I Want to be a Writer

There has never been a time in my life when I didn't want to be a writer. Plenty of times when I didn't think I could but never a time when I didn't want it. My problem is, though, actually putting myself out there. I write a lot. I've got enough so that if, god forbid, anything happened (oh my, how far I've come from suicide-watch 2010! Hurray!) there'd be enough for a meager posthumous collection, but I do nothing with those stories except fret over them for months before abandoning them to the ethers of my hard driver.

So, how do I become more ambitious or motivated or less terrified of failing? For real, I need help, advice, mentoring, some sort of sadist to push me past my limits. And until someone says, "I will lead you, Alex, I will kick your ass into gear!" I am going to have to work on it on my own. Fortunately, another one of my personality traits is that once a gauntlet is thrown I will do anything to make that shit happen. Exhibit A, reading War and Peace until my eyes crossed and I got a migraine because I was in a race to finish (full disclosure: I took up the non-existent challenge when my friend said he was giving himself a month to read the thirteen hundred page behemoth).

Now, I'm issuing another challenge to myself and, with you all as my witnesses, my ego (the same ego that assumes that A) people are reading this blog and B) that you, possibly imaginary, readers care) will not allow me to drop this one. I am going to submit every story I write, repeatedly if necessary, until I either get published or drop dead from heart break over my failure.  

Wish me luck!

Fun Times Over at Once Again, to Zelda

Mosey on over to Once Again, to Zelda all new and shiny and with giveaways!

Stop Calling it a Ground Zero Mosque and Start Calling Out Islamophobia

Ordinarily, I try to stay out of the crazy politics of America. I admit that I followed the last election with glee because of that lovable Mama Grizzly train-wreck, Sarah Palin, but for the most part I try to remember that I'm Canadian and there is really absolutely nothing I can do (besides, we have our own dictator-style government to worry about).


But, I do consider an article written by a Canadian, for a Canadian newspaper fair game. Today, Rosi DiManno of the Toronto Star threw in her two cents on the whole hyperbolized "ground zero mosque" quagmire. She believes (like the Harry Reids, Newt Gingrichs and everyone's favourite crank, Glenn Beck) that just because they (that inflammatory, exoticisation of any one not white and middle-class) have the right, doesn't mean it's right. And the earth spins a little faster, fueled by an overwhelming self-righteousness. You see, they are not Islamophobes, nooooooo, they just think Muslims shouldn't rub it in American's faces that they have a right to their religion.


Aside from the obvious, rational, logical and, well, smart reasons that building a Islamic community centre two blocks away from where fringe radicals committed a horrifying act of terrorism isn't a slap in America's collective face (um, I think I actually just listed them anyway), the best part of this article is where DiManno writes off that racist, hateful piece of human garbage, Pastor Jones (the fuckwit who proposed burning Qurans as a measured response to the Cordoba House) as a fringe radical who isn't representative of the rest of America. "If such vast opposition has not always been articulated well and too much attention focused on the most fringe elements of ignorant bigots — especially that ridiculous Florida pastor who threatened to torch the Qur’an — this stubborn swell of resistance can’t be brusquely dismissed as Islamophobia."


Wait a second, so a few (ha!) racists in America who hate Muslims and want to burn their holy book shouldn't be held up as typical, ordinary Americans? Then why the fuck are we judging an entire religion by the actions of a radical minority? Paradox!


It is painfully obvious that Republican politicians are using this polarizing issue for political gain (crazy? I know!) because it is an issue that is not only up for debate (zoning was approved ages ago) but the two politicians who should actually have a say, President Obama and Mayor Bloomberg, have both backed the project. Not to mention that the people who were most affected by 9/11 and who will be most affected by Cordoba House, Manhattanites support the plan by 53%, with a luke warm 31% opposed.


A couple of years ago, my imaginary best friend, Sarah Vowell, was on the Daily Show and basically summed up what has always rubbed me the wrong way about the right-wing's treatment of 9/11: "They wrap themselves in our attack and then they leave and talk about what snobs we are...If the East Coast Is American enough For Al-Qaeda, It should be American enough for them."


Some wack-job dude in Florida, as well as all those Fox news "pundits" should not get to co-opt a non-existent rage on behalf of those liberal elite that they so hate. Same goes for Canadians who beg the whole not to be judged by the actions of a few crazies but condemn millions of people based on the actions of a few... crazies. 

Pa's Life Part One: Riding the Rails

My grandfather, Howard Jamieson, did more with his eighty-three years than most people could accomplish in three lifetimes; he did so much that it actually seems more folk-lore than actually possible, truly the stuff of legends. It really doesn't matter if it is all true or if there are exaggerations here and there because these stories were, are the essence of Pa; they illustrate his personality, his dreams, the life he lived.

Pa was an only child, a late gift to his mother and father; they were an inseparable trio and if his parents, my great-grandparents, had ever promised a higher power that they would shower their child with love and adoration in return for said child then they kept up their end of the bargain until their last days. There was a story told at Pa's funeral last week of his childhood friend getting up early, completing two paper routes, mowing the lawn and getting his hair cut before heading over to call on his friend Howard only to be told by my great-grandma that "little Howdy was still sleeping". Spoiled but not rotten.

Pa got kicked out of two high schools, one of which was the same high school that spit Neil Young out a few years later, Kelvin High School. He then (now the exact details, locations, dates and time lines get a little murky) decided to follow his dreams and head down to America to become a boxer. This dream lasted approximately five minutes into his first match, as a spectator no less. Luckily, Pa was a man of many dreams and so after ditching the boxing he legged it down to the racing track (dogs, I think) and was waiting in line to place his first ever bet when a smooth-talking chap wandered up and told him all about a sure thing and well, now he could go on down and place the bet for Pa. Unfortunately, Pa bought this hook, line and sinker and thus our guy was left penniless in a foreign country. Having no other choice, in order to get home Pa hopped the rails and proceeded to be chased from the US by a state trouper; he was told never to return. 

