Sex and Cash

Facing down the fear

2006-01-17T13:32:00.000-05:00

I have had to break down my pre-existing notions about our conservative party...in realizing that not only do they lead in the polls, but are likely to win at least a minority, in part due to the votes of many of my FRIENDS!!

This news initially filled me with outrage and sadness, but I can't afford to lose friends, for many spiritual and practical reasons. Therefore I have to work through it. Stephen Harper is going to be Prime Minister. That fills me with dread, though I know I will have to accept it. Why dread you ask? Let me explain...

I remember when I was a kid and the subject of welfare came up in our class (you know when you're really young and you don't have subjects, you just have class!) ;) ... we were talking about how if you don't have a job then the government will help you so you can eat and have a place for your family to sleep until you find another job... it's so you won't starve, shows how we all care about each other and take care of one another.

Someone in the class said that they thought those people were lazy, they didn't want to work. AND that they all had multiple nice cars and toaster ovens and stuff that we don't have. Because they're rich, cause they're on welfare. You can imagine my little 8-year-old idealism raging against this type of class-ism. I earnestly defended those so-called lazy people (even though I didn't personally know anyone I knew to be on welfar), and looked to the teacher to admonish the speaker like he would when someone said something racist or made a bathroom joke.

But he didn't. He made a comment about how some people did defraud the system, a lot in fact, and that was something that would have to be addressed... I was floored. Kids will be kids, and will say all kinds of crazy stupid mean things that have nothing to do with anything. But this was my teacher, who I looked to to shape my natural instincts of reason and compassion and to reinforce the values that I'd been taught at home.

I began to see at that point that though I could trust my rural schooling for the ABCs, I would need to develop my own way of making and holding opinions on these issues, apart from my peers, because these people thought differently than me.

It was never an option for me to turn in my opinion and just agree with them, as of course you're tempted to do when you're eight (or was it ten?) and belonging matters more than anything. It simply would have cost my heart too much to cut myself off from my fellow human beings that way, to become hardened against the less fortunate and to become certain of their intent to defraud and to take what wasn't rightfully theirs. It was a turning point for me in many ways, because it helped redefine (undefine) my sense of belonging to the rural way of thinking/way of life. I found my peers' attitudes toward people of other cultures (even though few of us had ever met anyone of a different race) and gay people (we definitely didn't know any of those!), different from the ones I instinctively had; decidedly harder. N.B. My home riding is Conservative.

In later years, and I don't remember the exact crystallizing moment of this one, I heard the anti-social-safety net rhetoric of the Americans, and it reminded me of that mean-spiritedness I heard as an eight-year-old.

Later on, in my mind the pro-gun, anti-welfare, pro-life (or should I say anti-choice), anti-gay-marriage, pro-death penalty, pro-big business, pro-military, anti-environment, worst-case scenario politics got all knotted up together. (Though I began to understand the various shades of grey within each issue, I never came down on the side of the lazy-callers...my compassion and idealism remained intact even as I learned to appreciate the importance of a strong economy, and for individuals and enterprise to play their part within it.) And I never voted Conservative.

Whether factually true or not, the Conservative party wears the face of that school of thought, the closest thing our 'evolved' society will get to pure evil, for me. N.B. My home riding is Conservative. Yes it bears repeating.

When the Liberals ran their campaign in 2004 on the basis of Stephen Harper's scary hidden social agenda, I was glad that the public took heed. Finally someone was shutting up that little kid who said that welfare people were lazy and greedy! We were rejecting that mean-spiritedness. We were affirming that we were part of a society that truly believes that the measure of a people's greatness is the treatment of their poor, their sick, their old, their young. We were voting not just on the basis of how a particular set of policies affected us, but how they created the society that we wanted, the one that we believed in. Troops would not be sent to Iraq. A woman's right to choose was fully intact. And the same-sex marriage bill was passed!

In June 2004, I attended Gay Pride events with a deep warmth and satisfaction - the kind that only comes from the feeling of a long-standing wrong being righted. David Miller and Jack Layton made appearances at the parade. Stephen Harper was nowhere to be found. His Conservative candidates said various unhelpful and mildly evil things: http://www.cbc.ca/canadavotes/analysiscommentary/now_then.html

and the dye seemed cast. They lost. I was relieved. Everything seemed to fit. The meanness I remembered from my childhood was just that - a memory. A scary shadow, forever disappeared.

But not so this campaign. The voting public is turning back to the shadow. Away from corruption, they would say. That scary 'hidden agenda' doesn't exist, they would say. It's just Liberal scare tactics, they would say, because the Reds are desparate to hold onto power.

Well, I feel no more passion for or against the Liberals than I do for, say, celery. Limp celery. But to believe that the Conservative agenda has altered so radically in just 18 months? That's more than even my rampant idealism can stomach. I'd like to believe that after much soul-searching following 2004's loss to Paul Martin, Harper took his party away for a yoga retreat and they all found their inner peace and endless fountains of compassion.

Mean-spirited kids take years to realize there's a nicer way to be. Adults who have shut off their hearts like that may never come around. At the risk of sounding horribly cyncial, I'm not fooled. The Conservatives are riding Liberal complacency all the way to the polls, and behaving themselves just enough to get in - and it's working.

Please let it be a minority.

It ain't what it used to be...

2005-09-29T13:40:00.000-04:00

Well my friends, I've officially decided to accept the fact that anytime I visit my alma mater town (Kingston, the Limestone city, famous for prisons, academia and drunken Prime Ministers of course!) at least 50% of what comes through my mouth will begin with 'But where's...?' or finish with '....was so much better...' . I am a real alumnus, a relic, a product of the past. The Kingston I knew is gone, or at least submerged under a layer of weird, chaotic, car-flipping, drunken-brawling madness. You've seen the news?

Innocence lost, along with beloved greasy-spoon Lino's. The glory days of mantel-dancing, campus-pub partying over, as gone as the Burger King on Princess that was as good a Sunday night dinner option as two dollars could buy. Light-hearted mingling with alumni as non-existent as ol' Frost Wing. Ritual lineup as blocked as the parking lot behind Goodwin Hall. Reverence for alumni status as distant a memory as the Lick's where I managed to corner the love of that part of my life convince him that yes, he really did like me too. :)

Still, the celebration of the 5-year anniversary of our graduation from university was sweet. Full of laughter and song and bouncing around. Full of the bizarre daylight chance encounters in backyards and backstreets that are only possible when (ahem) sufficiently socially lubricated. Holding it all together, bonds of rock-solid friendship - the kind that's only possible when a single exchange of looks can convey a detailed thought like 'the pool table didn't used to be over there...! seriously, what were they thinking?' . The whole weekend shines with a strange luminscence that I didn't know existed.

I've embraced the idea that it's okay that these kids don't get the experience that we did, and trust that they'll have memories every bit as tender and special as mine. Finally, that one day they will be secure enough in themselves to walk up to me, read my jacket and express their breathless admiration for the final class of the 21st century. In the meantime, it's sort of fun to be crotchety.

Random round-up

2005-06-23T14:14:00.000-04:00

1) My uncle once: took me canoeing and we saw a hawk pull a fish right out of the water. He said it was because we were wearing matching shirts.

2) Never in my life: will I ever make a meal out of processed cheese. I don't care how many slices of milk they put it each one. Blech!

3) When I was five: I could read, but the teachers kept testing me to see if I had memorized the book.

4) High school was: completely different than I remember it.

5) Fire is: 'fuego' en espagnol.

6) I once saw: ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken.

7) There’s this woman I know who: is absolutely magical, and I am lucky enough to be related to her.

8) Once, at a bar: I wrote my phone number on the leg of a guy born in the 80's. Yeek!

9) By noon I’m usually: what am I doing next Tuesday?

10) Last night: I was awoken by the moonlight at 3:22 am. That is some powerful stuff.

11) If I only had: the cord to my laptop.

12) Next time I go to church: I will be dressed in a saree.

13) The best thing about my last relationship was: Peter Gabriel's 'Talk to me'

14) What worries me most: is worrying that the worries I worry will come true!

15) When I turn my head left: I see a stack of binders and a co-worker who can practically read my mind.

16) When I turn my head right: my neck twinges a little. I think my brain is too heavy.

17) You know I'm lying when: a gigantic neon sign flashes above my head.

18) What I miss most about the eighties: three way tie between My Little Pony, jelly shoes and those multi-coloured plastic bangle bracelets. So cool!

19) If I were a character written by Shakespeare, I’d be: a visionary/philosopher/witch.

20) By this time next year: I’ll be twenty-eight. Everything else is deliciously up in the air!

21) I have a hard time understanding: why cabs pull over and honk at you when you are on the sidewalk. Do they think I am incapable of hailing them myself?

22) You know I like you if: I ask you lots of questions.

23) If I won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: God. More in a sincere oh-my-gosh, isn't the universe amazing sort of way, than in a snarky making-fun-of-the-Grammys sort of way.

24) Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: were all champion omelette chefs in their time, but very few people ever knew it.

25) Take my advice, never: think that there's no such thing as karma.

26) My ideal breakfast is: cooked and eaten outside.

27) If you visit my hometown, I suggest you go to: the water-tragedy memorial gardens. Really, they're nice! Then go to the Central Tavern for some disco-ball karaoke.

28) Why doesn't everyone: love a little more, complain a little less?

29) If you spend the night at my house: you'd be amazed at how little sense I make in the morning.

30) I’d stop my wedding: if the dude was ever mean to my dad.

31) The world could do without: KKK, ATVs, TSX

32) My favourite blonde is: the person who inspired me to write this...

33) If I do anything well, it’s: being brilliant and humble and cheeky all at the same time.

34) And by the way: they're real, and they're spectacular!

35) The last time I was drunk, I: danced myself right into another world! Way to go, me...

Redundantly said again

2005-06-22T08:09:00.000-04:00

Do you want to improve your dog's health for the better?

Go to the park between 10 am to 2 pm.

Also, see if you can make him jump up and down as well.

I hope you see what I'm getting at. I hope that at least one of the above sentences turned your teeth on edge, or at very least sounded a little bell that went 'mmm...something's not right there...' . If you experienced neither, then I have work to do.

You see, I have listened to a number of writers sermonize on how we use gobbledy-gook language to mask our true intentions or, worse yet, when we have no intentions (and no clue) but need to pretend that we do. This book, and this one both relate to the deceptive and/or inept use of language, most commonly in the form of buzzwords and cliches and red herrings that all lead nowhere.

Truth is, I think that words that some people call buzzwords have their place. I really have designed a long-term strategic approach to ensure greater synergy with my stakeholders. It's a spreadsheet on my computer right now! When we refuse to allow the language to extend beyond literalism, we confine communication to the tangible and mundane. When we put up sanctions against particular words, we're more likely to end up making statements like 'that kind of stuff is good'.

However, I do see the point these authors are making: it's worse to use words to say nothing at all than to just shut the hell up. And it's definitely a sign of the degeneration of our thought process when we use redundancies like the ones above. Either we've lost our ability to discern correct language from poor, or we're talking so much, we're not even listening to ourselves!

To whit: You want to improve your dog's health OR you want to change it for the better.
Go to the park between 10 and 2 OR go to the park from 10 to 2.
Also, see if you can make him jump up and down OR See if you can make him jump up and down as well.

Carry on.

More to give than money

2005-05-31T17:44:00.000-04:00

One Christmas when I was in university, I emerged from the pressure cooker of exams, (thoroughly steamed but not totally turned to mush, to push the metaphor!) and threw myself on a bus for a quick trip to Toronto for a blitzkreig shopping trip. Destination: Eaton's Centre, natch.

I was treated to Holiday Splendour (registered trademark) in all its tinsel-covered, can't-move-on-the escalator, full-blown glory. This shouldn't have come as a surprise because it was December 20th or thereabouts, but having been in academic quarantine for 3 weeks I had missed the crescendo of Christmasness and thus had no clue at all. That was one of the worst things about Fall term exams; when you're a kid, you're just aching for December 1st so you can begin eating the chocolates out of your Regal advent calendar one by one... As a university student you're lucky if you get more than 3 days of pre-'Santa' anticipation in. And much as you've just spent the majority of the last few months drinking beer and/or staring out the window, you can't help but feel just a tad ripped off.

As I threaded my way through the festive hubbub, trusted friend on my arm, I saw the Salvation Army band with their little floating plastic donation bubble. I have such happy, strong associations with concert bands at Christmas time (years of playing on parade floats in a small town will do that to you - throwing candy canes from that tractor-trailer stacked up with hay bales and metal sheet music stands, you felt like the King of the World); the sight made my heart swell up.

The academic adrenaline fallout, the holiday spirit (and maybe one or two martinis pre-shopping, I can't be sure) were all doing their thing too; I felt like joyous and giddy, like Bob Cratchitt. My dear, the children, Christmas Day! I dug into my wallet to pull out a hard-borrowed twoonie (which was a lot of money back then - enough to get you a shooter on AJ's on Retro Tuesdays!) and strode dreamily toward the donation bubble to make my donation.

My heart sank when I glimpsed the sea of 10 and 20-dollar bills at the bottom of the bubble. How paltry my little coin would look against them! So many others were giving so much more. How could I ever make my mark? Make the fullness of my heart known to my fellow man?

