Poster in Sofia promoting Madonna's "Sticky and Sweet" Tour

It’s hot. The heat makes you sticky; turns you into a walking fly paper strip. Dirt sticks to you, bed sheets, clothing. Chairs stick to you when you get up to leave cafés. Other people stick to you, and not always the ones you’d even like sticking to you. The keys on this lap top are sticky. The stickiness seems to spread to everything. A viral tactile sensation that even this super duper high powered fan (announcing as it does on it’s box “Your Perfect Choice!”) aimed directly at me cannot combat. When the heat hits, Sofia is one sticky place. Add to this our residence on the sixth floor in an A-shaped attic appartment, and you will begin to appreciate my new obsession with things that go stick in the night.

In the evenings, after days wandering around doing this and that, then eating dinner with friends or at Svetla’s parents, we return to this little space of ours. After climbing the stone stairs all the way up, we arrive at a tiny door and undo the formidable locks. We both hesitate before entering, waiting for that pent up but now released, waft of hot air that feels like it’s been pushed out of a giant hot air balloon by a giant’s fist. Once inside we alight to our stations: Svetla darts to the bedroom and opens that room’s skylight, I struggle through the invisible inferno and grapple for the number “3” switch on the floor fan, then pop open the skylight in the common room, where I sit now. The two skylights opening at these times must have the effect, from the outside, of gaskets releasing high-pressure heat plumes from the red-tiled slopes of this apartment building’s roof top.

Two weeks here have drifted by like a mirage. It’s instructive that once the artifice of work is removed in all its intrusive and imbricate facets—cell phones mute, schedules tossed, emails unanswered, books stacked and staring at you disapprovingly, the guilt that pervades the pleasure of leisure lurking elsewhere—life becomes unstructured, unhinged. And with this displacement of purpose comes a liberty to do nothing or do other somethings. It’s not a natural state for me. I’ve of course dragged 25 kilos and at least that many days work with me across the Atlantic; the good intentions for which are, undoubtedly, lingering in the jet stream particles now transforming some poor unsuspecting cumulus nimbus and doing their part in the global climate change theatre (and typically human, after contributing my four tons equivalent of carbon dioxide, I complain about intense heat). But the work that came with me—endless academic articles and several brain-tweaking books, files begging to be opened and addressed on this lap top, stacks of DVDs in need of previewing for my role at RIDM and Cinema Politica, and this persistent self-appointed blogging charge—have not been successful in their usual forceful manner of inflecting my travel time with work, work, work.

But I’m slowly coming round. I’m finding ways to reintroduce the idea of reading communication theory on things like “the methodology of audience ethnography” during an afternoon heat wave that turns workers between unfinished concrete floors into slugs seeking shade high above streets so hot that holes between stones filled with asphalt actually have foot prints from the last mistaken steps that melted into otherwise solid material. I’m finding ways to stare at the stack of 45 films to my right and the hard drive with another 75 films beside it, and not think: nothing like a depressing documentary to pull one’s indolent inner bee further down toward the soup-like asphalt that beckons me toward dreamland and away from work. And alas, I’m finding ways to return to the keyboard and stickly tap away in front of the wind tunnel I’ve constructed, and carve out a story or two for this space.

In other words, the cobwebs, despite the intense heat in this triangular domicile and quick sand beneath my feet outside, are lifting. Soon, I will remember these past weeks, and will recount some of the hazy time here. Until then, I’ll go on depositing my body’s brine into this strange landscape with a fervour only likely to be found with Canadians visiting Bulgaria.

Svetla and Ezra get sun on the Seine - the spot to drink wine as the sun sets in Paris

Those who check this space won’t be shocked to learn that it’s been a dear while since I managed to throw some words up on to the cyberpage, so I’m going to forgo the usual pandering and just let it be known that after weeks of a no-computer policy, we have recently faced technological hurdles, which have been overcome. I shall, from this day forward until the end of the summer, do my best to keep the dispatches flowing. So, some catching up is in order. Below is Paris summarized. The next entry will be Portugal, then the first week in Bulgaria, and then, I shall be caught up and able to sleep with a clear conscience.

