Morals

"Won't somebody please think of the children?" Helen Lovejoy shouted this anytime a moral cause was taken up in early episodes of The Simpsons. It was meant as a satirical jab at those who may be perceived to take the world too seriously. It also worked as a message to those parents and others who complained about the content of the show damaging society's moral fabric.

Living in Beijing, one might assume I don't have time to keep up with television or pop culture. Well, I am a creature of habit and obsession so to shut myself off from my stories would be unacceptable. I try to achieve a balance. Considering the recent rises in pollution, staying inside and watching movies doesn't seem like such a horrible idea.

(Aside: the pollution leaks through the windows. There is nowhere to hide!) (Second aside: Terminator 3 is on HBO at the moment. I forgot how unforgivably bad it is.)

I'm a binge watcher. The beauty and danger of DVD and Netflix is we have access to full seasons of television at our fingertips preventing the expansion of our social lives. I missed the boat, initially, on Breaking Bad but caught up through the first two seasons in maybe a week. Since then I've been hooked. I used to watch The Sopranos by season. I plowed through The Wire and Lost several episodes per sitting. It's the viewing equivalent of novelistic storytelling.

"The Edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."
                                                           - Hunter S. Thompson

About a month ago I started watching Sons of Anarchy. I'm not far in, and I like it well enough, but I started thinking about the potential moral rebuking coming from viewers who believe it to be polluting the future generation. Through (very) brief searching I found two sites that provided slightly differing methods of telling parents that Sons of Anarchy is not appropriate for children.

One is quick and to the point. It goes into detail about the summary of the show and then explains in a paragraph the events that may be questionable for people under the age of 18. It does this without standing on a pedestal of outrage that such a show exists but simply acknowledges that children probably shouldn't watch a show about violent, promiscuous bikers who sell guns.

Common Sense Media paints a different picture. In the interest of fairness, the site does not gloss over the details and actually does more than the radical Simpsons haters of decades past. The problem is the site doesn't use common sense in its analysis. It's obvious that this show is not intended for children but I think they are making an error in suggesting the show "glamorizes the lifestyle of some very unlikable outlaw bikers." If you watch SOA and get a hankering to join a bike gang, there are a few more things wrong with your psychology than enjoying a television show.

If a show is inherently violent does that mean it is glamorizing it? The setting of Sons of Anarchy and the subject matter dictate that this will not be a pleasant undertaking for those involved. It is a motorcycle gang and the show does a decent job of displaying the moral conundrums and diversity the characters are involved with. There is a depth of character at work here that isn't explored at all in Common Sense Media's explanation of the show. Jax, the focal point, is not an all-the-way bad person. The show does not work in black-and-white generalities -- at least not when it comes to SAMCRO.

(So far, by season two, the rivals SAMCRO face are generic plot devices designed to provide conflict. It'd be nice if characters like Darby had a little more depth so the conflict provided a little more overall resonance and was more challenging for the viewer.)

I take issue with the assertion that the show does not feature positive role models. Or, rather, I take issue with the idea that this is important when judging a television show.

First of all, it's more complicated than simply defining positive and negative on these characters. Jax himself is struggling with the notion of becoming a father and leaving a legacy for his son. The early parts of the series focus on Jax's relationship with his deceased father through a found journal. While Common Sense Media may be right about some characters being thinly drawn, Jax is going through a fascinating series of trials and revelations. His perception of his father and the gang is evolving because of these journals. Because of his father, Jax is part of Sons of Anarchy. Does he want his son to go through the same thing? Jax isn't exactly the moral compass of the show because it doesn't deign to have one. Instead, he's a direct criticism of the lifestyle and the backwards thinking it can instill on its members. He doesn't want to kill, though he does. And make no mistake, Jax loves being part of SAMCRO because it is a family. Like with The Sopranos, and many stories about gangs, one of the overarching themes is the importance of trust and family. This is tested fairly early and regularly.

Secondly, when can we all just agree that television is not an appropriate substitute for parenting and babysitting? I think Common Sense Media has an altruistic motive and they definitely open their message up for discussion, which I congratulate. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the site doesn't seem to be on a soapbox of family values, as they do mention the high quality of The Sopranos in comparison to SOA.

