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Read more: A Penny for Your Thoughts?

Bet that word just gets you going?  Most people want to go on and on about how much they have suffered in life… like there will be some fabulous prize in it if they can prove their suffering is worse than others (in fact I believe there’s a radio station out there that does offer prizes for just that).  I think it’s quite ridiculous.  There’s even a disease to explain away a Mother offing her child because of a desire to have people feel sorry for her.  What a joke.  How come there’s no diseases out there that are a direct result of Hope or Faith or Courage?  Why doesn’t anyone want to reflect on how wonderful they have it compared to others?  Why do people seek so hard to outdo others in their plight for the most pitiful story they can think of?  Is our society that devoid of compassion that people can’t suffer… get help from the friends, family and support networks that are there and then take that help to move on?  Why do people lose such perspective?  I’ve never really understood the pathetic nature in complaining about things that can’t be changed and dwelling on things that have already happened.

I have kept in touch with a child sponsor of mine from The Republic of Chad for the last 3 plus years now and whenever I feel even the slightest bit of sorrow for myself I think of him and how happy he seems in his letters and life even though he lives in one of the poorest countries in the world and has so little to hope for.  I am in awe at his hope and his passion for what he does have and how the littlest things I send him (like pictures, stickers and cardboard cut out action figures) seem to bring his spirits up.  I know he has no idea how much he brings my spirits up sometimes.  It’s not something I would ever write to him…”Hi there sweet one.  My life is going pretty crappy right now but Thank God I’m not you and Thank God for the perspective you give me and the courage and the humanity I need to carry on.”  Somehow I think those words could never mean as much to him as a friendly update on the events of my life and my new son’s life and this beautiful country we live in.  His name is Dieudonne (which means gift from God in English) and we communicate in French, as it is my second language.  I don’t think he could ever understand fully the extent of how his life is a gift from God to me.  I wish he could… maybe when he’s a little older… or when I win the lottery and go visit him and build a school or a well or something to benefit his little community (ahhh dreams and wishes, who hasn’t wished to win big?).

I go on about how wonderful my life is… which at times seems a farce to me.  It is wonderful now and I Thank God for that (and the meds… no joke there either… my life didn’t begin to make sense to me until the meds came and stayed for good).  It wasn’t always wonderful and the number of challenges and tragedies I have overcome could far outweigh most people I know.  I have had surgeries, was born with a liver disease that is gradually scarring it permanently so that I will most likely need a transplant by the time I am 50, oh and did I mention that I have had 2 of the closest people in my life die (one right before my eyes as I watched her deteriorate) and oooh last but not least… endured a childhood that lacked physical and emotional security.  I can actually think of more hurt and anguish and despair but I prefer not to.  I think of suffering this way… Those who have never truly suffered have never truly lived and could never truly appreciate the beauty that life and our world offers.  Those who have suffered are those who make a choice to be a victim or a student of life.  Victims make me sick… they have a tendency to have a contagious affect on other victims even when they truly aren’t victims.  Students of life are like all students… they attend class no matter how much they want to skip out on it… they follow through with the necessary curriculum and if they have learned anything at all, they graduate from being a lowly freshman victim to a somewhat wiser graduate student ready to attend more classes even as they simultaneously hope that school’s out for good.

There is a proverb (some say Chinese some say Arabic… the origin really matters not since the message is the same no matter what language you speak) that goes somewhat as follows:

“If something goes wrong and you can change it then there is no need to worry… If something goes wrong and you can do nothing to change it then there is no need to worry.”

I’ve been writing since I was 14 years old.  Never published… never had the courage to try really since my words seem so personal that sharing them is a dangerous expedition.  I began writing to survive the unmedicated state of confusion in which I was living every day.  I wrote to live because if I hadn’t found the outlet to get the orgy of random and vicious thoughts out of my head they would have overcome me.  There is such a fine line between what makes someone a successful graduate of suffering or a complete failure doomed to pass it on in the vilest ways.  I was so lucky to have found inside me the ability to let out the stream of painful consciousness that stalked me every day.  If I hadn’t found it, I most certainly wouldn’t be here today blabbering on about this and that in perhaps complete incomprehension.  I would have done more than just walk the plank with no one there to push me or watch.  I would have run straight on to it and performed an Olympic dive into the depths worthy of a perfect 10 score.  I’m sure glad that didn’t happen because I’m not a fan of sharks or salt water and I don’t know anyone who’s got a boat with a plank on it anyhow.