It’s been just over two weeks since we left Montreal for Europe. We’re now safely in the chaotic folds of Bulgaria’s capital city Sofia. We’ve been here for three days, getting our bearings, getting stuffed full of delicious Balkan cuisine by Svetla’s mom, and continuing our campaign, begun in Portugal, for total relaxation.

I’ve been delinquent in my blogging duties due to this campaign of rest and decompression. The last few weeks in Montreal were extremely stressful and hectic for us. We both had much to wrap up before leaving the country for such an extended period (two and a half months). Cinema Politica demanded multiple levels of closure and semi-closure that Svetla tackled with a haggard determination. The apartment had to be readied for a family to move into whom we have never met. Friends had to be seen, schoolwork had to be finished, other responsibilities met.

Us and the Arc, you know the big one, in Paris

So by the time we arrived in Paris on June 16th we were completely exhausted. We checked into our overpriced hotel on St Andre and dragged our 55 kg of luggage up to the fifth floor, negotiating precariously narrow and ill-spaced stairs the whole way. We ricocheted between uneven walls along an even more uneven floor, down the absurdly narrow hallway to the end where we found our room. Upon entering and depositing our luggage, it was immediately apparent that it would be difficult for us to walk freely around the bed, between the suitcases and walls. But while tiny, it was charming (a charm that evaporates faster than ether when one pays the bill at the end of four nights). We had a sink and a window overlooking a courtyard about the size of a coffin, surrounded by other Parisian plastered walls from other buildings.

That first night we cleaned up and hit the Paris streets, wandering without aim in a city that has a million delightful paths and sights. Paris is a sprawling metropolis of 6 million, with architecture and cafe culture that is only rivalled by the tranquil serpentine Seine River that meanders through the centre. That first night we shuffled along the far banks of the river and stumbled upon a cultural scene that was so Parisian I thought for a moment that it might even have been set up for us tourists. Along the river the cobblestone and brick path and embankment had half-circle spaces sectioned off by concentric large steps, about five or so levels, rising up to the walkway. These large spaces—about eight of them in total—created small open-air theatre-like spaces where, in each half-circle along the riverside, large groups of Parisians had gathered to dance or watch the dancing. In each separate half-circle space was a different group of people, mostly amateurs but seemingly committed to the cultural activity by what we observed to be their talent and knowledge. In each section was a different type of dance. There was traditional French (with live music), Tango, Swing and more. It was a beautifully warm late afternoon with a breeze coming up off the river and scores of Parisians had settle along the banks to play music, drink wine, eat snacks, dance and talk. A fantastic welcome to the city for two wayward travellers.

The next night we met up with Svetla’s friends in Paris and went out for dinner and drinks. Before that we visited the Centre Georges Pompideau gallery and spent four hours viewing three shows: one on Kandinsky, one on an American sculpturist whose name escapes me at the moment, and the best of all, “Elle@Centre Pompideau” a multi-media exhibition on women and art. Elle was political, provocative, fascinating, shocking and entertaining.

Um, yes, drinks were involved. Svetla, Ezra, Michael and Reisa.

Svetla has promised to write about it for Art Threat, and when and if that happens, I’ll link to it here. So we were still quite tired and even more tired after the exhibition, and headed out for drinks with the Paris-Bulgarian crew. After the meal and some wine we headed closer to our hotel and met up with Montreal friends Michael and Reisa who were at the end of a three week French vacation. That’s when I realized how tired we really were. They both noticed that Svetla and I were quite edgy, tense and possibly a little delirious. We were simultaneously decompressing from the overload of work in Montreal while suffering the West-East jet lag that was now setting in like a thick and opaque layer of muck.

