When life gives you belly...

New York City... December 2009

2010-01-02T17:24:00.013-08:00

I had a really great time in New York City. I loved the busyness of the city, and the lack of pretense that goes with that. If you're busy doing, you probably don't have time to boast about it. I don't have specific examples of this, you just have to visit the city and see for yourself.

I like to think that I'm not always this annoying, but I'm hooked and will probably obsess about New York for another week or so. I was checking out a Facebook NYC fan page, and someone wrote "The best thing about waiting at a red light is the opportunity to check out all the beautiful surroundings and all of the interesting people that cross in front of you." BUT...... nobody really waits, do they? They just go with the pulse of the traffic. I loved learning how to cross streets organically in NYC.

NYC blocks are really short, so a little walking gets you a long way. The streets are narrow, many are one-way, and from what I could tell, there are no alleys, which explains why we frequently passed by street corners that held stacks of trash to be picked up by the city – here, that trash goes into dumpsters in the alleys.

We spent a good chunk of our time in Times Square, because 1) that's where we stayed, 2) we had a couple of shows to see (West Side Story, Freddy Cole at Birdland, and standup at Caroline's), and 3) it WAS generally pretty shiny and beautiful in its way. But like I said, you get pretty far walking in NYC, and now that I'm able to look back and cross-reference the places we found with neighbourhood nicknames, I see that we also got out to the East Village, Hell's Kitchen, the Lower East Side, and others. One night, Emm had a late-night wander in Chelsea while I stayed home, and one day while Emm stayed home, I had a late-morning wander in Central Park. All in all, for me the 5 days were a good appy, and all things indicate that NYC is a place I should try to visit regularly.

Speaking of appys.... If you're hungry, come to NYC. Emm and I aren't the most compatible in terms of dining, but we did okay together. (Kathy, we didn't get in ANY of your suggestions, but your list will remain tucked inside my guidebook for future visits.) We didn't go to any high-end restaurants, and I actually never did get my slice of pizza, I just never felt like eating pizza I guess, but I did have the knish that I promised I would have. James, yes, Schimmels knish is very, VERY good, and the joint is fabulously classic and kitschy, it was perfect , except for the fact that they wouldn't let us keep our bill as a souvenir (I had to photograph it instead). Everywhere that we went served portions that were ridiculously large, and really not all that expensive. And mostly good.

Night 1: Friday, December 25th
We got to the Amsterdam Court Hotel around midnight, dropped off our things in our dodgy 1st-floor room, which featured a window that opened to a storage room. The room was barely big enough to walk in, and the bathroom sadly had nothing in the way of a vanity, which just won't do for two women sharing a space... so I took the cover off of the ironing board and placed it in the bathroom, half on the floor and half in the tub. That would work. We went out for a wander around the neighbourhood looking for somewhere to get a bite to eat. We ended up at the Westway Diner (Hell's Kitchen, maybe a 10 minute walk from our hotel), which was recommended by a beat cop that I decided to poll. It was exactly what you'd expect from a 24-hour diner. We happily eavesdropped on the conversation that was going on in the booth across from ours, nothing too exciting but trimmed with the NY accent that we were hoping to hear. My slice of banana cream pie was the size of my head. And the loo was stainless steel from top to bottom, and when I went in for a visit, it had just been hosed down. Literally. I was charmed.

We wandered around Hell's Kitchen, popping into markets and making mental notes of shops and restaurants that we'd check out another day, and eventually found our way back into the bright lights and busy vibe of Times Square. By 4AM, we were back in our weird little nook at the back of Amsterdam Court, listening to angry water pipes and other unfamiliar horror-movie sounds. And we slept.

Day 1: Saturday, December 26th
We asked to switch to another room, and were given a double on the 7th floor. Much better. The window opened to the outside, granted our view was out to other highrises, but at least we got light. And no more horror-movie sounds, and no more ironing board in the tub!

We went out looking for a bakery that we smelled on 9th Avenue the night before. (That's Avenoo, not Avenyoo...) And we stumbled upon Kashkaval instead, a Mediterranean wine and cheese bar, and decided to pop in for brunch. There is a deli in the front, with cheeses and salads and potatoes and sausages and pastries, which is what caught our attention. We were seated at the back of the restaurant, a rustic, dimly lit nook with maybe 10 tables, very intimate, with warm woods and exposed brick walls. We were there around noon on Boxing Day, our first day in New York, and there was only 1 or 2 other tables seated, and maybe 1 or 2 deli stop-ins, I assume they're busier when it's not holiday season. Really yummy brunch, especially the turkey sausage and potatoes, my only complaint was that the waitress didn't quite understand what I was after when I asked her to wrap my leftovers in a pita so I could take them with me and eat them later (ie: no utensils required) – she missed the pita.

I needed to buy a pair of jeans, so we walked around trying to find somewhere to do a little shopping. But neither of us actually came to New York with shopping in mind, so we were really ill-prepared for such an excursion. We didn't know where to go! And, it turned out that this walkabout would occur during one of the rainiest days I've ever experienced; by the time we found a shop called Lord & Taylor, we were both completely drenched, and cold. But I got my jeans, on sale. So it was worth it, right? This would be the only shopping trip for us during this trip. We then went looking for coffee that was NOT Starbucks, had no luck but got progressively wetter and wetter until we finally decided to just go hard and make it mall day; we stopped for soup and salad in a she-she restauarant/cafe thingy that was smack dab in the middle of a mall. I can't remember what it was called, but we sat at the bar, I had a very good americano and yummy roast chicken soup with veggies and dumplings, and Emm had a roasted beet salad. In the middle of a mall.

That night, we went to see The Freddy Cole Quartet at the legendary Birdland jazz club. Freddy Cole is brother to Nat King Cole. To listen to him sing, you would never guess this connection; Freddy's voice is his own, rich and rough, not smooth like that of his brother. To see him smile however, you would spot the connection immediately, they have the same cheekbones and twinkly eyes once the smiling starts. Freddy was both commanding and playful, and the audience was receptive. I felt like I had gone back to a time that I can only dream about, in the darkened room with the sound of the high hat brushing against the soft murmer of quiet chatter and ice dancing in raised glasses. Like Freddy sang, throw another pillow on the floor, indeed...

Day 2: Sunday, December 27th
The sun is shining, and any hint of the rain from the night before is now just a memory. Emm and I were going to see one of my favourite shows, West Side Story, at the Palace Theatre, but Emm wasn't feeling well and she ended up spending the day in bed. I got up early and went to see the Dakota and Strawberry Fields in Central Park. I will need to do my research next time – I'm not sure if you are actually allowed to go into the Dakota, but I really would have liked to. Oh well, I'll have to say hello to Yoko Ono and to Rosemary and her baby next time. The exterior of the building is gorgeous, with wrought iron sculptures of what I think is Neptune surrounded by sea monsters adorning the gate that wraps around the building. Across the street is Central Park; walk a little ways down the immediate path and you find yourself at Strawberry Fields, a memorial site for John Lennon, and others. There are several benches lined up along either side of the pathway through the area, and signs posted that name this as a place of peace and quiet, and request that people refrain from playing musical instruments and from listening to radios without using headphones. And they're also not to feed the animals, participate in sporting or recreation events, roller blade, ride bikes, or have their dogs off leash. However, there is no mention of tourist photography; when I was there, there were about 30+ people all trying to get the same photograph of themselves and each other – Persons X-Y-Z, all kneeling at the head of the Imagine monument, looking into the camera with pensive, sober expressions. Call me a hater, but I was happy to not have that particular photo in my camera. I did snap a shot of the monument though. While I was there, I noticed a man sitting on one of the benches, wearing 2 pairs of 2010 novelty glasses that lit up, he was talking to anyone who would listen, but nobody seemed to be listening. I decided I wanted to chat with him, so I asked him if he made the glasses himself – of course he didn't, but it was an ice breaker. He told me he can make $400 a day selling the things (I think he was exaggerating, but his hands WERE very soft, so he must do okay or just have good genes). His name was James. He asked where I was from, and I told him Vancouver; then I broadened that to Canada, and he got pretty animated and interested. He asked me if I spoke French, and then told me that when he was coming to North America, his choices were Quebec or New York, but since he didn't speak French, the Francophones didn't receive him very well, so he chose New York. We chatted for a while, and then it was time for me to go back to the hotel to check on Emm and get ready for the show. James gave me a pair of glasses to pass along to Emm, I guess so she'd have something to distract her in the hotel room. I picked up a couple of yummy cupcakes from a place called Crumbs, and returned to the hotel to find Emm still in bed, still not wanting to have a day, so I scarfed down a pistachio cupcake, and left her again to make my way to the theatre.

The Palace Theatre was built in 1913 and has a history as a venue for vaudeville acts and musicals, and I was really excited to see a classic musical like West Side Story in an also classic theatre. The sets were clever, I was especially taken with the set for the dance at the gym - the textures and colours were a rosy and optimistic backdrop for the fierce Mambo! confrontation between the Jets and the Sharks. Also, the rumble under the bridge set was very effective, it had so much depth, I'd like to know how they achieved it. On a side note, I have a lot of respect for set designers and would love to learn about how they do what they do. I never try too hard to figure out how sets are created though, I usually just get caught up in the stories that they frame.

When Riff launched into “Cool” before the rumble, I put it together that “I Feel Pretty” and “Officer Krupke” hadn't been sung yet, and then I was worried that a bunch of cues had been flubbed and the show was going to finish incomplete. But then after checking my program I realized that the songs were in a different order than they are in the movie. And now, after researching this, I've learned that the score was reordered intentionally for the film – it was thought that lighter songs like “Officer Krupke” and “I Feel Pretty” had no business coming after the rumble as in the stage show, they would interrupt the tension, so they were moved up for the film. And “Cool” was moved into the slot after the rumble. For me, both song orders are effective.

Again, I've only ever seen the film (and one amateur production in the 80s that didn't leave too much of an impression with me), and in the film, Tony, while I do get caught up in the story and the romance, annoys the heck out of me. This Tony (played by Jeremy Jordan) did not. His falsetto was sweet and effortless, yet well-controlled; he did begin one finishing note (in Maria) just a tiny bit sharp, but then he subtly corrected the note and finished perfectly. I enjoyed the choice to have the Sharks' and Sharkettes' numbers sung in Spanish along with some of their dialogue. While it prevented me from singing along (which I'm sure my audience neighbours appreciated), it added another layer to the division between the Sharks and the Jets. Also, the director's decision to play up the racism of the police department was a powerful addition, kind of made my stomach turn because with the gangs, they're young and can't be expected to know better, but they may learn. Chronic racism is more hopeless. Stand out numbers for me were Officer Krupke and America – Rita (played by Karen Olivo) was one of the strongest and most dynamic lead performers on the stage. What a treat!

After the show, I went into Famous Dave's BBQ, a busy, noisy chain restaurant, just because it was there. It was happy hour, and they offered 2-for-1 pints and free wings or nachos. I opted for nachos, and they were the ghettoist (?) nachos I've ever had. A bowl of tortilla chips, a few chopped tomatoes and jalapenos, some sour cream drizzled across the top of the chips, and shredded cheddar dumped on top... note, the cheese was NOT MELTED. I guess you get what you pay for? The nachos were good fodder for bar conversation though; I gave my 2-for-1 pints to a couple from Florida sitting to the right of me, ordered a Stella to enjoy with my unfortunate bar snack, and had a good chat with the Floridians, the bartenders, and a fellow who was drinking scotch and reading about veterinary science who seemed really happy to put down his highlighter and talk to me about other things. Note to self, the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island is WAY scarier than you might think...

When I left Emm at the hotel earlier, I had asked if she knew what she might want to eat later, and she said that she might be into some curried vegetables. On the recommendation of one of the bartenders at Famous Dave's, I decided to pick up Thai food from Pongsri on my way home from the show. The restaurant was full with about 5 or 6 parties waiting for seats, and I was ushered through to a secondary dining area to order and wait for my takeout. My red curry was sweet with tons of bamboo shoots and a well-timed heated finish; Emm enjoyed her coconut curry & soup and it perked her up enough to go out walking again, but again there was way more food than either of us could appreciate in one sitting, and we had nowhere to store leftovers.

Day 3: Monday, December 28th
Another sunshiney, warm day. Today, our missions were to take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry, visit a gallery or museum, and then see Gogol Bordello in their natural habitat. First, we needed to take the subway into Lower Manhattan – enter the Metro Card. You stop at a dispenser (or visit one of the human beings selling fare cards from the booths), choose what type of card you need (day pass, multiple fare card, etc.), purchase it with cash or credit card, then swipe the card at the turnstiles to gain entry into the stations. What an efficient means of payment - I love the Metro Card! The NYC subway system is a lot to get your head around, but with a map of the subway system, a map of the area that you're trying to navigate, a commitment to using those tools and a little patience, it will more than likely deliver you to your destination without a hitch. And actually, a compass would come in handy as well, as without a good sense of direction, it's difficult to determine which way you're pointed when you come up from the tunnels. The impression that I left with regarding the subway lines is that a lot of effort has been put into making the system effective, and not so much into the aesthetics of the stations or trains. They're maintained only to the point of good enough, and because they're effective, that really IS good enough.

The Staten Island Ferry serves commuters and tourists freely, providing transportation for 20 million people a year between Staten Island and Whitehall Street in Lower Manhattan. The function of the ferry is to deliver Staten Island commuters to and from Manhattan, but because the half-hour ride allows for a brilliant view of the New York Harbor including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and also the Lower Manhattan skyline and bridges, it is a tourist favourite as well. A really great freebie!

We wandered around Lower Manhattan and Wall Street where we saw more beautiful, classic architecture, statues, and history. And tourists galore, there were a bunch of people clustered around a Wall Street icon, the Charging Bull, all trying to get in close to – ahem... rub The Testicles of Prosperity – and get a photo of same. I don't think that's a standard moniker for them, I just thought I'd name them that. We didn't rub the testicles. We made our way back to the Upper West Side, to the Museum of Natural History. I can say that it's probably a better idea to come here as a local, or as a visitor with more time to spend in the city. There are beautiful displays (note to self: how do you get involved in creating those displays?), and tons to see and learn. Emm and I left impressed, but feeling like we should have spent that time on other things.

We returned to the hotel to get ready for the evening ahead. We got back on the subway down to the East Village, found Webster Hall (where we would soon see Gogol Bordello, The Greatest Rock Circus On Earth) and then went to a restaurant that we passed on the way. We were drawn in by the ambiance and by the name – Friend House – but were disappointed by the food. We started with a yummy scallion pancake to share (which was actually 2 pancakes, so double what we expected), and complimentary edamame, which were overcooked. Then, our meals arrived; Emm had a heap of sweet and sour tofu & vegetables on brown rice (turns out there really were no vegetables though), and I had a heap of seafood chow mein that had globby, bland sauce and marginal seafood – including large pieces of imitation crab meat – ick! The prawns were very good though, nice firm texture and flavourful. It was really too bad; the room was lovely and the location was convenient relative to the plans we had for that night, but the quality of the food was just okay. Maybe it was an off night.

Onward to Webster Hall, and a lineup around the block. When we got into the venue, we bee-lined for the women's room. There was a woman there, manning a table with candy, Tylenol, eye drops, etc. for sale; Emm bought a t-shirt from her. The stalls and lower walls were painted hot pink, and the upper walls were black with the phrase “I Must Not Fall For Bad Boys.” painted over and over and over again, like the lines you'd write on the blackboard during detention. (Incidentally, the mantra in the men's room was “I Must Be A Gentleman.”) We passed a closed billiards room, 6 or 8 people were seated inside sitting listening to a man orate to them, it could have been a staff meeting or it could have been religion – who knows? We got to the room where the opening band Forro In The Dark was playing, hip-swiveling, booty-shaking Brazilian party music, and found a spot within a sea of rowdy but well-behaved revelers. Emm went to get a drink, and I made my way upstairs so I could have a better view of the stage. Being short, I just can't have as much fun on the floor if I want to actually see the show. I got a pretty good spot on the balcony and hunkered down to enjoy the show. Eugene Hutz from Gogol Bordello joined Forro In The Dark for one of their last songs, and then Gogol Bordello hit the stage. I don't know if I can ever get tired of this band, they have become my Grateful Dead and I need to get a government grant so I can follow them EVERYWHERE! It's true, their show doesn't really change, only the set list, but the energy they put out is always so consistent and deliberate and intense, and this was no different. In fact, it almost felt like they were playing harder than usual, and maybe this was because they were playing for people who supported them before they hit it big. One of the two female back up singers seemed to be kind of low key, and she disappeared for a few songs, but then there was a hype man who I don't remember seeing the other 2 times I've seen GB play, and he filled in the blanks and was really into what he was doing – he went out crowd surfing on the bass drum that he was pounding on for a good part of the show. So invigorating! I came home with bruised ribs, from spending most of the night in different states of being bent over the balcony rail with strangers cradling me as they tried to get a look at the stage... hmmm, now THAT'S the stuff that dreams are made of, right?

Day 4: Tuesday, December 29th
We had plans to visit the Tenement Museum, Yonah Schimmel's Kinishery, and Emm also wanted to take the train to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. We wanted to do Coney Island, but it is mostly shut down during the winter months, so that will have to be another trip.

My first impression of the Lower Eastside: It seems that time stands still if you let it, or if you work at it. There are a million tailors on Orchard Street, and I'm not sure why... there is a thriving arts and music community here that I will explore in another visit to New York, there is just so much to do in not enough time. We got to the Tenement Museum, and signed up for a 3:30 tour, which left us with a couple of hours to kill. We decided to hop on the train and go to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, which was on Emm's “Must Do” list. The train ride was about 40 minutes and offered a look at another face of New York. The train line ran along the back rows of houses – the first houses that we saw since we got to New York. Brighton Beach has a very tight old country Russian community, and I have to admit, I felt like an alien there because I couldn't understand the language. I'm sure I would have felt differently if I spoke Russian, or if I spent more than an hour there. And also, I might have felt more welcome had I not been yelled at for snapping pictures... Bad Donna! Emm had a couple of nice exchanges though, and she got to put some of her Russian language skills to use. And the pastries were so, so, SO good...

After wandering around for an hour, we got back on the train bound for the Tenement Museum. I could happily spend way more time at this museum, there is so much to learn. Tons of information, we went on a very informative tour of the homes of 2 families in one tenement, a German-Jewish home circa 1873 and an Italian-Catholic home from the 1930s. Our guide was engaging and seemed to have a genuine interest and passion for the work that she was doing and for the information that she shared. And, we even learned about why our first hotel room with the window into the storage room had such a feature... full circle!

We stopped in for knishes and soup at Yonah Schimmel's before leaving Loho. (That's what they call it... I don't know if I like it, but I thought I should try.) The spot is over 100 years old, kind of grungy with photos and newspaper clippings plastered all over the walls. I was looking at one photo and I said to Emm “Tee hee, look at the photo with the dude in shorts and the cute old man,” and she answered “You mean Larry David and Woody Allen?” (I need to wear my glasses more often.) Friendly staff... the knishes came in many flavours. We opted for a spinach knish to share and we each also ordered a mushroom knish and bowl of mushroom barley soup; the knishes arrived and were as big as the plates they were served on, and dense, weighing in at about a pound each. Again, TOO MUCH FOOD. Carb overload for sure, which wasn't a bad thing considering the weather outside was seriously frightful. The rain and sunshine that we'd been given so far had now become the cold that we anticipated all along, and we had spent a good part of the day outside in it and now had to make our way home again.

