Ryerson versus U of T - the ultimate university smack-down

I spend much of my time shuttling back and forth between Ryerson and U of T: I go to school at Ryerson, and spend much of my life sequestered in the hive of activity known as the magazine lab; I sing at Trinity College Chapel Choir(despite never having been a Trin student) at U of T, the place I did my music degree.

Never have I walked on to the U of T campus after having been at Ryerson without experiencing a palpable sense of relief - a loosening of the shoulders and an easing of the tight, constricted chest. I let out a low, slow, "ahhhh" every time I emerge from Museum subway station.

Why?

It's not just the warm fuzzies of familiarity; I'm as familiar with Ryerson as I'll ever be, and there are many areas of U of T I've never, ever seen, especially since I haven't been a student there in 10 years. And it's not just that I associate Ryerson with a harrowing, stress-filled workload and U of T with a comforting hobby, although that's part of it. They're both urban universities, smack in the middle of Toronto, with an ever-present ocean of students constantly breaking over the sidewalks and jay-walking across the congested streets.

Here's the thing, though: Ryerson is ugly. Butt ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly.

For one thing, there's a reason Ryerson's long-standing pejorative nickname, "Rye High," has stuck to it like white on rice. Kerr Hall, one of the main buildings on campus, gives me flashbacks to my five miserable years at Northern Secondary every time I walk down its beige locker-lined halls. And at least Northern, with its mild, turn-of-the-century attempts at Collegiate Gothic, made some small concessions to ornament. Kerr Hall, built perhaps fifty years after Northern, abandoned any pretense of beauty and is, for the most part, drearily utilitarian.

The building housing the school of architecture is undoubtedly the ugliest on campus, all badly-stained reinforced concrete and opaque plastic cataracts pretending to be windows. The Rogers Communication Building, where I spend most of my time, is all exposed ductwork and hard, shiny surfaces. Not a soft, comfortable place to be found. Ryerson's architecture, for the most part, reflects the school's unfortunate reputation as a commuter school, as a place to get in, get the marks, and get the hell out. And why would anyone want to stay?

There isn't anywhere to sit.

Ryerson is woefully lacking in soft, comfortable places, where the din of students is hushed by carpet and upholstery. Not that I expect U of T's fireplaced lounges to suddenly, magically appear at Ryerson. But Queen's has a new library building, and IT has a fireplace. Maybe with all these architects and planners gleefully rubbing their hands at Ryerson's planning meetings, contemplating the spending of millions, will give a slight, shy nod to comfort.

To softness.

To beauty.

The blog is back...beware the blog!

The "When I was eight" post

Things that used to puzzle me when I was eight:

The phrase "The King is dead. Long live the King!" Sounded pretty ridiculous to me. Was he dead, or not?

Related to that, "God save the Queen." I could never figure out why she needed to be saved, but I figured she'd been in a shipwreck or something. Maybe kidnapped by pirates.

A poem I liked when I was eight:

My beard grown to my toes
I never wears no clothes
I wraps my hair
Around my bare
And down the road I goes

-Shel Silverstein

Songs I liked when I was eight:

"Jeepers, creepers" and "I'm Looking Over a Four-Leafed Clover" (Old songs from the 'thirties)
"Video Killed the Radio Star" (The Buggles)
All of Michael Jackson's "Thriller"
The Blue Jays' seventh-inning stretch song, "Okay Blue Jays (Let's Play Ball)." One wonders why it took them until the seventh inning to figure out what game they were playing
The theme song from "The Dukes of Hazzard"
"I Love Rocky Road" (Weird Al Yankovic). I don't think I understood the satire; I just liked the fact that it was about ice cream.
"Tell Her About It" and "Uptown Girl" (Billy Joel)
"the Love Cats" (The Cure). Again, I wasn't cool. I just liked cats.

Books I liked when I was eight:

The "Booky" canon by Bernice Thurman Hunter. Took place in 1930s Toronto, fairly close to where I grew up. I thought it was cool that I could recognise landmarks she wrote about.

"Abel's Island" by William Steig. Got me started on castaway stories, which led to "Island of the Blue Dolphins" by Scott O'Dell.