I guess what I aim to get across here to myself and to anyone who reads this is that outlets are all over the place (unless of course they’re filled with child proofing devices like in my home).  As worried as BP people get about losing their passion for life because of the meds, there is so much more at stake than such selfish ignorance.

It’s not easy… nothing in life that is worth anything at all should be easy because it would be worthless.  I admit it… amid my sorrow and self-indulgence of pain I wrote some of the best things I have ever written.  My compulsion to the creative and crazy wordplay was unparalleled.  It was an animalistic instinct that surged within me (I guess that’s why generations thousands of years ago wrote so many things on caves and rocks… how else could they deal with the idea that they can’t even brighten the night because fire hadn’t been invented yet).  I wonder if that’s why most of the prolific and astounding inventions and artistic relics are from so long ago?  Can anyone really compare an I pod or Crackberry to the wheel or a Salvador Dali painting?  Is the crap that we listen to (and I confess I too indulge in on occasion) anywhere near the Cadillac of all music… classical? 

I imagine that instead of finding one of these outlets that can give back to the world people who think their suffering is astounding have instead taken the easy way out.  The path more traveled.  And while I don’t mean to diminish the trials and tribulations that one person can go through, I most certainly question the methods that they use to deal with them.  True, I can’t write anywhere near as well as I used to.  A good chunk of the creative descriptive juices have been squeezed out to make room for the meds but I also can’t complain because those meds brought something far more valuable to me.  Next to the meds I take every day is a coffee maker that I ritualistically make my morning cup of coffee in as I prepare my son’s cereal meal.  Above them is a cupboard full of glasses that I use to drink clean fresh water from (even if the taste on occasion has a chlorine tinge to it).  Under the meds is a dishwasher I use to wash the dishes in… a luxury I could most definitely do without but am grateful is there (especially since my son was born).  The meds are a fixture in my kitchen and my life and they have given me more than any reckless excess of words ever has.  I read back some of those words and almost feel pity for the woman I once was.  Then I realise that my son sleeps in the room across from the bright solarium that I sit in as I write here and I know that the meds are my lifeline to my life.  There may be more rationale in what I put onto the page these days but there is less disenchantment and hopelessness and more Faith.  There is a certainty that no matter what is thrown in my way, I will be a graduate once again and maybe soon I will earn a Doctorate… geez who knew that in my world suffering was a gift of education that doesn’t have to be subsidized by the government?

Like the senses I had last time I wrote, I know that my son is soon to awaken.  My husband is off to work and I shall go now to walk him to the elevator.  A kiss goodbye and a conviction that if he or I were to be taken unwillingly into that sea at the end of the plank, we would be okay (at least I would, sometimes he can be somewhat of a dork… but men really are almost always a wee bit behind us women in the art of revelation and metamorphosis).  He would know I Love him even when every little thing he does on occasion drives me even crazier that I sometimes feel inside.  I pick my battles quite well and I can say with complete honesty that I never hang on to the anger and resentment that suffering projects.  It’s just not worth it and no matter what happens I know that like my meds, he and my son are permanent fixtures in my life that give me Hope.  Golly, I sure do hope I win that 30 million tomorrow J !!  Once again I sign off with a poem written during one of my creative survival modes… class was tough that day:

Just Passing Through
Just a very short while,
Just a sliver in time,
But a moment to smile,
But a brief sight divine.
One small view of the truth,
One glimpse of hot passion,
Our faint dreams of fresh youth,
Our quick shows of compassion.
That sweet breath of new laughs,
That hint of devotion,
A kind touch on our pasts,
A simple emotion.
The chance from a meeting,
The basic surge of desire,
My quiet hopes fleeting,
My strong heart up for hire.
This taste of craved Love,
This slight hope held at bay,
As stars fall from above,
As swift hands seek out play.
It’s not much to work with,
It’s little thoughts of Bliss,
To reach for my zenith,
To lost embraces I miss.
When the sun takes its rest,
When my soul at last feels,
I shall stand alone Blessed,
I shall know that God heals.

The TTC strike made the news lights this Friday, when 65% of the union members stormed off the job at midnight, abandoning over 1.6 million angry riders throughout the GTA.

Of course, you would think how selfish! There are more people waiting to ride the TTC, than people working for the TTC. Why are they worrying about slightly better financial and economic benefits, when there are more people losing their jobs, because they can’t get to work without them?

