But we’re afraid to ask

Given how Sue Johanson’s grandmotherly carnal knowledge act, a mainstay of the local media scene for the past 20ish years, just recently found its niche in the U.S.A., one would imagine Toronto shall be ahead of the curve when it comes to shunting the discussion of all things s-e-x back to the clinically puritan place where it belongs. Yet, the final brick in that wall of porn spam-inducing jadedness won’t have been cemented as long as The Everything To Do With Sex Show is still going. Its fifth installment is being held this weekend at the Automotive Building at Exhibition Place, a trade event that includes an aphrodisiac bar, a dungeon complete with spanking benches, and something called a “lock and key” party. However, lest one salivate at the prospect of gallivanting in a Hef-style grotto, all it probably takes is one unwanted encounter with a sweaty member of the [gender unspecified] species, glistening with fruit-flavored lube and oyster-scented sweat and imitation Brut 33, their prodigious flaps of pasty skin throbbing with Viagra-induced arousal while clad in nothing but unbleached white tube socks, to make one reconsider following through on the whole orgy deal.

Much as those polyamorous suburban dwelling bank employees immersed in The Lifestyle claim to be wilder in the sack than their bohemian counterparts, an event like this one is predicated on the notion that, for at least one weekend every year, there’s a demographic that wants to freely browse around for the latest upgraded models of latex dildos that strap around one’s chin. (Would it be somehow possible to incorporate an MP3 player into The Accommodator? Because that’d be a huge seller.) The newfangled Canadian Tire stores offer departments dedicated to “Driving”, “Playing”, “Living” and “Fixing”–but until they get around to “Fucking” the EDTWS Show can probably count on a visitors looking for the kind of titters the Hadassah Bazaar staunchly refuses to provide. The festivities also include seminars conducted by the likes of The Toronto Sun’s cougar-in-chief Valerie Gibson–like Sue J., she seems to have not aged in 20 years, take that as you will–plus mainstage attractions like pyrotechnic burlesque and clownish drag queens, and exhibitors including BestPussyShaver.com (link SFW! honest!), the Newmarket-based School of Body Piercing and representatives from the most time-honored nookie-enhancing nutritional supplements of all, Brick Brewing Co. and Pizza Pizza. Who needs edible panties when you’ve got such combestibles around?

It’s uncertain how wonderful innovations like pencil eraser nubs shaped like penises, or ballpoint pens where the lady’s top falls off when turned upside down, became bedfellows with whips and chains, floggers, harnesses and paddles, and $6499 (U.S.) custom-made Real Dolls, but it would seem that the sex scene needs a new Alfred Kinsey in the same way rock ‘n’ roll would benefit from a new Ray Charles–it won’t happen, but sophisticated folk can’t help but pine for some old-fashioned subversion. Oh, a few chastened fantasies seem to be intact during this weekend’s event–like the presence of calendar-signing firefighters stoking the illusion that, when not sliding down the pole, their daily grind resembles a gay porn flick–but it’s all hung out far enough that it seems like a good time to tuck it back in. That said, the American marketplace may still not be ready for such an event; exported to Chicago last year, The Everything To Do With Love Show proved a colossal flop. And, lest you think this industry can still pave a path to orgasmic financial security, today’s Page Six in the New York Post reports on hairy-chested Screw magazine publisher Al Goldstein recently fired from his Second Avenue Deli maitre d’ job, now taking refuge in a homeless shelter; his Penthouse pal Bob Guccione has gone bankrupt, too.

Fawlty tower

January will see the last romp at the resort at Leslie St. and Eglinton Ave. E. that might’ve made a great conversion to a swingin’ singles condo complex–like Marina Del Rey without the marina–had Toyota Canada not purchased it for office space instead. The Inn on the Park’s neighborhood is all about office space, however, and that was key to its charm. Forty years later, a new hotel certainly wouldn’t be constructed so far-flung from the downtown core, at an intersection consisting of steep slopes of highway, but the fact that nothing non-botanical ever sprouted within decent walking distance forced the IOTP’s then-proprietors, the Four Seasons, to ensure the facility boasted enough in-house distractions. Those included Canada’s first disco, soon revamped into the upscale Café L’Auberge, although there remained a basement nightspot called (what else?) Le Club. The bulk of the accommodations were in the 22-storey tower, yet an alley of rooms provided a fancier spin on the roadside bungalow experience. But, based on a few recent user reviews of IOTP posted at TripAdvisor.com, a certain motel-style seediness was creeping into the joint.