Context is important. Some stories are unpleasant but that doesn't mean they aren't worth telling. Sons of Anarchy is not a perfect show as many characters are paper-thin space-fillers. When I was young, if I ended up watching something that featured violence, sexuality, strong language, etc. my parents explained the nature of it to me. They were sure to put it in the proper context so I didn't get the wrong ideas. Kids are impressionable, sure, and it is up to parents to put what they watch into proper context.

I'll continue to watch Sons, and while it will occasionally rub me the wrong way I know enough not to look to the television shows I watch as a guide on how to live my own life.

I do want a motorcycle, though. This is not a new development.

For another look into motorcycle gangs, check out Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson.

Conscious

 I don't like repeating myself. As such, I am not too keen in re-transcribing my thoughts and descriptions of my two weeks in Vietnam and Cambodia. It was a terrific time with some wonderful people (both friends and strangers). I captured my pontifications in my personal notebook, though, and that is where they will stay. Ask me and I'll share it with you, but I'm not going to run down my vacation.

Besides, nothing negative happened so it's immediately less riveting than a total train wreck would have been. Flying back into Beijing the flight attendant came over the loudspeaker in the plane.

"The ground temperature in Beijing is -11 degrees Celsius," she said.

I groaned. It's silly to complain, since I spent the previous two weeks in paradise, but it was a fairly severe shock to the system. I grumbled.

Memories will settle in and nestle their way into my subconscious. This is why we travel. It's an opportunity to see the world and build on our perceptions and experiences. Every meaningful moment, positive and negative, is a puzzle piece forming our personal identities. Mine is unique...just like everyone else.






Worse...the pollution is more oppressive than ever. The air quality index was, apparently, off the scales on Saturday. It probably set me back to day one of not smoking. Drat.

For everything new, there is something familiar. Upon returning to the frigid concrete jungle, the safest and most comfortable option is staying inside to catch up on movies and television. Hooray! From Lincoln to Django to Zero Dark Thirty, the movies of 2012 have impressed. Netflix has given me access to Sons of Anarchy, which I have put off for some time. Turn the heat on, lay back on my tiny couch and I avoid the cold. Not a bad call.

But still I am restless at times. I don't like to blog without purpose...but I also don't like leaving this space untended for too long. It's good practice to compose these posts, however aimless. I'm not Kerouac, though and stream of consciousness doesn't flow easily for me. Perhaps the more I force myself to do it, the easier it will get...like most things.

Less than a month until Spain. My mind is already there.

Purgatory

I should have stayed for tea.

Saturdays are for adventuring in Beijing. The rest of the week is predominantly filled with work and the occasional jaunt around the neighbourhood but rarely results in any kind of journey straying too far from familiarity. A knock on the door woke me earlier than my usual Saturday and thus the wheels were put in motion for a day full of surprises, frustration and maniacal laughter.

Amanda, Katie and I made our way to the bus stop at around 11:00 AM. We had to go several stops on Bus 300 toward the south-east of Beijing to meet Jeffrey, a former colleague and current friend also living in the city. The plan was to meet, jump on another bus, and check out a pet/jewelry/plant market (yes...you could buy a rabbit and a necklace in the same place).

Nursing my wounds from the night before was made more difficult by the heavy traffic and stuttering movement of our bus. At our stop I tossed away a half pack of smokes. I made a mental decision that I didn't need them and I'd been cutting back anyway. I later regretted this. We finally met Jeffrey at a Costa Coffee where I downed an Americano and a cereal muffin. We shot the breeze for a while and went on our way.

Another lengthy bus ride brought us to the pet labyrinth. This place is corridor after corridor of various shops with fish, tarantulas, flying squirrels, and more. We browsed and found some depressing spots where the animals live in tiny cages wallowing in their own feces.

It was still an interesting place, and not all animals were being abused (at least not openly). It's another one of those things that certainly wouldn't fly in Canada, in the open, but no one really bats an eye here.

We grabbed a cab to a tea market even further away. The clock read 3:45. I had plans to meet up with a friend back at the apartment at 6:00. I still wanted to shower and relax, so I figured if I cut the tea market out of my schedule, I'd be back at the apartment around 5:00. The traffic was rotten so an hour in transit seemed believable.