Slightly better: (According to The Star), if they go back to work, the union will LIKELY get an “arbitrated settlement.” It's UNCLEAR if it will give the employees the same measures that were negotiated earlier. This implies that this strike may be all for nothing! There may not even be a purpose for this strike, because when they get back to work, they may not even get what they wanted from the strike in the first place; they might even get less! So, not only are they making us go through all this for nothing, but they’re making themselves go through all this - for nothing!!!

But, hold on; no one wants to be a bigot with negative biases here. Of course, there’s another side to every story. So, I try my best - as someone who isn’t a TTC driver or employee - to empathize with their suffocating lifestyles. Imagine yourself driving for hours on end non-stop with loud, rambunctious adolescents and whiny, “opinionated” adults who fight and stink up the premises. Now, I can’t say I’ve driven for 8 hours straight, but even with just an hour of not having it that bad but with a “bad” day, I can say that those TTC drivers could have it tough. But, to agree with the part of the settlement - with a GTA clause that ensures TTC drivers are the HIGHEST paid in the region - is not something I am willing to do!

I mean, come on - does a TTC driver really expect to be the highest paid in the region? Of course, this could be seen as a rhetorical question, with the obvious answer “No,” but I’ll just explain my perspective for this question myself. Again, it’s not like driving the TTC is easy, and it does have value, considering that the strike will have such a negative impact on people. But, we also have to consider the extent of the responsibilities of a TTC driver. As a TTC driver, are you saving someone’s life? No, not directly. Of course, assuming they would hire a safe driver, then yes, you’re saving someone’s life, by not letting someone who’s less of a safe driver drive, but other than that, you’re not saving anyone’s life directly. You’re not a police officer or doctor. Those are the employees who should be the highest paid in the region, not the drivers.

Is this settlement actually that desperate to bring back the TTC, that they are willing to actually exert more money over to the TTC employees, even when they don’t deserve it, and other places - like hospitals, police stations, Africa - really need this money to make this world a better place?

Excuse my implementation of habeas absurdum, but it’s true. The unequal distribution of wealth in this world is inevitable and cannot be completely blamed on the gluttonous TTC drivers who expect more than just being the highest paid workers in the region, but still, it has to start somewhere. Now, I was thinking - maybe there are other reasons as to why TTC employees are on strike, other than the so-called “lack of money” they “earn” for their “strenuous duties.” Perhaps it’s the lack of etiquette we - as TTC riders - have towards these drivers and other riders on the bus, hence the loud teenagers and opinionated adults discussed earlier on in this article. Of course, it’s debatable as to whether they compensate for the hostile 65% of TTC workers who walked out on us randomly on midnight, when we could’ve gotten home for sleeping needs, but that’s another matter in the long run.

Here’s a concept we should all know: peak oil. Peak oil is that point at which at least half of all planetary reserves of oil have been extracted from the ground. Once this point has been reached, increasingly sophisticated and expensive technologies are required for further drilling (think of the Alberta tar sands). Output drops accordingly. Eventually, more energy is required to drill for and refine a barrel of oil than the oil itself produces (1).

The implications of peak oil for a global economy organized around the concept of unlimited economic growth, with its expectation of an unlimited supply of cheap energy, are ominous indeed. The idea that present rates of consumption can be maintained indefinitely, (again, with its unspoken assumption of an endless supply of cheap energy) and that developing nations can hope to obtain to rates similar to our own, is already causing us to test the earth’s natural limits in such a way that we are pushing them toward a world-wide systemic collapse.

Bill McKibben, in his latest book, Deep Economy: The Wealth of Communities and the Durable Future, demonstrates why we need to fundamentally reconsider our assumptions with respect to limitless economic growth. But unlike other commentators on the subject, McKibben goes on to offer us a glimpse of what an alternative future might look like. More important, he shows us that, contrary to much writing on the subject, our addiction to growth isn’t making us wealthier. And even when it does make us wealthier, it isn’t making us happier.

According to research cited by McKibben on the subject of human happiness, it takes about USD $10,000, per capita, to meet basic human needs. Once this threshold has been passed, the extent to which money and “more stuff” can make us happier attenuates to ever-diminishing returns. One study quoted shows how a sampling of some of Forbes magazine’s “richest Americans” had scores rating their overall happiness virtually identical to those of Pennsylvania Amish and only slightly higher than those of Masai tribesmen. Correspondingly, increases in the rates of suicide, of divorce and depression, seem to track increases in the rate of consumption by Americans.

