must See TV’) before finally finding a home on Sunday nights, where its lead-in was, for a brief time, the now-defunct Futurama. And despite the fluctuation of its weekly timeslot, The Simpsons gained an impossibly tight-knit cult following, with its adorers and its critics, with each episode rated against the last. Interestingly, the most devout have nearly always had a home on the internet, the first ‘alt.net’ groups discussing the show’s decline as early as season seven. Since then, though, the impact of the show has been much bigger than ever thought possible. There is, in short, a hidden language which binds us.

Human males may be the only animals to survive their surroundings by mimicry of pop culture, and so when it became possible to quote from a highly credible and clever source, an entire generation was elevated. Suddenly, lines such as “To alcohol: the cause of and solution to, all of life’s problems,” or “Look, the thing about my family is there's five of us. Marge, Bart, Girl Bart, the one who doesn't talk, and the fat guy. How I loathe him” became the bartering chips of friendly conversation. At the same time, it became acceptable to be a nerd, at least in the confines of mainstream television.

This is part one in a two-part feature. Until next time, see the video below.

The Simpsons has always been expert in reflecting the culture around us, as seen in this video clip from "Eternal Moonshine of the Simpson Mind"