Taking a City’s Pulse

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By Jason Menard

Noted poet El DeBarge, before he plunged into the particular circle of Hell reserved for 80’s pop Jackson-wannabes, implored us all to feel the beat of the rhythm of the night. But how do you feel the beat when the city you live in has no pulse.

Recently I had the pleasure of spending two days in Toronto on a conference. Now, Hog Town’s not my favourite city in the world, but being in the heart of downtown for two days reminded me what a real city is like – and what I’m missing where I currently live.

No, I was not dancing ‘til the morning light – in fact, my dancing machine’s in bad need of an overhaul. But I did take the opportunity to walk – a hell of a long way, if you ask my feet. It was a practise that I used to engage in quite frequently living and working in Montreal.

There is a pulse to the city and you can tell the tourists not by the gaudy clothes or the slack-jawed, gaping stares as they look heavenwards at the steel and glass monstrosities that rise up before them. You can tell who they are by the fact that they don’t engage in the dance of the street. They’re unable to walk any distance without bumping into people, the become confused and double-back on their steps, and they generally get in the way of those who feel the rhythms of the city in their bones and march along in time.

Unfortunately, absence doesn’t just make the heart grow fonder, it makes one forget the notes that sing so sweetly for city dwellers.

Once I was able to walk the busy downtown streets of Montreal, along with thousands of dance partners as we emerged from our underground transportation blinking into the light of day. Huddling our jackets about us in winter or trying to catch our breath stolen by the oppressive humidity of summer, we would steel ourselves for the march and move in time – one harmonious, intertwined mass that would only break apart as we would reach our destination.

In fact, many of us, myself include, would do this while keeping our noses buried in a book or newspaper. The morning and evening commute danced along the city streets, through the cacophony of horns as we regarded streets signs as a suggestion.

Yes, this time I noticed I was one of “them.” I was one of those unfortunate few who appeared to be dancing with two left feet. The notes, although familiar, weren’t coming back to me as quickly as they once did. And the reason is because where I live now just doesn’t play the same tune.

Oh, sure, there’s a rhythm to London, Ontario – unfortunately when it comes to the downtown it sounds more like Taps. And where I work it could be the theme to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. My day job is in an industrial park area, near a residential section, but certainly not conducive to an engaging walk. It’s an area where one doesn’t walk for pleasure – it’s an area where you have to force yourself to walk. But, more often than not, we all pile into our cars, shut out the great outdoors, and drive to whatever destination and errand awaits us.

And that’s one of the biggest thing big-city dwellers miss about big cities. It’s not the events, it’s not the size or diversity – it’s not all that external stuff. What’s most missed by those that leave is something more organic – something internal. It’s not the style, it’s not the flash that you miss, it’s the heartbeat of the city. It’s that factor that you can’t fake, that you can’t just feel in a one-week visit, but rather that slow and steady pulse that’s made up of all those who are a part of it.

I’ve felt it in Montreal, Toronto, New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. These are not cities built upon foundations of steel and glass, but rather they’re nexus points where millions of souls converge to engage in a dynamic dance of life.

For those two days, even though I can’t consider myself a fan of Toronto itself, I have to admit that it was nice to feel the rhythms and remember how I was once able to dance those steps. Perhaps it will happen again, but at the very least I know that when I’m back in a city with a true pulse, I’ll be able to feel it, slowly, reassuringly. And in large cities where people often feel alone despite being surrounded by millions of people, that pulse, that heartbeat is what makes us feel a part of something bigger.

2006© Menard Communications – Jason Menard All Rights Reserved

The Day After

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By Jason Menard

I woke up this morning. The sun continued to shine. The birds continued to chirp. Armageddon didn’t come as expected.

Yes, the world continues to spin on its axis, even though the Hartford Whalers won the Stanley Cup.

Even though the Whalers departed the insurance capital of Hartford, Connecticut for the sunnier climes of South Carolina back in April of 1997, the team’s theme song Brass Bonanza continues to bore a hole in my consciousness. And despite the apocalyptic hyperbole from so-called hockey purists, the fact that the Stanley Cup remains in the Southern United States isn’t such a horrible thing.

Life goes on, hockey continues, and the sun continues to shine as we gear up for the NHL draft, training camp, and the start of yet another season in just a few short months.

While Carolina and Tampa Bay may not be the first places you think of when discussing hockey hotbeds, the fact of the matter is that the sport continues to grow in hot-weather climates. Success like these two can only help to build a foundation for the fastest game on ice in the land of NASCAR and cigarettes. And if, as Canadians and self-proclaimed custodians of the game, we’re truly concerned about the league’s future, we should be happy that the league will garner some attention in non-traditional markets.

After all, if the cup only rotated between Montreal, Edmonton, and Detroit, it would be hard to build up interest in other cities, now, wouldn’t it?