We caught the train back up to Times Square, and went to Caroline's on Broadway. Dave Attell was doing a set; I didn't have the first clue about him, but Emm wanted to go, so we went. There were 4 comedians that night, and the opening comedian/host was actually the only one that really made me laugh. Emm and I had planned to go for grown-up drinks at a place called Bemelmans as our last date in NYC, but she ended up going on an adventure with one of the comedians from the club instead... but that's her story, not mine. So, Emm spent her last night in NYC hanging out with a comic, and I spent my last night in NYC in the hotel, cozy in my bed, looking at photos that I took and reflecting on my time there. I'm so lame!

Day 4: Wednesday, December 30th
We checked of our room just before 11AM. Oddly enough, Emm and I both neglected to return our room keys, purely by accident.

I think that's an omen. I do want to come back, to see and do things that I wasn't able to do this time, but mostly just to be in the city. It really does have a certain energy that speaks to me, and a modesty that I can relate to and appreciate. I wonder if you get to feel the same energy living there...

Photos from this trip...

And so it begins, again.

2009-11-28T14:17:00.003-08:00

I don't blog anymore. I just thought I should get that out of the way right at the get-go. But I feel compelled to record this moment that I'm feeling, right now.

For the past couple of months, I've been living my life very differently from how I've lived it over the last 15 years. My partner and I split up in October, and this week I'll be moving out of our home and into my new home. Sadness washes over me from time to time; those times were becoming less frequent but now, closer to the move, they're back. The sadness shares space with possibility, fear, regret, peace... who knew that all of these could get along so well in what feels right now like such a small space?

I'm hopeful for the future. I'm committed to the now. And life marches on.

2008... later, alligator!

2009-01-04T12:25:00.058-08:00

I was going to toss my wall calendar from 2008 into the recycling pile, but as I am prone to doing with most things before disposing of them (translates to: I'm a pack rat), I decided to have a look over the past year before sending it out into the ecological cosmos to reach new people and places in a form yet to be determined. Kind of symbolic, actually... so anyway, looking back over the months brought back some memories, and I'm going to jot some of them down here.

Driving lessons
My first few Young Drivers in-car lessons were with Kim. She was unusually placid and her car reeked of cigarettes. In spite of these qualities, Kim managed to cross me over into not being completely petrified and even becoming comfortable behind the wheel. Perhaps unfortunately for me, she moved to the island, and I ended up with a new instructor... Lance. Lance's car did not reek of cigarettes and he was far from placid; Lance was a 70-some year old Asian man, and I only mention his ethnicity because he made a point of refuting it on our first time out. Lance and I butted heads when he grabbed the wheel from me and started honking and yelling at drivers who had the right of way and shouting at me "We're going to CRASH!" When I pulled over to tell Lance that I didn't think his teaching style meshed with my learning style, he told me that I was wrong, that his students passed tests, and then pointed out that he was a first-generation Ukrainian Canadian. I have an idea as to why he felt that was worth a mention, even though I'm not of the belief system that would warrant the mention. Against my initial impulse, I stuck with Lance for the rest of my in-car lessons which would finish in May, and in that time, I managed to pick up some snippets of Ukrainian trash-talk, a couple of bottles of tasty spring water fresh from the source, and somewhere in there, one or two good driving habits that I use now. I failed my first road test in May, and was successful in nabbing my "N" in August.

Rock Shows & Such
Went with Yvette & Steve to see Hayden play at UBC in February. The theatre was packed and we were separated. I sat in the 2nd row behind a big guy; I assured him that if, in his peripheral vision, he saw me leaning out awkwardly and it appeared that I was looking at him, that I was indeed looking past him and at Hayden. His response was a really weird look. I hadn't yet figured out how to turn the sounds off on my mobile phone camera, and so when I started recording some video of Hayden, my camera emitted a really loud BEEP.... and Hayden kind of smirked in my direction and in perfect Butthead form said "You got texted." And people laughed, and I blushed. The show was perfectly Hayden.

The Breeders came to town in May, and my pal Deb came to town for the show at Richards. We arrived about 3 songs into their set. I recognized Kim & Kelly Deal right away (they're the two lead vocalists and they're identical twins - it's easy!). I don't know anything about the rest of the band, but it wasn't the same lineup as they had in the 90s, but the Deal sisters' sound and quirky relationship was spot-on, and I have to admit, that is a big part of what attracted me to The Breeders in the first place... so I was pleased. Had a nice visit with Deb too; we had an all-nighter at Richards, walking home from Richards, and then just hanging out at home that night and then an all-dayer wandering around East Van the following day. We see each other very rarely - it's nice to be able to reconnect now and then.

Erykah Badu played the Commodore in June, twice in the same night with maybe half-an-hour between shows. Her first show sold out in something like 10 minutes, and I was in a meeting at work when my Outlook reminder to buy tickets came and went, so I missed the boat. I was so pleased to get tickets to the second show! Holy crap, she is the Messiah. Okay, no... she's not. But she's INCREDIBLE. Her show was an experience in music and character and timing and soul and precision and funk. A lotta funk! She did mostly music from her latest album New Amerykah, and some songs from her breakout album Baduizm, and her set was filled with banter and thoughtful comments on creativity and cosmic conciousness, which came across as anything but rhetoric. She seemed truly inspired by the crowd, and I think she left most of us inspired as well. And of course, she was visually fabulous, with a big ol' puffy afro and a purple pin-striped suit. I'm pretty sure she was wearing some sort of booty pad under that suit, and she shook that thing like it had a week to live!

Other shows... February: Ruthie Foster (great voice and spirit, and really great dreadlocks!); April: Bad Manners (Buster Bloodvessel & the boys delivered at the Red Room!); September: The Black Crowes @ the Orpheum (passable - the sound could have been better); October: Gogol Bordello @ the Commodore (consistent & SWEATY!); November: Blackbones @ the Bourbon (guitarded!), Holly Golightly @ the Biltmore (perfect, I hope she comes back); English Beat @ the Plaza (I think they did every song from W'Happen? in order, and Dave Wakeling was even a little pervy, how bizarre...).

Theatre & Such
January:
Frankenstein @ Vancouver East Cultural Centre
Visually stunning, the costumes made me giddy. Tim Burton would have loved this production!

March:
Into The Woods - Patrick Street Productions @ Vancouver East Cultural Centre
Went with Megan & Jill; I think we all agreed it was REALLY long... I wish I would have given this show a bit more thought the, because I don't really remember it very well now. I did really like the costumes (especially the witch's mask) and the two princes were brilliant!

June:
What Not To Wish - The Broadway Chorus @ Waterfront Theatre
Our spring show was built around various fairy tale themes and characters - flighty fairies, wicked witches, dim-witted emperors and others - and featured special appearances by fairy gawdmongers Stacy London (I got to play her - I know, shut UP!!!) and Clinton Kelly of TLC's What Not To Wear. FUN!

July:
Cirque Du Soleil: Corteo
You know, that chapiteau really IS grand! I preferred last year's performance, but I really enjoyed the Helium Dance... it was perfectly magical imagery: tiny Valentina being gracefully moved through the theatre's sky, lofted gently by the hands of audience members and lifted by pale helium balloons - beautiful.

Bottoms Up Broadway - Pipedream Theatre Project Society @ WISE Hall
I participated in this fundraising cabaret for Pipedream's 2009 show (they're doing A New Brain!). We performed songs from RENT, Oliver, The Life, The Wild Party, and many other shows, and I got to sing Miss Adelaide's part in Take Back Your Mink. Great experience!

September:
The Musical of Musicals (The Musical!) - Fighting Chance Productions
I was pleased with the show and with the performers, but was really disappointed that we didn't clap loudly enough to get the Kander and Ebb version...

December:
The Laramie Project - Fighting Chance Productions
Heartwrenching and fist-raising subject matter, brought to life through strong characterization by a truly talented and flexible cast. Brilliant effort, bravo, FCP!!!

The Drowsy Chaperone - Vancouver Playhouse Theatre Company
I loved this!!! The toe-tapping, feel good show of the year. I am so glad my friend Kate got a bunch of us motivated to go to the preview, because although the show had a good long run at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre, the way December went with weather and the holidays and such, I could easily have missed it, and that would have been a mistake. (What would Adolpho have thought?)

Annie Get Your Nun - The Broadway Chorus @ Waterfront Theatre
Our December show took a dash of Annie and a pinch of The Sound Of Music and came up with a show that was SO much fun to perform! I played housekeeper to a house full of grown-up slacker Von Trapps and some messy house guests Little Orphan Annie, the Sisters of the Convent of the Token Part, and some heavies from the Vatican. (I later disguise myself as the Captainess Von Trapp in hopes of securing a more leisurely life in the castle... costuming my characters was a blast!) We did songs from Sister Act, Chicago, A New Brain, and The Drowsy Chaperone; in my opinion, our shows and performances just keep getting stronger, and I can't wait to find out what we're doing next!

And otherwise... Let's see. In May, I made my way to Edmonton for my Uncle Casey's funeral and to see some family and friends; a week later, Damion went to Edmonton for his Grandad's memorial, and my sister Megan made her way to Australia for some happier visiting. Damion and I spent a few days with Stevette in Ucluelet and Tofino in August. It was a collective first visit to that part of the island; happily, it was easy to keep ourselves entertained. We hiked wooded trails and lounged on sandy beaches, we wandered around town and had no trouble eating very well. And we agreed to remember that we really do have a stunning and lush (although pricey) island getaway within easy reach, and that staying local is always an option. December came, and midway through, so did some hideous weather. Damion and I went back to Edmonton (where snow belongs!) for some holiday fun, and came back home to the same hideous weather that we'd left behind.

And that hideous weather remains, and that brings me to now. Hi ho, hi ho - and to the recycling bin I go!

When enviro-friendly becomes enviro-foolish...

2008-09-10T17:56:00.003-07:00

I was wandering around in the drugstore, and I remembered that I needed cotton balls..... or cotton pads - they're more compact.

I opted for Organic Essentials Certified Organic Cotton Cosmetic Rounds; a couple of hours later, I opened the plastic bag (which the Organic Essentials folks reminded me IS reusable - thanks!) and I took out a cushy organic cotton pad.

And then, the irony of my consumer choice sunk in as I dipped my organic cotton pad into some acetone-free, yet totally not enviro-friendly nail polish remover, and then proceeded to wipe my toenails clean of all traces of my favourite orange nail polish.*

Next week, maybe I'll make a point of buying lanolin-enriched hair conditioner, but only if the manufacturer is against animal testing.

Silly girl.

*Nic's Sticks Orange You Fast Nail Lacquer... not the most evil product on the shelf, but still pretty darn non-essential and ridiculous when you look at the big picture.

Enter the Kavorka...

2008-08-25T19:34:00.009-07:00

First off, I'm writing from the point of view of a woman in a relationship with a man, relating to other women who... well, who relate to men - and when I use the word "couple," I am referring to male/female couples. Just to be clear... maybe my little rant is more universal than I know, but I'm not about to pretend to know..... you know?

My partner Damion is physically a very attractive man and is also quite charming, and people - particularly older married women - seem to feel very comfortable discussing this with him. "Oh man, if I were 30 years younger and single..." that kind of thing - and this doesn't bother me, because why NOT tell it like it is??? Today, at a funeral reception, I walked into one of these exchanges; Damion put his arm around me and acknowledged me, "I'd like you to meet my partner Donna," and the flirting stopped dead... which would have been okay if then polite conversation had begun. But it didn't... it was like I'd dropped the ultimate cock-block (or whatever it's called when women block women), only without intending to.

Why couldn't this woman have just nudged me, winked at me, or high-fived me or something? Was she ashamed? Or was she subconsciously competing? (Or was I?)

Men don't typically react the same way. When roles are reversed, men tend to unite, to pay tribute to one another. Maybe it's because they've been objectifying women for longer, so there's just no shame left to cloud the situation. I'm not completely comfortable playing the trophy or the trophy-owner though, so this kind of socializing is tricky. My usual strategy is to leave the situation.

We were at a wedding a few years ago (what is it with funerals and weddings?), and there was a woman there who was completely drunk and enchanted with Damion. She met us both, but she had that "I'm gonna EAT you!" look in her eye when she met Damion. She approached him anytime I wasn't near. I'd go to dance with my friend, she'd try to dance with Damion... I'd go to to get a drink, she'd corner Damion. Damion would go outside to smoke, she'd need air; she was absolutely possessed. At one point, my friend and I went to use the washroom; we were at the sink washing our hands and fixing our lipstick, and in stumbled that woman with her friend and in mid sentence, "Oh, Damion issho FUNNY - we were jussousside an' he shaiddd..." and then she stopped because her friend had spotted me and had elbowed her in the stomach to shut her up!

(These women were in their late 50s... good on 'em for having a good time, but...)

And she and I stood there and looked at each other; she looked scared and bloated and embarrassed and I suppose I looked a bit angry, but really I was just stunned and had no idea how to process this awkward moment. It was very high school... and unfortunately I am no better equipped now than I was then to deal with such weirdness. We left shortly after that, but for the rest of the night while we were there, she pretty much kept to herself. And I think she eased off the wine.

Socializing as a couple is serious business! There are all sorts of unspoken rules and understandings that couples take with them to dinner parties, business functions, and the like. Will there be a dominant partner, and if so, who? Which partner will tell the stories, and which will support with well-placed "Oh, but Hun, you haven't told them to the FUNNIEST part!" Who will deliver the wine/dessert/flowers/big salad? I know, you're asking why can't each partner do or be both? By acknowledging and playing into these imposed roles, don't we just end up giving them more focus? Well yeah - duh! But really, are all of us so evolved that we can avoid these roles completely? Doubtful.

So in the meantime, between now and nirvana, we strive for equality and fairness within the relationship. And I do believe this equality is possible, and can be achieved through awareness, respect, and sharing; awareness of what each person has to offer, respect for each other, and sharing the experience. And when in doubt, develop some foolproof "let's leave the party NOW" code.

Alice Pieszecki was getting her hair done at my salon today...

2008-08-20T17:38:00.003-07:00

Okay, I didn't mean to suggest that the salon is mine. Well, it kind of is... it's not my salon, but it's where I go to get my hair done, and in correcting my first statement, I gave you a clue as to where I go to get my hair done. And a clue as to where Alice Pieszecki gets her hair done, or did today anyway. And okay, it was really Leisha Hailey - and yes, I know the difference.

And no, I did not run up to her and say "You're one of my favourite lesbians on the L Word...." In fact, I didn't really do anything to acknowledge her celebrity, but I did sneak a peek at her while she waited for her crown of foils to set, and when I looked at her, turned out she was looking at me too.

You know, she probably recognized me from a Broadway Chorus show and she probably wanted to tell me that I'm one of her favourite non-paid musical theatre performers, but then thought the better of it. I'm sure she just didn't think it would be right for her to interrupt my salon time... I appreciate that.

Now, more importantly..... My hair stylist and I were talking travel, and when I referred to the scary one-armed man who chased two of my friends in Belize City, she knew exactly who I was talking about - right down to the fact that he had a way of gesticulating like a madman with the stump where his arm once lived, flinging it about and hitting himself in the process. It's a small, bizarre world....

And I'm very happy with my hair.

Lungs before beauty...

2008-05-31T17:15:00.010-07:00

I have a show coming up in June, and the character I'm playing happens to have long brown-black hair. I have the long hair, and I have the brown half of the brown-black; not wanting to run around and tap dance with a double head of hair (ie: a wig atop my already heavy mane) or to suffer the regrowth process, I'm looking for temporary hair colour solutions.

Have you ever heard of a product called Fanci-Full Mousse?

It looks like this:

And when you put it in your hair and get dressed and have a day, it also looks like this:

And, after having whatever mousse that didn't make it into my shirt in my hair for just one sleep and a day, my lungs feel as though I've been can-canning in a coal mine. Or as though I've taken up smoking again, only instead of wasting money buying and time smoking the cigarettes, I've opted to simply drill a good-sized hole through my breastbone and into my lungs, insert a tube, and toss whatever dust and disease that's handy directly into the folds of my 6-years clean and apparently wimpier-than-ever lungs.

So for the sake of my clothes and my health, I don't think that Fanci-Full is the best option for me. I'll keep experimenting, and am guessing I will end up facing the challenge of finding the bright side of growing out a black dye job.

Being "Mom" is enough...

2008-02-29T15:53:00.005-08:00

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/afp/080228/world/britain_motherhood_society

Ummm.... who the hell CARES that Posh Spice and Angelina Jolie are mothers AND they're *hot* and *perfect* and *socially aware* - what the hell happened to what I believe becomes the first priority on that list once you've decided to have a child - the MOTHERING bit?

I like to think that if I was a mother, my focus would be on the emotional, mental, and physical wellbeing of my child. And yes, I would do my best to leave the smallest ecologically damaging footprint possible, and would try to always do right by others as well, but I hope that any shortcomings I may have along the way wouldn't be found in comparing myself to celebrities and other media influences.

I'm sure the last thing I was ever concerned about while my mother was on the planet was that she wasn't hot enough, or hip enough. But if I knew her better, or for longer, who knows? There may well have come a time when I would have been concerned that she worried about it too much.

Mothers - I know it's not your fault, but please - get past the all or nothing in this case. Because as long as you agree to buy into and then suffer at the hand of media-based inadequacy issues, you're not making things any easier for your kids.

It won't be gone...

2008-02-24T22:02:00.004-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, there was a 2-minute community news item on Breakfast Television that irked me a bit. I was getting ready for work so I didn't take notes, and I can't for the life of me find any evidence of the item on the net, so unfortunately, I can't share too many details.

Anyway, here's the quick and dirty... some 30+ art students enjoyed a field trip to Vancouver's Downtown Eastside (for brevity, I'm going to use DTES from here on). The students descended upon the corner of Main & Hastings, and armed with sketchpads and the strength of their numbers, they had a chance to chat with and to sketch willing neighbourhood folks. Now, it's obvious that the aim of this tour was to expose the students to a sample of the different lifestyles the DTES has to offer, and while I abhor the obvious "let's take the kids to the zoo" element, I do think that this is a positive exercise, purely from an artistic standpoint. I'm sure the students all left with some very interesting sketches.

What got to me was a clip of one of the students stating how nice it was over at old Main & Hastings, how the people were all so friendly and happy to see them, and that she felt completely safe and comfortable the whole time they were there. Gee, that's nice - I'm glad she felt comfortable - she SHOULD feel comfortable, having community workers bring her to the scary DTES, particularly to the corner where Carnegie Centre sits. She got to see dodgey, but it was a nice, perfectly controlled dodgey. Postcard dodgey.

