Canada’s Own Maisonneuve Magazine is an Idea Factory

I’ve long wanted to write a love blog to Maisonneuve, the bestest magazine ever. But I was afraid I’d let slip that truth, that they’re my favourite magazine, and yep, I already have. I shouldn’t have a  “favourite” magazine- ideally; I’d like to write for lots of them.  My addiction to magazines has been lifelong- it began with Ranger Rick and my very first zine, The Sunshine Peanut, a group project with my chess partners in second grade. On it went, through the Fiddlehead and Rattle years, the years of anarchist zines and homemade art rags. There were the street newspapers, the glossy fashion mags, and a lifelong but casual friendship with Rolling Stone.

I read every powder review and ankle boot write-up in Seventeen. I lurked in the Toronto Reference Library periodical section to read the poetry du jour. I love Raw Vision, and later when downsizing to move, I cut up all the insane people’s artwork and used it another’s-mine. I hoarded old Vanity Fairs, lovingly saved for archived Madonna cover features. I’ve always bought Adbusters and am thrilled by spirit-centric spin-off, Geez. I’ve read Bowie in Modern Painters, and once or twice I’ve read The Economist. Hmm. I’m totally committed to the awesome Discovery, which I buy every single month but admit don’t read it cover to cover. I can’t- with all those, it’s hard to be focused or faithful. Add that to the volcanic and relatively sudden surge in history toward complete rule by celebculture. Wow. But I love to read in a whirlwind, picking or choosing at random, or feeling led or ‘fated’ to certain information or spirit of writing.

And I’ve justified the whole thing, through sickness or health, through poverty and well, no riches yet, but pending! -simply because it is my professional obligation to explore and to delight in the entire magazine world, to be mentored by and repelled against, to sharpen my knowledge and the ways I see the world. To be piqued.

At a yard sale last summer, I picked up a stack of random mags for a quarter and got out the ol’ deck chair and a frosted glass of gin and lime, my fabulously ridiculous JLo glasses, and reached for …hmm, Maisonneuve. We’d met before, but not this intimately. Eclectic Curiousity, it said on the cover. That was about as stellar and succinct a tagline as you could deliver.

Once upon a time I had a wonderful little Internet magazine called The Idea Museum. Later, it was resurrected for another two-year stint as The Idea Factory. I loved putting together a great arts mag about anything and everything. My tagline was much longer than Maisonneuve’s: “modern anthropology for artists and other anomalies.”

Read it and weep, I thought, as I closed a perfect magazine. I felt that I might have done better if I’d known Maisonneuve as a teacher, expanded even more than I did. But I was also reassured, that my spirit of wide-openness to eclectic knowledge was shared by such amazing journalists. Since that yard sale, I’ve stalked out Book City for every issue.

Here’s just a small list of the unbelievably interesting stuff these people cover, and do thoroughly! Beautifully thought out artistry is blended with unique and sometimes daring journalism. Readable to most, but still razor sharp and totally smart.

yard sale score:

June/July 2005
-    a rejection slip from Stanchion Press expressing sincere regrets to Virginia Woolf on not accepting To The Lighthouse
-    a story about the revival of west coast native culture the Nuu-chah-nulth people
-    a story about desperate Russian women who become suicide bombers
-    a very interesting goodbye Hunter S. by Matt Kavanagh

the five-year anniversary was the food issue- I’m all over that.

-the cover is so good I can’t even bother to describe it. it’s always Magazine of the Year or Cover of the Year anyway, so no need to expound.
-My Vegetarian Affair by Diana Wilson was a brilliant reflection on the ‘omnivore’s dilemma. lapsed vegetarian of 17 years,   Dana’s fascinating thoughts gave me a whole new way of examining this philosophical crisis that has plagued humans from the beginning. animals automatically eat what they should. humans analyze it to death and still have so few answers. this was just about the best short I’ve ever read on food.

Every issue of this great Montreal based curiousity piquer is jam-packed with wildly unexpected themes, just about anything, with a lot of attention to Canada. There’s terrific, contemporary illustration from diverse artists.  There’s provocative photography. Each issue is unapologetically filled with poetry, and most of it’s good for a change. Really good. While there’s a lot of serious stuff going on, there’s also humour, and lots of it. While totally smart and even ‘intellectual,’ it always feels open-spirited, not stifling and stuffy, ever, ever, ever. It’s really impossible to express how cool they are. I’m still blown away by every page, and I’m learning so many amazing things. Publisher and chief editor Derek Webster and team are contributing great cultural analysis and exploration to Canadian and world culture. Associate editor is Carmine Starnino, former fellow-Coles/Smithbooks family, and poet extraordinaire.