Jeffrey said it was not a problem and that a subway station would be nearby. What he meant, though it wasn't clear to me, was that a subway station was several bus stops away from the tea market.

I cursed upon this realization.

Jeffrey asked if I wanted to join them for a couple cups of tea before heading off. I said I'd rather just get on my way. I'm a punctual person, take great pride in being on time when I say I am going to be somewhere. I was admittedly getting a little stressed as we tried, with futility, to flag a cab because I saw my chances at getting a shower were slipping away. I acquiesced and jumped on the bus, waved goodbye and was gone.

Traffic was hell. There were so many stops and very few starts. Finally, I made it after what felt like an eternity. Off the bus I looked for a subway. By now I had become aware that I needed to first take line 1 and transfer to line 10 so I can get back to my neck of the woods: Liangmaqiao Rd. Problem was I couldn't find the subway.

I walked down the street where I assumed it must be. The bus schedule said this stop had a subway station with line 1 on it. I came to a sign that said the station was 200 metres away...in the direction I came from. Confused, I went back that way for several minutes but again couldn't find it.

Past the sign, which I returned to, I walked up a set of steps to an overpass to get a bird's eye view. I looked back in the direction the sign had suggested. In the distance, I made out a subway stop. It was like a level of Doom, though. I could see exactly where I wanted to be but had no real idea how to get there.

For the third time I walked to where the sign was telling me. This time, I crossed the street to a narrow sidewalk. One subway station was obscured by blue walls. It was definitely closed for construction. I was bewildered. A steady flow of people was coming from around the corner ahead of me. Others were walking in that direction. It seemed likely that the subway station was there because it made little sense for these people to be walking through the desolate underpass near a slew of construction. Sure enough, the subway was there.

A subway ticket in Beijing is 2RMB. That is the equivalent to just over 30 cents Canadian. The problem, another of many this day, was I only had one 1RMB bill and two 100RMB bills. Ugh. I tried to buy a subway card with one of the 100s. This way I can just use the card whenever I use the subway. That's when I notice my bank card is gone. The worst case scenario is I left it in the machine when I used it the day before and the next person in cleaned me out. My own stupid haste. As I'm dealing with this, the vendor shakes his head indicating he either can't or won't sell me a card or accept my 100RMB bill.

Back above ground I went to the other subway station just across from the exit of the first one. Fortunately, there was a vendor here who sold me a card and I was on my way again. On the subway, just as the doors closed and it started moving, I noticed the station I was at was a transfer station for line 10; the line I needed to be on. It would have been smart to get off at the next stop and walk across to the other train to go back one stop to make the transfer. I did not think of this and instead went 11 stops to the next transfer line.

"You've got to be kidding me," I yelled.

The entrance to line 10 was gated, closed. If I had read my email more closely this week I would have remembered one specific notice that informed us all that line 10 was going to be closed for work to be done.

The sun had set between the 11 stops.

On the street I recognized nothing. I ended up in a brand new section of town. It didn't matter to me if I was going to drop an extra amount of money for a cab. It was 5:30. The shower was out of the question but if I got a cab quickly enough I would still be able to meet my friend.

Nope.

There were at least ten people, or groups of people, trying to flag down their own cabs.  I walked in some random direction hoping I'd get away from the crowd and have the taxis all to myself. None stopped. Most had passengers in them, but there were a few who simply waved me off or shut off their lights as they approached me. Without any coherent plan, I walked.

Normally, I'd hoof it home no matter how far I had to go. There was one hitch in this idea, though. I did not know what direction to go in. Considering I didn't know anyone, the signs were in Mandarin, and no one spoke English I may have been going completely in the wrong direction. I lost my phone a month ago and haven't replaced it so I couldn't call on anyone for help either.

I saw a bus stop and it dawned on me that I might be able to find the 300 bus and make it home. I sighed in relief when I saw the 300 bus listed at this stop. After waiting a bit, it arrived and I settled in. After a few stops being announced, it seemed like the bus was going away from my road. Another setback.

