Author: wdfyfe

Before WD called himself a writer, he worked at a number of different jobs from stacking lumber to interior design. He studied English at UBC and creative writing at ASU where one of his teachers, Rita Dove, taught him the importance of the tale. He has written for radio, magazines and newspapers, but never television. He’s published both fiction and nonfiction in Great Britain and the US. He reads French passably and speaks enough Spanish to get from A to B and find the toilet. He has interviewed John Cleese, Peter Ustinov, Margaret Drabble, Kenneth Branagh and enough other famous people to make him a hopeless name dropper. His not-so-secret passions are history and trivia, and he has never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit — although he did come 4th one drunken Quiz Night at the Uxbridge in Notting Hill. He lives on the Pacific Ocean, although, not close enough to see, so he spends his days looking at a computer screen. It’s a wonderful life and he has only one regret: he can’t type faster.

Go In Peace, Pamela Anderson

pamela1Go in peace, Pamela Anderson.  I’ve got bigger fish to fry than analysing the nuances of a society that chose you to be the last Playboy Centrefold.  I know it’s just a salute to all those guys staring 40 in the face and remembering Pammie with autoerotic fondness, but really…?   Marilyn Monroe to Pamela Anderson in one generation is the biggest indictment of our times since the Kardashian girls replaced Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly on the elegance chart.  Let’s face it, people!  We’ve screwed a few things up.

Don’t get me wrong: I love our contemporary world.  We’ve managed to produce the most risk-free, benevolent society in history.  Yay for us!  But man, did it cost us!  I miss those things we offhandedly discarded to get here.

University Students — God, I miss those folks!  Remember when college campuses were swimming in horny, brawling, loudmouthed young people, drunk on their own opinions?  They just couldn’t wait to grab their God-given right to change the world.  Talking to them was too cool.  It was like intellectual gymnastics, and I loved it.  Try talking to the lock-step, politically correct robots on campuses these days.  I don’t even say “Hi” anymore.

Anger — Remember slamming the phone down when you were just totally pissed off?  That used to feel s-o-o-o-o good.

Adults — Now that extended adolescence has reached 40, and early retirement starts at 55, the window of opportunity to have an adult conversation with anyone is closing down.  Most people don’t want the responsibility and just go from whiny teenager to grouchy senior citizen without ever pausing in the middle.

Love — Love is still around, but many people are just too timid to take the risk and so they settle for the generic “relationship.”  It’s safer, more secure, less emotional, and nobody really gets hurt except a few teenagers.

Private — Not privacy, that’s different (we haven’t had that since before Baywatch.)  Private is the time we spend alone with ourselves; that look in the emotional mirror that tells us who we really are.  As we spend more and more time connected, we have less and less time to be private, and so we’ve become less and less aware of what actually makes us tick.

And finally, what has this got to do with Playboy?

I remember when Playboy used to take risks.  Is there anyone on this planet who hasn’t seen Pamela Anderson naked?  Just sayin’!

Personality Disorder Addiction

personalityIn today’s society, there is no such thing as normal.  We’ve become so obsessed with Psycho-self diagnosis that pretty much every behaviour or personality trait has a syndrome, disease or disorder.  People who line up their coffee cups aren’t simply tidy anymore; they have OCD.  Children who get excited by the wonder of bright, new and beautiful aren’t just being kids; they have ADD.  Nobody’s sad; they’re “clinically depressed” — and on and on.  Unfortunately, we’ve overused these terms so outrageously that they’ve become virtually meaningless.  However, there’s always room for improvement, so here are a few afflictions that might better reflect our contemporary world.

ACAD (Arrogant Celebrity Activist Disorder)  Although ACAD is a condition that only affects famous people, its symptoms are widespread within the celeb community and very severe.  ACAD sufferers are not connected to reality in any way.  They truly believe that — even though they have no education, experience or ability beyond playing a guitar or crying on cue — they have a special insight into the world’s problems.  They generally prance around our planet looking like hypocritical jackasses.  They show up at Climate Change Conferences in chartered jets and stretch limos.  They walk on red carpets wearing enough money to feed an African village for a decade.  They shop Third World orphanages looking for designer children to adopt as if they were cruising Rodeo Drive.  And at the end of it all, these filthy rich assholes have the cojones to try and scam the rest of us into donating our bus money to finance their multimillion dollar hobbies.  There is no cure for ACAD; we just have to put up with it.

SWS (Star Wars Syndrome) Formerly called CCS (Constant Conspiracy Simplex) people with SWS believe the political candidate they chose not to vote for is Darth Vader, secretly engaged in various nefarious plots to ruin the world.  This delusion naturally leads them to the conclusion that the candidate they did choose must be Yoda, a wise and thoughtful leader.  Unfortunately, those  with SWS refuse to consider any evidence which contradicts this simplistic fantasy nor accept the reality that the vast majority of political candidates are, in fact, Jar Jar Binks.  SWS, even in mild cases, eventually causes the sufferer to become angry, defensive and secretly disappointed.  There is only one known cure for SWS — rational thinking.