… outdoor pool was closed on a day when people were jumping over the fence to sunbathe. we had to use the indoor pool to swim which turned out to be too deep for our 7 year old (suspect short staffed since the weather was fine). Child play area was full of broken equipment. Beds were turned down the first night (a pleasant surprise) but not the second night … the concierge was also the bellboy and errand boy so he was never available. (from Ypsilanti, MI)

… At least one elevator was broken at all times, the hallways were very hot, carpet was stained and worn exposing the padding, the bathroom ceiling was falling down, and there were only three small dresser draws. … If you’re in the Toronto area and you pass by the hotel, my advice is to keep driving. … The only things about it that I appreciated was that it offered a scenic park view through dirty windows and was reasonably close to points of interest. (from NYC)

… As we were checking in there was a woman checking out saying, in a loud voice, “thank goodness I am getting out of this awful place” – we should have listened to her and NOT checked in! … Even though we had requested a non-smoking room since I am particularly allergic, nevertheless somebody had smoked in the room. Next there was an awful noise of machinery behind the bathroom wall, this went on all night. To further add to our woes I had no idea I was sleeping on a feather pillow and awakened at midnight with a terrible allergy attack – fortunately I carry an epi-pen and anti-histamines. We called down for foam pillows which arrived an hour later. … There were no coffee makers in the room BUT one could purchase, from their lobby a styrofoam cup of coffee for $1.60 in the morning. … (from Montreal)

The guy who originally ran the place, Isadore Sharp, admits it wasn’t really built to last. After selling the surrounding land to a condo developer in the mid-’90s, he handed off the hotel itself for $12.3-million to a Vancouver businessman–who tried to unload it two years later to no avail. The fire in 1981 that killed six guests was a factor in the IOTP’s decline–shocking that it’s stood for this long. (Not sure how much of its decor has remained intact, write if you know.) Plus, any SARS-induced plunge in hotel booking was bound to hit the suburbs first. When the IOTP shutters, those seeking the cut-rate Don Valley tourism experience will have to settle for a booking at the cavernous Crowne Plaza just down the street.

Another Green Bin

What the initially disastrous Blue Box paper recycling program was to 1988, the Green Bin shall be to 2004–so reads the city’s advert for their roll-out of prudent trash pick-up’s final frontier. Americans reaffirm their belief in an existing GOP administration once every 16 years … and we get a new color on the curbside to keep our disposable goods out of Michigan landfills. But threatening to put the makers of big black garbage bags out of business, with hopes that nary a compost-worthy damp coffee grind nor carrot rope nor nosebleed-absorbent paper towelling won’t ever get entombed again, can’t stop particles from a sandstorm in the Sahara turning up in our air, bringing along lethal agents of terror. (Nor can it keep the raccoons away.) Now, if only the province follows through on their suggestion that all aluminum cans come with a deposit. If not for the hope that seven generations of primary school kids aren’t force-fed sing-a-long propaganda about the environment–to guilt their parents into not using the Green Bins for toy storage–but to reduce the number of spare change solicitors polluting sidewalks, who’d certainly find it more profitable to raid what’s left behind on a picnic table.

Toronto’s autumn of 1988 was all about ”world-class” aspirations related to that constructing hunk of retractable domed concrete which, today, might as well be a repository for soiled diapers left at the curb. It’s no surprise that the CFL’s Toronto Argonauts are eager to leave the soon-to-be StaplesDome’s excessive wretchedness (and prohibitive booking arrangements) behind for a new outdoor stadium anywhere, even at the formerly rural–though still detached from the action–York University. Can the team’s new smiley-guy owners sustain the momentum for middle-of-nowhere tailgate parties? Well, this gambit seems to lean on general indifference toward all U.S.-centric professional sports. (It’s quite telling how coverage of NHL hockey lockout withdrawl has been eclipsed by anticipation that Don Cherry will be voted as The Greatest Canadian.) As for the neighborhood of the Argos’ new $70-million home, Toronto Star columnist Christopher Hume wonders what’s to become of the national urban park intended for the former Canadian Forces base, overwhelmingly vacant for the last decade. Plans seem to be fixated on all things green–a lake and meadow pastoral forest, communal vegetable patches–quite a feat for what’s currently a bleak hunk o’wasteland. But if they get around to carving out a subway tunnel underneath, 600 acres of live-and-workable glory might hypothetically spawn.