After spending some time as a door to door salesman in Montreal, Pa returned to Winnipeg and did what few high school bad-asses attempt: he got into med-school and became a plastic surgeon. Oh, and at some point between med-school and Montreal he played a season for the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. 

Next: Funtastic Tales and Richard Harris' Nose

And We Liked It!

Tonight I was hanging with my sister at my grandpa's when he brought out a photocopied article from the National Post (gag) that he thought I might like, "I Remember When Music Wasn't Crappy"; a lament on the so-called decline in music since the 1950's, the main example being Nickleback.

Now, I would like to step on Chad Kroeger's throat as much as the next person but come on, as if they are representative of all modern music but that is what people, especially old people, freaking love; they love trotting out the old back in my day statements that tell us yootes how times used to be simpler, nicer, better. I am so exhausted of hearing that crap; you know what, I'm so glad that I didn't have to walk four miles to school everyday, in a foot of snow, uphill... both ways; and I'm glad that music has evolved past the I love you, please love me, love is so great, don't ever leave me lyrics of days of yore.

I wish for once that a in my day rant really told things how they were: Back in my day, women didn't vote, heck neither did African Americans* or Aboriginals* *; we were small-minded and prejudiced; we had segregation and the H-Bomb and the McCarthy witch-hunts and Vietnam; we helped wreck the earth and basically we fucked over just about every group of people except white dudes! And we liked it! 


* Usually one of these rants would use a slightly more, ahem, offensive term for African Americans.
** Ditto, for Aboriginals.

Sundaes on Saturday

On Wednesday evening I had the privilege of bearing witness to my grandfather's last breath. With my grandmother hugging him, my mother holding his hand he opened his eyes for the last time and smiled at my mum before his six year battle with Louie Body Dementia came to a close. A disease that masqueraded as Parkinson's and Alzheimer's and stole his mobility, his memory but never his humour, his love, his dignity, his bravery.

I have had a video playing through my mind since, a continual stream of images and moments of Pa. There I am jumping into bed between him and Barber (Pa is what I christened him as a wee one, Barber for my grandmother Barbara, shortened compliments of my little brother), careful not to land on my brother, sister and who ever else found themselves congregating in the heart of the home.

Now, he is tickling me and giving me whisker burns -- you know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where that dude reaches into the guy's chest, pulls out his still-beating heart and kind of shakes it, grinning? That is my Pa to a T. The rattling jewelry (Pa always wore three watches; two on one wrist, one on the other), the maniacal grin, the slightly crazy eyes; it's a similarity that my brother and I laughed about as recently as last week.

Skip ahead to Christmas morning when I was eleven, thoroughly ensconced in my tom-boy phase; the year when I was determined to be the new Huck Finn. I had been asking for a sling-shot and boy, did I get one. Pa gave me a state of the art, army issued sling-shot complete with metal ball-bearings (which were taken away almost immediately). As soon as the snow melted, he was at the cottage, building me a proper target. I was going to be the best damn shot around.

And now, he is serenading us with Russian sounding gibberish songs, and dancing with Barber, taking a break from the dishes.

And baking a cake with green icing five inches thick for my birthday. I remember that even as a sugar-crazy six year old, feeling that a cake that rich could not be good for me.

And suturing up my brother's head, again and again (Dave was, is a bit of a wild daredevil and he could afford to be with a plastic surgeon for a grandfather).

There we are talking and I am telling him that I will be the first woman in baseball's Major Leagues and he is telling me that he will send me to the best baseball camp in the States (never mind that the camp wasn't for girls). And he wasn't just indulging me, a ten year old who was mediocre at best at baseball (I had only played one season but, oh man, was I obsessed with A League of Their Own and Sandlot), he genuinely believed that I would be the first woman in the MLB.

Our tradition was that we used to go for Sundaes on Saturdays at an old ice-cream parlour called Dutch Maid in Winnipeg where we would indulge in Sundaes the size of our heads.

I have a huge collection of shells and stones from beaches across the globe because on every trip Barber and Pa went on he would walk along the shore specially to pick me up a present. There are shells from the Adriatic and stones from the Dead Sea, the Pacific, the Atlantic, every gulf and bay you could name.

In my mind he is walking up to my grandmother, after disappearing for several hours, with a bouquet of wild flowers, saying "beauty for beauty".

And more recently, at Christmas, seeing him get out of his wheelchair and sprint down the hall because he "felt like exercise". This when a couple steps drained him to exhaustion.

The last time he recognized me was when I visited in April. He looked at my sister and I when Barber told him who we were and he said "oh! But they've gotten so big!"

There are steps at our family cottage, his cottage, on one of the decks that he built specially for me. I was three; the steps are only fit for a toddler yet they end a couple feet short of the ground (actually, a rock-hill that rolls into the water) and so are completely unfit for a toddler.

But that was the way he was, he went full gusto into everything he ever did but always did so with a sense of humour and whimsy. Not everything made sense -- at one point he put huge castor wheels on to all the furniture at the lake and so all the furniture was elevated by a foot -- but he went for it anyway and if nothing else, we his loving, adoring family have a plethora of amazing stories to tell.

It is surreal to imagine the rest of my life without my Pa. He has touched my life so profoundly, shaped so much of who I am that the pain seems as though it will never dull. My tongue doesn't seem to be able to form the word Barber without following it up with and Pa.

Being able to be with him at the end, able to help wash him and wrap him in his and Barber's favourite quilt, able to hold him and kiss him goodbye was the greatest gift I could ever have asked for. And that was all made possible by Barber.

Barber, the love of his life, his wife of fifty years and mother of his four children, kept him in their home. She cared for him when it seemed impossible. She was with him everyday for the past six years, never away for more than a couple hours; there was never the option of him not sleeping in her arms every night. I feel richer in my life for having witnessed their love.