MFD (Maud Flanders Disease) Named for the dead Simpsons character Maud (“What About The Children?”) Flanders, MFD is a debilitating disorder closely associated with the Cult of Mom.  MFD sufferers are usually found subjecting normal people to endless dissertations about child care adventures or parenting options.  They spend their days mildly annoyed that nobody truly understands what awesome parents they are and become extremely agitated when the entire planet doesn’t come to a screaming halt every time some kid says something cute, has an unassisted toilet experience or throws a temper tantrum.  Recent research has discovered that  MFD is actually a self-perpetuating disease caused by the overwhelming guilt sufferers feel because they don’t actually believe all that bullshit they’ve been spouting.  Be kind to those with MFD: they’ve put their  lives are on hold, and they need to justify that.

EPP (Endless Phobia Phobia)  People who suffer from EPP are unable to voice their opinions for fear of being labeled mentally ill.  They generally smile and nod in agreement when the latest trending accusation is being tossed around, but secretly they wonder if the word “phobia” is even being used correctly anymore.  Beware! EPP is actually contagious; you can catch it from the Eagerly Offended.

And finally:

PCF (Politically Correct Fatigue) After living with Political Correctness for most of their lives, PCF  sufferers are just emotionally tired of it.  They no longer have the mental stamina to bother looking for common sense in the world.  Chronic sufferers don’t even roll their eyes anymore.  There is no known cure for PCF, and the only treatment is old Bill Maher videos.

It’s obvious our entire society is suffering from PDA (Personality Disorder Addiction.)

The War On Plaid

tartan ribbonNovember 30th was St. Andrew’s Day* and I’m declaring war on plaid.  Why?  Last week, after seven unoffending years, a free yoga class at the University of Ottawa, in Canada, was cancelled because of “cultural issues.” (Call it “cultural appropriation.”)  WTF?  Apparently, Downward Dog is a symbol of oppression.  Too bad, so sad — you’re probably better off doing Tai Chi, anyway.  (Ooops!)  But that’s not my point.

If the progressive world wishes to fight for the rights of an oppressed minority, they need look no further than the mean streets and heathery footpaths of Scotland.  Trapped on an island with the great bogeyman of European cultural tyranny, the English — and their minions, the Welsh — we Scots have been getting oppressed for so long it looks like normal to the rest of the world.  And the litany of shame is long.

For centuries, Scots have smiled through the tears as we’ve endured offensive and degrading nicknames like Mac, Jock and Plaidie.  We’ve been objectified in the media — from Brigadoon and Scrooge McDuck to Groundskeeper Willie (I’m not even going to mention Fat Bastard.) and repeatedly portrayed as stupid, cheap and brutal alcoholics who can hardly speak English.  I’m looking at you, Robin Williams.

Our national symbol, the thistle, has been belittled as a weed.  Our music has been lampooned as the missing link between sound and noise.  Our food has been ridiculed as the worst in the world (by the World Health Organization, no less.)  Our underwear (or lack of it) is the subject of mocking public speculation.  Our very name has been appropriated across the planet for a child’s game, hopscotch; a candy flavour, butterscotch; and a transparent adhesive, Scotch tape.  When Mel Gibson turned our national hero William Wallace, into a paint-stained, historically inaccurate, shouting Australian, the world cheered and gave him 5 (FIVE!) Academy Awards — and no voice was raised in Scotland’s defence.

Our national game, golf, an ancient, pastoral activity of poor shepherds, was stolen from us.  Appropriated by the world, it has been transformed into a highly competitive, pay-to-play commercial sport.  It is now the hobby of the very rich — an icon of capitalist success that represents the in-your-face power of the 1%.

However, it is for the tartan that we must weep.  The very symbol of the Scottish family, the intricate, hand-woven patterns were passed down, mother to daughter, for untold generations.  The tartan is a visual reminder of that strongest bond of Scottish familial culture — the clan.  No croft was too humble, no laird was too bold, no Scot or her children were too far from home not to honour the tartan and wear it with pride.  And what did the world do?  PLAID — that’s what!

Ripped from the humble looms of Scottish cottages, PLAID is now synonymous with bad taste all over the world, from those ugly Burberry umbrellas to the ratty, little shirts hipsters wear.  Cheap hotels, discount furniture stores, bargain clothing outlets are all awash in godawful, hideous PLAID.  There’s no end to it, but it must end.

So I’m declaring war on PLAID.  I call on all colleges and universities to ban PLAID from their campuses, and I call on all thinking people everywhere to go to their closets, their linen cupboards, their basements and recreation rooms, and pull the PLAID from your homes.  Pile your PLAID in the streets, and on December 31st, the great Scottish celebration — Hogmanay — burn it.  Burn it so the light from a million fires might reach into the dark night of ignorance and free the Scottish soul from this horrible ordeal.  We must end this cultural nightmare — now!

*FYI, St Andrew’s Day is the Scottish equivalent of St Patrick’s Day — with more booze and less brag.