To be fair, I have no doubt that the producer of the segment decided to use the most optimistic sound bite that he or she could take from the item. And who knows? Now that she has her chops, maybe next time, this student will leave the safety of Carnegie Centre. Leave her friends and tour guides behind, stay on Hastings, but walk a block or two west of Main, and then come back and tell Vancouver how safe and comfortable she feels. Maybe she can do this after the sun has dropped and the energy and lively colours aren't quite so vibrant. Better yet, maybe she can do this on a Mardis Gras weekend, where she's bound to enjoy some public urination and defecation, or perhaps an uncontrolled schizophrenic outburst, or a nice, random crack rage.

These things aren't quite as visible on the corner that the art students visited, but they are definitely a part of the DTES experience.

And you know, whenever I hear a person laud the sense of community that is present in what is touted as the poorest postal code in Canada, I am amazed by the power of rationalization. I worry that with all the urban renewal that is underway throughout the city, the ugly will be forgotten one day. I think a lot of really rich people are counting on this. (But it won't be gone.)

Vancouver Mist, 8AM

2008-02-13T15:17:00.008-08:00

Vancouver Mist, 8AM (02/13/08), originally uploaded by (drs)ayko.

A snap from my camera phone, walking to work this morning.

And then, less than 24 hours later......

2008-01-30T09:49:00.001-08:00

Overnight, somebody removed his head! It's back to looking like a lumpy one of these:

Made a new friend today....

2008-01-29T16:52:00.001-08:00

I only kind of made him.... I met him through a stranger. There was this big lump of snow on the sidewalk on my way home from work. It looked a bit like this:

Only larger. And lumpier.

And I stopped, because I wanted to give it just a little personality. So I looked around and found some wet, rotting leaves beneath a fluffy snow blanket. I squished them in my hands, forming shapes that would become eyes and a smile...

And, of course, I gave him 2 ears... so he could hear me say:

"You've made today better."

A good reason to get out of bed in the morning....

2008-01-27T00:43:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it means seeing a great show like the one Macy Gray put on tonight at the River Rock Theatre.... new songs, old songs, her songs, other people's songs... all given to us with heart and soul and a lot of PLEASURE. She's James Brown, only without the feet - although her steppin' is really not too shabby at all. Prince, only without the veil of eccentricity - although she is fabulously quirky. I badly want to be one of her backup singers, and when she commanded the audience "Dance for me, Bitches," everyone was on their feet. Great show, great audience. Thanks, Macy!!!

Let X=?

2007-12-25T17:36:00.000-08:00

Two Strongbows into The Holiday, I'm wondering if there are any other days that we could put as much effort into. Days that are not exclusive to those of any one religious belief system, and days that perhaps won't turn into consumer-driven holidays that are signified by a heavy dose of cleverly crafted Gap commercials. (And, I'm wondering if any of these other days might fall in the Spring or Fall, because who wouldn't want an secularly issued, internationally-recognized extended long weekend in the Spring or Fall? Good for either side of the Equator!)

Truth is, I really have nothing against Christmas. As much as it's really fashionable to be anti-Christmas, I just can't honestly say that I am.

I guess I shouldn't be calling it Christmas, because I'm really speaking of X-Mas. If you think of it in terms of what it seems to mean to so many people who celebrate the holiday - unity, sharing, abundance, thanks, hugs, food - what's to hate? The consumption, the advertising, the shoppers, the madness that goes with the consumption, the hypocrisy and the irony that snickers in the background (Toys for kids, made by kids!) - yes, these I can do without.

But the heart behind the holiday doesn't hurt.

This year, Damion and I are lying low at home - no trips to Alberta (or Australia) to be with family, no dinner parties, it's just me and him and our friend's Betta, Sushi. We have some yummy booze to drink, and we made a pot roast and veggies, and there's cake for dessert (OF COURSE!); we're enjoying music and movies. Tomorrow night, our friend Shelley will be coming over for a photo exchange of our trips to Thailand and SE Asia this fall. Our apartment is clean, Damion's going through boxes and drawers and getting rid of so much crap (I should really follow his lead), and we've both had a solid 8 hours of sleep every night since Saturday. The time off is BRILLIANT!

Good spirits and sharing and community, and making it big or taking it easy, on your own or with people you love - all of this is a good idea anytime, right? So, can't we find a new day (or series of days) to spend honoring each other? Or maybe just honoring life?

(And at the same time, we can let Christ have his day back? Because, really....... what the heck is up with that?)

Maybe a milestone?

2007-11-13T12:04:00.000-08:00

I've decided to bite the darn bullet that I've dodged for 20 years, and have signed up for driving lessons with Young Drivers of Canada. Apparently, they have an offshoot, Old Jaded Pedestrians of Canada, which seemed to be right up my alley.

A couple of things pushed me in this direction, one being that I came home from my WA/Phuket trip with more money left in savings than I anticipated. I have never wanted to or felt able to take the financial hit that comes with driving lessons, and I haven't been comfortable imposing my needy nature on a friend or family member who may well be fit to instruct me, but really shouldn't have to. I think that I am much better at managing my emotions in times of stress with people who aren't close to me; actually, after reading that, I can say more plainly that I can become a bit of a whiner when I'm challenged and am in the company of someone who knows me well. However I choose to phrase it, the bottom line is that I learn best at an objective distance from my teacher.

Another reason I'm now taking this step is that I'm tired of having not being able to get around as an excuse for not doing things that I otherwise might. Turns out that while most everything that I want and need to do is within walking distance or is on a bus route, there are a number of things that just are not. Now, I don't see myself becoming a regular driver and I defninitely do not expect to buy a car; however, there are several car co-ops in Vancouver that could work very well for me, and in the very least, I could really have my road-wits about me if or when I buy an electric bicycle/scooter jobbie.

And of course, I would like to be able to say "I'll drive" just once to folks who have helped me out so many times in the past. This would please me to no end.

I don't know. I guess I'm ready to have the choice?

(And yes, I think it's funny that so well into my 30s, I'm still starting sentences with "I guess I'm ready to...")

I start next week.

Thoughts on music industry fairness...

2007-10-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

Please keep in mind, I am writing as a person who does not make her living in the music industry. My opinions have been formed at a distance, without knowing all the dirty details within the industry. I'm coming from an objective and practical standpoint, it may not be realistic in the least. If you have anything to add, feel free to educate me, but please do so respectfully.

First of all, I think that folks who suggest that musicians shouldn't be in it for the money (and that if they really loved music they'd make it for free) are being a wee bit shortsighted. A musician's reasons for being in the game should have no effect on a listener's opinion of the music, nor should the musician's appearance, ethics, etc. The quality of music cannot be judged based on the motivation behind it or the personality who makes it, and wanting to earn money doing something that you enjoy does not mean you're doing it for the wrong reasons and does not lead to instant suckitude. Or suckeration. Whatever - it does not make you The Suck. There - I said it!

As for how musicians should be paid for their music... maybe if a musician is dealing with a record company and a distributor, the deal could be such that the musician & record company as a team sells the album ONCE, to the distributor, for a sum which is based on costs, projected sales, and value (to the musician). This money would be split between the musician & record company, however they see fit.

The musicians would retain all rights to the songs - they can re-record to their hearts' content, for future albums, compilations, endorsements. The record company would retain rights to the recordings of the songs - they can resell these recordings as they like. (Of course, ownership of the recordings could then be further split between the record company and the recording studio, etc...)

Only the album would be sold to the distributor, and the distributor would be paid for all sales of said album.

In this scenario, the musicians get paid for the music and the actual songs (which is their business), the record company gets paid for ponying up for getting the music recorded (which is my understanding of their business), and the distributors get paid for selling the albums (which is their business). This leaves the distributors and record companies (who I think may well make more than the musicians from album sales) to fight it out with the filesharing community, which is fair since I believe many musicians do appreciate the exposure to the music that filesharing allows and it's the record companies and distributors who have the biggest gripe with the filesharing community.

If a musician has no record company and handles his or her own distribution, then the musician can seek payment however he or she sees fit... the Radiohead "pay what you want" concept might appeal to one musician, 50/50 split between musician and charity may appeal to another. It would be up to the musician.

You know what? Music is unfortunately, like any other industry, subject to highs and lows determined by the market. I hate to say it, but perhaps the day of making real money from album sales is over; actually, maybe this is where the attitude regarding doing it for the money being a bad thing is based.

Same old, same old...

2007-09-20T14:13:00.000-07:00

For years, I've struggled with a love-hate relationship with life. Actually, not so much love-hate, quite the opposite really. Dispassionate. Things that would make most people either gush with excitement or burst into tears tend to just leave me shrugging my shoulders in an "oh, you don't say," sort of way.

My life is lovely, and I'm so grateful for it. But experience has made me hard - and not in the way that gets a person laid. Every now and then though, I soften up.

And I think I feel a now and then approaching.

(This has nothing to do with getting laid.)

2007-08-24T08:46:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went to listen to John Cameron Mitchell talk about making his film Shortbus. It's nice to hear a person talk about his work with such interest and sincerity, and without a hint of self-righteous bloating or ego. And I swear, this is not pie-eyed gushing - I'm pretty darn jaded when it comes to people (myself included) talking about themselves and Their Work and The Business. Maybe not jaded - but kind of broken? Maybe I just feel that way when it's uninvited. Whatever.

I have a lot of respect for JCM, the actors, and the process behind Shortbus. Apparently, the film was workshopped for about 2 years (okay, I may be talking shit, I'm bad with details) before JCM started work on the screenplay; in that time, actors came (and came again) and went, improvising scenes, dialogue and behaviour which helped to define the Shortbus characters whom JCM hadn't quite met yet. I started a clothed improv class this summer (which was cancelled thanks to a civic strike - BOO!), and in the very short time that we worked together, I started to get a grasp of letting go and of being truly engaged in the scene, in achieving the goal. It's very exciting, and I imagine it must be very rewarding to facilitate this type of play.

When you consider the language of the film (the language being sexuality), and you consider the taboos and hangups that many of us cannot separate from that language, it really is impressive that everyone, the actors, director, crew, etc., were able to make a film that speaks so clearly and candidly to the viewer.

They didn't just make a movie, they really committed to the process, and created community along the way. And this is what I think art is about.

P.S. In retrospect, I would liken Shortbus to a post 9/11 Woody Allen/Andy Warhol mash-up. Hey, did you ever notice that thing with their initials?

I dropped the loonie...

2007-08-13T20:19:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be candid. I badly wanted to sit down and have a conversation with a street dweller whom I passed on my way home. He was dusty and frazzled, just settling down outside of MEC, putting out his jacket to sit on and getting out his hat and sign. As I approached, I noticed that his sign said "May your God bless and keep you," and I kept walking. But the thought stayed with me; I got to the end of the block, and turned back and walked back to him, on the way carefully pulling out a loonie from the nickels and dimes and copper in my blue leopard-print wallet. When I reached him, I crouched down and dropped the loonie into his hat, and dorkily flashed him a peace sign - actually, more like a peace-out sign, because it had a bit of a protective arc to it, and he thanked me. And I started to walk away, and stopped again and advised him "Take care," like I have any idea of what those words mean to him. Or to anyone who is graced with such crap. Take care. Like I'm offering some piece of wisdom, or a real gesture of kindness, when really I just don't know how to relate, but badly want to. As I walked away, I kicked myself for being a pompous ass dressed as a kind heart. I went back to give him that loonie, because it was the safe connection - really I wanted to thank him for his good wishes to passers by, or to ask him which got him more dough, the god sign or whatever might have been written on the back. Or to just sit down with him and talk about the crummy summer that we've had, tell him about my work, ask him what work he did before he sat down. I get really dreamy and idealistic sometimes. And then I get real, and I know that the reason I dropped the loonie and kept walking was because as afraid as I was that he might tell me to fuck off, I was actually more worried that he might not.

I can be so soft sometimes.

2007-07-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

I'm having a love affair with the Red Hot Chili Peppers right now - and especially their stuff with John Frusciante. Vocal melodies and harmonies and just the prettiest guitar riffs..... I can't get enough. It's actually a summer thing I think, because I know that last year, I played the hell out of BloodSugarSexMagik. And now, Dosed is playing in my right ear, and it's like a whisper from a very close friend.

The pavement is always greener on the other side.

2007-07-05T10:25:00.000-07:00

We're moving to the other side of the building. We'll have a view of the mountains and of the city, and when there are fireworks over English Bay, we'll see those too.

They say it's quieter on the other side of the building. Instead of waking to the sounds of buses and sirens and car alarms, we'll wake to the sounds of garbage trucks and shopping carts and alley-dwellers having their morning piss. Switching seats on the Titanic perhaps? We'll see.

I wonder which leaves a deeper physiological footprint - Broadway exhaust fumes or back alley life stench.....

Remember when?

2007-07-04T11:55:00.000-07:00

I've recently become reacquainted with people I knew when I was in my teens and my twenties. I've never really allowed myself to be a nostalgic person, mainly because I'm afraid of becoming one of those people whose vocabulary is saturated with "Remember whens?" As a result, I don't really remember when very well. But wow; over the last couple of months, I've learned that there sure are a lot of other people who do remember when.

I think that for a time, I equated "Remember when?" with "Woe is me now!" and I took pity on those who seemed so stuck in the past and tried to avoid conversations that brought us there. However, I think I'm changing my mind (one Facebook message at a time), and now find myself wanting to remember when with others. I want to hear their impressions of then, to learn about how our experiences may have differed or may have been similar.

The flakey moral of the story is: looking back with love is different than looking back with longing. I'd had the two confused. This is a cosmic apology to those whose paths I may have blocked.

2007-07-04T11:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it's nice to have decisions made for you. I was facing the moral dilemma, do I pay out many dollars to see The Cure play at GM place in October?

And then I realized, of COURSE I don't. Because I'll be in Australia!

Nice!

Ontario to offer 60-second HIV test

2007-06-24T21:27:00.000-07:00

Ontario to offer 60-second HIV test

Just a quick note to say that I am so pleased with this news! I'm not in a high risk group, but I have had unprotected sex and subsequently have been tested for HIV. The 3 weeks between being tested and learning the results were excruciating; I can only imagine the tension that those in higher risk groups might experience while they wait for their results. And I think that this long waiting time could be a deterrent from being tested for some.

2 weeks is an eternity when you're waiting for news, and stress can make people do stupid things that put other people at risk. And I think this new procedure will save lives. Yay!

(For naysayers who complain that they don't want their tax dollars spent this way, I offer you this to chew on: I don't have kids and don't intend to have kids, yet I'm pretty sure a buck or two of mine has gone into the breeding game one way or another... you know?)

2007-06-14T22:59:00.001-07:00

A quick moment to write some thoughts about satisfaction and peace; these arrive wrapped in riddles, and too often we're afraid to guess at the answers. Today, I'm pretty sure that getting out and doing the things that mean enough to us to be scary is likely as close to god (or whatever you want to call it) as we can really get.

I'm having such fun with the show. I bitch and complain and obsess daily, but once it's showtime, it all becomes quite automatic, like breathing. It really is such a pleasure.

There, I'm done.

2007-05-06T12:42:00.000-07:00

I decided yesterday that we'd stay home for breakfast today. Seems every weekend, Damion and I go out and spend $20 each on scrumptious breakfasts at various joints around town, and while there's nothing wrong with this, I kind of like doing the domestic thing now and then too. We had eggs and salad fixin's in the refrigerator; I made a point of buying some squishy Italian bread for Dam, some nutty monkeybrain bread for myself, and some gigantic strawberries from the shop down the street. I looked in the fridge for salad dressing, and opted for Newman's Own Balsamic Vinaigerette.

I remember how we ended up with this dressing; a friend came over for a barbecue, and he brought the dressing with him. As he pulled it out of the bag, he drew attention to the brand and insisted that he wished he had made his own or that he had brought a different brand. I assured him that it would be fine, but he just kept apologizing for bringing that brand. I thought then and I still believe that he was embarassed about the fact that he purchased a commercial dressing. I don't think he was concerned with the quality of the dressing, the ingredients or the politics that went into it; he just felt that if it was commonly accepted, it must be crap.

Well, that crap happened to be a really yummy dipping area for my toast and eggs today. Nothing like one person's inner demons to add zip to another person's plate.

The Lion Sleeps

2007-04-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

The Lion Sleeps, originally uploaded by (drs)ayko.

It's the Island of Dr. Moreau all over again...

2007-03-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

Check it out here.

For my next trick, I'll cultivate a sheep's liver within this human foetus!

You know what? People die every day, and it's perfectly natural. The sooner we climb out of the denial pool, the better off the planet and all its inhabitants will be.

(Don't forget to dry between your toes!)

What's my motivation?

2007-02-21T22:03:00.000-08:00

I ask myself this question every day. And typically, my answers are based on the same themes, including but not limited to: experience, pleasure, challenge, security, hunger, love, comfort, truth, knowledge, acceptance.

Here is an email that I started writing tonight, but haven't sent:

Okay, I'm sure I'm committing audition-suicide with this email... but I just don't want to waste anybody's time on Saturday. Now, I personally do not think that any audition is really ever a waste of time for anyone involved, but I can't speak for you or your partners.
Anyway, long story short, I don't feel that I'm very strong with the high parts of the songs you've given. That being said, I'd still like to come out on Saturday and audition, talk with you all about singing and music, and possibly even surprise myself with the outcome; however, please let me know if you...

I stopped writing and took a moment to read over what I'd written, and realized that I didn't really know what the motivation was behind this email. Fear - I missed this factor in that list I made earlier. Fear is also a great motivator for me, but it's really more of an anti-motivator - it stops me from doing things. I fear that the audition I have scheduled on Saturday may be seen as a waste of time, I fear that this will make the group I'm auditioning with angry. I fear that I'll make a name for myself as being a time waster.

So I started thinking about the motivation behind my going to this audition. Experience, pleasure, challenge, hunger, love, truth, knowledge, acceptance. (Security and comfort didn't make the cut here.) I'm pretty comfortable with all of these, so I won't be clicking send after all.

And as for the thought of wasting someone else's time, well, I'm still not really comfortable with it... but I'm going to just take the risk and let them make their own decision on this. I know my intentions are good.

Guys & Dolls - Studio 58 at Langara College

2007-02-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

I went to the Guys & Dolls matinee today, and the show was just fantastic!

The show follows New York gambling scenester Nathan Detroit as he attempts to keep both his underground crap game and his 14-year engagement to Hot Box dancer Adelaide afloat. Meanwhile, legendary gambling guru Sky Masterson takes the bet of his life, which finds him trying his hand at winning the heart of Salvation Army Missionary Sarah Brown.

A sparse set with gorgeous painted murals provided a visual tour through New York City streets and sewers, sleazy Cuban boozecans, and soul-saving mission chapels as required.

