Underwhelmed
I'm underwhelmed if that's a word. I know it's not 'cause I looked it up.
Lately I've begun to suspect that I'm outgrowing the demographic of my favourite radio station, CFNY in Toronto, which these days goes by the more hipster appellation, "Edge 102."
It's the only station in Toronto, the only station in Canada, that plays great Canadian bands like Metric and Sloan. And it's the only station that plays bands like Offspring and The White Stripes and the Foo Fighters and Green Day and that promises its listeners that they will never, ever, under any circumstances, hear Elton John. That's why I am a devoted listener.
In fact, I've been listening to CFNY since I was in high school, when it was called "The Spirit of Radio," and Rush wrote a song about it. But what I've been hearing on Edge airwaves this week makes me feel that cringing embarassment which my friend Liz refers to as "fardo." It's that empathic sort of embarassment you feel for someone who is too clueless to realize that they themselves should be embarassed.
The morning show guys, a trio of late twenties/early thirties men who spend an inordinate amount of time discussing their penises, each other's penises, and other people's penises, in what appears to be a determined effort to appeal to as broad an audience of teenage boys as possible, this week announced a new contest: The Ultimate Cougar Hunt.
A cougar, for those of you, Gentle Readers, who live in civilized societies deprived of this particular vernacular tidbit, is an older woman who prowls for younger prey. It is meant to imply everything that that image connotes: a wild animal on the hunt, strong and masculine; not pretty. Dangerous, lacking sympathy for the vulnerable, and interested only in satisfying its own needs.
The contest proceeds thusly: Women over the age of thirty are encouraged with every changing D.J. shift to come to the radio station's "storefront studio" and make a one minute video in which they'll explain why they should be chosen as the ultimate cougar. The videos will be posted on the station's Web site, and listeners — teenage boys — can vote for their favourite.
For the first couple of days, no women deigned to enter. Then one afternoon last week, three days into the contest with no cougars in sight, I heard D.J. Dave "Bookie" Bookman explaining the contest and pleading with women, a woman, any woman, to come into the station right then and enter. To his immense credit, the discomfort in his voice as he did this was palpable.
The next morning the Moron Morning Guys did the same, but without any discomfort whatsoever. A woman did enter the studio, and Dean Blundell put her on air:
Dean: "Hi there. Come on up to the microphone and tell us your name."
Woman: "Roxy."
Dean: "Roxy! How old are you, Roxy?"
Roxy: "Thirty-seven."
Dean: "And are you single?"
Roxy: "I'm divorced."
Dean: "Whose fault was it? Did you dump him or did he dump you?"
Todd (Shapiro, the teenage sidekick in the morning show trio): "He cheated on you, didn't he? Come on, tell us."
Roxy: "No, it wasn't like that."
Dean: "Do you have any kids?"
Roxy: "I have a boy. He's six."
Todd: "Whoa! This is great! We've got our first MILF-slash-cougar!"
Dean: "That's just cougarific! So, tell us Roxy, what do you like in a younger man?"
Todd: "Yeah, what is it about younger men that makes you want to cougar them?"
Dean: "How young do you like 'em? Like, what's your minimum limit?"
That's when, out of respect for Roxy, I turned the radio off. That's right, I turned it off and drove the rest of the way to the university in silence. There are no other radio stations programmed into my car's radio, and I never scan for any, because I'm that much of a musical snob. I'd rather listen to nothing than chance hearing Hotel California.
Later, I checked the radio station's Web site for information about the contest. I guess I was hoping it had all been a bad joke. Then I read the Barry Interesting Survey, a cute, daily feature of afternoon D.J. Barry Taylor, which yesterday asked the question, "What do you think is most important to a cougar?" The selection of answers was, (a) cigarettes; (b) cocktails; (c) hair spray; (d) tight jeans.
Barry is 26, going on 13. He was barely born when Nirvana was playing bars in Seattle.
I do not want a man in his twenties.
I like a man who's smart and funny and tough and, if possible tall. And it doesn't hurt if he has sartorial savvy. Three out of five will get him my attention. Four, even better. Five, comes along rarely. I don't like guys who are prettier than I am, and I much prefer them to be older. When they're 25 all they've got going for them, maybe, is tall. The other four attributes come only with experience.
Oh, Jack?
Five out of five, plus bonus points for knowing how to dance.
And — hold the irony please — he's younger than me.
Grrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooowl!
* * *
While Postmodern Sass is deciding whether to give up on CFNY for good, she manages to finish, finally, the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.
