Author: Dan Dickinson

Photo by Allan Ferguson, used under Creative Commons license

#YesAllWomen

Dan Dickinson2 Comments

So, I’m sexist. Like, Level One sexist according to this blog post by John Scalzi.  Probably Level One racist too.

I’ll explain — Scalzi very thoughtfully lays out better than I’ve ever been able to, usually applying a clumsy moniker of “privilege” to too broad a range of issues. He posits four levels of discrimination, the first of which probably applies to the majority of us:

Level One: Ambient – This is the discrimination that is given to you, by society in general, by the particular groups you participate with in our general society, and by immediate influences (i.e., family, friends, teachers and authority figures). Your own ambient mix of discriminatory things will vary due to all of the above, as you drill down from the general to the specifics of your own life. But that doesn’t mean you avoid discrimination (or its effects); it merely dials in what particular discriminatory things you are more strongly influenced by. Everyone is influenced by the ambient discrimination, which is why, in fact, everyone is sexist, racist, classist, etc — we all got given this stuff early, often and before we could think about it critically. This is the baggage we deal with.

Despite growing up with strong, respectful parents who would never tolerate me being a racist, sexist dick, I almost certainly suffer from the baggage Scalzi defines here. It’d be hard not to. While I learned to hate racism, homophobia, etc. long ago, it took too long for my brain to really register the ambient misogyny in society. And, I guess, in me, for that matter. Once I started to see and hear it, I saw and heard it everywhere. Like bad kerning…except, you know, a deadly societal issue.

I’ve been aware of the active backlash against the “not all men” cop-out for a while, which was properly skewered by Slate in the wake of last weekend’s shooting at UC Santa Barbara, perpetrated by Elliot Rodger, a mentally unstable twat who, according to his own manifesto, killed random people because of the women who drove him to it by not digging him. Fuck that guy. If you want the 40-second version of his misogynist whinging, might I suggest this video, But I’m A Nice Guy by Scott Benson, found via Joey DeVilla:

Anyway, the push-back against the predictable post-Rodger “not all men” cry has come, in part, in the form of the #YesAllWomen Twitter hashtag. I started reading those tweets this weekend, and pretty quickly felt revolted by my own gender. Those tweets from women I didn’t know rattled in my head when I tried to go to sleep. Especially Margaret Atwood’s words: “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.”

Today, though, I got a close-up look.

I was on the subway heading south to a meeting on King Street, standing in the far doorway, listening to a podcast. Three people — two young women, I’m guessing mid-20s and early-30s, and a young man — got on at Summerhill. They all stood close together, and kinda weirdly close to me…closer than you’d expect people to stand to you on the TTC. I didn’t think much of it, but then I noticed the guy. He was staring at the younger woman. I mean staring. Open-mouthed, non-blinking, less-than-a-foot-away staring. He wasn’t speaking. The women were but I couldn’t hear what they were saying — I was listening to an episode of This American Life on my headphones. Finally, just before Rosedale station, I saw him say something and try to move even closer to the younger woman but the older woman blocked him. It was clear now he wasn’t with them; he was following them. Specifically, the smaller, younger woman. I pulled out my headphones and heard the older woman say, “Okay, she doesn’t know you, and you don’t know her, so just leave her alone.” I realized at this point that the early-30s woman didn’t know the mid-20s woman either…she’d just been trying to help her fend off a creepy guy. I realized this, and all I could think of was Elliot Rodger. This was obsession, fixation, objectification. He was coming after her like a dog chasing a ball.

I stepped forward and tapped the younger girl on the shoulder, letting her know she could move behind me into the doorway. I stepped in front of the other woman as well, between her and this guy, and put my headphones back in. He didn’t seem to notice me…he was completely fixated on her. He just tried to step around me to get to the woman. Now he was moving more aggressively, actually trying to duck around me and another lady who was now helping to shield the young woman.  I got in his way a few times, and he figured out now that I wasn’t going to let him get to her. I didn’t try to get physical with him; he wasn’t a big guy but he was definitely unstable. He tried to provoke me though: he stuck his middle finger as close to the right side of my face as he could without touching me. I just stared out the subway doors, smirking. This was the best he had when there’s someone my size in his way. But I noticed something else: the smell. It’s a smell you get to know in any city. He didn’t look homeless, but he definitely smelled homeless. And it confirmed that I didn’t want to touch this guy.