But we all got drunk and that cured everything. Paris in the summer is so full of sidewalk places to eat and drink that you trip over them while walking. There are so many people sitting in these places at any given time, but especially in the late afternoon and evening, that one wonders how any work gets done in the rest of the city. These were wonderful experiences, sitting sipping, watching the beautiful and intriguing Parisians waft by in their various potent scents of perfume and cologne. But alas, this activity is not for the money-crunched, and the city of lights ate away at our travel budget like a ravenous beast. A mere coffee and croissant typically sets one back about 8 or 10 bucks Canadian.

C'est moi, in a park in Paris

Walking trips to the Arc de Triumph, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the National Palace and a tiny Vietnamese restaurant run by a teeny old grandmother that seated about six were some highlights of our five days in Paris. There’s of course more, but I must leave room for our ten days in Portugal, which I shall recount in the next entry. Until then, I’m sitting here in the Turnin flat, trying to psychologically expand my stomach to accept another huge delicious meal, tantalizing close to arriving from across the hall, where Svetla’s mom performs impossible culinary feats in a challenging kitchen. A thunder storm has just split the sky outside, and it’s earth-rattling trembles have set off car alarms and sent children shrieking. It’s comforting that nature can still exercise some drama and force on a city so full of human made drama already…

The brand-spanking new Mediascapes book

The Challenge for Change book, all 700+ pages of it, has gone to the publishers for a copy edit. That means that beast has been laid to rest for now, until we get it back from MQUP at which point we’ll have to go through the copy edit comments, incorporate them (or justify not incorporating them), come up with an index, and wax and polish. The book will likely come out in February 2010, although I’m still hoping for a Xmas release. That will be my first major academic publishing credit and I can hardly wait…

In the mean time, however, I have reason to celebrate: the new third edition of “Mediascapes: New Patterns in Canadian Communication,” (pictured above, held by a sun burnt me) edited by Leslie Shade, has been released by Nelson. This dandy undergraduate textbook for media and communication students is awesome. Leslie has done a bang-up job polishing this new edition into a gem of a pedagogical tool. With many new contributions and a shuffling of the structure of the book, the new version beats the old by leaps and bounds. Add to that a cover designed by my friend and colleague Mél Hogan, and I’m stoked to have a chapter in there! I co-authored a chapter on Canadian cultural policy with Ira Wagman, and I owe him (and Leslie) mucho thanks for this amazing opportunity. To contribute to a textbook while still a student is a great honour, one I won’t forget any time soon.

In other news, we just finished with our Five Year Cinema Politica Anniversary party - an amazing event that the super-human Svetla organized while coordinating the network, working part time, going to student tribunals and senate meetings, running in and winning the GSA election, and writing a paper for Leslie. Man, we need a vacation! Now, it’s time to get this Canada Council grant application finished, plus my two papers for the upcoming congress conference at the end of May…oh and that pesky Framing Harper Art Threat contest…

Oh, and if you’d like to help sales, you can read about the book here and even buy it!

Books. I love books.

And it’s not over, oh it’s not even close. We’ve had peer assessments done and they were overwhelmingly positive (whew!). We’ve now just finished implementing their suggested changes. But next up, is another proof-read then back to MQUP for their proofing, then back to us, then we construct a massive index, then…

The goal is to publish next Xmas. I can already see me holding the four pound thing, beaming like a new father, likely with an extra beam from the five wines I’ll have just polished off as part of my post-editing decompression. Yes, academic books are mucho work, with no pay. But man, I’ve realized that just having this task, this ongoing engagement with scholars and their literature and a historical media moment, it’s all kept me alive intellectually. I’m feeling reinvigorated and ready to take on my second comprehensive PhD exams this summer! Yes!

