A few gems from the Saturday Toronto Star that appeared on the front porch of my parents' house this morning. Additionally, Cultural Wha? dips her prolific beak into a previously untouched medium: comic strips!
AMY
Saturday, December 24, 2011
This Year, Give the Gift of Political Discomfort
Have you ever noticed that the harder the media tries to make Christmas--whoops, I mean, the winter season, non-denominational and all-inclusive, the Christmasier the actual Christmas Eve and Day get? Our global media has a bad case of Christmas frustration. So step in line and until Santa pops by, tell the kids repression is what the global village is getting for Christmas! That way, on the morning of December 25th, they'll be even more surprised when they receive that much-yearned-for DVD that came out in 2009, HMV (do people still shop for presents there?) gift certificate, and fanciful notebook/book/daytimer/wallet thing.
A few gems from the Saturday Toronto Star that appeared on the front porch of my parents' house this morning. Additionally, Cultural Wha? dips her prolific beak into a previously untouched medium: comic strips!
AMY
A few gems from the Saturday Toronto Star that appeared on the front porch of my parents' house this morning. Additionally, Cultural Wha? dips her prolific beak into a previously untouched medium: comic strips!
AMY
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Who's a Diva Now, Bitch
It honestly doesn't bother me when, say, a roommate leaves her Diva Cup out on the bathroom counter. Because my beef with the Diva Cup isn't that it's been inside a girl for 24 hours and now it's on my counter. I mean, hey, who am I to judge. I'm all for the "convenience" and "sustainability" principles behind the Diva Cup, as well as the explicit but informative claim that it will "last you years." No, the issue does not lie in the function or occasionally disturbing accompanying images of the new women's menstrual product.
I'm talking about the name. Diva...Cup? Okay, so it's a cup. I get that part. But Diva? What the fuck? So I'm a diva for putting a cup up my vag now? I thought I was just a smart consumer. And c'mon, let's just save the pink flowers for my first sex-ed class. I'm a woman with a body that means business, and I need a feminine hygiene company that gets it.
TAMPON. It's serious. It's not fucking around. And I like the corporate flavour of brand names like Tampax and Kotex. That "x" means business goddamnit, like it could do your taxes and sell your stocks too. Even "pad" is straight and to the point. No funny stuff. Plus it has a cool sort of upside-down symmetry with the first and last letter.
No funny stuff, Diva Cup!
JULIA
I'm talking about the name. Diva...Cup? Okay, so it's a cup. I get that part. But Diva? What the fuck? So I'm a diva for putting a cup up my vag now? I thought I was just a smart consumer. And c'mon, let's just save the pink flowers for my first sex-ed class. I'm a woman with a body that means business, and I need a feminine hygiene company that gets it.
TAMPON. It's serious. It's not fucking around. And I like the corporate flavour of brand names like Tampax and Kotex. That "x" means business goddamnit, like it could do your taxes and sell your stocks too. Even "pad" is straight and to the point. No funny stuff. Plus it has a cool sort of upside-down symmetry with the first and last letter.
No funny stuff, Diva Cup!
JULIA
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Top 5 Cultural Wha Trends of November
1. MONKEYS. Spearheaded by the newest installment of the ever-relevant Planet of the Apes series, monkeys are a top trend of November. Haven’t you been experiencing the insurmountable problem of itchy armpits (that demand scratching) an awful lot this past year? While monkey impressions have been popular since grade seven, never before has the phrase “I want a monkey” or even “I wish I was a monkey” been uttered so frequently, and with so much conviction. Special mention goes to the popular trend of revisiting past Simpsons’ episodes that feature monkeys:
2. ELVIS. Will and Kate could take a couple pointers from the late King (God rest his soul), cause this royal knew how to part-ay. As quoted from his Wikipedia page:
"Keyboardist Tony Brown remembers the singer's arrival at a University of Maryland concert: "He fell out of the limousine, to his knees. People jumped to help, and he pushed them away like, 'Don't help me.' He walked on stage and held onto the mike for the first thirty minutes like it was a post. Everybody's looking at each other like, Is the tour gonna happen?" Guitarist John Wilkinson recalled, "He was all gut. He was slurring. He was so fucked up. ... It was obvious he was drugged. It was obvious there was something terribly wrong with his body. It was so bad the words to the songs were barely intelligible. ... I remember crying. He could barely get through the introductions". Wilkinson recounted that a few nights later in Detroit, "I watched him in his dressing room, just draped over a chair, unable to move. So often I thought, 'Boss, why don't you just cancel this tour and take a year off...?' I mentioned something once in a guarded moment. He patted me on the back and said, 'It'll be all right. Don't you worry about it.'"
