The Red Herring » Emma Overton

Google Search Poetry

editor — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 21:23:36 +0000

Writer’s Note: This poem was composed with my blood, sweat, tears, and by typing in the letter “I” into my google search field and copying down what came up.

i am in mourning

i am only awake in what i love to the point of terror

i am Sasha Fierce

i could be nothing

i could see for miles and miles

i dance like i fuck

i don’t know why i feel so tongue-tied

i don’t want my pussy to taste like rain

i get around

i have a cat named stevens

i have five clocks in my life

i knew him, Horatio

i wandered lonely as a cloud

i want a blackberry

i’m still an animal

i’m stuck here waiting for a passing feeling

i’ve fallen and i can’t get up

ice cream man dreams

ice dancing canadians

if the moon were made of spare ribs, would you eat it?

if you want to call me baby, just go ahead now

inner ear infections

into the wild

invoking pathos

ipod clones

is nutella healthy?

is stealing wrong?

is styrofoam recyclable?

is there a way to see who views your facebook profile?

How The Muppets Saved Thanksgiving…and My Life

editor — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 17:05:28 +0000

This past Thanksgiving, rather than going back home to the T. Dot Oh (as anyone who is cool, including and especially Sean Desman, refers to Toronto), I celebrated the Fall harvest, or the landing of the pilgrims, or the pioneers, or the birth of some prophetic Turkey, or whatever it is that Thanksgiving is all about, alone in Montreal.
And between crying and making macaroni pictures of maize, I decided to revisit a long- forgotten part of my childhood: the 30+ series of public service announcements produced by the Concerned Children’s Advertisers (CCA).
Any Canadian child growing up in the 90s remembers these ads, and most likely what they remember most is wishing the fuck that these ads would end so they could get back to watching Sesame Street. However, it is to these ads that I attribute the bulk of my success, or at least the amount of my success that involves me not being a crack-whore.
Just in case the memories of the CCA PSA’s aren’t flooding back with alarming intensity, I’ll list a few gems of the series (all of which can be found by typing in “CCA” on Youtube):
The “Dontcha Put it In Your Mouth” Guitar-Playing Muppets: This was the crowning jewel in a strange collection of PSA’s that warned against ingesting foreign objects (another used a family of raccoons to drive the point home and yet another had two mice brothers encountering a mousetrap). They always made me wonder whether there was some abnormal phenomenon during the 90s in which Canadian children suddenly became entranced with the idea of eating glass and used needles. I guess it all worked out for the best though; I mean, it’s not like our generation recreationally ingests household cleaners or anything…
The “House Hippos”: Hopefully this needs no explanation. The intended message was: “question everything you see on TV.” The reality was: every kid aged 3-10 really, really wanted a House Hippo. Sorry to those of you who were still under the illusion. I know this death is worse than bludgeoning Santa Claus with the Easter Bunny’s corpse.
“Hip Choice”: I didn’t remember this one until I saw it again now, but I think that is because it is so disturbing that I might have selectively blacked it out from my memory. Two Muppet kids with inordinately large lower lips are in an alleyway when a drug-pusher wearing sunglasses, who looks like a more coked-out Billy Idol, offers them drugs by holding out a handful of miscellaneous needles, pills, and joints. Then images of Janis Joplin, Elvis, Jim Morrison and numerous other extremely successful musicians and entertainers who died drug-related deaths flash across the screen. The kids decline, and as they walk away, the drug pusher lowers his sunglasses and HE HAS NO EYES. Instead he has these horrific puckered sockets where his eyes should be. Simple message: Drugs may make you famous, but people who do drugs have no eyes. Point taken, CCA.
The CCA provided Canadian youth of the 90s with guidance, comfort, and pie-faced muppet wisdom. And in my opinion, the void left in the wake of this muppet-wisdom has yet to be filled by the government, organized religion, academic institutions, or even Steve Aoki. Modernist poet, Wallace Stevens, once said: “In an age that has been stripped of its gods we are dispossessed and alone in a solitude, like children without parents, in a home that seems deserted, in which the amicable rooms and halls have taken on a look of hardness and emptiness, [where is the Muppet who will lead us to salvation?]” I tagged on the last bit of that quote, but it seems like the only logical culmination in that progression of thought.

Emma Overton is a writer and editor for the Red Herring, contact her re: Muppet Second-Comings at emma.overton@mail.mcgill.ca. She’s also completely unaware of any copyright laws pertaining to Jim Henson Inc.