Great energy and acting performances by all of the players. Standout (all-around) performances were offered by Melissa Oei (Adelaide), Jon Lachlan Stewart (Nathan Detroit), Chris Cochrane (Nicely-Nicely Johnson), and Charlie Gallant (Benny Southstreet). Luke Camilleri as Sky Masterson could have been a bit more committed with some of his vocals, but he maintained a smooth Masterson vibe throughout the show and is dreamy to look at to boot (which doesn't hurt the show one iota). Tamera Broczkowski gave a lovely performance as Sarah Brown, particularly in the well-crafted "Havana" scene. There was great chemistry - yeah, chemistry - between all of the pairs in the show; however, Cochrane and Gallant were clearly audience favourites. ("Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat" was definitely THE showstopper.)

While I admit that I have a bit of a Baby Jane Hudson relationship with this show, I can tell you the folks at Studio 58 did a fantastic job, and I'm being fair and objective when I say that the $11 matinee price is a wicked deal - in fact, we left feeling like maybe we should have paid more... for whatever THAT'S worth. (I have to say, $20.50 for date-night tickets is still a great deal.)

If you feel like going to a show, give this one some thought. It runs until February 25th.

Flakey thoughts on life and death...

2007-01-02T17:56:00.000-08:00

I was walking to the store to pick up some milk and fruit, and I was thinking about my dad. (I imagine I will repeat this pattern for some time yet - bear with me!) And I thought about life and death, and how darn confining our bodies and locations and lives can be.

When Dad was alive (in body), space kept us apart - he lived in Alberta, I live in BC. Time kept us apart - I work a regular 9-5 that occupies 35+ hours a week, so could only visit when time allowed. Situations kept us apart - believe it or not, Dad had priorities other than me, and he saw to them.

Now, Dad is gone, physically. All I have is the thought of him, memories, footprints he's left behind. Time, space, and situation no longer have any effect. Dad is no longer bound in any way, and I'm trying very hard to let go so I can be free to love and appreciate him, and not just miss him. He will join the birds, and mountains, trees, the ocean, and colour and wind and love; each of these abstract, untethered, natural. Real, despite their not being domesticated or owned.

I know it sounds flakey, but it made a lot of sense as I was walking up Broadway 15 minutes ago.

Thoughts on Ray Skrypichayko… March 2, 1938 – December 19, 2006

2006-12-24T23:44:00.000-08:00

I don’t really know where to start, to tell you about my dad. Funny, smart, determined, stubborn, practical, resourceful, independent, bull-headed… pick an adjective. When someone passes, there are always different accounts of who that person was and what that person meant to the universe, and who’s to say my account is any more or less valid than any other? However, as time passes and people leave, we try to remember.

Photo: Dad... photographing a "little son of a b*tch." (Okay, it was actually a duck!) Steveston, BC - Summer 2006

I can tell you with complete confidence that Dad meant well, and as pissed off and cranky as he often appeared to be, I believe that he made a point of finding a way to be happy no matter what. If this sometimes meant tearing apart whatever stood in his way and starting over (ie: a complete DIY home renovation starting at age 65+), then that’s what he would do, because as long as it was in his control, he would have his way. He never really seemed to stay down for long, his magic was in his ability to get up, get over, and get on… some would say this made him somewhat removed and aloof, and that’s probably true. Of course, his life and his experience cannot be compared with any other, so who can really judge?

You always wish for another day, don’t you? If I had another day with Dad, knowing that it was the another day, I know know that I would… oh, I don’t know, I’d watch John Wayne movies with him, and let him tell me what was happening all the way through, even though we’d both be sitting watching the same movie. I’d record his awful, twangy country singing (but I’d sneakily record the moments where he sounded good, too). And I’d listen to him tell his stories about his wild years, working at the bank in St. Paul, dating girls from town, recklessly driving down country roads in thick, blinding blizzards on black ice. I guess it really wouldn’t be much different than any other day with Dad would be… he’d inevitably snap at me about something, "Pick that up!" I’d snap back, we’d argue a bit, and it would be over… at some other point, he’d offer advice that wasn’t requested which would turn out to be very useful in the long run.

He was a pretty great dad… I miss him. I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me, and for my sisters. Three intelligent, talented, strong women who have had one of our biggest fans cheering us on in strange ways that we may have never understood before, but can hopefully accept and remember as we continue on our ways.

Make Love For Peace

2006-12-03T15:42:00.000-08:00

(Taken from the website...)

WHO? All Men and Women, you and everyone you know.

WHAT? The intent is that the participants concentrate any thoughts during and after orgasm on peace. The combination of high-energy orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention may have a much greater effect than previous mass meditations and prayers.

WHERE? Everywhere in the world, but especially in countries with weapons of mass destruction.

WHEN? Winter Solstice Day - Friday, December 22nd, at the time of your choosing, in the place of your choosing and with as much privacy as you choose.

WHY? To effect positive change in the energy field of the Earth through input of the largest possible surge of human energy a Synchronized Global Orgasm. There are two more US fleets heading for the Persian Gulf with anti-submarine equipment that can only be for use against Iran, so the time to change Earth’s energy is NOW!

The goal is to add so much concentrated and high-energy positive input into the energy field of the Earth that it will reduce the current dangerous levels of aggression and violence throughout the world.

Getting lost in the woods.....

2006-11-30T17:43:00.001-08:00

My partner and I may have an opportunity to purchase a condo in our neighbourhood; he's seen it, I haven't seen it yet. I thought I'd Google it; not knowing the exact address, I entered the street and avenue, along with the word "condo" and the name of a nearby mall. I got 2 pages of hits, though none of them led me anywhere remotely relevant.

The third link on the second page, which I will not hotlink here, was completely unexpected and unnerving. Here is the phonetic link:

AYCHTEATEAPEACOLONSLASHSLASHDOUBLEYOODOUBLEYOODOUBLEYOODOTinternationalsexguideDOTinfoSLASHforumSLASHarchiveSLASHindexDOTphpSLASHt-389-p-4DOTAYCHTEAEMMELL

There, I found an archived forum full of reviews of Lower Mainland sex trade workers. "Names," physical descriptions, ages, time of day, and details regarding how much action one could get with a purple (a $10 bill) or less. One of the johns went about describing a girl's body as revolting, full of needle marks and sores, yet he still paid her $40 for "half-and-half" (?) and brazenly declared at the end of his post that he couldn't complete the act because he was so disgusted by this girl, and that he was finished with "low track" action. I found it all quite disturbing - the rah-rah mentality common among the members, the sense of conquest that lined each posting, the fact that some sex trade workers will perform an act for pocket lint, in hopes that the john will come back with real money next time - as I read the postings, I felt as though I'd found a secret room beneath the stairs that I was never meant to enter.

And I thought to myself, how bizarre to stumble upon such a community so innocently; if I were to be actually seeking this community, would I have had such an easy time Googling it?

I thought about ways one might try to find such a forum, without knowing the url. I tried:

hookers vancouver
sw main street vancouver
bj vancouver cheap
sw vancouver

None of those led me to that website. I finally tried

"low track" vancouver BINGO - first hit.

Ironically, other hits on that first page included Amazon.com: Bad Date: The Lost Girls of Vancouver's Low Track, stories on Robert Pickton, and others accounts of the uglier side of this industry. Scared to look any deeper at the forum postings, I can't help but wonder if any of the community members have darker stories to share.

A Kitsmas Carol... December 16th - 18th

2006-11-16T00:08:00.000-08:00

There are people dying...

2006-11-12T18:31:00.000-08:00

It's time, I guess. I'm in my thirties; parental figures are in their sixties, and logically, their parental figures are older still. My partner's grandmother on his dad's side passed on this weekend, and I feel so - well, I can't quite define the feeling, but I feel for my father-in-common-law. His father passed away about 4 years ago; next went his grandmother, and now his mother. I imagine this is a grim reminder of his own mortality, and also of how, in a sense, we all are quite alone.

I really dread the day I reach this same place.

2006-11-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

Along the same lines as my last post (wow, who would have thunk this would turn into a recovery journal? It hasn't, I swear!)... where does one draw the line between improving oneself and suppressing every tendency and trait that may come naturally?

If a person happens to be the kind of person who carefully considers the details that make up an action, does that person need to throw all caution to the wind in future decisions and actions in order to ever "heal?" Personally, I don't think this is the best strategy to use or goal to achieve; it seems counterproductive somehow, it's fighting your nature. And I don't really consider being cautious a bad thing - in moderation and when it's appropriate, it's a good thing. Then again, change can also be a good thing...

(I wasn't even talking about myself in the above paragraph - other people are cautious, it's true!)

It's weird; in the group (and I will have other things to write about one of these days - I'm CERTAIN of this), every time a person reveals something about himself or herself, others seem to be really eager to suggest "Well, maybe you should..." and I get a little riled up because the words that follow are never "explore how you feel about this," or "stop beating yourself up for being you!" I'm sure that sometimes, acceptance is the key.

Also, by certain people's standards, some situations would be best solved by using ultimatums and other manipulations to effect change in another person's behaviour; my thinking in this particular situation was that the person who is wanting the change should work toward meeting his or her needs without trying to force the other person to behave a certain way. Different coping strategies, indeed. I find it fascinating.

2006-11-04T12:13:00.000-08:00

I have joined a group therapy program. I'm really not sure what I'm hoping to accomplish with this; so far, I've been to 3 sessions and intend to follow through for at least 3 months. I suppose each of us in the group is fed up with the patterns in our own psyches, hence trying to change via therapy. I think part of the reason for my going is to be able to get outside of myself again, to put some distance between me and the behavioural patterns that I fear may somehow define me. To hear about things that other people are trying to accept or overcome in their lives and how they're accomplishing this. It's weird though; while I feel the things that I'm trying to overcome somehow mark me as broken, useless, or terrible, I find that things that others in the group are sharing (good or bad) are simply details that shape amusing and fascinating characters, and I am not limiting these people by what they share. Why I am so quick to accept that these people are probably much more than the things they'd like to change, yet reluctant to loosen my grip on my own shortcomings, is surely a matter of perspective, which is exactly what I'm trying to achieve with this therapy, a little perspective.

I'm just a girl who can't say no...

2006-08-26T23:24:00.000-07:00

I'm a very fickle person. I have many interests; unfortunately, I lack the drive and discipline to become really brilliant at any of them.*

I'm not too uncomfortable admitting this - what it means is I do things for enjoyment, and when they cease to be enjoyable, I move on to other things. I don't know why I am the way I am, but I'm finally coming to terms with it; I think that for a long time, I would just settle for doing nothing because no one thing really called out to me... I do not recommend that path to anyone, it brings no happiness.

So now I've started taking dance classes - I'm loving them! I really like the workout that comes with dancing, but mostly I'm really happy to be working physically and trying to improve my form with every class. It's so different from going to the gym, where while I do enjoy the sensation of working my muscles with weights and machines, I'm not really focused on improving my technique, and all I seem to be targeting is my muscles. It can be almost meditative, and I do like that about the gym; however, there is so much to work on in dance - strength, balance, flexibility, memory. It's lovely!!!

ASIDE: Okay, and secretly - or not so secretly - all I've ever really wanted to be when I grow up is one of the kids from Fame. Obviously, that hasn't happened, and it isn't going to happen... but I'm finally taking some dance classes, and that's the next best thing.

And the chorus starts up again soon - not next week, but the week after. We'll be working on new songs for our show in December, "A Kitsmas Carol." I'm going to be a busy girl very soon, and it's great!!!

*Not true actually - I'll bust my ass when I need to, but typically I'm an experiential, process-oriented person who forgets that goals are important too.

Dance, little sister!

2006-08-01T23:48:00.000-07:00

Went to my first dance class today at Harbour Dance Centre... Intro/1 Jazz - I don't know if there was any intro though, it felt pretty 1 to me. Fun, but I'll have to wear shoes next time; blisters are just rotten, aren't they???

Menstruation 101: Finding the Square Root of a Period

2006-07-21T23:17:00.001-07:00

Me, and my period. We met when I was 9 or 10. Let's go with 10, because I'm not fond of math. I'm 35 now. In my career as a menstruator, I've used probably... oh no, here comes the math...

Okay, first of all, I've always preferred disposable pads over tampons - I can't accept leakage and would rather suffer intentionally bulky pants over unintentionally bloody pants. So I'll be examining my disposable pad contribution to our proud Canadian landfills.

If I average 5 days per cycle, and 2 pads a day, and work that out from age 10 to 35...

(So, 25 years - I've had my period for 25 years. Now, THAT'S not something I think about every day!)

Let's see... 12 months in a year, times 25 years is...

(If there were 25 months in a year, I'd KNOW the answer because, don't ask me why, my dear old dad made me memorize 25x25=625 when I was a kid, but that doesn't help me here.)

12x25 is 300 - 300 months in 25 years. 5 days a month, that is 5x300=1,500 days. And I said 2 pads per day, so...

If I've done the math correctly, I have tossed away 3,000 bloodied pads in my lifetime, plus or minus.

Did you ever use pads? What do you think is the smallest size you were able to roll them up into? I am looking around on my desk for something that can represent the smallest roll I ever achieved; I have a bottle of essential oil (orange - yum) that looks possible... no, definitely too small. A pantyliner maybe, but not the mattresses that I've employed. My padlock from junior high - that could work. It's approximately 2-1/2" x 1-1/2". Let's make that 2"x2" (again, for ease of math). Multiply THAT bye 3,000, and my legacy is 6,000 square inches - 500 square feet of bleached white cotton, plastic, and dry weave.

That's a studio apartment.

That's disgusting!

And I'm ashamed.

When I turned 30, I bought a Keeper, but it's never really worked very well for me. It leaked, and I was always very aware of its presence. So I continued to use disposable pads. Last year, I decided to invest in reusable cloth pads, and you know, I will never go back. I don't resent my period the way I have in the past. Flakey as this is, I kind of feel now like I own my period, and I honestly enjoy being responsible for it. It feels good, which is a beautiful thing to be able to say about my period.

I mean, if you're going to have a long-term relationship with something, you might as well feel good about it.

2006-05-31T22:43:00.000-07:00

If you're like me, and your parents let go of the house where you grew up,* do you sometimes really want to go back to that house? Do you ever want to walk in through the back door, find your old bedroom, peek inside the closets that could be so scary sometimes, and then count the Winnie the Pooh's and Eeyores and Tiggers on the walls? Do you ever want to lie down in the dining room, on the fuzzy red carpet beneath the crystal chandelier, and watch the colours reflecting from the prisms as they dance across the floor and walls and ceiling, and just BE there again?

I do. In fact, I often dream about returning to my childhood home in Millwoods... I don't really remember a lot of details from these dreams, and I'm not really sure what they represent. Usually, I am able to get into the house; I am either invited in by its new people, or I just appear there and there is no argument from the people inside. When I still lived in Edmonton, I did go back to the old house** now and then, but I never did ring the doorbell to meet the new folks and poke around. It just always seemed kind of inappropo.

Now, checking out what's happening at your old Blogspot address, however - THAT'S totally fair game! Here's what I found at my old place...

(Oh, here's my sister's old place, too.)

In other news, I just finished making some oversized Tarot cards for my Broadway Chorus show that's just two weeks away. Hehehe... props are FUN!!! And the costume hunt resumes this weekend... watch out, Sally Ann!

*We left our house when I was about 13, and I can't say we ever did make a new home base.
**Ooooh, a Smiths reference, neat!

2006-04-08T23:43:00.001-07:00

I had a really great day today, and I wanted to write about it, but didn't really know where to begin. And so I decided to not write about it instead.

And then, this message showed up in my email, after having dinner with a woman from my chorus and her 2 daughters, 13 and 7:

It was great to share the dinner hour with you. As we drove away (my 13 year old) said, "She's nice. And she has bouncy hair."

Hehehe.... :o) I wish I could say that I was that kind at 13.

2006-04-03T18:27:00.000-07:00

I don't know if it was the sweat in the air or the primal sounds that bored into me as I worked my mollycoddled body into a cariovascular frenzy on the elliptical trainer, or perhaps it was as simple as spring being in the air, but in any case, today I found it extremely difficult to focus on my cardio workout.

I kept finding myself slowing my pace as my attention turned from inward to outward, away from my steadily rising heart rate, away from my best efforts to keep my buttocks and thighs and shoulders taut against the varied resistance levels the mechanical trainer threw in my direction; instead, I was captivated by the people around me, particularly a blonde woman who was having an intense conversation with a dark haired man. There seemed to be such urgency in their faces as they hung on each others words, and the energy between the two was more than one would expect in such a public place. And then they started kissing, and while I felt that I should look away, I just couldn't tear myself away from the couple who were so obviously waiting their whole lives to just be in love...

And then, the scene changed from Frankie and Jennifer to John Black and Fake Roman Brady, who appeared to be watching Frankie and Jennifer through binoculars - I don't know what the deal was there, because I didn't think John Black and Fake Roman Brady ever did find peace with one another - I mean, how can you ever really find peace when your past has all but been stolen from you? Then, the scene cut to Marlena and Real Roman Brady (well the guy who played him anyway - maybe he's actually the devil or some other Days Of Our Lives veteran character), being in love, and that's pretty much when I lost interest and thankfully found my workout again.

Ha! So there - I haven't watched DOOL for at least 10 years (or whenever I stopped smoking pot), yet I can still name all the characters and pick up the storyline with the sound and subtitles turned off. Really, the stories are pretty repetetive and predictable, only the details change. Kind of like porn.

Actually, the soap industry is very much like the porn industry in some ways; for one thing, the actors never seem to move on from the genre, they just move around from show to show or from couch to couch. Fan devotion is another similarity between the two, although with soaps, the fans are all about the characters and with porn, the fans are all about the actors. And the genitals... but I digress. Oh, and last but not least, people rarely admit to watching either soaps or porn with a serious tone - it's always a big joke, or a guilty pleasure.

Soaps and porn - distant cousins, yet remarkably sporting the same ugly birthmark.

And then, my thirty minutes were done, and I moved on to weights.

Bob Dylan on Songwriting

2006-03-26T13:36:00.000-08:00

(Excerpted from Paul Zollo's interview with Bob Dylan. Paul Zollo is a singer/songwriter, author, and music journalist.)

"The world don't need any more songs... They've got enough. They've got way too many. As a matter of fact, if nobody wrote any songs from this day on, the world ain't gonna suffer for it. Nobody cares. There's enough songs for people to listen to, if they want to listen to songs. For every man, woman and child on earth, they could be sent, probably, each of them, a hundred records, and never be repeated. There's enough songs. Unless someone's gonna come along with a pure heart and has something to say. That's a different story. But as far as songwriting, any idiot could do it. If you see me do it, any idiot could do it."

Yep, that is probably true, Bob. But then again, human beings (for the most part) are not about leaving space, we're all about occupying; truth be told, I think the motivation is usually more selfish than it is giving. And if nobody's getting hurt, then there's really nothing left to argue.

Breaking up is hard to do - it's true.

2006-03-18T15:35:00.000-08:00

I just had a little mini breakdown.

I paint sometimes, pictures - usually people. No real refined or defined style or technique, it's always a matter of "I feel like painting," and so I paint. For two months, I rented a bedroom from a friend, where I could go to paint and where I also stored my paintings and paint. In the two months, I did go there once to paint, and it was great! It was a totally different experience to go to a place where my supplies were actually laid out ready for use; at home, I don't have anywhere to just have everything out and accessible, it's all boxed up on a shelf, out of sight out of mind.

