Yoda and the Slacker Generation

Back in the summer of 1998, I saw the film The Last Days of Disco. Clever and just sentimental enough to be palpable, it starred Kate Beckinsale, Chloe Sevigny and the always underrated Chris Eigeman. Looking back on it now, it seems to have been part of a curious pre-millenial sub-genre of movies set in the late seventies and early eighties (200 Cigarettes also comes to mind but I'm sure there were others as well) that seemed to communicate that these previously derided decades may not have been so bad after all. The nineties' dogged pursuit of substance was noble enough but the corollary of it was a colossal bore of a decade. In 1989, Francis Fukuyama proposed the End of History; ten years later, we witnessed the End of Entertainment.

One of the film's characters - played by either Mackenzie Astin or Robert Sean Leonard - worked for some kind of environmental agency and one night told the group at the disco about the birth of the green movement. It seems that many Baby Boomers were scarred by the scene in Bambi where his mother is shot and this led to a generation of adults with a deep concern for the environment and animal rights. A nice theory.

Almost immediately this scene preyed on my mind and I began to search for some sort of Generation X equivalent. While plenty of people will make a case for E.T. being our generation's Bambi - and they're probably correct - its ability to leave an impression on our young minds was negligible compared to that of Star Wars. And who from that monumental trilogy was better at imparting some wisdom on us than Yoda? Take that Han Solo!

Do or do not, there is no try

(This line seems particularly strange now given how the whole story played out with the prequels. The portrayal of Yoda as arrogant and out of touch - and, pointedly, the fact that he didn't even kill anyone of importance - in Episodes I, II and III shows how the originals were almost as much about his redemption as it was Anakin Skywalker's. It's as if the line were a throwback to an earlier time that hadn't yet taken place. A redeemed Yoda, if anything, should have been encouraging diligence in his charges to avoid them becoming the lazy - and evil - bastards that Anakin became.)

It's since been my theory that my generation has rode with these words, even if it has done so subconsciously. Yoda's scolding of Luke Skywalker may well have been an attempt to motivate his young padawan but to me it was an invitation to slack, to not bother doing anything that ever proved difficult or challenging. Stick with what you're good at don't bother with anything else. Luke's subsequent failure to use the force to lift his ship out of the swamp only gave credence to his master's words: the whiny Jedi shouldn't have bothered trying.

So, if you've been basking a little too much in your own sloth, don't fret; that's the way we're supposed to be. It's not quite as noble as a dead doe inspiring environmentalism is it? But don't blame us: we're the lost generation.

We were never being Borges

The autumn of 2005 was the height of my Geoff Dyer period. During that time I didn't just read his books, I read everything I could get my hands on: archived New Statesman reviews from 1987 at the U of C library, articles dug from the deepest corners of cyberspace and introductions to F. Scott Fitzgerald novels I had no interest in reading (that is to say all of them). Once these areas had been exhausted, I began to explore his literary heroes (as well as his favourite music, which probably explains why I've become such a jazz fiend, though I'm having trouble tracking down The Necks) and this began with Dyer's mentor, the great John Berger.

Strange how whenever I'm thinking aloud about getting into someone new - literary or musical - that everyone has this idea of just where I should "start". Curious, too, that these places to start are never all that interesting. Still, I guess it's a crime against suspense if I were to have discovered beautiful works like and our faces, my heart, brief as photos, Photocopies or Here is Where We Meet before the comparatively dull Ways of Seeing.

In his intro to Berger's Selected Essays, Dyer name drops a few exotic literary exports, the kind (aside from, presumably, Berger himself) that England no longer seems to be able to produce: Jorge Luis Borges, Italo Calvino, Milan Kundera, W.G. Sebald. Those four names were where I needed to go. And since being in Korea I've read at least one book by each member of this distinguished quartet.

But the results have been somewhat mixed. I'm planning a seperate blog entry on finding Kundera baffling and decidedly unmoving experienceso I won't get into that here, nor will I praise Sebald's damn-near miraculous prose. What I want to write about is the real Borges and the fake Borges that my mind created.

I didn't know what to make of Borges at first and I'm not sure that was entirely because I chose to start reading it on my unspeakably boring Korean Airlines flight (nor do I want to blame Borges for aiding in the trip's dullness factor). The book reviews of fake books and metaphysical elucidations felt like the kind of thing I could only admire but never enjoy. Then I read "Funes, His Memory" and "The Book of Sand" and I was hooked. I like to think of his work at alchemical: his imagination didn't clash with his detailed, erudite mind, it complemented it. They always say of the original that if they didn't exist, you'd have to invent them; if Borges had never existed, no one would've ever thought to.