Well, I dropped my twoonie in anyway, averting the bell-ringing Santa's eyes out of embarrassment. When I recalled my heartsink to my friend, she said something I have never forgotten. (Em, it was nearly a decade ago so forgive me if I paraphrase...)

Money is not what we have to give. What we have to give is far more valuable than that. We have our time, our energy, our enthusiasm and youthful wisdom. By far most importantly, we have our influence...our ability to encourage others to let their hands do the work of their hearts well into the future. And that is worth way more than dropping a 20 into that little bucket today.

Well, this really rang with me, because I have been doing work with charities since I was a Brownie. Selling napkins for the Cancer Society, delivering cookies and juice to Blood Donors, picking up garbage on the nature trails around my hometown, assisting at the daycare centre, pushing disabled people in wheelchairs at the Ice Capades. It filled a need deep inside to me, even before I knew it was there. Ever volunteered? Cheapest, purest high you'll ever get, I swear to you.

Standing in that mall in the Christmas craziness with my oh-so-wise and beautiful friend Emily, I pledged then that I would live my donation, rather than dropping it in a bucket. When I spoke at the Women in Engineering conference last week, I had the opportunity to share that perspective again. Revisiting that story always makes me smile: it was the day I realized I had so much more than money to give, and that the ways to give back to this wonderful world are both powerful and numerous. The exact mechanism by which we give matters, of course. But what matters infinitely more is that we do.

Tabloid epiphany

2005-05-26T12:47:00.000-04:00

It must be tough to be rich and famous. Seriously.

The rest of us can at least point to our bank balances as our reason for not taking chances, not being gloriously happy, free, emancipated in our lives. If only I could win the lottery, we sigh heavily. Then I could begin really living!

The people with all the cash and influence they’ll need for a lifetime (or ten lifetimes, in the case of someone like Rob of Rob and Amber who, as far as I can tell, is famous only because he’s on TV. Go figure.) don’t have that luxury. They have no excuses. Here it is, says the universe – here’s everything you need. Go! Make your life. Be spectacular. Get your dreams to come true. And, oh by the way, everyone is going to watch you and criticize you because they think that you have it made and you don’t deserve it.

That’s a lot of pressure. No wonder they are all divorcing, cracked-up, joining cults. I'm not going to buy a lottery ticket this week.

Magna Spice Saves the Country

2005-05-20T15:13:00.000-04:00

It’s sat heavily within me, this confidence vote. Strange; I am usually able to shake off a panic over the deeper implications of anything political. I have faith in our country, faith in due process and democracy. I believe in the right-mindedness of Canadians and our ability to learn from our mistakes. Even the sponsorship schmozzle has failed to whip me into flux.

Don’t get me wrong, heads need to roll. Corruption is not acceptable. But the fact that the evidence of the Gomery inquiry is now the stuff of public discourse and mainstream media rather than bureaucratic backrooms gives me heart. Walkerton will never have E Coli again, and no federal government will never even have the opportunity to Sponsorgate themselves – ever again. That type of lightning just doesn’t get to strike twice; the system gets reformed and it (it meaning that particular thing anyway) is never allowed again. I am pretty confident of that, but something about this proceeding and Belinda Stronach’s defection that set up the relieved jubilance of the narrow-as-they-come 153-152 passage of the budget yesterday has left me deeply unsettled.

The first time I heard about the comely Magna heiress-cum-politician’s move across to the Liberals, I was relieved. It felt like someone had jiggled the jigsaw puzzle just right, and the pieces now fit. When she first entered politics I had been ready to reconcile myself to the fact that her big business roots made her favour fiscal conservativeness and that made her a better fit with the Tories (for whom I would never vote because of their social policies). But in my head, the daughter of the founder of fair enterprise just didn’t belong in the same party with anti-gay, pro-missile-defense, scary scary Stephen Harper. No, this was much better. Any ribbing she might take for switching to the Liberals would roll off her downy feathers in light of the greater good that had been done. I went to bed feeling all was right with the world

The next morning I heard the comments, the commentary, the characterizations. Nasty, nasty soundbites. Naked grab for power, spoiled daddy’s girl, in over her head, damaging both the Liberals and the Conservatives. On and on it went. Not one person seemed to feel compelled to admit that she had shown guts, resolve and determination, nor to believe that she was motivated by principles and the need to keep the government running. No, only intensely personal attacks. While it would be over-simplifying to say that I whole-heartedly endorse every aspect of her actions, my heart ached for her.

I suppose it reminded me of some of the knocks I’ve taken in the course of the time I've spent as a woman in a male-dominated work environment. Nothing like the bile being spluttered at Belinda Wednesday morning, of course, but I’ve had my sexual attractiveness rated by co-workers (and I hope I rated well!), I’ve had sexual innuendo thrown into conversations (by which I was disconcerted rather than offended). I’ve had a few unfair characterizations of my motivations thrown my way (but eventually managed to make myself understood). I’m still in my job, and feel increasingly resilient to laugh off any gratuitous accusations, keep my sense of humour and my focus about me, and let my performance and talent speak for themselves.

It’s the subtler jabs that sting the most. On one particular interaction with a senior manager for whom I had overwhelming admiration and respect, I was called a cheerleader. ? I chose to interpret it as a tribute to my energy and positivity (maybe my attractiveness - as in the one that the quarterback will always want to take to the prom?). Well, I chose to leave the attractiveness thing out, because I just don't need to go there, and keep the positive stuff. It took a solid month, though, to talk myself out of believing that he had just revealed his perception of me as a peripheral player, a decorative pleasant element irrelevant to the real outcome of the game. Such is the nature of these (maybe) discriminatory comments: often framed positively, but containing just enough potential for a less flattering interpretation that you just can’t quite be sure. The doubt still remains, and when the soft warning bells strike up a jam session with the critic within, the resulting cacophony can be downright (self) destructive.

So perhaps I should be happy for Ms Stronach that her detractors’ comments are easier to decipher. At least she knows where she stands, and now stands to garner the sympathies of the Canadian public who would never side with such loathsome slander (would they?). Some would defend the Tories’ use of vicious epithets by saying that they are reacting emotionally. Belinda betrayed them; she destroyed their opportunity to topple the government; everything they had been working for.

Wait a minute, were they elected to bicker and clamour and fuss and vault themselves to power, whatever the cost to the productivity of running of the country? Whatever the staggering expense to the taxpayers of two federal elections in 11 months? Since when is that part of the job description? Were they elected to exercise 'war' on the government by trying to block the single most important piece of business in the House's docket?

Did they feel their constituents choose the candidate they thought would attack and maneuver the most skillfully, score ego-based victories at the expense of a fellow politician who wears different party colours? Silly me, I thought they were elected to voice the wants and needs of the people, and to provide vigorous and insightful debate to help run the country, not whine and tie sand-bags to things that Canadians really need. You know, like aid to Sudan, education programs, appointment of judges, reconciling injustices done to native people, public transit, and public inquiries on important issues. How is it that Ipperwash has taken a backseat to photos of Peter McKay pouting into the fields of his family homestead?

Along with my anxious feeling for the misplaced priorities and missing important agendas, and the nagging suspicion that the point of the opposition has been long since left behind in favour of ugly mean-spirited confrontational behaviour for its own sake, I have finally put my finger on my issue with the critics who fault Belinda Stronach so greviously. It isn’t the reference to her being an attractive dipstick. That’s condescending and irrelevant, but it is the type of jibe that savvy, self-assured career women like Ms Stronach and myself can take on the chin. I bet she even dances with a little extra verve when 'Wannabe' comes at the pub; I bet she works it like a true Magna Spice. You have to have a sense of humour or you're dead.

It isn’t Stephen Harper’s cutting little swipes just following her departure: her move was motivated ‘by ambition’ (just plain hypocritical coming from a man so eager to be PM he can taste it) nor even his acid tone in response to her claim that Harper did not understand the complexity of the country, ‘I never knew complexity to be one of Belinda’s strong suits’. Doesn't lend much creedence to the protests that he was never verbally abusive to her behind closed Conversative party doors.

It isn’t even the ugly, degrading allusion to her ‘whoring’ herself out for power made by more than one Tory MP: doesn’t even really make sense given the perilous state of the government, and (I hope) any one with an ounce of critical rigour would recognize the comparison to prostitution as ludicrous and spiteful, rather than illuminating or inspiring.

It’s the subtler yet unmistakable bias that gets me: the way nearly all the attention has been focused on the impact of her actions on other people, as though it was all one big personal assault. Look at what she did to her former party-mates. Look at what she did to the voters who elected her. Look what she did to that poor sweet farmboy from Nova Scotia.

Fact is, she made a radical shift in her career. Many people do this. It has impacted others personally - which is often the case. But does she not have a right, indeed a duty, to act according to her principles? Must she deign to others' feelings and priorities instead? Must she consider the impact of her actions above the priorities of her career (even if buys the claim that she moved only to aid her ascent in political power, which as I said I don’t)? The unmistakable answer: yes! Nice girls don’t leave, don’t ruffle feathers, don’t make people sad. The fact that she has done all three proves that she must be suspect, inappropriate, wicked, heartless; the worst kind of woman.

Still, even if (and that's a big if I am not going to give up without way more martinis and/or compelling argument) it is granted that her actions are ‘unwomanly’ therefore inappropriate, the unspoken conclusion is that she deserves to be torn apart despite the positive consequences of her timely defection. Personal dramas and character flaws are still emphasized above the fact that she crossed the floor to align herself with a party that better reflected her principles. Her move's profound strategic impact is left a distant second to assessing the personal devastation she has left. Interviewing her ex-boyfriend on the farm is the stuff of tabloids (can you believe that woman?), not politics. At the risk of sounding cold-hearted, one man's heartache is a small price to pay to keep the country running. The now-clear conclusion that her crossing the floor saved the government, and the budget and all the crucial funding and initiatives along with it. Chuck Cadman is hugged by Paul Martin and offered the key to Toronto by David Miller, lauded by reporters for listening to his Surrey constituents' wishes to delay an election. To me, it seems it would have been more appropriate to act according to the principles most appropriate to the situation, like Jack Layton did, but since the result was the same I won't split hairs. So why is (nearly) everyone in the media still so mean to Ms Stronach? Do they just hate her because she's beautiful?

The country will keep moving, at least for a few more days, the government doing what they are actually supposed to be doing, the very thing that the majority of Canadians want: stopping with the name-calling and obstructing and jockeying for power and getting the hell back to work. And I hope that when Belinda looks at herself in the mirror, she is proud of herself for the role she played in making that happen.

Champagne!!

2005-05-17T15:53:00.000-04:00

I really adore champagne. And I'm not even fussy about whether it's the actual stuff from France, so I suppose I should say that I enjoy sparkling wine.

The tiny bubbles tickling my nose remind me of Christmas morning.

The happy floaty feeling reminds me of some of the most rewarding accomplishments of my life.

The scary scary bit where you have to pop the cork off (and risk it schmucking straight into your eye! Aaahhh!!!) reminds me that in order to get anything good, you have to blast through fear.

But mostly, it reminds me of a happy jubliant state of mind. It's an expression that a good friend and I use to conjure up that feeling whenever something important has happened. It's recognizing that the events of our lives are only as celebration-worthy as we choose to make them.

Well, drink up. :)

Good medicine

2005-05-16T12:33:00.000-04:00

On the recommendation of a good friend, I hie'd me over to yon HMV and purchased my very own copy of 'Make Believe' last week. Weezer's fifth album, their longest yet at 45 minutes and first since 2002's Maladroit, which made me wonder if I'd just imagined how much fun I had on the Green Album. I won't get into details, but I was much in need of some TLC and I'm told that music can heal...

I proceeded home, put myself in my ski jacket and sunglasses and (after determining that there was no other way to play a CD on account of some unexplained and hither-to unseen obstinant behaviour from both my CD player and my CD recorder/player thingy...Noooooooo!!!!) my discman. Sat in my foldable Canada chair in my headphones facing the receding sun and let the sweet melodies do their thing.

Oh. My. Goodness. This is Such Pity played my heartstrings like a contortionist plays Twister. We are all on Drugs was cheeky and dirty and high-schoolish - quite delightful. The Damage in your Heart is worthy of its track 7 slot, he might as well have been singing straight into my ear - let it go, the damage in your heart... - whew. Exhilarating and exhausting and making me want to laugh and cry all at once.

The Other Way was a sleeper hit with me because I like the thought that we are all full of love and poetry and promise, but we don't always transmit it when we feel we can't afford to. It's kind of the flip-side of what I've been feeling lately...I don't know if that all made sense, but it felt like the last revolution in the cycle of the beautiful indifferent men I have been attracted to recently.

Similarly I loved Freak Me Out. Any male confessional type sentiment, wherein a man lets the chinks in the armour of machismo show, is bound to be a hit with me - not because I relish the thought that men are weak or anything, it's just that any evidence of those feelings is so damned reassuring. It accentuates our differences and pulls us closer, because sharing them takes trust and strength of an entirely different kind.

