30.EP.27b: July 15, 2002.
"The War Party, part 1:
Shattered Times."
What I'm saying is that these days, we've lost the knack of
correcting our systems, and that none of them are set up to correct themselves.
There is no Komos for us to attend. Despite the enforced gaiety of
our Disneyfied lives, deep down we know there's nothing worthy of a public
celebration. Why do we agree to live under the stress of these compulsory
festivals that celebrate only the power of the systems we're trapped in?
Why aren't we looking for ways to regain control of those systems?
-- Brian Fawcett, Public Eye.
NEWEST INDUSTRY
"I got tomorrow off," Alex (who
was a journalist, then unemployed, and now works for the City of Calgary)
says to me on the phone. "We can go downtown and check out the naked
Gap protesters."
Tomorrow there's an anti-Gap
protest planned. People are going to strip to protest Gap sweatshops.
"Sounds fine to me," I say.
"Today one of the computer
techies at work asked me in all seriousness what we should do if someone
sets off a nuclear bomb."
My toe throbs.
THE NEXT DAY
We walk through downtown Calgary.
Stores are boarded up. The malls have been partially closed off.
Some places are entry only, others are exit only. Everywhere, escape
routes have been minimized.
We find the area where the
protesters are going to strip. It is between an HMV and what used
to be a bookstore. Actually, I'm not sure if the bookstore is there
any more or not. This time, I don't go in. But that's okay.
The last few times I've been to Calgary, I've watched the bookstore decline
in quality. It used to be one of the coolest stores downtown, but
Chapters slowly crippled it. And now that I'm here I'm not even thinking
of looking in its direction. And I don't even really feel an emotion,
now-- even though thinking back to that store (now, writing this) takes
me back years and fills me with nostalgia.-- but, standing there, waiting
for the protesters, all that's on my mind is a curiosity focused on the
issues at hand:
The crushing heat.
The fear of riot.
The thrill created by the
fear of riot.
The fact that people seem
to be slowly coming out of the buildings because lunchtime is nearing,
and this means that very soon this part of downtown Calgary will be very
crowded, indeed.
And also, maybe, okay, yeah,
maybe a few flickers of memory, maybe a few traces of that bookstore, and
maybe even a little mild sadness.
BOOKSTORE
But don't feel sorry for the
bookstore being raped by Chapters. It was, like almost all the big
bookstores in the county, owned by Chapters. Chapters owned the Coles
chain, also W.H. Smith, and Smithbooks. And then another company
called Indigo gobbled up Chapters. And, as more and more Chapters
stores opened, this bookstore-- I think it was a Smithbooks-- began to
dwindle. Fewer and fewer books got allocated, and the store petered
out.
But it, back in its heyday,
did have an awful lot of good stuff. Lots of neat Science Fiction,
and tones of cool stuff like William S. Burroughs and Gertrude Stein and
Samuel Beckett, all lots of neat postmodern stuff like Thomas Pynchon,
Haruki Murakami, Kathy Acker, and Mark Leyner, and Gordon Lish, Don DeLillo,
William Gaddis. And then there was all this philosophy and theory--
Derrida, Barthes, etc.-- and more. (I bought my first Baudrillard
book there.) And they also had all this weird humour: obscure cool
stuff like Jim's Journal and Zippy (back when Zippy
was actually funny and interesting and about something that maybe mattered).
And cool graphic novels. And science books-- Rudy Rucker and books
on alternate universes and infinite set theory and lots and lots of stuff
on virtual reality and cybernetics. And oodles of philosophy books:
Nietzsche, Heidegger, Plotinus, you name it. But after a while it
just got filled with lots of Jacqueline Susann and Stephen King.
And so the store-- over the years-- dwindled in my mind.
But I remember winters and
summers, times in Calgary when I'd come into this bookstore and just wander
through the stacks. It was always so quiet in there, and the temperature
was always just right. If I was too cold in the middle of winter
the air in the store would warm me, and in the middle of summer the air
in there would cool me down.
I could always find something
there. It got so that every time I went to Calgary I'd head there
first, and find almost everything I was looking for right away. This
was a mixed blessing. But it did give me something to look forward
to.
But now it's gone.
Killed by its (eventual) parent company. Because Chapters didn't
always own it (I think). The merger took place one day in the late
1990s. I noticed it because all the Smithbooks and Coles stores started
giving out Chapters discount cards.
A CHAPTER ON CHAPTERS
And I didn't know then, also,
that it was, if not "the beginning of the end" of the Canadian publishing
industry (because it wasn't, really) then it was the beginning of a very
brutal artistic castration.