The Borges fixation persisted to the extent that even when I was reading someone else I was still trying to read him. And this was especially the case when I finally got down to reading Calvino. Sure, Invisible Cities is great, a major work though, I believed at the time, spoken by a less than major voice. I found him gimmicky and, in the case of If on a winter's night a traveller, far too clever for his own good. My praise was even somewhat backhanded: is it really a complement to anyone other than Borges if their imagination is described as Borgesian? In spite of (or, perhaps, because of) loving one of his books, I felt that I couldn't take him seriously, that he was little more than a sideshow for the mighty Sebald or Borges.

But yesterday I picked up a used copy of The Baron in the Trees and, just four chapters in, I know my Calvino period is set to commence. I wonder if he too recognized his lack of a voice and dealt with it by communicating his vast ideas through the voices of others. Borges could be writing from the perspective of an Argentine gaucho, a Nazi war criminal facing execution or a Scandinavian philosopher but he is still Borges and only Borges. Calvino seems to toy with voices, giving each of his works a distinct quality that never could be blended in with another - the bit in If on a winter's night where he speaks for the reader not believing this to be one of his books would seem to apply to all of them (and, as such, to none of them).

Previously, Calvino suffered for not being Borges; now he benefits for being Calvino, whoever or whatever he or that may be. Let's start the insanity.

The Small McMercies

Ever since I was four and informed everyone who would listen that I wanted to work at McDonald's when I grew up (which, despite the paper hats my sister and I were rewarded with, was probably tempting fate given the kinds of jobs I've had) I've had a pretty stormy relationship with the chain.

The gradual phasing out of the Shamrock Shake was deplorable enough, as was deep-sixing the yummiest burger they ever came up with, the McDLT. Then they redecorated the cool old school McDonald's on 4th Street (the same place, incidentally, where I expressed my interest in employment; given what their employees look like, I suppose that was a couple years too young) and closed the one at Stadium Shopping Centre which had pictures of the Calgary Stampeders on the walls and lowered seating in the middle of the restaurant. And there was all that corporate greed/legal action/health warning stuff, which was pretty unpleasant. Subsequently, my habit for disgusting, fatty foods was being satiated by Wendy's and Harvey's and, more recently, by my beloved Tubby Dog.

But now, McDonald's here in Korea has moved one step towards redemption by introducing Egg McMuffins! It's difficult to say just how this will fly with a people who routinely eat kimchi, seaweed soup and rice for breakfast but I think it's safe to say the entire English teaching community is basking in this development. Already I've been to my local Macca's (as the Aussies call it) at Bucheon Station three times during my brief 8:20 to 9:00 break to pick up McMuffins for Dave, Jason and me. And my ponch continues to expand.

Now about those Shamrock Shakes...

Borat's On Ice Reign of Terror

As if the football club wasn't woeful enough, Thailand has now reached a new high in ineptness in hockey at the Asia Winter Games, getting bombarded 52-1 against "powerhouse" Kazakhstan (to think what the score would've been had Nik Antropov been playing). While a loss of this nature might be a blow to a pipsqueak like Singapore, the Thais celebrated their two highlights (the other being when a defenseman bodychecked a linesman) and were delighted by the result.

While living in Bangkok during the 2002 World Cup I vowed to cheer for Thailand should they ever qualify for the tournament (at present their best bet is to hope that FIFA adds another hundred or so countries) and now I'm extending that support to the hockey team as well. Call me unpatriotic but I'd much rather root for Canadians who live in Thailand than Canadians who live in the States. But that's just me.

6:30 Blues

You know if I'm able to make it in at this time then anyone can. So where is everyone? They'll never forget what they've learned if they don't show up.

Catching up with HTML

So much for being glorified typewriters, I think I'm actually beginning to get the grasp of HTML - even if I still don't know what it stands for. My two week apprenticeship editing and writing stuff for Wikipedia has proven to be not quite the pointless venture I imagined it to be (to see just about the only thing I wrote that didn't either get mauled or deleted, click here).

As you might've noticed, I've jazzed up - pun very much intended - the bottom of this space. If you're at all interested, you can now read what professional critics think of most of my favourite books and music. Not wanting to appear to be quite the jazz snob that everyone knows I am, I've even added a few pop albums to the list and upped my cred immeasurably by including Augustus Pablo as well.

