While I was in university the campus radio station was an endless source of musical discovery for me. They had a huge selection of vinyl spanning the past twenty years of the station and most of it was very strange indeed.
Still, when I did my radio show I tended to stick to the bands that I already knew, occasionally dipping into the new releases to broaden my horizons. Left to my own devices I might never have fallen in love with Foetus.
But during every show I found myself entertaining the night janitor from the House of Friendship, and he was a musically adventurous guy. He'd call up and challenge me to, for instance, play punk bands from Quebec or find some random song on an old David Bowie album. That guy introduced me to Roxy Music...and one fateful morning he asked me to play some Foetus.
I was familiar with IDEA of the band -- crazy solo project by rude guy with multiple names -- but I'd never heard any of the music. There are some bands that you avoid getting into because you know you'll need to listen to most of their catalog in order to understand their "mythology," and Foetus was one of those. A cult band, diverse, mysterious, difficult.
I played "Bedrock," and after I got over the fears of losing the CKMS broadcasting license I was instantly in love.
J. G. Thirlwell -- the man behind the band -- is a strange sort of genius. He makes music using an alter ego that is so unpleasant you can barely tolerate him -- his song "The Fudge Punch" was one of the few songs we were forbidden to play on CKMS -- and his style is meticulous and lock-step. He pioneered the idea of "industrial big-band" and he has been the only person to pull it off successfully, thanks to his sampledelic brilliance. Mixed in with his often filthy lyrics are strings of disarming, hyper-intelligent wordplay. Thirlwell is not a guy you'd like to eat dinner with, but you'd sure want him remixing your album, and you might want to co-author a book with him.
After fifteen years of independent obscurity he was signed to Sony and released "Gash," which I now consider his best album: a tidal wave of guitars, distortion, horns, relentless drums, and undistilled Thirlwell hatred. While by no means the best song on the album, the video for "Verklemmt" sums up Thirlwell nicely, and it seems designed to make video compression algorithms cry.
The Sony thing didn't work out and Thirlwell has gone back to the independents, producing albums under various names, composing respectable songs for high-brow outfits, and remixing the bands that he helped to inspire in the first place.
Thirlwell and his live band are fantastic, but all of the live Foetus clips on YouTube have terrible sound quality. In fact, despite the huge number of video projects he's been involved in, there is precious little Thirlwell material on YouTube at all. So rather than present something inferior and unrepresentative, I encourage you to explore the Foetus-world all on your own.
Must-have albums: "Gash" is just wonderful, but you should REALLY pick up the "Male" double-CD live album...power, power, power! I also highly recommend the "Pedal to the Metal" EP he made with Roli Mosimann under the name "Wiseblood." Albums to avoid: "Deaf" and "Ache" -- his first two full-length releases -- are pretty obnoxious, all clinky and screechy. For fans only: "Sink," the CD of assorted singles, compilation appearances, and experimental pieces, and the dedicated fan should also check out the percussion-crazy Lydia Lunch collaboration called "Stinkfist." Smelly.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Quick Thoughts About Two "Up North" Books
I'm not even going to TRY to come up with a coherent thought, but somehow I can't leave these two books unreviewed. So here you go:
"Adventures in the Alaskan Skin Trade" by John Hawkes
My university PoMo teacher included John Hawkes in his "required postmodern reading" list, so I picked up a few of his books...but at the time I didn't understand how he fit into the category; his writing was far too straightforward for my rough little mind to accept.
I can't speak for Hawkes' other books (yet), but I can certainly understand his pomo chops now. "Adventures in the Alaskan Skin Trade" is partly a wild adventure story, but it is mainly a love-letter to language, in particular the telling of stories.
The book's characters often break into long, detailed, fascinating monologues about their adventures...but they don't do this to impart information or to soothe others...they do it to BLUDGEON their listeners. In this book, stories are weapons; they help to maintain the status quo. When two new characters meet each other for the first time, they attack each other with stories, and the loser is permanently scarred.