Now, if only it were possible to sort out the financials for the existing TTC infrastructure. The province’s transit handout is out, gas-tax revenues are in, and the numbers seem to match up a little bit too much. Not welcome news given how the expectation was for a bigger windfall off the bat. The mayor’s ears are steaming toward the premier, fares risk going up and routes risk being cut, and what else is new? Yet, coming real soon to your daily commute are enhanced LCD screens in subway cars, on platforms, and flip-book-style advertising along tunnel walls. Oh, it’ll certainly be a revenue generator that promises to transcend the legacy of pixilated gibberish for the sake of distraction, but is there no dilemma that only consumerism can solve? That’s certainly no less naïve than imagining that every last object packed into a Blue Box or Green Bin contains the stuff of basic human necessity. (Grey Boxes are mostly filled with newspapers, though, and a life without those is certainly no life whatsoever.)

34 is the new 54

Time to redefine which demographic qualifies for the descriptor “middle-aged”. How many 108-year-olds are waddling around out there, really? Life expectancy for men in this country is catching up to women, but trends can be reversed.

This isn’t a matter of taking up swing dance lessons, or viewing the world through the prism of Seth cartoons, or sporting a bowtie a la Tucker Carlson as the catalyst for verbal assault–rather, those born in the 1970s seem quite primed to join the ranks of the middle-aged, a reflexion of burnout after a dozen years of being barraged with cynicism; the tyranny of hip as reflected in so much nudge-nudge-wink-wink anti-advertising, and the notion that every boardroom-bred sound and image burned into our brains from the mid-‘70s through early-‘90s merits regurgitation. Like the revival of The Pop Shoppe: A case of small novelty bottles of generic carbonated sap, yours for $19.99, targeting those with faint quarter-century-ago memories of Eddie Shack hustling the stuff on teevee, then following through with a visit to a dusty garage where a week’s soda supply was replenished for pennies a glass. Plus, your photos and memories are wanted for their website, with hopes of launching a thousand memes. Who allows for this to happen, and how exactly can they be stopped?

It’s sure to be a brutal battle, yet a correction can’t be far behind–perhaps exacerbated by this week’s passing, at age 72, of Jeremy Brown, the CFRB entertainment reporter (and also one of the founders of Toronto Life magazine) whose sardonic perspective on cultures high, low and bacterial was a whole lot more sublime than the rip ‘n’ read hyper-meta-pseudo-worldly surliness that’s pervaded everything since the fall of ‘91. And there’s no escape from this vortex, either–just to lament it, or lash out against it, stokes the infestation even further. But there was maybe some salvation found in the comments of Kevin Smith, here to film a three-episode arc of Degrassi: The Next Generation, finally making good on an obsession initially confessed in the pages of Details in 1996. Meeting the local press, 34-year-old Kev turned on his portly schmarm to recall watching Degrassi episodes on PBS while putting together the Sunday newspaper sections at the Quick Stop. He then got moderately wistful in considering that, because he had sex at age 13, his now-five-year-old daughter will likely do the same by 12. Sounds like a slackerish way of announcing his determination to ensure such a thing doesn’t happen–even if successful parenting is inconsistent with the fatalist fantasies at the core of Degrassi.

Meanwhile, dig this blog post from Steven Page of Barenaked Ladies, expressing indigination toward the continued existence of Celine Dion–dressing as a flight attendant to promote Air Canada’s resurrection, posing with newborns for a coffee table book (while the raw materials for her second child are being kept in a freezer), extolling the virtues of Chrysler mini-vans. Now, while the BNL’s resident NDP candidate-in-waiting hasn’t been immune to playing a role in marketing schlock consistent with any artist who’s enjoyed many a U.S. dollar (last fall he was actively touting the Toyota Prius) expressing curmudgeonly feelings is a stage beyond performing some wacky cover version for their Fox Network pilot show. And isn’t that the sheer quintessence of middle age’s onset?