I got off at the next stop, crossed the overpass, and got on the next 300 bus going in the opposite direction. Somewhere I made a mistake. Two stops after I got on we reached the end of the line and everyone had to get off. I felt like I was in the movie After Hours only without a dead woman or a mob chasing me.

Again I set to walking. And after a few minutes I, again, came across a bus stop with 300 on it. I waited, and for the third time I got on the bus. This time I asked the ticket-seller "Liangmaqiao?" She gave me the universal signal for the number 5 by holding up her hand and digits. I assumed this meant five stops.

"YES!" I yelled repeatedly as I exited the bus on familiar ground. I bounced down the street toward home, finally walking in the door at 8:15. I missed tea, and I missed my friend at the apartment but wow...what a day. My frustration grew for so long until I could do nothing but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Every time it seemed like I was on the right track, something went wrong.

My freezing body was cured by the warmth of the shower, a bowl of cereal and a bottle of water as I curled up on my tiny couch. Any prospects of leaving again had been shot by my ridiculous mishaps.

A day in purgatory had finally been solved and I needed a rest.

Nostalgia

As I teach a unit on media and the messages presented by media to a grade 8 class in Beijing, I can't help but be reminded of my first real gig as a journalist.

I was partway through my third year at St. Thomas University when I got my first crack at an assignment at an actual newspaper. It led to my first full time job the following summer and to what I thought, at the time, would be a long and fruitful career.

This was incorrect.

About a year after the paper opened, it shut its doors.

I'm thinking about it a lot because I've been using stories from my portfolio as exemplars for my students. They are writing interviews and I am giving them my professional writing as examples of format and style.

I have come a long way. My writing and editing has improved ten-fold and I am picking out errors in stories from 2008 that make me groan in 2012.

I am certainly still proud with this work, especially stories like this one where I spoke with Curt Wetmore about his three-week trip to Thailand among others (links will be at the end...in case you would like to peruse my old words -- I have touched them up a tad).

It's interesting to look back and be reminded of something I once felt very strongly about -- and discovering that it may mean just as much now.

Re-reading my long form final piece from journalism school The Death of the Carleton FreePress I recognize some things that I could have done better with it. I should have spoken to Rob Perkins (the former editor from before I arrived) and I should have fought to speak with someone from Brunswick News, and especially Ken Langdon.

Langdon was too busy at the time I was trying to put the story together. He never answered his phone. Perkins probably could have been reached and maybe if I pressed harder I could have gotten someone at BNI to give me his or her perspective on the happenings.

I made a judgment call to write a profile on the staff and how our relationships formed and how it appeared to us as the paper reached its nadir. I am incredibly proud with how it turned out but it could have been more; it could have been something special.

The Carleton FreePress is mostly forgotten now; a distant memory. It's a casual conversation piece that starts with "remember when." I'm not entirely bitter, I swear I'm not...I'm just disappointed in myself that I didn't fight harder for that career.

I've dabbled in it since, and even had a full time gig at the Bugle-Observer in Woodstock and a freelance one at the Daily Gleaner in Fredericton. Something didn't click. It wasn't the staff, they were incredible. Jim Dumville is the best boss I've ever had in my life. Bryan Tait, Jeffrey Bento-Carrier, Peter MacIntosh, Devon Judge, and fellow FreePress alumnus Allison Adair were joys to work with in the editorial side of things. In fact, everyone at the paper with whom I had regular contact helped make it a great working environment.

Before being offered the full time job, and while I was freelancing for the Gleaner, I applied to education school at St. Thomas University...my alma mater. Ultimately, a few months into my job at the Bugle, I got accepted to school and worked my way through the summer looking ahead to change. It was difficult to keep my head in the journalism game as I thought about the impending finish. I still worked hard but had grown to dislike court reporting (which I did every week) and I'll admit my attitude suffered down the stretch.

I hope it doesn't seem like sour grapes, it's just that I am recognizing my own shortcomings at a job where I still have so much to give. Before moving to Beijing, I had started freelancing again at the Bugle-Observer and I wrote one of my favourite articles yet (hopefully I can grab a copy and post it).

Then I was whisked away to a new, mysterious place half a world away. How could I pass up this opportunity? Easy answer: I couldn't...so I didn't.