Because Chapters-- leaving
aside its tendency to gobble up other bookstores like some demented space-amoeba--
is also responsible for almost crippling the Canadian publishing industry.
And-- in all honesty-- this is both a little good and a little bad.
It's a little good because
the Canadian publishing industry is complacent, conservative, mostly unadventurous,
and therefore filled with reams of virtually unreadable crap, and so maybe
a bit of a shakeup was a good thing.
(It's actually a miracle
that people like Timothy Findley and Michael Ondaatje get published in
this country-- because their writing is at least a little challenging and
informed. Mostly what we get are the boring old-school Feminist sludge
of stuck-up people like Margaret Atwood, the dry and scabby dullness of
Margaret Lawrence, or the stodgy and outdated quasi-British pretension
of Robertson Davies. Glaaah! And I don't even want to get started
on the talentless, incestuous ennui of the small press Prairie writing
scene. On the whole, the Canadian publishing industry has little
patience with imagination. Mordecai Richler can be entertaining,
sometimes, though)
But it's also a little bad
because now more than ever it's difficult for anyone new to get published
in Canada, because now publishers have to be really sure that their books
will sell, and sell by the truckloads-- meaning that there's even less
room for untried commodities in the market. Which, like, totally
sucks because there are a lot of talented Canadian writers out there who,
sure, were being ignored by the Canadian publishing industry already, but
now they're being even more ignored.
And how Chapters accomplished
this little move was actually pretty slick. Basically, they ordered
tons of books from small Canadian publishing houses-- and most publishing
houses in Canada are really small-- small is just about all we've got--
even the big companies are actually pretty small-- because, hell, there's
probably more people living on Manhattan Island than in this entire country.
We're not really that much of a force.
So, anyway, Chapters ordered
so very many Canadian books that a lot of the publishers of these books
had to order more print runs. And then, when these publishers ordered
more books, Chapters swallowed those up, too. And so more were printed,
and so Chapters took those, too. This is because Chapters stores
were spreading across this country like fleas on a gutter cat's ass and
so they needed books to fill all their stores.
None of these books, however,
sold-- or at least not very many of them.
(Not only is the Canadian
publishing industry small, but very few Canadians are actually interested
in reading Canadian books.)
But Chapters kept on ordering
more and more books, and opening more and more stores.
And then, Chapters began
to run into financial problems because they had more bookstores than anyone
could ever want to shop in-- and so, suddenly, they sent all the books--
the ones they just finished ordering-- back to all the publishers for credit.
So, almost overnight, the
publishers-- and more than a few of them were waiting for Chapters to pay
them for their books so they could pay their printing fees-- BANG-- suddenly
they had all these books showing up on their doorsteps. And so then
a bunch of publishers were forced to give Chapters a bunch of credit, and
so the publishers didn't get any money, and all their printing bills (because
of Chapters) were huge, and so they had to declare bankruptcy.
This is kind of a simplistic
analysis, I know. But, I think anyway, it's probably mostly valid.
And so, with all these book
publishers going out of business, the publishing industry in Canada collapsed.
And, the point of rambling
about this is what, exactly?
The point of this is to
show that sometimes the evil corporations are on home soil-- because Chapters,
despite its connection with Starbucks, is a Canadian company. It's
not American (Barnes and Noble is the American big box bookstore), and
it's not British.
Therefore, sometimes the
big badguys are on our own soil, screwing people domestically. And
they have no sweat shops. And there are no bombs. And there
are no pictures of swollen starving children on tv. And it's close
and real, not distant and fake. And it has something to do with art
and culture, which takes real brainpower to appreciate. It's not
a pseudocrisis caused by flashy, melodramatic propaganda. And so,
because of this, no nobody cares.
Instead, they're starting
to assemble at the periphery of an ever increasing crowd in downtown Calgary.
And they're about to take off their clothes to protest something that,
honestly, has little real effect on their lives.
AN ASIDE
But, in all honesty, when I
first went into my first Chapters-- and I was in Calgary, by the way--
it was an amazing store. It had everything I wanted, could ever hope
for, even moreso than that cool Smithbooks downtown, the location of which
I'm now standing across the street of-- and I'm not even sure if it's there
any more or not-- and the protesters are here-- and I'm so desperately
trying to focus. Because that's why I came here, right? For
focus and direction.
Right?