What's amazing about Hawkes is his ability to get this across in a subtle, ambiguous way, and to combine it with stories that are more gripping and unusual than you'd find in the best "boy's adventure" book. For that reason, "Adventures in the Alaskan Skin Trade" could be seen as a lot of different things (and that's also why, the first time I read it, I had no idea what the point was). But now I see it as an evil, uncomfortable, vicious tale about the passive ways that people abuse each other, presented through the metaphor of storytelling.
"Hunting with the Eskimos" by Harry Whitney
It's difficult to read an autobiography written by a man you don't like, and such is this book by Harry Whitney. He wasn't EVIL or anything, he was just a selfish, egocentric, dim-witted rich guy who decided on a whim that he'd like to kill musk ox, and then wrote a book about his year sponging off the Inuit.
His writing style is atrocious. The book is a long string of pseudo-facts that barely rise above the level of a point-form journal: somebody sees a walrus, everybody sets out to kill the walrus, the weather turns bad, they return home with only one walrus. It's all like that except when Whitney sees something beautiful, in which case he'll describe it to us as being "indescribable." Thanks, Harry.
What's more, Whitney spent the entire Arctic winter amongst the Inuit, who were forced to babysit him. What the Inuit got out of this exchange is never stated, though they did seem to like his biscuits.
Even before he got off the boat Whitney had begun to hurt himself. It seems like every week he was suffering some new injury and that some new part of his body was frozen, swollen, or both. He kept wandering off, getting stuck in storms, and coming home again with frozen feet, which the Inuit women would stick between their breasts and rub back to life.
Whenever they went hunting, Whitney insisted on getting his trophies. To hell with the fact that the Inuit needed to, like, EAT, Whitney would hold them off so that he could take the first shot, or so that they could find the musk ox with the biggest horns, and meanwhile the Inuit hunting dogs were getting slaughtered and the game was escaping. Whenever he did this the Inuit hunters would become, in Whitney's words, "sulky and disagreeable."
You understand why I didn't like him.
On the positive side, however, he provided many comical accounts of the Inuit "going problokto," which he described as a form of insanity that the "Highland Eskimos" were prone to. Right in the middle of cooking a meal or spearing a walrus, somebody or other would run screaming around the ice floes, tearing off their clothes. This happened more often even that Whitney's frequent injuries, and I suspect that the Inuit did this to amuse Whitney, or more likely to distract him while they stole his biscuits.
The book does manage to shed some light on Inuit culture, but moreso it exposes the strange mindset of the turn-of-the-century "professional sportsman," men who travelled the world in order to kill the biggest animals they could find, usually with the invaluable assistance of "sulky, disagreeable" natives, just so they could nail something to their wall and bludgeon their children with adventure stories.
"Adventures in the Alaskan Skin Trade" by John Hawkes
My university PoMo teacher included John Hawkes in his "required postmodern reading" list, so I picked up a few of his books...but at the time I didn't understand how he fit into the category; his writing was far too straightforward for my rough little mind to accept.
I can't speak for Hawkes' other books (yet), but I can certainly understand his pomo chops now. "Adventures in the Alaskan Skin Trade" is partly a wild adventure story, but it is mainly a love-letter to language, in particular the telling of stories.
The book's characters often break into long, detailed, fascinating monologues about their adventures...but they don't do this to impart information or to soothe others...they do it to BLUDGEON their listeners. In this book, stories are weapons; they help to maintain the status quo. When two new characters meet each other for the first time, they attack each other with stories, and the loser is permanently scarred.
What's amazing about Hawkes is his ability to get this across in a subtle, ambiguous way, and to combine it with stories that are more gripping and unusual than you'd find in the best "boy's adventure" book. For that reason, "Adventures in the Alaskan Skin Trade" could be seen as a lot of different things (and that's also why, the first time I read it, I had no idea what the point was). But now I see it as an evil, uncomfortable, vicious tale about the passive ways that people abuse each other, presented through the metaphor of storytelling.
