BOOOO to BOOOOOOS

Deb: Recently Justin Bieber was the halftime act at the Grey Cup Game here in Toronto, and I was appalled to find out that he was booed. Booed throughout his performance and booed when he came on stage. WTF?

Some people will say that it was because he wore overalls the day before to accept a Queen’s Jubilee metal. First off, let me say that he explained himself saying that he was backstage doing a meet-and-greet and had to be presented the award in a small stadium room. Even the Prime Minister tweeted his support and made a joke about the fact that he had told the Biebs that he, too, would be wearing overalls.

Some people booed because, as they said, they simply don’t like him or his music. Really? Booed him for that, did you? Listen, I am not a fan of the Biebs in that I don’t have his music on my iPod, but I am not supposed to be a fan. His music isn’t for me. I am not his demographic. My version of the Biebs was the Monkees and David Cassidy. Every generation has theirs. But I do appreciate the fact that whether or not he is your cup of tea, he is a talented, very hardworking young man. I think he deserves respect for that. I am ashamed of the fact that a stadium full of people (not all of them, clearly) booed him. What are these people thinking? I hate the booing. Hate it. Hate it for anyone. Not a fan of our mayor. I would go so far as to say I do not like him or the job he has done in this city. Yet if I were introduced to him, I would shake his hand and say “How do you do?” And in a public forum I would never ever boo him!

I hate when the out-of-town team is booed anywhere in any sport. It is the vestiges of Roman Gladiator days that I wish had disappeared! I find it rude and childish, mean-spirited and offensive. In the last months, from the presidential debates to the Beibs appearance I have heard more boos than Halloween on steroids. I find it the basest part of our culture. Does anyone ever stop to consider the fact that these people are just trying to do what they have been elected to do or hired to do? They are bringing their skills to the table, like them or not. They are human beings, after all. Just picture yourself trying to make a point at a town meeting, or making a presentation at an office meeting—and people boo you. You make an appearance in the room, you simply step in, and you are met with boos. Think about that for a second. I think you will find that it hurts.

I don’t even care that I sound like an old fogey today. This is so rude. It makes me so sad that this young man stepped on to the stage in that halftime show and was jeered and booed. Add to that the fact that he was hired to do that job. Shameful.  Because no matter who he is, or who you think he is, I can guarantee you, he was hurt. Who wouldn’t be?

The individual who is being attacked is doing his or her best to bring their talents. As a member of the chorus of boos, you have nothing to offer but your cowardly mob mentality.

Not really a talent is it?

Barbara: Well, if being appalled by this makes you a fogey (which I do NOT think it does), then paint me fogey too. I didn’t watch the game (which is the Canadian equivalent of the Super Bowl), but heard a passing reference to the booing. I was so surprised that I thought the Biebs must have done some horrible thing—like a hit and run, or a nasty tweet. To find out he was booed for being himself is so shocking and, frankly, disappointing, I don’t even know what to say. Thankfully, Deb, you did a bang-up job of saying it all. This riles me especially since I’ve only heard lovely things about the boy—and he’s also still a boy, people! Sadly, he had to experience a hard life-lesson in how the “reptilian” brain gets the better of too many people. Like you, Deb, I have always always hated the booing. You know what I love, though? Unabashed cheering and clapping. 

When The Other Shoe Is On My Foot

Barbara: My daughters both work at a fashion retail store—it’s a job they LOVE, both reveling in the latest looks, the fun of helping customers find the perfect outfit, and the camaraderie of working closely with an excellent bunch of cohorts. Stefanie was regaling us with shop-talk the other night over dinner, and talk turned to customer-manners. Now, obviously these guys have experienced every kind of customer over the years—and they truly love most of them—but every now and then, the girls get treated, well, like “girls”. Young people who have no lives or feelings of their own. Like the time a couple of women decided to stay and shop 45minutes past closing. The ladies were having fun, they were trying on clothes, they were gossiping and giggling … and they suggested to Stef and her co-worker that they “didn’t mind that they were staying so long, did they?” To which Stef and her co-worker insisted, “No, not all.” The thing is, of course they minded—it had been a long day, it was late, and they were anxious to get to their respective homes and eat a late dinner and relax, but were too polite and service-oriented to say anything.

