Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth.

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.

(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

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.

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

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.

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?

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.