"Barbapapa at Work" by Annette Tison and Talus Taylor. Yes, these are the funny blobby things that can change shape. This book was particularly cool. Each member of the Barbapapa family had a different job; one was a pearl-fisher, one was a glazier, one was a carpenter, and still another was a lace maker. The French title, "Barbapapa Artisan" is probably more descriptive.

America the Delicious

Paul and I just got back from a lovely three-day stay in a cottage in upstate New York (check out a - we stayed at the Honeoye cabin).

No Bush-bashing here (but oh, it's tempting). I'll leave that for another post.

Here are some foodly things I love about the US that I think we need in Canada:

UNSWEETENED ICED TEA
Ohmigod what a fantastic change from the sickly sweet syrupy glop we get from Snapple and Lipton's here in the north. Just tea. Perhaps lemon. No sugar. Insanely refreshing. Start importing this to Canada!

AN AUTOMATIC GLASS OF WATER AT A RESTAURANT
Why can't Canadian restaurants get this very basic service right? Here, you can't get water unless you ask, and invariably, the server never brings water for the whole table - just the person who specifically asked for it. Now, I don't understand the whole American tip-of-the-straw-wrapper-left-on thing, but at least I get water without asking.

HOT SAUCE AT EVERY TABLE
I'm completely addicted to Frank's hot sauce, and it's everywhere. And hey - I can use my (automatic!) glass of water to extinguish the burn.

CORNED BEEF HASH AND GRITS
Corned beef hash isn't exactly impossible to find on a breakfast menu here, but it's not easy, either. There's no better base for a fried egg, so we need to revive the lost art of hash. Grits - ideally served with butter, salt and pepper - are nowhere to be found in Canada, so much the pity. I know - you can feel your arteries hardening even as you read. What can I say - half my family hails from Wisconsin, and we consider sausage a food group.

FRIDAY NIGHT FISH FRIES
A remnant of strict Vatican invocations against eating meat on Fridays, the Friday night fish fry is a standard event in largely Catholic Buffalo and throughout New York State. We have fish and chips here, true, but it's not exactly a weekly excuse to party. Paul, with his fish allergies, is just as happy to be home before the fish starts fryin'.

Yum.

Evil can't live in the light

I am posting this a week later than I intended - needed to let it percolate for a while in my little brain.

Enough people have written about the tragedy at Virginia Tech that I don't need to weigh in with my own predictable opinions (shock, horror, and, unfortunately, a small shameful feeling of "here we go again").

What isn't necessarily front and centre in the news is the debate that's going on about NBC's decision to air the gunman's video, and CBC's (somewhat smug and self-righteous, I have to say) decision not to. "The Current" is on at the moment (no Anna Maria today, alas) and I'm listening to a panel of jounalists argue vociferously with each other over the ethics of NBC's decision.

I think perhaps the CBC affords mainstream media a power it doesn't necessarily have anymore - that is, if NBC hadn't aired the "press package," which was, by the account I'm listening to, full of "ridiculous ranting and raving," no-one would have chosen to watch the footage by other means and potential copycats would remain just that - potential.

Nonsense. The videos would have circulated on YouTube, the stills would have been printed in newspapers, and everyone would be wondering what the media was trying to hide by not airing the footage. One of the questions Avi Lewis asked the panelists was whether it was better that, given that the footage was going to be available somewhere, somehow, it air in a journalistic context rather than in the blank, info-less wasteland of YouTube.

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. This is precisely what will keep media alive in the coming decades - not getting the scoop, not being exclusive vehicles of information, but providing reputable, credible analysis and context for the pile of facts with which we are steadily bombarded.

I'm also uncomfortable with the media being cast as the emotional watchdogs of society. If we choose not to air things because they might make people uncomfortable, or might have potential negative repercussions, where then do we draw the line? The media's job is to report fact, the truth, what is, for good or evil. The evil - and I do mean evil - side of life must be uncovered, must be highlighted - in no other way are we then able to recognise evil and stop it.

Yes, it's uncomfortable. Yes, evil can beget evil. But the alternative is a lack of reality, and evil allowed to exist and flourish as we conveniently turn the other way.

Evil can't live in the light.