Why am I telling you this? Because my darling daughter informed me that it turns out that many middle-aged women are routinely—if not rude, if not mean or icky—very entitled. Way more so, she insisted, than any younger customers that come into the store. Of course, I’d been smugly certain that it would be the other way around. And while I found this news both shocking and fascinating—enough, in fact, that I totally knew I was going to blog about it as soon as I could—I was way more shocked and fascinated by the fact that a mere few days later, I, moi, me, myself, your humble blogger, your friend (remember this part, please), exhibited a crafty bit of entitled shopping myself.

Now before I over-sell my rudeness, I will proviso this by saying that I consider myself pretty thoughtful for the most part. I do think about other people when I am out in the world, I am reasonably self-sacrificing (okay, not always), and I do care that other people aren’t getting shafted by my demands and needs. So, by these, my own high standards, I was a bit taken aback by my own “entitled” moment.

The other evening, I needed groceries for dinner and rushed to the store to stock up. I pulled into a parking spot and when I got out of my car realized that, thanks to a lack of painted lines, I’d taken up the equivalent of two spots. I knew this, and yet still headed off to run my errands. When I got into the store and, after madly scrambling to grab my armful of dinner ingredients, I found myself in a loooooooong line at the checkout. I was frustrated, but settled in for the wait. Then another cashier showed up and opened a new cash. One line-bound customer ran for the newly opened cash, but everyone else stayed in that first looooooong line. I hesitated as second after second after second ticked by and no one moved. I knew I could say something; I could, for instance, have kindly suggested that maybe some of the people in line ahead of me might consider grabbing that eagerly awaiting line-less cash. But what did I do? I lifted my armful of groceries, steadied my nerves, and nimbly picked my way through the patiently waiting customers until I—who had been far back in the line—was now at that sweetly empty second spot in line.

As I loaded up the conveyor belt with my goodies and glanced out the window at my two-spot-taking car, I couldn’t help thinking, “I am that woman. That middle-aged, entitled (also white and middle-class) woman who thinks the world revolves around her.” I’m telling you, I vacillated between a feeling of dumb self-horror and selfish excitement. I had consciously, purposefully—but not proudly—stepped outside my box.

Would I do it again? Probably not… Am I changing for the worse? I don’t think so. But I am certainly not the utterly gracious, selfless, and generous consumer I had blindly assumed myself to be.

I know I am, but what are you???

Deb: Wow, this is a tough one. I know you to be that honest gal who is always considerate of other people’s feelings. I say everybody deserves one of those “playing outside the lines” every once in a while whether they are middle-aged or not. I hesitate to answer this one for myself lest I be deemed a goody two-shoes, but the truth is, and I am not lying a lick, I have backed in and out three times to make sure I only took up the one space and I am always the person who defers and says to that person in front of me, “Did you see the next line just opened up?”

You hate me right now, don’t you, Barb?  I am certainly not saying in any way that I am the better person. Nor do I think you are about to go out and rob a bank. It is just that I was brought up by Nan and Jim, rules followers, purveyors of fair play and all that rot. My brother is the exact same. So it is just not in me to do that. Hell, I have a wheelchair parking pass on my car all the time and I only use it when Dad is in the car. Yes, I am that girl. Sorry, darling friend, but here’s what I will say, “Halleluiah, Barbara is human!”

Sunshine Sketches Of A Changed World

Deb: My husband and I are working on a film right now called Sunshine Sketches of a Small Town written by the great and iconic Canadian writer, Stephen Leacock (short bio and great quotes). The film is set in the year 1912.

We are shooting in a gorgeous setting by a lake in Gravenhurst, Ontario. As we shot yesterday in our beautiful lace gowns and tailored wool suits, I felt transported. We looked like we were right out of a Renoir painting. I glanced around at the various activities the actors and background artists were partaking of. Knitting and crocheting, Blind Man’s buff, swimming, tag, or just meditating on the beautiful surroundings.

