Dear John Diaries.

Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth.

2010-03-08T08:22:00.000-08:00

Aggressive, pudgy and awkwardly out of any place it might as well have been 1976 for the small town living I'd been idly busy with the first 12 years of my life. I fist fought a lot more than the other kids, pulled a bit more hair but besides feeling like a stranger in my surroundings it was your typical bike riding, lawn mowing 'Are You There God, It's Me Margaret" lifestyle.

At the very least of my own weeping sob story, I was lucky enough to have a mother who rocked. And once it was acceptable to have my own cd player (as this was the early 90s, not the late 70s) I was slyly spoon fed and eating up her preferred suggestions. The Doors, Dr. Hook, Nazareth, Janis Joplin and I ended up taking Aerosmith a tad too seriously. I was well versed in the tongue in cheek method of Rock and Roll and as you listen closely you find out there's a lot to be learned in the lyrics of a rock song. So I figured myself for an apt pupil.

Until suddenly one afternoon of the ol' ho hum life, in walked The Runaways, knocking me over and fucking me sideways. The sound was menacing and taunting, raw and purely sexual. As it turned out, The Runaways were about to teach me I knew nothing. It was ballsy sweaty rock n' roll but it was different than anything I'd ever heard - Squealed and shrieked out my speakers by teenage girls who couldn't have been much older than I was. How is this even possible?! Awestruck and wide mouthed, my mind screamed and surged every time Cherie Currie sneeringly shouted:
Hello Daddy, Hello Mom, I'm your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!
Hello World, I'm your wild girl, I'm ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!

It took all of about 5 seconds to know that somewhere in the first few bars of 'Cherry Bomb' my life had changed. My heart raced and my sexual education exploded. By the end of it's entire 2 minutes and 10 seconds I knew exactly what Jail Bait Rock was - and I liked it. A Lot. Damn. Forget you God, I think I just found Joan Jett.

In the rock n roll haven known as my bedroom I desperately wanted to be their version of the girl next door. Wearing out my cassettes on the hand me down tape player from my father's youth I quickly narrowed my sights on Joan. Sexier than Chrissie Hynde, darker than Blondie and harder than anything Belinda Carlisle, Pat Benatar and Susanna Hoff's bouncy bumble gum pop shit had to offer. Joan Jett was where it was at.

I scoured used thrift shops for tapes, magazines for articles, even tracked down 'Light of Day' just for a glimpse. And obsessively recorded music television. Thankfully, they still played enough music videos for my research to pay off. It was there I discovered 'I Love Rock N Roll' long before it was everyone's favourite karaoke song to bastardize. The mulletted punk rock raven who almost seemed to reject the Lolita-esque image the rest of The Runaways portrayed had grown into a leather bound ferocious vixen even more threatening than before jeering, "I saw him dancing there by the record machine. I knew he must have been about 17." Teenage objectification through her lips wearing those chucks was almost too much for me to handle. And of course I liked it that way.

Finally I found an idol I could get down with. She was the fox I'd been waiting for. While I grimly fumbled my way through my own teenage years, when I needed her most she unapologetically roared in my ear and reminded me not to give a damn about my bad reputation. She made walking to the bus a lot more mentally manageable and if she could confidently rock a red leather jump suit, I could probably make it through these shit school days as well. Through highschool, I wasn't entirely eager to admit my crush on Joan Jett and the rest of The Runaways. It didn't exactly seem grunge/industrial/whatever the hell was happening in the 90s - friendly.

When I finally decided to get my balls about me, people starting talking to me about The Electrocutes. (Who would later become The Donnas.) Fuck That Noise. I was angry they were entrenching on something sacred. These girls didn't know what The Runaways were about. Yeah they had attitude but they certainly didn't have the raw sexuality. They seemed angry but they didn't seem...deviant. Didn't the world understand this wasn't just about all girl rock to me? This was about blazing the trail of rock n roll sexual sureness all while being a 16 year old bombshell in lingerie and strapped to a guitar - The Runaways were gonna have ya, grab ya, til you're sore! What isn't there to get? Lita Fucking Ford! Joan Fucking Jett!

While I've been able to forgive The Donnas, and recognize their own place in a girl's world of getting wasted, mistaking boys for anything other than boys and dusting off her knees, "You thought I would be brokenhearted, maybe I would if you weren't so retarded!" They still couldn't hold a torch to the fiery flame that burns to the core The Runaways lit inside me.

Which finally, brings me to the present. Nothing can erase those moments when. The ones that molded who you were to become. The ones you insist on romanticizing once those days are gone. Not even out of my 20s and it's already begun. So its all bit worrisome when a movie trailer of a biopic flashes across your screen with the latest Hollywood brat pack edging to make a possible mockery of your memories. Even with Joan Jett's heavy influence you're still scared it's going to be a gong show.

Until it dawned on me, you know what - Rock The Fuck On. Why wouldn't I want what influenced my own history to have their glory reignited in the hearts of teenage girls who could use a few blows to the psyche? Why wouldn't I want them to learn about the girls who kicked down the doors for the rest of us sitting in small towns wishing we were in the lights? The point is as nervous as I am - it's either going to be chaotic or cathartic - I encourage you to buy a ticket and celebrate, along with myself and a whole new generation, the glorious results of Joan Jett and The Runaways very well spent youth.

Motley Crue Kick Starts My Heart.

2010-01-25T10:48:00.001-08:00

(For Carly, For Olive)

My very own Detroit Rock City.
The only place to begin is directly at the beginning. Friday Night.

I hear Motley Crue's in town and not sold out so I think fuck yeah I'm going to Motley Crue. Done deal. Let's get this shit sorted out tonight. Get the tickets off craigslist, pick them up off some dude Friday night. The transaction was relatively smooth. I got killer seats at a killer price. Call little mamma Carly. Hasn't been out in like what? a year? Clear your calendar your first night out is Motley Fuckin' Crue. Could we be any more stoked? I lived, ate, breathed, thought Motley Crue for 2 days solid. Nikki Sixx and I in the same room? Get the fuck outta here. Stoked.

