BLOG VISITS

The inestimable Luvabeans came to visit with my friend Craig for the weekend, and we all got to hang out and drink from the troughs of strong beer, and generally behave like polite Vikings. L.Beans and Craig provide a comprehensive tour of the visit.

ONWARD

I've turned a corner in my life. Once my interactions with human beings were wildly unpredictable, capricious, each one carrying the possibility of unexpected cheer or utter heartbreak. Well, no more. I've reduced 80% of my social life to a paid routine of bonhomie and catharsis. I've even formulated a near infallible template, which I'm calling

WHAT I TALK ABOUT WHEN YOU TALK WITH PALINODE

(Knock/Buzz)

Hello? Hi, I'm [Palinode] from [TV Show, Broadcaster]. Hi there. This is [cameraman]. It's good to finally meet you too. How are you doing? Good/Oh, I'm sure things'll get better. Tell you what, [cameraman] is going to take a look around your oversized mansion/ratty apartment/godawful slum dwelling and find the best place to set up. He (camera operators always seem to be men) and I are going to grab our equipment from the van and bring it in. Yeah, that's a nice van. No, it's a rental. We flew here. Can we set up here? Yes, over there's good, but here's best. Oh no, maybe just a glass of water. Can we move this plant? Hey, why don't we put your daughter's trophy/that beautiful painting/a few copies of your book in the background? Yeah, there's a lot of equipment. That's a camera. Yes, it's a television interview. Oh, I'm surprised that you didn't realize that [considering that was probably the first thing I ever said to you on the phone two weeks ago]. I apologize for the misunderstanding. You must have misheard. I mumble sometimes. Can you sign this release form? Here's a pen. Thanks. Okay, we're going to finish setting up now and we'll give you a shout when we're ready. Yeah, a lot of equipment. Uh huh. Oh! Hold on to that thought for the interview. We'll talk all about it then.

(15 relatively uninterrupted minutes pass)

Hey, can we turn off your phone so it doesn't ring during the interview? Great. Okay, can we turn off your fridge? We put the car keys in your fridge so we can't leave until we turn your fridge back on. Yes, it's very clever. Is there somewhere that your dog/spouse/40 year old son who lives in the basement can go for the next hour or two? Great. As long as they don't turn up their television too loud we'll be fine. Okay, have a seat and we'll put a mic on you. No, we can't pay you for this. Good. First question - oh, that's the phone in the basement, huh? It sure is loud. Well, we'll just work around it. Look at that, someone's at the door. I'm betting it's your friend whom you told about the interview so they're here to see how it's going? Am I right? Thought so.

(90 more minutes of frivolous interruptions, dense tangents and storms of tears. When the interviewees look tired or bored I unleash questions designed to make them sit up, light up or cry. It is one of the most intense conversations of their lives. For many, I am the first and last person who will ever listen to them as completely and unrelentingly as I will. It is one of the most intense conversations of my life, because I've found that doing nothing but asking the right questions can be a demanding and draining task. For that period of time I'm looking at nothing but their right eye, watching the direction in which it wanders, watching the expression on their faces change. After a while their features begin to change, and suddenly I'm able to see what they looked like thirty years beforehand, or understand that the set of their face is cruel, or pleading, pathetic, or pleasant. For those who open up immediately to me, I am soft and forgiving. To those who affect a stilted formality or attempt to recite a story that they are used to performing, I will hover over tiny details, force them to repeat parts of their stories until something unrehearsed or new pops out. They are often surprised by the unexpected strength and depth of their memories.)

Okay, thank you so much. How are you doing? Don't get up yet, you're still wired up - I'll grab that microphone there off your shirt. Ha ha, I'm trying to be a gentleman, but it's tough. There you go. No, we're not done yet. [Cameraman] is going to get a couple of still photos, then we're going to get some cover footage of you. You know, a few seconds of footage. We'll use it when the narrator introduces you. Um, sitting at a table going through old photo albums, or maybe standing on your deck staring into the distance? Yeah, that'll do.