So I did pass on Maisonneuve but I didn’t want to do a blubbering soap box on how much I wuv them. But the spring 2008 issue was just so damn mind-blowing that I have to shout it from the cyberspace mountaintops. First off, it’s cover of the year again, with a painted figure kneeling in prayer, gazing heavenward into the light of a …UFO spaceship.

Now, who doesn’t love a good conspiracy theory story? For me, I love reading them, from the great soy deception to the witch burnings to sweeping alien cover-ups.

Now, years ago when I was near-homeless, nearly a baby, and totally naïve, I applied for a job as a ‘floor sweeper’ at the Scientology place near my seedy hotel room rental. There was a help wanted sign in the window, and being unskilled and willing to do any labour at all, I filled out a ….30 plus page application….for a job that paid…five dollars a week or something that jumped out at me real loud. Did I hear right? Oh, apparently it was mainly a ‘volunteer’ thing but yada yada, I could be helped with my obvious thoughts of suicide and have my uncertain, chaotic brain ‘cleared.’ But how would I pay the rent? Hmm, I had to learn to trust.

Eerily I’m looking over my shoulder now and wondering if they still have that damn application. I wish I had it, but they wouldn’t let me take it with me. And I was just a kid from the sticks. I didn’t really know what the eff was going on there, and I moved on and got a gig at a funky Robson St. pizza place called The Flying Wedge. I hardly thought about it again, but when I did, it was sure weird: they asked really personal stuff on that application for ‘sweeping and cleaning’, but didn’t seem to mind that I stared swearing at the interview and might not make the best employee. “You’ll see it our way within weeks,’ they promised. Now I wonder if they’ll come and kill me, but I know it’s trendy to be sympathetic to Scientology because Madonna said so.

Now, I worship Madonna as an incarnation of truth and creativity and power, blazing forth before our eyes, stumbling, picking herself up,  getting it right. But Madonna should read the Maisonneuve expose before comparing the marginalization of Tom Cruise’s Sci-Fi faith to poor orphans overseas.

Now Maisonneuve didn’t just get  a guy to write his thoughts on Scientology after a weird job interview. They went right to the man who knows Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard best, a man named Gerry Armstrong, who has been hiding in Canada for fear of being murdered. He has had years of being spied on, persecuted, followed, harassed, and in and out of court with, Scientology. Okay, so in the beginning there was a volcano, some aliens, some theology of attack and destroy, and a sociopathic gold-digger named L.Ron. This was unnerving stuff, reported so eloquently and curiously by Bruce Livesey.

I encourage all of my faithful to visit Maisonneuve and expand their noggin’ at least once. It’s just such a treat, really. The rest of that issue, by the way, didn’t ‘pale in comparison’ an awesome cover story. There was an intriguing discussion on boxing in Montreal- not a topic I ever thought I’d find that interesting but I read everything in every issue. It’s automatic. There was something really interesting about tribal politics in Kenya, and some neat graphics in an article about some of the great art emerging from activism posters. But as usual I have gone on far too long: you will never find that in Maisonneuve, who only ever use the exact right number of words needed.  Absolut Brilliance.

www.maisonneuve.org

Visit writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net. Support Canadian small press and poetry by ordering her book, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos:
http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Astronauts-Wife-Poems-Eros-Thanatos-Lorette-C-Luzajic/9781847287335-item.html?ref=Search+Books%3a+%2527luzajic%2527&sterm=luzajic+-+Books

Madonna and other Wacky Chicks, with Simon Doonan

Everybody wants to rule the world, but only Madonna gets to do it.

The day after a gin and oyster extravaganza, I’ve decided to lay low and have an evening of reading. It’s not the first time I’ve chosen to stay home and read on a Saturday night, and it won’t be the last. There’s much to be said for lounging around without a bra, draped on each side by a content feline friend, listening to Madonna’s brilliant retropop, Sky Fits Heaven.