In the process, because we surround ourselves with only amazing people, we get two invites to free drinks. Hot Fire Becky Jacks at The Morrissey and Girls, Girls, Girls at The No. 5 Orange. What did I do to deserve the universe raining down on me? Drinks, Strippers and The Crue? On a Sunday? Hang on. Give a girl a minute. I'm gonna to need to dig out the red shoes for this one. Debauchery 101. Let me have it.

Carly ends up taking a million years to get her shit together. Which isn't a slight. As women we should all be allowed the proper amount of time to get ready. In addition Car's gotta pump milk, find her head, find her shoes, find her jacket, whatever it's a gong show. Love the girl. We leave a million years late. We gotta make a sacrifice. What'll it be?

Go to the Peeler Joint. Obviously. This is a Crue night. Respect.
Carly's brother is the gentlest giant you've ever met and offers me some food before it all gets out of hand. Knowing the consequences, I accept. In amazement and pure gratitude I lean in to Kurt and say, "I know this is your life but it's not often mine simultaneously includes grilled cheese sandwiches and strippers." Absolute joy.

Carly mingles and jingles the No. 5 rounding up an ex-stripper and her fiance who just spent 10 years in the clink. I couldn't make this shit up. The night falls perfectly into place. The way it should. Environmentally focused (read: i hate cabs.), we carpool to the show.

We know we've killed just enough time to miss Airbourne and The Joe Perry Project. Thankfully. Scan our tickets to hear "These are Returned Tickets. Step to the side please ma'am." Instantly I knew. Friday night my head smelled a rat. But I went ahead and bought the tickets because something else said it was gonna be alright. Sucker punched with a scam. I goddamn well knew it!

We got to the ticket master booth to find out the only thing I can do is purchase more tickets. My good deal is quickly turning into a shit deal. I'm not sussed. This night is meant to be had. 2 more tickets. The teller insists I take a photo copy of the fake tickets. I don't get the point but I take it anyway. Get passed the line up and we're in. The energy is mint. I don't care what this show cost me. I'm in. I don't care where I'm sitting... wait. It felt like it dawned on Carly and I at the exact same moment. I pull out the photocopy of the fake tickets and head right for the seats. My plan? No idea. But I want to see who's sitting in those mother fucking seats. I want to see if it's that fucker from Friday night. I'm gearing up to get ugly.

As soon as I hit the arena I hit the roof with calmness. It's not a problem. None of it. It's gonna be all good. The night is gonna rock the shit out of me. and I know it. Suddenly Carly is verbally slicing some guys throat open. As in her direct quote was "I will slit your throat!" We mildly argue with a couple who may or may not have been the original scam artists. But I spot 2 single seats. Let's rock Car. Leave this shit. I have no idea who's seats these are. And until someone shows up I'm not gonna worry. Suddenly 3 angels appear. The chillest dudes on earth let us watch the Crue 2 seats over from my scammed fake tickets. In the end - I paid a little more than necessary but I was right where I wanted to be. That doesn't have a price. Seriously.

We had some moments that I'm never going to remember. And some moments I'm too secretive to reveal. The pictures speak a thousand words. It was chaotic, sexy, serene, surreal and full of fire balls. Motley Crue took me to a whole new ethereal level. And if you've been there you get it, and if you haven't, man I wish you do.

Alls I can say is Take a ride on the wild side. ;)

5 Round KnockOut: 2010 Winter Olympics

2010-01-18T18:56:00.000-08:00

Before The World Comes, I wanted to highlight the truth about the Olympics for my International friends. In the event that you might have one iota of a desire to watch the Olympics, I wanted you to know a few key points about this whole hot mess while you're watching it on TV. I wanted you to know this whole thing is as big of a sham as the pretty Chinese girl they had lip syncing for the ugly girl at the Beijing Olympics. Actually that metaphor is astoundingly appropriate.

If you live anywhere else in the world and haven't heard a controversial thing about the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics then I know what you're I know what you're thinking, "A Canadian complaining about Winter Olympics? Say Wha?" It sounds so unnatural.

Hockey, curling, skiing, figure skating, toques, mittens, scarfs. Fuck, even the torch is shaped like a giant flaming joint ready to be blazed. It screams 'I Am Canadian'. And that's why back in '03 some of us where stoked that we won the bid to host the Olympics. In our own laid back, sweet, clean, ever ready to help way, we're proud of who we are. We're proud to be Canadian. We think we've done a few things right and we don't mind hosting a little party to show the world how much we love our country and our winter sports.

But if there's one thing that beats our blood faster than hockey it's the threat to our social values. In our hearts we are a socialist country. We want to help out our fellow citizens in need, not only because we want it to be there for when we're in need but because it's the right thing to do. Unfortunately, Canada and Vancouver have already severely let the ball drop on social values long before the Olympics came to town. If you know a thing or two about Vancouver beyond the giant lit up golf ball known as Science World, (Or it's new capitalist name: Telus World of Science) then it's possible you know about our Downtown East Side. Vancouver's biggest shame.

Its funny, as a young traveler I would ask people in other major cities where their skid row was because I could never spot it. Of course, they would look at me with confusion. Obviously they weren't understanding me. Where are your thousands of mentally ill, drug addicted homeless loitering the street, shooting up, smoking crack, trading sex? Where do most of your ambulances go through out the day to rescue all the people on the street overdosing on heroin? Like where do your teenagers go to score their Oxycontin? OK where do men go to cruise for cheap prostitution? Let me put it to you this way, If I were a serial killer and wanted to kill a large of amount of prostitutes that no one would miss or care about, where would I go? Why are you laughing? I'm serious! What do you mean you house your homeless? OK but once the beds are filled and you still have the other 2000 homeless on the street...where are they? Hmm, so AIDS wasn't an epidemic in your city? You don't have a need for a safe injection site so people aren't using dirty needles left on the ground? Weird...

