I was able to attain media accreditation for Hot Docs, the Canadian international documentary film festival. Basically it was a matter of filling out a form. Anyone who filled out this form was to consider his or herself accredited unless specifically told otherwise. It wasn’t exactly exclusive access. I tell you this because Hot Docs is an incredible film festival and it is only getting bigger and better each year, so this kind of easy access may not be available forever. If you have a blog or some other access to media, I highly recommend getting yourself into this festival next year.

But I am getting ahead of myself. I didn’t get accredited through this blog; I did it through The Little Queer Radio Station That Could, because I have a little 5-minute segment on random Fridays called the “Dyke About Town,” during one of which I was able to talk about the festival. I also talked about it when I was co-hosting with Mike the other week. The best part about having a segment called “Dyke About Town” is that you get to have a media pass that looks like this:

Coworkers that had also received accreditation were jealous that they didn’t think to have passes with more interesting titles than “Staff Reporter.” I take pleasure in small things.

But enough about that. Let’s talk about the films! First I went to see The Castle, a vérité-style doc about the current era of airport security as it plays out in Milan’s Malpensa Airport. At times funny and at other times highly disturbing, the film highlights the rise of the post-9/11 security state by following various characters working, arriving, departing and even living in the airport. From the grounds crews crisscrossing runways and firing flares to scare off the swallows, to border agents conducting invasive search procedures on passengers, to a food inspector meticulously searching each individual lobster in a cargo shipment of seafood from Canada, to a presumably displaced woman taking up residence in an airport bathroom, where she does everything from preparing meals to dyeing her hair, the characters present a wide range look at the inner workings of airport security in a way that is at times mundane, at times disturbing, and at times absurd. The filmmakers offer no questioning or commentary, just steady observation.

On Wednesday I went to see a double feature of short docs, starting with Melissa-Mom and Me. My reaction to this film was a mixed bag, ranging from amused to annoyed, to awed. The filmmaker, Yael Shachar, offers up camcorder footage of her years working as a stripper in Japan with her friend Melissa, a woman who is at once alluring and untouchable. Melissa has clearly had a lasting impact on Yael’s life that she is not aware of. When, a decade later, Yael travels to the U.S. from Israel, where she has established herself as an artist and is thinking of starting a family with her husband, to find her lost friend, Melissa is as baffled as you might expect someone to be who is unexpectedly called upon by someone with whom she has had only a passing acquaintance.

Yet, instead of freaking out and turning this international stalker away, Melissa reacts by inviting this woman into her home and opening up to her about her childhood of abuse, her adulthood of addiction, and her struggle to put her life back together. And I think that is really the thing that makes this Melissa character so completely enchanting—she is an emotional open book, a constant work in progress who invites near strangers to witness the process. While I began watching this film kind of thinking that Yael was bit crazycakes, I found myself by the end also very fascinated with Melissa myself. Yael’s obsession became totally understandable. Although she still seems a bit crazy to me, but what artist doesn’t?

The second film was the one I had come to see, Oscar-nominated documentary Poster Girl. It’s the story of Robynn Murray, an American vet who is suffering from post traumatic stress disorder after a tour in Iraq. Murray allowed filmmaker Sara Nesson intimate access to her most vulnerable moments—we watch as Murray swings from a high-energy workout to an emotional breakdown after she accidentally punches a hole in a wall, we see her kicking the crap out of her car when it won’t start in the winter cold, and we witness her battle with veterans’ associations for access to her health benefits. The film was raw and heartbreaking, but ultimately held a redemptive message. Murray has become a strong advocate against war, and has found solace in creating art with the Combat Paper Project.

Both films were pretty incredible. Melissa, Yael Shachar, Sara Nesson and Robynn Murray were all present for the Q&A, giving further detail to the progress of their lives since the making of the films.

On Friday I went to see Who Took the Bomp?, a film about Le Tigre’s last tour. I think I may have mentioned my love for Le Tigre when I was drooling over JD Samson a couple of months ago. So as you might imagine, I was super-pumped about this film. And I was not disappointed. Acey was able to interview director Kerthy Fix before one of the screenings, and she was explaining that the footage was actually given to her by Kathleen Hanna, who wasn’t sure what to do with it and was hoping that Fix, who had directed and produced Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and the Magnetic Fields, could make a film of it. Fix worked some miracles in editing, both with footage and sound, and the end product really captured the energy of the riot grrrl movement. I was chair-dancing throughout the whole thing, and even found myself cheering a bit after some of the musical clips as though I was really at the concerts.