Lately I've begun to suspect that I'm outgrowing the demographic of my favourite radio station, CFNY in Toronto, which these days goes by the more hipster appellation, "Edge 102."
It's the only station in Toronto, the only station in Canada, that plays great Canadian bands like Metric and Sloan. And it's the only station that plays bands like Offspring and The White Stripes and the Foo Fighters and Green Day and that promises its listeners that they will never, ever, under any circumstances, hear Elton John. That's why I am a devoted listener.
In fact, I've been listening to CFNY since I was in high school, when it was called "The Spirit of Radio," and Rush wrote a song about it. But what I've been hearing on Edge airwaves this week makes me feel that cringing embarassment which my friend Liz refers to as "fardo." It's that empathic sort of embarassment you feel for someone who is too clueless to realize that they themselves should be embarassed.
The morning show guys, a trio of late twenties/early thirties men who spend an inordinate amount of time discussing their penises, each other's penises, and other people's penises, in what appears to be a determined effort to appeal to as broad an audience of teenage boys as possible, this week announced a new contest: The Ultimate Cougar Hunt.
A cougar, for those of you, Gentle Readers, who live in civilized societies deprived of this particular vernacular tidbit, is an older woman who prowls for younger prey. It is meant to imply everything that that image connotes: a wild animal on the hunt, strong and masculine; not pretty. Dangerous, lacking sympathy for the vulnerable, and interested only in satisfying its own needs.
The contest proceeds thusly: Women over the age of thirty are encouraged with every changing D.J. shift to come to the radio station's "storefront studio" and make a one minute video in which they'll explain why they should be chosen as the ultimate cougar. The videos will be posted on the station's Web site, and listeners — teenage boys — can vote for their favourite.
For the first couple of days, no women deigned to enter. Then one afternoon last week, three days into the contest with no cougars in sight, I heard D.J. Dave "Bookie" Bookman explaining the contest and pleading with women, a woman, any woman, to come into the station right then and enter. To his immense credit, the discomfort in his voice as he did this was palpable.
The next morning the Moron Morning Guys did the same, but without any discomfort whatsoever. A woman did enter the studio, and Dean Blundell put her on air:
Dean: "Hi there. Come on up to the microphone and tell us your name."
Woman: "Roxy."
Dean: "Roxy! How old are you, Roxy?"
Roxy: "Thirty-seven."
Dean: "And are you single?"
Roxy: "I'm divorced."
Dean: "Whose fault was it? Did you dump him or did he dump you?"
Todd (Shapiro, the teenage sidekick in the morning show trio): "He cheated on you, didn't he? Come on, tell us."
Roxy: "No, it wasn't like that."
Dean: "Do you have any kids?"
Roxy: "I have a boy. He's six."
Todd: "Whoa! This is great! We've got our first MILF-slash-cougar!"
Dean: "That's just cougarific! So, tell us Roxy, what do you like in a younger man?"
Todd: "Yeah, what is it about younger men that makes you want to cougar them?"
Dean: "How young do you like 'em? Like, what's your minimum limit?"
That's when, out of respect for Roxy, I turned the radio off. That's right, I turned it off and drove the rest of the way to the university in silence. There are no other radio stations programmed into my car's radio, and I never scan for any, because I'm that much of a musical snob. I'd rather listen to nothing than chance hearing Hotel California.
Later, I checked the radio station's Web site for information about the contest. I guess I was hoping it had all been a bad joke. Then I read the Barry Interesting Survey, a cute, daily feature of afternoon D.J. Barry Taylor, which yesterday asked the question, "What do you think is most important to a cougar?" The selection of answers was, (a) cigarettes; (b) cocktails; (c) hair spray; (d) tight jeans.
Barry is 26, going on 13. He was barely born when Nirvana was playing bars in Seattle.
I do not want a man in his twenties.
I like a man who's smart and funny and tough and, if possible tall. And it doesn't hurt if he has sartorial savvy. Three out of five will get him my attention. Four, even better. Five, comes along rarely. I don't like guys who are prettier than I am, and I much prefer them to be older. When they're 25 all they've got going for them, maybe, is tall. The other four attributes come only with experience.
Oh, Jack?
Five out of five, plus bonus points for knowing how to dance.
And — hold the irony please — he's younger than me.
Grrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooowl!
While Postmodern Sass is deciding whether to give up on CFNY for good, she manages to finish, finally, the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.
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