And according to the 2010 Winter Olympics - neither does Vancouver! The magic wand of money. Our money. The downtown east side has been out of control for decades. I literally mean masses of people loitering the street stumbling around on the mix of drugs they were able to score, talking to the wall. When you cut health care funding, shut down psych institutions and refuse to create adequate housing or social programs you end up with the downtown east side. The residents of the lower mainland have been screaming for years that we need to do something better. And it wasn't until we won the bid that gentrification began. Along with tearing down the old and putting up the new, we began to ticket our homeless. Loitering, spitting, drunk in public, theft, drugs, whatever they could come up with. Now of course, someone who lives on the street can't pay a ticket! What happens when you don't pay your fines? Well you go to jail. The last few weeks the government has swept our streets and tucked our sewage rats away. No no. Don't use our tax money to create a solution, soak up the funds by putting them in jail for a month, feed them 3 squares and when everyone is gone kick em right back out to start the cycle again. Clever. Very forward thinking. And while some view this as a possible catalyst for future progression, most of us feel saddened by the shameful lie we will be portraying to the world through your TV screen.

If Round One didn't knock you down, Round Two will. And it won't help you up.

Socialized Health Care is a phenomenal idea. I, along with most of the country, am a huge supporter of socialized health care. Pay my minimal monthly dues, and don't have to worry about a thing when I need a stitch, my leg sawed off or have a pesky bout of cancer. Worry free. My country takes care of me. (I actually just laughed out loud while typing that out.) Do you know how many doctors Canada has for every 100,000 citizens? Roughly 250. Do you know how many doctors Cuba has for every 100,000 citizens? Roughly 590. Again long before the Olympics came to town, we had a few funding snags in the system. If you could even find a family doctor to report your issue to, you were happier than a pig in shit. Clear your day's schedule though because in order to get your 5 minutes of ear time, you're going to need to wait at least an hour. Don't even think about needing a knee, a hip, or an MRI. Out of the question for the next 2 years. I can't offer you a bed in a room but we do have this lovely hallway. Don't get comfortable either, I'll need that bed back in 2 days. Maybe talk to your cells, like they're plants. You know, get them healing you faster. Try that. We'll be back to treat you like shit when we do our rounds. It's beyond despicable. If you've ever had a family member in hospital in Canada, you've witnessed your fair share of atrocity. Canada's lack of funding has beat us all into submission, our tired, abused nurses, care aids and doctors are exhausted by being over worked, under paid and under appreciated.

And then, in the midst of this full time medical chaotic crisis Vancouver peaked their head up from their cavernous abyss of Olympic spending just to say, "Right, so because we know that everyone would rather be watching the luge (on TV because lord knows few of us could afford tickets to the events), we've decided to cancel elective surgeries during the Olympics. You know, gives you an opportunity to see the games and just by chance we may need the bed should a disaster strike, we're just going to hold off on your surgery." Seriously. I wish I was joking.

And while elective surgeries aren't life threatening, we as a city were loud and clear that we could support the Olympic games if it doesn't further hinder our health care system or cost the tax payers. I'd like to give you a grand total of Olympic spending but since that's all a big hush hush, what we've been able to roughly approximate is a total of 6 Billion Dollars. 6 Billion Dollars NOT going to our homeless, NOT going to our health care, NOT going to education. You see my point.

But we'll get this back right? The World is Coming! Opportunity for growth is right around the corner! Right. Vancouver now tops the list of Severely Unaffordable housing. At the present moment, it will take you 9.3 years of income to afford a home in Vancouver. You know what else Vancouver tops the list of? The lowest minimum wage of the country. I know. You don't know whether to shit, laugh or cry. For the love of god just don't lose your shirt and go off the deep end. Vancouver's more in the cop protecting business than it is the citizen protecting business.

Round Three - Vancouver's unrecognizable police state. This February, Vancouver won't have seen this many military and police force since World War 2. Rallied up and housed on a ship off Coal Harbour, we are meant to feel prepared and protected should a terrorist attack arise. Or most likely, should you get a little too tipsy in public, they're ready to strong arm you all the way to the paddy wagon. Don't bother recording or reporting misconduct, Vancouver has become well known for not giving a fuck about police brutality towards immigrants and international travelers. And for the first time in history we have you on camera. Look up! CCTV will record every move you make in Vancouver. I feel safer already.

If you're not down and out yet - it gets better! Round Four - Where's the snow?

VANOC boasted loud and proud over it's "Green Olympics". I don't think they quite got what they bargained for. Instead of saving energy (or perhaps money) VANOC thinks they can dance toe to toe with the universe itself. We are having the warmest winter recorded in Vancouver history. Which means we are now trucking snow from one mountain to another. There's a part of you that smirks to yourself, but the reality is that it's not funny at all. This is valuable money that Vancouver could have used for other social priorities - such as not going into severe debt - which means we desperately need it back. Mother Nature needs to get her shit together.

Round Five - Arnie's a Canadian?

I think the punch that knocked us down, or rather broke our hearts the most was how completely un-Canadian the whole debacle feels. It doesn't look like winter, it doesn't feel like winter. It doesn't look socially focused, it doesn't feel socially focused. Jobs are being lost. City Hall laid off workers due to the recession but somehow found $150,000 to replace carpets and furniture for when international dignitaries take a brief stroll through the building. It disappointing. It's saddening. It's not the Canada that Canadian citizens would like to show. We don't want to be pushed around by capitalist real estate agents, i.e., our government. We don't want some Austrian body builder turned Hollywood politician walking the torch through one of our most prized pieces of land. It's all been a slap in the face to the people that make this country what it really is.

When and if you watch the Olympics please understand that Canada is a gorgeous country but we are turning into an unkind country. We are strongly losing our identity to consumerism and capitalism and we don't feel united over these games. I wanted to come to this day feeling proud. At least thinking hell, it's here and we paid for it we might as well enjoy it. And I'm sorry - knowing the reality - I just can't.

Though in the middle of my disappointment, I do wish all Olympians luck, and I hope they all come away with a sense of accomplishment regardless of the political entanglement this has all been wrapped up in. I sincerely mean this. Their hard work deserves a dignified reward.