After the film, I was kind of lamenting the loss of my riot grrrl movement, and my nostalgia for Kathleen Hanna’s voice. Acey and I got into a long conversation about the ways that young feminists are melding art and politics now, but I have to say, I miss my Kathleen and I hope she hasn’t permanently traded her microphone for an academic briefcase.

The final film I went to see was Becoming Chaz, documenting Chaz Bono’s transition from Chastity to Chaz. It was a very interesting and intimate look at Chaz’s home life as he makes the change, beginning with hormones and chest surgery and progressing towards his legal status change. Some parts of the films I found very acute and incisive. For example, in one segment, the TMZ paparazzi accost Chaz as he is leaving the courthouse after obtaining legal status as a male, asking him about what kind of beer he is going to drink and what strip clubs he will frequent now that he is a man. His lawyer, also a transman, remarks that if these are the kinds of markers that are supposed to define what it is to be a man, then perhaps it is time for redefinition of gender.

However, throughout most of the film, roles of gender are reaffirmed in very conventional ways. Chaz could look back at his life and see that because he liked to play with his dad more than with his mom as a child, and engage in more rambunctious activities, it was clear that he had been a boy all along. While I understand the idea of looking back at a life and recognizing the moments that perhaps, although you didn’t have a language for it at the time, you didn’t feel right in your own skin, my tomboy hackles raised a bit at the idea that only a boy child would want to run around with his shirt off or jump from trees. I did that stuff all the time, and believe me, I got punished from all sides for it, learning from parents, teachers, and school peers that a girl isn’t supposed to do those things. I just didn’t care. Or rather, I cared, but I couldn’t help myself. And I still can’t. I just found myself a bit disturbed because the film seemed to present the idea that Chaz’s experience could be generalised to represent the transgender experience as a singular phenomenon. And having known a number of trans people over the years (in fact, I was watching the film with one of my best T-girlfriends), I know that is not the case. That said, I thought that Chaz was really brave to allow an audience such intimate access to his very personal decision to change his life. He certainly seemed to be happy and fulfilled in his identity as a man, which gave the film a real sense of hopefulness. And his position as a public figure helps to make the experience a little less mystifying for an audience not accustomed to thinking about trans people or what their experiences may be.

All in all, Hot Docs was a great experience—both eye-opening and entertaining. Next year I am going to try to see even more films.

So in addition to granting me admission to the seminars and awards ceremonies of Canadian Music Week, my very own delegate’s pass also gave me line-bypass status to all of the gigs and concerts that make up the accompanying Canadian Music Festival. I was almost as stoked for this pass as I was for the Crystal Awards. As you may recall from my foray to NXNE last summer, I do enjoy a free passport into all of the music events I can handle.

And man oh man, was there a lot going on in Toronto last week. Sammy Hagar was here, Melissa Etheridge, Janet Jackson…it was out of the park. Of course, I wasn’t interested in any of those people. I was interested in one name : JD Samson.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Little Queer Station That Could kicked off Canadian Music Week with a queer showcase at the Gladstone. I was a bit late, so I missed out on Kevin Wong, although I heard he put on a fantastic show.

I did make it in time to catch Chris Velan, and I was thankful I did. If you like indie folk rock in the vein of Wilco, Ryan Adams, or Sufjan Stevens, you’re gonna dig this guy. I was really into him.

It was a bit odd that Creature was the act to follow; their music really didn’t fit into the more acoustic indie sound of some of the other bands of the night. But who am I kidding? I didn’t care—they were the band I came out to see. And they were well worth it. They have just enough sass and attitude on stage to keep things entertaining without becoming a stereotype of queer camp. So much fun! I think I danced three inches of my ass off. I would have danced the entire ass off, but they had just the one-hour set, and I had to save some of it for JD Samson. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Brigitte Bardot

I was going to have to get up early the next morning for those Crystal Awards, so I just couldn’t stay for Gentleman Reg. I have seen him numerous times before; he’s kind of that indie-guy-about-town—he’s everywhere. And for good reason. As my buddy Acey Rowe said about it, “If you haven’t seen Gentlemen Reg live, chances are you’re not a real Torontonian. Kind of like if you haven’t killed a cockroach with your bare hand or had a heart attack at Yonge and Dundas induced by the ‘BELIEVE IN THE LORD!’ guy… Seeing a Gentlemen Reg show is the best and most enjoyable way to confirm your Torontonian status.”

