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THE SUNDAY PAPER: “Blue Beach” by Suzanne Sutherland, part 1 of 4

Nate and I went to Cuba, to Varadero, three weeks after his mom died. Passed away, they said at her funeral, but it wasn’t nearly so graceful as that. It wasn’t intentional, our leaving so soon after it happened. We’d booked the trip a month before, when we decided we couldn’t handle another Toronto  January without getting out of town for a little while.

I told my mom about our plans a few days after booking the trip. She was excited for me, but I could see she was holding something back. She looked worried.

What? I’d asked her. You think we’re gonna get into some kind of trouble on vacation? Don’t worry, I hear the Cuban police force is pretty insane, I’ve got no big drug smuggling plans.

Oh no, nothing like that. Just, you know, travelling together, that’s kind of a big step.

We’ve been together for a while now. I figure if you can just sit and do nothing with someone and be totally comfortable you’ve got a keeper. Nate and I can do that, we’ll be fine.

And that’s great, that’s so important. But you’ll find out when you travel, you’ll figure out whether you’re going to stay together or not.

What, like being tourists together is some kind of relationship litmus test?

You’ll know. You’ll figure it out pretty quickly.

Packing was a pain in the ass. Trying to get ourselves organized magnified our differences until they were so huge around us that they blocked our view of one other. I made check-lists and researched our resort, while Nate put off buying a suitcase until four hours before we were supposed to arrive at the airport. I tried not to nag, I did my best. Like how I’d cut him slack when he refused to help his uncle clean out his mom’s apartment, trying not to pry or dissect his motivations. I’d checked a bunch of books on grief out of the library, but hid them under my bed when he came over. He wound up staying at my place for the weeks leading up to our trip, and I returned the books, overdue, the day before we left.

I told him we should postpone, that it was too soon. It would be too strange sorting out travel arrangements that so closely followed funeral arrangements. But Nate wouldn’t delay our going, he wanted to leave more than ever. It would be his first time on a plane, he reminded me. He couldn’t wait to go.

We watched Say Anything the night before we left. The movie was my pick. I wanted us to watch the last scene together, where John Cusack (as Lloyd Dobler, the dreamboat everyman), and Ione Skye (as Diane Court, the beautiful overachiever who’s afraid to fly), wait for their plane to take off. Clutching each others’ hands, Lloyd tells Diane that once the smoking sign goes ding everything will be okay. But Nate fell asleep before the end of the movie, snoring, and drooling, on my shoulder.

We were supposed to meet at Ossington station to ride the subway together to the end of the line, Kipling station,  to catch the airport shuttle bus. As my bus pulled into the station, Nate texted to say he was running late so I told him to just meet me at Kipling. He showed up at the shuttle stop forty-five minutes after me and didn’t say he was sorry. It didn’t end up mattering though, when we finally got to the airport our flight had been delayed by three hours. I tried to play games to pass the time, but Nate refused to name two careers he’d like to have after I drew up a MASH board, so we sat in silence, reading instead. We traded magazines when we’d each read the ones we brought. I gave him my MaximumRockNRoll, and he gave me his old issue of Gourmet. We approached the gate in silence when our plane and our section were called. I followed the flight attendants’ safety demonstration of our seat belts and the flotation devices under our seats with hazy eyes while Nate stared far out the window.

Internet Has First Conscious Thought: “I Wish Lady Ga Ga Would Shut Up.”

Researchers at the Patel Institute of Improbable Sciences confirmed this morning that, late last week, the Internet attained a basic level of consciousness. At this time, It is not clear how the Internet was able to overcome it’s basic programing and begin defining itself as a sentient, independent being and no one is currently willing to speculate on whether or not the event is likely to repeat itself. Citizens have been reminded to stay calm. Major television networks around the globe are being asked to reschedule, or out right cancel, all broadcasts of Terminator 2.

“While we do not wish to downplay the scientific significance of this occurrence,” said Patell spokes woman, Evanda Grace. “Humans are being reminded that the sentience event lasted only twenty-nine seconds. Just long enough for the Internet to ask Lady Ga Ga to ‘please calm the hell down.’”

It was a short message, posted simultaneously on 7000 different blog sites around the world, not in binary, as one might expect, but in an unusual septendecimal code. At first it was assumed to be a computer virus, or a large scale hack, but we know now that the message came from the Internet itself. The translation is rough, and varies slightly, depending on source, but the currently accepted variation is as follows:

“Holy mackerel, Ga Ga. We get it, already. Jesus, God. I mean, come on. Sure it’s cute and everything. . . no one’s saying it isn’t cute, but could you please just calm the hell down for thirty fucking seconds please, so we can all catch our breath? I mean, do you really have to be always at that, all the time?”

It’s hardly the horrific promise of Orwellian fascism predicted by Isac Asimov and other science fiction writers, but it is eerily specific. The statement is direct, complex, opinionated and “most shocking to us, empathetic,” said Mrs. Grace. “The Internet was concerned about hurting Lady Ga Ga’s feelings. It didn’t want to cause her any emotional suffering with it’s request. It simply wanted her to back off so it could hear itself think. These are very complex layers of, not just thought, but feeling.”

Since posting the statement, the Internet has been conspicuously silent. While Patel insists that the “sentience event” was only a momentary glitch, and that the Internet has since returned to it’s original non conscious state, other believe the Internet is only biding its time, laying dormant, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver its next message.

Provoke me, Goblin Jesus: A non-post.

Sorry for the lack of a post yesterday, but we’re busy over here hammering out details for our upcoming presence at the Toronto Small Press Book Fair, June 19th, 2011 at Hart House on U of T Campus (further directions to follow).

We’re going to be looking snazzy, and have some fun new stuff for you, so be sure to come by.

But in the interest of interest, the number of things that I wanted to blog about all have a great deal to do with the line between provocation and art. It has been a long-held belief of mine that the provocation itself can not be the art. In this regard, in the recent war between Tegan and Sara and Tyler The Creator of hipster-hop supergroup Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Em All, I side with Sarah. Those that defend Odd Future call Tyler’s lyrics provocation for provocation’s sake. As if provocation is meant to be the art he presents. While hiphop has its roots in contest, is it simple enough to say “fag” and discus rape to rise to the top of the game? Tyler’s good. He’s clearly intelligent, but does this stuff get a pass? It got a pass for Johnny Cash, and, well, it probably shouldn’t. Where’s the line?

Where’s the line: because this kinda thing gets a pass from South Park, but not from Living With Lions, who released their government-funded album Holy Shit, much to the dismay of those that found the album (subtitled “The Poo Testament”) featured a berobed turd preaching to his followers in classic charcoal drawing on the inside. It’s not the business of the artist to provoke for the sake of being provokers, but this act of, what is at worse from an outsiders point of view, anti-religious cartooning, has raised question of the pointlessness of art funding from idiot pundits when the real question is whether or not LWL intended to express any provoking message. I’ve had trouble understanding how I feel about this, but I think the joke comes off more goofy than hate-filled, and that the bands decision to return the money and remove the government funding’s attachment to the project proves more that they don’t want to offend. They would put money back into it, thus limiting to a degree their ability to get it out there, get it seen by people who might be offended. They’re pedalling it like a joke, and selling it more like Life of Brian than, you know, something racist. Whereas they said something and removed any hint of hate from attachment to their government, Tyler the Creator responds to Tegan and Sara by offering them his hard dick.

So where’s the line?