As I teach this course, my heart swells with nostalgia. I think of the Carleton FreePress and the incredible feeling it gave me at the time. I think of journalism school, which nearly broke my love of the job but prepared me for it in ways I was possibly unaware of until now. I think of my colleagues who have moved on to God knows where (I can't track down Bob Rupert, my FreePress editor). I think of how I was the first (other than Gleaner reporter Adam Bowie) to get a full time job while in j-school and how many never continued in the business.

I'll return to journalism, I know this. The best part is that pursuing my bachelor of education and teaching english and journalism has helped make me a better writer and editor.

For now I'll bask in the glow of nostalgic feelings as I read old work and shudder at rookie mistakes. It was the time of my life.

STORIES:
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Fred Eaglesmith
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A Book to Find Solace

Snowfall

It snowed overnight.

Before I came to Beijing I was informed that while the winters get very dry and cold, the snow mostly holds off. Waking up Sunday morning to see the soccer field outside my window with a patchy quilt of snow was somewhat surprising, but also comforting.

I am no fan of winter, or so I've claimed since I was young. I've longed for year-round summers or autumns. I've hoped the eternal chill of December through February would not rear its head. I've wished that global warming would hurry the hell up. And yet I couldn't help but smile when I looked out the window.

Could I be homesick? I've wondered this, and I think the answer is yes...and no. I miss the people, I miss live sports, and I miss movies opening on their scheduled weekend (though never a guarantee in New Brunswick). I know, however, that I would feel like I was missing something. The problem is, even on the other side of the world I still feel that nagging void. I came here to see if this would pacify it; to see if it would help. In some cases it has, and will continue. Seeing the Great Wall, walking the streets of Shanghai, finding a Tapas Bar down an alley that shows old movies on Tuesday nights, losing myself to the call of karaoke each have fueled a joy and I expect travels to Vietnam and Cambodia and possibly Thailand to do the same.

It is an amazing experience that I will never regret. I will see things that many of my friends never will. No matter where I go, no one will be able to take these away from me. I look at those who have built lives here over the years, and while I don't think I'm exactly jealous I do yearn to be able to do the same somewhere. Stability is an attractive concept, and I haven't found it yet.

When my thoughts swirl and I question my existence on this floating sphere, I retreat into the world of movies. Those close to me, and probably everyone who has ever met me for more than a minute, know that I am obsessed with film. In one leg of town, Sanlitun, there is a DVD shop. I don't plan on rebuilding a collection but the price is right. I bought 11 DVDs and spent around $20 Canadian. Good news: so far they all work! This whole weekend, with the exception of a few excursions out and about, has been a movie weekend. Not a bad thing, it's how I cope with life. That sounds depressing, but it's not. Movies, good and bad, help me form connections to the world. They get me thinking about different mindsets and perceptions. Movies are not a break from reality, they enhance it. The casual moviegoer will never get this, and will probably think I'm certifiable. In fact, I feel kind of silly even writing that.

I stood with a coffee looking out the window at the freshly fallen snow. I felt like I was back home. But what, and where, is home? I don't know the answer to that question yet.

Great Wall or Greatest Wall?

The Great Wall of China is one of those places where you can’t help but have exorbitant expectations prior to experiencing it. What those expectations entail is likely a litany of vague, second-hand information or photographs. You can subdue those expectations by trying to convince yourself that it’s “just another place.”

You would be right if you stopped at the main gates of the Mutianyu section after walking through the preliminary crowds and past the aggressive street vendors as they shill their wares at inflated prices – I got a pair of sunglasses for 20 Yuen when I was first asked to pay was 85. Once you’re past these early distractions and begin the climb, to whatever area you have entered, it takes on a life of its own.

The feeling of impending awe will loom as you walk up the steep walkways and stairwells. Before reaching the actual wall, people were already resting on the side. It is an arduous climb but any pain or stress will immediately disappear when you come to the stairs leading to the wall. Reaching the top I looked out across the landscape at mountains in the hazy distance and saw the wall stretch for what seemed like infinity in every direction. To be standing on one of the only man-made structures that can be seen from space carries a feeling of insignificance and wonder that I don’t think I have ever reached before.

