Do I need another reason to hate Michel Foucault?

Surprisingly, no, but I have a new reason to hate Michel Foucault anyway!

I'm currently in a Social Control class at school, and I feel like I'm trapped in circular referencing hell. We're discussing a chapter in Foucault's 'Discipline and Power,' entitled 'the means of correct training' and in the course of the discussion, I had a question about the concept of traditional power vs. disciplinary power in reference to Jeremy Bentham's concept of the Panopticon. I genuinely wanted to clarify whether the Panopticon is an example of traditional power running concurrently with disciplinary power because of the ever present threat of punishment from above, as well as the normalizing behaviour of self-discipline caused by omnipresent surveillance.

Just a simple question of clarification. And I was not only shut down, but then trapped in an answer that was so circular, I might as well have saved myself the trouble and just found a man-sized hamster wheel to amuse/torture myself instead. The short answer was No. Because the King is dead?

What? There was a king? Umm...metaphor for the state? What??? The state as the body that can formally punish doesn't matter? Warning! Warning! Mind Overloading! Alert! Alert!

Great!! So know I'm confused even more, and Foucault has made me look like a first-class bonehead to the prof...because I don't get the circular references.

Foucault sucks. :(

The Times, they are a-changing

Bob Dylan, very smary man.

Today, the word came down from Statistics Canada, the face of family life is changing. The Nuclear Family is a model in decline, which I'm hardly mourning. It may sound like I've got a chip on my shoulder, which is true to some degree, but I'm glad to see the decline of something so potentially judgmental.

I come from a mix'n'match family, with half siblings, stepsiblings, even a foster sibling tossed in for good measure, and even in this age of increasingly blended family units, I still run into people who judge my family unit as being inadequate because it's not the traditional nuclear family unit. What's more, Rod and I have (often) enjoyed a common law relationship that rivals some of the legal marriages of people we know, and yet we've run into cases where our relationship is devalued because we're not legally married, even by close friends, and that hurts my feelings.

Rationally, I know they have their beliefs, and appreciate that it's their right, but getting past the surface, it stings to hear that they think Rod and I need some stupid piece of paper to be recognized as spouses, particularly in light of the fact that all levels of government accept us as spouses in a common law relationship. Rod and I are getting married in a year, but I will always consider our time since moving in together in 2000 as the start of our marriage, because it was at that point that Rod and I entered into a pact that promised we were it for the long haul; those of you who know Rod well enough know he moves slowly on issues of significant change, and therefore also know that us moving in together was a monumental shift for him...so far moreso than our forthcoming nuptuals, which he moved into seamlessly.

These numbers are pointing to a trend that plainly spells out this: it is time to, if not embrace, acknowledge the fact that family units don't come in one shape or size, and that's fine so long as the people in families are cool with what they've got. I've said it before...striving for an ideal of perfection only induces depression, anxiety, disappointment, and potential madness. Humans aren't meant to be perfect, so why on earth should we expect families to be?

Up in Smoke

Be assured, the cats and I are all well, but last night there was a fire in one of the basement storage rooms (potentially ours, I have no idea which room we're in, and Rod can't remember), which I nearly slept through, if not for a freaked out Purrball. After giving my disoriented head a shake, I thought it was just another stupid something/nothing, and got up to turn off the computer. I wandered over to the kitchen window, and looked down to see 3 fire trucks and the police had totally blocked off Grange at Willingdon. Then I smelled what can only be described as wet, smoky, burning...lunch meat.

I scrambled to grab the kitties' travel cases, and had to lure the kitties out from hiding to get them into their cages. They were terrified. Max hid in the back of his cage, while Purrball howled her little lungs out. I live on the 23rd floor...24 storeys up. Alone, it's a challenge...with two heavy boxes full of screaming cat, it's a fucking gong show.

After I got to the bottom, I was on the phone with Jette making plans to flee to her house if we weren't going to be allowed back in for a long while, but that wasn't necessary, after a half-hour of being down there (I honestly don't know how long the alarm went before I woke up), they let us back in, and I had to wait about 10 minutes for an elevator.

In the midst of the chaos, Rod called from Australia, and I had to relate the whole mess to him, breathlessly. It was well after midnight when I finally got to bed. Had to calm the cats down, talk to Rod again, come down from the adrenaline high, and then drag my sore, tired ass to bed. Today, I'm sooooooo tired and sore.

Stairs kill.

A Star has Died

Luciano Pavarotti has died.

This is a moment to mourn if you enjoy opera. Not since the days of Caruso, probably one of the finest tenors ever, has a man managed to wrest the attention away from all the grand dames and divas of opera in a manner like Luciano. Sure, Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras are stars, especially with their smoldering latin good looks, but Luciano had something extra that commanded, nay, demanded the attention of people who didn't even care for opera.

Bravo, Luciano Pavarotti.