Next he opened his hand and started waving it in my face, still on my right side, like a kid (or Sean Avery) playing the “I’m not touching you! I’m not touching you!” game. It was annoying, and stunk, but I was fine with it; if he was paying attention to me he was leaving the young woman alone. But then he got more aggressive, and moved right in front of me, right in my face. I tensed at this point; I actually thought he might take a swing, or even have something on him, like a weapon. I haven’t felt adrenaline like that in a while; I forget how tingly your legs get. He didn’t attack me though. He did open his mouth, stick out his tongue, and snarl at me with rotted, sharpened teeth like some kind of homeless Maori warrior, which just grossed me out and actually made me laugh even more. It was all so ridiculous. There was a crazy dude trying to scare me on the subway, while Ira Glass interviewed Molly Ringwald in my ear.

Look, I know a lot of people would say his behaviour has to be chalked up to the fact that he was crazy, or on drugs, or both, or something else entirely. And that’s part of it. But here’s the thing: he wasn’t obsessed with me. Or any other dudes. Or any of the hundreds of other adults on the subway. Or any of the kids, who were all smaller and weaker than him. It was just the pretty girl. Something in his misfiring brain told him this was okay, that this girl’s prettiness gave him permission to be aggressive toward her.  To try whatever the fuck he wanted to do to her if there weren’t people stopping him. And the worst part is that there are men out there who aren’t crazy or on drugs, who also see her prettiness as permission to try whatever the fuck they want to do to her. And they might think to catch her where there aren’t people to help.

The train pulled into Bloor and, in the chaos of that station, I didn’t notice that she got off the train. I noticed just after the crazy guy did, and he ran off the train after her. The last I saw she was running down the packed southbound platform toward the security station; I don’t know what happened after that. A few of us tried to signal to people on the platform but the train was already moving. I wish I’d followed them. Fuck my meeting. I should have followed them. I’ve been checking Twitter and the news all day to see if anything happened at the station.

I hope she’s okay. I hope she never sees him again. I hope she never sees anyone like him again.

But she probably will.

.:.

Cover photo by Allan Ferguson, used under Creative Commons license

Cover photo by 900hp, used under Creative Commons license

“The arrogance of men is thinking nature is in their control and not the other way around.”

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We saw Godzilla (imdb | rotten tomatoes) yesterday. The new one, not the classics or the Matthew Broderick abomination from 1998. It was really good. Seriously. I mean, Elizabeth Olsen was completely wasted and Aaron Taylor-Johnson’s character was much too thin, and it pivoted a little too quickly from exposition to outright chaos, but those are minor quibbles. The action and effects were the important part here, and manoman…this might be the first movie I’ve ever watched where my brain didn’t register computer effects. I mean, I know they weren’t actually destroying cities and ships, but I never had that moment where I thought, “Ugh, effects.” Keeping things dark helped, I guess. And the HALO drop scene was as cool as it looked in the trailer.

Plus — and this is important — Godzilla was just badass.

Oh, and people shouldn’t bring their disinterested kids to sold-out movies. Just sayin’.

.:.

Cover photo by 900hp, used under Creative Commons license

Cover photo by Thomas Cizauskas, used under Creative Commons license

Crawl II

Dan Dickinson2 Comments

Three weeks after doing a mini craft beer pub crawl (Volo, Bellwoods, Bar Hop) with our friend Amanda, we did another yesterday with her visiting sister Becky. This time we hit Bryden’s, Indie Ale House, Bellwoods again, and Wvrst.

Bryden’s was unremarkable, except in that it introduced the ladies to the Local 7 Session Saison. Bellwoods was fairly disappointing this time; my Wizard Wolf was fine but the No Rest For The Wicked sour stout just wasn’t enjoyable. And Wvrst was great, both for the sausage and for our drinks — I had a Silversmith Funzover Dunkel and a Péché Mortel, which Becky also tried and loved.