Well, my friend told me the other day that some chick is going to move in with him, so he needed to clear that bedroom, which meant I had to collect my paintings and paint, and put them back into a box, back on the shelf. So Dam and I went to get my stuff, and I decided on the way home with it that I just can't justify making more paintings to shove under the couch, or into a closet, or to put on the wall, when nobody really wants to look at them... I decided to throw my paintings and supplies away. I've threatened to do this several times, but this time I was determined.

And as I brought the gear out of the car and packed it up to toss into the dumpster, I cried. I cried because I can't seem to see the value in something that I truly enjoy, I can only see the clutter that it creates.

And I don't paint every day, or every week - I might only make one painting in a year, so it's not that I'm so prolific and have paintings stacked up to the ceiling. I just have huge issues with producing work that once finished, may as well have never been produced. For whatever reason, I can't justify a storage space, I don't feel comfortable pawning my paintings off on friends, and I can't seem to throw these things away.

So I decided that I should get to the root of the problem and get rid of the tools that I use to make the clutter that I so despise. But all the crying that I was doing suggests to me that painting is something I really love, and I guess sometimes it takes trying to throw something you love into the dumpster out back before you can really accept that no matter how much clutter you create with this love, you really don't want to lose it.

I think it was fate that the dumpster was practically full, so when I did put all of my gear into it, it sat only about 1-2 feet below the mouth of the dumpster, so after bawling in my apartment for about 15 minutes, it was really easy for me to go back downstairs to the dumpster to retrieve my gear!

I've decided to compromise. For as long as it takes for me to allow myself to paint freely, I will:

Not paint surfaces larger than 1 ft x 1 ft.

If I feel the need to paint bigger than 1 ft x 1 ft, I will work on developing themes so that I can produce a series of paintings for show.

Paint on things that can easily be given away and accepted - ie: postcards, t-shirts, covers for cd's.

Consider drawing in one of my books instead.

It's so hard being a head case.

2006-03-01T20:13:00.000-08:00

I broke my glasses the other day. Okay, that's not really accurate.

I went to sleep Sunday night.
Some hours later, a terrible sound startled me.
I opened my eyes.
I sat up quickly, swung my body around to the right, and smacked the SNOOZE button on alarm clock #1.
It was Monday morning.
I went back into a reclined position.
I closed my eyes for approximately 6 minutes.
Alarm clock # 2 began to buzz.
I repeated the action mentioned above, smacking the SNOOZE button on alarm clock #2 this time.
I went back into a reclined position.
I thought about staying in bed.
I thought about the ramifications of staying in bed.
I decided that I need to keep my job another day.

And so on. Anyway, when I got to work Monday morning, I reached into my purse to grab my glasses* and lo and behold, I pulled out a set of broken frames, with the right lens just barely seated in its frame. Unfortunately, the frame isn't broken in a spot where a piece of masking tape or a bent paperclip could do the trick until I am able to get a new pair of glasses, so at least until the weekend, I'm down to two eyes. Which is okay because my vision isn't really that bad, but it is much better with the glasses; however, the real issue here is that I wear my glasses at work every day, so now without them, I have coworkers blatantly staring at me, trying to figure out what's different without wanting to come out and ask. And it's making me crazier, because you know, sometimes it's just better to ask.**

So today, a girl who used to work at my office came in for a visit. She's really sweet, but she tends to make those types of comments that never end up sounding complimentary.***

And you know what? Turns out I say some weird shit too sometimes...

Her: (staring at me, curiously)"Wow, you look different when you're not wearing your glasses!"
Me: (trying to get through a mountain of work) "Oh...... ummmmm.... well, you also look different when I'm not wearing my glasses.
Her: (puzzled look, exit right)

* I never walk to work wearing my glasses. Secretly, I always hope a bully will pick a fight with me, and then I'll have to go to the hospital to get stitches or something, instead of going to work... and we all know that bullies won't hit a man in glasses, much less a woman in glasses!

** Of course, I probably should have thought twice before sending out this memo:
"The first 3 people who can figure out what's different about Donna this week get a fabulous trophy! No asking allowed."

*** You know, thngs like "Wow, you look REALLY tired..." or conversely, "Wow, you look really good TODAY..." Then again, I'm partially to blame here; nobody is forcing me to take these statements offensively...

Really ladies, mind your own business!

2006-02-08T21:50:00.000-08:00

What is there to worry about, really? Look before you sit; if you see something, either go to a different stall or grab a huge wad of toilet paper and, as the potty rhyme goes, be a sweetie and wipe the damn seatie. And then... sit on it, Potsy!

I have to wonder, do women who hover understand that they are contributing to the problem, not to the solution? I'd place a bet with confidence that little splashes of tinkle that are sometimes found on public restroom toilet seats are often courtesy of self-important ladies who prefer to squat above the seat rather than plant their hynies flush against the seat.* If people, women, paid more attention to the footprint that they are leaving, then maybe there wouldn't be little puddles of OPP** causing such alarm.

Also creepy and wrong: women who choose to paper the toilet seat, then LEAVE said paper barrier spread across the seat. In my mind, that is far more disturbing than finding a couple of drops of pee on the seat; the deliberate act is usually more troubling than the accident. Flush it down!!!

I have to wonder, what are they afraid of? Do they know something about pee that I don't? I wonder what they do at house parties.

* Saw this pun coming and decided to play chicken - guess neither of us is the chicken!

** Other People's Pee

2006-02-08T16:34:00.000-08:00

Do you ever wonder just who you would be, if you were you, but in a different here? If there was a parallel universe, and you were essentially the exact same person who you are now, in terms of personality, and I suppose in terms of appearance... but if everything else was different. The people in your life - all different; the situations in your life - all different. But everything that is YOU is the same. So, if you're of average height and build now, you will be average height and build in the parallel universe; however, in this universe, average height and build may be 2 feet taller and 50 pounds lighter... or further to that, perhaps you are of average height and build here, and this stature remains in the parallel universe; however, you will find yourself in situations in this parallel universe that you would not imagine here and now... for instance, here and now, you are of average height and build and you are a computer programmer; meanwhile, you are Hercules in this parallel universe.

Just thinking... that's all.

And you thought that was the sound of a TREE falling in the forest...

2006-01-28T09:45:00.000-08:00

I just love to speak my mind on things of which I have little or no knowledge. That being said, I've decided to come to James Frey's defense.

James Frey is currently enjoying - oh, maybe that's not the right word for it... maybe it is? In any case, Frey's name is currently all over the media for his being a fraud. Frey wrote "A Million Little Pieces"* (AMLP from here on), a memoir chronicling his sordid life of crime and drug addiction and general ne'er-dowell hijinx. Frey and his book won the praise of the almighty Oprah; AMLP made it into Oprah's book club and Frey made it onto her show to talk about the book and the life that made it possible. I'm sure this helped Frey sell a lot of books, to people who like to read, to people who like to read what Oprah reads... a nice turnaround for a hard-livin' guy like Frey.

Frey was recently found out for having fabricated much of the book. Yes, he made a lot of it up, and now he's facing the wrath of Oprah; she feels duped and regrets having led her followers into dupedom by suggesting they read AMLP. And AMLP is now somehow less of a book, because it has fallen from the status of Memoir and is now a lowly Fiction - a novel.

But wait - could this novel be studied in a Creative Writing class? Or perhaps a Marketing class? Would this then make it a text? A reference piece? And then, would it become authentic once more?

This is what bothers me. This book apparently held the attention and the hearts of Oprah and her readers; Harpo** employees reading late into the night, then comparing notes in the studio the next morning. This book was HOT, and now it's just NOT.

The questions that go unasked. "While you were enjoying Chapter 7..."

Were you solely reflecting on this being factual?
Were you impressed with the story?
Were you impressed with the writing?
Did you ponder the process involved in writing an engaging memoir?
Did you consider the objective stance one might need to find and adopt in order to fully share an experience?
Did you wonder how much of what is called Fiction stems from reality?
Did you learn something? (Did you THINK you learned something?)
Were you entertained?

And so on.

It's like the Curse Of The Good Sex - if you have The Good Sex, on the assumption of it being The Good Love, but then find out it was really just The Good Sex, does The Good Sex become any less good? Feel free to reverse the two if it seems more applicable; does The Good Love disappear if The Good Sex isn't present? I suppose it all depends on the individual.

And I'm certain that one or two or two-thousand individuals remain impressed with AMLP.

I wonder if AMLP could be carefully rewritten, with a new author, new title, but the same basic premise and literary tone, and sold as a fiction, would it make it into Oprah's book club again?

*I haven't read the book, nor did I know that Oprah thought this book was magnificent... but now I can't seem to un-know that Frey's a big, bad liarhead!

** Oprah's production company

Enough.

2006-01-26T12:10:00.000-08:00

Enough is such a tricky place to be. Actually, being there isn't the tricky part, it's knowing that you've arrived and staying there. Enough can easily be missed because it is so understated, as opposed to its cousins Bigger and More, and the killjoy of the group, Not Enough. Enough is not bossy or boastful; Enough is comfortable and open. Enough sees with its heart and smiles with its eyes and feels with everything else. Enough feeds its children, body and spirit. Enough does not judge. Enough is a lofty goal which is surprisingly easy to achieve, once we accept that it exists and is right in front of us, waiting to say Hello.

2006-01-23T18:05:00.000-08:00

I should probably get my ass down to my voting station and do the right thing and exercise my right to vote. But you know what? I was thinking about this while I was doing the other right thing (that is, sweating on the elliptical at the gym), and I realized in no uncertain terms that I really, really, REALLY do not identify with any of the parties or individuals who are available. Now this is not news, I say the same damn thing every time a voting opportunity comes around, but this time, I thought of religion, and how ridiculous it would be if there was one day a vote to decide which religion would lead our country toward prosperity and equality for all. I know that the two cannot be compared; religion is (supposed to be) a personal thing and politics are not. But really, if voting isn't a personal thing and people only ever vote strategically and not from their core... well then I absolutely do not buy the "every vote counts" idea.

And if I am to vote for the party that I feel best represents me, then I have a problem on my hands, because like I said before, I just don't really feel represented.

What I'd LIKE to do is to "pass" and save up all the votes that I've passed on over the years, and then apply them to some mythical figure in the future who wants to talk about alternatives to imaginary national pension plans and student debt and mental health care and realistic tax brackets (we really DON'T all have 2.3 kids). Can we do that? Reserve our votes for the future?

For now, I'm waiting for pizza.

2005-12-10T22:12:00.000-08:00

I went to see Capote last weekend. I'm often a little leery of biopics, mainly because lately, so much seems to hinge upon what extremes an actor is willing to go to to portray someone heavier, lighter, more American or less beautiful that he or she happens to be. Capote thankfully didn't require Philip Seymour Hoffman to gain or lose substantial weight or to wear strange prosthetics; granted, Hoffman nailed Truman Capote's whiney Southern drawl and succeeded in capturing Capote's slight if not fragile physical presence (the latter being quite a feat with the 6' plus Hoffman playing a 5'3" man), but none of this was so extreme that it became a distraction from either the storyline or the character.

I think a lot about the ethics of art and journalism. I figured out a long time ago that I don't have what it takes to take one person's story, pick an angle, write the story, and then give that story to the public. I don't think the writing is the problem; I simply can't TAKE like that, nor do I have the patience to wait for such a story to reveal itself or the persistence to coax one out. In Cold Blood, a novel often considered America's first nonfiction novel, recounts the murder of The Clutters (a well-known and well-liked Kansas family) and the investigation that followed, and offers insight into the minds and lives of the two men responsible for the crimes. Capote spent 6 years getting to know the people in the town, interviewing surviving friends and family of the deceased, and building a relationship with the two men who were found guilty of the Clutter murders; all of this research would eventually become Capote's great novel. Capote follows the years that Capote spent researching for his book, and explores the relationships that were formed along the way. Throughout the film, I found myself teetering between cheering for Capote and his project and despising his parasitic efforts. Now, while I used the term parasitic, which is rarely used in a positive sense, I don't think that this kind of investigative writing is fundamentally wrong. I just know that I don't have the stuff. Capote did have the stuff, at least he had the stuff at the time of writing In Cold Blood; the fact that this was the last novel Capote finished suggests that he may have used up the last of that stuff.

Hoffman's performance in Captote impressed me. Much as I adore Hoffman and pretty much every film I've seen him in, I never really lose sight of him in any of his roles. It's always "Philip Seymour Hoffman playing a gas sniffer." "Philip Seymour Hoffman playing a masturbating obscene caller." "Philip Seymour Hoffman playing a nurse to a man on his deathbed." But in Capote, I didn't have any sense of Hoffman whatsoever - he was Capote, a successful writer consumed by what would become his most celebrated work, a project over which he had very little real control. I was worried going into the film that I would spend 2 hours fighting to stay in the theatre, sitting through yet another Truman Capote impression; instead, I left completely satisfied with Hoffman's effort.

Watching Capote made me want to read In Cold Blood again, only this time with Capote's experience in mind. A whole other book has been revealed through this film.

2005-12-08T12:23:00.000-08:00

Animals do alright in the wild, don't they? I mean, they eat what they are meant to eat, hunt what they are meant to hunt, mate with who they're meant to mate with, and presumably, they romp when they need to romp.

It's just once they are tethered by the laws of man and master that this balance is compromised. Housecats on prozac, parakeets feeding on fortified gourmet birdseed, canines in cardigans - none of these represents the nature of any of these animals. Does the cat one day decide that he or she is in a rut and should try serotonin inhibitors? Does the bird opt for supplements over good old-fashioned dirt and worms? And does the dog really feel sportier in a sweater carefully crocheted by his "Mama?"

Let them ROMP, dammit!

My point is, my instinct this morning was to call in sick. I didn't, but our receptionist did - I ended up covering her desk for the first 2 hours of the day (complete with fever, scratchy throat, and the poise of a pogo stick going uphill), and when I got back to my own desk, our email server died and I've been unable to get a damn thing done.

In other words, the cardigan is itchy, the fortified birdseed gives me the trots, and the prozac is making me broke!!!

Tell it like it is...

2005-12-05T22:00:00.000-08:00

I hate flowers. I paint them because they're cheaper than models and they don't move. - Georgia O'Keeffe

If Ms. O'Keeffe did actually say that, and if she meant it... well, actually, even if she didn't mean it, but if she really said that - then I think that I would have liked to have bought her a drink sometime.

Or to have married her - either or.

2005-11-27T19:25:00.000-08:00

Music has always been a necessity for me, and I've always had really eclectic tastes. I can't say that there is any type of music that I absolutely won't listen to. The closest thing for me would have to be a three-way tie between what I'll call 70's Concept Rock (Examples: King Crimson, Genesis, Yes; the bands and the music are technically great, but the music does nothing for me), what I'll call Midway Rock (Examples: Streetheart, Prism, Journey; I can't hear any of these without being reminded of the Polar Express operator who demands to know "do you wanna go FASTER?"), and what I'll call Contemporary Country (Examples: Shania Twain, Reba McIntire, Faith Hill; I think what bugs me here is that I can't figure out what's truly "country" about this music).

Actually, now that I've written this and have reflected on it a minute, I have to say that I really don't like the three genres I listed above. Not one bit. And if I woke one day to find that a mass recall of good music had occurred, and the only music that made it past the authorities (mainly because it falls short of qualifying as "good") fell into the genres I mentioned above, I might just have to go underground.

I won't listen to what I'll call Fascist Rock either. Now, Fascist Rock doesn't really count, as there is no particular genre that is associated solely with fascism... but since I'm contemplating which music would not find its way to my stereo, I might as well give this an honorable mention. The music in this case is incidental; the poison is in the message. And I don't think I want to spend my energy trying to separate the message from the music.

Singing in choruses has exposed me to music that I've never quite imagined myself making a point of acquiring. Case in point, I just got my hands on a copy of Robbie Williams "Angels." I've never been a fan of Robbie Williams - actually, other than "Angels," I don't think I could name another of his songs. But you know what? It's a lovely song - I happen to think it's lovelier when the guys in the chorus are doing their thing with it, but that's just me. I don't plan to become Robbie Williams' biggest fan, but I'm happy to have another song to sing along with. This happens with many artists; sure, there are some artists that I follow closely and must to know about every project they work on, but there are many other that I simply share moments with.

Similarly, there are genres that I am fascinated with, yet know very little about. I probably will never be able to discuss classical music, or opera - there is too much ground to cover; however, I do enjoy listening to CBC radio where they have shows dedicated to these genres, hosted by people who have covered that ground. I feel the same way about electronic music; the soundscape is vast and I don't imagine that I'll ever become fluent... but some of it really does reach me. It reaches me to the point of my body physically responding to the beats and repetition.

But then again, sometimes, I find myself dancing to the rhythms of the office machines at work...

I think the bottom line is, I'm a bit of an auditory slut. Fickle and selfish, and not looking for a commitment. There are worse things I could be.

2005-11-24T19:32:00.000-08:00

God, it's been forever since I've written here. And it's not like my brain has been any less busy with thoughts that I should explore or simply purge through writing - I've been doing the thinking; I just haven't done the writing part.

Central America was brilliant! Actually, I'm not sure if it is the going there or if it is the there that has inspired me... probably both. Each day since I've been back, my thoughts have included moments from those 13 days from October 23rd to November 4th of this year. I hold at least one clear memory from each of those days. What a treat that is, considering I'd be hard pressed to tell you anything definite about today.

I think I've written about this before, how the key to living with purpose and joy is in being in the moment, even if the moment is painful. And I believe more strongly than ever now that the greatest obstacle of spirit is routine. Routine is what is left when wonder is lost.

When wonder is lost, so follows the desire to try (and try again).

And from there, oh... well all kinds of shit happens. (For instance, a person might stop exploring and purging her thoughts through writing.)

And so on... more in 3 months?

Happy Birthday, Mom!

2005-09-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

You would be turning 63 today... and I am a little blown away by that thought. Just thinking of all the life that would have happened for you between 1978 and now - well, I'm just completely at a loss. I so didn't know you, and how could I have, I was 8 years old when you died. But I know that I am around the same age that you were when you died, and I am just so full of optimism and possibility right now (when I'm not feeling hopeless and pathetic, it's pretty much 60/40 for the good), and I just wonder sometimes what kinds of hopes you had.

And I intend to wonder about this, happily, throughout the day, just for you.

2005-09-21T07:30:00.000-07:00

I want to go back to school. School has such a lovely impermanence to it, and it offers so much in terms of challenge and pleasure, and requires short bursts of concentrated focus.

School is to work as reading a personalized collection of short stories is to reading a novel; a novel which, in my case, doesn't really stand out in any way. (Okay, maybe the protagonist happens to be a brilliant, engaging woman who has a narrow view of her own potential... I guess SHE stands out.)

This view of school is one thing that keeps me from going, because yet again, I've romanticized something that really requires far more effort and stamina than I have suggested here. And determination. I suppose I don't know if I care enough to go to school.

