For the most part, the people who chip their postmodern revelations into Adbusters’ "Postmodern Epiphanies" forum seem to be a little – or a lot – on the sad side.
One contributor from Alton, Ontario wrote: "Born in 1985, my youth fell into the crack between revolution and aftermath. I can neither participate in the former nor revel in the latter. To paraphrase the great postmodernist author Chuck Palahnuik: I have no war to fight, no Great Depression. My war is a spiritual one, my great depression is my life." Remind me never to go to Alton.
In amongst the purple teen prose, youthful angst and shameless navel gazing you do find little "pomo" pearls, observations so unsettling that you won’t enjoy life for about a week.
"People are stupid, and I am people," wrote one contributor from Minneapolis.
"After having my show booted from the Fringe Festival in Montreal because a corporate sponsor was offended by my show, I got pissed. Upon further investigation I learned that the word "fringe" is trademarked!!!" wrote another from Montreal.
"Our human resources department has been replaced by a computer program called HR Direct," wrote another from Salt Lake City.
"No matter what it says on the box, the treatment my wife puts on her hair is actually a Temporary and not a Permanent."
"The day my mom came home from the hair stylists (and said) ‘I got you some hair gel that makes your hair spiky and turns it blue.’ When rebellion is not only co-opted by corporations, but purchased by your parents, what’s the point?"
"I bought Adbusters on my Visa at Barnes and Noble in a strip mall."
Somewhere amongst these pomo gems I found one particular comment that spoke to me a little more personally by someone calling themselves "prolatareate."
"I live in Whistler," he or she wrote. "The culmination of everything that is evil manifests it’s self (sic) here in the guises of prozac-ian recreation… Somebody please help use (sic)…"
A post-modern epiphany is loosely defined as an extreme reaction to modern life by means of a sudden realization. One practitioner calls it a "harsh, knee-jerk response to nonconformity" in our surroundings. They don’t have to be logical or universal, but the connections and realizations we make seem glaring at the time.
I have pomo moments of my own from time to time, I just never really knew what to call them before.
For example, have you been following the trials and tribulations of Springer, the orphaned Killer Whale that was rescued from Puget Sound and reunited with its family group? It’s probably going to cost taxpayers $750,000, but what the heck – everyone got a warm fuzzy from the story.
I did too until I remembered that the Killer Whale population on the coast as a whole is dying out as a result of man-made pollution, the commercial fishery and declining salmon stocks, boat traffic, and, some believe, the likelihood that whale watching tour boats that follow whale groups are making so much noise that whales can no longer hunt properly. We can help one whale its seems, but at the same time we’re hurting them all.
Like "prolatareate," I have had more than my fair share of these pomo moments living in Whistler.
The idea of taking a beautiful mountain town and developing and commercializing it to the point that it’s prized more for its restaurants and shopping than its natural beauty is a familiar postmodern epiphany in Whistler. It’s a one of a kind place with the same chain stores and restaurants you can find anywhere else.
Some classic Whistler pomo moments include:
…Sitting on a chairlift, trying to enjoy the isolation of the mountain while the person next to you talks to head office on a cell phone.
…Giving directions to visitors by using retail stores as landmarks – "Turn left at the Gap." It’s even more pomo when you’re directing the visitor to a shop they already have an abundance of in their home town. "Turn right at the 7-Eleven, keep walking and you’ll be at McDonald’s."
…Realizing you live in a town where an average-sized home can fetch upwards of a million dollars, yet the library is still just a couple of portable trailers and parents have to pay extra for their children’s school books.
…Seeing resort staff crammed into houses, subsisting on low wages, while most of these million dollar properties sit empty for most of the year.
…Wondering why a town where the main industries are extreme sports still doesn’t qualify for a full-time hospital under the provincial guidelines.
…Seeing how busy the mountain and the village can already get in the peak season, and then realizing how many more houses and hotels are on the way.
…Shrugging helplessly when visitors who paid thousands of dollars to come here ask you what there is to do with their kids in the evenings.
…Wondering why the government is still talking about building a four-lane highway to make it easier for drivers to get to Whistler when all that will likely accomplish is to make traffic worse in the area and increase real estate prices even further. Embittered staff will have to use the same highway to commute as they are forced to relocate outside of Whistler.
The problem with pomo epiphanies is that once you start having them, it’s impossible to stop. The end result is a mix of bitterness and cynicism, topped off with just a touch of paranoia.
Maybe I should have put this disclaimer at the start of the story.