We walked, we joked, we haggled for beer, and we saw a small fraction of a magnificent place. Down in the valleys sat villages of tin roofed houses, shacks and invisible locals. Talking with another Westerner after returning from the trip I was told that many people who live in areas near the wall have likely never even been to Beijing and yet here we were venturing to their necks of the woods. It makes sense. The lives of these people are still a secret to us. The people who worked the area weren’t likely locals from the Wall. They spoke decent English and had items for sale that certainly weren’t hand woven or carved. My real or knock-off Ray Bans were not assembled down in the valley.

The come down was inevitable. For such a large portion of the day I flew high, astounded at every sight my eyes fell upon. Leaving after a quick meal and belt of coffee trying my best to lose myself in my headphones a heavy sense of emptiness descended. I was returning to routine, to a sense of normalcy. I had experienced the extraordinary and had returned to the ordinary -- this is only in the context of living in China, which upon extra thought is not all that ordinary in my case.

I sat on a cannon on the Great Wall. That is not something that happens every day or, in most cases, ever.

Going to such a breathtaking and incredible place will be a personal journey for all those who enter. You may share it with friends as you hike together but everyone will feel their own individual and emotional rush. To predict how one might react to the place inwardly is impossible.

                                                     

 It is a place to be seen, a place to behold. It is certainly a place but it is one unlike any other. Obvious sentiments, sure, but words cannot do it justice.

Out of the subway into Shanghai

View from the street outside Shanghai subway station.

Equipped with a ridiculous handlebar mustache I set out on four hours sleep and a touch of the special shine for the airport at 5:30 for a 7:30 flight. The Beijing airport was hell, as are all airports. It's a hassle akin to being rats in a maze being funneled toward the cheese, which unfortunately was my seat in coach...or economy class as they so kindly renamed it.

I slept the entire flight, missed the meal and landed in Shanghai ready to take on the new city. I can't say I missed the meal exactly. Airplane food is one area, where no matter how many advancements in technology have been reached, that is always atrocious.

Shanghai is anything but. As soon as I filtered out of the subway into the relatively inactive street, I knew I was in a special city. The air was cleaner than Beijing and the sky was clear blue. Guillermo and I sauntered to our hostel down an alley-like sidestreet. We watched the local hole-in-the-wall eateries serving various treats from dumplings to moon cakes to fried chicken and vegetables.

The hostel itself, Blue Mountain Youth Hostel, seemed pretty decent. I'm not usually one for communal living but the showers were clean and separated from one another so it was of little concern. The room (and the hostel itself), on the sixth floor of twenty-eight, was tiny with four bunk beds. Eight people at a time stayed, including an American psychotherapist and Chinese tourists who work together at an automotive firm...I think.

The cafe served pizza and mellow music...some good like Iron and Wine; some bad like Jack Johnson. It was a nice, relaxed little cafe with various foodstuffs. Pizza, muesli, Snickers bars, coffee, beer, eggs, mystery meat and toast, among other things. If you buy outside beer, they'll pop the top at the bar but you must promptly abscond to the patio.

Guillermo and I walked the streets. It reminded me of Las Vegas with all the colours (moreso when the sun went down) and abrasive shills on the street forcing pamphlets in my face. One day, as we walked, I saw a fairly well dressed man walking toward some people he obviously knew as I was walking by. I was close enough, apparently, for him to whisper in my ear.

"Lady massage," he said quietly before turning and continuing his conversation with his acquaintances.

Knock-off watches can be acquired every few feet as you pass one of the many KFCs.

Pudong. The Pearl is that big one on the left with spheres at various levels.

We hit up the Bund, a beautiful area overlooking the water. Across to the other side are large buildings, none identical, including the Pearl. It's all unique and yet also vaguely familiar. Shanghai has an immediate impact on the senses somehow blending energy and relaxation into one mega-vacation-smoothie. In Beijing there is a constant swath of honking from the traffic; not so in Shanghai. The honks make some sense, where in Beijing they're redundant chest pounding. Traffic cops were efficient, maybe because it was the national holiday, and actually helped pedestrians. It wasn't a constant game of Frogger.



More to come...including my review of the movie Looper, which was partially shot in Shanghai.

Ridiculous mustache...check!