But the one that really slayed me was My Best Friend. First of all, it's shameless. The melody and lyric are pure pop. Could have been penned by the Beach Boys, or similar. But here are these seasoned, tousled hipsters pumping it out and getting away with it...expanding the high-school persona to deep, undignified, not-even-remotely-edgy devotion. They may take a beating for it, but I ate it up. It felt like a template for how the duality of cool and real can be reconciled. The chord change on the last syllable of (yes I) do-oo-oo-ooo took the bottom out of my stomach. Something along the lines of: whoa, it would be way gorgeous if they did - - - ...oh wait, maybe they are going to do - - - ....huh, sounds like they are really going to do it! ....nah, they wouldn't do - - -, would they? ...Ahhh!! yes they would!! They did! OH YEAH! (eargasm? is that the correct term?)

In short: If you're prone to cynicism or hated the Blue album, you'll probably hate this album too. But I also bought Sloan's 2002 release Action Pact (because who can leave HMV with just one disc? More on that later...) which made the perfect complement. I've got happy happy ears!

Sports

2005-05-12T12:44:00.000-04:00

When it comes to playing, I enjoy the grittiness of competitive sport, if that makes any sense - how we can all run around like hell being focused and fierce and all the rest of it and then return to our normal lives, which are untouched and unaltered by all the intensity we've experienced in the mean time...

From a spectator point of view, I remember the free and easy way my 6 year old self asked my dad why the guys in the zebra shirts weren't playing, after weaving my way through the row of men on Laz-E-boys watching an NHL game one Saturday night. I wasn't afraid to ask because I didn't think I was already supposed to know.

I wonder, too, if in a world that confuses humility with weakness, effusiveness for clinginess, and availability for lack of anything better to do, that sport isn't as much prized for its callback to more primitive times (when a shot's few inches' accuracy meant starving or feasting as opposed to a silver cup to hoist above one's head) as it is for its position as an acceptable emotional outlet?

To weep openly for a lost lover is snivelling, pathetic, weak. To shed tears over a lost shootout, well, that's just the passion of the game.

I've arrived!

2005-05-02T10:32:00.000-04:00

Hello my faithful readership (all 4 of you!) ;) - I must begin with apologies for my lengthy silence, but I have wonderful tidings to bring!

First of all, the launch of a fairly sizable project that I've been hatching for the past few months went unbelievably well mid-April. I'll spare you the details but to say that I was scared to death and then delighted more than I thought possible in one 48-hour timespan. There was a moment of clarity, though, in all of it, where my fears showed themselves to me as toothless and irrelevant in light of the wheels I was putting in motion.

Secondly, my best friend had her baby yesterday! So I'm (not technically but we'll say it anyway because I'm an only child and I need all the sympathy I can get) :) an aunt! All kinds of poetic imagery - about how our children stand on the shoulders of lessons we've learned and reach their dreams in ways that might not have been possible for us - came flooding over me, and, when I saw the photos mailed out by the pleased-as-punch new grandparents, a few tears.

Thirdly, I have hate mail! Some unseen hand must have elevated me to some upper echelon of online world in order to deserve the attention and rigour of the critique to my '6 songs in my head' post. The implications of hate mail are very exciting: I can now join Naomi Klein, Elfriede Jelinek and Keith Bradsher as a literary figure of serious import and controversy without even having to go through the pesky 'actually-being-an-author' process. Granted, most of their detractors have probably actually read their work, but still! Hate mail of my very own! I must have been very good in my past life. :)

The last six songs in my head

2005-04-08T09:26:00.000-04:00

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes - The Platters

We Don't Need Another Hero - Tina Turner (from the soundtrack of Mad Max: Beyond the Thunderdome)

My Song - Glass Tiger

Yes You Can - Jewel

All Star - Smashmouth

Cry me a River - Patricia O'Callaghan

The new way to fight

2005-03-28T16:58:00.000-05:00

Saw I Heart Huckabees last night. It made me glad just to be alive in a time where filmmakers like David O. Russell are allowed to exercise their creative lungs. The best review I've seen is here, from the NY times. I am unable to be nearly so articulate, so deep is my joy. Delight all over me! Pure wonderfulness!

At the end of the film, friends and existential-crisis 'buddies' Jason Schwartzmann and Mark Wahlberg (angst-ridden environmentalist and disillusioned firefighter respectively) are sitting on a rock and looking at each other after a fight. A half-dozen words are exchanged acknowledging the passage of time and the acquisition of many insights on behalf of both parties, and then smiles. A truce is made, without the need to rehash the details of the betrayal, the pain, the dirt smeared across the hot French nihilist's calves (and oh yes, there was lots of each!).

"Looks like you saw some truth," says Wahlberg to Schwartzmann of the time that has passed since they fell out. "Yeah," Schwartzmann acknowledges, "looks like you did too."

On the surface this might seem like a classic case of 'male inexpressiveness' - (or an artfully austere form of script-writing), I think it's beautiful. Besides demonstrating my long-held postulate that we have more to learn from each other than we think (i.e. women who claim to be excellent at communication because they talk about every little thing, not realizing that the act of talking about things can materially alter them, much in the way Heisenberg initially had no clue that by using a magnetic scope to locate electrons, he was scattering them to the wind!), it reminds me of a recent personal breakthrough. I have a friendship that runs so deep, it packs the emotional punch of a full-throttle love affair. To say I adore her madly would be an understatement. To say that we will be friends forever is a given. To say that our arguments have cut me to the quick would not involve much exaggeration either.

After a recent miscue, we discovered that we could dissolve the animosity, hurt, confusion with space. Just space and love and faith - holding it out for each other across a short break. Skip the yelling, guilt-tripping, angry accusations (not that we ever did that anyway - I am expanding to relationships in general now). Upon doing the necessary exploring in the battlefields of our own psyches, we re-entered the fold of each other's affections, even further strengthened by trust and solidified by extinguished fear. We shared a moment remarkably similar to the one between those two I Heart Huckabees characters; we smiled a look of deep understanding and connection, and pride in each other for finding our way back to this place: 'Guess you saw some truth'.

The nice thing was that our compared notes overlapped substantially - which just goes to show you that Dustin Hoffman's character had it right: There is no you, there is no me...there is just the blanket, and all the delicious drama that leads us (eventually) to sink deeper into that blissful realization.

Work Tango

2005-03-23T14:25:00.000-05:00

Zombies do the loop
with their sickening lurch
Saying the thing they already knew
because they weren't listening when they spoke it at first

At long last... Part II!

2005-03-21T14:29:00.000-05:00

For those just tuning in, here's part I:

http://sexandcash.blogspot.com/2005/01/putting-er-in-autopilot-part-1.html

The sequel below is what happened about 10 days later... my editor said he'd fire me if I didn't get it up soon.

_________________________________________________________

The soft buzzing of my cell phone vibrating against the leather interior of my handbag just barely twigs the edge of my notice. I am sitting at my desk, alone in the open office I share with my two colleagues. Busy bees that they are, my colleagues are off making deals, shaking hands, connecting dots; whatever it is they do that makes them seem so jittery and whipped-up all the time. Me, I am in a state of sleepy idle distraction, or at least I was before my phone’s gentle buzz brought me back to awareness.

Of course I am supposed to be working. I should be improving the company’s value-added to stakeholders and exceeding customer expectations and all those other things it says on our mission statement. And, because I am a dedicated employee who respects the spirit in which these high-level documents were forged, I pause for about 5 seconds before answering it. There is no information on the call display. It could be a life-changing event on the other end of the line. It could be Ed McMahon.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Tiffany?” a slightly nervous female voice asks.
“Uh, yes, “ I paused before answering, trying to place the voice. There is a stiffness to her way of speaking that none of my friends possess.

“Are you alone right now?” she asked, her tone dropping to low and secretive.

“Uh, yes,” I repeated, shortness of breath setting in. “What can I do for you?” As in, seriously, sweetie, what the hell?

“Have you recently met anyone named Robin?” she continued without answering my question.

“No,” I said quickly, then I thought. I did have a few swain of various degrees of smit on the Lavalife hook, but none whose name matched the one she’d queried. I’d’ve remembered that, because I would have cleverly asked him where Batman was. I know me.

“How about Elvis?”

“Um, no.” Definitely would remember that one.

“How about, um…okay, what other names does he use?” her voice trailed off slightly. She was talking to someone in the background. "Jimmy, maybe?".

A little imp appeared at the edge of my mind. I swallowed hard. "Uh, okay, I think I know who you mean."

"Did he give a last name?" the woman asked tetchily.

The imp began to giggle. My face burned a little. "Um, yeah..." I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat.

"He said his last name was Rankin," I murmured. The imp spontaneously multiplied into a chorus line of imps, which began to do the can-can and racously mock me in unison.

"Rankin?" she cried, imperious and delighted at once. "Like the Rankin Family? He said he was in the Rankin Family!" My caller's repetition for her companion's benefit had the intended effect. Gales of female laughter rang through the phone, and my chorus line of imps had morphed into a gigantic smirking imp pyramid atop which one clutched a triangular pep rally flag that read 'Man, are you ever an IDIOT!'

"Well, that's a new one. I haven't heard that before. And that's rich, even for him," she added helpfully. "Listen, have you seen him since?"

"No, no, no," I asserted, quick to convey that there were limits to my stupidity. The imps had finished their mocking celebration and were now sprawled out, mirthful and exhausted. It was up to me, I was now in full damage control mode on my credibility. Seriously, Jimmy Rankin?

"Have you heard from him recently?"

"Um, no," I murmured, this time a little less emphatically; now I was admitting that not only had I bought the line of an east-coast musician impersonator, I'd been shifted into the reject line of his little black book. Who was this woman anyway? How had she gotten my number, and what could she possibly want from me...?

Shifting gears

2005-03-14T05:19:00.000-05:00

So the Beast is gone - no more soccer mom action for me. I own my own wheels now - Saturn, an 01. I think her name is Luna. She's such a pretty blue. After the excitement of the test drive, the faxes to my uncle, the producing of all my official information (which always makes me feel good because they are answers I will always get right!) - I came to a harsh realization. Now I actually have to drive home!

Don't get me wrong, I've driven standard before. A dimly lit memory of an old tinbox Nissan Sentra of my mum's still stirs in my brain, one wherein my teenaged self had to navigate every single one of my hometown's stop signs on an uphill slope (and Walkerton's a valley - I bet you can imagine). The shaky adrenaline-fallout feeling is never far away. But that was then and this, as they say, is now.

So I drove and Luna allowed herself to be driven.

It took me three minutes to figure out where the flap to the gas tank was. The sight of the erect emergency brake is impossibly phallic. I discovered a new purpose for the courtesy-wave-to-the-car behind you. Usually meant to convey the idea of 'thanks for letting me in' or 'you really could have given me more space in letting me in, couldn't you?' - I now know that it can be used to wordlessly communicate 'I just got this car and I know I'm massively inept; please excuse me'.

But not quite a week later, I am getting accustomed to the slow deliberate necessary rhythm of the brake and the clutch and the gas...

I love that I can drive standard now (well, I'd give myself 75% and counting!). I like everything about it.

I like that it makes me feel more like a 'real' driver.

I like that I was able to laugh at myself when two of my coworkers mirthfully told me that they witnessed me lurching in the parking lot earlier in the week.

I like the feeling of satisfaction that comes with acquiring a new skill, and I like the quivery aftersensation produced by the smell of my incinerated fears.

I like the fuel efficiency. I bloody well get 54 miles to the gallon!

I like watching the tacometer; I like knowing how the gears work and why.

I like that I now know what double-clutching is, and that it always reminds me of my friend Rachel.

I like that refusing to be flustered by the impatience of the people behind me may well make me a more deliberate and conscious energetic entity.

I like that watching the car two in front of me (so I can get the roll right) may make me a more forward-thinking one.

I think best of all, though, I like the forward-sweeping motion of this learning. Because I can't not gear up and go at a busy intersection (even if there's a little uphill bit and I've already stalled it twice, as was the case at Keele and Dundas last Friday), I couldn't not learn to get it right. It just goes. I could no more sit there in traffic indefinitely than I could amputate a limb from my body; all the groundwork is laid out and the factors stacked up nicely behind the challenge, so it just works itself out. Because it has to. Because there's no point in not.

It reminds me of the saying that that answers are easy - the tough part is asking the right question.

Shifting responsibility

2005-03-09T11:46:00.000-05:00

It recently came to my attention that, in response to the so-called self-help bible for women 'He's Just Not That Into You', a book called 'Be Honest, You're Not That Into Him Either' has been written.

I like this book. No, I haven't read it - I suppose it would be more correct to say that I like the feel of it. I think it's evocatively and cheekily titled, and that it has the potential to shift women into the driver's seat in the swirling confusion of dating (and finding a response to the 'come here, go away' games that many men play that is both self-respecting and reasonable). And if you recall, I said just about the same thing some time ago. Nothing like someone much more highly-profiled than you backing up the convictions that you'd formerly supposed to be only your own!

(I think I also like it because it reminds me of an experience wherein a then-potential partner said to me that he intuited that we were just meant to be friends. Many months later, I see that he was right - and through some intensive retroactive conversations with my girfriends I see that I knew it too all along. I really wasn't that into him - not in that way. He had picked up on subtle signals that I was sending out, and to this day I love and respect him for that.)