But he just carried it off so well. You can't learn that kind of class.
3. BLACK COFFEE. We’re so over milk and sugar. They just waste precious room in our coffee mugs. Whiskey optional.
4. OMNISCIENT HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS/PETS. Lenny the fish and Professor X the x-mas plant are clearly leaders of this category, however, Virginia the bong, as well as recent rumours of the electric kettle that has been “turning itself on” also deserve recognition.
5. GUY MADDIN. He’s the new David Lynch. (And David Lynch is the new Donald Trump.) But seriously, wait til you see Keyhole. Wowza. Like Inland Empire kinda wowza. Also notable that my class’s Guy Maddin installation is at the end of a five-day long “Focusin” fun time with Mr. Essay, effectively replacing Mulholland Drive in the drug-induced/sleep-deprived/David Lynch/nightmare category. This category is characterized by a difficulty in distinguishing dreams from reality; Alanna Thain is everywhere. Did I really boycott the film studies barbeque with her in a station wagon? It’s impossible to say.
2. ELVIS. Will and Kate could take a couple pointers from the late King (God rest his soul), cause this royal knew how to part-ay. As quoted from his Wikipedia page:
"Keyboardist Tony Brown remembers the singer's arrival at a University of Maryland concert: "He fell out of the limousine, to his knees. People jumped to help, and he pushed them away like, 'Don't help me.' He walked on stage and held onto the mike for the first thirty minutes like it was a post. Everybody's looking at each other like, Is the tour gonna happen?" Guitarist John Wilkinson recalled, "He was all gut. He was slurring. He was so fucked up. ... It was obvious he was drugged. It was obvious there was something terribly wrong with his body. It was so bad the words to the songs were barely intelligible. ... I remember crying. He could barely get through the introductions". Wilkinson recounted that a few nights later in Detroit, "I watched him in his dressing room, just draped over a chair, unable to move. So often I thought, 'Boss, why don't you just cancel this tour and take a year off...?' I mentioned something once in a guarded moment. He patted me on the back and said, 'It'll be all right. Don't you worry about it.'"
But he just carried it off so well. You can't learn that kind of class.
3. BLACK COFFEE. We’re so over milk and sugar. They just waste precious room in our coffee mugs. Whiskey optional.
4. OMNISCIENT HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS/PETS. Lenny the fish and Professor X the x-mas plant are clearly leaders of this category, however, Virginia the bong, as well as recent rumours of the electric kettle that has been “turning itself on” also deserve recognition.
5. GUY MADDIN. He’s the new David Lynch. (And David Lynch is the new Donald Trump.) But seriously, wait til you see Keyhole. Wowza. Like Inland Empire kinda wowza. Also notable that my class’s Guy Maddin installation is at the end of a five-day long “Focusin” fun time with Mr. Essay, effectively replacing Mulholland Drive in the drug-induced/sleep-deprived/David Lynch/nightmare category. This category is characterized by a difficulty in distinguishing dreams from reality; Alanna Thain is everywhere. Did I really boycott the film studies barbeque with her in a station wagon? It’s impossible to say.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Oh, But We Must
"I think this is part of the class, perhaps even the most fundamental lesson. We have to make a kind of Kirkegaardean leap of faith and just believe, fervently, that the TA's are receiving our questions and take their silence as an answer - the model of a fideist system of faith-based 'reciprocity'. To assume that a TA has the time or means to address you individually is to mistake the way a TA operates within the metaphysical cyber world - the very notion of trying to utilize reason to understand this is absurd. However, in an interesting reversal of the religious transcorporeal telos, we are moving from a more speculative cybernetic, properly metaphysical existence, to an organic in-person exam. We don't know the nature of the exam, only that it awaits all of us, alike, with an almost sublime and benign indifference."