Ah, I am a blubbering mess -- time to go curl up beside my mum -- but there is more to come... So many stories, so many memories and Pa was larger than life, he deserves more than one measly post!




Next post: Riding the Rails, Funtastic Tales and Richard Harris' Nose.

Goddamned Right, It's a Beautiful Day

Today was the first day that I felt grateful to be alive. Fucked up, I know. I don't know why it has taken me so long to feel like I dodged a bullet; I have had plenty of good times since my suicide attempt; lots of pints with friends, the best gig of my life (Flaming Lips, OMG!!!), going to the beach, exploring my city, parties, amazing food, amazing company; but for whatever reason, I kind of took it for granted, kind of even resented that I survived.

Thinking about that day, the overdoes day, is pretty hard both physically (I was a little, ahem, drugged out so it's pretty hazy) and emotionally (for fairly obvious reasons). It's hard to fully accept what happened; what led me to the biggest fuck you, but I know I wasn't myself, I know now that I was in an abusive friendship and that helped spur me along. I know I was angry; I know I was in the deepest possible despair.

Shit, I was so frustrated, still am, with my life. My life, that I have always valued and grabbed ahold of the happiness no matter how small, where that for so long wasn't enough. I don't understand what it is that makes me undateable; or what spurred on a friend to treat me like I was lower than dirt, that I had nothing to contribute to the world. I don't know why my dad brought me up to fear him or why I am here, in Toronto, my home, and not a priority to anyone within a thousand mile radius. This shit sucks. I wish I was successful. I wish I had money. I wish there was someone who wasn't related to me who was thinking about me right now.

Waa-fucking-waa. I am healthy. I am intelligent and I am pretty. I am going to school to learn Latin and Greek and how to dig up bones and why Anna Karenina is relevent. I have amazing tits. I have best friends scattered over the globe and places to stay in Edinburgh and Tirana and Copenhagen. I live in a beautiful city where I can get shwarma until four am and where I have seen some of my most favourite bands ever. I not only get along with my family, both extended and immediate, but I really really like (most of) them. There is an adorable dog who loves to stick her tongue in my mouth. I live in a world where Arrested Development exists and Deadwood and Firefly and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I live in an age where I, a white woman, can be almost as good as a white man (I wish all woman, all people of colour were as fortunate as I am, but right now I'm trying to be grateful for anything I have -- and I plan on fighting until we are all equal). I am glad I learned to read and that I have access to the greatest books of all time. I am so happy that my biggest physical impediment is being a little overweight, something that is completely within my ability to change. I have friends that love me and whom I love. I have friends that when I text them to come for a beer, they show up. I throw fucking awesome parties and I can blow minds with my cooking. I can make people laugh and I, in turn, can laugh with people.

There is so much to give me hope, to make my life worth living and for whatever reason, it has taken me five months to see that. It doesn't mean that tomorrow I will see rainbows or the next day or the next. Tomorrow something might happen and I might look to my wrists longingly but right now, this moment, while I sit at my local with a delicious, cold pint I want to live.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince(ess)

I remember watching Anne of Green Gables as a wee lass and being absolutely enthralled by the friendship between Anne and her best pal, Diana. Anne even had a name for their closeness: bosom friends.

"A bosom friend--an intimate friend, you know--a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will too. Do you think it's possible?"

I dreamt of finding that friend, my own kindred spirit. I had many a best friend growing up but somehow none of those friendships withstood the test of time. There was Cheryl, who considered me her number one as long as no one cooler came along (yes, shockingly, I was never the coolest kid in school); then Ashley, queen of the backhanded compliment ("you'd be so pretty if you let me do your makeup"); the Australian exchange student, Amy; Michaela, to whom I was always her third best friend; Laurel and Deanne, twins, moved away; my first roommate, Lisa, who went all single white female on my ass; and my darling Crystal, who still makes me laugh harder than anyone but is thousands of kilometers away and two kids ahead of me.

Then I met Rebekah, GB, and oh my god, she is my soul twin. I have a sister (an amazing, hilarious, smart, beautiful and wickedly talented sister) so when I say GB is more sister than friend I know of what I speak. We have been joined at the hip for four years: working together, living together, playing together, vacationing together... you get the idea... and now my love, my sister from a different mister, has, just today, moved to Albania. My heart is broken.

GB is one the funniest, smartest, most interesting, most knowledgeable, sweetest, kindest people I've ever met. She also has the best stories I've ever heard and not only does she know how to tell them but even better, she knows when to tell them. She usually will wait until late at night when I am a little, ahem, fevered before launching into yet another lil gem. One half of our other half (our other quarter?), Derek, calls her an onion -- no matter how long or how well you know her there is always another layer to be pulled back.

A few of my favourite layers:

• When she worked at a fashion house in Bucharest under the designer, Jenie.
• The time she lost the toilet paper and her underwear down the outhouse hole in Tanzania.
• Seeing her lost love bird in the mouth of a neighourhood cat.
• Listening and singing along to the Carpenters every morning.
• Working as a clown... for payment in ice cream.

And of course, I have favourite GB moments of my own:

• Furiously hucking Timbits from a speeding car because by day four of driving her patience was wearing VERY thin.
• Singing Shoop, word for word, at every party. 
• Falling asleep on my aunt and uncle's couch and Pique slipping her the tongue. Every time.
• Showing up to work at 7.30 am without having her coffee, wearing her dress backwards. And inside out.
•  Hearing her quiet and meek, "occupied", in a rest-stop bathroom when a woman barged into her stall.
• The fashion show where she pulled a Faye Wray and was carried off by a dude in a gorilla suit. 
• Falling asleep while baking cookies. They did not turn out.