I'd like to leave you with a few videos from youtube. Things I'm sure you won't see on CNN, NBC, FOX, Global, CBC, BBC ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEXtIIKzoGs&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nl2xcgGf_D4

R.E.S.P.E.C.T. Find Out What It Means To Me.

2009-12-11T18:52:00.000-08:00

It means enough for me to want to clear your head off your shoulders and nail it to my wall as a reminder of the day I taught you a lesson.

I am burnt up! All the different ways that we've become accustomed to disrespecting each other has got me lit on fire! It goes from big to small. From the dicks who continue to turn left on a red to - actually no, that's a big one. We have to collectively stop doing that. I'm fixin' to blow.

You know the initial reason I got to writing this out was related to work. If this were pen to paper the table would be indented I swear. Let me just get this out of the way. This is on behalf of all the commissioned, appointment based workers out there: We only make money when you show up. So when you don't call, don't show up...this isn't a goddamn nightclub. There isn't a line up outside the door waiting for you to maybe, maybe not show up. I can't pay rent on your com ci, com ca attitude. It's that simple. Respect.

And I don't know if you heard but we're in a pandemic state of life. It's possible you missed it, it's only been all over the news. I'm just saying maybe don't cough directly into your hand when I'm giving you a manicure. Oddly, now I'm going to feel rude when I have stop to pull out the hand sanitizer.

It's just starting to be too much. I'm calling Uncle.

You know Son, I may not look much like a lady, and you look more like a pussy than a man but Ladies First for fucks sake. Chances that I want to be bowled over exiting a store? Slim. Yes, everything only costs a dollar, I get your excitement but chill - it ain't closing down tonight. I may be 5'2 maybe you felt like you tripped on a rock but Christ Almighty, pay attention. Afford me a little, that's right, respect.

On the flip side those of you who breeze by me when I'm politely holding the door open, 3, 4, 5 of ya, do you see white gloves on my hands? Do I look like a goddamn door man because if I do a tip would be appreciated. But since I'm not a simple thank you will suffice. Or perhaps the Helen Keller Society of Mutes is on a field trip I just happened to be holding the door. Doubtful. I will yell at you, trust me, you deserve it.

And let's not get into it here, but for those of you who get real dirty with your disrespect. We love you, we support you, we bake you cookies, hell we may even pay your bills. Cheating, lying, ladder climbin' thief. Not only do you look a fool but now you're making a mockery of your mother. You need to put yourself in a corner and think about it. Seriously.

Compassion? WWJD? For they do not know what they do? Man, forget Jesus. What Would First Testament Jehovah Do? He would drown your sorry ass in a sea of misery is what he would do. You best be a damn good ship builder if you think you're gonna dare tread on him. An eye for an eye is no way to live but we're starting to force each others hand's and it's getting ugly.

Am I innocent? Of course not. Sainthood is never going to be on my life's agenda. Do on to other's. Quit being an example of how not to be. Basically, I know you have places to go, but allow me to get through my green light, too.

The Doomed Generation

2009-11-27T22:46:00.000-08:00

Written February 23, 2009

Did I ever think when it was my generation's turn at the plate it was gonna be this fucked up? No, I sure didn't. Just like every generation thought before mine, "We'd rule this world if it was ours! We'd knock it outta the park!" Man, If we'd only known it'd be up on blocks with but a few sellable parts we would have never wanted it.

I hate to be a 90s girl on you but we thought we had this thing in the bag. With our grungy plaid, social causes and weed in hand you couldn't get any truthier than us. The 60s and 70s couldn't dream of the realism we were getting to the bottom of. We were gonna have better jobs, less wars and our kids were gonna put the way you raised us to shame. Then Al Gore lost. And just like God punished us all for the actions of Eve was the same way Ticketmaster bent us over and tore us up the backside for Eddie Vedder's. Capitalism reigns and all us coffee shop lovin' poets of the 90s will repent on our knee's somewhere in the middle of a Starbucks line.

You baby boomers coulda told us somethin' in the milk ain't right. If you'd really loved us you would told us in those damn career building classes to pick a job we could handle cause Lord knows we wouldn't be out doing the job we'd love. You shoulda said "What won't make you want to shoot yourself in the face while sittin' in the after 5 traffic jam? Okay then, go do that." But no. I don't know if it was false hope, absolute denial or pure cowardice that made you fail to mention or prepare us for The Heartbreak we'd all individually face.

Ah, The Heartbreak. Unrequited and lost love has nothing on this one. This is a deep well of sadness and darkness that takes a few years to really land on your ass in.

The first stumble backwards happens just around 21. Life is generally care free for most of us. But suddenly driving down some familiar road in your hometown you realize if you don't hurry the hell up you ain't never gonna be that rockstar you thought you were. Or European traveler, National Geographic journalist, ruler of the world, whatever. Whatever it was you thought you were gonna be at 16 reaches out to you for a hand in survival. Free falling, it screams at you to get your shit together before you have a nasty wife who's gained more weight than you can fathom and two kids you barely care to remember the names of. The kick in the gut is too hard to handle and easy to ignore. Life will just work itself out. You'll get there, little rockstar. The world is your oyster and all that shit. You're not going to let that happen to you.

Of course, until you're driving that same goddamn road you were before listening to the latest Top 20 Ear Rape, loosening the tie of that temporary, "stepping stone" job you've been in for the last 6 years. Boom! It piercingly strikes your brain that your dream never worked it's way to fruition did it. The heartbreak fully reveals itself. Ouch, kiddo. Year's in the making this is one painful revelation not even a kiss on the forehead could mend.

Stand up. Dust yourself off and look around. Not even Alice would believe the shit that's down this rabbit hole. How in the hell did we get here? Human bombs are going off in Iraq but so long as gas is under a dollar a litre and we've all got a little sex appeal we could really care less what's happening in those brown skinned countries. I'm sure Obama will take care of it. We've been so bruised and betrayed that we've lost ourselves. We got sold down the river, bought into every shit eating grin that was put before us and all we've got to show for it is high rent, student loans and ridiculous visa bills. We're too busy distracting ourselves from The Heartbreak to admit the cost of dreamin'. Disappointment is an ugly depression. But if you can scrape together enough for the prescription we've got a pill that can put you right back on the path of debt building delusion.