- posted this evening in an online philosophy of religion course by one Michael Saunders
- posted this evening in an online philosophy of religion course by one Michael Saunders
We Must Not Be Afraid of Them
These past couple of weeks have seen a flurry of "likes" directed towards the question we pose every morning at 10:05 am in our seminars (the ones we constantly regret signing up for "for fun" because it's not fun it's fucking torture...). It is the same question that comes back to haunt us in those last few moments before sleep, when we know we should go turn off the record player because it's skipping over a certain roommate's precious Tim Hecker LP. While some of you may believe I am obnoxiously flaunting my pitchfork-approved ambient music tastes, I refer to Mr. Hecker (Ph.D. candidate and teacher at McGill University) because he is a prime example of why this question - the following question - is pertinent.
Professor or Hobo?
Indeed, the recently popular online quiz has hit the nail on the head. Professor or Hobo? Sometimes it's hard to tell. So often do I ponder the aesthetics of the frazzled, grey beard-nest.
Such existential pondering, however, is only supplementary to the real question we must ask ourselves. This is the question that presents itself perhaps less often than the "Probo" question. Yet when it does manifest, this question burrows into your brain and sets up camp deep into the goo of your consciousness. Indeed, we should all be asking ourselves the following, for it concerns all of us.
T.A. or Crackhead?
While the Professor/Hobo complex proves to be intriguing, the T.A./Crackhead debate wages war upon the undergraduate student population with no remorse. It is terrifying in its unknowability. As investigators of culture, however, we must be strong in our persistence until the bitter end. We must understand the politics of the issue. To this end, there are a number of areas which demand inquiry and thorough analysis:
1. Of course, The most obvious similarity between teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts, and a primary contributing factor to their indistinguishability, is their cognitive logic. In both cases, the individual shows unnatural and often disturbing logical processes which stray far from those of the average person. Such is typically evidenced by teaching assistants' erratic marking schemes, and their evident lack of logic - much like the lack of logic corresponding to a crack cocaine addict's violent ranting (in certain cases, the teaching assistant may also be prone to displaying such aggressive and illogical behaviour). Indeed, a common manifestation of this logical deficit in teaching assistants is a vastly unpredictable yet very stubborn grading system, which may result in a student receiving a broad and unexplainable range of grades. For example, a student may consecutively receive a grade of "D", an "A", and a "B-" on three different essays of the same quality. As a result, undergraduate students continually feel confusion or anxiety upon confronting their teaching assistants, similar to the affective response one might have upon experience interacting with other unstable individuals, such as crack cocaine addicts.
2. Appearance and mannerisms are another important point of similarity between the two groups. Most teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts can be characterized by having dark circles around the eyes, poor oral hygiene, and sunken cheeks. Both groups also may be prone to twitching and flinching involuntarily.
3. The geographic habits of teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts are a mostly unchartered area, however, we can make some preliminary remarks on their overlap. Crack cocaine addicts' renowned association with the infamous "crack den" may shine some light on the relationship between teaching assistants and basement offices, as the two spaces bear similar qualities. Crack dens and T.A. offices are dark, claustrophobic spaces which may be structurally unsound, or in need of weatherproofing. The two spaces are often shared with other teaching assistants or crackheads. Furthermore, the general secrecy and suspicious nature of T.A. offices may correlate to the hidden and obscure space of the crack den. T.A. offices sometimes have a "PLEASE KNOCK" (triple underlined) sign posted on the locked door. On one occasion, my teaching assistant actually answered the door then closed it swiftly behind him, insisting that we discuss my essay in the hallway outside his office. Such occurrences further imbue the space with a forbidden and suspect ambiance.