 We have had some pretty good times, ourselves:

• Late night wings and nachos with a Norwegian metal band where the apex of conversation was regarding real-estate in Oslo.
• Learning Ice Cube's You Can Do It together just in case...
• Slumlord/Norman Bates-esque landlords, the Seoks.
• Our mystery guest party when swamp-thing had an impromptu flash-dance in our bathroom. 
• Making our very own saline solution for my contacts from table salt and tap water (I once told that story to a man I was dating and he leaned over, kissed me, and said that at least I was pretty -- shocker of shockers, it didn't work out).

All silliness aside, GB is my bosom friend for reasons other than her incredible storytelling abilities or our constant hi-jinks. She knows me, she loves me, she is there for me one hundred percent no matter what. I am alive because of her. 

When I took thirty-eight too many Tylenols, I wrote two notes: one to my mum and one to Rebekah. And when she got home from work and I was still upright I couldn't bear the thought of frightening her by allowing her to find that note so I told her what I had done and without drama, without hesitation she dragged me outside and got us a cab to the hospital. She held my hand, she rubbed my back while I cried and she told me not to apologize. I don't know if she ever cries over what I have put her through; I can't imagine if our roles were reversed and I had to see the scars on her wrists or the dullness in her eyes; but my strength lies in her ability to put on a calm face. She's so good that when she says, after hearing the exact same hour-long cry for the hundred-billionth time, that just spending time with me is worth it, I believe her.

I could not have pulled through without her constant support: a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board, someone to just tell me it will all be ok.

She has stood by me when I've made mistakes, bad judgement calls and rather catastrophic decisions. Even when I made the same mistake over and over and over and even when those mistakes affected her deeply, she understood and loved me.

She has read every word I have ever written. She has gone out just for Advil and gatorade dozens of times when I've been incapacitated by migraines. She sat in a hospital for four hours last summer when I face-planted off my bike. She has made me a part of her family and herself a part of mine. We speak the same language, often finishing each other's sandwiches, I mean sentences. We have shared our deepest, darkest thoughts and she even listens when I tell her about the dream I had last night.

We are all lucky if we know unconditional love from one or two people, usually our parents and significant others, but how many of us experience that wholly unselfish and unadulterated adoration from a friend?

I am a better person for knowing Rebekah.

Hot damn, I love her and I miss her already, with every fiber of my being.

Read This

GB has written a beautiful piece on Facebook:

"I have reported from war zones in Bosnia, Serbia, Lebanon, and Israel.

But last night's confrontation between peaceful demonstrators and riot squad police was the scariest situation I've ever been in, in almost 30 years of reporting."

-Steve Paiken, the morning after

The most recent account I've heard says that nearly 500 people were arrested yesterday- and another 50 early this morning. I wonder how many more were arrested during the police raids that awoke innocent people at gunpoint and took them away in the middle of the night before the protests on saturday. I wonder how many of these demonstrators were actually responsible for the vandalism that we saw take place yesterday, and how many were peacefully defending their right to free speech. On second thought, I don't wonder that at all - I feel a bad joke in here somewhere- how many black bloc protesters does it take to set a cop car on fire? Not 500, I know that much. And judging by the amateur videos that were taken as people walked up Yonge street, it was a relatively small group of people actually responsible for the so-called path of destruction. The media makes it seem like our city was held hostage yesterday by roaming gangs of thugs, and people watching the images of burning cop cars over and over again from the safety of their homes can say that the police did their jobs, and are justified in the measures taken, because nobody was hurt. (well, except for those peacefully demonstrating who were shot at with rubber bullets and hit over the head with batons and trampled by horse-mounted officers and tasered...) Most of us woke up this morning and had our coffee and turned on the match or whatever. Our daily routines have not been disrupted (unless we planned on getting that coffee from Tim Horton's or Starbucks...) We still have hot water, electricity, phone, Internet and cable tv. We can carry on living our lives in the comforts of a wealthy first-world nation. Our windows were not smashed in by "hooligans". Morning joggers skip over the broken glass in the streets and tell the police officers they're doing a great job as they pass by. The billion dollar price tag on security spending is justified because "it could have been a lot worse." Really? Could it have been worse? I'm looking forward to hearing more first-hand reports of those who were there, and I humbly admit to witnessing the events unfold in real time through Twitter, Facebook and YouTube. But I didn't stay home for fear of what the protesters might do. I stayed home because I did not, and do not trust that the police officers who are supposedly protecting our city will not use unnecessary and even brutal force in order to "maintain the peace." I don't believe the security measures taken yesterday prevented things from getting worse. The police stood back and allowed the small group of people responsible for the property damage to go crazy for the cameras, for the people watching at home. We saw those cars burning for an awful long time, we saw those poor, defenseless American Apparel mannequins get torn apart limb from limb. My heart does go out to independent business owners who had to deal with the aftermath, but then, I'm sure they will find compensation from their insurance companies or the gov't for their trouble. The authorities use language to dehumanize the protesters, calling them "thugs" and "terrorists" They herd peaceful demonstrators into enclosed spaces with no opportunity to escape and then arrest them one by one. They search bystanders and use intimidation tactics to prevent people from gathering lawfully in designated "free speech zones." And then they congratulate themselves for a job well done.

But then, I'm sure the physical violence used against peaceful demonstrators in order to save inanimate objects from further harm was justified. I feel safer, don't you?

The Streets are Ablazin'

The G20 is in town and I have spent the whole day (for reals, from 1 pm, when the protests started, on) glued to my computer, following the live blogs on the Toronto Star, the Globe and Mail and the CBC websites. On each feed, around five or six different reporters have been tweeting their accounts from various front lines across downtown, providing a fairly even-handed, diverse and honest picture of the protests.

I wish I could say the same for the televised news. Shots of windows being smashed and police cars burning were flashed over and over; quotes from politicians flooded in about how shocked they were (shocked, really? It's the effing G20! Not the Teddy Bear Picnic! And you spent nearly a billion dollars on security!); praise to the police for keeping us 'safe' and praise to the politicians for the foresight of added security; live camera feeds of gawkers and tourists well away from the action.

