I didn’t have much of an appetite for the Oscar’s this year.
Normally I’d be all in, enjoying the glittering and flimsy spectacle as much anybody, but this year felt different, and whatever spirit or anticipation I’d typically bring to the affair was just not there. In fact, I was dreading it, imaging it another long– really long– continuation of all the sneering, bitter arguments that were ceaselessly looping through my media feeds.
Social media has begun to feel like tuning in to some late-night AM radio call-in show. The voices, disembodied and angry, fire from the dark, each one inveighing some furious certainty. There is no complaint too small or too large, and each one comes obsessively detailed by the over-confident sender. There’s an urgency to all these declarations, too, as if impulse more than thought, and the momentum always moves forward– retreat or rumination, let alone a kind of sympathy, utterly unthinkable.
To willingly step into this each day, as I do, is an act of madness. To me, it feels like being closed in a room with a hundred growling dogs while the unmediated grievances of the world strobe in front of you. It colours your mood, this, so even before something of “actuality” happens in your physical life, you’re already tense and combat ready– you’ve already become somebody you don’t want to be. And I swear, if we could somehow tap into the cataract of doomed energy that feeds this monster, we would be masters of the universe.
Initially I had imagined the Internet as something almost utopian. It would be democratizing and unifying, kind of like The Force, and united by the millions we would be able to destroy evil Death Stars. Instead, it’s proven to be infinitely divisive, revealing that the Internet itself might be a horrible Death Star.
The limitless options presented by technology have moved us away from what had been commonly shared. Whatever our interests may be, however perverse, remote or idiosyncratic, we can find a subculture dedicated to that passion or hatred online. We are never alone, but our channels never seem to be open, either. Living in gluttonous echo chambers of our own devising, we now customize our experiences, changing them to suit our needs rather than adopting to the mean. In this way, popular culture is being eradicated, with each person becoming a hermetically sealed culture unto themselves.
Naturally, the idea of compassion or empathy withers in this climate of radical tribalization. It’s now completely normal for people to proudly boast of de-Friending somebody who disagrees with their politics or to happily live within the paradox of being tolerant of everything but intolerance. If you step into Twitter, far from finding a marketplace for the free exchange of ideas, you find a war zone. Every once in a while you pop up from your trench, fire off a few salvos at the enemy, and then duck down again—kind of like a shooter game.
The Internet in the age of Trump ( who I believe saw and exploited this rather than created it), is a grim landscape lacking in kindness.
Full of hall monitors ready to pounce on anybody not adhering to the common orthodoxy, it’s a place you go to confirm your certainties and your enemy’s idiocies. It is a place where fighting, where aggression is the entertainment, and it is perhaps the loneliest place on the planet.
This is a very small sample of some of the written complaints the principal has received from concerned parents:
“ When we picked Williamsburg up after school today he told us that he saw that dairy was available in the cafeteria. Is this true? Dairy? In 2013??”
“Our son Balzac was told he was “missing out” and that it was his “loss” by another classmate when he told her that he was on a gluten-free diet and couldn’t have any of the Oreo cookies she offered him. This sort of verbal abuse is unacceptable and it’s our hope that you severely discipline this girl so that this doesn’t become an ongoing problem. Additionally, another pupil scrawled “ballsack” on his binder. Balzac is a very sensitive, artistic and gifted boy, and to have uncertainty, even insecurity creep into his spirit would be nothing short of criminal. ”
“Sand was thrown at Plath during lunch hour, some of which got in her hair. To say the least, it was a VERY bad way to start the school year. We will be home schooling Plath until this matter is resolved and we are assured that nothing of this nature will ever happen again.”
“While performing a puppet show about Medecins Sans Frontieres for his grade three class, Luther was heckled by one student who was unable to follow the simple narrative of his “piece de theatre.” (Surely most children know of this NGO and have some French, no??? Is our education system that bad?!)This disruptive student (behavioural problems caused by poor diet?)kept yelling out, “Medecins Sans Fartieres,” and all the other children laughed, which caused Luther severe trauma. I had to give him half an Ativan when he got home. It is an atrocity when a child is not allowed to flourish and is bullied into subordination. Please consider advancing Luther to grade four, five or six so that he is able to interact with students who might share a similar artistic and intellectual capacity.”
“ While playing dodge ball at recess, our boy Colbert was hit twice, once in the head. Clearly, he was targeted. This is unacceptable. We ask that you look into this immediately and discipline the children involved. They are Droogs.”
As many of you know, Rob Ford and I went to Carleton University in Ottawa at the same time and were last call drinking buddies. Although we’ve never had a sober conversation, we developed a strange but resilient friendship, one that sees us communicate even to this day. Whenever one of us is drinking alone, we often go on-line to chat with one another, a sort of nostalgic slur back to the good old days.
At about 3:00 am on Saturday, as Toronto’s Nuit Blanche arts festival was winding down, I got this message from Rob:
The Mayor: Her Mur, you there? You go to the French thing last night?
Me: Rob! You mean Nuit Blanche?
The Mayor: Yeah, the farts festival.
Me: What were you doing there? You’re not a fart fan!
The Mayor: Who says?? BTFSPLK!!!! LOLOLO!! Hey, uever hit a raccoon with a rock?
Me: Tried to, but always missed.
The Mayor: Always threw like a girl, Murray! Honest to god, thought ur a fag until we went to that peeler together!
Me: Juicy Lucy’s.
The Mayor: Loved that place. Wanted Sylvie so baaaddd!!!
Me: What about the raccoon?
The Mayor: Pegged it right in the head, thing fell off the fire escape. I was a goddamn hero, but the press never runs those stories.
Me: Slobber, you should have been the quarterback.
The Mayor: Always the QB inside, Mur, u know that.
Me: So how was your night of arts?
The Mayor: Fuckin’ AWESOME!!!
Me: What’d ya see?
The Mayor: My brother and I dressed up as Droogs from a Clockwork Orange!! Got hammered!
Me: You gotta always hide from the press, eh?
The Mayor: Always wanted to be a Droog. Relate to the Droog. DROOOOOOGGG!!
Me: DROOOOOGG!!
The Mayor: We tipped over some shitter that some dick was in.
Me: He crossed the wrong fucking Droogs!
The Mayor: Ain’t that the truth! Doug and I were yelling at some chick to show us her tits and then this fancy Charlie got all feminazi on us so we taught him a lesson.
Me: You ‘da Mayor!!
The Mayor: Fuckin’ right, little buddy. And let me tell you, if that pirate girl Justin Trudeau runs for Prime Minisiter, I’m quitting this job and running against him. Show him what a real man smells like! Ford’s Fist, Fucker, Ford’s Fist. Outta Rye, catch ya later little buddy!