4. Lastly, there seems to be a common trajectory with regards to the development of the teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Understanding this trajectory may prove to be important in controlling, and eventually preventing, the descent to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Research has conclusively shown that marijuana is a "gateway" drug, introducing the marijuana smoker into a large network of amphetamines, hallucinogens, opiates, etc. Likewise, experts have found that the undergraduate degree (particularly the ever popular Bachelor of Arts) is a "gateway" degree, with more undergraduate students than ever before applying to master programs months before their own graduation. Most important to our pursuit, however, is the intersection of these two sets. The undergraduate degree has been proven as the most popular degree among marijuana smokers and, to many, is indeed the "stoner degree." With marijuana and undergraduate studies acting as "gateways" to hard drugs and graduate studies respectively, it is not difficult to see the downward trajectory from undergraduate student/marijuana smoker to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict.
JULIA
Professor or Hobo?
Indeed, the recently popular online quiz has hit the nail on the head. Professor or Hobo? Sometimes it's hard to tell. So often do I ponder the aesthetics of the frazzled, grey beard-nest.
Such existential pondering, however, is only supplementary to the real question we must ask ourselves. This is the question that presents itself perhaps less often than the "Probo" question. Yet when it does manifest, this question burrows into your brain and sets up camp deep into the goo of your consciousness. Indeed, we should all be asking ourselves the following, for it concerns all of us.
T.A. or Crackhead?
While the Professor/Hobo complex proves to be intriguing, the T.A./Crackhead debate wages war upon the undergraduate student population with no remorse. It is terrifying in its unknowability. As investigators of culture, however, we must be strong in our persistence until the bitter end. We must understand the politics of the issue. To this end, there are a number of areas which demand inquiry and thorough analysis:
1. Of course, The most obvious similarity between teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts, and a primary contributing factor to their indistinguishability, is their cognitive logic. In both cases, the individual shows unnatural and often disturbing logical processes which stray far from those of the average person. Such is typically evidenced by teaching assistants' erratic marking schemes, and their evident lack of logic - much like the lack of logic corresponding to a crack cocaine addict's violent ranting (in certain cases, the teaching assistant may also be prone to displaying such aggressive and illogical behaviour). Indeed, a common manifestation of this logical deficit in teaching assistants is a vastly unpredictable yet very stubborn grading system, which may result in a student receiving a broad and unexplainable range of grades. For example, a student may consecutively receive a grade of "D", an "A", and a "B-" on three different essays of the same quality. As a result, undergraduate students continually feel confusion or anxiety upon confronting their teaching assistants, similar to the affective response one might have upon experience interacting with other unstable individuals, such as crack cocaine addicts.
2. Appearance and mannerisms are another important point of similarity between the two groups. Most teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts can be characterized by having dark circles around the eyes, poor oral hygiene, and sunken cheeks. Both groups also may be prone to twitching and flinching involuntarily.
3. The geographic habits of teaching assistants and crack cocaine addicts are a mostly unchartered area, however, we can make some preliminary remarks on their overlap. Crack cocaine addicts' renowned association with the infamous "crack den" may shine some light on the relationship between teaching assistants and basement offices, as the two spaces bear similar qualities. Crack dens and T.A. offices are dark, claustrophobic spaces which may be structurally unsound, or in need of weatherproofing. The two spaces are often shared with other teaching assistants or crackheads. Furthermore, the general secrecy and suspicious nature of T.A. offices may correlate to the hidden and obscure space of the crack den. T.A. offices sometimes have a "PLEASE KNOCK" (triple underlined) sign posted on the locked door. On one occasion, my teaching assistant actually answered the door then closed it swiftly behind him, insisting that we discuss my essay in the hallway outside his office. Such occurrences further imbue the space with a forbidden and suspect ambiance.