The next day, of course, I won that Crystal Award—you know, no big whoop—so I spent the rest of the day celebrating with my co-winner, other staff from our radio group, and pretty much anyone who would raise a toast with me, and consequently I didn’t actually make it out to any gigs. Oops.

And after all of that celebrating, I had to get up even earlier on Friday morning for the Trailblazers’ Breakfast, celebrating women in radio. It took about everything I had to put on my best networking face and schmooze with some very intelligent women in the business. I was pretty much dead set on going home after work and skipping out on the gigs I had planned to see that night. They were with bands I had never heard of before, and as much as I like to discover new music, I like catching up on my sleep even more.

But then that thing happened. You know the thing where a friend updates Facebook with plans to see a gig you hadn’t been aware was going to be going on, and it’s a band you checked out for the first time at last year’s NXNE and you really loved them and no amount of hungover sleep-deprivation is going to stop you from seeing them again? That thing.

In this case the band in question was The Pack A.D.—Vancouver’s dykey answer to the White Stripes and the Black Keys. As soon as we heard they were playing, Michelle and I switched gears from tired and lazy to awesome and fantastic and excited. We got our gear on and headed down to meet some friends at the Bovine, a Queen Street institution that has been around for about 20 years now. Its façade is decorated with a mass of rusted bicycles, hub caps, and various assorted yard tools in a bizarre sculpture. You can’t miss it.

Interesting as it is to look at, it’s a narrow and dank space inside, and it’s always inevitably filled with punk and metal boys, which can be a pain in the butt—literally. We managed to get to the front of the stage for The Pack, but we were so wedged in that I could practically feel the bulge of the fella behind me wedging itself into my…well, my behind. It wasn’t pleasant.

Nonetheless, the show was awesome. There wasn’t much room to dance, but I did my best to rock out. The hotness of Becky Black makes up for a lot of discomfort. We stuck around for their set and then headed out to other, roomier bars in which to find libations.
Cobra Matte

And Saturday was the day I had been looking forward to from the moment I looked at the CMW lineup. I have finally caught up with myself! Saturday was all about JD SAMSON. Specifically, MEN was going to be playing at Sneaky Dee’s. My love for JD stems from my love for Le Tigre, which itself stemmed from my love for Bikini Kill and Kathleen Hanna. There was a time in my life when I believed that Bikini Kill was the best band ever to have existed in history. That time was last week. It comes and goes, actually. From time to time I really need to scream out all of my feminist rage.

And at other times, I just really need to dance. Saturday was one of the latter times. Let me tell you, MEN provided everything I needed to do just that. Great beats, great energy, and great lyrics—the whole package. In fact, they even covered a Bikini Kill song! My brain would have exploded if I hadn’t been busy dancing the remaining inches of my ass off. It was fan-freaking-tastic!

After the show, I made my way up to the front, where JD was striking the stage in preparation for the next act. I screwed up all of my courage to squeak out that I worked in radio and would really like it if she would like to contact us whenever she was in town. She nodded, took my card, and said, “Thanks, I will.” I turned into a thirteen-year-old fangirl and *died*.
Off Our Backs

I pulled myself together and made my way over to El Mocambo, where Acey’s derby team was having a fundraising dance party. If there was anything left of my ass to dance off, I did so there. My friends arm-wrestled derby girls with varying levels of success, and we spent about four hours on that dance floor. It was the perfect way to cap off the festival.

I don’t know if it was because it was past four in the morning when I got home, if it was the beer I drank, or if it was the fact that I had danced parts of my body into oblivion, but on my way back to my humble abode at last, I managed to fall up the stairs. What I can tell you about that is that it sure beats falling down.

It was time to call it a night, and you know, I’ll also call it one of the best weeks I have enjoyed in a good long time.