But, it’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the sort-of left won the Concordia Student Union election at Concordia early this morning, ending a long reign of error fashioned by the furor himself, Brent Farrington. Not only has this political Capone been behind the last several right wing idiots messing up the student union, but he apparently makes 80 grand a year working at the Canadian Federation of Students! Oh the corporate sector is the place to be folks…

But where was I? It’s a beautfiul day. Yes. I’m happy like sunshine and puppies happy. So I give you this awesome little video:

And then there is Cinema Politica. The project that has consumed Svetla and I like a lifeforce that needs our lives, all of our lives, to function and flourish. Our social and scholarly lives have become so indellibly intertwined with this sprawling beast that it is inseparable from most of everything we do. This is due in large part to the way the project has taken off like wild fire this semester. There are now 40 active locals in Canada and a handful scattered around the globe. All require time, energy, attention. Some need much more of our time than others, but in all, the network has grown to a project that would—in a normal scenario—require at least one full time staff and one part time, to say nothing of a small battery of volunteers. This is why we need to get more funding and move Cinema Politica out of our home and into an office and hire someone part time, or scale back the scope so that we can concentrate on our other work.

Ahhhh, burnout - it’s always so predictable but I never seem prepared. So these days the hours go by with me fretting over my upcoming 700 page book with Tom Waugh and Michael Brendan Baker, my TA sessions, my Second Comprehensive exam, two conference papers in May….and oh yes, that nagging unresolved question: what the hell am I going to definitively tackle—what philosophical question as Ira Wagman would say—for the next two years of my life as I research and write my PhD thesis? I’ve got an idea, but I thought I would be much much closer at this point. I just hope I figure it out before we go to Europe in June…

Rosenshein and the other disgusting bunch of self-serving liars that seized Concordia’s student union back in 2003 are responsible for many things on campus, and they extend WAY beyond broken campaign promises like free laptops and heated bus shelters. This gang of thieves is responsible for so much, I need a whole other separate entry to detail it. But I just couldn’t resist rejoicing right here, right now, with this information that the smug, sneaky and utterly immor(t)al Rosenshein has finally hit his low point. And from here, it should only get lower. Amen.

Israeli settlers and the Israeli government are illegally occupying Palestine and committing cultural genocide as they do it. It is the Israeli Holocaust, following 60 years, shamefully, on the heels of the Nazi Holocaust. Only this genocide is taking a lot longer to conduct. What they are doing is wrong, illegal, and unconscionable to anyone who gives a damn about human rights. Western media has been complicit in these crimes against the Palestinians, as was recently indicated by the BBC’s refusal to air a humanitarian PSA for the people of Gaza.

But every now and then, a Western media outlet surprises. A recent 60 Minutes show, broadcast on CBS might indicate a shift in that complicity. Kudos to 60 Minutes and Kudos to CBS. The two parts are above.

I just listened to the podcast for the week of Jan 23 and I instantly rushed from the metro station (after a 4 hour bus ride through a snow storm coming from Ottawa) and BOUGHT - YES BOUGHT - three albums on iTunes. For those who don’t know, CBC Radio 3 showcases independent Canadian music artists, and does so with an eye for detail of this sprawling chunk of geography that puts Canada Census to shame.

I have certain friends out there who have taken a bit of a ridiculous stance AGAINST supporting music artists and vow to never buy music again as long as it continues to be available for free for download on the internet. These people—these friends of mine—are in fact not only giving the internet a bad name, but they are positioning themselves as against the arts. Enjoying the arts requires more than consumption - it requires support. Yes, we all download, and I have my own policy (if they’re disgustingly rich, they don’t get my money). But independent Canadian musicians? They need us shelling out the odd ten bucks on line for their tunes.

So my friends, the albums I bought tonight and am fully enjoying (except for the last one, because I only heard one track as it is on pre-order), are:

Plants and Animals - Parc Avenue (pictured)
Royal Wood - A Good Enough Day
Jenn Grant - Echoes

Check ‘em out. If you’re CanCon-curious, check out CBC 3. Or how about this: if you like music, good music that hasn’t been sucked into the big-label corporate void, check out CBC 3.

Eat your wheaties, they’re good for your ears and your soul.