As sagely pointed out by a wise and beautiful friend of mine, Ian Kern's approach could be interpreted as a shifting of responsibility for the emotional integrity of a relationship onto the woman. His approach could be construed as 'Yeah, men are jerks, what are you going to do? But do what I tell you and you will find love and happiness'. She went on to compare his book to the other not-so-helpful 'help' advice that women often receive; messages that blame us for being on the receiving end - in this case of men's inattentiveness/indifference/jerky behaviour in a dating context; in other cases, more serious injustices like domestic violence and sexual assault.

Now, the problematic nature of shifting the responsibility for violence against women onto women has long been one of my most rant-worthy opinions. In first year university, I scrawled 'walk not in fear' in thick permanent marker across the face of the composite sketch of the would-be rapist on some posters in residence that the campus association had hastily distributed after a string of sketchy attempted attacks on and near campus.

Almost more so than the actual thought of an attacker, I resented the posters' intrusion into my living space, into my consciousness. I was angry not only that this man had attempted to violate my fellow women, but that the university was now violating my thoughts, infecting me with fear...and infecting every female that crossed the path of those several dozen posters. It made me mad as hell, and when talking about it in the common room failed to adequately release my feelings, apparently vandalism was the only answer.

I was outraged at the utter incompleteness of the university's response to the issue. Their supposed 'corrective action' was to issue warnings that women shouldn't walk by themselves at night. As though the possibility of being raped was as unavoidable and commonplace as rain. Take an umbrella, it's raining out. Take a buddy, it's violent out.

I further couldn't believe the way that my female friends seemed to swallow this message. Not only did they accept this fear-based advice, but showed a lack of need or desire to question it in any way that I found both puzzling and exasperating to me.

Not saying that I was opposed to Walk-home programs, or to the practice of exercising common sense/self-protection. Even then, I knew they are necessary; it is understandable to wish that it were otherwise, but it would be impractical and truly counterproductive to deny the current reality. Back in university, I did sometimes walk home alone just to prove that I could. Courageous, yes. Principled, you bet. Young and cocky and misguided? Yes, most definitely. I don't judge myself for it, but I'm not proud of it either.

What I understand now is that these 'look out, women!' measures (that the 19-year-old version of me reacted to like milk reacts to vinegar) amount to a solution that is not invalid unto itself, just totally incomplete. Where is the search for and correction of the root cause of these incidents: Why do some men feel that they are entitled to give in to these urges to violate others? Where are these anti-female attitudes coming from? How can women respond to in order to minimize the power of these unjustified and life-force-draining actions? How can our correction and enforcement agencies play a part in seeing that victims are fairly treated and perpetrators are effectively rehabilitated? I am sure that my compatriots formally educated in criminology, law, sociology and women's studies could chip in a dozen more questions to hone in on true root of this tragic, wasteful, societally-crippling problem. Then we could sit down and design a truly complete solution.

And, one day after International Women's Day, I can think of no more fitting tribute than my pledge that as a woman who works in an inordinately male corner of a man's man's man's man's world, that I will never ever ever default on my responsibility to myself and to women everywhere - to never ever ever stop asking.

What I wish I'd known in high school

2005-03-02T16:18:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine, who was siphoned off the industrial foot-soldier mainline into no-less-noble-but considerably-less-conventionally-dirty pursuit of teaching a few years ago, asked me to give a chat to her kiddywigs on my experiences as an engineer. She says that they all want to be doctors, and I think this is her not-so-sneaky way of broadening their mental sample space, so to speak. (Not to mention their blind acceptance of their parents' well-meaning yet tragically narrow definition of a 'good' job, but that's a whole other story...)

Included in the questions she wants me to answer: what do you wish you'd known in high school?

For starters, I like the efficient delivery of this question. Not only would it be much lingually clunkier to say 'What do you know now that you wish you'd known in high school?', it would also be completely redundant. Of course you can't answer with things unless you know them, so there is no need to specify that you must know something in order to answer with it! Yes, moulder of future young minds though she might be, my friend is definitely still an engineer at heart!

I didn't have to think very long to come up with many answers:

I wish I'd known that the guy that broke up with me because I wouldn't sleep with him would see me at a bar 5 years later and neither be able to keep his eyes off me nor his jaw off the floor. I wouldn't have been so heartbroken.

I wish I'd have known that the songs that were played on the tape they played in the hallways when it was time to go to class (Cold as Ice by Foreigner, Take it Like a Man by Michelle Wright, Don't Stop Believing by Journey just to give you an approximate idea) would warm my heart and stick in my head to this day! I would have gotten me a copy.

I wish I'd known that it's really not that big a deal to go to CWOSSA (our sub-provincial-by-one-tier tournament) for badminton. I wouldn't have been so nervous.

I wish I'd known that it was actually cool to play and love classical music. I would have practiced more.

I wish I'd known that the people I would meet in university would get me in a way that the most impenetrably cool high school acquaintances never ever could. I wouldn't have felt so alone.

I wish I'd known what a true gift it was to have my parents' unconditional blessing to do whatever the hell I wanted. I wouldn't have created pressure in my own head.

I wish I'd known that the so-called standards of society for success are all just illusion anyway, and that the happiest people are the ones with the most gratitude in their hearts. I would have (probably) chosen a different career path!

I wish I'd known that the world needs me much more than I need the world. There are wrongs that need righting, there are problems that need solving, there are systems that need changing. I wouldn't have felt so timid in expressing my ideas, nor criticized them in my own head with such devilish zeal.

I wish I'd known that you don't achieve things beyond your wildest imaginings by doing what someone tells you to do, by fitting yourself into the pre-existing mould from whence those wrongs, problems and systems sprang in the first place.

I wish I'd known that you don't earn respect by submitting your conduct to others' expectations, no matter how many stop signs might be waving in your face.

That's the advice I'll give these kids, give or take a few punctuation marks. I can't regret the path I chose, because really I did the best I could. And it's brought me to right exactly here, right exactly who I am. Despite the harrows I survived (which reveal themselves more clearly over the passage of time as garden-variety trials as opposed to veritable hardship), I couldn't be happier with that.

I also wish I'd known that Perfect Strangers was going to get cancelled, or I would never have let all my carefully labelled VHS tapes scatter to the wind. But to know that I would have had to be more than just unusually wise for my age.

I would have had to be sidekick.

Bombing down memory lane...

2005-02-28T05:45:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday saw the end of an era; I traded in my first car. I cleaned out the trunk, my uncle unscrewed the plates, I handed over the key and it was over. I've scarcely had relationships that lasted longer than the lease I had with this car; you can't blame me for being a little misty-eyed, can you?

But onward. Since the car I'm getting to replace Lucinda won't be available for another couple of weeks, my uncle hooked me up with a loaner. My very own 96 Dodge Caravan. The granddaddy of all minivans. It makes a low growl and emits Curtis Mayfield as it cruises down the street. I am the most bad-ass soccer mom you've ever seen!

On Saturday I mastered the trick of turning off the windshield wipers at exactly the right time (which you have to do because otherwise they will stick straight up into your field of vision like jailbars), almost driving into the Sonata in front of me in the process, (holy poor Human Factors engineering, Batman!), and yesterday I figured out how to parallel park it (very very carefully).

There's been another nice little spinoff too - the music. The Beast has no CD player; only a cassette. On the way back from the dealership (a nearly 3 h fiasco thanks to an afternoon accident on the 401), when I lacked even a tape to play I discovered that FM 90.3 plays great slow jazz amid slow sexy French commentary ( And I gathered despite my brain's clumsy translation that Nat King Cole's brother Freddy was a fine jazz musician in his own rite, releasing an album cheekily titled 'I'm not my brother, I'm me' in 1991. who knew? Not me!).

Since then I've pulled out the old box o' tapes and taken them out (literally) for a spin. 'Cause let's face it, I've got the cargo space!

A friend who's in recluse mode had been frustrating me, so it was quite serendipitous that the first tape I pulled out was a compilation he made me in university. How can you stay mad at someone who makes you tapes named 'The Coffee and The Sleep' - where one side is fast and boppy and the other side is slow and mellow - packed full of Weezer and Sloan and Frente? I don't think it's humanly possible.

Next I popped in a little collection I put together called Ericasongs '92. A journey inside the mind of the 15-year-old version of me. I remember the guy whose neck I couldn't quite get my hands all the way around (due both to a massive height differential and, I'm sure a ridiculously shy teenaged body separation) as we danced to 'End of the Road' by Boyz II Men. I can picture myself lip-synching 'At this moment' by Billy Vera and the Beaters into front of my parents' bathroom mirror. The exact moment that I developed a weakness for well-groomed blond men (I'd hitherto always been more of a stubble-and-dark-eyes fan) crystallized while watching Neil Finn croon the high notes in the video of 'Don't Dream It's Over'. I remember serenading the prettiest girl on whom I had the hugest platonic crush with the verse of 'Please Don't Go' by KWS. I can still see the partially obstructed view of the stage that I had at the Nylons' dinner-concert I went to with my friend in London, at which I bopped to the likes of 'Don't Look Any Further'. The searing heartache of romantic desertion comes back to me like lightning the second Shakespear's Sister's rendition of 'Stay with me' hits my ears; no less powerful the softer yearnings of Alannah Myles' 'Song instead of a kiss'.

Quite literally the soundtrack of my teenaged existence. And the lyrics to nearly all of them fell involuntarily from my lips - fully formed and fully preserved, like ants in amber. I wish I'd made more compilation tapes as a teenager, if only so that I'd have some more fun nostalgia to accompany me as I speedily pilot that spaceship of a vehicle down the highways and biways of the city that's now my home. Because boy does that van go! I'd say I'll be disappointed to turn it in, but I don't have the heart.

Neither, incidentally does James Ingram.

Some things are meant to be

2005-02-21T17:09:00.000-05:00

The bees and the honey,
The gin and the rummy
The English and the funny...

Okay, I am BLATANTLY PLAGIARIZING and I will stop right now! It's for a good cause though - I recently saw this show in Toronto (well, okay, I saw it a couple of times) and you should too.

To explain why I'd bother to recommend it, let me describe one scene that especially resonated for me: the main character (played by writer/director/man-about-town Stuart Knight), alone on the stage, makes a loud and joyous exclamation about something good that has just happened to him. He is excited, he is rapturous, he is filled with wonder and naivety. He is floating on the wings of hope and anticipation. One second later the stage is silent, and you can see the doubt creeping in as his hope-float starts to sink. He proclaims once more, loudly and enthusiastically, but this time shakily. His voice echoes back to him in a waves that feel like car sickness and tequila schmucked together. The sound loop intensifies as his doubts deepen (the audience is meant to be inside his head, a la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and just when it seems that meltdown is imminent, he finds a way to turn it all around.

The result is spectacular - and a gorgeous metaphor for what can happen when we learn to dance with the things we fear instead of struggling with them. (Befriending personal demons is a subject for which I, admittedly, have a pronounced and direct fondness but I do feel comfortable that the appeal of this concept is universal!).

On a less serious note, the show is worth the price of admission just for the head trip - it made me laugh and squirm and cry. The impressive chops of the singers and actors in the show are obvious - Emilio's opening solo is especially spine-tingly - so the production aspects alone will justify your ticket if you're already into a good live theatre performance. The subject matter is accessible and the delivery is delightfully skewed. It alternately reminded me of a Canada Post vignette, an episode of Boston Public, and Sesame Street on acid.

But it's a good show. I use 'good' not in the sense of describing the show's calibre (great, amazing, fantastic would be more appropriate there) but rather its intention. The contrast between Drew and Mimi taking pot shots at each other (or some other similarly mean-spirited example of mainstream television) and the collection of sketches, songs and slam poetry that the Decide crew have assembled could not be more pronounced. The show's got a heart a mile wide; that is essentially why I loved it.

In the reviews, I found a quote that sums it up nicely: 'where cynicism has become so mainstream that the only true cool is to be wholly positive' - if you're the type of person who'd appreciate that inversion, make a reservation to see it this Saturday. They're a live-wire bunch down at KnightFlight Productions; chances are you'll be glad you did.

(Song I have in my head: You go to my head, Billie Holliday)

I know where you're coming from

2005-02-18T09:10:00.000-05:00

And I'm not saying this in a figurative statement of understanding or as an effective listening technique as learned in the company-sponsored 'Effective Communications' course I took last week - I mean I literally know the route you took on the information superhighway to get here, to my humble little site. (I know, I'm sorry...you stop by for an innocent gander at whatever hot and fresh words are being served up and I'm getting all Big Brother on your ass. Stay with me.)

This site has a lovely feature that lets me check in on the traffic that comes my way, and I have to say it's pretty interesting. Five percent of my traffic comes from France; eleven percent from the Mountain time zone. Even had a handful of hits from Hong Kong. (Cue It's a Small World After all covered by someone like Me First and the Gimme-gimmes. None of that Disney-world-reminiscent crap.) And listen to my literary ambitions swell up like Don Cherry after a Canadian victory at the World Junior Hockey Championships.

But I was fairly humbled to discover that the vast majority of these visits were '0:00' seconds in length, and that that same vast majority were referred from search pages like Yahoo or Google. One of the top key search words: 'sex for cash', second only to (you guessed it) 'cash for sex'.