Page’s sidekick Ed Robertson, however, is engaged in the musical equivalent of hawking reverse mortgages to old folk, helping orchestrate the comeback of fleeting bubblegum icon Andy Kim, with a song (“I Forgot to Mention”) that’s shockingly good enough to make people second-guess the “Sugar, Sugar” man’s eternal banishment to oldies casino nights and cruise ships. Not unlike how Greatest Canadian also-ran William Shatner’s sonic revival turns out to contain penetrating insights into what life is really like in its final act–a point missed by those geriatric guardians of GenX conceit who take it for a joke, assuming that the old man thinks he can sing. But he can’t, get it? Certainly, someone must be pondering how to get him back to being the pitchman for Loblaws. (Where they’ve been hardly able to give away cases of President’s Choice New Wave Cola.)

Wave the magic, Wanda

While last month’s final round of the two-year-long computer leasing inquiry delighted us with tales of a hockey star who pays for every gourmet meal in cash, a former budget chief who can’t afford to feed his own kids without a handout from grandma, and a lobbyist fond of setting up stag parties for politician acquaintances, the next round of testimony, focused on external contracts, didn’t seem as sumptuous.

That is, until its very first day generated this Globe and Mail headline: Steered city to software designed by former lover, Liczyk admits. That’d be Wanda Liczyk, the current $320K-per-year vice-president of Toronto Hydro who, in her previous gig as municipal treasurer, handled the IT contracts. The firm rewarded with $3.8-million for implementing software for the then-newly amalgamated City of Toronto in 1998 just so happened to be headed by Michael Saunders, her one-time gentleman caller from Rhode Island. The pair had many a legover a decade earlier, when Saunders came to town to do similar installation for Lyczik, who held a treasurer position for the old city of North York. The revelation that she thrust through a tax management system that nobody else thought was very good, just to facilitate a big commission for her now-married “good friend” from Nantucket–for a municipal chartered accountant, this be some juicy stuff.

No one comes out and expresses it, but the ascent of Wanda Liczyk must owe something to her name–while not quite Dick Pound, it does boast a salacious syntax on paper. But her ex-paramour has ignored all entreaties to appear at the inquiry. Now we’ll never learn whether Michael Saunders was seduced by her Frost & Tip hair, the way the shells from the complimentary peanuts spilled on her pantyhosed lap while George Thorogood’s greatest hits blasted from the jukebox, or more insights into how a couple of yuppies spent many a post-coital smoke contemplating how to raid the public purse toward a well-heeled happily ever after. Just not together–unless, of course, Wanda had a different idea …

Hollywood North fortunes headed south

Canadian dollars aren’t the bargain they used to be, lobbyists are successfully persuading the U.S. government to clamp down on runaway production, and Winnipeg is even standing in for the Windy City, which gets thrown into meteorological chaos for next month’s CBS mini-series Category 6: Day of Destruction starring Brian Dennehy, Randy Quaid and Nancy McKeon. What? The Oscar-winning movie version of the musical Chicago was filmed here–now, all of sudden, this town ain’t even good enough for that?

Wait a bit longer and we’ll be nostalgic for the era captured in a quaint 1988 Washington Post article about “Hollywood North”, when streets being cordoned off to film scenes for Police Academy, Short Circuit or Three Men and a Baby was front-page news, and Northop Frye was being invoked in lamenting what dreckola like the cop show Night Heat was doing to our national identity. To quote one of those behind the movie Sing, a big-budget flop shot here during that period: “It’s so clean … It doesn’t feel like it’s lost its spirit. It feels like New York when it was hopeful.” Well, the film festival rolled up the red carpet a month ago, leaving us with the following Hollywood feature productions for the remainder of 2004:

Blended: No plot details to be found at this time, but it stars real-life couple Josie Bissett and Rob Estes–she was “Jane Andrews Mancini Mancini” on Melrose Place; he joined the cast around the time she left briefly to attempt horror and disaster flicks, only to return. Neither one has worked much in several years. What do you expect them to do–sit home and wait for the calls offering them supporting roles in desperate knock-offs of Desperate Housewives?