In fact, Carolina isn’t the oddest team name to grace the Cup. The bustling metropolis of Kenora (population approximately 16,000) won the cup back in 1907. Thankfully, they didn’t engrave the city’s original name on the Cup – Rat Portage makes Carolina look high-class in comparison.

Since then, the Cup was shuttled through the Original Six (even Toronto, although the last reference may be fading by now), residing most of the time in Montreal either with the Canadiens, Maroons, or Wanderers. It’s only been in the past few years that non-traditional markets have been allowed into our club.

Sure, Edmonton’s a newer club, but really is there any place more hockey than frozen Alberta? Same thing for Calgary. The Islanders mini-dynasty put the Cup back in the New York area carved out by the Rangers, and the Penguins back-to-back championships was accepted due to the city’s lunch-bucket mentality (and proximity to Philadelphia).

But Carolina? Tampa? Perish the thought.

If hockey fans are anything, they’re snobs. They may call themselves purists, but really it’s nothing more than elitism masking as concern for the game. Even though history will show that the recent rules changes will be responsible for making the game more exciting and dynamic than ever, “purists” were sitting there acting all curmudgeonly and bemoaning the bastardization of “our” game. Instead of embracing change, instead of welcoming new people to the club, these so-called purists are doing everything they can to keep people out of their self-created exclusive club.

Soccer, a sport with arguably more history and a greater entrenchment in the societies in which its played, constantly fiddles with the rules, their interpretations, and even the equipment used. Heck, in this World Cup – the pinnacle event for soccer fans globally – the powers-that-be have introduced a new, lighter ball to improve scoring.

Do we hear soccer purists complaining about the bastardization of the game? Do they look upon this year’s tournament with any less validity than those past? No, they’ve learned that the game must move forward and adapt to remain relevant. Simply doing things because that’s the way they’ve always been done isn’t good enough. Smart organizations – whether they’re in business or in the business of sport – know that constant re-evaluation of accepted business practices is the key to maintaining position in the marketplace.

There are no hockey gods coming down etching the rules of the game on frozen tablets for all to follow. The game has adapted. Remember the rover? Goalies without helmets? No? Probably because the game changed with the times and refined its rules to meet the changing tastes of its clientele. Change is good. Expansion into new markets is good. Closed-minded protectionism is what will kill the very sport these so-called fans claim to love.

After all, Carolina won the Cup and the world continues to spin. Thankfully though, the team-formerly-known-as-Hartford refrained from playing Brass Bonanza for old time’s sake, and scarring another generation of children for life.

2006© Menard Communications – Jason Menard All Rights Reserved

Respectfully, I Withhold my Support

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By Jason Menard

In light of the recent flap regarding the Department of National Defense’s demand to bring down a “Support Our Troops” billboard, one thing has been taken for granted – that all Canadians are on board with the idea of support.

I, for one, respectfully withhold mine. In the end, I respect our troops and their efforts – but I can’t support their war. And by lending my support to our troops, I’m tacitly endorsing their efforts – as anathema as they may be to me.

I suggest that we, like the DND when faced with media pressure on this issue, do an about-face and change the mantra to “Respect Our Troops.” At the very least, that’s what they deserve. Support, respect – it may seem like nothing more than semantics, but like Elvis sang, “words are all I have to steal your heart away.”

Am I less patriotic due to the fact that I won’t utter the words support? Does that make me admire our soldiers any less for the rigors they face on a daily basis? No. But that’s not a display of support – that’s me showing my respect for their activities.

Unfortunately, any sort of commentary against the sentiment of “Support our Troops” will bring vociferous opposition and brandings of anti-Canadian. That’s far from the reality. True patriotism doesn’t mean blindly following the will and expression of our leaders. True patriotism comes from questioning every action that our nation takes and making sure we’re the best country we can be.

Why is military exempt from this criticism? Environmentalists go into each and every action with the best intentions, but their efforts and practices are subject to intense scrutiny. Disagreeing with David Suzuki doesn’t make you a closet industrialist willing to rape and pillage the earth for your own misbegotten advancement. So why are any words uttered against our military presence in other countries likened to treason?

We can respect our soldiers and appreciate their efforts to — quoting an overused sentiment – fight for our freedoms. But does that appreciation write a blank cheque for any and all military actions? I’m afraid not.

Canadians can be proud of their military and peacekeeping history. And, for some, our role in Afghanistan is a signal that our international presence still has some meaning. But, for others, our role in a foreign dispute is questionable. The Afghanistan situation is ripe for scrutiny, in light of the history of conflict in the region. When Soviet tanks rumbled through the streets of Kandahar, where were the North American forces? Tiptoeing a line and supporting the Taliban behind the scenes.