I have much more to say on this, but right now, I have to finish eating breakfast and get back to that novel.

2005-09-11T21:13:00.000-07:00

Today, we were this close (this close, being as close as my thumb and forefinger are to each other when I hold them about an inch apart) to booking the tickets for our trip to Guatemala & Belize in October... but then we put it off until tomorrow because we might be able to get the tickets a little bit cheaper.

(But we "Cheers" each other today!)

2005-09-07T17:28:00.000-07:00

People don't stop for stop signs. Okay, let me qualify that... Often, people don't stop for stop signs, and it's dangerous, and it annoys me. And I just don't understand it, really.

I'm a chronic pedestrian - maybe that contributes to my not understanding. Every morning when I'm walking to work, I am faced with strings of cars and people driving them who just don't want to treat other drivers with respect. They appear to think that (upon approaching an intersection that is dressed with stop signs, four-way or two way) their function is to remain stopped behind the driver who arrives at the stop sign for as long as that driver is stopped, and then to go when that driver is ready to go. And this could so easily cause an accident, it's just a matter of all of the variables meeting at one point. And I don't think the 30 seconds gained would be worth whatever damages resulted from sneaking past that red octagon.

Why do people choose impatience? Why do they choose stress over peace? What is the worst that could happen from stopping at a stop sign?

Anyway, I was just thinking about that...

Resistance is futile, you will be assimilated!

2005-08-28T18:03:00.000-07:00

A group of 200+ zombies collects at the VAG. We begin our journey, and as we pass a lone, grumpy antiwar protestor, we are chastised for eating brains while the war in Afghanistan continues... it is one woman soapboxing to - well, from what I could see, to nobody. (Turns out hers was an unplanned rally which had a negligible turnout - my guess is a good number of the zombies were probably the same people who would normally support the antiwar effort!)

Pacific Centre Mall security responds to the masses of undead steadily approaching by attempting to lock the doors - to no avail! Mallgoers are subsequently shaken and stirred by the rotting masses en route to Granville Skytrain Station; the recently departed are briefly confused by the up escalator and are distracted by the scent of freshly ground Blenz^TM coffee.

The group of zombies that I travel with opts to drive from the downtown core to the Main Street destination.* Driving up Main Street, we spot our brethren making the walk from the Skytrain toward Broadway; upon recognizing us, they surround our car and we enjoy a mutual thrill... us in being swarmed by walking dead, and them in having a car to attack without the threat of a lawsuit!

VPD comes through, providing traffic control for the now 300+ strong army of undead that has taken over Main Street. Mixed reactions from merchants and the general public range from lame attempts at aloofness, to amusement, to confusion, to genuine horror!

At Mountain View Cemetery, the plague of walking dead rests. An armoured truck approaches; the driver means business with an uzi by his side. (Okay, it's actually a water cannon!) Zombies swarm the truck and there is a symphony of chaos, groaning forms reaching through unfortunate windows left open, climbing over one another to gain access to the living meat inside. Eventually, the driver makes it out of the cemetery unscathed... (Or does he?)

In their travels, the zombies acquire a ghetto blaster. In fumbling with the box, they eventually get it to play, and the theory of music being a universal language is demonstrated with the throng of undead jerking about in response to the sounds emerging from the box.

The explanation "No reason, this is just for fun" is repeated frequently enough to those brave enough to ask questions for this to be considered an incredibly important event that absolutely must be repeated next year.

* We had a swack of kids with us and didn't make it out of the house on time!

(Oh yes... and isn't the gentleman in the photo just absolutely DREAMY? From what I've seen, he's everybody's favourite from ZOMBIEWALK 2005 - I'm sure his mom would be very proud of him!)

More photos here: http://www.flickr.com/groups/vancouver_zombiewalk_2005/pool

I want to say the Dinosaur Jr. show was FANTASTIC!

2005-08-23T00:43:00.000-07:00

... but I can't, because I don't think it was.

First of all, for some it's still BEING fantastic. Dinosaur Jr. didn't start until 11:30 - on a Monday night! And the show was $35, so it's not like you can, say, NOT have a job to go to and afford a ticket, so you know... there's math to be done, right?

And then, MY special feelings for Dinosaur Jr. are for J. Mascis' vocals. The guitar wankery has no real place in my heart, and the 40 minutes that I lasted were dripping with guitar spooge. And I just wasn't in the mood to swallow.

But lots of other people were loving it, so I think that maybe Dinosaur Jr. WERE in fact fantastic, and that I just happen to have listened to Martin And Me a few too many times. I really, REALLY wanted to hear "Thumb."

Zombies? Yes, ZOMBIES!!!

2005-08-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Well, it turns out ZOMBIEWALK is definitely shaping up to be an event that just should not be missed! Maybe it's representative of the company I tend to keep (when I'm keeping company), but there will be a veritable posse of us getting gory on the 27th for ZOMBIEWALK 2005! And I think it's just going to be a BLAST! A slow-moving and creepy blast, but a blast nonetheless!

And if this isn't a coincidence (or actually connected somehow), then I'm taking my toys and going home. There is a zombie casting call that same day! Check it out...

(Incidentally, I had so much fun playing Zombie with my sis after seeing "Land of the Dead" (which sucked)... I wish she could come play too!!!)

And in other news, House of Blues is giving me a credit to make up for that White Stripes fiasco. Nice, right? I mean, until that Superman flying around the world counter-clockwise thing actually works and we get the chance to do things over again and I get to see the White Stripes and not Just Jack, I'll accept a free ticket of equal or lesser value from HOB.

See? It's good to follow through with stuff sometimes.

About the White Stripes show last night...

2005-08-09T07:27:00.000-07:00

Jack, Meg... did you two KNOW that, say, 60 seats last night were going to be pretty much useless to the people to whom they were assigned? Did you two KNOW that that monolith of monitors stacked stage right made it impossible for me (and again, another 59 people, and forgive me, I'm using crude math here) to see Meg pound away on her drums and that we essentially missed HALF OF THE SHOW???

Okay, to be fair, a third of the show - The Greenhorns were pretty great, and they had their gear centred so that they were all visible from any seat... so they're actually Pretty Great x 10.

Anyway, sucky choice on the blocking, Stripes. Way-disappointing.

However, because I wasn't getting the full effect of the Meg/Jack dynamic onstage (which really IS the show), I did find myself looking around a fair bit... and there was a neat thing happening with the lights where the wall portrayed Jack's shadow, dominated by a massive Meg shadow - with that unmistakable posture that is Meg, with giant black arms, flailing, reaching and pounding on the heads of the people in the balcony (you know, those lucky bastards who could see the stage perfectly). That was very, very cool... but it still would have been nice to see the show.

2005-08-04T17:57:00.000-07:00

It's been 2 years to the day since I stopped smoking. This makes me happy... just had to mention it!

That's all. I'm sure I'll have something to properly write about sometime soon.

An unabashed thank-you...

2005-07-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Okay, this is kind of out of character, I think... that is, assuming that there is "in character" where I'm concerned.... bear with me.

I just need to write a little something here about a blog that I visit often... it's in that list over to the right, Other People's Blahgs... Each Day Counts.

I read this blog - well, I can't say every day, but like I said above, pretty often. And I think that anyone who can appreciate the happy, the sad, the silly, the mad, honesty, open thinking, unpretentious humour and beautiful photography could do well to give Ruben's blog a read and a look. He never fails to somehow impress me, mosty with his attitude toward life and all that comes with it.

Today, he's put out an open invitation to readers to participate in a photography assignment that he's developed. I love it! Will I participate? KNOWING me, I probably won't... but really, I should, dammit.

You know, apart from genuinely enjoying Ruben's writing and photography, I keep hoping that his enthusiasm is somehow contagious, and that with enough exposure to his attitude, my own outlook on things can perhaps improve. And I suppose failing that, I can just keep chasing the carrot, knowing in my heart that it is real.

Ruben, yay you! And thank you!

You know you have to go back to the gym... or just stop asking questions when...

2005-07-20T15:22:00.000-07:00

... you join in on a conversation about weight training; you ask "Okay, now what do I have to do to lose muscle?" and the person starts your answer with "Okay well you don't exercise right?"

(Oh, fuck off!!!!)

Okay, maybe she meant, "Okay, well you don't exercise, right? And then your muscles atrophy.... yadda-yadda-yadda..."

But it KIND of sounded more like, "Okay, well, YOU don't exercise, right?"

Or maybe she meant "Okay, well... you don't exercise RIGHT... you do it the wrong way and then nothing happens and your muscle mass reduces."

Who knows? Inflection is the cause of most wars, I think.

2005-07-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting on my balcony working on part of Damion's birthday present (an oxblood leather wallet with some decorative stamping). I had all of my recently purchased supplies and instructions spread out in front of me, the sun was warm but not aggressive, and the drone of Thievery Corporation dubbing and drumming and bassing brought me into a state of focus on the task at hand.*

And then I felt a light "thud" on my bare arm. Something had landed on my arm, something cool and damp. By instinct, I swiped at the distraction, and from my fingers flew a winged ant, approximately 1/4" long. It landed, dead, just to the side of the materials I was working with; I assured its demise with a quick squish from my flip-flopped foot and went back to work.

And I felt another "thud." And found another flying ant, and swiped, and squished, and another landed in the middle of a still-damp piece of leather which at this point read "HER FUCKER;" this one, I flicked aside and it crawled away, seemingly on to bigger and better things. I looked at the wall of the balcony in front of me, and saw 4 and then 5 of the ants crawling around; I then looked out into the street below, and in the air were hundreds of black spots, flying about with the appearance (in mass and in behaviour) of smog-coated pollen fluff in Spring. I stared in wonder at the swarm of ants flying aimlessly above the Broadway traffic below, and I remembered Bible horror stories from my childhood, the Revelations, coloured with mentions of locusts and the Apocalypse. And then my thoughts turned to classic 70s horror and disaster films that depicted Nature taking her world back from Man, by hook or by crook, by earthquake or by earwig. My project now lay dormant under the protective cover of a Western Family J-Cloth; Damion came home, and we watched the scene together, each taking a turn saying "Damn, look at them all!"

And after about 45 minutes, the ants vanished. I don't know if they finally organized and flew away to engage another neighbourhood with their presence, or if they all eventually just died and dropped to the ground. Apparently, the same phenomenon occurred in Scotland last week, only on a larger scale; swarms of the flying ants covered cars and freaked out citizens jammed city council telephone lines with distress calls. (Read about it.)

So this is a natural occurence - I guess there really never was a doubt. The ants hatch from wherever they've been hiding, the males try to get near the queen who will lead them to their new colony. A windy day helps them along, and a still day finds them all working a little harder in flight and expiring before they ever reach their destination.

It wasn't the end of our world, it was the ants' attempt to create one on a typical Saturday afternoon in July. Once again, it appears that in some respects, all is as it should be.

(And "HER FUCKER" now reads "BAD MOTHER FUCKER" - and it's not necessarily functional, but it's finished.)

* It was quite lovely really, I'd like to just wrap that feeling up and give it to Damion instead of the silly wallet.

2005-07-14T21:32:00.000-07:00

I always feel my most maternal when I encounter Gerber's babies and am witness to "Kids Say the Darndest Things" moments. Or when I come across a particularly fabulous name. A couple of days ago, I met a little, tiny baby girl named Neale (I'm assuming that to be the spelling), and I hate to admit this because it is shallow and rotten, but I had a brief (VERY brief) moment of admiration for the parents for choosing such a wonderful name for their daughter. Truth be told, I am as guilty as the next person of having moments of being caught up in the Kodak moment.

"Zoe" is a name that I just adore; so much so, my parents-in-common-law are STILL hopeful, asking me "So, is Zoe coming along any time soon?" I've been involved with their son for going on 11 years, and talk about Zoe started, oh probably 3 years in, so this game has been going on for some time, but none of us will be the one to call a stalemate.

Actually, the plan is to name her Lillian Zoe, after my mother. Right there - "the plan." THAT is one of the reasons that I won't have children.

When I think about having a child, I can't help but look at the whole picture; the 9 months, the first year, the next 4 years, the 10 years after that and finally, the forever that will keep us tied until one of us expires, me or her, and I am overwhelmed by the thought of being forever connected and responsible to a person.

People talk about wanting to have babies, but I have yet to hear someone say that he or she wants to have a person. Babies, when there are no complications, are pretty easy to care for. Feed them, change them, bathe them, hold them, rock them, sing to them, rub their backs and bellies and put them to bed. Bottom line is, yes they will cry, but that's just talking without the words. Having a baby is a relatively controlled experience, and I am certain that when people speak of having babies, this is where the story ends.

But there are other chapters, or rather characters, left to write - toddler, child, adolescent, teenager, and eventually adult. As much as I enjoy people, I keep to myself by nature. Well, I just named 5 more people (in addition to Baby Zoe) who I am going to be committed to and who are going to probably have to come first if I am to ever live with myself as a parent -how's THAT for pressure?

My own father was somewhat indifferent to me for a good part of my life; he still is. And I don't hold this against him, but I am realistic when I look at our relationship or lack thereof. How I have benefitted from his character is that I don't really expect much from people and I don't encourage them to expect much from me, but I don't really consider that a benefit. It a condition that I want to overcome, because I do treasure connection and the ability to do for others and to have done for me, but it is so hard to unbecome. Until I feel that I have made some progress in this area, I refuse to take the chance of passing this torch to my Zoe.

I also worry that it is impossible to be a parent without having expectations of the child. When I hear people comparing their children to the ones they've read about in parenting magazines and in pamphlets from the pediatrician, I want to speak up to remind them that while children are biological products that can be measured, they are also individuals who cannot and should not be reduced to how they compare with other individuals.

I guess it must be painful for a parent, worrying that the child is behind because his or her development is different from the readily available case studies of the day. But what exactly was that parent expecting? Not all children will walk by the time they're 18 months, but that doesn't mean they're broken and need to be fixed; maybe they just need their parents to focus on other achievements for a while. Not having children of my own though, when these things come up, I tend to keep my mouth shut. We all have our own experiences, and really, my position on the matter is irrelevant.

Sometimes it takes imperfect details to see the beauty in the big picture. And sometimes, it is wise to go with one's instincts. And for now, I'll have to name something else after my mother.

2005-07-07T21:16:00.000-07:00

I just had a wacky revelation, and it's all Nelly Furtado's fault.

I was at a consignment shop on Main Street on Sunday; I stayed longer than I probably needed to because the woman manning the shop was playing some really great music - some unidentified dub and Bob Marley (and it wasn't "Legend!")... and I was lost in a forest of other peoples clothes and nobody could hear the trees falling, so I was singing along and just having a lovely consignment experience.

And Nelly Furtado, "Hey Man" came on, and it turns out that song is really fun to sing - I don't know if I've ever really noticed it before then. And the song has been stuck in my head since Sunday, so I of course had to download it so that I could sing along to it every day this week!

I had only been singing along with actual lyrics to the chorus, and had been la-la-la-ing my way through the verses. I decided today that I wanted to know the lyrics, and between listening more carefully and Googling "hey man" "nelly furtado," I've found the lyrics.

Ms. Furtado refers to a mobius strip in this song, and until tonight, about half-an-hour ago, I didn't know what a mobius strip was. And herein lies the revelation that I mentioned earlier:

If I don't know what I'm talking about, I usually won't bother talking; I may ask questions, but then again, I'm not very good at pretending to be interested, because it just seems like lying.

I figured that if I ever wanted to sing along with this song without feeling like a liar, I'd have to know and understand what a mobius strip is... because if I sing along and don't understand what I'm singing because I don't know the words, well that's fine because I'm just playing with my voice and the melody... but if I know the words but don't know what they mean (literally, not necessarily figuretively), and don't bother to find out, then I'm just talking - or singing - shit.

And this is where I feel so alien sometimes. For instance, when I have a conversation with someone who is, say, obsessed with cars, I don't have much to say, because I don't know much about cars; I can ask questions, but I'm not really that interested to begin with and would rather just talk about something else. However, if I am having a conversation with someone who is obsessed with, say, spirituality, I will probably gladly contribute and ask questions because I am interested in spirituality.

And in this case, I like the song, so I found out what a mobius strip is. I even made one, it's sitting on my desk.

mobius strip at answers.com

Becoming...

2005-07-03T14:34:00.003-07:00

It's broken... the damn clasp is broken.

She picked at the clasp, trying to pry it loose with clumsy fingers that always found trouble in performing delicate tasks. She had always admired other women's hands, with fingers, slender, sexy. Pink-tipped digits well-suited for situations just like this. Admittedly, her own hands served her well when presented with a tight pickle jar or a flat tire, and she often played the hero in this way. Yet she secretly cursed her disproportionate hands for contributing to an already strong sense of exclusion that accompanied her, and often kept them busy so that they could only be known for their function.

At parties, her hands collected empty glasses or carried trays of food and drink, and if they were ever empty, they were hidden beneath crossed arms, tucked safely against her body. In dreams, her hands moved effortlessly and with purpose. All that she touched responded almost gratefully, like a dolphin to a wave in the sea. Her waking experience was far less balanced; she knocked things about like a sugar-charged toddler, only without the indifference.

A sugar-charged toddler. Is that such a bad thing, to behave like a sugar-charged toddler? After all, one is, essentially, a child from start to finish, with each experience adding another stroke to a neverending tally of life and living; each experience really only helps to metabolize the sugar. So with only experience as a guide, how can one be expected to properly assimilate into any "hood" other than that with which they identify? Childhood into adulthood, manhood into womanhood.

Losing the penis was a breeze, compared to learning to use her man-hands with feminine grace.

2005-07-01T09:39:00.000-07:00

No more titles for posts; when writing doesn't come easily (almost typed "anymore" but that would be admitting defeat), one doesn't need the added pressure of writing titles.

Thank Dog for Blogger and their way of coming up with new features, just when I'm at my most vulnerable...

Aren't jellyfish lovely? My camera sucks, but they're still pretty - and isn't it easy now to post pictures in Blogger?

Okay, now that I've tried the new toy, I can get on with the rest of my day. It's Canada Day, and it's cloudy and grey, and I'm supposed to go out and play (on Spanish Banks of English Bay).

And before, I was all "Yay!" but right now, I'm kinda "no WAY."

Anyway... okay, I think I'm done.

Gee, I hope I don't get it - hope I don't GET it!

2005-05-23T14:17:00.000-07:00

I just came back from an audition for Sweet Charity... I got cut, and I don't mind a bit! Really (and the grapes aren't sour, I swear), all I wanted to do was to audition, to sing and dance (well, I didn't REALLY want to dance, but I had to) in front of a panel of folks, along with other hopefuls. I just wanted to bask in that energy, you know?

It was great fun... at one point, before the auditions began, I looked around and saw people sprawled out in varying positions on the floor, stretching and humming and getting into the place they needed to be for this audition... and it was fascinating. I did not join them on the floor, I didn't need to stretch; rather, I watched and imagined what thoughts each writhing body might be purging. I had the same attitude toward warming up before the vocal part of the audition and barely sang a single "la." I don't know why, it's not that I didn't care, I just didn't feel that any of this was necessary.