What’s worse (affront of all affronts), Europeans consistently score higher than Americans in terms of happiness. But how can this be? Every American knows she makes more money, knows that the United States is the mightiest nation the world has ever known, so how is it that a European can claim more life satisfaction? Well, for one thing, Americans work longer hours than their European counterparts. The more efficient US economy also demands more mobility of its workers. We are expected to move to where the jobs are. Whereas Europeans are more likely to live closer to the communities in which they grew up. They are more likely to know their neighbors, more likely to possess a stronger sense of community. Sure, we Yanks make more money, but we need it: for the extra commuting costs, for child care, more work clothes, for more health care. Simply put: Europeans work to live; we live to work.

And though our economy may experience more growth yearly than the EU’s, this growth isn’t making us richer. Median income in the United States remains what is was roughly 30 years ago, in terms of real dollars. Our growth contributes more to increased inequality and insecurity than to increased wealth.

What does McKibben see as a way out of our malaise, as a solution to the problem of imminent environmental collapse? His answer is unusually straightforward:  to build smaller, more localized economies, to build more community, to human-scale what is now globally-scaled. He calls his ideas the “economics of neighborliness.” A recurring metaphor for these notions is the farmers market. Here local farmers bring their infinitely varied, organic produce to an open market for sale. No need to truck tomatoes from across the country, for example, wasting enormous amounts of fuel in the process, when a far tastier product can be grown nearby.

And not only is the local produce superior than anything that can be purchased in the standard chain megastore, but a farmers market also helps to foster a stronger sense of community. People are much more likely to talk to one another in a crowded farmers market than within the isolating grid of the megastore, where the focus is on enticing the individual tastes of the atomized consumer. Complimentary to the farmer’s market is Community Supported Agriculture. Here, consumers pay local farmers a few hundred dollars during the winter, and then receive a weekly assortment of vegetables throughout the growing season and into the fall. The author also introduces us to various urban farming experiments presently underway, in such unlikely places as downtown Detroit and Shanghai. Each instance recounted by the author serves to demonstrate the various ways that such enterprises create and shore up community.

McKibben also makes an excellent suggestion about how the US government could contribute to localizing and human-scaling US agriculture. It could restructure its agricultural subsidies away from the industrialized behemoths that now receive the lion’s share of them and toward smaller, local farming units. In the past the federal government played a central role in bringing the price of personal computers down to where the average consumer could afford one, simply by choosing to purchase them in bulk for government offices nation-wide. There is no reason (save the resistance of powerful entrenched interests) that these types of enlightened procurements couldn’t make local organic produce every bit as affordable as the industrialized kind. But the main reason we should support the smaller, local farm is simpler still. On average it yields more food per acre than its industrialized, capital-intensive, pesticide-soaked counterpart. So why do the latter so predominate? Easy: Industrialized agriculture yields more dollars per acre.

More dollars lead then to increased efficiency, as every effort is made to squeeze as many more dollars out of the production process as possible. The direct result of this enhanced efficiency is that the larger, more abundantly capitalized players come to dominate the industry.  McKibben marshals some frightening facts about the concentration that has taken place within US agribusiness. Gargill, Inc., for example, controls 45 percent of the world’s entire grain trade, with Archers Daniels Midland controlling another 30 percent. Four companies slaughter 81 percent of American beef. And Wal-Mart is at present the number one food seller in the United States. Where does all the consolidation take us?

Well, when the rest of the world follows our lead, the results are often disastrous. Following the prescriptions of IMF and World Bank consultants, many developing nations have moved to centralize their agricultural sectors along lines similar to our own. The result has largely been the depopulation of rural areas and the creation of mega-slums on the outskirts of large metropolitan areas as farmers and their families, rendered obsolete by a “more efficient” agricultural system, flock by the millions to the cities looking for subsistence. Think A villa miseria outside Buenos Aires, Argentina. Or along the bustee in Vijayawada, India.

The scale of such misery is reason enough to hope that some other development strategy is taken up by poorer nations. Consider the case of China. Given its current rates of growth, China’s 1.3 billion people may very well be as rich as we are by 2031. Should the Chinese drive as many cars as we do then, they will need every drop of oil presently being produced, plus an additional 15 million barrels a day. If they eat meat as we do, they will require two-thirds of world’s current grain harvest. We can only hope, with McKibben, that the Chinese consider forgoing “some measure of efficiency for other values.”

If I had one possible criticism it is this: A strain of anti-urbanism (especially in Chapter 4, where McKibben develops his small-is-better thesis with respect to energy consumption and generation), as well as a tendency to romanticize life in smaller, more traditional societies, mars the otherwise judicious tone the author maintains throughout the work. While he does admit that village life is often parochial, narrow, even racist, he nevertheless seems to idealize it.