My mind instantly went to a scenario from the other night at TIFF (Toronto International Film Festival). My husband and I went to a screening of Adrian Grenier’s film Teenage Paparazzo and we sat through the film surrounded by people texting, taking photos, talking full voice throughout, while snapping their heads around every five seconds to see “who else is here?” It became even more frustrating when Mr. Grenier got up to take part in a question and answer period. He took it very seriously and answered every question with respect and a good deal of thought. We marveled at the din around us as people declared loudly their love and adoration for him. Some of them were live chats and others were on the phone stating in booming voice things like, “he is so gorgeous ... yeah, he’s right here in front of me ... yeah he’s talking ... answering questions ... no, I haven’t seen the other guys yet, but Mark Walberg is here too ... oh hang on, people are applauding something he just said, I can’t hear you ... yeah, it is soooooooooo cool ... I’m going to try and meet him at the party after this.” My first thought was, “yeah, good luck with that, ladies!” and my second thought was, “Really? You love him, do you? Because you clearly do not RESPECT him. You have not shut your great gaping pie holes the entire time he has been talking.”

I looked around and only one out of five people was even trying to listen. The serious people had moved up to the front. When the talk was done and Adrian shouted out, “Let’s party!” I said to my husband, “Let’s go for a bite and go home.” He happily and gratefully agreed, which is saying something since my husband loves nothing more than good free food. But we had had enough of the rudeness and did not want to further subject ourselves to the shoving and the texting and the pushing and the ruding. I know this makes me sound like an old fogey and I know that I am saying nothing new with this, but I will say it once more. We have become a society of boors. Rude boors. No class.

At the time of the event I thought about blogging about it, then stopped myself because I felt there was nothing new I could add. But when I stepped onto the set of Sunshine Sketches, my mind instantly travelled back to the real place in time that we are depicting, and the contrast between these two events was staggering to me. I spent the day looking around and thinking how sweet, how innocent, how intoxicating it all was. This time in my mind’s eye, I could hear the ghosts of a hundred years ago,  “Glorious day today, Mrs. Dinton.” “Your flowers are exquisite, Mrs. Landry.” “I trust I am finding you today in good health, Mr. Aubrey?”

Despite my daydream back in time, I know there are inherent problems with every era, and I know it can be argued that they lived as simply as they did because they did not have any other option. And believe me, I am a big fan of technology. Love it. Find it miraculous. But I couldn’t help but pine for what they had. The lack of technology offered them the opportunity to sing and socialize and indulge in focused conversation. It’s why the children played in the sun, climbed trees, made swords out of sticks and tied love notes up with hair ribbons. I know the whys of it. But still.

I love the time I live in, but as I sat on that set, oh how I yearned taking just a moment’s rest in that world. I imagined myself popping into this picnic, on this day in time.  The film is as close as I will come to that. But it is good enough for a few days to erase the memory of the boors. This month I am a gentlewoman and it is sweet.

Barbara: Oh, Deb, you paint a divine picture. I can smell the grass, feel the sun, hear the quiet thrum of time slowing down and gentling, people communing with one another without cell phones in their hands and twenty social/work obligations queuing up in cyberspace behind them.

I have to tell you about the bistro lunch I had the other day with Phil. We’re sitting beside a table of three young women in their mid-twenties. One of the women is describing her recent experience working in London, England with underprivileged kids; she’s talking about how amazing it was, how amazing the kids were, how much she learned, how cool it was to live in London for six months, how it was hard leaving her new and potentially serious boyfriend…. Okay, you get the gist: interesting enough to prompt me to ignore my charming husband and blatantly eavesdrop.

Thing is, it was like she was doing one of those one-women shows where the actress sits centre stage and looks into the middle distance while she gives an extended monologue. And why? Because her two lunch mates, her (apparent) friends who haven’t seen her lo these six months, spend the ENTIRE LUNCH TEXTING while inserting the requisite pseudo-rapt, “Uh-huh.” “Wow.” “So cool.” “Awesome.” I was this close to pushing my own lunch aside and leaning over so I could be the seriously engaged audience she so obviously deserved.

The only opinion I will add is the one you already mention: I do believe this boorish rudeness has always existed in big filthy cities throughout history; we’ve just changed costume and props. But the idyll you describe has to be kept sacred. We desperately need somewhere to escape to from time to time so we can remember––and re-engage with––our humanity.