But the real star of the day was Indie Ale House. Somehow Nellie and I had never been, despite its reputation. It certainly lived up to the rep, and more: the beer was fantastic (especially the Fallen Idol Belgian sour), our food (especially the fried chicken) was outstanding, and we loved the feel and décor of the place. If we lived closer this place would be our new local. We’ll need to find an excuse to return to the Junction, I guess.

.:.

Cover photo by Thomas Cizauskas, used under Creative Commons license

Cover photo by Reed, used under Creative Commons license

“We are having dinner! No penises!”

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Not sure why I haven’t been writing about these movies, but we’ve watched quite a few lately: Ender’s Game, The Purge, The Hobbit: The Desolation Of Smaug, Oldboy, The Great Gatsby, Killing Them Softly, Knuckle, and Life Of Pi. They were all okay…nothing spectacular. Maybe Oldboy, though it really just made me want to watch the original. Knuckle was like an amazing train wreck. Gatsby was awful.

Hmm. I think I just figured out why I haven’t been writing about them.

.:.

Cover photo by Reed, used under Creative Commons license

Cover photo by John Amos, used under Creative Commons license

Trending down

Dan Dickinson1 Comment

We used to be really big Hot Docs goers, but in recent years our attendance has dwindled. Between travel and work we’re finding it hard even to fit in five screenings the way we used to. This year we only booked two, and couldn’t even be bothered to go to the first — Love and Terror on the Howling Plains of Nowhere as we’d had a long week and just wanted to watch the Raptors play game 6.

We did manage to get ourselves to one though: the final screening of The Great Invisible, about the aftermath of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. It focused less on the environmental impact and more on the people involved, from the families of the 11 people killed in the explosion, to survivors suffering from guilt and PTSD, to workers in decimated coastal industries, to oil executives growing rich off the once-again booming oil industry. Because it was the third screening the director wasn’t around to answer questions. Too bad; I wanted to find out more about the highly entertaining and admirable gentleman named Roosevelt.

.:.

Cover photo by John Amos, used under Creative Commons license

Miami

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I was in Miami for a few days earlier this week, for work. Rough job, I know. To be honest, I’d been unofficially trying to go my whole life without ever setting foot in Florida, what with it being…you know, fucked. Still, I was invited to a conference, so I went.

I wasn’t really staying in Miami, at least not the Miami most of us think about. The conference was out in Doral at the Trump Hotel. There were no signs of it being a douchey Trump property, except that when you turned on the TV it would auto-play a random Trump speech. So I got to know the location of the mute button on the remote real quick.

Still, the weather was nice and they had a bar by the pool, so I spent a fair amount of off-conference time hanging out there and drinking Cigar City Jai Alai IPAs with friends. Related: our server didn’t know what Jai Alai is, or how to pronounce it, so I had to teach her. Related to related: I am old.

One other highlight: a vendor took a bunch of us out to dinner in South Beach, at Bazaar in the SLS hotel. We had a private room (which people kept sneaking up to, thinking there were celebrities inside…once they saw it was just a bunch of nerds they looked disappointed and slunk away) for dinner, which was pretty damn great. A quick scan of the menu produced some of the tapas dishes we shared, but not all: chinese buns w/ pork belly; cones full of salmon roe and dill cream cheese; hamachi w/ pickled onions, sour orange; dragon fruit ceviche w/ tuna, pecans, lime, hibiscus; brussels sprouts w/ “lemon air”; bone marrow w/ Caribbean white truffles, florida citrus, capers; Cuban coffee-rubbed churrasco; endives w/ goat cheese, oranges, marcona almonds, orange dressing; sautéed shrimp w/ garlic, parsley, lemon, guindilla pepper; croquetas de pollo; tacos made of jamón ibérico and caviar; and for dessert, some amazing churros with peanut butter.