Well, it really is a small world after all. We're not so different from each other, no matter the postal code your IP address sits inside. There are people (many people!) looking to sell their affections, and there are those with ready money looking to buy. And albeit accidentally and extremely fleetingly, they all find themselves here.

So, while I must declare the dent in my literary pride like so many goods purchased south of the border (what? you mean you're not here to lap up my musings like thirsty puppy dogs?), I find this tremendously interesting. There are actually more people (by a margin of 32 to 10) who want to purchase than want to sell. Many speculations about the nature of supply and demand are possible, but I think the most instructive thing to do is to return to the analysis after which I named my blog: The Sex and Cash theory.

Basically dude says that much in the same way it would be unpalatable to be paid for sex (by most people's standards anyway, notwithstanding members of my fine audience!) it is preferable to keep the things you get off on away from the things you do to make money. That separation is not only necessary, it's actually better. Interesting, because it runs contrary to the model supplied by many self-help/career improvement gurus who say things like: Do what you love and the money will follow.

I think there may be another dimension, though - a hybrid of sorts whereby you apply the energetic oomph that sustains your passions to the workings of your business. I will have to get back to you, as I haven't quite figured out how that works yet.

In the meantime, if you're a college kid thinking of selling your body to make a few bucks, reconsider. Get a job tutoring children or waiting tables or selling newspapers on the phone instead. Stories like this outnumber Pretty Woman tales about a million to one. Your body is your temple and if you treat it like a marketplace, your soul will suffer. I'm not judging, you just don't need to go there.

And if you're alone and thinking it's easier to lay some money out on a straight purchase of physical pleasure rather than actually getting to know someone to share intimacy with, think again. Sex is but 1/7th of the ways we have to connect with each other, and you don't need to buy the sadness and the degradation along with the companionship. Every pot has a lid, it doesn't matter who you are.

We are never truly alone.

Love isn't always what you think

2005-02-14T15:12:00.000-05:00

No, it's not. Love often doesn't scream 'I am a Many Splendoured Thing' as it throws itself from the highest mountain toward you. It often doesn't wallop with a stomach-lurching wail that leaves you breathless and singing and bereft of appetite for days on end.

Sometimes love means staying away. I have loved a few dear friends and a handful of former lovers in this way, both in the recent past and as we type. When your greatest gift you can give is your absence, even when you miss them and wish things could be otherwise, you suck it up and give it.

Sometimes love means shutting your mouth. Even when the prevailing conclusions are totally unfair, or inaccurate, or illogical, when your silence is the kindest option, you draw in your breath and just let it be.

Sometime love is nowhere near that dramatic; rather it's found in the fleeting interactions of life. On this, the day of devotional schmaltz and rhapsodic romantic possibilities, my mind is drawn to a young man I met exactly once through a friend, with whom I talked for about 15 minutes, and whom I expect never to see or speak to again.

Our conversation wasn't what I would call flirtatious, just very friendly and easy. He had a really nice way about him. He spent most of the rest of the evening chatting up my girlfriend and seemed to have trouble meeting my eye later. I thought that was strange, since clearly he was clearly not socially awkward nor entirely indifferent toward me. (More likely just 'longing to touch but afraid to feel' - you know, you meet people who seem so open and it's actually because they are compensating for being extremely closed and detached underneath the outgoing exterior?)

But he said something to me that rendered him irreversibly likeable in my books despite his hot/cold shenanigans. We were talking about relative height differences between people and about how women don't stand up straight because we try to make ourselves small. I said that I didn't like dating guys who are shorter than me (not that it comes up that often - I'm only 5' 7") because I feel like I have to be smaller to match him. He looked me right in the eye and said 'Don't ever make yourself small'. It was a really powerful thing to say because he didn't do it in a sarcastic or jokey way. It felt like the way you'd talk to your little sister, or maybe your child...compassionate supportive advice to take forth into the big bad world. Advice to keep the rain from coming in.

That's the type of energy we should all be exchanging more, in my humble opinion - without applying the labels of 'flirt' or 'parental' or otherwise...or thinking that you can't connect with one person when you've already connected with another. Unconditional non-possessive love, I postulate, is the new energetic structure for our time. It applies to all sorts of situations, not just the places we traditionally think of....Parent-child, sister-brother, husband-wife, God-believer...

If you change the context and free your mind from restrictions, you see that it applies to work relationships, friendships, even buying things at the store. Just to be and stay in a place of love all the time...that is what I try to do. If you take it one step further you can see that love is really all there is. Of course it's damned hard sometimes, especially when you feel like you're doing it alone, but it is tremendously inspiring to glimpse love in unlikely places. For example, my parents' dog Ned took an immediate and intense liking to this stuffed tiger I brought home (that had been part of my halloween costume). We thought he would chew it up and pull out all the stuffing with his teeth, but he didn't - he carried it round with him for days, and poked it with his nose, and licked it and rested with it between his paws. It just about made me cry it was so lovely!

Sometimes love looks you in the eye at a bar and tells you not to make yourself small, and it doesn't have to *mean* anything more than that in practical terms. But underneath, it means everything. In this way, love is all that matters. Love is all you need. I heard that Beatles song a month or two ago and it was like hearing it for the first time. So powerful...not just the love angle but the part about how you can't go wrong...it's such a fear-alleviator, you know? There's nothing you can do that can't be done...it's impossible to go wrong. Nothing is as complicated as you think...it's easy.

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It's easy...

Nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time.
It's easy...

Nothing you can know that isn't known.
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy...

All you need is love. All you need is love. All you need is love, love. Love is all you need.

Now everybody join hands and repeat. Happy Valentine's Day. :)

The Italian flu

2005-02-08T14:43:00.000-05:00

Sounds like it would be fun to have, doesn't it? Sounds kind of dirty and exotic...like a pre-Rocky Sylvester Stallone in a scrubs uniform getting ready to turn you over his knee...

Well it's not. The last 48 hours I have felt my skin peel off and on again, I have sweated half my body weight away, I have heard my heartbeat amplified 20-fold and fed back to me like a sickening and never-ending swoosh-swoosh... I have been sick like I haven't been since I was a kid.

Upon returning to work, I have discovered that a) I am not the only one in my office to have sustained these symptoms, and b) their probable cause is a strain of flu carried into the country by the workers of one of our equipment suppliers from a small town in Italy. Magnifico!

Natch I took the day off work, despite the lingering knowledge that my boss might suspect my absence was due to post-Superbowl malingering rather than bona fide illness. But I had little choice. I watched Nicole Kidman make her dainty little blood-stained coughs at the end of Moulin Rouge and thought 'ha! she doesn't know what REAL hacking is about!' while I convulsed and pretended that I was the one dying of consumption. It was all very dramatic, I assure you.

Now, I am feeling pretty miserable, but really am just whining. These symptoms will pass like so many gnocchi and canelloni entrees, I've got all my fingers and toes, my apartment is rodent-free: my physical existence is so charmed that I really don't notice it until there is something wrong!

I see why the energetic models (Maslow, chakras...) place our bodies' connections to the earth (and therefore to health and life and vitality) at the base of all other pursuits. When your head is caving in you don't care about social justice. When your joints are all aching like they've been injected with poison, there is no room in you for loving another person. When your heart is swooshing back and forth at fever pitch, you might even question the existence of God.

Suffice it to say my brief tango with the Italian flu has given me new respect for my body's normal resiliency. Now just to solve that world hunger thing, and we'd be all set...

I bleed blue, I really do

2005-02-03T09:04:00.000-05:00

I was going to wait until the announcement of the proverbial nail in the coffin of this year's NHL season to post this, but it doesn't seem like that's ever going to happen. Day 141 of the lockout and no one is willing to say anything definitive. I have been brave to this point, but I got a pang when I heard that Hockey Day in Canada was cancelled for this year.

Last year's (Feb 21st 2004) was a beautiful day, one that will stand out in my memory as shiny and perfect forever. I met my dad in the Markham Canadian Tire (for reasons I'd rather not go into, though in retrospect it really reinforces the lovely patriotic motif n'est-ce pas?) and we drove down to my place and made sandwiches and lounged with the Globe and Mail (which featured a wonderful article about how the bubble was bursting on the big-market American-expansion-team approach, that hockey was coming back to its roots and those who loved the game most, that there was a tiny possibility that the Winnipeg Jets would get their team back! Okay, you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one...).

We jigged up the rabbit ears to get the afternoon game on my non-cable-having TV (I think it was Vancouver-Calgary) and had a few snacks and a nap before boarding the 504 streetcar downtown. My dad said it was the first time he'd been on a streetcar in probably 30 years (he grew up in Scarborough but he and my mum have been in the country since 1971, when he bought our house and a half-acre around it for $1200!), and a few nostalgic recounts of the Leafs in his childhood (he's been a fan forever, of course), of my grandfather (who died of lung cancer when I was 3). I fairly shivered with delight.

And then, oh then oh then oh then - to witness our beloved Leafs thump those detested Canadiens live and large at the ACC! Our seats were perfect (at the end of the ice rather than the side, so you could watch every play develop longitidinally), the beers were cold and crisp, the atmosphere was electric. Good guys 5, bad guys 4. Perfect!

Sigh. I am optimistic for the return of such happy days, but for now mourning seems more appropriate. Hence and therefore, my ode to my team, my game, my passion. It's inspired by my first experience (on tickets I scored from work) at the Air Canada Centre. I wrote it nearly two years ago so forgive the outdated player references. Go Leafs. Or whatever...

___________________________________________________________
Fresh from my first ever Leaf game in the ACC, my thoughts are many... I feel like a breathless little kid inside my tired adult body.

The ice is whiter than it is on TV and the lights are stronger. The whole effect is something that looks like a sharper and brighter version of real life, but feels exactly like a cartoon or a dream. The hockey minutes fly by in seconds, perhaps due to lack of commercial interruption.
I had printed out the roster of the Leafs and the Panthers from nhl.com in case I didn't know what number was who. No worries, I was close enough to read the facial expressions of the players - certainly reading their jerseys was no problem. Five rows behind the penalty box, it’s all very clear.

The swanky side of the ACC is worlds away from the popcorn and hotdogs on the non-elite end. Once you enter through Club Platinum (cleverly dubbed Club Pt by some slightly geeky business dude), no one asks for your ticket – through you glide until you find your little room off the main plush corridor. It looks like a comfy, if sparsely decorated, living room. Doug Gilmour’s stick on the wall, portrait photograph of Vince Carter wearing a hockey sweater and Mats Sundin wearing a basketball jersey. Magna International on the door, just steps from the best seats I’ve ever had for anything. Food in one corner, bar in another, complete with our own personal server. Complimentary here there and everywhere...beer, shrimp, chocolates, calendars...these servers buzzed to and from your seats too, fetching food and drink to match your whim.

For me, this free-rolling excess was more delightful by way of its novelty than its lavishness; made more delightful still by the feeling of sports schlock grandeur and legend. These servers were employees of the Maple Leafs - my team! Not just waitresses; they were humble servants of the game itself; like majestic stone lions that sit ever-poised at the foot of the king.

In front of us were several business men who spent more time talking to each other than watching the game. I wonder if is harder for the players to get pumped to play in front of a crowd diluted by such an absentminded component. Surely they can feel the lack of energy...

As I sat in my Platinum level seat granted to me by my multi-national employer I felt a stirring of anti-corporation sentiment. The game belongs to the fans, not to the suits, dammit.
As for the game itself, it was pretty dismal. The Panthers (yup, the same feeble 19-25 club that hails from a state synonymous with flamingos) scored less than 3 minutes into the game and spent the rest of regulation thoroughly discouraging the Leafs from bringing anything remotely cohesive over their blue line. Kaberle’s glass hands, Lumme’s neutral zone giveaways and Tucker’s erratic energy spurts did little to help their disorganized cause. The Panthers score again. A few skirmishes – once Tie Domi shoved a guy and yelled something his mother might not like – and a few penalties, including one heart-breaking two-man advantage on which the Leafs failed to score. Mogilny did manage to put Toronto on the board with 44 seconds left in the game; a blurry, messy goal barely discernable except on the replay. We were grateful for the chance to get on our feet and exercise our lungs, but the crowd began to pour out of the exits with four minutes left. All in all, utterly forgettable.

Still, as I shuffled through the PATH to Union Station, bought a token and teemed my way onto the subway with the rest of the retreating crowd, I felt like a part of something big, something good. With my Leaf 2003 calendar under my arm and new Leaf ball cap on my head, I was a homogeneous grain of sand in a harmonious hourglass. For the first time since I moved here almost 3 years ago, I felt like a Torontonian.

Something that can make you feel that good even when it’s that bad has got to be powerful. Hockey is certainly a benevolent force in the universe, though my mother would perhaps disagree on the basis of all the Saturday nights it has stolen her husband away from her. Maybe it’s the patriotic undertones – not just of loving just a Canadian game, but a team named for one of Canada’s proud symbols. Maybe it’s the nostalgic link to my childhood and all those Wednesdays I watched Gary Leeman and Vincent Damphousse with my dad on Global. I don’t know what it is, but I love my team, even if they never win.

At the top of one of the red sections, a little kid with a Leaf away jersey and a matching curly wig held up a sign hand-lettered in marker that read ‘I bleed blue’.