"Hunting with the Eskimos" by Harry Whitney
It's difficult to read an autobiography written by a man you don't like, and such is this book by Harry Whitney. He wasn't EVIL or anything, he was just a selfish, egocentric, dim-witted rich guy who decided on a whim that he'd like to kill musk ox, and then wrote a book about his year sponging off the Inuit.
His writing style is atrocious. The book is a long string of pseudo-facts that barely rise above the level of a point-form journal: somebody sees a walrus, everybody sets out to kill the walrus, the weather turns bad, they return home with only one walrus. It's all like that except when Whitney sees something beautiful, in which case he'll describe it to us as being "indescribable." Thanks, Harry.
What's more, Whitney spent the entire Arctic winter amongst the Inuit, who were forced to babysit him. What the Inuit got out of this exchange is never stated, though they did seem to like his biscuits.
Even before he got off the boat Whitney had begun to hurt himself. It seems like every week he was suffering some new injury and that some new part of his body was frozen, swollen, or both. He kept wandering off, getting stuck in storms, and coming home again with frozen feet, which the Inuit women would stick between their breasts and rub back to life.
Whenever they went hunting, Whitney insisted on getting his trophies. To hell with the fact that the Inuit needed to, like, EAT, Whitney would hold them off so that he could take the first shot, or so that they could find the musk ox with the biggest horns, and meanwhile the Inuit hunting dogs were getting slaughtered and the game was escaping. Whenever he did this the Inuit hunters would become, in Whitney's words, "sulky and disagreeable."
You understand why I didn't like him.
On the positive side, however, he provided many comical accounts of the Inuit "going problokto," which he described as a form of insanity that the "Highland Eskimos" were prone to. Right in the middle of cooking a meal or spearing a walrus, somebody or other would run screaming around the ice floes, tearing off their clothes. This happened more often even that Whitney's frequent injuries, and I suspect that the Inuit did this to amuse Whitney, or more likely to distract him while they stole his biscuits.
The book does manage to shed some light on Inuit culture, but moreso it exposes the strange mindset of the turn-of-the-century "professional sportsman," men who travelled the world in order to kill the biggest animals they could find, usually with the invaluable assistance of "sulky, disagreeable" natives, just so they could nail something to their wall and bludgeon their children with adventure stories.
Sicko II
How are YOU spending "Family Day?" I'll be spending it with the seven million members of my own personal family: the bacteria that are currently running rampant through my body.
Yes, I know, I was sick only last month. Once again somebody has leaned directly into my face and shouted "I'm sick!" at me, therefore instantly passing on their infection. As much as I'd like to lay such people low with a swift backhand swipe, I'm afraid that doing so would just expose me to additional (and nastier) infections.
So far I've mostly just been lying under blankets to keep me and my family warm. Things haven't been so bad, but I notice now that one relative has just discovered my lungs. There goes the neighbourhood! You know what they say: you can't pick your family.
Having written this, I feel like I've just run a marathon.
Yes, I know, I was sick only last month. Once again somebody has leaned directly into my face and shouted "I'm sick!" at me, therefore instantly passing on their infection. As much as I'd like to lay such people low with a swift backhand swipe, I'm afraid that doing so would just expose me to additional (and nastier) infections.
So far I've mostly just been lying under blankets to keep me and my family warm. Things haven't been so bad, but I notice now that one relative has just discovered my lungs. There goes the neighbourhood! You know what they say: you can't pick your family.
Having written this, I feel like I've just run a marathon.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Because It's Friday: Kate Bush
Sometimes, when I come home after a long night and I'm unable to sleep, I try to find the most beautiful song imaginable. Tonight I've decided that it's Kate Bush's "Moments of Pleasure."
In some ways it's a tribute to the people she'd known who had died, in particular the people she worked with.
I've got to agree that her mother DID have a great saying: "Every old sock meets an old shoe." Beautiful.
In some ways it's a tribute to the people she'd known who had died, in particular the people she worked with.
I've got to agree that her mother DID have a great saying: "Every old sock meets an old shoe." Beautiful.
Glamourspunk #1 Postmortem
I had a bad feeling about the Valentine's Day Glamourspunk show.