So, although many of the arguments that justify our current involvement in Afghanistan were there then – such as the oppression of the people, we didn’t make any move until it was politically appropriate to do so (and we wouldn’t run the risk of escalating Cold War sensitivities). For that reason alone, our involvement is questionable.

Simply put, a just war is just at any time – not just when the political environment is right.

Can each and every Canadian look deep inside their hearts and know, without any shadow of doubt, that our involvement in Afghanistan is the right thing? Can we really believe that war – and lets be real, this is peace-making, not peace-keeping – is the best answer to the region’s problems? If there’s a shadow of a doubt anywhere in your mind, how can you lend your wholehearted support to the effort?

And if you shout from the rooftops to support our troops, is that not what you’re doing. The argument that we’re supporting our soldiers, not necessarily the war doesn’t hold water. “Our soldiers” are involved in a war. Their actions are defining the combat as it takes place – one can’t be removed from the other.

That’s why I’ll respectfully withhold my support from our soldiers. But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect their efforts and admire them for their determination and their willingness to lay down their lives for the cause. I just hope they believe more in the cause for which they’re willing to make the ultimate sacrifice than I do.

Respect Our Troops. Now that’s a sentiment that I could get behind 100 per cent.

2006© Menard Communications – Jason Menard All Rights Reserved

Revisiting TV Memories Not Always Good Viewing

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By Jason Menard

Despite the advent of personal video recorders, there are some cases when the television medium and the rewind button just don’t mix – especially when it comes to shows we prized in our youth.

An affiliate of the Cartoon Network, aimed at the 18-plus demographic, has purchased the entire run of Pee Wee’s Playhouse and intends to run it during the 11:00 p.m. slot – too late to be targeted to a new audience. And while the wannabe hipsters will embrace the show, the vast majority of us who saw the show in its first go-around will probably end up disappointed.

The adage of you can’t go home again has been disproved over and over. But while the phrase can’t be used as a generalization, it does still apply in certain areas, especially to the things we loved as a child.

The shows don’t change – it’s the way in which we see them that’s evolved. The wide-eyed wonder of our youth is replaced by a more jaundiced, discerning perspective that adulthood provides. We know more, we understand more, and it’s harder for us as adults to suspend disbelief.

And, in the case of Pee Wee Herman, our viewing experience will now be filtered through a bit of salacious knowledge that Mr. Reubens unfortunately had, uhm, exposed. Simple jokes, innocent banter, and personal interplay will now be heavily coloured by innuendo and double-entendres – even when they’re not there.

The gazillion-channel universe that we live in has almost ensured that no show will ever go unwatched again. Entire channels are dedicated to replaying so-called classic series to the nostalgic. So the chances are good that the show you loved as a child is either on some channel’s schedule, or will be in the near future. The choice of watching again is up to you.

But, from personal experience, I’d advise you not to.

Everything’s bigger and better in our youth. The snows were higher, the games were more fun, and the shows were simply better. With an 11-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl, I’ve been able to stay abreast of what’s on now: much of the older child’s programming features smart-alecky, pseudo-rebellious kids with a penchant for back talk and clichés. For my younger off-spring, her choices are more Princess-oriented and Disneyfied, along with some (absolutely entertaining) educational shows like Dora the Explorer and Go Diego Go.

Watching our eldest’s shows, my wife and I have occasionally fallen into the trap of turning up our noses at the shows and lamenting about the loss of intelligent viewing options. Fortunately, with alternative channels like Animal Planet and Discovery Kids, we can take solace in the fact that there are more opportunities of education and entertainment to blend. But, let’s face it, as a kid sometimes you just want to be entertained and put the ol’ brain on park.

Both my wife and I were fond of the Incredible Hulk, so we were excited about the chance of catching it again when it appeared on the schedule for one of our subscribed channels. After two episodes we began to question our intelligence. Maybe we weren’t as smart or discerning as we thought we were.

My wife was a Charlie’s Angels fan. Another memory tarnished by reality. Miami Vice? Terrible. A-Team? B rate. But the worst, most disappointing wasted childhood memory? V.

Whenever discussions of shows we loved came up, V was at the top of our list. We remembered it as a stylish, intelligent, exciting show – even though the only memories we could conjure up was the image of the aliens peeling off their fake human faces. In this case, the stature of the show continued to be built up due to its stubborn refusal to show up on my dial. My faith in the quality of the show was unwavering.

Until we saw it. Let’s just say I miss my memories.

And that’s the key. Few things are as good as we remember from youth, and it’s made me gun shy about what I’m willing to watch again. I picked up Schoolhouse Rock andUnderdog DVDs and was pleased that they still met my lofty expectations. I watched Sesame Street with my daughter, or the old Spider-Man cartoons (you know, the one that used stock images when he was swinging so that the Empire State Building would appear in any jungle or any country…) with my son and they’re still entertaining.