Man, there's something in this death, in this heartbreak that relates to every glass of wine your mother ever had after work, doesn't it? Especially when she had the whole bottle. Not only did she not become the "whatever" she'd thought she'd be, but her AND her children are celebrity obsessed, emotionally devoid, financially strapped standing at the foot of a greed induced recession.

Hey, some mornings the mirror doesn't relay the prettiest image. We struck a foul ball, 90s child. a very foul ball. If we had anything left from the good ol' years of honesty we'd admit to ourselves that bringing a cloth bag to the grocery store is not a good enough band-aid to this colossal boo-boo. We done fucked up. Congrats. You're an adult in the Doomed Generation. You might as well smile, even though hell, you're not even on candid camera.

Facebook: Diary of My Alter Ego.

2009-11-27T22:44:00.000-08:00

Written July 6th, 2009

Never in all my recognition and awareness of totalitarianism did I think it would happen with such active, avid participation from we, the individuals.

what started as a whisper, a hobby, a slight waste of time, became something that grew into a brand new level of communication between humans. At this moment, this is the height of the internet. And at this moment it is the decided and preferred method of communication. If I so wanted, through out my day, I could 'Facebook' you. We are so dedicated to our new found connection that we go so far as to build pocket sized hand held machines so that at anytime we can pull the blinds on our real life and log onto the alter reality of our photo-shopped existence. Like Morse code or the telephone but with the added dimension of vanity. This is quite literally the strangest time for our human race.

Plagued with chronic dissatisfaction we collectively fed into celebrity obsession. We bred the Grass Is Greener Syndrome and support tabloid magazines to put together faces and stories. We don't even want the truth - just a stage to create the fairytale. That sated us just long enough until the envy became too much to bear that we created an outlet for our own self-adoration. Forget Sims. Forget World of Warcraft. I can create a character that looks just like me only with better hair and eyes that sparkle. Look all the backdrops I can photograph my character in. Suddenly wearing an outfit twice becomes a faux pas! And just like a celebrity's over the shoulder glance, we've come to know our own poses well.

We have all become corporate salesman. The product is ourselves and the potential gain is a successful alter ego. Does this sidewalk star come with cement imbedded with my hands and feet? Is there a place for my autograph? And the very strangest part about our socially created nether world is that we're not even unaware of our own self obsession. It's not like I'm Chicken Little screaming that they sky is falling - actually I am - but the point is that we're all well aware and we don't even care.

We're far too busy holding poses and documenting moments carefully painted with rose coloured glasses to care about insignificant situations where women are being snipered down in the middle of the street to protect basic human rights. Alter-ego creation included. I never once saw a reference to Neda on facebook, and if it was there, it was buried deep between the test to find out what sexual position you are and the test to showcase how tragically clever you are when it comes to obscure music. We've stayed so plugged in that we've conditioned ourselves to tune out. I repeat, we've conditioned ourselves.

You could argue that Facebook is a beautiful creation where we can easily access the ones we love, we can communicate with speed and bravado in a way that we never allowed ourselves to before. But it does not come without it's sickness. We have desensitized ourselves to what is morally real and humanly intense. We long so much for a fairytale that we forget to appreciate our reality. Nothing is good enough. We are becoming incredibly ill.

We are standing in the middle of history. You are living in what will undoubtedly be a chapter in someone's textbook. We need to lift our heads from this digital cloud or internal combustion will be a definite option for the near future. I know I'm not stating ground breaking information here, but I'm most certainly calling us on our bullshit.

Are We Not Men?

2009-11-23T21:50:00.000-08:00

Written November 23, 2009

No. We're not. And that's just the way I'd like to keep it.

This particular frustration of mine is so deeply rooted to the core of my being when every now and then I'll come across an objection to femininity it will set about an internal fury that threatens the otherwise quaint manner I carry myself in. (...)

Whilst flipping through the literary journals known as the 24 Hour 'news', I came across an inane article regarding Twilight. (Forget about that, listen to the point.) Some one actually got paid to write an article about how helpless Bella is as a woman and what a terrible terrible role model she is for young girls. Yes, my eyes hurt from rolling. It's a book. Even more so it's a romance novel. The general, mundane, true to life way in which women keep a man's world together isn't usually the premise.

An even deeper response was to knock the lights out of the girl who wrote the article, and the UVic gender and politics professor who also gets paid to spout off at the snout. Oh and the UBC professor too, "He's not just rescuing her emotionally, he's also rescuing her economically. It's never just a matter of love. It's also a question of money..." Mary Mother of God, Woman Studies.

Lovely Ivory Tower you've put yourself in, the view looking down on us must be incredible. What is it about girls who attend a Woman Studies class getting a hate on for their own kind? How very dare you tell me that I can't dress in revealing clothing, wash the dishes, tend after my man and produce an image of womanhood worth emulating?

How very dare you tell me that I can't, with a clear mind and high self esteem, lust after a male suitor's attention, get excited about his domineering disposition, put in my place once or twice and ask for more. Why does it never occur to you that we enjoy some of these stereotypes. You mean to tell me you don't think any one of the suffragettes didn't like a good spanking in bed? Please.

I don't mow the lawn. I don't change my own oil. I haven't a clue how to fix a computer and my brain will literally shut down if you attempt to talk to me about sports. I prefer to not break a nail and putting air in my tires is not the kind of dirty job I'm interested in. And did you know, I even have my very own little bank account! The shock.

Docile. Niave. Helpless. Not general terms used to describe me, or any other females I surround myself with, who I gather enjoy a shopping expedition or feast on bon bons when the situation arises. The world is made of shades of gray my dear feminists. Which means I could clean the house wearing only heels and an apron and still have the capabilities to read a book and stand up for myself.

I will exercise my right to fret over a potential mates phone call, just as much as I will exercise my right to reject the throwaways. While this may seem like games to you, there's only so much fun this world offers. And I prefer to play mine in pink frilly underwear.