J-RAD Blues

Well, "Eschew Obfuscation" was a little obscure, so I've officially re-named the blog. I'm not really blue at Ryerson - I just liked the way "J-RAD Blues" sounds. For those of you not intimately familiar with Ryerson's journalism programme, the moniker "J-RAD" refers to those of us in the school's two-year undergraduate programme for people who already have a university degree. (It's a confluence of "journalism" and "graduate," in case you hadn't figured that out. And if you hadn't, don't feel bad. I didn't.)

Anywhere else, I would have been in a Master's programme, running the gauntlet through theory courses and final projects - and, if I'd gone to Ryerson a year later, I'd have an MJ to show for my pains. No more two-year undergrads. The venerable J-RAD programme is now the victim of inexorable progress, and, with the last week of school upon us, the last of the J-RADs are set to go their separate ways into streams and specialties next year.

So, no MJ for me, and no more J-RADs for Ryerson. Pity.

When I told an old friend I was going into journalism, he immediately flung me an impassioned e-mail borne of a long family association with journalism and journalists. In it, he wrote, "For god's sake, don't let them cram a pile of hoary old theories down your throat. Practice writing, to deadline, as much as you possibly can - and know that theory means nothing in a newsroom."

Amen to that.

I'm glad I escaped the theory nightmare, even if I don't get a graduate degree. I'm glad I'm one of the last of the J-RADs. I don't think we need journalists who can quote Foucault. We don't need journalists who can wrangle ad nauseam over postmodern deconstructionism. We certainly don't need journalists for whom theory is a replacement for real-life experience.

Especially in the wake of Maher Arar and Scooter Libbey, it's become increasingly obvious that we need journalists who aren't tools of the state, who don't mindlessly repeat government PR spin and call it a "scoop," and who aren't interested in how many letters appear after their names. We need journalists who aren't, to use Kathy Gannon's word, simply "stenographers" for governments and the military. We need journalists who are capable of getting to the truth of a story through tenacity, scrupulous research, and insistent verification - and I don't think you need to study theory or have a Master's degree to do that.

That's not to say you can't be a decent journalist with a Master's. I worry, though, that Ryerson is losing something rare and precious in its quest to be just like all the other legitimate universities, no doubt a symptom of the institutional insecurity left over from the days of "Rye High."

I guess abandoning the J-RAD programme is better for marketability, as education continues along its path of inflation, just like everything else. Pretty soon no-one will be able to work at McDonald's without the benefit of a four-year post-doctoral fellowship in nuclear physics.

Farewell, J-RADs.

Why I hate Strombo

"The Hour" represents all that's wrong with the CBC TV these days.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a fifty-something nostalgia junkie who's convinced that everything after "This Hour Has Seven Days" isn't worth my attention. In fact, I imagine I'm not completely outside the demographic they're trying to attract. (I'm only 31, after all).

But just because I'm young(ish) doesn't mean I have ADD. For some reason, CBC is convinced that, if they don't bend over backwards to appeal to the twenty-something crowd, they won't have any viewers at all.

Am I the only one who finds this constant sycophancy to the elusive cooler-than-thou Net Gen incredibly annoying? CBC TV seems to be, to gently paraphrase my lovely broadcasting teacher Peter McNelly, several identities in search of a focus.

Are they a testing ground for achingly non-edgy, badly acted sitcoms? CBC is deservedly proud of its political satire, but any efforts at actual plot-driven shows seem to follow the same, predictable, unfunny pattern, of which Little Mosque is only the latest attempt.

Or are they the new television home for young 'uns who have neither the time nor the attention span to watch traditional newscasts? Well, no, if the ratings for "The Hour" are any indication.

Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if CBC's highest ratings are from 5 to 5:30 on weekdays, which is when they run "Simpsons" reruns. Depressing. Why can't they do better?

I'm puzzled as to why CBC's television department can't take its cue from CBC radio - which, although I have my own issues with the distressingly ubiquitous Jian Ghomeshi, seems to be treading the line between coolness and quality a little more elegantly. Their emphasis on world and indie music and genuinely interesting radio features is a whole lot more appealing to this particular young gal than anything for offer on the television side of things.