Why? Because at the best of times a drag show is a complicated event with lots of different performers and a totally random crowd. And while I do have patience for inter-performer conflicts -- as long as I only need to get involved once a month -- my patience eventually runs out. I don't want to worry about who goes first, who gets cut from the set, who gets to do what...I really just want to perform.
So why did I accept the offer to be a "feature?" Because "feature" is an undefined term; it could mean anything from getting "top exposure" to "running the night." And I sure don't want to run a night!
Fortunately Victoria is good at making lists and laying down the law, giving me the chance to socialize a bit and enjoy the night, and Drew took care of the some of the announcing and the obligatory crowd-inspiring contest. And it WAS a wonderful night; we had a FANTASTIC group of performers with no difficulties that I needed to worry about, and the audience was about the best I've ever seen: diverse, curious, but totally patient and enthusiastic.
I DID actually get up the nerve to bring "Schnapps the Seal" up on stage with me. I think the audience was as confused as I was.
The show didn't end until 2:30, so I trudged outside into the snow to wait for a cab. The only vehicles on the road were snow removal machines, busily scooping away the accumulation to make room for the next big storm. It was interesting to watch the strangely-articulated machines in action, but after fifteen minutes of waiting I was getting desperate.
Fortunately Miss Kamara's driver was willing to go my way, so he rescued me from the cold and took me back to my place. Kamara came in to my apartment to negotiate an exchange of alcohol and -- guess what? -- she managed to step on the one piece of glass that I missed when I broke my mirror last month.
You know when they say that God looks after drunk people? Kamara stood there wobbling on my stairway, bleeding and saying "ow," coming within a hair's breath of bashing her head or falling over...and she pulled that piece of glass right out of her foot without any difficulty whatsoever. A sober person would have either cut their fingers or jammed the shard further in, but no...she removed it as I stood there, mortified, thinking that I must be the world's worst hostess.
I don't think I'll ever forget that. I felt like I'd just run over somebody's child.
Why? Because at the best of times a drag show is a complicated event with lots of different performers and a totally random crowd. And while I do have patience for inter-performer conflicts -- as long as I only need to get involved once a month -- my patience eventually runs out. I don't want to worry about who goes first, who gets cut from the set, who gets to do what...I really just want to perform.
So why did I accept the offer to be a "feature?" Because "feature" is an undefined term; it could mean anything from getting "top exposure" to "running the night." And I sure don't want to run a night!
Fortunately Victoria is good at making lists and laying down the law, giving me the chance to socialize a bit and enjoy the night, and Drew took care of the some of the announcing and the obligatory crowd-inspiring contest. And it WAS a wonderful night; we had a FANTASTIC group of performers with no difficulties that I needed to worry about, and the audience was about the best I've ever seen: diverse, curious, but totally patient and enthusiastic.
I DID actually get up the nerve to bring "Schnapps the Seal" up on stage with me. I think the audience was as confused as I was.
The show didn't end until 2:30, so I trudged outside into the snow to wait for a cab. The only vehicles on the road were snow removal machines, busily scooping away the accumulation to make room for the next big storm. It was interesting to watch the strangely-articulated machines in action, but after fifteen minutes of waiting I was getting desperate.
Fortunately Miss Kamara's driver was willing to go my way, so he rescued me from the cold and took me back to my place. Kamara came in to my apartment to negotiate an exchange of alcohol and -- guess what? -- she managed to step on the one piece of glass that I missed when I broke my mirror last month.
You know when they say that God looks after drunk people? Kamara stood there wobbling on my stairway, bleeding and saying "ow," coming within a hair's breath of bashing her head or falling over...and she pulled that piece of glass right out of her foot without any difficulty whatsoever. A sober person would have either cut their fingers or jammed the shard further in, but no...she removed it as I stood there, mortified, thinking that I must be the world's worst hostess.
I don't think I'll ever forget that. I felt like I'd just run over somebody's child.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
A Moment's Pause
Sometimes, when this blog goes silent for a day or two, it's because I'm stupid and brain dead and I just want to take a seventy-two hour nap.