Yet, I’ve lost so much by revisiting my youth. Fond memories have been tainted by present-day realities. I remember loving the Electric Company, but do I really want to pick up the new DVD set and risk slaying Speed Reader?

When favourite shows return to the tube, your decision on whether or not you want to watch comes down to how much are you willing to gamble? How fond are your memories? Are you willing to compromise childhood reminisces? I’m finding, personally, the answer is less and less in the affirmative.

After all, absence does make the heart grow fonder – and those built-up memories rarely stand the test of time.

2006© Menard Communications – Jason Menard All Rights Reserved

The Face of AIDS Looks Better than Ever, Unfortunately

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By Jason Menard

AIDS is my disease.

Fortunately I don’t mean in the way that I have contracted it, but in the fact that the spectre of AIDS and its complications have been a part of my life ever since I was truly conscious of disease.

Unlike cancer, diabetes, and heart disease – all worthy adversaries, mind you – AIDS was the disease that defined my generation. It was the issue that we were forced to deal with from a very young age, and it’s safe to say it defined the expression of sexuality for many of my demographic.

And as AIDS now turns 25 – a birthday that often is seen as a turning point in the transition from youth to adulthood – it appears to only be getting stronger. AIDS may be my disease, but I have no clue how to fight it, and the casualties are mounting.

Recently, we lost a family friend to complications of AIDS. That not-unexpected turn of events helped to put the disease back in focus. After all, for a while there we were looking at AIDS as an African disease. In North America, the disease is largely being viewed as treatable through the use of antiretrovirals. The “drug cocktail” has enabled North Americans to view AIDS still as a life sentence, but no longer as a quick stint on death row.

Africa, on the other hand, is so far away from our daily conscious that we can push it aside. We can hear about the horrors of HIV and AIDS and how they’re decimating entire populations, but not rationalize that with our more sterilized and sanitary AIDS epidemic on this side of the Atlantic. A human tragedy is only one when it can touch you – otherwise it remains too far in the realm of the abstract to directly impact us.

The last time I felt that detachment from AIDS was during my youth. Naiveté, innocence, and a healthy measure of arrogance, meant that I couldn’t truly understand the impact AIDS was having in the community around me. Sitting with the boys in the locker room, we’d make off-colour jokes, laugh nervously at expressions of sexuality that we only half-understood – but of which we had to fake so as not to reveal our immaturity, and compartmentalized the disease as something we would never be exposed to. After all, we weren’t gay. We didn’t know Rock Hudson. We were safe, or so we thought. Immature attempts at gallows humour were our defense against the unknown.

It wasn’t until later on in life that we learn that we’re never truly safe. Beyond the fear (and hate) mongering and ignorance of those who claimed that you could contract AIDS from toilet seats or sharing a glass, we learned that AIDS was not just a disease for others. It wasn’t just a gay or IV drug user disease (a pairing that far too often was lumped together), but rather a disease that any of us could get if we were irresponsible.

Sexuality, frightening enough on its own, became downright terrorizing. High school issues went beyond simply questioning the value of teaching sexual education in the classroom, but rather how we could justify not putting condom machines in the bathroom.

So where are we today, now that AIDS is 25 years old? We have a generation of youth who have grown up knowing nothing but AIDS in their lives. And, unlike those of us who were raised during the first, uncertain, days of the disease, they seem to have less fear of the issue. Perhaps the advent of these drug cocktails, allowing HIV-sufferers to live for years in relative good health, has prevented today’s youth from seeing the horrors and ravages that AIDS can impose upon the body.

My introduction to AIDS was one of emaciated bodies, feeble eyes that stared off into the distance, and the certainty of a rapid decent into eternal slumber. Today’s face of AIDS is robust, active, and – most importantly – alive in every sense of the word. It almost makes you think that living with the disease isn’t that bad after all.

And that’s why, at 25 years old, AIDS has matured and is more dangerous than ever. High-risk sexual behaviours are on the rise, simply because the consequences don’t seem that bad. HIV-infected stars like Magic Johnson represent both the best and worst of the epidemic: he shows that you can live an active and full life even with the disease, but at the same time, his relative robust persona diminishes the very real danger that HIV and AIDS presents.

The North American face of AIDS is simply a façade. The true nature of the disease is there for all to see as it ravages Africa. Unfortunately, we as a society just don’t care to look.

AIDS may be my disease, but the one that I encountered a quarter of a century ago has gotten wilier and more insidious. At 25, AIDS has matured. Instead of showing its age, it appears to be in the full bloom of youth. And that’s the scariest thing of all.

2006© Menard Communications – Jason Menard All Rights Reserved