I’m super-stoked tonight because I’ve stocked up on the Madonna cover stories popping up everywhere as the world anticipates Hard Candy, her zillionth studio album. Also, I’m researching for a future project in my ‘fun feminism’ files and Simon Doonan’s Wacky Chicks has finally arrived from the library. Picking up the May 2008 Elle, ready to learn more about My Madgesty’s pending 50th, I notice that the interview is by the same author as Wacky Chicks. You all know the big ol’ fuss I make over every little coincidence. Groovy.

Now, everything in me appreciates the candy-coated pop propagation, but my interest in Madonna’s longstanding supremacy acknowledges the considerable depth of her mission. I’m curious to see how this all plays out- I’ve got my theories in that wacky goddess’s heart of mine that match rather nicely with some of the weird Kabala stuff going on. Methinks Our Lady of Mission Malawi just might be the Messenger/Messiah/Angel, call it what you will. Her public transformation from pop tart to saint to superpower is stunning.

Madonna’s messages can’t be underestimated- forget the presidency- Madonna’s influence is unparalleled. I can’t imagine being an outspoken woman artist without her paving the way. I can’t imagine what state gay rights would be in, or women’s rights for that matter, without her enormous influence changing our culture’s- and the world’s- paradigms. Every controversy has culled more money, more thoughts, more work toward or forward on more issues. Though many may find her mannerisms and her path to be outrageous, that’s also what was said about another teacher in his day. And I for one don’t think it’s that farfetched that a lady named after his mother might just be his messenger. Uptight Puritans who still equate a hot, sexy woman with the fall of man and can’t conceive of human sexuality as holy might think I’m off my rocker, but honey, that is just so five millenniums ago.

I digress, as usual…now Doonan’s awesome book Wacky Chicks celebrates other pink pluckies who won’t necessarily end up in Gautier with disco-ball pasties as the costume to their truth telling. But they might…Doonan gushes over a bunch of oddball chicks we’ve never heard of, and he does it with that particular type of observant candor and incisive wit that makes me damn jealous. Subtitled “Life Lessons From Fearlessly Inappropriate and Fabulously Eccentric Women,” this stupendously entertaining collection is vivid, to say the least.

“Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death,” is how the book begins, quoting Auntie Mame. It’s great thinking on Doonan’s part to highlight some of less-known bright and brilliant broads. The 2003 collection is true, pure camp, yet treads new territory so stylishly that one day he’s going to get to interview Madonna. And in that interview he willingly refers to himself as a screaming queen, praying for nerves of steel as he’s about to come face to face with wonder woman. Or God herself.

Everyone should read his piece in Elle because maybe they didn’t know what Madonna has been doing in the world. She’s not in the papers every day naked anymore. Sometimes there’s a half-hearted divorce rumour, then the chitchat reverts to Lindsay’s vodka relapse- or was that just water in that water bottle? Madonna has managed to live a surprisingly private life for the most famous woman in the world. (So much can be done, folks, see, when you aren’t on drugs.) Madonna’s spiritual evolution is the stuff of history books, and to the naysayers who say ‘say it ain’t so’ sure, love, I’ll say it, but it IS so. Madonna is already a curriculum in university and has been for over a decade. I have umpteen academic discourse collections. The future classroom won’t mention you or me, darling.

All this means, of course, that Madonna’s fate has been mythically meant into existence. It’s possible that no one believes in fate more than I do, despite the backlash on ‘voodoo science.’ Voodoo is the ONLY science, for crying out loud. Alchemy, magic, madness, creativity, chemistry, dendrites and axons, hello. It is indeed magic to have 3000 songs- unique acts of art, of creation by a variety of artists- in a small box on my desk. That I can talk to Japan tonight. That milk thistle herbs heal your liver. Get it? It’s no war between irrational beliefs and science. The phenomenal world is science uncovering.

And yay, we have a ways to go. So yes, I am proudly a fate-alist and I’m out loud and proud and do have half a brain. Not the same half as yours. My childish, insecure, ridiculous ideas that I should be/have been Madonna instead of Madonna were simply insane. But just as I felt lame for even thinking it, I can only be myself. My fate is there, and I’m in it, and part of it was dreaming crazy shit like that. Not that uncommon, huh, ladies?

The fabulous thing is though, that we are each unique, with our own fate alchemizing before our eyes. And my particular role as a bit over the top, a bit messy, a worrywart, a writer, is oh, so perfect. Oh, it really fits!