But at other times -- like this -- it's because I'm working on so many things that I simply don't have the time or brainpower left to explore heavy blog topics (such as the potential fetish appeal of 1920s cruise-line fruit).
What am I doing? I'm glad you asked! Besides the physical/mental logjam that occurs the week before any approaching drag show (it's tomorrow night!) I am also swamped at work (wading into the treacherous waters of DITA), continuously shoveling the sidewalk, finishing off a song that's been in the pipe for more than a year, experimenting with my new hair extensions, and...
...putting together a silly online project that I will link to in a day or two, but which will be of interest only to die-hard devotees of a certain obscure musical group. I mention this not to get you excited -- because I don't think anybody who reads this would be interested in the final product -- but only to explain why I'm so quiet right now.
PS: I'm also watching a DVD collection of pioneering films from the turn of the century, back before anybody realized that a camera could move (unless it was mounted on a train) or that chase scenes didn't HAVE to show every single participant arrive at one edge of the film, cross laboriously across the middle, and exit completely off the opposite edge.
Oh, those simple, child-like directors with their top hats and mustaches! Oh, those sickly-looking infants dressed in oversized doilies! Oh, those insatiable, oat-eating horses! And let's not forget the eight-year-old children working in factories to help buy heroin-laced medicines for their consumptive, coal-mining fathers.
It's no wonder they didn't have time to discover "the close-up."
But at other times -- like this -- it's because I'm working on so many things that I simply don't have the time or brainpower left to explore heavy blog topics (such as the potential fetish appeal of 1920s cruise-line fruit).
What am I doing? I'm glad you asked! Besides the physical/mental logjam that occurs the week before any approaching drag show (it's tomorrow night!) I am also swamped at work (wading into the treacherous waters of DITA), continuously shoveling the sidewalk, finishing off a song that's been in the pipe for more than a year, experimenting with my new hair extensions, and...
...putting together a silly online project that I will link to in a day or two, but which will be of interest only to die-hard devotees of a certain obscure musical group. I mention this not to get you excited -- because I don't think anybody who reads this would be interested in the final product -- but only to explain why I'm so quiet right now.
PS: I'm also watching a DVD collection of pioneering films from the turn of the century, back before anybody realized that a camera could move (unless it was mounted on a train) or that chase scenes didn't HAVE to show every single participant arrive at one edge of the film, cross laboriously across the middle, and exit completely off the opposite edge.
Oh, those simple, child-like directors with their top hats and mustaches! Oh, those sickly-looking infants dressed in oversized doilies! Oh, those insatiable, oat-eating horses! And let's not forget the eight-year-old children working in factories to help buy heroin-laced medicines for their consumptive, coal-mining fathers.
It's no wonder they didn't have time to discover "the close-up."
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Miss Burke's Expressive Hands
Melon fetishists like their ellipses, but HAND fetishists go for double-barrel adjectives:
How do these gay, clever women keep their busy capable hands exquisite and pretty when they use them for so much interesting active work?Those gay, clever, busy, capable, exquisite, pretty, interesting, and active women rely on Cutex Liquid Polish, of course...and this includes Billie Burke!
"I love the stage," says Billie Burke, "but I also love simple country things--gardens, woods, tramps--dogs. What terrible things it does to my hands!"I sure know that simple country tramps can get you awfully dirty, but let's assume that Burke is using the word "tramp" in the pre-'60s American sense of the word, that is, "to hike." Although "tramp" could also mean "hobo" at that time, for some reason it was an acceptable word for "hiking" as well. I have an old Ann Miller advertisement where she brags about her ability to go "cross-country tramping."
In any case, if you can get your busy, capable hands on a box of this stuff, your friends might admire you in the way that they admired Burke:
"My friends say, 'What lovely half-moons you have!'"
Monday, February 11, 2008
Cosmetics for the Inept
My life with CoverFX foundation began over a year ago, but I'm still learning how to deal with it; essentially, how to put it on, make sure it stays, and fix it when it goes wrong.