McGill Landmarks

editor — Tue, 18 May 2010 00:18:23 +0000

1. The “Woman With Narwhal Horn” Statue in Redpath: Seriously, the first few times I saw it, I unquestioningly assumed that it was one of the seven dwarves sucking a unicorn horn. Not even a second glance. That’s just what it was to me. About a month later, I was smoking a great deal less crack, and it finally occurred to me that McGill probably didn’t buy statues of such a retarded nature. Although if I had a university, it would be full of hilarious statues…like a group of really ghetto chicks celebrating a birthday at Glaze Craze cast in bronze.
2. Electronically Movable Shelves in Mclennzies (yes we’re on a nickname basis): Um, WHAT!? I knew this school had money, but damn girl, you didn’t have to break the bank on them new-fangled motorized shelving units! But they put the ill in “McGill” for real. After seeing them for the first time, I had trouble sleeping for a while because I was worried about people getting crushed in there. I had these images of some innocent U0 venturing into the aisle for a copy of Same-Sex Love in the Renaissance, and suddenly, the walls start closing in on either side. It’s Indiana Jones bitch! (I don’t know why I called her a bitch, I’m so worried for her). She runs toward the opening, but it’s too late. She’s froshie jelly. Or just slightly uncomfortable in the small breadth of space between the two shelves… Either way, complete. Nightmare. I found out that the Mclenz tech wonks thought all this through and there’s some system that keeps that from ever happening. Pleasant surprise.
3. The Ledge Above Lower Field in front of Redpath and Mclennan: I can’t remember who told me this, and I vaguely remember that when they told me they were like, “Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret, I won’t be your friend if you do,” but it’s the Herring, so let’s be honest, no one’s going to read it anyway (JUST KIDDING!). Anyways, mystery person told me that several people have fallen off it, and gotten brain damage/severe injuries. There’s nothing funny about that. McGillians, be more careful. Look after your kinda stupid friends who don’t know how to sit on a ledge. I say McGill creates a “Ledge Safety” mascot who patrols the area. For the sake of relevancy, I propose a nine-foot tall zebra with Troll doll hair, riding a hover craft. (A real zebra, and I will pay for his hover craft driving lessons.) The logic goes that fear of the cyberzebra will have students being increasingly cautious around the ledge.
4. The Seats Around the Corner from Subway that Face the Wall Across from the Bathroom in the Arts Building Basement: To explain why these are so cool, I first have to explain an idea I take very seriously: eating in isolation. Eating is a sensuous, self-satisfying act. And, much like masturbation, you should be able to enjoy it completely uninhibited. (Sorry for the juxtaposition of eating foot longs and masturbation. Or, for some of you, you’re welcome). When I get a Subway sandwich and sit it in one of those seats, it’s just me and my sandwich. Eating and getting eaten respectively. No unsightly people to put me off me food, no inane conversations to distract me. Just. Sandwich. 5. Heart-Shaped Stop Light at Milton and University: I love this so much. I might have my wedding under it. Especially if I marry a Montreal hobo, but we’ll see what’s in the cards. P.S.: I apologize that most of these things are on the Arts part of campus. But with all due respect, everyone knows that the rest of the campus is super lame.
~Emma Overton

High Levels of Iron(y) Not Part of a Healthy Lifestyle

editor — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 14:31:48 +0000

Doctors have recently reported that contrary to popular belief, irony is in fact not a beneficial addition to any lifestyle and can actually be a warning sign of terminal douchiness. Douchiness is characterized either by a tendency to constantly take oneself too seriously or by an inability to take anything seriously at all. Much like leprosy, it leads to the development of a repulsive aura, turning the sufferer into a veritable social pariah. “But wait!” you say, “I thought irony was hip and hilarious!” Well, yes and no. Let’s make the distinctions.

Ironic humour when in the form of a joke can be a wonderful thing. However, once that joke manifests itself on to your head, torso, upper lip, or pelvis, one has to question whether one is still the creator of said ironic joke or whether one has in fact become the joke itself. For example, an unfortunate and awkward epidemic affecting a portion of today’s youth is the dreaded Pubonic Plague. This outbreak is self-inflicted, and results in outbursts of poorly-planned, poorly-executed styles of pubic hair, medically referred to as pubestyles. Sure, one is perhaps liable to have a good time, sitting around on one’s “retro” pistachio-green, Urban Outfitters sofa (good thing you snatched it up too before they sold the last identical three hundred of them they had in stock), maybe ironically enjoying a warm Pabst, adjusting one’s Elvis Costello-inspired glasses, and proposing comical, potential pubestyles to one’s like-minded, androgynously-dressed chums. The keyword here is proposing, because that is as far as one should go.

Still unclear? Let’s take another example of observable ironic humour in the manifestation of an old favourite, the mullet. Beloved in the eighties, it was commonly referred to as, “business in the front, party in the back.” The mullet was the hairstyle that could finally express the complex duality between work and play (a relationship McGill students are well-acquainted with). It has been revived as of late as a popular hipster coiffure. However, four out of five physicians agree: If you have an ironic mullet, it doesn’t really matter how much you meant for it to be a joke, YOU.STILL.ACTUALLY.HAVE.A.MULLET. These things may seem funny now but a few years down the line when you encounter the American Apparel ad-esque Polaroids you took of yourself, lodged between the ash-covered pages of a stack of Vice magazines, you will be faced with the shame and regret of how many years you wasted, and how many potential sexual partners you deterred with your dirty, spindly, handlebar moustache and sea foam coloured tighty whities.

The same “You Still Actually Have A Mullet” model can be applied to almost any situation in which one is unsure whether or not one is being ironically hilarious, or just a douche.

Examples include:

You’re Still Actually Drinking A Shitty Beer
You’re Still Actually Wearing That
You Still Actually Hipstered-Out Your Bike to the Point of Non-Rideability, Why Would You Do That? I Can’t Afford a Bike. You Could Have Given It To Me If All You Planned On Doing Was Ruining It With Your Douchiness, You Douche.

And so on…

So let’s all lend each other a hand in pulling our generation out of this unfortunate epidemic. Do not let irony seep its slimy way into your reality or the reality of a loved one. The next time you run into a situation of ironic douchiness, do the right thing and remind the committer of the infraction because, although they might be attempting to make you feel like “you just don’t get it,” it is your duty to remind them of one small detail:

“Yeah, but you’re still actually a hipster douche.”

~Emma Overton