4. Lastly, there seems to be a common trajectory with regards to the development of the teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Understanding this trajectory may prove to be important in controlling, and eventually preventing, the descent to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict. Research has conclusively shown that marijuana is a "gateway" drug, introducing the marijuana smoker into a large network of amphetamines, hallucinogens, opiates, etc. Likewise, experts have found that the undergraduate degree (particularly the ever popular Bachelor of Arts) is a "gateway" degree, with more undergraduate students than ever before applying to master programs months before their own graduation. Most important to our pursuit, however, is the intersection of these two sets. The undergraduate degree has been proven as the most popular degree among marijuana smokers and, to many, is indeed the "stoner degree." With marijuana and undergraduate studies acting as "gateways" to hard drugs and graduate studies respectively, it is not difficult to see the downward trajectory from undergraduate student/marijuana smoker to teaching assistant/crack cocaine addict.
JULIA
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Taste the Wha?
Ok, so this post idea dates back to drunken summer nights on Holt's couch watching the television magnificently mounted in the corner of the ceiling, but I find it still holds relevance.
Everyone knows when it comes to the hip shoe consumers that make up so much of the world's candy-buying demographic, weird is the that's hot of the late thousand-ands. This must be why Skittles decided to make it the defining characteristic of their latest ad game. In researching their little "world wide web site" which in fact takes the form of a "blog," I have discovered that their new fucked-up and totally weird campaign has its crazy ass balls out and swinging. The spawn of my beloved Holt's-couch ad is proudly displayed. It encourages watchers to "race the rainbow" after engaging in a weird skit where two people dressed as rats torture each other with treadmills and bags of candy on the ends of fishing lines. I can only assume this is meant to capitalize on the hipster's lonely and twisted sexuality.
But let's reach back, back, back into the past:
This is the ad I originally saw. Believe it or not, the team over at Skittles selected this little gem for their Superbowl spot. That's right, at one of the last remaining events designed to inspire a sincere sense of ambition in underprivileged youth, these corporate sugar-pushers have used the delicacy of those private long-shot hopes to sell their precious rainbow. "Harvest the rainbow." If I may be so blunt, wha? This sad old grandma with her watery eyeliner and bad dye job is using the last remaining ounce of strength in her velour-encrusted shaky little arms to lug a wheelbarrow full of what I can only assume is symbolically her challenged son's Ritalin which she rakes up while distracting the poor kid with tickling? No, Skittles! This is not the message you want to send! Do not encourage the old fogies gnawing on hard candy as a substitute for Prozac--or perhaps as a tactic in order to appear harmless and endearing, not to mention fun-loving...old man Jenkins always has a few extra caramels for the kids.
That's it, I've got it! Oh Skittles, I've sorely misinterpreted you. I mistook your attempt to corner the burgeoning pedophile demographic as an attempt to wrangle the hipster market! Silly, ever-narcissistic me! Oh well, potato, po-tah-to.
AMY
P.S. I also may have entered this blog in some sort of contest while I was on that Skittles website? Ah, internet, you truly are the Road Runner of our generation. And I will always, always be your Wile E. Coyote.
Everyone knows when it comes to the hip shoe consumers that make up so much of the world's candy-buying demographic, weird is the that's hot of the late thousand-ands. This must be why Skittles decided to make it the defining characteristic of their latest ad game. In researching their little "world wide web site" which in fact takes the form of a "blog," I have discovered that their new fucked-up and totally weird campaign has its crazy ass balls out and swinging. The spawn of my beloved Holt's-couch ad is proudly displayed. It encourages watchers to "race the rainbow" after engaging in a weird skit where two people dressed as rats torture each other with treadmills and bags of candy on the ends of fishing lines. I can only assume this is meant to capitalize on the hipster's lonely and twisted sexuality.
But let's reach back, back, back into the past:
This is the ad I originally saw. Believe it or not, the team over at Skittles selected this little gem for their Superbowl spot. That's right, at one of the last remaining events designed to inspire a sincere sense of ambition in underprivileged youth, these corporate sugar-pushers have used the delicacy of those private long-shot hopes to sell their precious rainbow. "Harvest the rainbow." If I may be so blunt, wha? This sad old grandma with her watery eyeliner and bad dye job is using the last remaining ounce of strength in her velour-encrusted shaky little arms to lug a wheelbarrow full of what I can only assume is symbolically her challenged son's Ritalin which she rakes up while distracting the poor kid with tickling? No, Skittles! This is not the message you want to send! Do not encourage the old fogies gnawing on hard candy as a substitute for Prozac--or perhaps as a tactic in order to appear harmless and endearing, not to mention fun-loving...old man Jenkins always has a few extra caramels for the kids.