Besides, cities have been the seats of civilization since the beginnings of human history. As the philosopher Barry Allen has noted, civilization, itself, is a quality of culture unique to cities—with knowledge being a direct result of civilization. Cities are the sites where diversity is normalized; where the artifacts and practices of many villages combine and recombine over time, resulting in new orders of complexity and new values and new ways of living. A future without cities will be a future without civilization (2).

And anyone who has ever viewed the films of Ibtisam Mara'ana, the courageous female Palestinian filmmaker—especially documentaries such as Badal, or Paradise Lost--will be quickly disabused of any temptation to romanticize traditional village life. Badal, for example, chronicles the cruelty of women upon other women within the confines of a rigidly patriarchial system of marriage. Badal is the typically non-consensual practice of a marriage broker marrying a less attractive brother and sister off to the brother and sister from another family. Mara'ana herself barely escaped this fate, and now makes films to highlight the oppression that women daily face in villages such as the one she grew up in. The genuinely chilling point of such films is that in many rural communities around the world such practices are not at all extreme examples, but are a routine part of everyday life.

But these quibbles aside, Bill McKibben has provided us with a thoughtful and surprisingly even-handed glimpse into what a better, more sustainable, future might look like. In many ways, as the book demonstrates so well with so many stories of people working together to improve their lives, it is already flowering all around us.—Tom Allen

NOTES

Kevin Phillips. American Theocracy: The Peril and Politics of Radical Religion, Oil, and Borrowed Money in the 21rst Century (New York, NY: Viking, 2006), p. 21.       
Barry Allen. Knowledge and Civilization (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2004), p. 217-221.

For many teens of the 1990’s and today Tom Green is the face of gross-out, prank comedy. He is one of the founding fathers of comedy that involves self-humiliation, shock value, and some of the most outlandish pranks that even Steve-O from Jackass hasn’t even attempted to try.

Born July 30th, 1971 in Pembroke, Ontario; Tom Green is not only distinctly funny but he is also proudly Canadian. Growing up in Ottawa, Ontario; Tom Green was always interested in grossing out his friends, pulling pranks on his parents and being an all round public nuisance. In fact, one of his most well-known pranks is the placing of a cows head in his parents bed in an attempt to comically reference his father’s favorite movie The Godfather.

While studying at Algonquin College in the early 1990’s, Tom Green decided to bring his talents for entertaining and humiliating people to public radio. From here he was able to hone his talents as a host and to also expose his rap troupe called Organized Rhyme. Far from the image of your typical rapper, Tom Green is seen usually sporting beard, cheap t-shirts, and on occasion a trucker hat which could attribute to part of the reason why his pursuit in comedy has been more successful than his pursuit as a rap artist.

From radio Tom Green moved to the world of television. Rogers Cable 22 in Ottawa was the first official televised outlet for the Tom Green Show. From the years 1994-1997, Tom Green owned Ottawa’s local airwaves. Later in 1997, The Comedy Network offered Tom Green an opportunity to broadcast his show which to a national audience. Tom’s zest for variety and shock-humor television quickly caught on with young teens and influenced a whole new generation of comedians, pranksters and risk takers. He held no boundaries and brought a new edge to talk, reality based comedic television. Like most great Canadian comedians, Tom Green was imported into the United States. In 1999 MTV, an icon for teen programming, introduced Tom Green to an even wider American audience. It wasn’t much longer until the allure of Hollywood captured Tom Green and propelled him into superstardom. Tom Green was featured in several films, including Stealing Harvard, Road Trip, Freddy Got Fingered and a small bit in Charlie’s Angels where he had met his former wife Drew Barrymore. Fortunately, perhaps because of Drew Barrymore’s lack of talent, that marriage didn’t last and Tom Green moved back onto what he does best writing, producing and performing his own unique form of outlandish comedy.

The year 2000 was also a challenging year for Tom Green. He was diagnosed but successfully overcame testicular cancer. True to his nature, Tom Green video graphed the surgery and was featured on an MTV special to raise awareness. 

Currently, Tom Green is focused on perfecting the Tom Green Show for the internet. Much like his earlier material, Tom Green offers a true form of variety television and relentless comedy. His show includes charming interviews with guests such as Val Kilmer and Tony Hawk, appearances by popular bands, stunts, pranks and of course his unique deliverance of comedy. Tom Green’s site can be viewed at www.tomgreen.com 

Brampton's Rohan Morris couldn't be any happier. He has started his own entertainment company, ColdFire Entertainment and expects to make $150,000 on its first project. Not bad for someone who's only 18.