The next time one of you militant females see a woman engaged in behavior you'd like to label weak, pathetic, helpless you may want to remember the dictionary also includes words like paradox, dichotomy and best of all, variety.

"I'll Meet You Under Freddie Mercury."

2009-11-16T01:48:00.000-08:00

Written June 6, 2008

The story of Danny Piert.

I met Danny ages ago when I first moved back from Texas on a journaling site. (Clearly I've been doing this for far too long.) He had piercing eyes and a hankering for Shane MacGowan. I was in internet love.

Over the twists and turns of life's bumpy road we both ended up in London, finally, at the same time. This was it.

He: I'll meet you under Freddie Mercury.
Me: What?
He: Just come out of the tube station and I'll meet you under Freddie Mercury.

Ugh. What a nightmare. How the hell am I going to find Freddie Mercury? Until that is, I come out of the tube station, turn around and am greeted by a 15 foot, gold statue of Freddie Mercury. Dang. Talk about monumental. His eyes more brilliant than I expected and his face more gorgeous, Danny tells me he's going to treat me to a night of fun. Done. I'm in.

We, and a few of his friends start at one pub and then hit up a Texas style bar. They did quite a good job of it and I felt like I was in the middle of America whilst in the middle of London. Johnny Cash on the juke box. Beer in the belly. Great times.

Can I not make an ass of myself? Of course not. It wouldn't be the same.

So we're all sitting around a table. Me, Danny and his London friends. Bullshitting, talking about life, when suddenly Danny asks me for a kiss. It was quite out of the blue but I decided, what the hell. "A kiss? Sure!" and kissed him good and hard. This brought the conversation to a halt. When I pulled back, everyone, Danny and all his friends are giving me the exact same look of utter confusion. And in that silent pause I realized that Danny had asked me if I wanted KIDS.
Awk. Ward. Heh....heh...ayee.

Alas, the evening went on and eventually ended with us rushing to the bus in the wee hours of the morning. A fevered goodbye as the bus pulled away, I left my sweet Australian internet crush outside a Texas bar somewhere on the streets of London town.

And that is Danny Piert, a boy I will always willingly meet under Freddie Mercury and forcefully kiss.

These Are My Cards. How Was My Poker Face?

2009-11-16T01:47:00.003-08:00

Written June 23, 2008

I want to start this off by saying "Fuck you, I'm in my 20s."
Any good personal growth starts off with "fuck you", right?

I suppose I'm on the defensive because I'm worried that we're not all human and you won't get it. Of course, we are all human, we all spend intervals in our days mentally torturing ourself and you will absolutely get it.

I'm in a time. I'm in a zone. I'm in a space. It's what you do when you're in your 20s and act like Oprah. Such as I do. I'm feeling very 'Oprah'. I'm in a state of puzzlement, growth, whatever the hell you wanna call it - that's where I am.

I took this week off to check in with myself. Recently I had some major life plans change and when someone asked me what my plan was now, I had absolutely no idea. Well you can't live with absolutely no idea. So I just wanted to kind of have some re-arrangement time. Some "get your shit together" time as some might say.

So as it was, I was already feeling out of order. My deck needed some shuffling for sure. Then, as MySpace was kind enough to tell me, my ex-husband got remarried. Oh. Ok. And a photo to go with it? Lovely. The last time I saw him looking dapper, standing next to a pretty little gal in a wedding dress, the pretty little gal was me. So this was new. And visually perplexing.

Instantly I had one of those dreamed up conversations that takes place somewhere in the middle of what looks like Purgatory with the two of us standing there:
"I'm in love and happily married. Where are you at?"
"Oh... I'm uhh... well I'm just over here...um, aimlessly wandering life."

And because life is shades of gray, I'm ok to say that I am extremely excited for him, happy with where I am at, sad for the couple we once were, loving and regretting parts of the past, and incredibly stoked for the future. All in one big ball. And while part of the reason why we're not together is because I needed to aimlessly wander life - it's gotten a little old. Time to wrap it up.

So here I am. In the Oprah Zone. Even reading an Oprah Book Club book. And can I just stop here to give you a piece of advice. When you're connecting with a book and really relating to it's main character, it's probably not a good idea to look up reviews of said book.
And I quote: "She is the most vapid, narcicistic, insecure, self-absorbed, spoiled brat I have ever had to listen to. I could not wait to get her whiny, foolish voice out of my head."

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Although I've said it myself before. This term self help is just another way to say self obsessed, self absorbed. But if you go on this trip, hopefully you make it worth while by coming back with better function and production in the overall world. I know listen to me, I'm fucking Ghandi already. Give me time, Deepak Chopra, I'll show you.

But right now this is me. This is my hand of cards. A few years ago I once asked Rob, "Am I crazy or is this just my 20s?" His answer, I will never forget:

"a little bit of column A, and a little bit of column B."

Dearest Local Retailer.

2009-11-16T01:46:00.001-08:00

Written August 8, 2009

I have a bit of a concern because I think you seem to have forgotten about me. Which is odd because I have money to burn and adore dressing myself with new clothes as soon as my paycheck arrives. Sometimes, I go mad and blow my paycheck before it even arrives. I'm the woman who's been approved for a visa and yet still has the lack of control like a teenager. Which means when I go on these black out shopping binges, I can wrack my visa up so high the minimum payment is daunting enough. Forget the overall balance. (I do, trust me, it feels better.)

But let me remind you, Mr. Retailer, I am a woman. Not a teenager on a budget. These thick legs, wide hips and round bottom usually tend to work well for me - until that is, I walk into your store. Where are these 5'9, 105 pound stick figured women you're designing for? You can't show off your jeans when you're puking in the bathroom.

How is 0 or 00 a size? How can I be holding something in my hand that says 0? Nothing is Nothing. I can't hold nothing. Mothers will have to change what they tell their daughters. "Never aspire to amount to nothing - unless of course you're going shopping." It's funny, on some rating scales 8, 9, 10...these are all good numbers. On your rating scale Mr. Retailer I'm a fat cow.