I know what you mean, kid. I know what you mean.

The strangest things make me happy

2005-02-02T11:50:00.000-05:00

I love that the job interview of a friend of mine involved her boss getting half- naked.
I love that another friend's job interview involves having cocaine sent to his house.
I also love the fact that another friend can blackmail the man she's seeing by threatening to expose him to his profession's governing body by seeing her.

These are the sorts of subversive details that delight and amuse me on a disproportionate scale.

You're not the boss of me

2005-01-31T12:33:00.000-05:00

Well, except when you are. When you're the person who authorizes the paycheques that fuel the machine that is my life: everything from my own living space (with all the deliciously domestic accoutrements that entails) to my off-work-time indulges (equal parts heavenly and devilish, with some fluctuations) and you can make all that stop in a second, at your whim - well, you most certainly are.

Before, I often joked with my more bohemian friends that I am Workin' For The Man, that my soul is not my own, that I am foot soldier of society (cue Proud Mary, CCR version, Sixteen Tons, Tom Jones version and Chain Gang, Sam Cooke version). But I see now that I was basically just complaining about having to wake up so early every morning. (I was born at 11:45 am and as such I feel that there is nothing natural about me getting out of bed any earlier than that!)

But as I learned last week, showing up isn't the half of it. When you agree to rent the services of your mind to a company for 9 hours a day, do you also owe them your values? Your tone of voice? Your cultural constructs and your vision of how things should be? Apparently, yes. Ten days ago I was told in vivid, literal, ridiculously certain terms of all the abstract and ephemeral ways in which I had failed to conform to the unspoken expectations of The Man.

It reminds me of things that everyone does but nobody cares about - until that moment when someone decides to flex their muscle. Then they nail you to a technicality you've breached through unspoken consent and there is not a damned thing you can do about it.

You get that sickening feeling - like when you've been pulled over to the side of the road by the flashing lights atop a cop car. You're sitting there and wondering; you could be guilty of going too fast (because everybody does), you might be missing some piece of paperwork (that The Man says you have to have), or you could be just guilty in general (because, at some moment, in someone's interpretation, of some fleeting trifling thing, everybody is). You could get a pat for your spunk and sent on your way with a wink, or you could get crucified. You just never know what The Man's prevailing preference will lead him to do to you.

Now, the good news is that I'm not afraid. Much as the employee-as-victim mentality is good for some melodramatic bonus points, I am not bitter. I'm even glad that it happened the way it did. I have an inside angle on the reason for the fallout, and as such I can deal with it like the good little soldier I am.

It also taught me a lot. It made me acutely aware of how the politics of power, nicely veiled beneath corporate slogans and choruses of amiable 'good mornings', can bear their teeth if you provoke them. Somehow, I pushed The Man, and The Man felt it. So much that he had to push me back. That's a compliment, in a subversive sort of way.

It also reminded me of what I want for myself. To choose openness over offense, collegiality over hierarchy, good-faith teamwork over subordination. To be my own boss, figuratively if not literally.

Oh, and to sleep in.

I knew I loved you before I met you

2005-01-28T14:49:00.000-05:00

Mmm...nice mushy song by Savage Garden. Tainted forever, in my opinion, by its appearance on the hopped-up-on-fairy-tale-goofballs reality show 'Who wants to marry a Millionaire?'. (It was Rick and Darva's first dance. Gack, as my friend Jenn would say).

Tainted but not destroyed. Love takes a pretty tough beating in our cynical world, and I've got to give props to such a self-revealing emotional expression. The lyrics also contain a hint of How It All Works.

I think I dreamed you into life. Right on. I believe there's truth to the theory that we create each other (or rather, the experience of each other - functionally equivalent).

You have to see this movie: www.whatthebleep.com In part, I like it because it fuses two of my passions (science and spirituality) and in part I like it because it re-inforces my pre-existing conclusions. Pretty tough not to get attached to a little somethin' like that. :)

There have been an inordinate number of electric connection-at-first-sight type occurrences in my circle lately...come to think of it, every beautiful connection I've experienced in my life has been one where I 'just knew' - right away.

It's enough to make one question the conventional rules of 'time will tell' and 'wait three days' etc. By this same token, second chances are completely pointless. Maybe one moment, spent looking with not just our eyes but our whole soul, really is enough to really know someone.

Which brings up the question, as hinted in the song's title, of whether maybe we knew them all along.

Putting 'er in autopilot: Part 1

2005-01-26T17:37:00.000-05:00

(This actually happened to me about 2.5 years ago but I only got around to writing it down a year ago. It's my first real story so it's a little eager to please, but I still love it. Many details have been changed, but you'll recognize me. :) Enjoy!)

(This story doesn't have a title. If you can think of one I like I'll send you a lollipop. Okay, here we go!)

I am already late when I get on the streetcar. But just how late am I? For some reason there is comfort in calculating the exact number of minutes I will keep my hairdresser waiting. My mother is late often, or she used to be before she stopped admitting it. Therefore I can, with a flippant use of genetic theory that would probably represent a complete departure from logic if I were to actually examine it, say that I get it from her. I am thereby absolved of personal responsibility for my apparent lack of respect for others’ time.

Despite this rationalization, it does make me feel bad – I know that my mother really isn’t to blame as I climb on the eastbound College Street car. It’s me. So I am even more eager, frantic almost, to make it up to Charles of the Chameleon salon by figuring out exactly how many minutes of his time I am wasting as I sit down, the sooner the better. My cell phone reads 12:25 but my watch, obviously the more judgmental of the two, reads 12:28. There is world of difference in those three minutes of course, so I require a tie-breaking vote. I turn to the man seated directly behind me who smiled at me when I sat down.

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” I asked in my very politest voice. I always sound a little bit English when I do that.

“You’re wearing a watch,” he smirks a little. Clearly I have not given enough context.

“I know,” I say shyly, “but I think it’s broken.” I smile in a way I hope is engaging. Despite being on my way to the salon for a touch-up to my highlights I have enough blond left in my hair to get away with that.

“12:30,” he tells me proudly. His watch has no such issues. This guy is together.

“Thanks.” I continue the charm though he is looking at me with smug amusement that is definitely condescending, just this side of predatory in fact. I hold my female survival instincts at bay since I know that my personal safety cannot be threatened at 12:30 (give or take a few minutes) in broad daylight on a crowded streetcar.

Besides, I can’t really be indignant; he is taking me for the smiley, flighty, can’t-tell-time female that I have portrayed – he can’t possibly know that I am a woman of substance: a phone-number memorizer, a leader of meetings, a mean j-stroker. His underestimation of me is rather amusing; an interesting role reversal, a cat burglar mastermind playing a mentally challenged janitor, like Edward Norton did in The Score. It’s refreshing, almost poetic. I kind of get off on it.

“I’m trying to decide whether I am late or not.” More charm.

“Well where are you going?” he asks. “Bay Street,” no harm in volunteering that information.“That’s where I’m going. I’m not from around here,” he offered.

Okay. I’ll bite.

“Where are you from?”

“Down east. You’re not from around here either are you? Cause you seem really friendly.”

“Actually I live in Toronto.” Not mentioning a specific address. Friendliness has its bounds.

“Well, you seem real friendly – not like a lot of people around here,” he purred, leaning toward me conspiratorially for the second part of his remark.

Well, here’s where my vanity might get the best of me. I am not from around here. Having grown up in a small town, I am proud to think of myself as an open book – an open oyster swimming amongst packs of tightly-closed ones. My ideal is to be tender yet strong – and I have always counted on being able to read people just in time to keep them from hurting me. But not a moment before. I will give every bit of credit, every ounce of faith and honesty to someone before I will shut down in the name of self-preservation. I pride myself on it. And this guy can see it?

“Well, yes, I did grow up in a small town.” I don’t mention the name of the nationally-famous village where my parents still live; about six years ago it was all over the news after a pair of grisly and decidedly strange murders.

Of course city folks have taken to referring to the name of my town as the incident, when it invariably comes up on any Town Hall discussion on the subject. But no such glossing over is possible when discussing the situation with outsiders. The conversation can never get fully back on track after dropping that name into the conversation when the listener recognizes it. They will either lapse into guilt-ridden silence, or give a highly jocular treatment punctuating witty comments like ‘Don’t drink the water, eh?’ (the killer’s weapon of choice was a refined form of strychnine discreetly placed into his victims’ drinking water, like in a bad old spy novel) with uproarious laughter. Quite likely this man-about-town with the correct-time-having watch kept abreast of current events, so I didn’t want to risk that exchange. Just not in the mood today.

“Well you seem real friendly,” he said. Apparently we were still talking. I was still shifted sideways in my seat. “Do you like east coast music?”

See, he’s hit the second of my vanities here. I am passionate about music of all sorts, even the clanging industrial-sounding stuff or the ridiculously barren minimalist compositions. And, based on my illustrious high school choir-singing career wherein we performed a medley of sea chanteys and my father’s lifelong love of Stan Rogers tunes, yes, I do like east coast music very much.

“Yes,” I replied.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?,” he cut in without allowing me to expound on the origin of my fondness for east coast music and smiled with a mixture of glee and defiance.

I looked at him blankly. Was he famous in a sphere of which I had no knowledge? Or just attempting to start a friendly game of “State the obvious” with me? No, I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know who the kid in front of me, who’d just boarded the streetcar balancing a skateboard and a heavy-looking ceramic gnome, was either. He didn’t know who I was. That’s pretty much an intrinsic property of a group of random strangers!

“You heard of the Rankin Family?” Well yes, I had. “I’m Jimmy.” He offered his hand, thumb-up, to shake, which I did. A dim sense of other-worldliness began to overcome me – sort of like you feel when watching a documentary about the desert or the Great Barrier Reef on the Discovery Channel.

“Well, nice to meet you,” I said, rather primly despite the newly introduced celebrity factor. It all seemed a little too brazen, too forthcoming, too ridiculous. What kind of famous person was he anyway, talking to me on a streetcar just like that? Then again, I had started it, asking for the time. This was the sort of chance exchange that could spark this inspiration for a song. Maybe I’d just been in Toronto too long to appreciate this type of man-of-the-people musician. Despite my boasts to the contrary, that urban mass-of-humanity malaise had started to overtake me.

I looked at him a little more closely. He had a face of tanned leather, standard issue for a musician I suppose, a salt-and-pepper brushcut and lively green eyes. He was kind of hot, yes, in a Bruce Springsteen kind of way.

“Have you heard my new CD?” Well, no I hadn’t. “I’m going up to Indigo to get it right now. You should come with me.”

“Ah, no, thanks. I’ve got a hair appointment.” My engaging smile was back, all the better to pretty up this fleeting encounter, like foam on the stormy Atlantic. I was determined to be gracious and look the part of a deserving muse.

“Well, why do you need to do anything to your hair? It looks just fine.” He said it nicely, though, like a little boy who doesn’t understand why his pretty mommy would ever need the enhancement of makeup.

“Ah, but I have an appointment,” I said, deflecting the compliment and finding myself relieved to have something concrete to cling to as an acceptable excuse for not being a more flexible and attentive fan. Yes, I did have an appointment. Just how late was I now? Shit! Couldn’t very well trouble Jimmy Rankin to look at his watch to indulge my poor time-keeping skills again! Now my cell phone said 12:41, and that had been 2 minutes faster than his watch, so that would make it 12:39, add 5 minutes to walk up to the salon from College…

My thoughts were interrupted by the streetcar conductor’s voice announcing the Bay Street stop.

I stood up and smiled at Jimmy. “Well, take care. Enjoy yourself in Toronto, this is my stop.” A graceful exit from an inspiring stranger. He’d begin describing my hair in the first verse, then move onto my eyes…

“It’s my stop too,” he said, getting up to reveal creased jeans and tattooed inner forearms. “Mind if I walk with you?”

We descended the stairs in silence and crossed over the street, me walking just ahead of his loping stride at my elbow. It felt like he was going to walk right into me, like his imposing presence could have pushed me straight into the high brick wall of the Mutual Co-op building. Must be quite something to see on stage, I thought to myself.

“So I’d really love to take you out sometime, if you’d let me,” he said casually, turning to pierce me with his eyes. He continued without waiting for me to speak.

“There’s this place on Lawrence where you can get the best oysters. Honestly, the only place to get oysters in this city.”

“Well,” I hesitated, unsure of how to turn him down delicately. Famous or not, and whether or not it was Love he had on his mind, the only part I was interested in was the Fare Thee Well. My inner alarm bells were wailing, tweaked by his disconcerting persistence and weirdly intrusive body language. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” His question was valid from his point of view, I could see. He’d done nothing offensive. He was reasonably interesting and had no objectionable body odour. He might have been slipping toward my dad’s age bracket as opposed to mine, but he was an interesting celebrity type person with an open heart and a poetic soul. Who was I to judge the outer foibles of the situation? To write him off for being old? To assume nefarious intentions on his part? Person meets person, they agree to have dinner together. It happened all the time on breath mint commercials therefore, reasonably, in real life. Why didn’t I just go with the flow?