Not everyone's resume would have a first job as an "entrepreneur" with an investment in the tens of thousands. As far as career planning goes, this 2nd year Ryerson student already has it all figured out for the rest of his life.

"I first got the idea from the 'Legends of Cricket Live' event last March," said Morris. "I want to bring artists that young south-asians want to see and hear."
And the first artist that he has chosen to bring to Canada is the Paksitani rock group Junoon (meaning "passion" in Urdu and "craziness" in Arabic). Undoubtedly the most popular south-asian band, Junoon has sold over 25 million albums worldwide since 1990. Their classic rock inspired tunes have influenced the new generation of south-asians around the world including Canada.

Morris' game plan was enough to convince the band to perform in Mississauga, Montreal and Vacouver this year before heading south of the border. With the exception of Mississauga, Morris booked and arranged for the venues from the comforts of his home. Now he is in the process of attracting media sponsors for the event.

But Morris is in a hurry. Emigrating with his family only five years ago from India, he feels for his father who works 18 hours every day to support the family. To make his father retire comfortably, he wants to leapfrog into the position of the man of the house.

"My dad worked as a civilian in the Indian Army and we were well-off back there," he recalls. "Now I feel I have to do something to step into his shoes."
Morris' dad did however lend financial support from assets he had brought from India for the venue rent and sound arrangement. There is no doubt that all that money is at stake on the success of the company's first project, something that is keeping Morris twisting and turning in bed at nights.

For now, Morris is making plans about the next act he wants to bring to Canada. He already has his eyes set on Bollywood stars, local music acts and a similar version of "Legends of Cricket".
Junoon's first 2007 Canadian performance is scheduled for August 3rd at Mississauga's Hershey Centre for 7 p.m. Morris has opted for a sound setup that cost him more than the venue itself, featuring speakers that deliver 20,000 watts of earth-shaking thumps. The band will then hop to Montreal to perform on August 5th and and finally in Vancouver on July 20th.

The very best of Francophone cinema in our own backyard

One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting cross-legged in the middle of our living room and staring at the TV and taking in ‘W Starym Kinie’ - ‘At the Old Cinema’.  Until today I am not really sure why I followed the weekly series with such passion at the tender age of five, but the old, black and white movies mesmerized me just as much as Disney’s cartoons and adventure movies.

There was no color, oftentimes no sound and certainly no special effects and visual gimmicks to supplement the plot, just the story in its simplest form and that was all that mattered to me. 
Now, why the heck would I write about this?  Just recently and decades after my love-in with the TV show passed, I had a chance to revisit my sentiments for movies with a vintage and feel to them.  Just weeks ago my girlfriend, in her never ending search for interesting venues around town, suggested ditching a group of friends that we had planned to see the movie ‘300’ with and checking out CineFranco – The Toronto International Francophone Movie Festival. 

I must say that I was intrigued, and we walked down College Street that brisk March evening only to find a lengthy lineup in front of Royal Cinema.  There, I was surprised to find out that this was already the Festival’s tenth rendition and I had never heard anything about it in the mainstream media.  Despite an annually impressive lineup, strong corporate backing and an obviously high regard among the Francophile and Allophone populations of Toronto, I had managed to miss out on nine previous Festivals! 

We saw ‘Peindre ou faire l’amour’ (‘To paint or make love’) that night and neither one of us had any qualms about missing out on ‘300’.  In fact, the sharp and refreshing portrayal of a middle-aged couple and their rather unexpected mid-life lifestyle change, set against the breathtaking backdrop of the French Vercors region flooded both of us with emotions.  We literally could not stop talking about the film, and it is this emotional upheaval that it created within us that is the true measure of its strength.  ‘The sign of a good painting is the mood that it creates in the room’, proclaims the ageless Daniel Auteuil, cast here as William Lasser, an affluent, middle-aged retiree who upon moving out of the city faces a realm of new and tempting sensualities.  As we walked back from the viewing I could not help but think that this quote holds so true for movies as well. 