And while I've got you listening, I don't want to hide my shape either. These angular, boxy, cloth with a hole for the head sheet things you're making for us don't entice me either. I am not ashamed of being a woman. I am not ashamed of eating. So don't punish me with mom jeans and cardigan sets.

Contrary to popular belief, you might need to sit down for this one, I LIKE my hips. I LIKE my fat bottom, I LIKE my small waist. I don't actually want to be a size 0. Stop marketing these women, these sizes and these ideals to me. At the end of the day all I want from a shopping trip is a couple of buttery croissants and a few tight pencil skirts to go with it!

I close my letter to you now with the hopes of your understanding. While my anticipation of shopping is burning up, Mr. Retailer, what your stocking your stores with is cooling my visa down. Give it a whirl.
Love and Concern,
Tara Sue.

Burn After Reading.

2009-11-16T01:44:00.001-08:00

Written September 23, 2008

I don't have a complaint about the movie. Obviously, the movie was good. Boys and girls alike have a hard on for Malkovich. Although, his mouth is going kinda funny... age? I dunno. Frances Macdormand, love. Brad Pitt and George Clooney were pretty funny. But we can always bank on the Rat Pack v2.0, right?
The formula works, Coen Brothers plus decent cast = pretty much the best you can expect from American Cinema.

And that's what I came to talk about. Alright, so here you are, going to the movies.
You get all geared up... thinking about the popcorn, the little fuckin' magazine you pick up. Maybe you'll get an answer right on their crappy trivia. Figure out the face before the 10 seconds is up. Whatever. You're excited. A little, you know you are.

You're waiting for the best part, the movie - no. The Previews. Yes.
Honestly, I need to know how much more action FBI/CIA crap can the universe withstand before it implodes on itself? Who is watching this? It's the equivalent of Big Momma's House for white people. It's insulting. Next.

Some fucking end of the world shite with Julianne Moore. Everyone's blind. The world is ending. End. of. Story. Again, insulted.

Shouldn't she be insulted? Wasn't her last movie a weak plotted end of the world (non)fear inducing piece of shit? Who is watching this crap? Why is there ALWAYS a scene of people standing in the middle of a desolate, yet major city street!? How many times can I see empty London or empty New York regurgitated at me again and again and again. I get it. I'm terrified.

Like you don't feel a little bit cheated? You must. You must realize this shit is sending us on a straight path to double speak '1984' style. The bastards are you getting you down while you watch movies about the bastards getting you down. It's uncanny, really.

It's clear to me though, on a whole, we don't get it. It's like when I started laughing my ass off at a Lord of The Rings movie. Trust me - never will a room of 100 people turn on you and hate you more than when you insult their movie genre. Sam and Frodo pillow fight - I thought it was funny. I thought we were all gonna laugh.

It's not funny though, it's sad. I bust myself to give you 20 bucks for 2 hours in a chair that hurts my ass only to see the same shit I saw last year. And the year before. Let's try harder, no? I mean the world is ending, at the very least couldn't we go down on a good script?

Open your eyes. Burn After Reading? Flush after watching.

Worst Possible Outcome.

2009-11-16T01:39:00.000-08:00

Written in Haste, May 14th, 2009

Ok. Let me start with a disclaimer to all mothers. Because I don't want to cause any offense. I've said it before and I'll say it again we women have different paths in life. Mine is a childless one. Your children or your baby bumps are phenomenal. Power to you. It's just when I personally think of having children I like there to be a paper bag within arms reach in cases of hyperventilation.

So now that that's out of the way we can talk about the worst fucking nightmare imaginable. Have y'all seen this show on TLC 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant'?

Basically what happens is a woman goes to the hospital with intense cramping thinking her appendix has ruptured or some simple bullshit and every fucking time a baby comes out. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? One woman, ok one woman! even sat down on the toilet to take a massive painful shit, turned back to look and a crying baby was staring back at her! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

TLC has got me believing I can't even take a shit now without the threat of a CHILD being the outcome? This is insane! This is worse than a home invasion. Because this thing has unknowingly invaded your body for 9 FUCKING MONTHS and now that you've found out about it it's crying in your arms and wants to be fucking fed! Fuck off with that shit.

The problem here, aside from the fact that one minute you're in abdominal pain and going to the hospital, the next thing you know you have a fucking kid. Explain that sick call to your boss. Ok but aside from that shock - what are you going to do with it? See a girl like me, finds out she's pregnant makes a phone call or two, it's over it's done and we all call it a day and go on about our childless lives. No one needs to know. Sweep that shit under the rug or put it on the shelf with all the other fucked up shit that make you a bad woman. Whatever, it's done.

But this! What are you going to do? You've got a child in your arms and 10 people clammered around you. Can you freak the dick out and beg to have it taken out of your sight? Is that kosher? Is "um, so ... how does adoption work?" ok to be the first thing that comes out of your mouth? Second only to "Fuck! Shit! Motherfucker! I want to diiieeee!"

You can't hide that shit from people! Everyone knows!

And what about your boyfriend? Because on the TLC show he's always panicked and clueless rushing around to help his woman with her cramping, shitting, abdominal issues and suddenly there's a fucking BABY. I mean at least if he wants no part of it - if you found out the normal way - he has a few weeks to convince you to let him kick you in the gut. At the very least leave you. What if you're totally into this baby fiasco and he's like "uh, I want no part of this." How utterly dreadful. Now you've gone into the hospital with what you thought was intense food poisoning and you've come out a single mother!

WORST POSSIBLE OUTCOME EVER. I'm never eating shellfish again!

I want to see me on this show. I want to see a young woman who freaks the fuck out and says "This can't be happening. No no. I have a meeting first thing tomorrow - get this shit out of my face! No. I ain't taking no fucking baby!" That's the reality tv I want to see.

Seriously. I keep baby testing in business single handedly. I'm already a fucking basket case when I think shit could be going sideways. Like the First Response commercials claims it can do - I want to know the MOMENT it happens. The moment that egg has been grazed, my hand is on fucking speed dial to the closest OBGYN within walking distance. After this show, I'm going to get gas while eating my salad too fast and think my fucking life is over.

