Making the desserts is a beautiful, young woman wearing black leotards. She has a long frizz of hair, part of which is pinched into a bun at the top of her head, the rest loosely knotted by a bandana that looks like she might have been wearing around her neck two years ago when she worked as a camp counselor. She looks shy and not entirely sure of herself yet, but her job is to make things small and beautiful, to suggest a foreign accent through the softness and distance in her eyes.
The waitress is wearing black leotards, too, only she’s sporting denim shorts over top of them. She whirls out of darkness and puts a plate in front of me, her eyes moving through me to some point in the future– another table she has to tend to, the party she’s going to in an hour, the cat she always feeds on her way home…
Robotically, amidst the almost industrial din of downtown cool, she recites the memorized details of my amuse-bouche, as if a guide speaking through a megaphone to faraway tourists on a hot, double-decker bus excursion.
Men with beards drink artisanal beer at the bar.
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A sprawling outpost on the edge of the city, the place has always reminded me of an airport. It’s insanely busy, there’s a multiplicity of languages and cultures streaming through the corridors, and the store, the things that they sell, are never truly what the consumer wants.Ikea is more of a way station, a place in your life where you pause, and finding an acceptable but temporary solution, move forward from who you are toward the glittering horizon of the person you’ll one day become, a person who will eventually be able to afford the sort of “adult” furniture you might one day pass down to your children. And so, when you find yourself at Ikea on a Sunday afternoon, you discover, in both a figurative and literal sense, that you are not where you want to be. Ikea, is not your beautiful house.
Perhaps as a result, most of the people there, like commuters, have a slightly dazed and unhappily obliged expression to their faces. However, one couple looked happy, like they were starring in their own movie and the rest of us were just extras there to lend contrast. Located somewhere in their beautiful twenties, they were animated, as if playing games in an amusement park or falling in love while ice skating. Wearing a shiny, silver miniskirt that showed off a splashy array of tattoos, she was a platinum blonde with a kind of retro burlesque vibe, and he, well, he didn’t look quite as confident as he was dressed, but he was trying hard.
They were in Ikea as tourists, treating the place a bit like a museum where the exhibits weren’t the storage solutions and furnishings, but all the weary, humbled people shopping there. It was a cultural excursion for these two, an anthropological journey that was meant as symbol of the quirky, self-conscious lives they were trying to fashion for themselves. She, independent-minded and unpredictable, loved the carnival food on sale there, the secret passageways through the intricately designed shopping trails and the way that things were piled up like giant toys, and he was planning on getting a tattoo of the Ikea Monkey to commemorate the great day, both of them smiling secrets at one another, certain that they would never grow into the compromised, dream-beaten people they imagined blending into the background all around them.
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The girl in front of me in the line-up was squarely built and dressed like a farmer. She had the red hair of an outsider and looked quiet, like she was still trying to decide who she was to become. On her right wrist there was a tattoo, a vividly green box with the word LIFE beneath it– a rebellion of optimism. You could see how the liberty of a new city and the excitement of an unwritten life, just now, finally developing, was animating her eyes, her eyes, which were so alert and watching everything, just waiting for what was to happen next.
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M: There is a power outage!!! All is dark!!!
M: It’s another World Class power failure!
M: I think it’s the third this month.
M: Yes, I did call Rob Ford.
M: Couldn’t get through.
M: Got a message that said my problem was important to him.
M: My feet are cold.
M: We should get a heating pad that works without electricity if we’re going to live in Toronto.
M: Oh, right! A hot water bottle!
M: Yeah, I bet hipsters make them to look like owls. We should get one for our emergency kit.
M: What am I doing?
M: I’m lying in bed wishing I had a hot water bottle.
M: Yes, I guess I am draining my phone battery.
M: Yes, I am in complete darkness.
M: Except for the little glow of my iPhone.
M: When I turn off my iPhone, it must be exactly what it’s like to be a ghost.
M: Well no, I can’t float about or pass through walls.
M: Look, I don’t know why you have to be so difficult about this.
M: We really don’t know if ghosts can see or not. Maybe that’s why they pass through walls– they can’t see them but instead of bumping into them, they just pass right through!
M: Well, I don’t know how they know where the people are if they can’t see. Maybe they have super hearing?
M: Look, I just figured ghosts live in darkness is all, okay?
M: Whatever.
M: Okay.
M: Fine, maybe it’s more what it’s like for a dead person than for a ghost.
M: You people with power sure are arrogant.
M: I’m going to light a candle and see if I become all stuck up.
M: Oh my God.
M: The apocalypse blood-red moon was today!
M: I forgot that!
M: I just heard a wolf howl!
M: This could be the end of the world, and we’re fighting about what it’s like to be a ghost!
M: So petty.
M: Look, I’ve done a lot of research on ghosts, you know.