Just before the screening I actually had the pleasure of meeting Marcelle Lean - the founder and artistic director of CineFranco.  She is a charming lady with a warm, big smile and an even bigger dream – the dream of making French-language cinema a part of the cultural fabric of Canada’s most multicultural city.  However, despite CineFranco’s successes over the past decade, even Lean is still surprised at the relative obscurity in which movies of such depth and quality dwell in Canada.  "I cannot explain why they don't go to commercial cinemas," she says, "but I certainly see a growth of the Anglophones, and the Allophones who are Francophiles." 

This certainly bodes well for the future and my hopes of seeing more than one film in 2008.  I look forward to exploring these affirming, liberated, and almost grassroots feelings aroused in us by the film.  According to Lean, they actually permeate the entire event and "there is something magical about a festival like this; it attracts people.  There is a freedom of reaching out to people, of sharing your impressions.  It's like a big family getting together because they love something.  In a commercial venue, you buy your ticket, and you might be with your companion, but it's not the same atmosphere." 

While the glitter of The Toronto International Film Festival annually captures the city’s collective imagination, CineFranco remains Toronto’s hidden gem that illustrates so well the difference between North American movies and European cinema.  As much as I appreciate the Hollywood movie industry and many of its stars such as Martin Scorsese, Robert De Niro and Jack Nicholson to name a mere few, there is a different kind of depth in foreign movies and their artistic value can be monumental.  While Hollywood movies often seem to follow a synthetic blockbuster formula that deals with many aspects of the movie-making business but NOT the story, cinema refers to more independent, free-thinking art, characterized by emphasis on dialogue, exploration of emotions, and an intensity that is more cerebral than corporal. 

It is not easy to define this cinematographic dichotomy, this difference between ‘movies’ and ‘cinema’, which despite the fact that many people in North America actually consider the words interchangeable, certainly exists.  Perhaps the words of Samuel Goldwyn, one of the forefathers of Hollywood as we know it, best illustrate the differences in reasoning behind this paradox: "Pictures are for entertainment, messages should be delivered by Western Union."  This certainly holds true even today, as while surfing the internet in Europe you will usually find film listed under Art & Culture, while in America movies are listed under Entertainment.  I guess that a night at the cinema gave us both an understanding of the more cultural value of film that we may at times take for granted.  And we did not have to go far – it happens every year, among the hustle and bustle of College Street, in our own backyard.

www.CineFranco.com

It gets pretty frustrating when a major portion of your lifestyle is openly scoffed at and shunned by mainstream society.  I would go so far as to say that such actions can be downright infuriating when the root cause for them turns out to be nothing more than blind ignorance.

This became all too apparent to me after reading a short article in a certain publication, where rappers were condescendingly and ignorantly referred to as simply “people who can put words in order” and “bejewelled idiot[s] stammering about how they’re hot with their bitches.”  It frightens and offends me that such uneducated notions about the Hip-hop culture – or anything for that matter – can be widely held and accepted in our society, to the point where nobody so much as blinks an eye when such words are printed in official publications.

Yes, freedom of speech is a definite cornerstone within the foundation of our modern democratic society, but at the same time nobody likes it when ignorant, negative-essentialist jargon is being broadcasted from the proverbial pulpits and soap boxes across the land.  We are a nation that prides itself over its liberal philosophy of tolerance, so the only thing we shouldn’t tolerate is uneducated persons who think they’ve got the scoop.

Rap is far from the empty, crass hullabaloo it is commonly portrayed as being.  It is a legitimate form of art residing within a culture that, like any other, is rich in beliefs, customs, and traditions.  And even though this has been recognized even by organizations such as the United Nations, everyday society fails to do the same.  Instead, it remains content with being spoon-fed the exaggerated, stereotypical fiction it so desperately craves.  However, with the Information Age being how it is, we as individuals should each make a conscious effort to investigate and challenge these notions in order to discover the shrouded truths.

In other words, we need to look before we leap – or in this case, read before we write.

Simple question: What do Vanessa Hudgens, Brenda Song, and Jamie Lynn Spears all have in common? Well, not only have they been victims to the ignorant vows of the tabloids and paparazzi, but victims to their own struggles with sexuality: Vanessa Hudgens is nude in pictures recently distributed throughout cyberspace, Brenda Song is somehow advertised in a escort advertisement at the back of LA Weekly, Jamie Lynn Spears is a pregnant 17 year old, and, now - Miley Cyrus is nearly topless for a June 2008 issue of Vanity Fair. The question is whether the sex-obsessed media or young, corrupted celebrities are to blame, and if their search for identity really is going too far.