NAKED HIPPIES AND THE MEANING OF DEMOCRACY (PROLOGUE)
Downtown Calgary. June 25, 2002:
This thing is well planned
out. First, word is leaked that there will be nudity, and then days
go by. Then, while a buzz is being generated, the protest organizers
just sit back and wait. The machine goes on autopilot. And
then, the day before the protest, the city is abuzz. Everybody wants
to come downtown and see the spectacle. The police have issued notice:
anyone exposing verboten body parts will be arrested. This increases
the tension. It also increases the sexual excitement. After
all, now we might see, not only naked people-- but naked people being forcibly
handled, handcuffed, pepper sprayed, beaten. Violence and sex are
always very close.
And, then:
The day of the event, plenty
of time is given for the crowd to amass, and amass it has. You get
there twenty minutes before the event, and you are alone. Then a
few people show up. Before long, hundreds. Then it's 12 noon.
The protest is about to start. But there are no protesters.
Not yet. More people have to stream out of the office buildings,
clog the streets, build the crowd to a level of mass claustrophobia.
I am being crushed by bodies,
and the cumulative voices of the crowd have turned into a mid-range white-noise
roar. Just loud enough to make it virtually impossible for me to
pick out full sentences.
"I... well, then... if even
the first... yeah, right!" And then Alex laughs.
"WHAT?"
"Never mind," he says.
And here come the protesters.
A line of people forcing
themselves through the crowd. Someone is shaking a tambourine.
And they are chanting something. And I can't really make out what
they're chanting, but it seems like some sort of slogan. The guy
at the head of the line has a megaphone. But the megaphone just distorts
his voice, doesn't amplify.
And the protesters are a
collection of '90s-style alternative people, ex-hippies, neo-hippies (you
can tell the ex- and neo- hippies apart by the wear and sagginess the first
group exudes, and the virginal skin of the second), and also what looks
like a bunch of rejects from a born-again Christian glee club.
I am immediately reminded
of the Simpson's episode where the all the Springfielders have come out
to watch the annual Gay Pride parade. The episode where two gay guys
walk past the Simpsons, shouting:
"We're here, we're queer,
get used to it!"
To which Lisa replies:
"You do this every year.
We are used to it!"
And then the gay guys sag
and one of them says:
"Party pooper."
But:
ON THE ROAD
Alex and I had walked to this
place from his apartment. The walk took over half an hour.
Which was okay, because Calgary is a nice city and I got to walk over the
bridge and look at the river. The sound and motion of rivers always
relaxes me.
"Do you have any grasshoppers?"
I said.
"Huh? Like, on me?"
"When I came out here, I
was told to watch out for grasshoppers. Apparently there's an epidemic.
My dad said I'd probably have to stop every couple hours and scrape them
off the front of the car."
"There's nothing like that,
here anyway."
"Yeah, there was nothing
on the road, either. I didn't see a single grasshopper."
Above us, the C-Train raced
by.
We were on a two-tiered
bridge. Pedestrians on the lower tier, the C-Train on the upper.
Probably thousands of tons of concrete above me. A strategic bomb
could cause the whole thing to crash down on my head, crushing me.
Probably killing me instantly. But there'd be the few milliseconds
before all the concrete came down onto me... and maybe if the structure
under my feet gave way, I'd also begin to fall. Fall into the river,
hit the rocks, be swept away, but only a few feet, and then the bridge
above me would land. What would that feel like?
I shuddered and looked down
at the river.
The last time I was in Calgary,
the river was much lower.
"The glaciers are melting,"
Alex said.
SECURITY (EVERYBODY FEELS BETTER WITH)
Downtown, we walked through
deserted streets. The buildings were tall and close. Glass
skyscrapers filtering the light.
Most people were inside,
either at work or steering clear. And, the closer we got to the designated
protest areas, the more the buildings were boarded up. People were
covering the windows of their shops in case rioting broke out. Some
businesses were even closed.
"This is weird. Like
a ghost town. Like The Omega Man, or something."
"It was spooky for a while,"
Alex said. "But you get used to it. The city is, literally,
preparing for war. There are police here from all over the country.
They spent, in total, over 400 million dollars on police and other security
for this. The don't want problems."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. But there's
one ray of sunshine."
"What?"
"One of the big anarchist
groups out of the 'States, they're not coming up here because no one scheduled
a protest."
"Uh...."
"I'm not making that up."
ROUND THE BLOCK
We took a tour of the area.
The closer we got to the
Calgary Tower, and the closer we got to the Calgary Hilton hotel, the more
police there were. Cops in blue, and cops in black. Lots of
cops in black. The cops in black looked like they meant business.
Very militaristic.
The police had put up metal
barricades, gated barricades, around the Hilton. And, scattered along
the metal barricades, were cops. (Again, mostly in black.)