Can't TLC do a show about normal nightmares that could happen in real life? Like a half an hour of people's teeth falling out? I could handle that easier than this. Worst show ever.

No I Don't Dive.

2009-11-16T01:37:00.001-08:00

I don't dive.
I'm not a fan of divers.
They aren't fucking gymnasts.

If I knew that I would hear "So...are you a diver?" About 5 times a day (seriously.) I would have never put them there.
"No."
"So what do they mean then?"

Oh...pull up a chair...let's have a personal chat shall we? Just because everyone and their goddamn dog on Miami Ink decides to let us in on the genius reasoning of their tattoo...doesn't mean you're free to ask me about mine. They aren't about my grandfather's time in the war. The don't represent resilience, strength or serenity. Don't fucking worry about it.

Although someone once thought they were Russian ballet dancers and that actually made my day so good I cursed myself for not having thought of it myself.

I'm straying. The point is I'm not a diver, it's has NOTHING to do with diving and no, I won't be going into what it has to do with.

However I am taking suggestions for comebacks. The best we've come up with is:

"Yeah, an Olympic diver actually."

"No, my parents died in a diving accent." - . . .

"First tattoo I found on the net."

"I don't actually remember getting those..."

Tits.

a man's world?

2009-01-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

Written January 22 2009

I like women. I like girls too. But I especially like women. I love the images it conjures. Spicy women, tall women, big women, curvy women, black women, Latin women, middle eastern women. The embodiment of controlled prowess. Dear god! I love women.

But like every fetishist, I come with a list of specifications. Outwardly I prefer curvy women with thicker thighs, smaller waists and ass that tells me she likes to indulge. The kind of body pushed to the brink of limitations. Child bearing is the furthest thing from my mind love, what else do those hips do?

Ah! The sweet extended swagger of a cat walk that a city cross walk can provide. How is it that the walk of a woman can cause momentary deafness, slack jaw and a confused heart rate that's not sure to stop dead in it's tracks or match the pulse of a speeding train. For the love of all things sinful - women!

Now inwardly you must already expect what I'm partial to. Yes! The kind of woman who takes the opening of Pandora's Box to it's full advantage. I like mouthy women. Bawdy and Tawdry. Not for the sake of attention. But in the way that straight shootin' will tear right through you. The Mae Wests and The Dorothy Parkers. The Cleopatras and the Lolitas.

Mm - The diversity! As much as I love a gal with a scholar's brain and a sailor's mouth there's definitely something to be said for class. This is something I know very little about. But I do know some cow's milk is just sweeter. It can mean the difference of a smooth fine wine to the bitter swill of bloating barley. Top shelf and reserved for larger bank accounts. Ingrid Bergman's who spawn Isabella Rossellini's. How does it even happen?

Women. The kind of stuff that fairy tales and duels are made of. The kind of stuff that makes your head swirl and your stomach sway. Velvet paintings and number one records. I could go on and on. Litter pages of paper with obsessive words about women and I still couldn't get my point across. Alls I know is at the end of the day when I lay down my head, I surely thank the Devil out of whoever put me in the company of a woman.

Christmas....Scrooge?

2008-12-24T22:09:00.001-08:00

Man. I'm just not feeling Christmas this year.
Are you? Are we collectively not feeling Christmas?

I've just kind of become overly disgusted with the commercial aspect of the whole thing. I've become overly disgusted with the commercial aspect of life in general but I suppose maybe I lifted my head this year and really saw it. People dying at Walmart? Honestly. We need a fucking grip on what's important. And it's not Wii Stations and Tickle Me Elmos. I promise you.

My Christmas sort of fell apart before it even got started. This well needed recession (I'll tackle that in another post) fucked with my paycheck. The snow fucked with my plans. And in the end I really just didn't give a shit. Isn't my love enough? Do you need a box of Turtles to prove it?

I decided I was going to bake for my loved ones. I thought that was a really thoughtful gift and the more I told people the more I heard things like "Yeah, I'll bake for the gifts that don't really matter..." which I thought was completely backwards but suddenly found myself in a mall, screaming at my boyfriend and buying as much crap as I could find to shove in front of my loved ones just so I'm not the asshole who shows up with a thoughtful gift instead of a purchased one.

Which leads me to my guilt of not being able to provide someone with all the lavishness they deserve. I gave Tim his gifts in order of how bad they were. They were honestly terrible. He's just too nice to admit that towels are not the equivalent of a necklace from Tiffany's. Yes, I bought my boyfriend bath towels. I'm telling you this Christmas was a complete and total write off.

I actually want to swear off Christmas. Make some sort of stand against it. I think Jesus would be with me here. You guys remember who Jesus is, right? I want a quaint Christmas full of exchanging fruit cakes and meeting at Midnight Mass. I don't even like God, but it sounds a lot better than what we've come to.

Forget it. If you need me I'll be over at the bar making sure there's enough wine and whiskey to get us through this holiday hell.

Well Hello!

2008-12-15T10:08:00.000-08:00

Wow.

I'd been thinking about this dusty old blog for a while now. I created it years ago as a secret outlet for venting against the ill mannered boys who had wronged poor little ol' me. It got old quickly, as those things obviously would and I got distracted and moved on to the next thing that interested me as I often do.

So today I finally figured out all my passwords and I was gonna check up and laugh, or get re-acquainted with my anger in my old documented memories of wayward suitors. And to my delightful shock - it's all gone! As it should be. Now I can remember those men as I choose, which is in a lighter aspect than what was written here. Best for me and for them.

I've been blogging for years. With a years worth of a break as well. From around 19-23ish I was quite the hardcore, self indulgent little blogger. For the last 4 years I've been busy with a business and business with boys. And I miss this a lot. My corner. My space. My thoughts. Me. Me. Me. Goddamnit.

So I wish I came out with a splash but it's more like a peak from behind a door. As usual blogs are filled with whatever is happening in that time and space, so I have no idea what's gonna be in here. But let's hope I make it good! ;)