So if you’re a wacky chick, so lucky to live in this free to be you and me era that Madonna helped usher in, do yourself a favour and read about these other superdames. Bask in the afterglow of Doonan’s meeting with Madonna by laughing through these tales of mad money makers, strippers, fashionistas and other wackettes.

Donna Karan says Simon is a male Lucille Ball. I’m too young to really recall or appreciate this spitfire heroine- but I can nearly agree with Liz Smith, who called him “the most brash and brilliant thing in type.” Imaginative and fearlessly working it, Doonan captivates. You laugh, you cry. You fix your powder.

Wacky Chicks: Life Lessons from Fearlessly Inappropriate and Fabulously Eccentric Women
Simon Doonan
Simon and Schuster, 2003

If you like my columns, you’ll love my poetry collection, The Astronaut’s Wife. You can order it through amazon or indigo online. Or visit me at www.thegirlcanwrite.net and add me to your facebook!

xoxox Lorette C. Luzajic

more grief poetry

I was sifting through some poetry files of unfinished or unpolished jottings, and found a cute little rhyming poem that I wrote for Bobby last summer. Now that he is in heaven, you can imagine how this innocuous little number made me sob.

and the whisky goes down like butter
and the tequila goes down like rain
and the vodka goes down like honey
and the gin goes down like pain
and I know I only have you for today
my brother, my love, my friend, my bobby mcgee
i know that you will always go away
but in your heart, don’t stray too far from me.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
buy my book at indigo or amazon online

An Ode to Supreme Friendship with J and with G, with love

The second time I met Billie Holliday,
the night winds of Lake Michigan were rushing across my face:
icy waves slapped my face, drenched your
“bill cosby” sweater, and Billie,
racing headlong into them, gleefully frozen. Her barks of joy
echoed way into the Illinois sky.

Later, once the ecstasy kicked in, we went about our more urban adventures: somehow you and your crazy skinny cheetah of a dog rescued me in this one week whirlwind tour of Chicago. Our energy was boundless. We feasted on chile-packed flautas, sat on patios, smoking for hours, listening to blues. Or Pet Shop Boys, at cheesy old-school fey establishments. Abba never dies! Our scarves were colourful and outrageous. Your husband and I were too festive even for you, and we acted free and immodest and silly all week long. These types of things with your bestest friends go into the best moments category of your whole life.

The first time I met Billie was something different altogether. I’m so young it’s hazy, half my age. So naïve that now I shudder, how once I was essentially a girl who had no skin, nerves exposed to the open air. But oh, how you couldn’t tell! I was just so fun! I was funnn with three nnns. Roger and me. We made pizza together:
once, after work, after we washed the dough from our hands and snuck our favourite toppings into a Tupperware, he invited me over. I thought he was gay. He was taking me to Denman Station, after all, where I’d hear enough Erasure to be even more fun than I already was. He was so gay that he lit candles all over his place when I got there and put on a stack of vinyl Billie records. We drank cheap pink wine in plastic Dixie cups and then suddenly he said, “Do you want to see how good I am?” And the story gets even sadder because I stammered uh, umm, and then ended up staying, out of politeness really. It was like the second time or something and nothing to write about in the ole diary.

Dear girls, our adventures have mellowed us, with the years, oh yes. I know I won’t be hallucinating tonight. What splendid things, friends, they are angels, resplendent sprites. These two wrote my name in rocks at Maccu Piccu the last time they were gone from me, while my husband was dying and soon they were coming home. Tonight Billie’s dad and I are on our own. After rice noodles and sugarcane shrimp, we will be meeting for a gin and tonic and a discussion on Dinah Washington. I’m reading about all these fierce crazy blues divas and you’re the one who’s memorized every Holliday ever smoked through. Sometimes we just sit in a dingy place and drink rye and seven and talk endlessly about things that never run out.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net
Lorette’s poetry has been widely published for years. Grain, Fiddlehead, Quarry, Modern Poetry, White Wall Review, Rattle, Caffeine… and online. She should concentrate more on poetry, but lately has been concentrating on gigs that pay better. So help inspire my muse by ordering my acclaimed first collection, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos. You will be surprised and amazed, and will look at life and death differently after.

xoxo Lorette