To see the propaganda machine at work was staggering and sobering. Having TV reporters say point blank that the protests were dying down while reading tweets about tear gas being fired made a joke of our news sources. That a few isolated and non-related acts of vandalism (I know a lot of windows were smashed and stores were looted but on the grand scale of the protests, those people practicing black bloc tactics comprised a tiny fraction of the protesters -- a couple hundred to ten thousand plus) made up the bulk of the coverage leaving no time to actually report on the issues being brought forward by legitimate and peaceful protesters (poverty, woman's health, indigenous sovereignty to name a few) is a black eye to Canadian broadcasters.

What especially stuck in my craw were those burning cop cruisers. I am actually too flummoxed to properly summarize so here is my point form What the Fucks:

• Why were the cars abandoned in the middle of the roads?      
• For that matter, why were there cop cars there in the first place? Every officer I've seen in the past week, in every picture posted, in every video not a single one has been in a car. Vans, horses, bikes yes but no cruisers.
• Why, in the videos of the burnings, are there NO cops? There are twenty-thousands in the city right now, millions of dollars worth, and miraculously there aren't any when a frakking car is set afire? I call bullshit. If police are charged with the public's safety then why were people, kids even, allowed to approach burning cars?
• Where were the fire trucks? One of the cars, in front of the Horseshoe, burned for like half an hour! I was choking on the smoke while walking the dogs, hours later, kilometers away. 

I'm no conspiracy theorist but so much of the car burning business seems suspect. 

But I digress... I urge everyone to follow online (check out Steve Paikin's twitter for awesome front line coverage and this for a giggle) for proper accounts of the G20 protests and make up your own minds about what is going on in my fair city. 

And, I still want to address the hundreds of arrests that have occurred at the remaining peaceful protests since police chief, Bill Blair, held his press conference about how they are only arresting known black bloc-ers but for now, I'm just real tired; powerful tired; and my eyes are kinda glazing over from nearly twelve hours of computer screen so I'm going to punch my card.

So long, see you tomorrow.

(picture from the Star)

Iggy Motherfraking Pop

This year marked my fifth consecutive NXNE and although there were no bands that started on the floor but wound up on the ceiling (Monotonix, '08), no King Khan (or BBQ and his ill-fitting turban -- praise be to the gods!), no Derek or Kevin (not a song went by where I didn't long for my favourite sharp elbows) and no four am nachos with the most boring Norwegian death metal band ever (apex of the conversation was regarding rental rates in Oslo) this may just have been the best North by Northeast to date. Bold statement? Yes, but true nonetheless and I have a gahzillion reasons to back that shit up (and a few reasons why it wasn't).

Days: 4

Bands: 25

Kilometers by bike: 48.38

Clubs/Venues: 11

Time spent waiting in line for the island show while listening to some wannabe music nerd talk about

North by Northwest and Dee La Soul and how Nuit Blanche is the biggest festival ever: 45 min.

Times "Losing my Edge" playing in my head while surveying the very young, very cool crowd at
Sneak's and the Dollar on Thursday night: 3

Pints of sweat lost: 4

Pints of sweat poured on me at YDS at Iggy: 4

Percentage of hearing lost: 18%

Beers: My mum reads this!

Arrested Development episodes watched while 'feverish' on Sunday: 16

Hours Mudhoney played: 2

Hours it felt like Mudhoney played: 106

Babies wearing noise-blocking headphones: 3

Wings eaten: 30

On a scale of 1 to 10, how disappointed I was to not talk to Derek McCormack about "The Haunted Hilbilly" at Magpie: 8

Squeegee kid armpits in my face while waiting for the Stooges to come on: 2

Times said armpits were in my face: 17

Minutes spent waiting in line for poutine from the Poutine Machine truck on the island: 15

Words spoken while eating Sneak's wings at four am on Friday between David, Troy, GB and I: 23

On a scale of 1 to 10, how impressed David was by the Les Savy Fav front-man: 12

Times GB was ID'd at Wrong Bar: 2

Times I wasn't ID'd at Wrong Bar: 2

Fights Kendra witnessed while escaping the crush of the crowd at the Stooges: 1

Fights I wanted to start trying to escape the crush of the crowd at the Stooges: 14

Puking teenagers: 2

Degrees in the Garrison: 50

Elaine Dancers (including me): 3

How long I'll be able to brag about seeing Iggy Pop and the (remaining) Stooges: Forever!

Until next year, then...

Would You Believe Me If I Said I Am Happy?

I'm getting better, stronger. Day by day, I am happier and creeping closer to being capital A Alex again. There are lows; lows that are just as debilitating and all-consuming; but those lows are getting shorter and shorter. I don't pretend to hope that one day the lows will disappear all together, but one day I will be able to actually cope with the blinding rage and the killer sadness.

Now that the fog is clearing, I have to survey the carnage, as if I'm a survivor of a tornado picking through the crushed shell of my home for bits of hope. Since all my perceptions have been broken down I can start fresh. I can decide who to have in my life and how much they can have of me; I will wade through all of my attributes and pick and choose what to carry with me and what to discard, or at least I can work at tempering the bad and celebrating the good; I will be able to be what and who I want to be; I will set up support systems so that when I start to fall there is a safety net.

Most importantly, I want to get to a point where I can help others who are going through the hell of depression. I want to tell them that I know, and that there will be relief.

When I Was a Kid, People Said What They Meant... And We Liked It!

There are some things that I really, really want to know. These are things that I feel I should have learned a veeeeeeeeeeery long time ago or rather things I assumed I would have learned a long time ago. I guess a lot of kids ask questions of their immediate elders but sadly, I was the oldest child out of my siblings and cousins; the closest 'kid' was my uncle who is eleven years older than I am and was too imbroiled in the whole moody teenager thing to really offer much guidance beyond dangling me headfirst over the toilet and nicknaming me Poohstain. And so, I was left to figure stuff out on my own. "What things are we talking about?" you ask, "like sex stuff?"Well, my darling reader, sort of. What things I am referring to are assumably (considering the sources) sexual and at twenty-six I'm still confused. And so, here is my list, please be kind and offer me some answers?