“Do you have to ask your daddy?” he asked with a grin. Wow, how did he know he was thinking about my father? I thought with amazement. Then I realized that he was challenging my autonomy and my bravery – poking fun at me for being the little girl who looked to others to make her decisions. Well I wasn’t! Well, damn, that means I have to give him my number! Oh well, just the cell phone won’t hurt. I can throw it over a ravine if he persists in calling too much.

“No, certainly not!” I snapped a little as I said this. I didn’t want him to know how effectively his query had slain my defense. And the salon was coming up on the right, glinting darkly in the sun as the cars slid in and out of the semi-circle driveway.

“Well, I suppose we could,” I agreed, turning to smile at him to regain the advantage I had lost.

“Great, what’s your name?” Jimmy asked rather jerkily. It hadn’t occurred to me he didn’t know it.

“It’s Tiffany,” I told him haphazardly. The charm didn’t matter now. The transaction was already finished. He’d already won.

He handed me a small black patent faux crocodile address book open to the T page, on which he’d scrawled my name. My eyes skimmed upward and I saw the same sloppy script had already penciled (pencil? Who uses pencil?) Tammy, Tonya and Talia above me, with 416 numbers beside them. Evidently Mr. Rankin was on a bit of a tear in our fair city! But the benevolent muse in me kicked in once more and stomped my envy-ridden twinge into the ground. Of course he was expected to co-mingle with his fans! Anything less would be unacceptable. I wrote my cell number in the cutest numbering possible while balancing a tiny book while walking along the street. He would compose the third verse about my outstanding multi-tasking ability.

“All my friends,” he told me, eyes twinkling.

“Of course,” I smiled warmly and stopped. We were standing at the foot of the Sutton Place Hotel’s laneway. “Nice to have met you, Jimmy Rankin,” I said, offering a handshake to pre-empt the hug or kiss.

“You too, Tiffany. I will be in touch,” he said slowly, looking me directly in the eye.
“Okay,” I stepped over the curb and onto the grass in front of the hotel, wondering if he were speaking the truth, and wondering how it was that I had managed to feel that I’d just been tricked.

(Part II coming soon!)

A bittersweet anniversary

2005-01-25T18:45:00.000-05:00

Today marks the one-year anniversary of the theft of my car. My first car. My baby. My Lucinda.

I got her on a 3-year lease at a ridiculously cut rate from my uncle, and the first time I saw her she was already mine. We struggled gamely through the trials of ragged serpentine belts, cracked battery leads, and in-the-city fender benders - but things were mainly rosy. She had enough pep to get me out of the path of the transport trucks when I had to, she never ever failed to start and never ran out of gas no matter how low I let the needle float. And then one morning she was gone.

The first thing I remember was the utter stupification I went through upon seeing an empty parking space. A thick smooth blanket of snow under utter emptiness. I literally rubbed my eyes. Then I mentally ran down all the possibilities - I'd parked it somewhere else, someone had borrowed it, I was dreaming! - before calling the police and my insurance company.

A cute young cop (whose name I think was Troy but who shall otherwise be known as CYC) showed up at my door within half an hour, and I pushed aside newspapers and backpacks and unwrapped Christmas presents so that he could sit down on my futon. It would have been kind of a charming first encounter were it not for my totally disconcerted state. CYC asked me to show him where the car was; my quick wit in responding 'no, but I can show you where it was' amazed me! He gave me a lift to the car rental place, letting me sit in the front seat (which I was later told is a sure sign he was totally into me, as civillians aren't supposed to be allowed to do that - it's possible that the person who told me that was making fun. Can anyone confirm or refute this?).

Other than the CYC's lovely dimples, this part of the story is completely unremarkable. It was two weeks later that the real story begins.

I had grown used to the idea of Lucinda as a possession of the world; I was to be compensated by my insurance company therefore would sustain minimal financial loss. She had been returned to the free market and was perhaps in a position to grant shelter to some who may not have otherwise had it during those bitterly cold winter weeks. Seriously, I was weirdly calm and Lennonesque about the whole thing, and I looked forward to a better day with a newer car. But they did find her, and when I went to see her in the pound she was a sad sad sight. Both air bags deployed, windshield shattered, front fender crumpled. She had been run into a parked car and abandoned in Mississauga. Then I felt it: all at once, the aching sadness at the heartlessness (from neediness, I knew even then, which made me feel even worse) of some, the stomach queasiness at imagining the crash, the blaze of anger for the violation of my property.

(Through an increasingly strange chain of events, my car was eventually fixed by a guy named Frank for an amount approximately $1000 in excess of the actual value of the car. Don't get me started. If you think doctors are the reason your auto insurance premiums are so high, think again.)

Upon further inspection of my battered baby I found she had several unexpected new features. A nifty black screwdriver had been added to my glove box for all my on-the-road handywoman needs. The cigarette lighter and the radio's tuner dial had been removed for my convenience. AND all my belongings (soccer cleats, blanket, sleeping bag, running shoes, trivial pursuit) had been shifted from the backseat to the trunk. To this day this cheers me up; my car was absconded by such thoughtful scoundrels! (I am not making this up).

Next I noticed a 416 phone number on a ripped piece of the cover of a joint-rolling-paper case with the word 'Michelle' scrawled beside it. Evidently my Lucinda was not the only new lady friend the thieves made on their ill-gotten joyride! (still not making it up).

My CD's were gone (a small HMV wallet full of Jewel, Shakira, Beyonce, Paul Simon) but on the front seat sat a completely different wallet FULL of discs. There must have been 60 in there. Limp Bizkit, Alice Cooper, AC/DC, Tool, Ozzy Osborne - the faithful were all assembled.

(I was darkly curious about who the Maureen was that created the compilation 'Maureen's music' with all the Amanda Marshall, Jann Arden and Blind Melon its little plastic body could carry, and how she came to be hanging out with these metal-head ne'er-do-wells. And did she know about Michelle?)

Upon further inspection of the CD collection, I found that the thief's tastes subtended a few different genres. Beyond the modern metal I'd first noticed there were legends: Zeppelin, The Clash, Dylan and Hendrix, lots of Hendrix. There were the old school country rock stylings of Neil Young, CSNY, the Byrds. And Eminem, 50 Cent, Dr Dre, Bob Marley, Cypress Hill: clearly there was a penchant for spliff tunes too. I toyed with the idea of constructing a psychological profile based on the assembled music collection, but I fear the result would inadvertantly end up being painful autobiographical.

Now, my thirst for new music is absolutely unquenchable. Finding an awesome brand new band is my all-time second favourite thing in the whole entire world. So this should be a windfall right? Well, sort of. A bunch of the discs were too scratched to play through, and I felt sort of weird about trying to listen to the bands that I knew nothing about. It was like I resented the artists themselves for the theft and all the shady aftermath (ha ha ha).

But there was one saving grace, one exquisite gift, one diamond in all this rough. Among the discs full of snarling guitars and unmelodious melodies, I found the incomparable hip-hop gangsta stylin's of the lads from NY, the bad boys of hip-hop rock, the three MC's and one DJ, the ones who are known to let the beat - - - nnnn-deeerawwwwp! The Beastie Boys. YEAH.

Now I adore the Beastie Boys with an ardour I can only partially explain. And before I found Lucinda all schmucked up like a sandwich in a swimsuit I only knew their big radio tracks...Fight for your right, Girls, Brass Monkey...in my now-learned opinion, nowhere near their best.

So today's anniversary not only the of the loss of the innocence of my poor Cavalier, but also the beginning of my supreme Beastly enlightenment. Now that's an event worth celebrating.

I'm from Walkerton

2005-01-24T14:35:00.000-05:00

...and if you're Canadian you probably know what that means. Don't drink the water eh?

Well, yeah. Except it's been nearly 5 years since the outbreak (of E coli from an improperly fixed well, a massive rain storm and a tangle of factors including insufficient chlorination of the water that killed 7 people and sickened some 2,300 - for those just tuning in)

And I haven't found a cheerful way to spin the subject yet. It was awful and many people still suffer. But I will relate my words in hopes that it will make us all think about it. For though the book is closed on the inquiry, jail sentences have been set, and most people think of it as over and irrelevant, from my perspective that is far from the case.

Even the most embittered and devastated E. Coli survivor would agree that if the citizens of Walkerton had one voice, it would wish that no other town ever go through what they did. A thorough root cause analysis is necessary to understand the origins of the disaster, which we clearly have to do if we want to make lasting changes that will truly prevent something like this from recurring.

The correct verdict for the implicated peons (in this case the Koebel brothers, though it could be argued that it could have been anybody) is certainly important, but equally necessary though less obvious, is an analysis of the system as a whole. This is the only way to serve and protect the people whose interests require tending well into the future.

To explain why my brain goes that way, let me switch into a work analogy. Our mandate, as a company, is to send a prescribed number of geronimators (a hypothetical widget invented by a friend of mine) with no impermissible defects to our customer on a daily basis. We have a set companies who set us the components (collectively known as a supply chain) and set of inspection procedures, errorproofing measures, machinery and operators (collectively known as a process) designed to help us achieve this mandate.

Let's say a screw on one of the clamps on one of our inspection machines comes loose and wedged on the face of the clamping pad. Now the screw is positioned so that it imprints each geronimator housing with a little dint. (This is an impermissible defect according to one customer, but another would likely let it pass. So here we have the concept of the relative nature of a given standard - not exactly my point, but definitely worth considering in the overall scheme of defective product identification). The dinted product continue running through the assembly line. The dint compromises the seal on the leak testing device on our assembly line, but the volume of air escaping is sufficiently small that each unit still receives a 'pass' signal from the machine. The dint is undetected by the unloading person's visual check, who is busy looking for a different defect on a different part of the geronimator.

Now the dinted product is being loaded into the carry totes by the thousand, and being shipped to Illinois to be assembled onto engines at the customer's plant. The first 500 dinted units are unpacked and assembled there without notice, but when the first dinted geronimator hits the equipment that tests the leak rate of the whole engine, each begins to fail. Customer workers stop their assembly process and discover the dint on the product that we shipped to them, and pronounce it the root cause of the failure. Several things now happen:

1) Sorting: a) Customer workers begin a manual inspection of all product in stock at their facility to determine whether they have the same defect.
b) Our workers begin a manual inspection of all product in stock at our facility to determine whether they have the same defect.

2) Containment: Appropriate measures are taken to separate good pumps from bad pumps.

3) Charging: We are charged for the labour involved in 1a) and b), 2 and sometimes an additional fee. (For GM it is $10K automatically for a new Quality issue).

4) Root Cause Analysis and Elimination: We analyze the defect and brainstorm on where it could have been created. We perform a check on the assembly line, find the loose screw and tighten it.

5) Systems Review: We assemble a team of process experts to investigate the root of the problem to ensure it never happens again. This team would examine such questions as: Why did the screw come loose in the first place? Why did we select that type of screw? Where was the vibration coming from that made it loosen? Why wasn't the loose screw detected? Why wasn't the dint detected by the leak tester on our assembly line? Why wasn't the dint visually detected by the operator? Was there not sufficient lighting? Not sufficient time? then follow up to correct them. Through this we might learn that the operator should have caught the defect, that the leak tester's parameters were mis-set, that the maintenance mechanic's failure to do preventive maintenance on the assembly line that day resulted in the screw coming loose. Most often, a combination of factors is found to be the root cause of the problematic outcome.

6) Documentation and Analysis: The findings of 4 and 5 are written down and communicated to the customer. They are interested in 5 more than 4. The findings are also reviewed periodically within our company to allow designers of new processes to avoid similar issues in the future.

If we had a nurse or development worker in this conversation, he/she might automatically gravitate toward #1,2: emergency relief, getting the problem under control. My lawyer friend Sean's concern rested nearly solely on finding the right sentence (punishment fit for the crime) for the responsible party - which makes sense, since he comes in on #3. As a Continual Improvement/Manufacturing Engineer, I am chiefly involved in #4, 5 and 6, so I switch into that gear automatically when considering any problem.

There are always new product flowing out the door; regardless of what the problem was, it needs to go away. After the old tap fixtures are being disinfected and the E coli-stricken are released from being cared for in hospital (#1, 2), the wrong-doers are sentenced (#3) and the issues are probed in a public inquiry (#4). Unavoidably, new water is soon flowing through the taps. The only way to guarantee (or maximize the chances) that the water is safe is through rigourous and extensive and blameless and tireless pursuit of #5. Then make sure everybody knows about it, all the angles, in #6.

To these last steps, determining who's responsible is only useful to the point that now we now how to fix it - and determining which consequences are appropriate is only useful to the point that their administration truly prevents the problem from recurring. This is the frame of reference from which I approach the situation, and the basis on which I base my fear: focusing on Stan and Frank Koebel is the equivalent of yelling at the operator who missed the dint and closing the investigation right there. It provides us no safety, no comfort, no real solace because there no assurance that it will not occur again. The screw could vibrate right out of the machine again and the ride begins anew - with a different schmuck taking the fall, but no real progress made. And to me, both as a citizen of Walkerton and a citizen of the world, that outcome is simply unacceptable.

How to live with lions

2005-01-24T13:17:00.000-05:00

It’s exhausting to live with your passions on the line. This I have determined after three days of sleep deprivation, all-night sport playing, consciousness-altering play-watching, and trying-not-to-be defensive letter-writing.