The night was marred only by the fact that our transportation from the hotel to the restaurant was a Ford Hummer Killer, an enormous stretch SUV limo, which poisoned my very soul. I also got into it a bit with a Republican (or, more likely, Tea Partier) on the drive home re: the relative merits of socialized healthcare. Or, in my more aggressive moments, the “fucking travesty” of the US healthcare system. So, there was that. Oh, and Jamie Foxx ate dinner at the restaurant just as we were leaving, so people were all agog and agape.

All in all, though, it was a good trip. Though I am in no way attractive enough to hang out in South Beach, I’d be willing to visit Miami again. Not the rest of Florida though; that state is messed up.

Michael

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Last July we said goodbye to Sonny, the older of our two cats. We still miss him every day, but he’d struggled with kidney problems for so long, and went downhill so quickly in those final days, that it almost felt as if it had to happen. Not to over-anthropomorphize, but Sonny seemed at peace when we put him to sleep. He was tired. He’d fought a long time.

We were worried about how Sonny’s death would affect Michael, his younger brother. Michael had always been a little needy, and liked attention, even Sonny’s which tended to be rough. After all, it was Michael who got our attention in the cage at the Humane Society eleven years ago, and his cuteness led us to bring them home, so they’d always been a pair. But Michael thrived on his own after July. He owned Nellie and I now, had us all to himself. We couldn’t even be in a different room than him for long; he’d have to come snuggle with us, or nuzzle us, or eat Nellie’s hair. And I couldn’t watch TV for two minutes without this happening:

He was just always, always happy. More like a dog, almost, with all that unrestrained affection. Frankly, we probably misnamed him — if Sonny was the kinda-sullen older brother who was prone to violence, Michael was always…well, he was always more of a Fredo than a Michael. No dark schemes or quiet intelligence with this one…he just wanted to please everybody all the time. Plus, like Fredo, he exactly wasn’t the brightest.

_Fredo2

He’d avoided all his brother’s health problems, and passed his check-up in March with flying colours, considering his age. We thought we’d have him with us a while longer. But things took a turn this past weekend.

On Saturday he seemed a bit lethargic, and kept trying to wheeze up a hairball. That’s not unusual, especially with hair as long as his, but he just couldn’t get this one up. Still, he spent part of the day on my lap and part napping under Nellie’s blanket, and even some time playing catch with me while enjoying a sunbeam, so pretty close to normal. We’d seen this before and figured he’d be back to normal after he hacked something up.

Then, yesterday, we noticed that his breathing was a bit shallow. He wasn’t wheezing, and he was still getting about just fine, but he was definitely a little off. Especially that night, as we got ready for bed — he didn’t start the evening on the bed with us, as was his custom. Instead he curled up on a pile of sheets in a corner of the closet. We went to sleep, worried that this hairball was giving him more problems than usual, and planning to call the vet in the morning.

I don’t know what it was that woke me up in the middle of the night. I’d finally drifted off despite worrying about him, but something woke me. I looked for him, and found him on the living room floor, struggling to breathe. We rushed him to an emergency vet clinic where they stabilized him, put him on oxygen, and kept him overnight. He had fluid around his lungs and his heart, which was making it hard for him to breathe. The next morning we heard the results of the tests on that fluid: it tested definitively for a carcinoma. Cancer, and not operable. They broke it to us that we could never bring him home again; even if they drained the fluid from his chest it would just build back up to choke him. He’d need oxygen pumped constantly just to keep breathing.

After talking to the doctor and to our regular vet clinic, we knew all we could do was to keep him from descending into pain and struggle. Palliative care just so we could bring him home for a few days would’ve been for us, not for him. He wouldn’t have wanted that. He wouldn’t have been able to jump up on my lap. He wouldn’t have been able to burrow under Nellie’s blanket. He wouldn’t have been able to chase his laser pointer, or stalk summer birds on the balcony, or eat food straight out of the bin, or play with the suds in Nellie’s bath, or climb on our most-allergic guests as he so loved to do. He wouldn’t be Michael. Not anymore.

And so, we went to the vet clinic. We spent a long time with him, as much as we could. We rubbed his belly and scratched his chin inside his oxygen tent. Even with all his discomfort and stress, he couldn’t help himself — he rolled onto his side and started purring as we stroked him. We kept on scratching and rubbing as he gently lowered his head and closed his eyes for the last time.