Confessions of an American Bride: American Pie trilogy’s resident naked chick Shannon Elizabeth as a 30-year-old ad exec “struggling with the ups and downs of planning a perfect wedding”. The audition pieces posted at Showfax reveal roles for “Drunk Father of the Bride”, “Proud Aunt Eileen”, “Rabbi Cohen”, “Rabbi Stein” and “Roto Rooter Guy”. (Director played “Howie” on The Fall Guy.)

Fever Pitch: Farrelly Brothers adaptation of the Nick Hornby book about slavish devotion to a fumbling football squad–except it stars Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore, and the team is the Boston Red Sox, who’ve gone 86 years without a World Series championship. (They did, however, film for a day at Fenway Park.) Should that losing streak get broken this year, there’s always the prospect of 86 consecutive crappy movies featuring Drew Barrymore and/or Jimmy Fallon.

Land of the Dead: George A. Romero’s fourth installment in his eternal zombie series; this one focuses on the surviving humans who’ve built a walled-in city on a secluded strip of land. This scenario contrasts with the portrayal of “Raccoon City” in the recent Resident Evil: Apocalypse, where it was a creature named “Nemesis” who had the whole town under siege. Guess that, for the target audience of such cinema, it comes down to which bosom you’d most crave to get cradled in whilst all hell’s breakin’ loose–Milla Jovovich … or Asia Argento?

Widow on the Hill: Natasha Henstridge plays a hospice nurse suspected of killing the ailing wife of a wealthy landowner played by James Brolin–and then his character dies, too. Based on an article published in Vanity Fair. Such is what a thespian must endure after his hotheaded portrayal of Ronald Reagan got swept under the rug, all the while cursing the humorless genetics that prevent him from joining wife Barbra Streisand to play the other parent of Ben Stiller.

Dewey decimal city

A not-entirely-random review of the number of Toronto Public Library users currently–well, as of 9ish a.m. today–in the reservation queue for ten actively media-rific hardcovers. Note: A few of these books have already been flung into the system, while several haven’t, but that doesn’t affect the number of jus’ folks aspiring to get their grubby palms on a complimentary loaner. As a reference point, a steady bestseller list item like Eats, Shoots & Leaves, or Sophie Kinsella’s latest Shopaholic schtick, will consistently have a thousand or so people in line. There are, however, 4872 locals still waiting for a whack at one of the 557 copies of The Da Vinci Code. (Plus a thousand more waiting for the audio or large print editions to come in.)

The Family: The Real Story of the Bush Dynasty by Kitty Kelley: 345
America (The Book) by Jon Stewart: 296
It’s the Crude, Dude: War, Big Oil and the Fight for the Planet by Linda McQuaig: 220
Confessions of a Heiress by Paris Hilton: 192
Pearls in Vinegar: The Pillow Book of Heather Mallick: 180
The Rebel Sell: Why the Culture Can’t be Jammed by Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter: 91
An Accidental Canadian by Margaret Wente: 83
How to Talk to a Liberal (If You Must) by Ann Coulter: 45
The Icarus Factor: The Rise and Fall of Edgar Bronfman Jr. by Rod McQueen: 39
Prisoners of the North by Pierre Berton: 34
The Secret Trial: Brian Mulroney, Stevie Cameron and the Public Trust by William Kaplan: 24
Hollywood Causes Cancer by Tom Green: 12

I ♥ North York

The great circa late-’80s expectations for desolate downtown North York were toned down once the area that was technically Canada’s fourth largest city got amalgamated–along with the four other ex-boroughs–into the City of Toronto, given how it was the concept’s huckster Mel Lastman who slid into the merged mayor’s chair in 1998. Development of his old stomping grounds, it seemed, would take care of itself, with cranes swingin’ around condo complexes with names like “The Broadway”, the Ford Centre For the Performing Arts housing then-unaudited impresario Garth Drabinsky’s retro-‘40s musicals, and the reassurance that a Novotel sharing a residential side street with post-war bungalows wouldn’t seem that deranged, oh, 15 or 20 or 1000 years down the line. But, in the process of uprooting the century-old Depmsey’s hardware store at Sheppard and Yonge in favor of a multiplex-friendly orbit of corporate headquarters, it’d seem the disco-era bureaucratic cornerstone of Mel-tropolis, whose sharp angles defined later development, was being ignored most of all.