(15 minutes of carefully coordinated and jovial bullying by the camerman. I'm always amazed by how well people respond to calls of "Action!" and "Look over there...keep looking... turn your head and look over there... and Cut!". They enjoy the glamorous discipline of the film set, even if it's two guys with a Betacam and a light kit in their living rooms)

Thanks. It was a real pleasure talking to you. Don't worry, we'll let you know when the show airs. Probably not til next Spring. Yup, takes a while. Next time we're in town we'll look you up. Do you know a good restaurant nearby?

(And out the door, on the way to the next interview)

Look for us in your neighbourhood soon! Especially if a hurricane or a flood or an explosion killed everyone there sometime in the last eighty years!

There are a few elements of the conversation that my template omits. The interviewees always want to know who else I'm interviewing on the same subject, which is sometimes not easy to answer. Old grudges and ideologies tend to flare up when people talk about disasters or crimes. Sometimes an interviewee will make it a condition that I not interview certain people, because they're awful/they're liars/they're greedy mediawhores etc. One thing I do know is that everyone has a condition of some kind, no matter how small. Everybody understands that we're using their stories and wants something in return - not money, but some tiny recognition from us that they can extend their will into the situation. Therefore we make donations to non-profit agencies, or send out copies of the completed program, or I listen without interruption as they plug a particular message into their interview. For most people, though, they clearly want to explain something, apologize for the actions of others or plead some long-lost case from their youth. I am what they've been looking for all their lives: an utterly non-judgemental audience who can absorb all manner of confessions and private pleasures. It doesn't matter that most of what they say will never go to air. The opportunity to tell is all. For a few the interview is clearly therapeutic, when the tragedy is fresh or never properly addressed. These interviews often end in a catharsis, with the interviewee crying or spilling information never before spoken out loud. I'm glad to have given these people a chance to talk; it is a real pleasure and a surprising perk of the job.

There are some people, though, who have a misguided notion about what I do and what television does. These people think that I am in the business of preserving these stories, of transmitting the past down to present and future generations. But this is rough-and-ready documentary television, a 60 minute blip, another piece in the ever-growing mountain of media dross. By committing your story to this show, you give the world another reason to have cameras in their faces all the time, to guarantee that privacy and a civilization of private individuals will mean less and less. I'm in the vanguard of mediated tecno-barbarism, people. I'm a part of the Dark Age. Whatever you think you get from me is near worthless compared to what I'm taking away. In some ways the therapeutic funtion is the worst of all; it's frightening that people need to use a stranger from a television show as a confessor. Some clearly regard television as a viable avenue for therapy, with the Oprahs and Dr. Phils of the early afternoon there to set people on the path towards empowerment and actualization. My appearance at their door signals a near-mystical approval of their worldview. Older people, depsite the amount of television they may watch, have not absorbed its lessons as uncritically as the rest of us. Despite the difficulties involved, I enjoy talking with elderly people for their resistance in furnishing the answers I want. People from the baby boomers on down are so well-versed in the coded language of television that they fall intuitively into the cadence and vocabulary, recognizing the cues with a mix of amusement and eagerness. Like their willingness to respond to the commands of the film set, they are only too happy to respond the way I want. Those who insist on responding differently are usually assholes, or people who think they can do one better than the mediated world in which they live. These people are like fish attempting to outsmart water.

I suppose at this point it will have occurred to people that I have grandiosely confessed to helping destroy civilization as we know it, lumping myself in with the torturers at Abu Ghraib and the CEOs who preside over Jamaican sweatshops. You'd be forgiven for telling me not to take myself so seriously or perhaps asking why I continue to do the job I'm doing. Because I can't - stop - listening - to - strangers. And this job pays me to travel around and listen to strangers around Canada, the States, and pretty much anywhere they'll insure me to go. There's something corrupting about the eye of the camera, but I'm the ear, and that I can live with.

parode - exode