Living in your passions can feel like living next to lions. They’re spectacular to look at and inspiring and amazing to be around when the going’s good, but when there’s blood in the air, they can bite you – hard – without so much as a hint of a chase. Because you’re right there, sleeping beside them. The dearness of your craving makes you as vulnerable as a baby.

So you correct for it…you put armour on the baby. The armour of cynicism, mask of satire, the protection of self-deprecation. Or, you’re like me, the catharsis of outward creative expression (which has a mix of all three). But, like so many of life's unexpected conclusions, the vulnerability is actually strength. We're talking titanium. And the lions are actually no match for you once you've really made up your mind.

Rules for the symphony

2005-01-21T11:21:00.000-05:00

Peter Oundjian is so hot. He’s the quintessential hottie old guy. The way he moves those hands to bring in the violas, the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles the way he says exactly what he wants so cleverly and understatedly. The way he’s genuinely excited that next year would have been Mozart’s 250th birthday. That’s so hot.

Anyway, for those uninitiated to the ways of the symphony, I would like to present a set of tips for the survival of all those involved.

1) If you’re an audience member, do not clap between movements. Save it all for the end of the piece, when you should clap for a minimum of 124 consecutive seconds (nope, not exaggerating – I timed it).
2) If you’re a guest soloist, shake hands with the lead violinist a minimum of 3 times before commencing your performance. Repeat as necessary after your performance until people stop clapping (see #1).
3) If you’re in the symphony and a member of the string section, wave your bow in a vertical, rhythmic yet jaunty manner to indicate your appreciation for the guest soloist. Continue in this fashion until your wrist breaks off or until people stop clapping (see #1).
4) If you’re the conductor, make witty remarks about the anachronistic nature of the cell phone in this particular piece. Oh, and be extremely hot.

Oh, he's into me all right!

2005-01-18T21:23:00.000-05:00

Well, I can't hope to approach the razor-sharpness of the analysis of this blogging demi-goddess but I will throw my two cents on the pile o' small change amassing atop the 'He's just not that into you' concept.

While I can agree with specific cases in which the 'surrender and release' approach that applying that maxim would yield is the correct one, I just can't reconcile myself to HJNTIY's intrinsic merit, nor its categorical usefulness.

The whole premise is based on a set of 'men are like this, women are like that' assumptions that completely fail to accurately illustrate the subtle variegated colours of the human condition. As I said, these broad strokes may prove useful on certain occasions, but I am uncomfortable using them as a rule. Have you read The Rules? Same condescending, superficial thing, wearing a shinier coat. But still ugly. And mean! Like your fairy godmother after a week-long bender.

I did a little more reading and any pitch that begins with the statement 'men run the world' is bound to strike any self-respecting empowered young woman (who may or may not identify as a feminist for reasons that will not be discussed here) as at least a tad problematic.

On a more personal note, I am uncomfortable with the idea that not only am I responsible for interpreting my own feelings and acting accordingly - I am now responsible for his as well? Not only that, I am required to interpret any wrinkle in our interaction in the most negative way possible. Where is understanding, self-assurance, faith in this equation? Am I now to write off, for example, friends who don't return my calls? Acquaintances who happen to have not responded to the last few emails I sent them? Do I have to bin them as well? This principle has the possibility for eroding connections with corrosive speed.

One final point - remember the episode where Miranda hears about 'He's just not that into you' and uses it on a first date when the guy doesn't answer the second she extends an invite for a post-dinner coffee? She feels liberated - like hey, I get it - you're just not that into me. Turns out his hesitation was related to gastric discomfort, nothing more. By prematurely assuming that his actions 'meant' something, she wrecked the possibility for a further connection with a potentially very desirable (albeit gassy!) man. Building walls may be tempting, but it's just ultimately not that helpful.

In summary, I believe this whole wave to be about men getting a little touchy about the fact that they are not the infallible, unflinching, knights of the round table (that they think we want them to be) when it comes to matters of love and dating. They are saying 'Hey, back off! Go back inside your own head and leave us alone with our (perceived) inadequacy - here's some more grist for the mill of your insecurities!'. Nasty stuff, really.

Girls, I urge you to consider swapping 'he's just not that into you' for one of my proposed alternative mantras below. Your actual dating MO may not actually change post-swap, but the huge distinction lies in our own hearts, and in how much we love ourselves. And that, my friends, makes all the difference. To quote my good friends Morcheeba - 'Think for yourself and forget all the hype'.

He's into you, he just can't handle you
He's just not that smart
You're just not that into him
It's got nothing to do with you!

Partyin' like a rock star

2005-01-17T12:48:00.000-05:00

Oh my lord, the situation...gets the better of us all.

(lyric from track 1 of self-titled album of 'The Greater Good' - debut album of pet project of friend of friend James...the release party was this weekend. His stuff's good - totally acoustic courtesy on Friday of a broken string in the first set - and rather like a Blue Rodeo-Leonard Cohen hybrid, though whenever my friend Matt's backup vocals show up on the CD, the sound becomes decidedly more Sloan. A little downtempo, heady lyrics, endearing country twang...)

Let's make f*ck.

(lyric from opening band 'Run with the Kittens', whose bigger, tighter, more raucous set upstaged the main act by some accounts. Me, I knew where my loyalties lay, but I did get into this band, if you know what I mean. Pretty hard not to like an act fronted by a Tiny-Tim double, replete with crutch, who swears like a sailor and covers 'Kokomo' and 'Ghostbusters' with equal ease...)

I found the whole experience both inspiring and disconcerting.

On the one hand, you have the poetry of the creation, the sheer bravery of the creators in sharing their creation with all present. There's beauty where idea meets action, and there's triumph in besting the doubts within to make good on those possibilities. And there's magnificence in the details - the anatomy of how it all comes to be. Not steel and aluminum, but chords and rhyme and a thousand tiny points of inspiration form this product; its components add up to something greater than the sum of its parts. Whether you enjoy the flavour of the end result is sort of irrelevant; it's magic that it happens at all.

On the other hand, there's a separation between those who live in this world and those who visit it on weekends (or when their friends happen to be releasing a CD, for example). I can wax eloquent on this scene and this process because it's a choice for me. It's a trip. I'm a kid in a museum, running from the lions to the iguanas to the Egyptian tombs, pressing my little nose to the glass and pointing excitedly. What's that? Why does it do that? Where did you get the idea to sing about barbarians? Can I carry your mandolin to the cab?

I had the pleasure of hanging out with some of RWTK after the show, and they're nice boys. Seriously, nice boys. The nicest screaming cursing Elvis-shades-wearing boys ever to brandish a crutch and a sword on-stage. The disconcerting bit came with TGG's James' words: 'Well, [the one I was talking to] will never marry you...that's for sure'. Clearly this was a ridiculous statement as one doesn't wish to possess the lions and the iguanas and the Epytian tombs, only to absorb them and admire them (maybe stroke them, just a little...). But his words tripped up the enthusiastic kid in me.

My knee was skinned on the uneven asphalt of the realization that my pure admiration and artistic curiosity may be perceived as something else, something sad. Was Kate Hudson kidding us in Almost Famous when she said that female admirers of a band could be something more like muses - robust, gracious, important - than groupies - open legs, starry eyes, empty soul?

But I had a great time at the show - all 10 hours of it. The precision, the inspiration, the playfulness were thrilling to be around. And I learned a lot. James (TGG) wore mascara to define his eyes under the lights at Clinton's, giving him this delightful Freddy Mercury air. James and Nate (RWTK) discussed the execution of their show with an attention to detail and intimacy not to be expected of two heterosexual males. (I'm all about the embracing of the feminine aspect...{melt}!)

And, in arguably the high point of my fledgling groupie career, I did ask where they came up with their name. Unfortunately, I can't remember what the hell they said.

The glory of schmaltz

2005-01-14T13:49:00.000-05:00

My friend Graeme has the craziest taste in music. He made me a compilation CD full of all kinds of cool kind of Brit-pop sounding bands, which I ate up like a kid with a fresh rice krispy square, of which am still learning the names so that I can be cool like Graeme. But he also, without explanation or warning, injected some songs of marked contrast.

Parents' music. Groaner music. The types of music any self-respecting hipster would be afraid admit to anyone they liked, let alone owned. The Supremes, ABBA, Aaron Neville, The Band (okay, The Band is kind of cool due to their earthy folk-blues roots and their association with Doctor John, early Joni Mitchell, Aretha Franklin and touring with Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead on the Festival Express, but my point remains). The kind of bands that Rob, Dick and Barry of the fictional Holloway Records would file under 'will be shot come the revolution'. (Note, I wish there was an imdb equivalent for books - because much as the Cusack movie is amazing, the book is even better).

But Graeme is a fearless advocate of the type of music I'd file under 'guilty pleasure'. He slips the schmaltz right in beside the grit without even making fun of himself for it. He's even a little bit defiant about it. Up with Chicago, he says. You like Bob Seger, right on. (For the record, I do). Though he possesses all the trappings of the music snob (great sound system, massive CD collection, Beckhamesque faux-hawk, drives a black mini), Graeme is an advocate of the Music For the People.

Maybe it's his membership in the community of musicmakers (he writes and records his own stuff, which sounds to me more like REM, Bob Dylan and the Pixies than the Beach Boys and Captain and Tenille, if you want to know the truth) that explains his refusal to turn up his nose. Whatever the case, I'm going to try to emulate his attitude. It's definitely tougher to light a candle than to curse the darkness. It's definitely easier to criticize than to contribute.

I'm going to start by putting his compilation on repeat!

Being inappropriate

2005-01-12T20:57:00.000-05:00

We all have them: moments when you realize you've stepped over the bounds of the respectable. With your last utterance or gesture, you left behind your allies. It is now you against the room. Maybe even the world. You will be lucky if you escape this situation with a thread of dignity, let alone an amiable social rhythm. You are guilty of Being Inappropriate.

No? Lost you, have I? Well, I guess it's only me then. I'm beginning to see I may have extrapolated this particular monster from the tiny fibres of my imagination, but that doesn't make its roar any less terrifying. I suppose it all began back in Grade 11...

I was a model for the fashion show being put on by the textile class. And I'm not miles tall or bombshell gorgeous or anything, (though I was sort of in receipt of an decent advance from the Adolescent Endowment Fairy, if you catch my drift) but I had made the dress myself and frankly they needed anything they could parade down the shoddy little plywood runway they'd had the shop class fashion (no pun intended!) for them. So there I was, strutting down said runway in my knee length red taffeta at 2 pm on a Tuesday afternoon. Absolutely freakin' terrified.

Music pulsing. Gym lights flushing like a Much-music video dance party. Students cheering. I don't actually remember any of these elements, but I'm sure they were present. No, but I do remember the feeling of catching one of my male classmates' eye as I rounded the corner. My dress had flown up around my waist for an ever-so-brief, but ever-so-long second. And he, and every one of my male English classmates who were seated in the non-strip-joint equivalent of Pervert's Row, saw me. Saw everything.

A combination of the light flouncy material, the acuteness of the angle at which I was viewed and my overly nervous quick turn was later found to be responsible for the devastating incident. But the damage was done - it was all over the school. I was eager, desperate even, for attention and I had done in on purpose. I was (among other things not-so-graciously provided by the bathroom wall) a SLUT.

There followed many teary days where I wondered over the incident, smiled through the jokes. Did I mean to do it? Was I bad? Of course I rebounded and went on to laugh, smile, bake cookies, have boyfriends...but there's a part of it that's never left me. I was 15, a virgin of the most earnest and scrupulous variety, not nearly corrupt and decadent enough to be an exhibitionist or nymphomaniac (though in the dozen years since I have become much more so!) and I was wearing underwear that wasn't even a thong. Yet in that moment I could relate to the shaming and degradation of a thousand thousand female souls. Standing above those boys on the runway, I was suddenly miles below them. More worthless than dirt. A whore.

So that's what Being Inappropriate is about to me. The experience taught me a profound reverence for the endurance of women through various permutations of sexual persecution. It's also made me pretty intolerant of any form of this type of judgment being visited on any woman, any time, anywhere. My skirt still flies up, so to speak, but I am now smart enough to get what it does and doesn't mean. Most of the time the indictment is harsher from me than from anyone. And since I can forgive myself and the universe for the fact that neither life nor I is perfect, I figure I might as well enjoy the breeze between my thighs.

About this blog

2005-01-12T20:24:00.000-05:00

Well, glad you stopped by. I'll have to begin with props to the spark plug of the inspiration for this blog's name. Hugh's delicious, rambling oeuvre contains the 'Sex and Cash' theory, while avers that no one gets paid to do what they love. This comforts me marvellous much.

And I figure that if you have to name something arbitrarily, you might as well give it a name with some bite. (And if you're going to get flagged for being inappropriate, you might as well do it with a swagger!)

Shouts out to my beautiful brave friend Jenn, whose online eloquence inspired me to put some of my own musings online. It feels differentto address the massif of cyberspace instead of the inside of my diary or a captive audience of people who have to love you no matter how boring/sappy/odd/geeky/long-winded you are. Scary different...good different.

The song I had in my head today was 'Black and Blue by Haywire - remember them? You gotta have a lot of attitude to handle hailing from Green Gables country...