When Sonny died we’d been expecting it for years, then had a few days to come to terms with the prognosis, and then had a full day at home with him to spoil him. With Michael it was barely 12 hours after realizing how sick he was that he was gone. We wanted so much more time with him to say a better goodbye, but it wouldn’t have been fair. After eleven years of being so intensely affectionate and loving with us, we owed him the gentlest end possible.

And so: goodbye. Goodbye Michael, aka Mike, aka Monkey, aka Dumbass, aka Stinky Mike. Thanks for getting our attention at the Humane Society that day. Thanks for being with us and making us goofily happy all these years. Say hi to Sonny for us when you see him. We miss him, and already we miss you so much we can hardly stand it. We love you both. We’ll always love you both. Rest in peace.

 

Please, Molson and Labatt and Sleeman: save us from ourselves

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Oh, for the love of Pete.

For those who don’t live in Ontario, here’s the background: the Beer Store, a foreign-owned monopoly on beer sales (outside of the provincially regulated LCBO) is worried that public sentiment has turned against them and toward a more open market for alcohol sales. One of the proposals has been to allow booze in convenience stores, as in several other provinces. So this ad is what their marketing geniuses has produced. Not surprisingly, the predominant reaction to the ad has been strong criticism and even outright mocking.

I believe the technical term for this kind of flailing is “death throes”.

Cover photo by Derek Law, used under Creative Commons

“A sophisticated and welcoming destination for those après work.”

Dan Dickinson1 Comment

So, I met my friend Bina for a drink last night. She also wanted to try this new Speakeasy 21 place near where we live, but it was stupid-rammed. We went elsewhere. It was cold out, so we ducked into the nearest place. Unfortunately for us the nearest place was the Suits bar in the Trump Tower. Yes, that Trump Tower. Neither of us had been before; I’d only tried Stock, the upstairs restaurant/hooker pavilion.

So we sit down and order a glass of wine from one the lady server, who corrects my (correct) pronunciation of Bachelder. We also order a charcuterie board, which arrives a while later. It’s a very nice array of meats and mustards and vegetables flourishes, so we ask what each of the meats are just to be sure. The gentleman server tells us he doesn’t know what they are, but says he’ll find out. A little odd, but no matter. He’s back in a minute and…doesn’t really have any more information. He points at the prosciutto and tells us it’s prosciutto. He points at a different meat and says that’s also prosciutto. He points at what’s clearly chorizo and says it’s salami. And he doesn’t know what the fourth one is. (It’s salami). We figure it’s his first day and thank him anyway and he’s off. So, more than a little odd, but whatever. It’s all tasty.

At some point I finish my glass of Chardonnay and want to move on to a red. When the gentleman server returns and asks if I’d like more wine, I say I’d like a glass of the Tempranillo — I remember there being one on the by-the-glass list. No problem, says he, and he heads back to the bar. A few minutes later the lady server stops at our table and, before I even register what’s happening, pours another Bachelder Chardonnay in my glass. By the time we process what’s just happened the lady server’s moved on to another table. We wait for her to finish with them, then point out that I’d asked for a glass of Tempranillo. She’s surprised by this and begins to explain how she thinks our signals got crossed, but then stops and smartly says, “No matter, I’ll take care of it.” Great. She’s off and I’m getting thirsty from all this cured meat.

A few minutes later the gentleman server comes by and delivers my glass of wine. Except…it’s white. It’s another glass of white. To his credit, at least it’s not another Bachelder Chardonnay, but it’s sure as shit not Tempranillo. We can’t even hold it together at this point; we both start laughing. I stop the server before he gets too far, and tell him it’s still not right. I offer to point out the specific glass on the menu if he’d like, but he says he’s got it. Okay then. He walks away. Bina can’t stop laughing.