The issue with CoverFX over panstick-and-powder (my old technique) is that it's so delicately natural. Rather than a thick, greasy goop, it is...well, a thin greasy goop. Though the greasiness is mostly disguised with their setting powder.
I have spent a year feeling borderline-ugly, and it is only now that I've managed to solve a few problems that have been plaguing me.
The issue with CoverFX over panstick-and-powder (my old technique) is that it's so delicately natural. Rather than a thick, greasy goop, it is...well, a thin greasy goop. Though the greasiness is mostly disguised with their setting powder.
I have spent a year feeling borderline-ugly, and it is only now that I've managed to solve a few problems that have been plaguing me.
- My nose has been an absolute train-wreck. I realize that this is because it is a phenomenally oily portion of my face. I can't stop my nose from "greasing up" during the night, but I CAN keep it dry long enough to put foundation and powder on, which is three-quarters of the battle. I have to wash my face several times in the hour preceding application, then -- with makeup sponge ready -- I manically scrub my nose with a dry washcloth. When only a tiny spot of oiliness remains, I dab some powder on with a brush, then immediately apply the cream foundation, and then powder again. If a bird lands on me during the night it will still leave marks with its feet, but at least my nasal shell won't go sliding off on its own volition (perhaps in search of a drink).
- With the above technique I can also cover up my large pores without everything becoming a mess. I tried Base Watier pore minimizer -- and initially swore by it -- but it simply adds oiliness to an area that I can't afford to be oily. Instead, once my nose is dry and powdered, I smear the cream foundation around and it covers the pores up. Voila.
- I'm no longer a spring chicken, I'm more of an autumn pheasant, so the lines under my eyes are bound to be visible. But my Mac concealer was making them even MORE visible, turning them into crinkly mummy-pouches before the night had even begun. Now I put a bit of prep lotion under my eyes and then apply the concealer...it works!
- I'd given up using the outrageously expensive "goat-hair brush" for applying foundation -- using a sponge instead -- but now I see that there are parts of my face where the goat-hair brush is essential. You basically need it wherever you have -- ahem -- growth. After using the brush on those areas you can go over them a second time with the sponge.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Sit With the Seal!
After waiting more than ninety minutes for my co-host and wine-date to show up, I sat down with Schnapps the Seal to make this abrasive promo for our "Glamourspunk" night. I'm experimenting with the idea that I might be a better hostess if I have a puppet on my arm. This will only work if I can develop a less obnoxious voice.
PS: The audio drops out mysteriously the first time I mention the date because I got it totally wrong. I simply cannot remember details.
PS: The audio drops out mysteriously the first time I mention the date because I got it totally wrong. I simply cannot remember details.
Busybody or Samaritan?
There is only one thing about winter that I enjoy: the opportunity to push cars out of snowbanks. As a pedestrian I am often in the position to help people get their vehicles unstuck, and this winter has been particularly fruitful.
Why do I enjoy doing this? Because I like the way social barriers fall down when the weather gets bad. Have you noticed? Strangers smile and say hello to you on the street, because everybody is united in a common struggle, and it makes us realize how much we depend on each other. Just the fact that we have a common difficulty is enough to make us worthwhile in other people's eyes.
So I'm thrilled when I see a few people trying to get their car out of a snowbank. It's a chance to have a quick, easy social interaction with strangers that I'll never see again. It makes me happy to help and it seems to make them happy in return.
But on Saturday I began to wonder if I've stopped being "helpful" and started being "a busybody."
On the way home from Conestoga Mall the bus broke down, because the middle door had gotten jammed with snow and it wouldn't close. The bus driver -- obviously not a very handy guy -- just kept coming back and kicking the snow around, basically packing it all in tighter until the door was permanently stuck.
Meanwhile, us passengers sat there and watched him. I felt I could do a better job of fixing the door, and I could see that a few others felt that way as well. But did any of us have a RIGHT to step up and offer assistance?
Well, I did. I dug around in the snow and slush and grease while people just sat and stared at me, and as I was doing this -- and as it became more apparent that the door was simply busted -- I saw myself through the eyes of those bored, anxious passengers: they thought I was a nosy busybody, somebody who gets involved just to feel important and to get into the public spotlight, hoping to be the hero who fixes the bus and gets everybody home on time.