1. The whole hemorrhoids thing from Ace Ventura -- How was the lady detective's hemorrhoids the smoking gun for her transsexualism? I don't want to watch the movie again (for fairly obvious homophobic reasons, oh and because I'm not eleven) and I really don't want to throw this out there into google questions.

2. Big Pun's Don't Wanna be a Playa -- You know the song... I don't wanna be a playa no more, I'm not a playa I just crush a lot... What does crush a lot mean? When I was, I don't know, thirteen or so, I freaking loved this song despite not really understanding it, I took it for granted that I'd eventually sort it out. Sure enough I did; the little brown hairs everywhere (gag) part, the rubbing your spot, love bit, the in the hot tub, popping bubbly line I totally get, I'm even familiar with the dangers posed by drinking in a hot tub (broken glass, lower tolerance...) but I just crush a lot? No clue. Does it mean rough sex? Or like a school girl crush? Or is Big Pun just all about smushing cans against his forehead a la frat boy?

3. Wayne's World -- What is a hose beast? A psycho hose beast? When I was a kid I imagined a Seuss-like creature crossed with a garden hose. Terrifying.

4. No Diggity by Blackstreet -- I like the way you work it, no diggity, I gotta bag it up... Bag it up? Put on a condom? Take out the trash? Cover the bed in plastic because there is about to be some naaaaaaasty shit goin' down?

5. Gang Bangers -- I know what gang means and I know that bangers are delicious and to bang is something completely different from enjoying pub food (or is it????) so how come I'm so confused about gang bangers?

6. That Weird Dance Move that is Supposed to Look Like a Spanking -- You know the one, the dude holds one arm at a ninety degree angle in front of him, palm down and the other arm is snapped back and forth under the first arm in a slapping-like motion. I think I'm familiar with the logistics of the move it is meant to mimic but unless these guys are ballin' ghosts then I just don't see how that could possibly work. The charm of most dances I enjoy usually consist of perfectly replicating the act it's meant to be: the grocery cart, the sprinkler, the machine gun, the hypnotized cobra... I'm just quite confused as to the logistics of a) the dance and/or b) the, ahem, act.

7. Vanilla Ice -- I lick your boom boom down? What? I do not dig, well, maybe I do but I don't want to.

There I've revealed my embarrassing list of stuff I should know by now and as a bonus have also revealed my embarrassing suburban upbringing full of dumb movies and faux hip-hop (ok, I totally still listen to No Diggity). Help?

New Blog

Yo, yo. I've just launched another new blog here (hurray for being a lady of leisure!). Not to worry though, I'll still be keeping up this one as well.

Eye Heart Ewe

I was out walking the dogs last night (and no, that is not an euphemism) and realized that in addition to my heart-shaped sunglasses, I was wearing a white skirt with blue polka-dot hearts and a BFF necklace with not one but two little metal hearts dangling on the chain. I had to ask myself, was this an intentional bid to surround myself with love? And then it hit me, Carrie Bradshaw-style, I am surrounded with love. I feel like a complete unappreciative jerk-face, here I am whining about crappy friends when, shit yo, I don't need them! I don't need them because I've got better friends and I've got a huge amazing family and I have to stop pining for something that is unattainable and take full advantage of the love that is being shoved, lovingly, down my throat not to mention give some love back. Recently I had the honour of seeing my name in the acknowledgments of a friend's new fiction book so I figured that although the scale is much, much smaller I'd like to thank the following people for their unwaivering support or for reconnecting with me when I needed it the most or for just being someone that could make me laugh and momentarily forget my problems; I'll just come out and say it, with every cell of my being I love you all.

MB. Shaun. Dave. Pops. Pam. Troy. Mimi. Keat. Barber. Pa. Crys. Auntie B. The extended Struthers clan. Leah. David and his Beyer Brood. The Greasy Fingers: Gary, Rebekah (GB), Derek (Poppa Corn), Kevin (K-Dawg), Andrew (Eagle) and Stephanie (Fat Ma (don't let the name fool you: she's neither fat nor a ma but she does look like a composite of me and GB)). Kendra (nickname undecided). James. Erica. Fjola. Crystal. Ethan. Damara. Sacha. Shaughnessy. Wes. Laurie. Laura. Claire. Nolan and Mina and baby Alex. Emily. Geoff. Jeff. Pat. Kris.  Catharine. Chris (C-Dubs). Lesley. Gillian. Ken. Kyle. Liane. Neale. Puneet. Sandi. Sarah. And all my Indigo peeps (you know who you are: Leo, Sour Cream and Onion ect.! Haha, I'm soooo funny).

I'm sending lots of love via the magical internet.

To New Beginnings

Having moved my blog over from Tumblr to Blogger, I am going to treat this as the spring of What Fresh Hell is This? and start fresh. No more morose, depressing posts; no more tears -- there's no crying in blogging! No crying! -- no more weepy, woe is me, come on everyone slit your wrists with me now kinda writings. Not to say every post will be like traipsing through a field of daffodils but I will do my best to veer away from the essay equivalents of a Velvet Underground song; it's time really start living by my new mantra (courtesy of my bff, Dorothy Parker) you might as well live.
So, I propose a toast to new beginnings: let us all bask in the sunshine of spring, of moving forward and of hope.

Wah Wah

I don’t know how to get through this. I’m trying, I really am, but, not to sound like a quitter, it’s just so fucking hard. I no longer know where the depression ends and I begin, like a whiny, mopey Ouroborus. Even my best friends have grown weary of my tears and the constant ups and downs, offering little more than an exasperated “I don’t know how to help you”.