Wow, I put Roxy Music on a list to appear less snobby...there's a first.

"Stamina" Food: The Movie

Here it is. Naturally I don't care too much for the song (R 'n' B must die) but the images more than compensate. There's nothing so startling as seeing your food move around on your plate. I defy dog soup to be even half this extraordinary.

It's good for stamina, you know

(nb: there was supposed to be a YouTube video of some strange Korean foods in this spot but it seems to have been deleted when I tried editing it on my Blogspot account. I'll try to get another one up as soon as possible. A more technically adept individual could probably work it out but computers still are for me - to possibly misquote my old roommate Sean - just glorified typewriters)

The food here in Korea isn't quite up to the standards I enjoyed back in Thailand. Sometimes I wonder if it even manages to match Indonesia's modest, deep-fried fare. But it's certainly memorable. The above are but a fraction of the unique culinary treats I've indulged in.

- the utterly appalling beondegi - silkworm - with its foul flavour and gritty texture

- dried squid (the Korean name currently escapes me) which apparently most Westerners deplore because of the smell. Much like durian, I guess I'm not as sensitive towards its noxious funk

- sundae, a less sophisticated cousin of blood sausage

- jeon, a flat, sweet fish that Koreans often consume for dessert. Kristina actually likes it which must be down to all the herring she had to eat as a girl

But none of these comes close to what I'll be having next week if the plans I made last night come to fruition. My student Bruce has promised that he'll take me out for bosintang, better known in English as dog soup. Before you judge me, please let me state that I've come this far and I'll always regret it if I don't. Besides, I've heard enough comments about the Asian propensity for canine dining and now that I'm living in a country where it actually is practised (unlike, say, Indonesia where they supposedly eat catfish harvested from Jakarta's sewers and make grow Civet coffee but don't eat dog meat) it must be done. Plus, it's said to be good for "stamina" - a quality it shares with all of Korea's eccentric foodstuffs.

Taking on the Periodic Table

- Do you know what constellation that is?

- Orion.

- Wow! How did you know that?

It's always Orion. Barring the occasional school or Cub Scout Cubs field trip as a boy, I can't seem to recall why I've been quizzed on constellations so often. I don't even know what Orion looks like. Not that it matters much: it's always Orion.

So does this mean Tungsten is the Orion of the Periodic Table? If last night's quiz at the Canadian Buddy pub here in Bucheon is anything to go by then it would certainly seem so.

Science 101 was the evening's final topic and I knew I'd have to pull a few tricks out of my ass in order to stay within Fan Death's damn-near commanding lead. Question six asked the following:

"What element is number two on the Periodic Table?"

Thinking it had to be either Air, Water or Dirt (the "elements" I am most familiar with), Kristina and the Americans at the next table informed me that the correct answer was in fact Helium. I then proceeded to inform everyone that the only Periodic Table Fun Fact I carry around with me is that Tungsten is also known as Wolfram. Question seven:

"What is Tungsten's symbol on the Periodic Table?"

(Needless to say that part (b) of my Tungsten Trivial is that its symbol is W)

It's nice that these things can happen and brighten up a bit of a tough week and a mediocre third place finish in the Canadian Buddy Pub Quiz. Question 11:

"Mirach and Alpheratz are stars in what constellation?"

Maybe it isn't always Orion...

What, no Reckless?

I've just learned that the brilliant 33 1/3 series of music books has put out a call for submissions. Call this one of my crazy schemes but I'm determined to send off a proposal for their Valentine's Day deadline.

For the uninitiated, 33 1/3 are an ever-expanding series of books focusing on albums. They've shown a noble determination to shy away from the all-too-obvious and the frequently-written-about (Let it Be, rather than bloody Abbey Road, for example, or Meat is Murder instead of The Queen is Dead)

But what to pick? They have a one title per group or singer rule which means no Boy with the Arab Strap, Trust or Five Leaves Left. Thus, I am left with All is Dream, Reading, Writing and Arithmetic, 13 and about five or six of XTC's albums to choose from (the betting is on English Settlement). I could also go on a limb and propose a jazz album, something the series still lacks. All hail Money Jungle!

Any suggestions you may have would be appreciated. Feel free to contact me with your own ideas if you too feel compelled to submit, though I'm not sure if they'll accept Fogarty's Cove.