M: Have to.
M: No.
M: No, I’ve never talked to one so I don’t know what their lives are really like.
M: Fine. Rachelle 1, Michael 0.
M: You just don’t care about the apocalypse, do you?
M: It’s a pretty big deal.
M: Fuck, my battery is nearly dead and there are three weird looking people with shopping carts on the street.
M: It’s like they’re plotting.
M: Yes, plotting to take our bottles, but something worse, too.
M: I can feel it.
M: I’m scared.
M: And I don’t know where my inhaler is!!
M: Fuck!!
M: When are you getting home?!
M: Where’s the Ativan???
M: Oh.
M: Light just came back on.
M: Bottle collecting murders are still staring though.
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The future in which the Spike Jonze directed movie is set is suggested rather than primary visual architecture. It’s familiar but slightly dislocating, men wear High-Waisted pants, such as you might see in the Civil War, the technology is just a little smaller and swifter, and the city in which the film takes place drifts back and forth between a smoggy LA and a smoggy Shanghai.
Saturated in lyrical oranges and ambers, a dreamy, narcotic ambience presides, as if one of remembrance rather than projection, if that makes any sense. Even in the heavy, coarse fabrics of the clothes people wear, or in the forest imagery existing as backdrop in an elevator, you can feel a yearning for something authentic amidst the increasingly spacious and abstract world of technology.
Joaquin Phoenix, sporting the melancholy moustache of another, somehow European era, falls in love with an operating system played by the voice of Scarlett Johansson. He’s probably in every scene in the movie and he’s simply terrific. Gentle, nuanced and empathetic, his performance is the very opposite of the kind of grand scale acting we’ve come to expect from the likes of Christian Bale, and this dose of humble realism is immensely appealing.
The entire movie was appealing, actually, and it felt like relaxing into the lives of friends who were easy to be around. It was intimate but not needy, and it evoked our shared feelings of falling in love, of tumbling into one another and living in those times when everything is golden and funny and precious and even the colour of your partner’s sweater spoke to a greater truth. This was accomplished deftly, in small, perfect ways, and in spite of it being an abstracted, artificial relationship, it was still the most familiar and convincing depiction of love that I’d seen in years, including, of course, the awkward, tender and melancholic drift apart.
Sweet, charming and a little bit sad, it was a fun film to be a part of and it stayed with us, remaining a companionable presence, like an absent friend, as we shared drinks across the street—each one of our minds drifting off to a different point in time, and then happily returning to our present company.
]]>Third and Long:
This body spray and cologne would be attached to dynamic Toronto politician Rob Ford. The body spray would be dispensed through a Rob Ford bobble-head and the more expensive cologne would be sold in a bottle shaped like a football. The TV ad campaign would feature a variety of improvised, black and white spots of Rob Ford free-associating, set against a stark, simple background.
Third and Long: It’s all gravy when you’re a man.
Penance:
Endorsed by actor Sean Penn, this cologne would be propelled by an ad campaign featuring the Academy Award winner posing shirtless. Also, I think he should have a small moustache. Penn would be holding some rosary beads draped over his back while casting a look of complex defiance at the camera.
Penance: When an apology isn’t going to happen.
Blog:
This is a scent that will be targeting conspiracy theorists. The ad campaign will be bombastic and concussive, pummeling the audience with image after image of conspiracy tropes—JFK getting shot in the head, the Twin Towers coming down, the Knights Templar—and then dissolve into a moderately attractive young man typing away at his computer. He’s purposeful, confident. When he finishes what he’s writing a knock comes at the door, he sprays some Blog on his pulse points and then exits through his window and down his fire escape.*1
Blog: Can you afford not to?
Pioneer:
This unisex fragrance will be tailored to appeal to the hipster demographic. All ingredients in it should sound completely organic and ethically sourced, and ideally it would smell kind of like a combination of kimchi and hay. The ad campaign will feature various hipsters– men in beards and overalls, women wearing sweaters with owls on them—posing happily with their cool looking bikes while cool sounding music plays.
Pioneer: Be the first to smell like the past.
La Beouf:
Actor Shia LeBeouf will be the spokesperson for this scent and it will have a meaty aroma.
La Beouf: When you’re not afraid to be wrong.
*1 Later we will roll out a body spray and soap-on-a-rope for men called Occupy.
]]>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.”
This elegantly airbrushed van will serve as my mobile tattoo center.
Visiting densely populated urban regions like high schools and drunken college parties, as well as sparsely inhabited small towns where there’s nothing to do, Inklings will appear to make tattoo dreams come true! Whenever you get the notion you want a tattoo, you just call us at 1-800-INK-LING, and we will speed recklessly toward you! We will be readily identifiable and branded, like the ice cream truck that came before us, but the music that we’ll always have blasting out of our speakers: Slayer.