North York’s former City Hall (now Civic Centre) was subject of a recent community council study, which tallied up the number of filthy floors, dusty sculptures, unhygienic washrooms, atrocious air quality, scattered birds and vermin, and the reflecting pool in Mel Lastman Square left barren in summer. A total of 261 infractions were found in a building dedicated to enforcing those codes–in Howard Moscoe’s words, “enough to make a slum landlord blush”. See, for all the pretensions toward gentrified glitz, what’s been forsaken is the area’s legacy as a middle-class hub whose greatest virtues remain stuff like a library, skating rink and swimming pool. (And a lawn bowling club.) But obviously, if that damn Yonge Street weren’t wedged in the midst of everything, there’d be little ecological distinction between downtown N.Y. and any given American sub-burg where Procter & Gamble or Xerox or Nestlé have towers.

Matter of fact, if just out of necessity–given how a genuine urban center is usually not a 20-minute drive away from a lame pseudo one–those other Bobo paradises have a greater concentration of subculture. Whereas the Empress Walk Centre, a belated rationale for carving out a subway station across from Mel’s quadrant of non-activity, proved just another reason to keep people off the blustery too-wide sidewalks. The four-year-old complex counted among its initial tenants Indigo and Tower Records–yet, the beleaguered enterprises were quickly replaced by a Staples Business Depot and a Future Shop, no greater proof that hardware still trumps software in downtown North York. Now, a motion has been put forward suggesting the Mel Lastman’s abandoned former office be remodeled into a public health department dental clinic. Mel himself, however, finds it “too hard to go back” to his old stomping grounds, preferring to ride into the sunset at a more terminally sedate midtown intersection: Yonge and St. Clair.

Tropic of Cancer

Could there be anything more forlorn than unnecessary strands of red velour rope extending all the way down a giant bookstore’s aisle? If they were set up to keep a thousand rowdy jackals at bay during a Tom Green appearance, then maybe–or maybe not. Hey, dude has lived in Hollywood the last several years; maybe he brings a couple of paid-duty officers to stand on either side of him everywhere he goes. But there were certainly no craning necks among the 60 or so overgrown adolescents who turned out on Thursday night to hear Drew Barrymore’s second ex-husband field questions prior to scribbling his name on copies of Hollywood Causes Cancer at the 110 Bloor location of Chapters–a disastrous retail environment whose trajectory falls in sync with the timeline of Green’s memoir. It details how sophomoric stunts via Ottawa college radio, then a rap act, then local access cable led to a deal with MTV, cover of the Rolling Stone and the flick Freddy Got Fingered. Yet, in Green hurdling over any need to relocate to Toronto, he never had to pound this particular pavement–save for hauling a dead squirrel and raccoon carcass on the Mike Bullard show, which resulted in Bullard puking his then-plentiful guts out. Like most of Green’s routine, it wasn’t without entertainment value at the time, but the number of people willing to bask in the residual glory of these stunts–at least besides U.S. troops in Iraq–would appear to be grossly overestimated.

Speaking of gross, a few minutes of lurking around the non-event sparked some curiosity–just how much money might’ve changed hands over the past six years due to Green’s sheer existence? Not only the $15-million budget for an unjustly maligned movie, but all the other development deals and promotional things and photo sessions and testicle cancer surgery and divorce lawyers? The answer may well be in the autobiography–one he wrote at more than double the age that Drew Barrymore was on publication of Little Girl Lost. But, based on the chit-chatter from browsers in the midst, their brief union is the #1 thing Tom Green is currently known for. Somehow, his refusal to disappear in spite of waning interest could pay artistic dividends down the line–rehashing his amplified legacy of asinine behavior, defiant of the decline and fall of GenX doofusdom. Rest assured, there’ll always be some cowardly online pundit offering up an instant know-it-all analysis of each and every under-attended public appearance. (Meanwhile, local artist Jubal Brown, best known for his unusual habit of vomiting on art gallery paintings, was recently awarded $34,300 by the Ontario Arts Council’s Chalmers Program, reports Joe Clark–so, when his book advance is spent, Tom G. is probably no less eligible to apply for a hand-out.)