The dancing was pretty simple, but I am not a dancer. And I'm really not very competetive; our first exercise was to dance around a seated man, each of us improvising, trying to outdo the other to "Big Spender." It was so difficult - I didn't know where to begin, how to entice a Big Spender. I guess I just didn't want that guy's money badly enough. I'm pretty sure I looked chunky and graceless moving around next to the trained bodies that floated around our subject. The choreography portion was better and was quite fun, "left, then right, now jump, and FINISH." But I didn't really pick up the steps as well as the others did, there's no doubt in my mind that I stood out in a not so appealing way.

We had to sing a showtune acapella; I chose to sing "If I Were A Bell" from Guys and Dolls. I nailed it, perhaps a little too powerful but nerves will do that to you, and for some reason, I opted to stop my song partway through. I'd had enough, and I figured they had as well. Then I had to sing some scales along with a keyboard; now THIS is where it would have paid to warm up a bit before my turn. It is one thing to sing a song you've sung a million times on your own terms (the acapella thing really was a bonus!), it is quite another to sustain notes dictated by a person at a keyboard. My scales were not the strongest singing I've done, I definitely was not impressed with my performance.

And honestly, I'm fine with all of this. Speaking with the others, I casually referred to myself as a "show tease," meaning that I was fully intending to run for cover should I be chosen to move forward into the callbacks and futher forward into the show. I know that sounds ridiculous and perhaps a little like bullshit, but it is the truth. I got from this exactly what I wanted - experience.

What did I learn? I learned that if an audtion posting mentions "character shoes," they mean it. If you want a part, GET SOME CHARACTER SHOES, and some black clingy stretchy clothes. And wrap a fringy scarf around your waist. If you don't want a part (if you're a show tease like me), then wear clunky shoes. And wear jeans.

And also, I now know what a certain step is called - you know, the one where you are facing forward and moving to the side, step with your left, cross with your right - THAT'S called a Suzie Q. Neat, huh?

Now?

2005-05-11T15:51:00.000-07:00

I was talking with my sister Megan the other night... we had one of our usual (yet lately, few and far between) PPP (Philosophical/Psychological Purge) sessions that I love so. And we spoke about paying a little less attention to the details, or at least, being more diligent in selecting details that are beneficial somehow.

And I kept thinking about I Heart Huckabees and the Red Ball Process where one hits oneself in the face with a red rubber ball until one is left with nothing but the moment. (And the blanket - gotta love that blanket!)

The moment is made up of millions of details, and while they're all relevant in some way, I wonder if any of them is exclusive or if they are all connected somehow.

For instance, you're late for a class, and to save time you decide to take an alley that you normally avoid because there is a tribe of aggressive panhandlers living there, in the parkade adjacent to a brick building that backs onto the alley, spanning a good city block.

You were late for class because of a quarrel with your partner, he never has anything loving to say anymore. And now, walking through this alley, you notice the shadows caused by the sun hitting its south-facing brick wall, and the shadows spell L-O-V-E.

Do you revel in the moment, or in the process?

How to not die while riding a bicycle...

2005-05-01T18:12:00.000-07:00

I was riding my bike this afternoon, and I just narrowly missed being hit by a car. I know exactly what happened; I was trying to retain the address of a condo that Damion and I agree is just the bee's knees and that we will definitely look into if the day ever comes when we want to and are able to buy a place. In my head, XXX- West 8th; in my view, a woman driving a car up a hill without any intention of slowing down or of swerving to avoid hitting me.

What weirds me out about this is that in reaction to this situation (a brief 5 seconds and it was over), all I did was look at the driver in the car that was coming toward me, say "Oh, jeeeeeeeeeez...", swerve my bike a little to the right and peddle harder and faster toward safety. And after I was out of harm's way, I did breathe a little faster, but overall I wasn't too phased by the encounter. I feel like maybe I should have flipped out and swerved and crashed my bike, or that I should have been more deliberate in my actions. You know, pick an extreme and go with it.

It's yet another shining example of just how removed I can be. I scare myself sometimes.

PMS

2005-04-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

Pre-Menstrual Syndrome? Oh, that's just the clinical term... no, PMS can stand for so much more...

Pretty Much Sensitive
"Poor Me" Sayer
Pussy Most Stinky
Pity My Situation
Potential Murder Scene
Pretend Much, Smiley?
Puffy, Moody, Sleepy.

... and so on.

Soylent Green is people. (And rice is people, too!)

2005-04-24T10:00:00.001-07:00

There will be a strain of rice that will be able to enjoy the benefits of pesticides, that will thrive despite industrial chemical (and other pollutant) release into the environment, and that will possibly do part of the work in breaking down the aforementioned chemical concerns before humans ever ingest it.

Of course, this is nothing found in nature; Japanese researchers are developing this rice. It is more than rice; it is Rice Plus; it is Super Rice.

And the key ingredient in Super Rice?

Human liver. (No, that is not a joke.)

Okay, more accurately, the key ingredient is CPY2B6, which is a code name for a gene from the human liver; in humans and now in rice, this gene makes an enzyme which breaks down toxins in the body.

You know, sometimes my rear gets really sore from this darn fence. On the one hand, I'm of the belief that the time, money, and intelligence spent finding ways to exist within our increasingly toxic environment could be better spent finding ways to exist without being such a burden on the planet and its tenants. On this same hand, a finger points to humans adapting to their toxic environment, incorporating tools such as detox fasting, allergy shots, and water purification tablets into their lives. Survival tools - yes; however, our survival feeds the corporate beast, our "up and over" mentality allows it to grow. By going to battle with our breathing masks in tow, we dare the beast to do its worst - we can take it!

My other hand waves a white flag - okay, you win. The parts of the world that have (money and power) are going to continue to take from and defecate on the parts of the world that have not, and are going to make sure that they do it fast and they do it big. Might as well kick back with my Ventolin and a big bowl of Super Rice and see what's on the tube. (Okay, maybe not quite to that extreme. I don't often need the Ventolin anymore; I've apparently built up an immunity to the airborne allergens that all but destroyed me in my first Spring in Vancouver.)

Progress. What is it? It's completely subjective, isn't it? I'm sure that the people working on Super Rice are very proud of themselves, and rightfully so. One doesn't just fall into this kind of research position; it takes focus and dedication to get through the prerequisite schooling, let alone sticking with the research once it begins. An asthmatic hockey player on ice for 2 out of 3 periods in the Pee Wee Playoffs will and absolutely should feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment in training his or her body to work through periods of extreme activity, and moreso when that body is somewhat compromised to begin with.

I'm sure that a corporation gets more than a little giddy when environmental watchdogs come knocking, only to find that the corporation's methods fall just within "acceptable standards." (And when this corporation counts its money... well, that makes it giddy too.)

Truth be told, I'm afraid I'm destined to have a sore rear. But between the finger-pointing and the flag-waving, at least I'm getting a little exercise.

Read more about Super Rice HERE .
Thanks to CE Petro at TOAAW for being so aware of EVERYTHING, and for making it all so darn readable!

Callous remark of the day...

2005-04-20T21:10:00.000-07:00

On learning that an aquaintance passed away last week:

"Mortality, huh? It's a killer."

(I typed it. And I clicked send - STUPID, STUPID, STUPID!!!!!!!)

The times, they are a-changin'

2005-04-19T21:11:00.000-07:00

You know summer's on its way... the sun rises a little earlier and stays later at the party than it did during the dull winter months. People emerge from their condos and cars and explode out into the streets, into parks; into their backyards, with their barbecues and their beers. The smells of life are adrift, a potpourri of blossoms and pot, of vomit and trash.

And a familiar summer scene returns, a scene I remember all too well from childhood. The ice cream guy, tooling around the neighbourhood on his bicycle built for frozen goodies, with people young and old chasing madly behind. The ice cream guy speeds up ever so slightly, just enough to stoke the excitement of the children, and everyone he passes wears a smile.

That summer scene is just a little different now, in the neighbourhood that I call home. Now, the guy on the bike is selling crack, and inevitably, people young and old still chase madly behind. The crack guy rides ever so slowly, just enough that he can strike a deal with the children, and everyone else whom he passes pretends not to see him. I saw it just this afternoon.

Friday night and I'm a dweeb.

2005-04-15T22:30:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, I went to my dentist for a cleaning and to get a filling replaced, and since then I haven't been able to chew gum on one side of my mouth (you guessed it - the one with the shiny, new white filling) without making this really stupid face... umm, it's kind of like this:

Note: This face comes complete with realistic tears and 5 pre-programmed curse words. And I chew gum in public.

Anyway, I made another appointment with Dr. Buckles, hoping he can get to the root of the problem - pun neither intended nor suppressed, which leads me to the question: which is worse? And the dweeb part comes in where I foolishly made said appointment for 9AM tomorrow morning (Saturday), which makes for a decidedly low-key Friday night.

So, let's say goodnight with one of those Annoying-Yet-Oddly-Telling Innernet Quiz-Thingies.

What obsolete skill am I?
I am 'regularly metric verse'. This can take many forms, including heroic couplets, blank verse, and other iambic pentameters, for example. It has not been used much since the nineteenth century; modern poets tend to prefer rhyme without meter, or even poetry with neither rhyme nor meter.

I appreciate the beautiful things in life--the joy of music, the color of leaves falling, the rhythm of a heartbeat. I see life itself as a series of little poems. The result (or is it the cause?) is that I am pensive and often melancholy. I enjoy the company of other people, but they find me unexcitable and depressing. My problem is that regularly metric verse has been obsolete for a long time.

What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Ahhhhhhhhhh... whims.

2005-04-13T21:09:00.000-07:00

What I had PLANNED to do tonight
Take myself out for sushi, then spend the rest of the night working on songs that a small group of us from the chorus are going to perform at our next concert - some really challenging stuff, both in arrangement and in range. And if the weather held out and I finished practicing early enough, I was going to go for a bike ride.

What I DID tonight
I took myself out for sushi - good Donna. While I waited for it to be prepared, I decided to go on a "skin-care-product-and-seafood-buying" binge. No, not all at the same store - wouldn't THAT be creepy? "Roe Body-Buffing Scrub." Anyway, satisfied with my purchases, I returned to Sushi Yama, opted to take my sushi to go, came home, and proceeded to wolf down tuna, salmon, and dynamite rolls (sans mayo) as I messed around with mussels and scallops and prawns - oh MY! And now that my experiment is complete, and after satisfying my belly with savoury confections wrapped in seaweed and with the obligatory sampling that occurs when one gets creative in the kitchen, I have no urge to properly indulge in my creation, which is sufficient to feed a small family and most definitely will not. (Okay, I guess two people could be considered a small family... really small!)

Oh yeah, and I now have no inclination to practice my songs (singing on a full stomach is always disappointing), nor can I fathom peddling around on my bike. (But I'm pretty sure I'll manage to exfoliate and moisturize before the night is through.)

Wow! It's really hard to get back into daily writing once you've left it for a while.

2005-04-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

That's all. There, I've said it. Maybe now it'll go away.

Forgive me, I must opine.

2005-03-31T17:04:00.000-08:00

I haven't really been following the stories. Actually, truth be told, I haven't read even one of the news items to completion - hell, I don't even know the woman's name.

You know, that woman with the feeding tube; folks were arguing in court over whether she should live or die while she just slowly wasted away in the hospital, possibly oblivious to the situation, and possibly painfully aware. Terry Shiavo, that was her name. (I Googled "feeding tube" and guess what I found right at the top!)

Okay, that's the last I'm going to speak of TS... because I never knew her and I feel kind of icky about having the ability to know way too much about this person who really didn't have a chance to keep the information private.

And anyway, this is not really anything about anyone in particular. Just my thoughts on the right to die, especially for a person in a state where he or she is unable to communicate his or her wishes. (But sometimes, being able to communicate one's wishes doesn't really seem to help either.)

The thought of being kept captive, with feeding tubes and iron lungs and other medical gadgets, is just... well, to me it's just plain scary. And the idea that there would be teams of loved ones arguing over whether I live or die, with one team obviously contradicting my own wishes for my life, is sickening, as is the selfishness that would prompt a person to keep someone in a vegetative state with no quality of life to speak of - just in case he or she comes back. That part, I will never understand.

I mean, I obviously don't know when I am going to die, but I know that it's going to happen someday. So, if I were to be hit by a car and killed next week... or if I were to be hit by a car and then kept alive by machines for 5 years and then I died, or if I were to be hit by a car and then kept alive by machines for 5 years and then I came back with, say, 60% of my faculties, and then I left the hospital and got hit by a car AGAIN and THEN I died... or if I were to never get hit by a car, lived for another 40+ years and THEN I died... well, wouldn't the end result be the same?

Yes, the journey to the end would be different, but THAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE MY JOURNEY, DAMMIT!!! And I'm not having much of a journey strapped to a hospital bed, am I?*

I don't know. I hope it's never a reality I have to face personally, and my sympathies to those who are in the middle of such things now. Really.

* Okay, maybe there is some great cosmic shit happening while I'm strapped to that bed... maybe the wretched Ego finally disappears and purpose becomes clear, and the world resembles... oh, I don't know, Blade Runner Meets Disney... THAT would make a pretty cool backdrop for most activities. If that's the case... I'd still like to be the one to decide if I stay in that world indefinitely.

It hit me walking up the hill by the dog park this aftern-evening.

2005-03-21T18:36:00.000-08:00

No, not a spit-covered fetch toy... that would have been really gross! No, I was walking up the hill, and I noticed a dark brown pod of some sort, once sun-dried and now rehydrated by the recent rains, likely from one of the trees that line the sidewalk but possibly dropped by a passing bird or canine. Or perhaps by a human - I have no idea, really.

In any case, it caught my eye, and I stopped, and nudged it with the toe of my left sneaker, trying to flip it over. And at that moment, I just felt right... as in, I am exactly where I am supposed to be. And I didn't feel silly thinking this way... at that moment, I was supposed to be flipping a mystery pod with my toe. I continued up the hill and took a quick left; I turned my gaze toward the mountains which were wrapped in a soft, dusty pink haze* that brought out the detail in the greening trees and in the snow that remains on the rocky peaks.

Sometimes it is easy to just believe and accept that we are exactly who and what we are meant to be.** That there are no wrong choices, just better and worse ones.

Oh geez... You know, I swear, this happens every year. Spring hits and I live on my trusty favourite, Zen Flakes - they're not JUST for breakfast, you know! (Don't tell anyone, but I really love'em!!!)

* Pollution, actually. Sometimes it looks really pretty.
** It never lasts, though... that's the sucky part!

Green grass and quicksand...

2005-02-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

Maybe not constantly, but often enough, I complain about my reality. It gets really tiresome.

"I hate my job..."
"I've got no life..."
"What is WITH people?
"My hair grows too fast..."
"My bangs grow too slowly..."
"The weekend is way too short..."
"The street below is WAY too loud..."

And oh, I could go on. I am such a pathetic whiney whiner!

I really do switch on and off. Happy and sad (actually, more annoyed than sad). Productive and painfully lazy. It doesn't even phase me anymore... this is who I am and how it's been and how it is most likely going to be.

And you know what? Boy, do I ever have it easy. And boy, do I ever take it for granted. Because, while things could be better, things could also be worse.

In Jamaica, there is tremendous physical and emotional risk in being gay. Homophobic tendencies toward verbal and physical violence are the norm, and they have ensured that a thriving gay community is highly unlikely. Amnesty International claims that according to published reports, more than 30 gay men are believed to have been murdered in Jamaica since 1997. Legal protection from such acts is minimal (if not impossible) due to the fact that physical intimacy between two men (and presumably, between two women) is illegal and is punishable by prison time.

"Ewww - look at all the gum on the sidewalk..."
"Our apartment gets so hot in the summer..."
"Why does there have to be DUST?"
"Shows are so expensive?"
"I want a cat..."

Three years ago, in Multan, Pakistan, a woman was ordered by village council to be gang-raped by six men. The charge? The woman's BROTHER had allegedly had sexual relations with another woman... I'm not sure who this other woman was, it wasn't clear in the stories I found, but she must have been pretty important for the sister to have to suffer such punishment for her brother's crime. Right?

"It's raining..."
"I hate my clothes..."
"I hate YOUR clothes..."

I live in a country that is thankfully becoming progressively more liberal AND more staunch in ways that I can support. Liberal, for instance, in accepting non-traditional lifestyles, and staunch in protecting the rights of those who are living said lifestyles. Staunch in pursuing legal solutions that promote justice, not displaced vigilanteism, and liberal in considering cultural mores that may affect one's experience.

All things considered, I can't really complain. And all things considered, when I do complain (and I do), I sound like a complete idiot.

"I........... oh, nevermind!"

As suggested by others in the blogosphere... A Sunday treat.

2005-02-20T21:07:00.000-08:00

Had to play along...

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.

Airlines with the most service from the U.S.A. or Canada to Mexico include Air Canada, Alaska, America West, American, Continental, Delta, Northwest, United and the two main Mexican airlines, Aeromexico and Mexicana.

From Mexico (Lonely Planet)

Where do you find fulfillment?

2005-02-12T18:31:00.000-08:00

I'd like to see a show of hands, please. How many people here are passionate about their jobs?

I'm speaking of the job that pays the bills, that is - the one that provides financial security. For instance, if you are a photographer who works at Denny's more often than you are behind the lens and shutter, then I would be referring to your Denny's gig.

I wonder about this, because I think I'm the only person at my workplace who is willing to admit that I am NOT passionate about my job. That's not to say that I'm a bad employee; while my job doesn't inspire me, I come at it with the intent to do my best, just because I'm that kind of girl. But the bottom line is, it's a job. I am paid to be there to fulfill a function. End of story.

Last week, I switched from Reception to Customer Service. This move brings new responsibilities, a slight raise, and better bonus potential. So, since Thursday, people have been asking me, "So... How's the new job?"

And I just can't seem to say the words that they want to hear, which I'm sure would be something along the lines of "Oh gee, it's great - I can't believe I didn't make the switch sooner - thanks for asking!" I instead tell them that it's okay... that it's only been a couple of days, so I really can't judge.

I tell them, "It's a job."

I'm not complaining! I can't stress this enough; being a chronic underachiever, I am fine with doing what I'm doing. But the people I work with seem to think that my outlook on work is somehow broken, that because they (claim to) find fulfillment in their jobs, that I should be equally fulfilled by the work that we're doing, or that I'm doing something wrong in staying where I'm not fulfilled.

Kiran in Accounts Payable came over to visit me in my new digs. I was doing some filing - apparently, she hates filing. I told her that I didn't mind; that it has to be done and that it's a pretty idiot-proof task for someone who is in training. She asked me if I liked filing... well, no, I don't get off on it or anything, but I don't hate it. I can take it or leave it - whatever, it's part of my job. And Kiran said "Oh, that's too bad, maybe you shouldn't be doing that job."

(Who ARE these people, and why are they under the impression that going to a job is all about rainbows and lollipops?)