That's it, I've got it! Oh Skittles, I've sorely misinterpreted you. I mistook your attempt to corner the burgeoning pedophile demographic as an attempt to wrangle the hipster market! Silly, ever-narcissistic me! Oh well, potato, po-tah-to.
AMY
P.S. I also may have entered this blog in some sort of contest while I was on that Skittles website? Ah, internet, you truly are the Road Runner of our generation. And I will always, always be your Wile E. Coyote.
Friday, October 21, 2011
omigod... SHOES!
Okay, so this post isn't actually about that hilariously annoying in a ha-ha-ha-please-let-this-stop kind of way youtube classic.
Although I have suspicions that when the "OMG, Shoes" video went viral it may have spawned more than we had foreseen in the realm of shoe pastiche. New Media classes everywhere have been completely underestimating how absolutely sick a viral video can make culture. Sick, people.
Because kids these days have been bit by the ugly shoe bug. I duly noted a couple of autumns back how "ugly" was the new "sexy" in footwear. Old Doc Martens, weird brown lace ups, or as my sister had, shoes that you might find on a medieval movie set. If you didn't own any, then fuck you. I raided many a thrift shop, ready to claw my way to the ugliest, brownest, cheapest pair.
For a group that's rah-rah-rahing all over the place about "sustainability", the hipster lifestyle is so freaking unsustainable that I may as well be eating a Meat Lovers' Pizza every day. You don't know that I haven't been.
Let's face it. The shoes were already fucked when I bought them. I think I made the holes work pretty well with my holey jacket (bought under similar circumstances) and skinny jeans. At least that's how my roommate assured me. But there's only so many rainy October nights when you can laugh off your freezing, soaking feet before the heel is entirely worn down and you accidentally step on a shard of glass. Nobody's laughing then.
So I'm proud to say that I, being two steps ahead of even the most fashionable fool at all times, have reached the next level in shoe irony. My shoes are so old and ugly they don't even have soles anymore. Yes, the sustainable lifestyle has reduced me to wearing (a) the neon sneakers I wore in grade 10 and (b) other bizarre boots I have purchased in various foreign countries but never been able to find an occasion for.
Fuck you, hipsters. Eat my neon dust.
Although I have suspicions that when the "OMG, Shoes" video went viral it may have spawned more than we had foreseen in the realm of shoe pastiche. New Media classes everywhere have been completely underestimating how absolutely sick a viral video can make culture. Sick, people.
Because kids these days have been bit by the ugly shoe bug. I duly noted a couple of autumns back how "ugly" was the new "sexy" in footwear. Old Doc Martens, weird brown lace ups, or as my sister had, shoes that you might find on a medieval movie set. If you didn't own any, then fuck you. I raided many a thrift shop, ready to claw my way to the ugliest, brownest, cheapest pair.
For a group that's rah-rah-rahing all over the place about "sustainability", the hipster lifestyle is so freaking unsustainable that I may as well be eating a Meat Lovers' Pizza every day. You don't know that I haven't been.
Let's face it. The shoes were already fucked when I bought them. I think I made the holes work pretty well with my holey jacket (bought under similar circumstances) and skinny jeans. At least that's how my roommate assured me. But there's only so many rainy October nights when you can laugh off your freezing, soaking feet before the heel is entirely worn down and you accidentally step on a shard of glass. Nobody's laughing then.
So I'm proud to say that I, being two steps ahead of even the most fashionable fool at all times, have reached the next level in shoe irony. My shoes are so old and ugly they don't even have soles anymore. Yes, the sustainable lifestyle has reduced me to wearing (a) the neon sneakers I wore in grade 10 and (b) other bizarre boots I have purchased in various foreign countries but never been able to find an occasion for.
Fuck you, hipsters. Eat my neon dust.
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