I couldn't deny this entirely, and coupled with the fact that I was sticking my fingers into places where they could suddenly be chopped off, I gathered up my bags and decided to walk home instead. I began to wonder what my motivations are for pushing cars out of ditches, and rescuing animals at work, and helping out in the Club Abstract coatroom when I'm not really needed.
Like every motivation, I don't think my -- or anybody's -- samaritan impulses are cut-and-dried, but the subconscious stuff is unimportant anyway. By the time I reached my home on Saturday I'd realized that people will ascribe motivations for your actions according to their own prejudices, regardless of why you think you're doing it.
There used to be a guy in New Hamburg who may parents called "Ranger Rick." He was an elderly man who spent all day walking around town, watching everything that was going on and asking everybody about their lives. My family made fun of this because we were private people who didn't want attention from others, but now -- for the first time -- I realize that Rick might not have been simply nosy...maybe he cared about people? Maybe he loved the town and was interested in what was happening in it?
I think that Rick's behaviour was due to a mix of things, and some of them weren't noble (boredom, nosiness, social difficulties). But now I realize that I looked at him the same way the people on the bus were looking at me.
No dramatic conclusion, just a thought, and something I need to keep in mind...both when I'm thinking about helping others, and when others help me.
Why do I enjoy doing this? Because I like the way social barriers fall down when the weather gets bad. Have you noticed? Strangers smile and say hello to you on the street, because everybody is united in a common struggle, and it makes us realize how much we depend on each other. Just the fact that we have a common difficulty is enough to make us worthwhile in other people's eyes.
So I'm thrilled when I see a few people trying to get their car out of a snowbank. It's a chance to have a quick, easy social interaction with strangers that I'll never see again. It makes me happy to help and it seems to make them happy in return.
But on Saturday I began to wonder if I've stopped being "helpful" and started being "a busybody."
On the way home from Conestoga Mall the bus broke down, because the middle door had gotten jammed with snow and it wouldn't close. The bus driver -- obviously not a very handy guy -- just kept coming back and kicking the snow around, basically packing it all in tighter until the door was permanently stuck.
Meanwhile, us passengers sat there and watched him. I felt I could do a better job of fixing the door, and I could see that a few others felt that way as well. But did any of us have a RIGHT to step up and offer assistance?
Well, I did. I dug around in the snow and slush and grease while people just sat and stared at me, and as I was doing this -- and as it became more apparent that the door was simply busted -- I saw myself through the eyes of those bored, anxious passengers: they thought I was a nosy busybody, somebody who gets involved just to feel important and to get into the public spotlight, hoping to be the hero who fixes the bus and gets everybody home on time.
I couldn't deny this entirely, and coupled with the fact that I was sticking my fingers into places where they could suddenly be chopped off, I gathered up my bags and decided to walk home instead. I began to wonder what my motivations are for pushing cars out of ditches, and rescuing animals at work, and helping out in the Club Abstract coatroom when I'm not really needed.
Like every motivation, I don't think my -- or anybody's -- samaritan impulses are cut-and-dried, but the subconscious stuff is unimportant anyway. By the time I reached my home on Saturday I'd realized that people will ascribe motivations for your actions according to their own prejudices, regardless of why you think you're doing it.
There used to be a guy in New Hamburg who may parents called "Ranger Rick." He was an elderly man who spent all day walking around town, watching everything that was going on and asking everybody about their lives. My family made fun of this because we were private people who didn't want attention from others, but now -- for the first time -- I realize that Rick might not have been simply nosy...maybe he cared about people? Maybe he loved the town and was interested in what was happening in it?
I think that Rick's behaviour was due to a mix of things, and some of them weren't noble (boredom, nosiness, social difficulties). But now I realize that I looked at him the same way the people on the bus were looking at me.
No dramatic conclusion, just a thought, and something I need to keep in mind...both when I'm thinking about helping others, and when others help me.
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