"Nobody's allowed into the
Hilton without the right clearance," Alex said. "Nobody. That's
where a bunch of the delegates are staying, but probably not Bush and Chretien.
They're going to be out at Kananaskis. The Hilton is for foreign
press and the Africans."
"Huh."
"Yeah. Chretien invited
a bunch of Africans because he wants to discuss canceling African's debt.
Bush is probably going to want to talk about 9-11, though."
"Probably," I said.
"But this is Canada.
It's Chretien's party and whatever country hosts the G8, that leader determines
the agenda. As far as I understand it, anyway."
There were also metal gates
keeping pedestrians off certain streets. Metal gates and more police.
Civilians and casual walkers were allowed through these gates, but to do
this they had to approach the police, first. The police would then
open the gates and let them through.
"More security," Alex said,
"because this is the route that some of the world leaders will be taking
to and from Kananaskis. Mostly, probably the Africans. Bush's
arrival will probably be a little more low-profile. Relatively speaking."
A small group of black-uniformed
police officers were standing on the corner, talking to a bunch of regular
mounties. And city police. They watched us pass. One
of them said something into a walkie-talkie. Whatever he said wasn't
about us (I'm pretty certain), but it was timed well. And when he
said it, he smiled at me and nodded.
The cops in front of me
said, Hello. I said, Hi. Then they opened the gate and let
us cross the street.
HEADS
We walked down the street, and
then we saw the Heads.
There were 8 of them, one
for each of the leaders of the G8 Summit.
They were pretty good.
Someone had put a lot of effort into making them. They looked like
they were sculpted out of paper maché, or something like it.
Very professionally done. The Bush and the Chretien were the best
(I thought, anyway-- but that's probably because I'm the closest to those
two). The Tony Blair was okay, too.
The people wearing the heads
were also wearing soccer jerseys. The coming weekend would be the
World Cup.
The heads stood in a row.
Media surrounded them. People took pictures.
The general buzz on the
street was: The Heads are cool.
And, frankly, yes, the Heads
were cool.
I took some pictures of
the Heads with my cheep little disposable camera, and then Alex and I walked
on.
Later, when I got home I
discovered that something-- quite possibly the scorching heat in my car--
has destroyed all the film in that camera. All the pictures I took
during the G8 were ruined, and my images of the Heads were lost forever.
TOE
I stumbled. I swore.
I limped.
The cops looked.
"You okay?" Alex said.
"Yeah. It's just my
toe. It's almost healed, now. It didn't bother me at all during
the car ride, but now it's starting to ache."
"Probably just stress."
A week before coming here,
I walked into a chair. My right pinkie toe suddenly found itself
snapped backwards at a 90-degree angle to the rest of my foot. There
was a popping sound and a burst of agony. I almost blacked out.
The next day, my toe and foot were purple and I could barely walk.
I went to the doctor.
He said the toe had been broken. I could've figured that one out,
myself.
He also told me that there
was nothing he could do. That it was just a pinkie toe and so putting
it in a splint was pointless.
"You don't even need those
things for balance," he said.
And so, he sent me home.
I spent the week at work,
barely being able to hobble, but eventually the toe started to heal, and
then itch. And now, here in Calgary, walking down the street, it
was starting to ache.
"They should've just cut
the damn toe off," I said.
Above us, a helicopter circled.
MORE ABOUT THIS LATER
And when we reached the downtown
core, we still had time to kill, so we went to A&B sound (cops in black
uniforms around A & B, too) and I bought myself a CD of Candy Apple
Grey by Hüsker Dü.
AND THEN NOON CREPT UP....
And then noon crept up, and
we made our way to the protest area between the HMV, and the location where
that bookstore (Smithbooks?) either was, or still is.
And Alex and I stood around,
watching people slowly accumulate, and accumulate they did:
Curiosity seekers and rednecks,
business people on lunch.
This was really planned
well, I thought, but to Alex I said:
"Well, then, here we are."
"Uh huh," he said.
"Now where are the naked hippies?"
And the crowd grew in density,
and the sound began to build. And more and more people coming out
of the buildings. And more and more sound. And then, police.
Then even more police
And then even more people, doubling the noise, again.
And then more police and
more police. And the crowd gets even denser and denser and denser.
I'm jostled, forced against
strangers. A guy next to me ate a hot-dog with lots of onions probably
just a little while ago.
I try to look at my watch,
but I can't lift my arm. There are too many people.
Even if I want to run, now,
I'm pinned in place.
"I... well, then... if even
the first... yeah, right!" And then Alex laughs.
"WHAT?"
"Never mind," he says....
30.EP.27b: July 15, 2002.