I was doing so well. I had started jogging and doing yoga. I was writing again. I had gotten in touch with old friends and even made plans to get together them. I started exploring my city a bit more. I found out I was accepted into the classics program at the University of Toronto for the fall semester. Things were really comin’ up Alex. But with every step forward there are two steps backwards.

Slowly, I have slipped back into familiarity; I am an addict and my drug of choice is gloom. 

Despite my staunch atheism, I feel as though I must have done something wrong to deserve this and, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what that was nor can I even begin to figure out how to fix it. 

I feel like going all biblical on this shit and ripping my clothes, tearing out my hair and crying out “why me, God, why me?!”. All I want is the chance to try and turn this frown upside down but every time I start to more shit gets thrown my way. Someone’s gotta be having fun on this roller-coaster because I am not fucking amused.

Or am I doing this to myself? We are each responsible for ourselves; our attitudes; our behaviours. Why should I be any different?

I want to be the best person I can be. I want to be the pillar of strength for everyone around me and I want to be a joy to be with and I want to be missed. I want to be important to people who are important to me. No matter how hard I try to be that person I always come up short. Whether I am expecting too much or whether I am letting people down, there is no reprieve from my failings.

I am so far from perfect I want to die. I make huge mistakes in my romantic life, the kinds of mistakes that if you are quiet in Vancouver you can hear the chorus of “I told you so(s)” from Toronto; I am giving to the point of ridiculous and I expect the same in return; I’m lazy and petty and stubborn, I procrastinate, I am quick to judge, jealousies wreak havoc on my psyche. I have more flaws than space will allow and all of those flaws have played such a powerful role in this depression that it is hard not to imagine them causing it in the first place.

 So, am I selfish and pathetic and weak and stupid or is my life some sort of cosmic joke — a Greek tragedy of good intentions meeting fatal flaws? 

There seems to be no ready answer so I suppose this is going to be one of those cliff-hanger, “tune in next week” kind of deals for you, dear reader, and for me. I know I’ll be waiting with bated breath.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I moved out of my beautiful apartment today. My beautiful apartment with exposed brick, dishwasher and washer and dryer, big backyard with a big deck. My beautiful apartment that my best friend and I had decorated with peacock wallpaper, horse paint-by-numbers, and hundreds of books arranged by colour. My heart is broken.

Our lease is not up for another three and a half months and despite the whole not living there, I will continue paying rent. I’ve made the decision to leave because it was becoming more and more clear that to stay would be putting my mental health and ultimately my life at risk. 

When I moved into the apartment I was doing so with my two best friends. Visions of happy dinners and legendary theme parties danced in my head. There were certainly times of laughter and harmony but unfortunately one of my roommates and I spent most of our time fighting. 

For two years our relationship has oscillated violently from wonderful to horribly dysfunctional. Each time the pendulum swung the effects were much more devastating; that a loving and passionate friendship could in seconds devolve into vicious, rage-fueled confrontations began to erode my own self-worth and shake my confidence. 

How cruel that I must make important decisions now when I cannot even be trusted to keep myself alive. How unfair to my other roommate that I have played a part in filling our beautiful apartment with tension. 

God, I am so angry. So fucking angry. I have tried so hard only to be thwarted at every turn. I wanted to live out the summer eating the tomatoes from the garden and throwing barbecues for all my friends and drinking homemade sangria. I wanted to get through this depression with my relationships intact.

Without the anger I am overcome with debilitating sadness. I am fully responsible for my own bad behaviour; for the role I have played in fracturing my home. I will mourn the loss of my home, of my sanctuary and I will mourn the death of my roommate family.

I want to think that I am being proactive, even brave but all I feel is failure. Couldn’t I have tried harder? Or adjusted my reactions and expectations? I’ll never know but what’s done is done and now I must look forward and take the lessons I’ve learned from this ill-advised partnership. But with the hard-learned lessons come happy memories that one day I’ll be able to look back upon fondly. 

I will miss my friend dearly and even now, after yet another knock-em down brawl that resulted in name-calling and yelling, I can’t imagine life without them. Every person that enters our lives leaves an imprint and there is now a hole in my heart, in my soul that will never be filled.

My Mum Rocks my World

When I was in the sixth grade, I made the high jump team. There were, I think, six or seven girls and I got the last spot. This was a huge accomplishment for me because while I was generally a good athlete and made all the other teams handily, I was terrified of high jump; I had landed one too many times with the bar crushed into my lower spine.

Making the team proved to me that I could overcome my fears and accomplish anything (well, anything an eleven year old could accomplish) so when Colleen Nowatzki beat my winning height three days later after missing the tryouts due being sick and bumped me off the team, it’s not a stretch to say that I was devastated. 

The next day, my mother came to calmly discuss the situation with the gym teacher; not to get me on the team but to alert him to the hurt his decision wrought. And by came calmly to discuss I really mean flew in like a bat outta hell. Poor Mr. Bailey was never the same.

Two things happened that day, I got back on the high jump team and Mama Bear was born and nobody fucks with Mama Bear’s cubs. My brother, sister and I came to expect to hear the high-healed furious clicks down the hallway whenever we had been wronged. 

Mums are great. A good mum is like nine hours of deep sleep or the first hot, sunny day of spring — there is a feeling that anything is possible. I, like all others who have been graced with an amazing mother, have a billion and one stories of kindness, of protection, of selflessness like the time she had to stay up with me all night on my nineteenth birthday making sure that I didn’t have alcohol poisoning despite having to start a new job in the morning. 

But, like I said most people have those kind of mum stories and I need something more to up the ante. There was my sister’s sixth birthday party. My mum had always put huge effort into our parties; themes, homemade pinatas, treasure hunts, costume parties; but for some reason Shauna’s sixth was way more low-key and at one point the party threatened to slip into antsy chaos. So what does my darling mother do? She got out her old saddle and gave all the kids rides. On her back. Now, that is dedication to a cause.