It will be equally appealing to teens and their Midlife afflicted parents.
Ideally, I would like Inklings to become a TV show, as I want to expand beyond the confines of the GTA and explore this great nation of ours all the while providing adequate tattoo artistry and a penetrating look at the culture, landscape and psyche of the people that inhabit it. Think of Rex Murphy’s Cross Country Checkup married to Kat Von D’s LA Ink. This hygienic, mobile service will provide rapid tattooing at an affordable price in an atmosphere that playfully recalls some of your favourite serial killers.
It’s a brilliant idea. Fund me.
(Proposal pending the receipt of my valid driver’s license)
Backers:
7
Amount pledged of $50,000 goal:
$95
Days to go:
2
Incentives:
For those who donate $50 or more, an owl tattoo on the forearm.
For those who donate $750 or more, an intimidating owl chest plate.
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It’s from 1937, and in reading it I was struck by how much it had in common with communist propaganda in its certainty and fealty to a cause. Possessed with a religious optimism, the corporate soldiers marched furiously into the future, ever forward, ever reaching. Equilibrium is stasis, and if the corporation isn’t growing, it’s failing, and so almost by definition, the appetite is infinite.
Last week an eight-story building in Bangladesh collapsed killing at least 400 people (a number that may yet rise to 1,000), most of them low-paid (25-30 cents an hour) garment workers. It was the worst accident in the history of the garment industry.
One of the companies that were manufacturing clothes in the shoddily constructed building was Joe Fresh, a very successful and popular brand here in Canada. They’re inexpensive, yet their clothes still manage to exude the downtown hipster aesthetic. As my wife says, they’re like the Ikea of clothing, offering a gentle compromise for those belonging to a fashion conscious tribe but who really can’t afford extravagantly branded proofs of their tastes.
Joe Mimran, the head of Joe Fresh, explains on the company website that this “extreme pricing” is one of their premier selling points. I don’t think it’s being overly dogmatic to say that the real cost of “extreme pricing” are tragedies like the one in Bangladesh. People, abstracted by distance and circumstance, suffer immensely so that we can wear cheap, yet cool-looking, jeans.
In this particular case, it’s been reported the factories are policed by goons who threaten the employees, mostly young women, unless they work 13- or 14- hour shifts, often seven days a week. The building that collapsed apparently had deep cracks inside of it and the workers were actually scared to go in, but nonetheless, were driven in by men wielding clubs.
Can you imagine how it must feel to be terrorized and exploited like that? I’m not sure that I can, and I take little comfort in the argument that western industry is building a middle-class in far away lands, and that workers like those who perished in Bangladesh are better off with low paying work than nothing at all. It doesn’t ring true to me, and it’s baldly self-serving. The corporations, and the systems that they function within, are clearly taking advantage of the workers, and this is clearly wrong, regardless of the benefit you might imagine blossoming from it. Think again, on the microscopic, empathetic level, of what it must be like to work in one of these cruel sweatshops.
Our lives of whimsy, comfort and petty complaint are built upon horrible deeds. We need to remember that, and that we enable it each day with our entitled behaviour. We all know how we feel about the Boston Marathon Bombings, but do we really know how we feel about the Rana Plaza catastrophe?
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I have to say, never in my life have I seen such a dense concentration of hipsters. Children, less than two years old, wore vintage Star Wars t-shirts. Facial hair was artful and complicated, with moustaches waxed to fine, compelling points– as if they were trying to win arguments. Every couple we came across seemed to share a small dog and a colourful sleeve of tattoos that suggested a fondness for roller derby.
The event was actually quite small, existing within a chain link fence that contained no more than 20 tables, and as we walked around and around in circles, it felt very much like being at a hipster Merry-Go-Round. All looking like subtle variations of one another, we trudged around and around, picking up the same tired retro bric-a-brac that we always picked up, and then, unimpressed, putting it back down. Part of this repetitive carnival vibe was likely due to a big silver Airstream Yacht that sat there like the main attraction.
Inside this recreational vehicle was a fortuneteller. She was reading Tarot Cards and there was a small, nervous, two-person lineup outside. A young, Indian man with a meticulously ordered mustache, a scarf wrapped fashionably around his neck and t-shirt depicting a robot with antlers, chewed his fingernails. Behind him was a fabulous black guy dressed sharply in white. He was wearing a Bowler hat that was tilted so precariously, so precisely, that if he were to have moved an inch or relaxed his posture just a little bit, it would have surely fallen off.
It was difficult to ascertain what truth they hoped might be revealed to them inside the RV, but all of the lives on the grounds there, so studiously documented on Instagram and unfurling before friends in frenzies of vinyl proofs, felt static, as if everybody was now trapped between irony and discovery, fated by some Greek God to walk the same circuit again and again and again.
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