Finally, the lady server comes over — at least 10 minutes after I’d originally ordered my second glass — and with a pained “Third time’s the charm!” delivers a glass of what appears to be Tempranillo.  At that point I didn’t even care; if it was red I was calling it a victory. Bina ordered another glass of exactly the same wine; she was having none of my adventure. We finished the board and ordered the bill. The lady server apologized as we split the $100 tab for our bits of meat and four glasses of wine. That’s right, four glasses –the thrice-ordered Tempranillo was not comped. I still tipped her; none of the mishegas was her fault. But I wished there was an option to delegate 100% of the tip to one server and one server only.

So, the moral of the story: never, ever set foot in the Trump Tower.

I got home from those drinks around the same time as Nellie, and we decided to get some dinner at Carisma. We’ve had great experiences both times we’ve been there, and I was hoping to wash the stink of #TrumpFail off me. Happily, Carisma came through in the clutch: our starters (shrimp pasta and burrata) and mains (steak and lamb) were amazing, the wine guru (who recognizes us now…score!) brought us a killer 2005 La Spinetta Pin Barbera/Nebbiolo, and the service was like a precision drill team. And that’s how it’s done.

Thanks for saving our evening, Carisma.

.:.

Cover photo by Derek Law, used under Creative Commons

Cover photo by Marcin Wichary, used under Creative Commons license

It’s time to abolish tipping

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Can anyone explain to me why we observe this absurd practice known as tipping? Many other countries have simply done away with it by paying service staff what they’re worth, but we in North America cling to this flawed practice even though…

It’s arbitrary. There’s no rulebook for who deserves a tip vs. who doesn’t. It’s generally accepted that waiters, bartenders, baristas, doormen, and taxi drivers should be tipped, but why not other similar job? Why not hotel clerks? Why not bus drivers? Why not bank tellers or flight attendants or nurses? Even after years of participating in this economy and tipping constantly I still don’t understand the rules fully, and can’t imagine tourists visiting North America could figure it out. All I know is that we’re meant to feel deep shame if we don’t tip, regardless of how good or bad the service was. I steadfastly refuse to tip bathroom attendants for handing me a towel I could have reached myself, but still find myself skulking from the room quickly without making eye contact.

It needlessly complicates things. Customers have to search their pockets for an appropriate tip. Businesses have to use up scarce counter space with a tip jar. Waiters have to stand  idly at a table while a customer mentally calculates 20% instead of waiting on someone else. A barista has to watch the line grow while every customer punches in 3 unnecessary steps on the POS device, essentially doubling the time for every transaction.

It actually slows the adoption of more efficient technology. Many of the afore-mentioned industries, which value fast customer turnover, have been reluctant to add speedier contactless payment terminals to their checkout process because employees are afraid their tips will disappear. Early trials of MasterCard’s Paypass terminals in Canadian coffee shops resulted in the machines being mysteriously unplugged, since customers — who were in the habit of simply leaving the small change from each transaction on the counter as a tip — had no change left over after tapping their card to pay. Employees, no longer seeing the change in their tip jars which would supplement their minimal pay, simply sabotaged the machines. Some coffee shops have found ways to address this, including Starbucks’ new automatic tipping feature in their mobile app, but that’s a classic example of simply paving the cow path.

Companies use it for nefarious means. Because of course they do. In Canada the minimum wage in most provinces hovers around $10/hour (some have slightly lower levels for alcohol servers) but in the United States 19 of 50 states actually pay $2.13 per hour, leaving servers to make up the rest of the $7.25 Fair Labor Standards Act minimum wage through tips. Essentially, this forces the burden of paying the employee a fair wage onto the consumer. By the way, 16 of those 19 states voted Republican in the 2012 election. Take from that what you will.

All this said, I’m not going to stop tipping. It’s unfair to the people currently earning minimum wage (or worse) who would bear the entire brunt of my little protest. But as long as businesses and merchant associations are able to screw employees with their tipping policies they won’t give it up, so at some point governments have to make it an unattractive option for merchants. It doesn’t have to affect the bottom line of a single business — they can increase their prices by 15% to cover the wage difference, just as some restaurants have already done.

It’s time.

.:.

Cover photo by Marcin Wichary, used under Creative Commons license