So I asked her if she was passionate about Accounting... and she said that she was. She said that she is doing what she has always wanted to do, that Accounting is her dream job, and that she regrets not having pursued it further.

I was surprised by her answer, only because I can't imagine feeling that way about Accounting. But then again, most people can't accept that I was genuinely happy working at a cafe for 5 or 6 years. Actually, looking back, the downside of working at La Gare included having to face days that I didn't really want to be a captive audience for chatty customers, and having to face looking to the future, and wondering what I would do once I became too old to work at a cafe.

Was I passionate about my job then? Well, I wouldn't really say so, not about the job itself. I worked with some great people, coworkers and customers, and while I'm not in touch with most of them now, they made going to La Gare every day more enjoyable than it would have been without them.

And back to now. Am I passionate about my job now? Well, again, I wouldn't really say so, not about the job itself. At this point, the draw of this job is almost completely a sense of financial stability. I am earning decent money, I am getting myself out of debt, I am taking advantage of my dental and medical benefits when necessary, and I am also making use of vacation time that I earn. This is where I am.

When I think of fulfillment, I don't think of work. I think of music, of colour, of clarity. I think of sunshine, and stray cats that accept love easily. I think of sleeping in, then waking, warm from the rumpled bedding and the heat from Damion's sleeping body; I think of the feel of my cheek against his shoulder as I try not to wake him with my gaze or my persistent nuzzling. I think of finding a character in a complete stranger, to be later brought to life through a series of words. And I think of having time to enjoy all of these things.

Again, I don't think of work.

But that's just me.

I've outsmarted myself!

2005-02-05T08:29:00.000-08:00

Being more than a little self-involved, I was reading over some of my old entries... and I got to this one.

And dammit, I can't figure out the mystery phrase that I was so proud of! Isn't that pathetic?

Silly faux pas of the week...

2005-02-04T18:16:00.000-08:00

I went to the doctor on Tuesday, to follow up an appointment I had last Wednesday. Long story short, I couldn't pee... well, I could pee, but it wasn't satisfying, you know? The urgency was there, but gosh - the letdown was similar to what one might have felt when Jane's Addiction got back together!

Anyway. So, I couldn't pee right. Peeing right is very important to me, it's right up there with eating right and sleeping right. (I know, my grammatical choices are poor today. I know.) I made an appointment at my clinic the day I first noticed symptoms; when I got there, I peed in a cup, the lab did a basic test which found nothing awry, and I was sent away with a prescription for glorified pee-pee Aspirin and well wishes.

I, of course, held off on filling the script, because I guess I am also sometimes concerned with... medicating right? Doesn't work - okay, I don't always like to take a pill from the Man when I can take a hint from Mother Nature instead. So, I started myself on a steady diet of water, cranberry pills and herbal tea, and cut myself back to ONE cup of coffee (with caffeine) a day. (Needless to say, for the past two weeks, I've been whiny and tired... which can partially account for my poor grammatical choices!)

And I still couldn't pee right. So, a week later, I made another appointment, with a different doctor at my clinic. Again, I arrived and peed in a cup, and the lab did that same basic test. This time, the doctor informed me that he suspected that I had some form of urinary tract infection, because the lab found traces of nitrites in my urine.

"Nitrites?" I asked.

"Yes, nitrites. Higher levels of nitrites in urine suggest bacterial development, which can be an indicator of infection..."

He continued talking, scribbling something on a prescription pad; meanwhile, game-show jingles played in my mind as I sat, preoccupied. Nitrites... I know this word, I know this word.

I asked the doctor, "Nitrites... aren't those in hotdogs?"

"Yes, they are."

"Ummmmm... well, whatever is wrong down there has nothing to do with hotdogs, okay?"

Sometimes - often, actually - I say things aloud when I really should only think them. At least the doctor seemed more amused than anything.

Spring is in the air, I think...

2005-02-02T20:06:00.000-08:00

Wanna know why I think so?

Why, because I walked through two bug orgies this afternoon on my way to the gym, of course. :o)

Life Partner License? (Just thinking...)

2005-02-01T20:38:00.000-08:00

I just emailed my MP regarding the gay marriage issue.* Well, really what I did was add my signature and email addy to a relatively well-written form letter that voices support for gay civil marriages. Whatever - the letter reflects my opinion, and I'm so not above standing behind another person's words.

Anyway, my eyes fell upon the words "re-enacted every 5 years"** and I got to thinking... when two people plan to get married, they must acquire a marriage license. A license is a symbol that verifies that a person is capable of fulfilling a responsibility. For instance, a Driver's License suggests that a person can fulfill the responsibility of safely operating an automobile. A liquor license suggests that a venue can fulfill the responsibility of safely serving liquor.

Therefore, a marriage license suggests that two people can fulfill the responsibility of safely entering into a loving partnership. How is this measured? And knowing that every relationship and every individual is unique, can this be measured?

Before a person can attain a Driver's License, she must meet various requirements, including completing classroom time, a vision test, and a road test. For a Liquor License, details such as venue capacity and area zoning come into view.

As far as I can tell, the only requisites to attain a Marriage License are that the couple fills out the form completely, that both are of the age of majority, and that neither is married at the time of completing the form. In fact, I found a copy of Ontario's Marriage License Application; it is one page (actually, it's half of a page; half of the page for the GROOM, the other half for the BRIDE), and the most complicated section is the part where, if divorced, you need to know the court file number of your case.

Driver's licenses need to be renewed every 5 years (I think - I don't have one, so I'm not really sure). I am sure that liquor licenses are similar. The fact that these licenses need to be renewed indicates that situations change. Is it so unlikely that a couple's ability to maintain a loving relationship may also deviate over time?

Perhaps marriage license renewal ought to be made mandatory. Every 5 years, a couple checks in with their local Registry, and answers a series of questions designed to rate their effectiveness as a couple... hmmmmmmmmmmm, how very Orwellian!

* Which, of course, shouldn't BE an issue - love is love, and if two people want to get married, the only people who should be able to get in the way are wedding guests. You know, when that part about "If any person here knows of a reason why these two people should not be married..." comes up. And even then, I think people should just mind their own business most of the time!

** Used in relation to the possibility of invoking the notwithstanding clause, which, in a nutshell, would mean "Oh well, gay and lesbian couples don't count anyway, so let's just forget about those silly human rights and freedoms - STAMP-STAMP, NO ERASIES - CHECK BACK IN 5 YEARS!"

I think I am the only person on the planet who doesn't have a gmail account. Okay, maybe not the only one...

2005-01-29T19:49:00.000-08:00

His face was terrible. Lumpy and full, it had the appearance of a muffin too soon out of the oven, marked by the impatient thumb of an excited child. The mark in the man's face was left just between his left eye and the bridge of his nose, a deep crevasse that left the typical arrangement of eyes-nose-mouth unfortunately muddled. To look at him head-on, one could see full face and profile at once. Stained and lifeless fabrics perfumed with hard living hung loosely over his crooked frame. Over his shoulder he carried a dark green garbage bag. The green plastic was pulled tightly across its contents of lumps and forms. Sharp right-angles suggested books, maybe picture frames.

He walked up and down the aisles of the Sally Ann, speaking in low tones to unseen companions, or perhaps to the rest of us who felt too uncomfortable to listen.

Megan's friends are great!

2005-01-23T21:47:00.000-08:00

I just had the best time at Megan's birthday party at her apartment tonight. She has this great crew of people in her life, and I was just really happy to be a part of it.

(Happy Birthday, Magoo!!!)

No Comment...

2005-01-20T23:21:00.000-08:00

If I could only apply the whimsy that finds me enabling and disabling comments so freely to other areas... ahhhhh... what might that produce?

Actually, I just haven't felt much like writing lately, and every time I read a new comment (thanks for the comments, by the way!), I feel this pressure to write something brilliant in response, or at least in a new post.

And no, I'm not suggesting that anything I've written is brilliant.

This pressure is completely unwarranted, and while some people feed on the knowledge that somebody out there is reading what they write, I think that right now, it is having the opposite effect on me.

So... I've turned the darn things off. And in the future, I'm sure I'll turn them on. Because I'm just THAT predictable, and because I can.

Other stuff...

Our chorus held a silent auction in December. I came away with some lessons: stilt-walking with Sam (which I haven't yet begun... they will come in the Spring), and a writing class with Felicia. Felicia teaches a memoir writing course at Langara; we discussed some of my stuff earlier this week, and I think that if I follow through on some of the suggestions that she has made, I might just write something satisfying one of these days. Felicia's criticism echoed what I've said about my writing, which is that I never quite write the truth. She said that my writing is missing passion, desire. I've never put it quite that bluntly (bitch!), but I would say that I censor the hell out of most of my thoughts. Then again, that is just who I tend to be, afraid to offend or to intrude, a wallflower - why wouldn't my writing be equally safe?

Fuck.

I'm not put off by her comments; I am relieved by them. You know, that same relief that comes when you have a scratchy throat and your body aches, and you think you probably have a flu coming on... and then you get it? You get that flu, and your skin is clammy and you can't stand up and you can't cool down and you can't get warm and even your aura smells like sour laundry - and you are just so relieved, because it could have been some rare blood disease or throat cancer, but it's only the flu.

No sweat! I just have to drink liquids, get lots of rest... and then be graphic in describing the explosive diarrhea!

Further stuff...

Douglas Coupland is so great. He's just a head-case... we went to hear him read from his latest novel Eleanor Rigby last night, and now I have to sneak it out of Damion's grasp so that I can look at the words and pretend to read it myself! It was an hour of random thought.* He talked about loneliness, trying to fix loneliness, "walks by lakes in quiet weather." He shared his suspicion that perhaps when a person (specifically a criminal who decides to talk) goes into the Witness Protection Program, the FBI simply shoots him. He also read from jPod (his upcoming sequel to Microserfs) which contains a chapter made up of loveletters to Ronald McDonald. Douglas Coupland just puts it out there, you know? He's great!

*Okay, maybe it only seemed random - the guy HAS done this before, and I can't guarantee that it's not schtick. Who cares? He still thinks and writes stuff that makes my brain ache, a good ache, like after the gym.

Banksy: UK Stencil Artist

2005-01-16T21:02:00.000-08:00

Banksy, on making art for the sake of fame:

"You don't go to a restaurant and order a meal because you want to have a shit."

http://www.banksy.co.uk

If this is why I go to work every day... I guess I'll take it.

2005-01-16T18:12:00.000-08:00

Last night marked my last in the company of those tethered by notions of sense, practicality, and self-respect. I didn't quit my job to join the circus, I didn't bounce my rent cheque in favour of playing the lottery, and I most definitely didn't kick a stray dog.*

Last night, I rode a mechanical bull.

Have I always wanted to ride a mechanical bull? Nope, not really. Did I see this as an opportunity to revisit the childlike excitement that once came with riding the coin-operated horses in my parents' mall of choice? Absolutely - it was a blast!

Every year in January, my employers throw a seasonal party; this year, the party had a Western theme, hence the mechanical bull. If you are of the mind that everything in life is somehow planned, that every step leads to a predestined locale, then you might say that I have lived out my employ with this company thus far only to find myself sitting on one of man's more inane inventions, with co-workers cheering me on in a dizzying blur of noise, colour, and motion. If you are not of this mind, then just know that up until now, I've not been in the presence of such machines, nor do I see them in my future.

Several people had already tamed the beast; others had been defeated as quickly as they had climbed aboard. I had pretty much given up any ideas of having a turn on the bull, mainly because I had stuffed myself quite expertly at dinner and feared the worst.

And then, in a solitary moment after having been forced into square-dancing, something in me shifted... a different worst had happened (I'm really NOT big on geometric dancing - squares, lines - they're all bad) and I survived.

So I decided to give the bull a try.

He sat in the middle of a field of inflatable rubber padding, the kind that Moonwalk tents are made of; I lept toward the bull, bouncing higher with every step, and considered leaving my experience at that. But the abstract mass stared me down, and as I noticed a crowd developing around the bull-pit, I knew that this was becoming more than a personal challenge. I was about to become a source of entertainment for my colleagues.

Oh well... this is why the company shelled out big bucks for insurance, right?

I'm a city girl, and though I spent a fair bit of time as a child on farms in rural Alberta, as far as I know, I have never been on a horse, let alone a bull. A bicycle yes, but on a bicycle, I am in full control; also, I've never needed to mount a bicycle whose seat is at least as high as my shoulder. Getting on this machinery last night was an exercise in giving in to the moment; at first, I jumped up and down on the padding, hoping to get high enough to gracefully land atop the beast, leaving my audience in awe and wonder. It didn't work. I had to climb. There were no stirrups, nothing to really climb with, so I threw a leg on to the beast's back and pulled myself up with my hands and feet. And I was on; from this perspective, the experience now made perfect sense. I was sitting on a machine that is designed to throw me to a hopefully safe and painless fate, and my mission was to keep that fate at bay for as long as possible.

I heard a familiar voice** saying "You're on the wrong way," so I held on to the handle and slid myself around to the other end of the beast. I achieved this with very little effort, and I started to get a little cocky; then, I heard the voice of the operator, "Hey, now you ARE on the wrong way." My cockiness subsided. Again, I slid myself around, this time finishing by standing on the back of the beast as though I were surfing in a sea of rubber. I sat down and prepared for the ride.

The bull started moving. And like the lady I am, I started swearing! The bull bucked, and I held on with one hand, using the other to balance. I stopped swearing - this really wasn't so bad, it was actually kind of fun. Then, the bull started spinning around and around, I could hear the whistle of air and the whir of the motor as I spun with the bull, the centrifugal force pulling me away so that all I could do was hold on with both hands and try desperately to keep a leg atop its back. It continued to spin; I made it back onto the bull for a second or two, and then found myself falling to the side again. I remember finally making the decision to let go, and as I let go, I fell from the beast. The focus was wonderfully liberating.

I think I lasted maybe 15 seconds on that beast. They were perfect!

* I would NEVER, EVER kick a dog, stray or otherwise.
** Damion apologized profusely for screwing me up!

The kid stays in the picture!

2005-01-13T22:50:00.000-08:00

Jobs suck.

Wow, I sound like such a big baby lately... I guess I'm caught in one of the many valleys that my own private rollercoaster is trained to travel. C'est la vie.

Anyway... jobs suck. Ask anyone who goes to one every day. I'm sure there are exceptions, and today, they can all fuck off. :o)

(Okay... now that all the overachievers who have the gift of focus have left, I'll get on with my moaning.)

I like to do a good job, whatever the job of the hour might be. Right now, I am a receptionist at a lighting agency... so I answer phones and direct clients and forward faxes and email; I guess I keep the information flowing.

I'm hugely replaceable. Trained monkeys could probably do my job. I know this; I have no delusions about my rank at my workplace. And usually, I'm pretty content with the way things are. I like having a job that starts and ends on time and requires no overtime or homework. Right now, I don't expect or need to get warm fuzzies or validation from my job - I just want to not hate it while I'm there, and get paid.

Sometimes, I get a little manic. Sometimes it happens at work. I get a little overzealous in the "since we're here, we should enjoy ourselves" department. (I'm not the only one - there are at least 5 of us who play when we're at work!) At best, the mood is infectious, and we all contribute to each other's light; at worst, the whole thing goes unnoticed.

Today, I was scolded by a co-worker.

I was SCOLDED. By a CO-WORKER - she's not even my boss!

I can't even begin to explain just how icky that felt... here I was, looking out for everyone's best interest, coaching over the intercom "Deep breath IN... 1-2-3... and OUT... and again" because the mail server was down and work was halted abruptly, and through the speaker on my phone comes:

"Do you realize that what you're saying, you're BROADCASTING, through the whole office? It's VERY distracting..."

Okay. It was completely inappropriate, but people running back and forth past my desk, swearing about the mail server and asking over and over again "When will we be up?" is also inappropriate. It's really distracting, especially while anywhere between 1 and 18 lines are screaming for attention. Sometimes the only ammunition in such situations is the power of distraction.

I really, REALLY hate being scolded!

Anyway... I wrote that whole thing a few hours ago, and reading it now, I realize that I'm just not quite in the same mood... but how often do I use the term "fuck off" in a post?

The post stays in the blog!

In praise and scorn of the "snowest" common denominator...

2005-01-09T14:49:00.001-08:00

One thing that I don't miss about Edmonton is the fact that, during the winter months, snow is a given. Here in Vancouver, we recently had a pretty substantial dump of snow, and people just can't get enough of talking about it.

"Oooooh boy... that stuff sure is coming down!"
"You know, I was stuck on Cambie and 41st for over HALF AN HOUR!"
"Hehehe... looks like Christmas all over again!"
"YAY! I get to wear my awesome pink toque and scarf and matching Ugg boots!"

And so on. The sheer volume of attempts at personalizing this climatic phenomenan is more than I've been able to track, and the common thread in all of them is that it seems each person truly believes that he or she is the first one to come up with such a clever comment on the weather. This, of course, is why each example that I listed above is punctuated with an exclamation mark.

I'm such a poop. I'm constantly coming down on people for simply being human. I know that I've made my share of unoriginal comments on many subjects - I'm as guilty as the rest of us. Often, I make these comments mainly because I feel that it's my societal responsibility to occasionally go with the grain that I habitually oppose; other times, I fall into an antagonizing stance, where I feel it is my duty to annul these exchanges at their conception.

"Oooooh boy... that stuff sure is coming down!"

My response:

"Well, it IS snow, you know."

I really AM a poop.

ASIDE: If there's anything that I've never wanted to come across as, it is as a Hater. I'd really like to be and to be seen as a Shiny Happy person - and deep down, I am Shiny AND Happy. I just don't wear it every day. In fact, I've gone out in the world time and again wearing Shiny Happy, and have come home chilled to the bone... so I've taken to bringing a sweater, just in case.

I think that I am in some way envious of the lowest common denominator. And when I say this, I am NOT saying that I think that I am the highest unique numerator - not in the least! But I do think about stuff more than is probably necessary. I censor myself; sometimes for my own safety and sometimes for the perceived benefit of others. How lovely it would be to just MAKE a comment about unusual weather conditions, without feeling like I've disappointed myself or others somehow.

The snow hasn't melted yet. I guess I can either join the game, or continue as referee - it's my choice.

Look how cute! (He's been playing the song on a loop for the last twenty minutes.)

2005-01-08T22:55:00.000-08:00

I had such a great day of nothing.

A lovely movie to wake up to (The Station Agent.* Yummy coffee and scrambled eggs for breakfast. A little blogging. And then, Damion and I spent the bulk of the day recording a song; I played piano, he sang, he played guitar, I sang... it's really pretty - very Elvis Costello - and I'm just thrilled about it!

Kishu for dinner, Blockbuster** for dvds (The Office), IGA for late-night groceries (a girl needs her bananas and juice), and back here to reflect on it. Nice.

* I have my first dwarf crush! (What - did I say a bad thing? It's true... maybe I've never noticed before, but this is the first time in my memory that I've seen a little person in film who is not either playing a caricature character or is not there for some sick form of comic relief. I think it's great - and he IS handsome and charismatic and has a really dreamy voice!)
** Satan's choice for New Releases.