Why doesn't CBC realize that, just because 20-somethings aren't watching now, doesn't mean they'll never watch. I neither watched nor listened to CBC five years ago, but I do now. CBC needs to figure out what it does well and stay consistent, rather than constantly re-inventing itself for some elusive new target demographic.

Phew.

Spring, dammit!

Oh, how I hate winter. This time of year is almost worse than the darkest days of the deepfreeze - there's this aching tease of what springtime glories lie ahead, but they're not quite here yet.

March is like having one of those agonizing adoloescent crushes on someone who doesn't know you exist - you're constantly looking for signs, interpreting the smallest signs of hope...and nothing ever happens. I feel like that now, as the snow starts to melt but heady days of wearing sandals and tank tops are far, far away.

For anyone who's looking to listen to something new, check out Regina Spektor's website at www.reginaspektor.com. Click on "Music," and if you want to hear my (and Dad's, I think) current fave click on the "Begin to hope" tape picture. Honestly, I have no idea where Dad finds this stuff, but it's great.

Blog within a blog

Well, the title may be a bit misleading. I'm sitting in class, listening to a lecture about blogs as I write in my blog. Positively post modern, with a whiff of Shakespeare. I should be paying attention, and I am, sort of, but I haven't written anything in so long I felt this was an opportune time.

This particular post is not a trip down my personal musical memory lane. I've gotten to the point in my schooling (almost finished first year, planning for specializing next year) where I'm desperately needing a change of pace. Fortunately, I've lined up a lovely summer internship at Key Porter books, indulging in the heady and elemental stimulus-response joy of copy editing. It's not a media job, per se, and I'm feeling a little out of step with my classmates as they angle for jobs at newspapers and magazines. Oh well - I've spent much of my life being slightly not-with-it - why change now?

Hmmmm - chap at the front of the class says blogs are a great way to get noticed.

I don't think he's referring to my little corner of Google Blogger.

More personal soundtrack stuff

Yes, I realize that all this would be a lot more useful if I could figure out how to upload MP3s so you could actually hear all this music, but what can I say - I'm a quasi-Luddite.

So back to musical influences....

Those who know me know that I'm a singer first, and a not-very-good- piano player second. Although I've been playing piano for what seems like forever, I came to singing relatively late - didn't join a choir until grade ten, and then only because I'd decided I wanted to be an opera singer. Why opera?

EMBARASSING CONFESSION TIME: in grade nine, I got a little obsessed with Phantom of the Opera. Like, really obsessed. I played it incessantly. Sang along. Got yelled at by my Mom for singing too loud in the basement. I actually think Phantom formed the basis of most of my romantic fantasies around that time. Yup. I'm embarrassed now.

Fortunately, I also joined the Ontario Youth Choir, then the Toronto Mendelssohn Youth Choir, then I went to university and discovered church music, and the rest is better-taste history. I did go through an insufferably snobby time when I wouldn't listen to anything but classical music, and derided anyone who listened otherwise. Sorry.

So thank you to Chris for introducing me to the Eagles, and Cliff for Billie Holiday (she's like beer - an acquired taste) and Ella Fitzgerald. When I think of university, I think of ABBA (their second-time-around being popular, I should point out) and October Project (excellent, melancholy break-up music).

(Too many parenthetical asides - I have to break this habit.)

And I should add, that although I'm writing about music, my dear husband introduced me to the wonder of talking books. I never would have gotten through Bill Clinton's autobiography if I'd had to read it, but listening to it was cool, especially since Bill read it himself. We spend many long car trips listening to books on CD.

I urge everyone to listen to Mason Jennings! He's like a cross between Neil Young and John Lennon, kind of.

Quick continuation of the last post (trumpet players out there, note the joke).

Lest people think that my entire musical repertoire is due only to boyfriends (and Dad), I must give credit to my oldest friend, Allison, queen of the mixed tape. She introduced me to the joys of playing hoppity-boppity-pop while driving around in a car. Before we were legally able to drink, many of our weekends were taken up playing late-night bingo in Scarborough - and, because no-one was particularly comfortable driving on the highway, we spent many long hours beetling back and forth on city roads, which necessitated a generous amount of driving music.