Growing up there was very little money; we were poor, yo; and were never able to go on any sort of vacation that didn’t involve going to our grandparent’s cottage. One Spring break, I think I was eleven or so, my mum decided  that we would have a stay-cation (this was waaay before stay-cations were hip or stay-cation had even been coined). We packed our bags, drove around the city, picked up a pizza and came home to “check-in”. The four of us spent the week sunning on her bed, pretending we were on the beach in Southern France. 

My mum taught Dave, Shaun and I to punch. She would line us up and hunker down and we would take turns punching her in the shoulder all while she gave us pointers. 

My mum used to sing me to sleep every night. Her song of choice: Taxi by Harry Chapin. “It was raining hard in Frisco…”

My mum calls us Snides, Shaunstress and Allerd; her purse — Percy Bysshe Shelley (Percy Shelley for short). Instead of swearing she says “buzzard beak” and when she’s cold she says that she’s “chill the bill”. 

My mum introduced me to Modest Mouse back in like 1998. I’ll never forget my brother and sister, age ten and eight, dancing around the living room to Trailer Trash.

My mum had me when she was twenty. She finished her BA when I was four. She started taking courses again about seven years ago; getting her sign language certificate, then her Post Bach.. She finished her MA in education three weeks ago. I am so proud of her for everything she has accomplished. I know from watching her overcome such great odds that I can do anything. 

My mum has made three trips to Toronto in slightly over two months simply because I needed her; waking up in the hospital after overdosing, she was there. She has held me and listened when I needed her to listen; talked when I needed to talk. 

My mum is brave, she is loyal, she is generous. My mum is fierce and kind and strong and smart and so funny. 

Every good thing about me, every positive attribute is mine because of my mum. If I am a tree, my mum is my roots.

I’m sure all of your mums are pretty awesome, but my mum broke the mold. 

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama Bear.

Silly Daydreams

I want to be Meryl Streep. Meryl Streep (circa Deer Hunter) living in a Tom Waits/Nick Cave collaboration featuring Nina Hagen in a giant snow globe filled with water and sparkles.

I will eat ice cream and Indian food all the time and drink wine and micro-brews and talk about art and music and books and David Lynch. I will watch spaghetti westerns and samurai movies and Down by Law over and over and weep at the perfection of Jarmusch.

I’ll be surrounded by my favorite people: Rebekah, Derek, Kevin, Andrew, Stephanie, Justin, Kendra, James and Erica, Fjola, Crystal, Shaughnessy; and my family: David, Shauna, Pam and Troy, Mimi, Keaton, Crysler, the Beyers, Leah, my parents, my grandparents.

Miraculously Dorothy Parker would be there and Flannery O’Connor and I will chase butterflies with Nabokov. Wayne Coyne would fall in love with me and write me song after song; of course he would have to fight for me with Seth Bullock and a very young Dennis Hopper. I would be pen pals with Amy Hempel and she would read my stories and love me for writing them and I would make Amy Poehler and Tina Fey and Maya Rudolph and Kristen Wiig giggle as much as they made me.

Lilacs would be in bloom all year round; every tree would be strung with white christmas lights.

Song birds, otters and horses; bunnies, kittens, puppies and baby foxes.

Everyday would be an occasion to celebrate. With the smell of the sun still on our limbs, we will all dance and laugh all night early into the morning; intoxicated with love for each other, for life, for all the beauty in the world. 

Breaking Bad Habits

What will I do when suicide is no longer my fallback plan? The weight of responsibility is crushing. As terrifying as it may sound and not to downplay my own anguish, the thought of ending my own life is a sanctuary of sorts. When I am low, I become absolutely fixated on my own inadequacies and so will never be able to accomplish anything. The fear of failure is greater than the fear of death.

As I recover (fingers crossed!), I will have to begin facing those anxieties of underachieving without a light at the end of the tunnel. But how? Wanting to live despite sure heartache, failure and disappointment requires breaking the bad habit of entertaining the idea of just opting out. 

When my mum was trying to get me to stop sucking my thumb she painted my nail with some sort of vile tasting polish. Hmm, so what then will be my vile tasting polish for this bad habit? 

Working in a bookstore for four years I have avoided the self-help section like the plague. The section astounded me; thousands of books all geared towards self-improvement. Flipping through the table of contents of any of them lead me to two conclusions: positive thinking is the key to happiness and that the self-help industry has been built on the most head-slappingly, simple obvious advice. Think good thoughts and your life will improve! Earth-shattering! Cats and dogs, living together!  

But alas, I’ve lost my natural instinct for positivity and so my Olympian-like proclivity for daydreaming is a thing of the past. 

Although a severe depressive episode usually cannot be helped and is so debilitating that to focus on anything other than the depression requires Herculean strength; negative thinking is a dangerous byproduct. And once that negative thought weasels in there the next low is that much closer. The key seems to be focusing on the not-so-low times and squeezing some happy thoughts between unhappy. I need to force myself to daydream again.

I’m not going to be making a vision board or anything but I’ll give positive thinking a shot.

So, getting back to my original quandary of what to do when suicide is no longer my fallback future, well, instead of killing myself I’m going to get a dog and name her Dorothy Barker. I am going to work on reading a book a week. I will keep writing this blog and try my hand at writing fiction again. My best friend and roommate is moving away so I will find a new apartment, a beautiful little one-bedroom with a big sunny kitchen and vine covered balcony. I applied for university and I will get my BA studying the classics. I am going to run everyday and maybe even try my hand at a marathon. I’m going to save up money and go visit my darlings in Edinburgh and Albania (?!) and my brother in Denmark. 

There is so much for me to look forward to and knowing that right this moment when I am relatively stable is all the more important because I’m not out of the woods yet. The darkness will fall upon me again but until then I will fortify myself with my dreams .