Well, let’s assess the most current issue to date for perspective to an answer. Miley Cyrus in nothing but a bed sheet for an upcoming issue of the prestigious magazine Vanity Fair…well, okay, one could argue that it is not as “scandalous” as what the girls above have done, except in the case that one specific detail renders very true. Despite the old cliché “age ain’t nothing but a number,” Miley is only 15! That’s right! The Hannah Montana star is the youngest of these stars, and that’s not even the worst part. She is a minor, which means, by some rule, surely, she is preyed on by some child pornography law (or, there, lack of)…thereby suggesting that a more “responsible,” adult Vanity Fair are to blame for this.

Allegedly, according to Disney, Montana was pressured into taking backless photographs - even until after she refused - as a means of using a teenager to “sell sex.” No kidding! Her present father, Billy Ray Cyrus - who even posed some with his daughter - claims to be suing Vanity Fair. Although I wasn’t there to truly comprehend Vanity Fair’s mastering of manipulation, and I still think that the Montanas could’ve stayed strong - since, at least not knowingly, they weren’t threatened, or constrained by chains or locks - I do believe Vanity Fair did go too far, and should fall remorse to their forcing. I think all of us could argue that they should - and must know - better, being such a high-end magazine, and their reputation is guaranteed to suffer.

At least Vanity Fair’s manipulation was direct and known to the Cyruses before being implemented. In Brenda Song’s case, Disney supports that she was unaware that her picture would be used in an escort advertisement, which makes sense, because she would have no reason to be an escort, when she supposedly has enough money as an actress to survive - and, of course, as a famous actress, paparazzi would eventually rat her out, which is sort of what has already happened. Even though she is of age though - all 20 years of her - as an innocent bystander of her own inevitable tragic downfall, Brenda Song truly was manipulated here. You would think they would manipulate her more convincingly, though - we all know Brenda isn’t Hawaiian! Of course, if Brenda were working as an escort though, sex for money is the most inappropriate action amongst all these girls, unless you make it equivalent to the sex-driven exploits of the entertainment industry. Metaphorically speaking, in one’s eyes, all actresses are prostitutes, arousing the male-dominant audiences with nudity and, well, some level of sex.

Again, while Miley and Brenda are not to blame, there are some ways some of us can take more initiative. Take Vanessa Hudgens for instance. She didn’t release those nude photographs herself, but she also didn’t realize that those photographs would somehow make there way around. I mean, those photos exist! You’re famous; someone can find them, and sell them for a big slice of dough. Another person who has rightfully taken responsibility for her actions is Jamie Lynn. If she wasn’t raped and she knew the consequences before she had sex, then she is being very mature in preparing herself for the consequences after she had sex. Both girls explained their circumstances to the public, and have made rational decisions, in accordance with their previous behaviour. So even if it was partially their fault, they accepted the blame; after all, in their situations, it took two - at least!

In retrospect, again, what Miley did wasn’t as bad. Another rep contradicts this pressure - and the controversy. Apparently, Miley Cyrus and Vanity Fair negotiate that these photographs are not “really slutty,” but “artistic” and “really beautiful.” Although this paradox with the apology Cyrus gave, I do feel that they have a point. In contrast to a stark naked Vanessa Hudgens - who was also 15 when she took one photograph, according to an ex-boyfriend - Cyrus’s photos seem more artistic, while, of course, it’s debatable as to whether Hudgens’ pictures have any artistic intentions - at all. I think the bed sheet covers most of Cyrus’ body and still leaves a lot to the imagination. The exhibition of Cyrus’ back keeps the classic, romantic aura of an ancient painting in tact…

…which all leads to our verdict. Is it Miley’s fault? Did she go too far? Well, comparing to all these other young women’s choices, I would have to still say “No.” As a minor, Vanity Fair are to blame, but the Cyruses still had free will. As for the choice of sexual portrayal, she could’ve done worse - but keeping her age in mind - I would say her bed sheet attire is not going too far, yet is still “borderline pedophile-bait.”

In conclusion, I have learnt something from writing this article. Deciding whose to blame and what is “slutty” and what isn’t are still grey areas. The lines are yet to be un-blurred. But, a couple of things can be agreed upon. The more aware the celebrity is of their sexual portrayal, the more responsible - and to blame - they are for that sexual portrayal. And the more “sex-obsessed” our media becomes - even as disturbing as it does, with younger and younger girls - the more acceptable and desensitised this behaviour looks to our society, including the impressionable children who worship these girls. So, proceed with caution. The oven may still be too hot for your infant to touch; once they learn that it’s wrong to touch too soon, they won’t be able to go back.