So, if you need a dose of high school nostalgia, consider playing a hearty mix of "Red Red Wine," "Take On Me," (well, A-Ha is pre-high school, but the love of the song lives on), "Little Birdhouse in your Soul," (that's by They Might Be Giants, if you're wondering), "Shiny Happy People," "Right Here Right Now," (Jesus Jones.....ewwwww) and the extended mix of "Always on my mind" by the Pet Shop Boys.

Gotta go - class is starting.

The "Apologies-to-Nick-Hornby" post

Last week, one of my teachers - with whom I've bonded over a mutual interest in obscure English composers like Edward Rubbra - asked what I'd been listening to over the weekend

To my horror, I couldn't think of anything. All I listen to these days is CBC 1, and then I only really pay attention to the news. (I abandon the enterprise completely if there's even a slight risk that Jian Ghomeshi will come on the air).
This got me thinking about how the soundtrack to my existence is almost completely dependent on the influences of other people - not sure whether this is a good thing, but it's certainly garnered a fairly eclectic library of songs.

And no, I don't have an I-Pod. I think maybe I'd like one someday, but I enjoy the randomness of listening to the radio - the happy surprise of a good song is a lot more piquant if it hasn't been pre-programmed. Anyway, here's my "Apologies-to-Nick-Hornby/High Fidelity" soundtrack to life - songs and artists catalogued not in chronological, or alphabetical, order, but rather related to the people who introduced me to them in the first place. This is evidence that a degree in classical music by no means restricts you to listening to Beethoven 24/7.

This is certainly not complete, but it's a start.

Why should you care? Why not?

Childhood: the "Dad Music" period. Much music played around the house, in the car, in the backyard - pretty well everywhere.
Wings - Band on the Run
Gordon Lightfoot - Gord's Gold (I especially liked "Daylight Katy," which I thought was named after our neighbour's cat.)
The Kinks - "Come Dancing"
The Band - everything. We even had a picture of them on the wall.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young - So Far, especially "Suite Judy Blue Eyes"
The Beatles - later psychedelic-ish stuff, especially Magical Mystery Tour and Yellow Submarine. We watched the movie on a fairly regular basis, too.
Jimmy Cliff - The Harder They Come soundtrack. I've never seen the movie, but I love the soundtrack.
A whole lotta oldies, to which I now know all the words AND backup doo-wops.

First slow dance ever: Lady in Red by Chris DeBurgh. When DeBurgh whispers "I love you" at the end of the song, I just about wet myself.

First song I remember dancing to and enjoying myself: Dancing in the Dark, by Bruce Springsteen.

Sam Stone, my boyfriend in middle school, became a guitar nut while we were dating. For him, I pretended to like Joe Satriani, but also gained a real appreciation for that opening lick in Guns N' Roses' "Sweet Child of Mine." What grade eight boy with a guitar didn't know how to play that one, badly?

Sam Horodezky, high school boyfriend who to this day is known as "Schmoo," got me hooked on cello music, particularly Bach's first unaccompanied cello suite. He was also the first person to play me a recording of Barber's Adagio for Strings - hey, some people make out to Iron Butterfly. We were nerds. What can I say?

More next post - it's late, and hubby is lonely.

It's a blog!

For days, I've had nothing but pithy phrases running through my mind that I've been dying to share - and now that I'm actually writing, I find I can't come up with anything more original than "Wow, my first post (hyuk hyuk)."

(Insert Clitus the Slack-Jawed Yokel theme song here.)

What can you expect to find at "Eschew Obfuscation"?

• Musings about the vagaries of being a "mature" journalism student, surrounded by sweet young things who are all far cooler than me.
• The odd poem - NOT written by me, thank you very much. No self indulgent crap here! (Well, no self-indulgent poetry, anyway.) And I promise not to inflict all of "The Waste Land" on you.
• Whatever the hell else is supposed to go on a blog: Rants. Raves. Vague notions of coolness.

For now, let me recommend a couple of things: Boneclouds by Mason Jennings (er - that's a CD. I believe he's got a MySpace page.) If you're in the mood for kiddy fun, any of the I Spy computer games. And www.aldaily.com - a great site for interesting articles and links to the world's major news organizations.