P.S. When did the vested roaming floor staff at Chapters start being ordered to initiate conversations with the customers every three minutes? Doesn’t the proprietor understand that most “book lovers” don’t take well to that sort of thing?

Rinse and repeat

The Rebel Sell: Why The Culture Can’t Be Jammed is the freshly published manifesto from philosophy profs Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter. The pair’s Wednesday night gab session at the University of Toronto’s Innis College (also tied into the evidently purposeless McLuhan International Festival of the Future) billed it as “the most provocative book since No Logo” … although it’s entirely possible this duo were the only individuals on the planet spurred into actual action by Naomi Klein’s contradiction-drenched turn-of-the-millennium text.

Face it, the styrofoam banality perpetuated by Levi’s, Nike, McDonald’s, etc. would’ve eventually lost market share whether or not their business practices were put under scrutiny–they’ll try harder next time. Yet, the bulges that might’ve been spellbound in 2000 by boy bands, lad mags or Palm Pilots came with an expiry date from the outset. Why yield to the idea that any phenomenon will be eternally intriguing, and there’s some insidious force that needs to be outwitted with even more insidiousness … only less clever? The Rebel Sell’s argument is fixated upon debunking Klein’s trite theories about brand name marketers being at the root of all evil, while dissecting how countercultural thinking is just another product, as the only true non-conformist is a dead non-conformist. The rest of us are just feeding a corporate culture that’s entirely rooted in non-conformity, dig?

The Rebel Sell’s other celebrity target is nihilistic Vancouver-based Adbusters, whose publisher Kalle Lasn is currently raising a legal stink over the refusal of Toronto-based broadcast networks to air his anti-corporate commercials, amidst his efforts to tediously bait Jewish neo-cons and trying to market a new sneaker. Well, that’s certainly more provocative than rehashing the marketing spoofs that were done more subversively–by a bunch of Jewfolk–decades ago at Mad magazine. But these antics have served the sharp-dressed authors of The Rebel Sell with a prime opportunity to leap on the hamster wheel of rhetoric–with their endorsement of warm ‘n’ fuzzy legislative measures like no longer allowing corporations to write off advertising as a business expense–as a natural step beyond throwing darts at creative directors seeking obscure chill-folk tunes they can effectively use for luxury car spots.

Must be some pollutant in Lake Ontario that inspires so much vacuous cocktail conversation getting bound into books–indignation inspired by pshawing the sort of trend-setting phenomena that’s historically inclined to take root anywhere but here. The Rebel Sell authors referenced the late former U of T prof Allan Bloom’s The Closing of the American Mind and How We Got Here: The ‘70s–The Decade That Brought You Modern Life, For Better and For Worse by David Frum–the greatest American patriot this town will ever produce–as examples of righty books that challenged the counterculture ethos. But their railings against filthy hippies grubbing for spare change is kinda trumped by the city’s most expansive organic food emporium being the Whole Foods Market inside Hazelton Lanes.

This fall also sees publication of Hello, I’m Special: How Individuality Became the New Conformity by aging zineaholic Hal Niedzviecki (who wasn’t impressed with The Rebel Sell for some overwrought reasons you can read here); The War On Fun by Ezra Levant, formerly the National Post’s resident Stockaholic–now safely returned to Western Standard alienation; and Planet Simpson: How a Cartoon Masterpiece Documented an Era and Defined a Generation by Chris Turner, spun-off from an infamously mediocre cover story in the unlamented magazine Shift. While each book is apparently coming from a different point along the political spectrum, all three efforts are ultimately trying to say the exact same thing: “Please pay us thousands of dollars to recite platitudes at your upcoming conference.” With her worldwide publishing success, Naomi Klein certainly learned first-hand what a lucrative racket it can be–especially if you don’t have any original ideas worthy of making a net contribution to the dialogue. Does it make any sense when the corporate totems allegedly infringing upon our liberties come and go–only to come back around again–but those alleging to reveal the truth behind sales pitches can aspire to greater job security? Guess we’ll be seeing y’all next Tuesday night for Billy Corgan’s poetry reading …

The Rebel Sell {This Magazine}